[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第23部分

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about　politics；　but　he　could　not　help　respecting　Mary　for　
taking　such　an　interest　in　public　questions。　He　looked　at　
her　as　she　leant　forward；　poking　the　fire；　and　expressing　
herself　very　clearly　in　phrases　which　bore　distantly　the　
taint　of　the　platform；　and　he　thought；　“How　absurd　Mary　
would　think　me　if　she　knew　that　I　almost　made　up　my　
mind　to　walk　all　the　way　to　Chelsea　in　order　to　look　at　
Katharine’s　windows。　She　wouldn’t　understand　it；　but　I　
like　her　very　much　as　she　is。”　

For　some　time　they　discussed　what　the　women　had　better　
do；　and　as　Ralph　became　genuinely　interested　in　the　
question；　Mary　unconsciously　let　her　attention　wander；　
and　a　great　desire　came　over　her　to　talk　to　Ralph　about　
her　own　feelings；　or；　at　any　rate；　about　something　per


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sonal；　so　that　she　might　see　what　he　felt　for　her；　but　she　
resisted　this　wish。　But　she　could　not　prevent　him　from　
feeling　her　lack　of　interest　in　what　he　was　saying；　and　
gradually　they　both　became　silent。　One　thought　after　
another　came　up　in　Ralph’s　mind；　but　they　were　all；　in　
some　way；　connected　with　Katharine；　or　with　vague　feelings　
of　romance　and　adventure　such　as　she　inspired。　But　
he　could　not　talk　to　Mary　about　such　thoughts；　and　he　
pitied　her　for　knowing　nothing　of　what　he　was　feeling。　
“Here；”　he　thought；　“is　where　we　differ　from　women；　they　
have　no　sense　of　romance。”　

“Well；　Mary；”　he　said　at　length；　“why　don’t　you　say　something　
amusing？”　

His　tone　was　certainly　provoking；　but；　as　a　general　rule；　
Mary　was　not　easily　provoked。　This　evening；　however；　she　
replied　rather　sharply：　

“Because　I’ve　got　nothing　amusing　to　say；　I　suppose。”　

Ralph　thought　for　a　moment；　and　then　remarked：　

“You　work　too　hard。　I　don’t　mean　your　health；”　he　added；　
as　she　laughed　scornfully；　“I　mean　that　you　seem　to　me　
to　be　getting　wrapped　up　in　your　work。”　

“And　is　that　a　bad　thing？”　she　asked；　shading　her　eyes　
with　her　hand。　

“I　think　it　is；”　he　returned　abruptly。　

“But　only　a　week　ago　you　were　saying　the　opposite。”　
Her　tone　was　defiant；　but　she　became　curiously　depressed。　
Ralph　did　not　perceive　it；　and　took　this　opportunity　of　
lecturing　her；　and　expressing　his　latest　views　upon　the　
proper　conduct　of　life。　She　listened；　but　her　main　impression　
was　that　he　had　been　meeting　some　one　who　had　
influenced　him。　He　was　telling　her　that　she　ought　to　read　
more；　and　to　see　that　there　were　other　points　of　view　as　
deserving　of　attention　as　her　own。　Naturally；　having　last　
seen　him　as　he　left　the　office　in　pany　with　Katharine；　
she　attributed　the　change　to　her；　it　was　likely　that　
Katharine；　on　leaving　the　scene　which　she　had　so　clearly　
despised；　had　pronounced　some　such　criticism；　or　suggested　
it　by　her　own　attitude。　But　she　knew　that　Ralph　
would　never　admit　that　he　had　been　influenced　by　anybody。　


“You　don’t　read　enough；　Mary；”　he　was　saying。　“You　
ought　to　read　more　poetry。”　

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Night　and　Day　

It　was　true　that　Mary’s　reading　had　been　rather　limited　
to　such　works　as　she　needed　to　know　for　the　sake　of　
examinations；　and　her　time　for　reading　in　London　was　
very　little。　For　some　reason；　no　one　likes　to　be　told　that　
they　do　not　read　enough　poetry；　but　her　resentment　was　
only　visible　in　the　way　she　changed　the　position　of　her　
hands；　and　in　the　fixed　look　in　her　eyes。　And　then　she　
thought　to　herself；　“I’m　behaving　exactly　as　I　said　I　
wouldn’t　behave；”　whereupon　she　relaxed　all　her　muscles　
and　said；　in　her　reasonable　way：　

“Tell　me　what　I　ought　to　read；　then。”　

Ralph　had　unconsciously　been　irritated　by　Mary；　and　he　
now　delivered　himself　of　a　few　names　of　great　poets　which　
were　the　text　for　a　discourse　upon　the　imperfection　of　
Mary’s　character　and　way　of　life。　

