[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第24部分

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the　whole；　agreed　with　his　own　opinion；　he　decided　to　
err；　if　anything；　on　the　side　of　shabbiness。　His　demeanor　
was　also　regulated　with　premeditation；　he　spoke　little；　
and　only　on　impersonal　matters；　he　wished　her　to　realize　
that　in　visiting　him　for　the　first　time　alone　she　was　doing　
nothing　remarkable；　although；　in　fact；　that　was　a　point　
about　which　he　was　not　at　all　sure。　

Certainly　Katharine　seemed　quite　unmoved　by　any　disturbing　
thoughts；　and　if　he　had　been　pletely　master　
of　himself；　he　might；　indeed；　have　plained　that　she　
was　a　trifle　absentminded。　The　ease；　the　familiarity　of　
the　situation　alone　with　Rodney；　among　teacups　and　
candles；　had　more　effect　upon　her　than　was　apparent。　
She　asked　to　look　at　his　books；　and　then　at　his　pictures。　
It　was　while　she　held　photograph　from　the　Greek　in　her　
hands　that　she　exclaimed；　impulsively；　if　incongruously：　

“My　oysters！　I　had　a　basket；”　she　explained；　“and　I’ve　
left　it　somewhere。　Uncle　Dudley　dines　with　us　tonight。　
What　in　the　world　have　I　done　with　them？”　

She　rose　and　began　to　wander　about　the　room。　William　

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rose　also；　and　stood　in　front　of　the　fire；　muttering；　“Oysters；　
oysters—your　basket　of　oysters！”　but　though　he　
looked　vaguely　here　and　there；　as　if　the　oysters　might　be　
on　the　top　of　the　bookshelf；　his　eyes　returned　always　to　
Katharine。　She　drew　the　curtain　and　looked　out　among　
the　scanty　leaves　of　the　plarees。　

“I　had　them；”　she　calculated；　“in　the　Strand；　I　sat　on　a　
seat。　Well；　never　mind；”　she　concluded；　turning　back　into　
the　room　abruptly；　“I　dare　say　some　old　creature　is　enjoying　
them　by　this　time。”　

“I　should　have　thought　that　you　never　forgot　anything；”　
William　remarked；　as　they　settled　down　again。　

“That’s　part　of　the　myth　about　me；　I　know；”　Katharine　
replied。　

“And　I　wonder；”　William　proceeded；　with　some　caution；　
“what　the　truth　about　you　is？　But　I　know　this　sort　of　
thing　doesn’t　interest　you；”　he　added　hastily；　with　a　touch　
of　peevishness。　

“No；　it　doesn’t　interest　me　very　much；”　she　replied　candidly。　


“What　shall　we　talk　about　then？”　he　asked。　

She　looked　rather　whimsically　round　the　walls　of　the　
room。　

“However　we　start；　we　end　by　talking　about　the　same　
thing—about　poetry；　I　mean。　I　wonder　if　you　realize；　
William；　that　I’ve　never　read　even　Shakespeare？　It’s　rather　
wonderful　how　I’ve　kept　it　up　all　these　years。”　

“You’ve　kept　it　up　for　ten　years　very　beautifully；　as　far　
as　I’m　concerned；”　he　said。　

“Ten　years？　So　long　as　that？”　

“And　I　don’t　think　it’s　always　bored　you；”　he　added。　

She　looked　into　the　fire　silently。　She　could　not　deny　
that　the　surface　of　her　feeling　was　absolutely　unruffled　
by　anything　in　William’s　character；　on　the　contrary；　she　
felt　certain　that　she　could　deal　with　whatever　turned　up。　
He　gave　her　peace；　in　which　she　could　think　of　things　
that　were　far　removed　from　what　they　talked　about。　Even　
now；　when　he　sat　within　a　yard　of　her；　how　easily　her　
mind　ranged　hither　and　thither！　Suddenly　a　picture　presented　
itself　before　her；　without　any　effort　on　her　part　as　
pictures　will；　of　herself　in　these　very　rooms；　she　had　e　
in　from　a　lecture；　and　she　held　a　pile　of　books　in　her　

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hand；　scientific　books；　and　books　about　mathematics　and　
astronomy　which　she　had　mastered。　She　put　them　down　
on　the　table　over　there。　It　was　a　picture　plucked　from　her　
life　two　or　three　years　hence；　when　she　was　married　to　
William；　but　here　she　checked　herself　abruptly。　

