[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第31部分

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the　heather；　which　grew　thick　round　the　granite　pedestal；　
made　the　light　breeze　taste　sweetly；　in　winter　the　
sighing　of　the　trees　was　deepened　to　a　hollow　sound；　and　
the　heath　was　as　gray　and　almost　as　solitary　as　the　empty　
sweep　of　the　clouds　above　it。　

Here　Rodney　stopped　the　carriage　and　helped　Katharine　

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Night　and　Day　

to　alight。　Henry；　too；　gave　her　his　hand；　and　fancied　that　
she　pressed　it　very　slightly　in　parting　as　if　she　sent　him　a　
message。　But　the　carriage　rolled　on　immediately；　without　
wakening　Mrs。　Hilbery；　and　left　the　couple　standing　by　
the　obelisk。　That　Rodney　was　angry　with　her　and　had　
made　this　opportunity　for　speaking　to　her；　Katharine　knew　
very　well；　she　was　neither　glad　nor　sorry　that　the　time　
had　e；　nor；　indeed；　knew　what　to　expect；　and　thus　
remained　silent。　The　carriage　grew　smaller　and　smaller　
upon　the　dusky　road；　and　still　Rodney　did　not　speak。　
Perhaps；　she　thought；　he　waited　until　the　last　sign　of　the　
carriage　had　disappeared　beneath　the　curve　of　the　road　
and　they　were　left　entirely　alone。　To　cloak　their　silence　
she　read　the　writing　on　the　obelisk；　to　do　which　she　had　
to　walk　pletely　round　it。　She　was　murmuring　a　word　
to　two　of　the　pious　lady’s　thanks　above　her　breath　when　
Rodney　joined　her。　In　silence　they　set　out　along　the　cart
track　which　skirted　the　verge　of　the　trees。　

To　break　the　silence　was　exactly　what　Rodney　wished　
to　do；　and　yet　could　not　do　to　his　own　satisfaction。　In　
pany　it　was　far　easier　to　approach　Katharine；　alone　

with　her；　the　aloofness　and　force　of　her　character　checked　
all　his　natural　methods　of　attack。　He　believed　that　she　
had　behaved　very　badly　to　him；　but　each　separate　instance　
of　unkindness　seemed　too　petty　to　be　advanced　
when　they　were　alone　together。　

“There’s　no　need　for　us　to　race；”　he　plained　at　last；　
upon　which　she　immediately　slackened　her　pace；　and　
walked　too　slowly　to　suit　him。　In　desperation　he　said　the　
first　thing　he　thought　of；　very　peevishly　and　without　the　
dignified　prelude　which　he　had　intended。　

“I’ve　not　enjoyed　my　holiday。”　

“No？”　

“No。　I　shall　be　glad　to　get　back　to　work　again。”　

“Saturday；　Sunday；　Monday—there　are　only　three　days　
more；”　she　counted。　

“No　one　enjoys　being　made　a　fool　of　before　other　
people；”　he　blurted　out；　for　his　irritation　rose　as　she　spoke；　
and　got　the　better　of　his　awe　of　her；　and　was　inflamed　by　
that　awe。　

“That　refers　to　me；　I　suppose；”　she　said　calmly。　

“Every　day　since　we’ve　been　here　you’ve　done　some


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thing　to　make　me　appear　ridiculous；”　he　went　on。　“Of　
course；　so　long　as　it　amuses　you；　you’re　wele；　but　we　
have　to　remember　that　we　are　going　to　spend　our　lives　
together。　I　asked　you；　only　this　morning；　for　example；　to　
e　out　and　take　a　turn　with　me　in　the　garden。　I　was　
waiting　for　you　ten　minutes；　and　you　never　came。　Every　
one　saw　me　waiting。　The　stableboys　saw　me。　I　was　so　
ashamed　that　I　went　in。　Then；　on　the　drive　you　hardly　
spoke　to　me。　Henry　noticed　it。　Every　one　notices　it…　。　
You　find　no　difficulty　in　talking　to　Henry；　though。”　

She　noted　these　various　plaints　and　determined　
philosophically　to　answer　none　of　them；　although　the　
last　stung　her　to　considerable　irritation。　She　wished　to　
find　out　how　deep　his　grievance　lay。　

“None　of　these　things　seem　to　me　to　matter；”　she　said。　

“Very　well；　then。　I　may　as　well　hold　my　tongue；”　he　
replied。　

“In　themselves　they　don’t　seem　to　me　to　matter；　if　they　
hurt　you；　of　course　they　matter；”　she　corrected　herself　
scrupulously。　Her　tone　of　consideration　touched　him；　and　
he　walked　on　in　silence　for　a　space。　

“And　we　might　be　so　happy；　Katharine！”　he　exclaimed　
impulsively；　and　drew　her　arm　through　his。　She　withdrew　
it　directly。　

