[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第7部分

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31　



Night　and　Day　

a　table　heaped　with　bundles　of　old　letters　and　well　supplied　
with　pencils；　scissors；　bottles　of　gum；　indiarubber　
bands；　large　envelopes；　and　other　appliances　for　the　manufacture　
of　books。　Shortly　before　Ralph　Denham’s　visit；　
Katharine　had　resolved　to　try　the　effect　of　strict　rules　
upon　her　mother’s　habits　of　literary　position。　They　
were　to　be　seated　at　their　tables　every　morning　at　ten　
o’clock；　with　a　cleanswept　morning　of　empty；　secluded　
hours　before　them。　They　were　to　keep　their　eyes　fast　upon　
the　paper；　and　nothing　was　to　tempt　them　to　speech；　
save　at　the　stroke　of　the　hour　when　ten　minutes　for　relaxation　
were　to　be　allowed　them。　If　these　rules　were　
observed　for　a　year；　she　made　out　on　a　sheet　of　paper　
that　the　pletion　of　the　book　was　certain；　and　she　laid　
her　scheme　before　her　mother　with　a　feeling　that　much　
of　the　task　was　already　acplished。　Mrs。　Hilbery　examined　
the　sheet　of　paper　very　carefully。　Then　she　clapped　
her　hands　and　exclaimed　enthusiastically：　

“Well　done；　Katharine！　What　a　wonderful　head　for　business　
you’ve　got！　Now　I　shall　keep　this　before　me；　and　
every　day　I　shall　make　a　little　mark　in　my　pocketbook；　

and　on　the　last　day　of　all—let　me　think；　what　shall　we　do　
to　celebrate　the　last　day　of　all？　If　it　weren’t　the　winter　
we　could　take　a　jaunt　to　Italy。　They　say　Switzerland’s　
very　lovely　in　the　snow；　except　for　the　cold。　But；　as　you　
say；　the　great　thing　is　to　finish　the　book。　Now　let　me　
see—”　

When　they　inspected　her　manuscripts；　which　Katharine　
had　put　in　order；　they　found　a　state　of　things　well　calculated　
to　dash　their　spirits；　if　they　had　not　just　resolved　
on　reform。　They　found；　to　begin　with；　a　great　variety　of　
very　imposing　paragraphs　with　which　the　biography　was　
to　open；　many　of　these；　it　is　true；　were　unfinished；　and　
resembled　triumphal　arches　standing　upon　one　leg；　but；　
as　Mrs。　Hilbery　observed；　they　could　be　patched　up　in　ten　
minutes；　if　she　gave　her　mind　to　it。　Next；　there　was　an　
account　of　the　ancient　home　of　the　Alardyces；　or　rather；　
of　spring　in　Suffolk；　which　was　very　beautifully　written；　
although　not　essential　to　the　story。　However；　Katharine　
had　put　together　a　string　of　names　and　dates；　so　that　the　
poet　was　capably　brought　into　the　world；　and　his　ninth　
year　was　reached　without　further　mishap。　After　that；　Mrs。　

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Hilbery　wished；　for　sentimental　reasons；　to　introduce　the　
recollections　of　a　very　fluent　old　lady；　who　had　been　
brought　up　in　the　same　village；　but　these　Katharine　decided　
must　go。　It　might　be　advisable　to　introduce　here　a　
sketch　of　contemporary　poetry　contributed　by　Mr。　Hilbery；　
and　thus　terse　and　learned　and　altogether　out　of　keeping　
with　the　rest；　but　Mrs。　Hilbery　was　of　opinion　that　it　was　
too　bare；　and　made　one　feel　altogether　like　a　good　little　
girl　in　a　lectureroom；　which　was　not　at　all　in　keeping　
with　her　father。　It　was　put　on　one　side。　Now　came　the　
period　of　his　early　manhood；　when　various　affairs　of　the　
heart　must　either　be　concealed　or　revealed；　here　again　
Mrs。　Hilbery　was　of　two　minds；　and　a　thick　packet　of　
manuscript　was　shelved　for　further　consideration。　

