[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第25部分

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you；　I　will。”　

Perhaps　it　was　that　no　man　could　expect　to　have　the　

most　momentous　question　of　his　life　settled　in　a　voice　so　
level；　so　toneless；　so　devoid　of　joy　or　energy。　At　any　rate　
William　made　no　answer。　She　waited　stoically。　A　moment　
later　he　stepped　briskly　from　his　dressingroom；　and　observed　
that　if　she　wanted　to　buy　more　oysters　he　thought　
he　knew　where　they　could　find　a　fishmonger’s　shop　still　
open。　She　breathed　deeply　a　sigh　of　relief。　

Extract　from　a　letter　sent　a　few　days　later　by　Mrs。　Hilbery　
to　her　sisterinlaw；　Mrs。　Milvain：　

“　…　How　stupid　of　me　to　forget　the　name　in　my　telegram。　
Such　a　nice；　rich；　English　name；　too；　and；　in　addition；　
he　has　all　the　graces　of　intellect；　he　has　read　literally　
everything。　I　tell　Katharine；　I　shall　always　put　him　on　
my　right　side　at　dinner；　so　as　to　have　him　by　me　when　
people　begin　talking　about　characters　in　Shakespeare。　
They　won’t　be　rich；　but　they’ll　be　very；　very　happy。　I　was　
sitting　in　my　room　late　one　night；　feeling　that　nothing　
nice　would　ever　happen　to　me　again；　when　I　heard　
Katharine　outside　in　the　passage；　and　I　thought　to　my


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self；　‘Shall　I　call　her　in？’　and　then　I　thought　（in　that　
hopeless；　dreary　way　one　does　think；　with　the　fire　going　
out　and　one’s　birthday　just　over）；　‘Why　should　I　lay　my　
troubles　on　her？’　But　my　little　selfcontrol　had　its　reward；　
for　next　moment　she　tapped　at　the　door　and　came　in；　and　
sat　on　the　rug；　and　though　we　neither　of　us　said　anything；　
I　felt　so　happy　all　of　a　second　that　I　couldn’t　help　
crying；　‘Oh；　Katharine；　when　you　e　to　my　age；　how　I　
hope　you’ll　have　a　daughter；　too！’　You　know　how　silent　
Katharine　is。　She　was　so　silent；　for　such　a　long　time；　that　
in　my　foolish；　nervous　state　I　dreaded　something；　I　don’t　
quite　know　what。　And　then　she　told　me　how；　after　all；　
she　had　made　up　her　mind。　She　had　written。　She　expected　
him　tomorrow。　At　first　I　wasn’t　glad　at　all。　I　didn’t　
want　her　to　marry　any　one；　but　when　she　said；　‘It　will　
make　no　difference。　I　shall　always　care　for　you　and　father　
most；’　then　I　saw　how　selfish　I　was；　and　I　told　her　she　
must　give　him　everything；　everything；　everything！　I　told　
her　I　should　be　thankful　to　e　second。　But　why；　when　
everything’s　turned　out　just　as　one　always　hoped　it　would　
turn　out；　why　then　can　one　do　nothing　but　cry；　nothing　

but　feel　a　desolate　old　woman　whose　life’s　been　a　failure；　
and　now　is　nearly　over；　and　age　is　so　cruel？　But　Katharine　
said　to　me；　‘I　am　happy。　I’m　very　happy。’　And　then　I　
thought；　though　it　all　seemed　so　desperately　dismal　at　
the　time；　Katharine　had　said　she　was　happy；　and　I　should　
have　a　son；　and　it　would　all　turn　out　so　much　more　wonderfully　
than　I　could　possibly　imagine；　for　though　the　
sermons　don’t　say　so；　I　do　believe　the　world　is　meant　for　
us　to　be　happy　in。　She　told　me　that　they　would　live　quite　
near　us；　and　see　us　every　day；　and　she　would　go　on　with　
the　Life；　and　we　should　finish　it　as　we　had　meant　to。　
And；　after　all；　it　would　be　far　more　horrid　if　she　didn’t　
marry—or　suppose　she　married　some　one　we　couldn’t　
endure？　Suppose　she　had　fallen　in　love　with　some　one　
who　was　married　already？　

“And　though　one　never　thinks　any　one　good　enough　for　
the　people　one’s　fond　of；　he　has　the　kindest；　truest　instincts；　
I’m　sure；　and　though　he　seems　nervous　and　his　
manner　is　not　manding；　I　only　think　these　things　
because　it’s　Katharine。　And　now　I’ve　written　this；　it　es　
over　me　that；　of　course；　all　the　time；　Katharine　has　what　