“As　long　as　you　let　yourself　feel　like　this　we　shall　never　
be　happy；”　she　said。　

The　harshness；　which　Henry　had　noticed；　was　again　unmistakable　
in　her　manner。　William　flinched　and　was　silent。　
Such　severity；　acpanied　by　something　indescribably　
cold　and　impersonal　in　her　manner；　had　constantly　
been　meted　out　to　him　during　the　last　few　days；　always　
in　the　pany　of　others。　He　had　recouped　himself　by　
some　ridiculous　display　of　vanity　which；　as　he　knew；　put　
him　still　more　at　her　mercy。　Now　that　he　was　alone　with　
her　there　was　no　stimulus　from　outside　to　draw　his　attention　
from　his　injury。　By　a　considerable　effort　of　selfcontrol　
he　forced　himself　to　remain　silent；　and　to　make　himself　
distinguish　what　part　of　his　pain　was　due　to　vanity；　
what　part　to　the　certainty　that　no　woman　really　loving　
him　could　speak　thus。　

“What　do　I　feel　about　Katharine？”　he　thought　to　himself。　
It　was　clear　that　she　had　been　a　very　desirable　and　

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Night　and　Day　

distinguished　figure；　the　mistress　of　her　little　section　of　
the　world；　but　more　than　that；　she　was　the　person　of　all　
others　who　seemed　to　him　the　arbitress　of　life；　the　woman　
whose　judgment　was　naturally　right　and　steady；　as　his　
had　never　been　in　spite　of　all　his　culture。　And　then　he　
could　not　see　her　e　into　a　room　without　a　sense　of　
the　flowing　of　robes；　of　the　flowering　of　blossoms；　of　the　
purple　waves　of　the　sea；　of　all　things　that　are　lovely　and　
mutable　on　the　surface　but　still　and　passionate　in　their　
heart。　

“If　she　were　callous　all　the　time　and　had　only　led　me　on　
to　laugh　at　me　I　couldn’t　have　felt　that　about　her；”　he　
thought。　“I’m　not　a　fool；　after　all。　I　can’t　have　been　utterly　
mistaken　all　these　years。　And　yet；　when　she　speaks　
to　me　like　that！　The　truth　of　it　is；”　he　thought；　“that　I’ve　
got　such　despicable　faults　that　no　one　could　help　speaking　
to　me　like　that。　Katharine　is　quite　right。　And　yet　
those　are　not　my　serious　feelings；　as　she　knows　quite　
well。　How　can　I　change　myself？　What　would　make　her　
care　for　me？”　He　was　terribly　tempted　here　to　break　the　
silence　by　asking　Katharine　in　what　respects　he　could　

change　himself　to　suit　her；　but　he　sought　consolation　
instead　by　running　over　the　list　of　his　gifts　and　acquirements；　
his　knowledge　of　Greek　and　Latin；　his　knowledge　
of　art　and　literature；　his　skill　in　the　management　of　meters；　
and　his　ancient　westcountry　blood。　But　the　feeling　that　
underlay　all　these　feelings　and　puzzled　him　profoundly　
and　kept　him　silent　was　the　certainty　that　he　loved　
Katharine　as　sincerely　as　he　had　it　in　him　to　love　any　
one。　And　yet　she　could　speak　to　him　like　that！　In　a　sort　
of　bewilderment　he　lost　all　desire　to　speak；　and　would　
quite　readily　have　taken　up　some　different　topic　of　conversation　
if　Katharine　had　started　one。　This；　however；　
she　did　not　do。　

He　glanced　at　her；　in　case　her　expression　might　help　
him　to　understand　her　behavior。　As　usual；　she　had　quickened　
her　pace　unconsciously；　and　was　now　walking　a　little　
in　front　of　him；　but　he　could　gain　little　information　from　
her　eyes；　which　looked　steadily　at　the　brown　heather；　or　
from　the　lines　drawn　seriously　upon　her　forehead。　Thus　
to　lose　touch　with　her；　for　he　had　no　idea　what　she　was　
thinking；　was　so　unpleasant　to　him　that　he　began　to　talk　

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Virginia　Woolf　

about　his　grievances　again；　without；　however；　much　conviction　
in　his　voice。　

“If　you　have　no　feeling　for　me；　wouldn’t　it　be　kinder　to　
say　so　to　me　in　private？”　

“Oh；　William；”　she　burst　out；　as　if　he　had　interrupted　some　
absorbing　train　of　thought；　“how　you　go　on　about　feelings！　
Isn’t　it　better　not　to　talk　so　much；　not　to　be　worrying　always　
about　small　things　that　don’t　really　matter？”　