“You　live　with　your　inferiors；”　he　said；　warming　unreasonably；　
as　he　knew；　to　his　text。　“And　you　get　into　a　
groove　because；　on　the　whole；　it’s　rather　a　pleasant　groove。　
And　you　tend　to　forget　what　you’re　there　for。　You’ve　the　
feminine　habit　of　making　much　of　details。　You　don’t　see　
when　things　matter　and　when　they　don’t。　And　that’s　what’s　

the　ruin　of　all　these　organizations。　That’s　why　the　Suffragists　
have　never　done　anything　all　these　years。　What’s　
the　point　of　drawingroom　meetings　and　bazaars？　You　
want　to　have　ideas；　Mary；　get　hold　of　something　big；　
never　mind　making　mistakes；　but　don’t　niggle。　Why　don’t　
you　throw　it　all　up　for　a　year；　and　travel？—see　something　
of　the　world。　Don’t　be　content　to　live　with　half　a　
dozen　people　in　a　backwater　all　your　life。　But　you　won’t；”　
he　concluded。　

“I’ve　rather　e　to　that　way　of　thinking　myself—about　
myself；　I　mean；”　said　Mary；　surprising　him　by　her　acquiescence。　
“I　should　like　to　go　somewhere　far　away。”　

For　a　moment　they　were　both　silent。　Ralph　then　said：　
“But　look　here；　Mary；　you　haven’t　been　taking　this　seriously；　
have　you？”　His　irritation　was　spent；　and　the　depression；　
which　she　could　not　keep　out　of　her　voice；　made　him　
feel　suddenly　with　remorse　that　he　had　been　hurting　her。　

“You　won’t　go　away；　will　you？”　he　asked。　And　as　she　
said　nothing；　he　added；　“Oh　no；　don’t　go　away。”　

“I　don’t　know　exactly　what　I　mean　to　do；”　she　replied。　
She　hovered　on　the　verge　of　some　discussion　of　her　plans；　

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but　she　received　no　encouragement。　He　fell　into　one　of　
his　queer　silences；　which　seemed　to　Mary；　in　spite　of　all　
her　precautions；　to　have　reference　to　what　she　also　could　
not　prevent　herself　from　thinking　about—their　feeling　
for　each　other　and　their　relationship。　She　felt　that　the　
two　lines　of　thought　bored　their　way　in　long；　parallel　
tunnels　which　came　very　close　indeed；　but　never　ran　into　
each　other。　

When　he　had　gone；　and　he　left　her　without　breaking　his　
silence　more　than　was　needed　to　wish　her　good　night；　
she　sat　on　for　a　time；　reviewing　what　he　had　said。　If　love　
is　a　devastating　fire　which　melts　the　whole　being　into　
one　mountain　torrent；　Mary　was　no　more　in　love　with　
Denham　than　she　was　in　love　with　her　poker　or　her　tongs。　
But　probably　these　extreme　passions　are　very　rare；　and　
the　state　of　mind　thus　depicted　belongs　to　the　very　last　
stages　of　love；　when　the　power　to　resist　has　been　eaten　
away；　week　by　week　or　day　by　day。　Like　most　intelligent　
people；　Mary　was　something　of　an　egoist；　to　the　extent；　
that　is；　of　attaching　great　importance　to　what　she　felt；　
and　she　was　by　nature　enough　of　a　moralist　to　like　to　

make　certain；　from　time　to　time；　that　her　feelings　were　
creditable　to　her。　When　Ralph　left　her　she　thought　over　
her　state　of　mind；　and　came　to　the　conclusion　that　it　
would　be　a　good　thing　to　learn　a　language—say　Italian　
or　German。　She　then　went　to　a　drawer；　which　she　had　to　
unlock；　and　took　from　it　certain　deeply　scored　manuscript　
pages。　She　read　them　through；　looking　up　from　her　
reading　every　now　and　then　and　thinking　very　intently　
for　a　few　seconds　about　Ralph。　She　did　her　best　to　verify　
all　the　qualities　in　him　which　gave　rise　to　emotions　in　
her；　and　persuaded　herself　that　she　accounted　reasonably　
for　them　all。　Then　she　looked　back　again　at　her　manuscript；　
and　decided　that　to　write　grammatical　English　prose　
is　the　hardest　thing　in　the　world。　But　she　thought　about　
herself　a　great　deal　more　than　she　thought　about　grammatical　
English　prose　or　about　Ralph　Denham；　and　it　may　
therefore　be　disputed　whether　she　was　in　love；　or；　if　so；　
to　which　branch　of　the　family　her　passion　belonged。　