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he　hasn’t。　She　does　mand；　she　isn’t　nervous；　it　es　
naturally　to　her　to　rule　and　control。　It’s　time　that　she　
should　give　all　this　to　some　one　who　will　need　her　when　
we　aren’t　there；　save　in　our　spirits；　for　whatever　people　
say；　I’m　sure　I　shall　e　back　to　this　wonderful　world　
where　one’s　been　so　happy　and　so　miserable；　where；　even　
now；　I　seem　to　see　myself　stretching　out　my　hands　for　
another　present　from　the　great　Fairy　Tree　whose　boughs　
are　still　hung　with　enchanting　toys；　though　they　are　rarer　
now；　perhaps；　and　between　the　branches　one　sees　no　
longer　the　blue　sky；　but　the　stars　and　the　tops　of　the　
mountains。　

“One　doesn’t　know　any　more；　does　one？　One　hasn’t　any　
advice　to　give　one’s　children。　One　can　only　hope　that　
they　will　have　the　same　vision　and　the　same　power　to　
believe；　without　which　life　would　be　so　meaningless。　That　
is　what　I　ask　for　Katharine　and　her　husband。”　

CHAPTER　XII　


Is　Mr。　Hilbery　at　home；　or　Mrs。　Hilbery？”　Denham　asked；　

of　the　parlormaid　in　Chelsea；　a　week　later。　

“No；　sir。　But　Miss　Hilbery　is　at　home；”　the　girl　answered。　

Ralph　had　anticipated　many　answers；　but　not　this　one；　
and　now　it　was　unexpectedly　made　plain　to　him　that　it　
was　the　chance　of　seeing　Katharine　that　had　brought　him　
all　the　way　to　Chelsea　on　pretence　of　seeing　her　father。　

He　made　some　show　of　considering　the　matter；　and　was　
taken　upstairs　to　the　drawingroom。　As　upon　that　first　
occasion；　some　weeks　ago；　the　door　closed　as　if　it　were　a　
thousand　doors　softly　excluding　the　world；　and　once　more　
Ralph　received　an　impression　of　a　room　full　of　deep　shadows；　
firelight；　unwavering　silver　candle　flames；　and　empty　
spaces　to　be　crossed　before　reaching　the　round　table　in　
the　middle　of　the　room；　with　its　frail　burden　of　silver　
trays　and　china　teacups。　But　this　time　Katharine　was　there　
by　herself；　the　volume　in　her　hand　showed　that　she　expected　
no　visitors。　

Ralph　said　something　about　hoping　to　find　her　father。　

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“My　father　is　out；”　she　replied。　“But　if　you　can　wait；　I　
expect　him　soon。”　

It　might　have　been　due　merely　to　politeness；　but　Ralph　
felt　that　she　received　him　almost　with　cordiality。　Perhaps　
she　was　bored　by　drinking　tea　and　reading　a　book　all　
alone；　at　any　rate；　she　tossed　the　book　on　to　a　sofa　with　
a　gesture　of　relief。　

“Is　that　one　of　the　moderns　whom　you　despise？”　he　
asked；　smiling　at　the　carelessness　of　her　gesture。　

“Yes；”　she　replied。　“I　think　even　you　would　despise　him。”　

“Even　I？”　he　repeated。　“Why　even　I？”　

“You　said　you　liked　modern　things；　I　said　I　hated　them。”　

This　was　not　a　very　accurate　report　of　their　conversation　
among　the　relics；　perhaps；　but　Ralph　was　flattered　
to　think　that　she　remembered　anything　about　it。　

“Or　did　I　confess　that　I　hated　all　books？”　she　went　on；　
seeing　him　look　up　with　an　air　of　inquiry。　“I　forget—”　

“Do　you　hate　all　books？”　he　asked。　

“It　would　be　absurd　to　say　that　I　hate　all　books　when　
I’ve　only　read　ten；　perhaps；　but—’　Here　she　pulled　herself　
up　short。　

“Well？”　

“Yes；　I　do　hate　books；”　she　continued。　“Why　do　you　
want　to　be　for　ever　talking　about　your　feelings？　That’s　
what　I　can’t　make　out。　And　poetry’s　all　about　feelings—　
novels　are　all　about　feelings。”　

She　cut　a　cake　vigorously　into　slices；　and　providing　a　
tray　with　bread　and　butter　for　Mrs。　Hilbery；　who　was　in　
her　room　with　a　cold；　she　rose　to　go　upstairs。　