“That’s　the　question　precisely；”　he　exclaimed。　“I　only　
want　you　to　tell　me　that　they　don’t　matter。　There　are　
times　when　you　seem　indifferent　to　everything。　I’m　vain；　
I’ve　a　thousand　faults；　but　you　know　they’re　not　everything；　
you　know　I　care　for　you。”　

“And　if　I　say　that　I　care　for　you；　don’t　you　believe　me？”　

“Say　it；　Katharine！　Say　it　as　if　you　meant　it！　Make　me　
feel　that　you　care　for　me！”　

She　could　not　force　herself　to　speak　a　word。　The　heather　
was　growing　dim　around　them；　and　the　horizon　was　blotted　
out　by　white　mist。　To　ask　her　for　passion　or　for　certainty　
seemed　like　asking　that　damp　prospect　for　fierce　blades　of　
fire；　or　the　faded　sky　for　the　intense　blue　vault　of　June。　

He　went　on　now　to　tell　her　of　his　love　for　her；　in　words　
which　bore；　even　to　her　critical　senses；　the　stamp　of　truth；　
but　none　of　this　touched　her；　until；　ing　to　a　gate　
whose　hinge　was　rusty；　he　heaved　it　open　with　his　shoulder；　
still　talking　and　taking　no　account　of　his　effort。　The　
virility　of　this　deed　impressed　her；　and　yet；　normally；　she　
attached　no　value　to　the　power　of　opening　gates。　The　
strength　of　muscles　has　nothing　to　do　on　the　face　of　it　
with　the　strength　of　affections；　nevertheless；　she　felt　a　
sudden　concern　for　this　power　running　to　waste　on　her　
account；　which；　bined　with　a　desire　to　keep　possession　
of　that　strangely　attractive　masculine　power；　made　
her　rouse　herself　from　her　torpor。　

Why　should　she　not　simply　tell　him　the　truth—which　
was　that　she　had　accepted　him　in　a　misty　state　of　mind　
when　nothing　had　its　right　shape　or　size？　that　it　was　
deplorable；　but　that　with　clearer　eyesight　marriage　was　
out　of　the　question？　She　did　not　want　to　marry　any　one。　
She　wanted　to　go　away　by　herself；　preferably　to　some　
bleak　northern　moor；　and　there　study　mathematics　and　
the　science　of　astronomy。　Twenty　words　would　explain　

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Night　and　Day　

the　whole　situation　to　him。　He　had　ceased　to　speak；　he　
had　told　her　once　more　how　he　loved　her　and　why。　She　
summoned　her　courage；　fixed　her　eyes　upon　a　lightning
splintered　ashtree；　and；　almost　as　if　she　were　reading　a　
writing　fixed　to　the　trunk；　began：　

“I　was　wrong　to　get　engaged　to　you。　I　shall　never　make　
you　happy。　I　have　never　loved　you。”　

“Katharine！”　he　protested。　

“No；　never；”　she　repeated　obstinately。　“Not　rightly。　Don’t　
you　see；　I　didn’t　know　what　I　was　doing？”　

“You　love　some　one　else？”　he　cut　her　short。　

“Absolutely　no　one。”　

“Henry？”　he　demanded。　

“Henry？　I　should　have　thought；　William；　even　you—”　

“There　is　some　one；”　he　persisted。　“There　has　been　a　
change　in　the　last　few　weeks。　You　owe　it　to　me　to　be　
honest；　Katharine。”　

“If　I　could；　I　would；”　she　replied。　

“Why　did　you　tell　me　you　would　marry　me；　then？”　he　
demanded。　

Why；　indeed？　A　moment　of　pessimism；　a　sudden　con


viction　of　the　undeniable　prose　of　life；　a　lapse　of　the　
illusion　which　sustains　youth　midway　between　heaven　
and　earth；　a　desperate　attempt　to　reconcile　herself　with　
facts—she　could　only　recall　a　moment；　as　of　waking　from　
a　dream；　which　now　seemed　to　her　a　moment　of　surrender。　
But　who　could　give　reasons　such　as　these　for　doing　
what　she　had　done？　She　shook　her　head　very　sadly。　

“But　you’re　not　a　child—you’re　not　a　woman　of　moods；”　
Rodney　persisted。　“You　couldn’t　have　accepted　me　if　you　
hadn’t　loved　me！”　he　cried。　

A　sense　of　her　own　misbehavior；　which　she　had　succeeded　
in　keeping　from　her　by　sharpening　her　consciousness　
of　Rodney’s　faults；　now　swept　over　her　and　almost　
overwhelmed　her。　What　were　his　faults　in　parison　with　
the　fact　that　he　cared　for　her？　What　were　her　virtues　in　
parison　with　the　fact　that　she　did　not　care　for　him？　
In　a　flash　the　conviction　that　not　to　care　is　the　uttermost　
sin　of　all　stamped　itself　upon　her　inmost　thought；　and　
she　felt　herself　branded　for　ever。　