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Night　and　Day　

CHAPTER　XI　


It’s　life　that　matters；　nothing　but　life—the　process　of　
discovering；　the　everlasting　and　perpetual　process；”　said　
Katharine；　as　she　passed　under　the　archway；　and　so　into　
the　wide　space　of　King’s　Bench　Walk；　“not　the　discovery　
itself　at　all。”　She　spoke　the　last　words　looking　up　at　
Rodney’s　windows；　which　were　a　semilucent　red　color；　in　
her　honor；　as　she　knew。　He　had　asked　her　to　tea　with　
him。　But　she　was　in　a　mood　when　it　is　almost　physically　
disagreeable　to　interrupt　the　stride　of　one’s　thought；　and　
she　walked　up　and　down　two　or　three　times　under　the　
trees　before　approaching　his　staircase。　She　liked　getting　
hold　of　some　book　which　neither　her　father　or　mother　
had　read；　and　keeping　it　to　herself；　and　gnawing　its　contents　
in　privacy；　and　pondering　the　meaning　without　sharing　
her　thoughts　with　any　one；　or　having　to　decide　whether　
the　book　was　a　good　one　or　a　bad　one。　This　evening　she　
had　twisted　the　words　of　Dostoevsky　to　suit　her　mood—　
a　fatalistic　mood—to　proclaim　that　the　process　of　discovery　
was　life；　and　that；　presumably；　the　nature　of　one’s　

goal　mattered　not　at　all。　She　sat　down　for　a　moment　
upon　one　of　the　seats；　felt　herself　carried　along　in　the　
swirl　of　many　things；　decided；　in　her　sudden　way；　that　it　
was　time　to　heave　all　this　thinking　overboard；　and　rose；　
leaving　a　fishmonger’s　basket　on　the　seat　behind　her。　
Two　minutes　later　her　rap　sounded　with　authority　upon　
Rodney’s　door。　

“Well；　William；”　she　said；　“I’m　afraid　I’m　late。”　

It　was　true；　but　he　was　so　glad　to　see　her　that　he　forgot　
his　annoyance。　He　had　been　occupied　for　over　an　hour　in　
making　things　ready　for　her；　and　he　now　had　his　reward　
in　seeing　her　look　right　and　left；　as　she　slipped　her　cloak　
from　her　shoulders；　with　evident　satisfaction；　although　
she　said　nothing。　He　had　seen　that　the　fire　burnt　well；　
jampots　were　on　the　table；　tin　covers　shone　in　the　fender；　
and　the　shabby　fort　of　the　room　was　extreme。　He　was　
dressed　in　his　old　crimson　dressinggown；　which　was　faded　
irregularly；　and　had　bright　new　patches　on　it；　like　the　
paler　grass　which　one　finds　on　lifting　a　stone。　He　made　
the　tea；　and　Katharine　drew　off　her　gloves；　and　crossed　
her　legs　with　a　gesture　that　was　rather　masculine　in　its　

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ease。　Nor　did　they　talk　much　until　they　were　smoking　
cigarettes　over　the　fire；　having　placed　their　teacups　upon　
the　floor　between　them。　

They　had　not　met　since　they　had　exchanged　letters　about　
their　relationship。　Katharine’s　answer　to　his　protestation　
had　been　short　and　sensible。　Half　a　sheet　of　notepaper　
contained　the　whole　of　it；　for　she　merely　had　to　say　that　
she　was　not　in　love　with　him；　and　so　could　not　marry　
him；　but　their　friendship　would　continue；　she　hoped；　
unchanged。　She　had　added　a　postscript　in　which　she　
stated；　“I　like　your　son　very　much。”　

So　far　as　William　was　concerned；　this　appearance　of　
ease　was　assumed。　Three　times　that　afternoon　he　had　
dressed　himself　in　a　tailcoat；　and　three　times　he　had　
discarded　it　for　an　old　dressinggown；　three　times　he　had　
placed　his　pearl　tiepin　in　position；　and　three　times　he　
had　removed　it　again；　the　little　lookingglass　in　his　room　
being　the　witness　of　these　changes　of　mind。　The　question　
was；　which　would　Katharine　prefer　on　this　particular　
afternoon　in　December？　He　read　her　note　once　more；　and　
the　postscript　about　the　son　settled　the　matter。　Evi


dently　she　admired　most　the　poet　in　him；　and　as　this；　on　
the　whole；　agreed　with　his　own　opinion；　he　decided　to　
err；　if　anything；　on　the　side　of　shabbiness。　His　demeanor