Ralph　held　the　door　open　for　her；　and　then　stood　with　
clasped　hands　in　the　middle　of　the　room。　His　eyes　were　
bright；　and；　indeed；　he　scarcely　knew　whether　they　beheld　
dreams　or　realities。　All　down　the　street　and　on　the　
doorstep；　and　while　he　mounted　the　stairs；　his　dream　of　
Katharine　possessed　him；　on　the　threshold　of　the　room　
he　had　dismissed　it；　in　order　to　prevent　too　painful　a　
collision　between　what　he　dreamt　of　her　and　what　she　
was。　And　in　five　minutes　she　had　filled　the　shell　of　the　
old　dream　with　the　flesh　of　life；　looked　with　fire　out　of　
phantom　eyes。　He　glanced　about　him　with　bewilderment　
at　finding　himself　among　her　chairs　and　tables；　they　were　
solid；　for　he　grasped　the　back　of　the　chair　in　which　

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Katharine　had　sat；　and　yet　they　were　unreal；　the　atmosphere　
was　that　of　a　dream。　He　summoned　all　the　faculties　
of　his　spirit　to　seize　what　the　minutes　had　to　give　
him；　and　from　the　depths　of　his　mind　there　rose　unchecked　
a　joyful　recognition　of　the　truth　that　human　nature　surpasses；　
in　its　beauty；　all　that　our　wildest　dreams　bring　us　
hints　of。　

Katharine　came　into　the　room　a　moment　later。　He　stood　
watching　her　e　towards　him；　and　thought　her　more　
beautiful　and　strange　than　his　dream　of　her；　for　the　real　
Katharine　could　speak　the　words　which　seemed　to　crowd　
behind　the　forehead　and　in　the　depths　of　the　eyes；　and　
the　monest　sentence　would　be　flashed　on　by　this　
immortal　light。　And　she　overflowed　the　edges　of　the　dream；　
he　remarked　that　her　softness　was　like　that　of　some　vast　
snowy　owl；　she　wore　a　ruby　on　her　finger。　

“My　mother　wants　me　to　tell　you；”　she　said；　“that　she　
hopes　you　have　begun　your　poem。　She　says　every　one　
ought　to　write　poetry…　。　All　my　relations　write　poetry；”　
she　went　on。　“I　can’t　bear　to　think　of　it　sometimes—　
because；　of　course；　it’s　none　of　it　any　good。　But　then　one　

needn’t　read　it—”　

“You　don’t　encourage　me　to　write　a　poem；”　said　Ralph。　

“But　you’re　not　a　poet；　too；　are　you？”　she　inquired；　
turning　upon　him　with　a　laugh。　

“Should　I　tell　you　if　I　were？”　

“Yes。　Because　I　think　you　speak　the　truth；”　she　said；　
searching　him　for　proof　of　this　apparently；　with　eyes　now　
almost　impersonally　direct。　It　would　be　easy；　Ralph　
thought；　to　worship　one　so　far　removed；　and　yet　of　so　
straight　a　nature；　easy　to　submit　recklessly　to　her；　without　
thought　of　future　pain。　

“Are　you　a　poet？”　she　demanded。　He　felt　that　her　question　
had　an　unexplained　weight　of　meaning　behind　it；　as　
if　she　sought　an　answer　to　a　question　that　she　did　not　
ask。　

“No。　I　haven’t　written　any　poetry　for　years；”　he　replied。　
“But　all　the　same；　I　don’t　agree　with　you。　I　think　it’s　the　
only　thing　worth　doing。”　

“Why　do　you　say　that？”　she　asked；　almost　with　impatience；　
tapping　her　spoon　two　or　three　times　against　the　
side　of　her　cup。　

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“Why？”　Ralph　laid　hands　on　the　first　words　that　came　
to　mind。　“Because；　I　suppose；　it　keeps　an　ideal　alive　which　
might　die　otherwise。”　

A　curious　change　came　over　her　face；　as　if　the　flame　of　
her　mind　were　subdued；　and　she　looked　at　him　ironically　
and　with　the　expression　which　he　had　called　sad　before；　
for　want　of　a　better　name　for　it。　

“I　don’t　know　that　there’s　much　sense　in　having　ideals；”　
she　said。　

“But　you　have　them；”　he　replied　energetically。　“Why　do　we　
call　them　ideals？　It’s　a　stupid　word。　Dreams；　I　mean—”　

She　followed　his　words　with　parted　lips；　as　though　to　
answer　eagerly　when　he　had　done；　but　as　he　said；　“Dreams；　
I　mean；”　the　door　of　the　drawingroom　swung　open；　and　
so　remained　for　a　perceptible　instant。　They　both　held　
themselves　silent；　her　lips　still　parted。　

Far　off；　they　heard　the　rustle　of　skirts。　Then　the　owner　
of　the　skirts　appeared　in　the　doorway；　which　she　almost　
filled；　nearly　concealing　the　figure　of　a　very　much　smaller　
lady　who　acpanied　her。　

“My　aunts！”　Katharine　murmured；　under　her　breath。　Her　

tone　had　a　hint　of　tragedy　in　it；　but　no　less；　Ralph　thought；　
than　the　situation　required。　She　addressed　the　larger　l