Several　years　were　now　altogether　omitted；　because　Mrs。　
Hilbery　had　found　something　distasteful　to　her　in　that　
period；　and　had　preferred　to　dwell　upon　her　own　recollections　
as　a　child。　After　this；　it　seemed　to　Katharine　
that　the　book　became　a　wild　dance　of　willo’thewisps；　
without　form　or　continuity；　without　coherence　even；　or　
any　attempt　to　make　a　narrative。　Here　were　twenty　pages　

upon　her　grandfather’s　taste　in　hats；　an　essay　upon　contemporary　
china；　a　long　account　of　a　summer　day’s　expedition　
into　the　country；　when　they　had　missed　their　train；　
together　with　fragmentary　visions　of　all　sorts　of　famous　
men　and　women；　which　seemed　to　be　partly　imaginary　
and　partly　authentic。　There　were；　moreover；　thousands　of　
letters；　and　a　mass　of　faithful　recollections　contributed　
by　old　friends；　which　had　grown　yellow　now　in　their　envelopes；　
but　must　be　placed　somewhere；　or　their　feelings　
would　be　hurt。　So　many　volumes　had　been　written　about　
the　poet　since　his　death　that　she　had　also　to　dispose　of　
a　great　number　of　misstatements；　which　involved　minute　
researches　and　much　correspondence。　Sometimes　
Katharine　brooded；　half　crushed；　among　her　papers；　sometimes　
she　felt　that　it　was　necessary　for　her　very　existence　
that　she　should　free　herself　from　the　past；　at　others；　that　
the　past　had　pletely　displaced　the　present；　which；　
when　one　resumed　life　after　a　morning　among　the　dead；　
proved　to　be　of　an　utterly　thin　and　inferior　position。　

The　worst　of　it　was　that　she　had　no　aptitude　for　literature。　
She　did　not　like　phrases。　She　had　even　some　natural　

33　



Night　and　Day　

antipathy　to　that　process　of　selfexamination；　that　perpetual　
effort　to　understand　one’s　own　feeling；　and　express　
it　beautifully；　fitly；　or　energetically　in　language；　
which　constituted　so　great　a　part　of　her　mother’s　existence。　
She　was；　on　the　contrary；　inclined　to　be　silent；　she　
shrank　from　expressing　herself　even　in　talk；　let　alone　in　
writing。　As　this　disposition　was　highly　convenient　in　a　
family　much　given　to　the　manufacture　of　phrases；　and　
seemed　to　argue　a　corresponding　capacity　for　action；　she　
was；　from　her　childhood　even；　put　in　charge　of　household　
affairs。　She　had　the　reputation；　which　nothing　in　
her　manner　contradicted；　of　being　the　most　practical　of　
people。　Ordering　meals；　directing　servants；　paying　bills；　
and　so　contriving　that　every　clock　ticked　more　or　less　
accurately　in　time；　and　a　number　of　vases　were　always　
full　of　fresh　flowers　was　supposed　to　be　a　natural　endowment　
of　hers；　and；　indeed；　Mrs。　Hilbery　often　observed　
that　it　was　poetry　the　wrong　side　out。　From　a　very　early　
age；　too；　she　had　to　exert　herself　in　another　capacity；　
she　had　to　counsel　and　help　and　generally　sustain　her　
mother。　Mrs。　Hilbery　would　have　been　perfectly　well　able　

to　sustain　herself　if　the　world　had　been　what　the　world　is　
not。　She　was　beautifully　adapted　for　life　in　another　pla。　
But　the　natural　genius　she　had　for　conducting　affairs　there　
was　of　no　real　use　to　her　here。　Her　watch；　for　example；　
was　a　constant　source　of　surprise　to　her；　and　at　the　age　
of　sixtyfive　she　was　still　amazed　at　the　ascendancy　which　
rules　and　reasons　exerted　over　the　lives　of　other　people。　
She　had　never　learnt　her　lesson；　and　had　constantly　to　
be　punished　for　her　ignorance。　But　as　that　ignorance　was　
bined　with　a　fine　natural　insight　which　saw　deep　
whenever　it　saw　at　all；　it　was　not　possible　to　write　Mrs。　
Hilbery　off　among　the　dunces；　on　the　contrary；　she　had　a　
way　of　seeming　the　wisest　person　in　the　room。　But；　on　
the　whole；　she　found　it　very　necessary　to　seek　support　in　
her　daughter。　

Katharine；　thus；　was　a　member　of　a　very　great　profession　
which　has；　as　yet；　no　title　and　very　little　recognition；　although　
the　labor　of　mill　and　factory　is；　perhaps；　no　more　
severe　and　the　results　of　less　benefit　to　the　world。　She　
lived　at　home。　She　did　it　very　well；　too。　Any　one　ing　to　
the　house　in　Cheyne　Walk　felt　that　here　was　an　orderly　

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Virginia　Woolf　

place；　shapely；　controlled—a　place　where　life　had　been　
trained　to　show　to　the　best　advantage；　and；　though　posed　
of　different　elements；　made　to　appear　harmonious　
and　with　a　character　of　its　own。　Perhaps　it　was　the　chief　
triumph　of　Katharine’s　art　that　Mrs。　Hilbery’s　character　predominated。　
She　and　Mr。　Hilbery　appeared　to　be　a　rich　background　
for　her　mother’s　more　striking　qualities。　