She　could　not　entirely　forget　William’s　presence；　because；　
in　spite　of　his　efforts　to　control　himself；　his　nervousness　
was　apparent。　On　such　occasions　his　eyes　protruded　
more　than　ever；　and　his　face　had　more　than　ever　
the　appearance　of　being　covered　with　a　thin　crackling　
skin；　through　which　every　flush　of　his　volatile　blood　
showed　itself　instantly。　By　this　time　he　had　shaped　so　
many　sentences　and　rejected　them；　felt　so　many　impulses　
and　subdued　them；　that　he　was　a　uniform　scarlet。　

“You　may　say　you　don’t　read　books；”　he　remarked；　“but；　
all　the　same；　you　know　about　them。　Besides；　who　wants　
you　to　be　learned？　Leave　that　to　the　poor　devils　who’ve　
got　nothing　better　to　do。　You—you—ahem！—”　

“Well；　then；　why　don’t　you　read　me　something　before　I　
go？”　said　Katharine；　looking　at　her　watch。　

“Katharine；　you’ve　only　just　e！　Let　me　see　now；　what　

have　I　got　to　show　you？”　He　rose；　and　stirred　about　the　
papers　on　his　table；　as　if　in　doubt；　he　then　picked　up　a　
manuscript；　and　after　spreading　it　smoothly　upon　his　knee；　
he　looked　up　at　Katharine　suspiciously。　He　caught　her　
smiling。　

“I　believe　you　only　ask　me　to　read　out　of　kindness；”　he　
burst　out。　“Let’s　find　something　else　to　talk　about。　Who　
have　you　been　seeing？”　

“I　don’t　generally　ask　things　out　of　kindness；”　Katharine　
observed；　“however；　if　you　don’t　want　to　read；　you　
needn’t。”　

William　gave　a　queer　snort　of　exasperation；　and　opened　
his　manuscript　once　more；　though　he　kept　his　eyes　upon　
her　face　as　he　did　so。　No　face　could　have　been　graver　or　
more　judicial。　

“One　can　trust　you；　certainly；　to　say　unpleasant　things；”　
he　said；　smoothing　out　the　page；　clearing　his　throat；　and　
reading　half　a　stanza　to　himself。　“Ahem！　The　Princess　is　
lost　in　the　wood；　and　she　hears　the　sound　of　a　horn。　
（This　would　all　be　very　pretty　on　the　stage；　but　I　can’t　
get　the　effect　here。）　Anyhow；　Sylvano　enters；　acpa


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nied　by　the　rest　of　the　gentlemen　of　Gratian’s　court。　I　
begin　where　he　soliloquizes。”　He　jerked　his　head　and　began　
to　read。　

Although　Katharine　had　just　disclaimed　any　knowledge　
of　literature；　she　listened　attentively。　At　least；　she　listened　
to　the　first　twentyfive　lines　attentively；　and　then　
she　frowned。　Her　attention　was　only　aroused　again　when　
Rodney　raised　his　finger—a　sign；　she　knew；　that　the　meter　
was　about　to　change。　

His　theory　was　that　every　mood　has　its　meter。　His　mastery　
of　meters　was　very　great；　and；　if　the　beauty　of　a　
drama　depended　upon　the　variety　of　measures　in　which　
the　personages　speak；　Rodney’s　plays　must　have　challenged　
the　works　of　Shakespeare。　Katharine’s　ignorance　
of　Shakespeare　did　not　prevent　her　from　feeling　fairly　
certain　that　plays　should　not　produce　a　sense　of　chill　
stupor　in　the　audience；　such　as　overcame　her　as　the　lines　
flowed　on；　sometimes　long　and　sometimes　short；　but　always　
delivered　with　the　same　lilt　of　voice；　which　seemed　
to　nail　each　line　firmly　on　to　the　same　spot　in　the　hearer’s　
brain。　Still；　she　reflected；　these　sorts　of　skill　are　almost　

exclusively　masculine；　women　neither　practice　them　nor　
know　how　to　value　them；　and　one’s　husband’s　proficiency　
in　this　direction　might　legitimately　increase　one’s　respect　
for　him；　since　mystification　is　no　bad　basis　for　respect。　
No　one　could　doubt　that　William　was　a　scholar。　The　reading　
ended　with　the　finish　of　the　Act；　Katharine　had　prepared　
a　little　speech。　

“That　seems　to　me　extremely　well　written；　William；　although；　
of　course；　I　don’t　know　enough　to　criticize　in　
detail。”　

“But　it’s　the　skill　that　strikes　you—not　the　emotion？”　

“In　a　fragment　like　that；　of　course；　the　skill　strikes　one　
most。”　

“But　perhaps—have　you　time　to　listen　to　one　more　
short　piece？　the　scene　between　the　lovers？　There’s　some　
real　feeling　in　that；　I　think。　Denham　agrees　that　it’s　the　
best　thing　I’ve　done。”　