He　had　taken　her　arm；　and　held　her　hand　firmly　in　his；　
nor　had　she　the　force　to　resist　what　now　seemed　to　her　

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Virginia　Woolf　

his　enormously　superior　strength。　Very　well；　she　would　
submit；　as　her　mother　and　her　aunt　and　most　women；　
perhaps；　had　submitted；　and　yet　she　knew　that　every　
second　of　such　submission　to　his　strength　was　a　second　
of　treachery　to　him。　

“I　did　say　I　would　marry　you；　but　it　was　wrong；”　she　
forced　herself　to　say；　and　she　stiffened　her　arm　as　if　to　
annul　even　the　seeming　submission　of　that　separate　part　
of　her；　“for　I　don’t　love　you；　William；　you’ve　noticed　it；　
every　one’s　noticed　it；　why　should　we　go　on　pretending？　
When　I　told　you　I　loved　you；　I　was　wrong。　I　said　what　I　
knew　to　be　untrue。”　

As　none　of　her　words　seemed　to　her　at　all　adequate　to　
represent　what　she　felt；　she　repeated　them；　and　emphasized　
them　without　realizing　the　effect　that　they　might　
have　upon　a　man　who　cared　for　her。　She　was　pletely　
taken　aback　by　finding　her　arm　suddenly　dropped；　then　
she　saw　his　face　most　strangely　contorted；　was　he　laughing；　
it　flashed　across　her？　In　another　moment　she　saw　
that　he　was　in　tears。　In　her　bewilderment　at　this　apparition　
she　stood　aghast　for　a　second。　With　a　desperate　

sense　that　this　horror　must；　at　all　costs；　be　stopped；　she　
then　put　her　arms　about　him；　drew　his　head　for　a　moment　
upon　her　shoulder；　and　led　him　on；　murmuring　words　of　
consolation；　until　he　heaved　a　great　sigh。　They　held　fast　
to　each　other；　her　tears；　too；　ran　down　her　cheeks；　and　
were　both　quite　silent。　Noticing　the　difficulty　with　which　
he　walked；　and　feeling　the　same　extreme　lassitude　in　her　
own　limbs；　she　proposed　that　they　should　rest　for　a　moment　
where　the　bracken　was　brown　and　shriveled　beneath　
an　oaktree。　He　assented。　Once　more　he　gave　a　
great　sigh；　and　wiped　his　eyes　with　a　childlike　unconsciousness；　
and　began　to　speak　without　a　trace　of　his　
previous　anger。　The　idea　came　to　her　that　they　were　like　
the　children　in　the　fairy　tale　who　were　lost　in　a　wood；　
and　with　this　in　her　mind　she　noticed　the　scattering　of　
dead　leaves　all　round　them　which　had　been　blown　by　the　
wind　into　heaps；　a　foot　or　two　deep；　here　and　there。　

“When　did　you　begin　to　feel　this；　Katharine？”　he　said；　
“for　it　isn’t　true　to　say　that　you’ve　always　felt　it。　I　admit　
I　was　unreasonable　the　first　night　when　you　found　that　
your　clothes　had　been　left　behind。　Still；　where’s　the　fault　

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Night　and　Day　

in　that？　I　could　promise　you　never　to　interfere　with　your　
clothes　again。　I　admit　I　was　cross　when　I　found　you　upstairs　
with　Henry。　Perhaps　I　showed　it　too　openly。　But　
that’s　not　unreasonable　either　when　one’s　engaged。　Ask　
your　mother。　And　now　this　terrible　thing—”　He　broke　off；　
unable　for　the　moment　to　proceed　any　further。　“This　decision　
you　say　you’ve　e　to—have　you　discussed　it　
with　any　one？　Your　mother；　for　example；　or　Henry？”　

“No；　no；　of　course　not；”　she　said；　stirring　the　leaves　with　
her　hand。　“But　you　don’t　understand　me；　William—”　

“Help　me　to　understand　you—”　

“You　don’t　understand；　I　mean；　my　real　feelings；　how　
could　you？　I’ve　only　now　faced　them　myself。　But　I　haven’t　
got　the　sort　of　feeling—love；　I　mean—I　don’t　know　what　
to　call　it”—she　looked　vaguely　towards　the　horizon　sunk　
under　mist—”but；　anyhow；　without　it　our　marriage　would　
be　a　farce—”　

“How　a　farce？”　he　asked。　“But　this　kind　of　analysis　is　
disastrous！”　he　exclaimed。　

“I　should　have　done　it　before；”　she　said　gloomily。　

“You　make　yourself　think　things　you　don’t　think；”　he　

continued；　being　demonstrative　with　his　hands；　as　
his　manner　was。　“Believe　me；　Katharine；　before　we　came　
here　we　were　perfectly