Silence　being；　thus；　both　natural　to　her　and　imposed　
upon　her；　the　only　other　remark　that　her　mother’s　friends　
were　in　the　habit　of　making　about　it　was　that　it　was　
neither　a　stupid　silence　nor　an　indifferent　silence。　But　to　
what　quality　it　owed　its　character；　since　character　of　some　
sort　it　had；　no　one　troubled　themselves　to　inquire。　It　was　
understood　that　she　was　helping　her　mother　to　produce　a　
great　book。　She　was　known　to　manage　the　household。　
She　was　certainly　beautiful。　That　accounted　for　her　satisfactorily。　
But　it　would　have　been　a　surprise；　not　only　to　
other　people　but　to　Katharine　herself；　if　some　magic　watch　
could　have　taken　count　of　the　moments　spent　in　an　entirely　
different　occupation　from　her　ostensible　one。　Sitting　
with　faded　papers　before　her；　she　took　part　in　a　

series　of　scenes　such　as　the　taming　of　wild　ponies　upon　
the　American　prairies；　or　the　conduct　of　a　vast　ship　in　a　
hurricane　round　a　black　promontory　of　rock；　or　in　others　
more　peaceful；　but　marked　by　her　plete　emancipation　
from　her　present　surroundings　and；　needless　to　say；　
by　her　surpassing　ability　in　her　new　vocation。　When　she　
was　rid　of　the　pretense　of　paper　and　pen；　phrasemaking　
and　biography；　she　turned　her　attention　in　a　more　legitimate　
direction；　though；　strangely　enough；　she　would　
rather　have　confessed　her　wildest　dreams　of　hurricane　
and　prairie　than　the　fact　that；　upstairs；　alone　in　her　room；　
she　rose　early　in　the　morning　or　sat　up　late　at　night　to　…　
work　at　mathematics。　No　force　on　earth　would　have　made　
her　confess　that。　Her　actions　when　thus　engaged　were　
furtive　and　secretive；　like　those　of　some　nocturnal　animal。　
Steps　had　only　to　sound　on　the　staircase；　and　she　
slipped　her　paper　between　the　leaves　of　a　great　Greek　
dictionary　which　she　had　purloined　from　her　father’s　room　
for　this　purpose。　It　was　only　at　night；　indeed；　that　she　
felt　secure　enough　from　surprise　to　concentrate　her　mind　
to　the　utmost。　

35　



Night　and　Day　

Perhaps　the　unwomanly　nature　of　the　science　made　her　
instinctively　wish　to　conceal　her　love　of　it。　But　the　more　
profound　reason　was　that　in　her　mind　mathematics　were　
directly　opposed　to　literature。　She　would　not　have　cared　
to　confess　how　infinitely　she　preferred　the　exactitude；　
the　starlike　impersonality；　of　figures　to　the　confusion；　
agitation；　and　vagueness　of　the　finest　prose。　There　was　
something　a　little　unseemly　in　thus　opposing　the　tradition　
of　her　family；　something　that　made　her　feel　wrongheaded；　
and　thus　more　than　ever　disposed　to　shut　her　
desires　away　from　view　and　cherish　them　with　extraordinary　
fondness。　Again　and　again　she　was　thinking　of　some　
problem　when　she　should　have　been　thinking　of　her　grandfather。　
Waking　from　these　trances；　she　would　see　that　her　
mother；　too；　had　lapsed　into　some　dream　almost　as　visionary　
as　her　own；　for　the　people　who　played　their　parts　
in　it　had　long　been　numbered　among　the　dead。　But；　seeing　
her　own　state　mirrored　in　her　mother’s　face；　Katharine　
would　shake　herself　awake　with　a　sense　of　irritation。　Her　
mother　was　the　last　person　she　wished　to　resemble；　much　
though　she　admired　her。　Her　mon　sense　would　assert　

itself　almost　brutally；　and　Mrs。　Hilbery；　looking　at　her　
with　her　odd　sidelong　glance；　that　was　half　malicious　
and　half　tender；　would　liken　her　to　“your　wicked　old　Uncle　
Judge　Peter；　who　used　to　be　heard　delivering　sentence　of　
death　in　the　bathroom。　Thank　Heaven；　Katharine；　I’ve　
not　a　drop　of　HIM　in　me！”　

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Virginia　Woolf　

CHAPTER　IV　


At　about　nine　o’clock　at