“You’ve　read　it　to　Ralph　Denham？”　Katharine　inquired；　
with　surprise。　“He’s　a　better　judge　than　I　am。　What　did　
he　say？”　

“My　dear　Katharine；”　Rodney　exclaimed；　“I　don’t　ask　

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you　for　criticism；　as　I　should　ask　a　scholar。　I　dare　say　
there　are　only　five　men　in　England　whose　opinion　of　my　
work　matters　a　straw　to　me。　But　I　trust　you　where　feeling　
is　concerned。　I　had　you　in　my　mind　often　when　I　was　
writing　those　scenes。　I　kept　asking　myself；　‘Now　is　this　
the　sort　of　thing　Katharine　would　like？’　I　always　think　of　
you　when　I’m　writing；　Katharine；　even　when　it’s　the　sort　
of　thing　you　wouldn’t　know　about。　And　I’d　rather—yes；　I　
really　believe　I’d　rather—you　thought　well　of　my　writing　
than　any　one　in　the　world。”　

This　was　so　genuine　a　tribute　to　his　trust　in　her　that　
Katharine　was　touched。　

“You　think　too　much　of　me　altogether；　William；”　she　
said；　forgetting　that　she　had　not　meant　to　speak　in　this　
way。　

“No；　Katharine；　I　don’t；”　he　replied；　replacing　his　manuscript　
in　the　drawer。　“It　does　me　good　to　think　of　you。”　

So　quiet　an　answer；　followed　as　it　was　by　no　expression　
of　love；　but　merely　by　the　statement　that　if　she　must　go　
he　would　take　her　to　the　Strand；　and　would；　if　she　could　
wait　a　moment；　change　his　dressinggown　for　a　coat；　

moved　her　to　the　warmest　feeling　of　affection　for　him　
that　she　had　yet　experienced。　While　he　changed　in　the　
next　room；　she　stood　by　the　bookcase；　taking　down　books　
and　opening　them；　but　reading　nothing　on　their　pages。　

She　felt　certain　that　she　would　marry　Rodney。　How　could　
one　avoid　it？　How　could　one　find　fault　with　it？　Here　she　
sighed；　and；　putting　the　thought　of　marriage　away；　fell　
into　a　dream　state；　in　which　she　became　another　person；　
and　the　whole　world　seemed　changed。　Being　a　frequent　
visitor　to　that　world；　she　could　find　her　way　there　
unhesitatingly。　If　she　had　tried　to　analyze　her　impressions；　
she　would　have　said　that　there　dwelt　the　realities　
of　the　appearances　which　figure　in　our　world；　so　direct；　
powerful；　and　unimpeded　were　her　sensations　there；　pared　
with　those　called　forth　in　actual　life。　There　dwelt　
the　things　one　might　have　felt；　had　there　been　cause；　
the　perfect　happiness　of　which　here　we　taste　the　fragment；　
the　beauty　seen　here　in　flying　glimpses　only。　No　
doubt　much　of　the　furniture　of　this　world　was　drawn　directly　
from　the　past；　and　even　from　the　England　of　the　
Elizabethan　age。　However　the　embellishment　of　this　imagi


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nary　world　might　change；　two　qualities　were　constant　in　
it。　It　was　a　place　where　feelings　were　liberated　from　the　
constraint　which　the　real　world　puts　upon　them；　and　the　
process　of　awakenment　was　always　marked　by　resignation　
and　a　kind　of　stoical　acceptance　of　facts。　She　met　no　
acquaintance　there；　as　Denham　did；　miraculously　transfigured；　
she　played　no　heroic　part。　But　there　certainly　
she　loved　some　magnanimous　hero；　and　as　they　swept　
together　among　the　leafhung　trees　of　an　unknown　world；　
they　shared　the　feelings　which　came　fresh　and　fast　as　the　
waves　on　the　shore。　But　the　sands　of　her　liberation　were　
running　fast；　even　through　the　forest　branches　came　
sounds　of　Rodney　moving　things　on　his　dressingtable；　
and　Katharine　woke　herself　from　this　excursion　by　shutting　
the　cover　of　the　book　she　was　holding；　and　replacing　
it　in　the　bookshelf。　

“William；”　she　said；　speaking　rather　faintly　at　first；　like　
one　sending　a　voice　from　sleep　to　reach　the　living。　“William；”　
she　repeated　firmly；　“if　you　still　want　me　to　marry　
you；　I　will。”　

Perhaps　it　was　that　no　man　could　expect　to　have　the