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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第13部分


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that he was one of William’s acquaintances before it was 

possible to tell which of them he was。 It was Denham 
who; having parted from Sandys at the bottom of his 
staircase; was now walking to the Tube at Charing Cross; 
deep in the thoughts which his talk with Sandys had suggested。 
He had forgotten the meeting at Mary Datchet’s 
rooms; he had forgotten Rodney; and metaphors and Elizabethan 
drama; and could have sworn that he had forgotten 
Katharine Hilbery; too; although that was more disputable。 
His mind was scaling the highest pinnacles of 
its alps; where there was only starlight and the untrodden 
snow。 He cast strange eyes upon Rodney; as they encountered 
each other beneath a lamppost。 

“Ha!” Rodney exclaimed。 

If he had been in full possession of his mind; Denham 
would probably have passed on with a salutation。 But 
the shock of the interruption made him stand still; and 
before he knew what he was doing; he had turned and 
was walking with Rodney in obedience to Rodney’s invitation 
to e to his rooms and have something to drink。 
Denham had no wish to drink with Rodney; but he followed 
him passively enough。 Rodney was gratified by this 

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Virginia Woolf 

obedience。 He felt inclined to be municative with 
this silent man; who possessed so obviously all the good 
masculine qualities in which Katharine now seemed lamentably 
deficient。 

“You do well; Denham;” he began impulsively; “to have 
nothing to do with young women。 I offer you my experience—
if one trusts them one invariably has cause to 
repent。 Not that I have any reason at this moment;” he 
added hastily; “to plain of them。 It’s a subject that 
crops up now and again for no particular reason。 Miss 
Datchet; I dare say; is one of the exceptions。 Do you like 
Miss Datchet?” 

These remarks indicated clearly enough that Rodney’s 
nerves were in a state of irritation; and Denham speedily 
woke to the situation of the world as it had been one 
hour ago。 He had last seen Rodney walking with Katharine。 
He could not help regretting the eagerness with which 
his mind returned to these interests; and fretted him with 
the old trivial anxieties。 He sank in his own esteem。 Reason 
bade him break from Rodney; who clearly tended to 
bee confidential; before he had utterly lost touch 

with the problems of high philosophy。 He looked along 
the road; and marked a lamppost at a distance of some 
hundred yards; and decided that he would part from 
Rodney when they reached this point。 

“Yes; I like Mary; I don’t see how one could help liking 
her;” he remarked cautiously; with his eye on the lamppost。 


“Ah; Denham; you’re so different from me。 You never 
give yourself away。 I watched you this evening with 
Katharine Hilbery。 My instinct is to trust the person I’m 
talking to。 That’s why I’m always being taken in; I suppose。” 


Denham seemed to be pondering this statement of 
Rodney’s; but; as a matter of fact; he was hardly conscious 
of Rodney and his revelations; and was only concerned 
to make him mention Katharine again before they 
reached the lamppost。 

“Who’s taken you in now?” he asked。 “Katharine 
Hilbery?” 

Rodney stopped and once more began beating a kind of 
rhythm; as if he were marking a phrase in a symphony; 

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Night and Day 

upon the smooth stone balustrade of the Embankment。 

“Katharine Hilbery;” he repeated; with a curious little 
chuckle。 “No; Denham; I have no illusions about that 
young woman。 I think I made that plain to her tonight。 
But don’t run away with a false impression;” he continued 
eagerly; turning and linking his arm through Denham’s; 
as though to prevent him from escaping; and; thus pelled; 
Denham passed the monitory lamppost; to which; 
in passing; he breathed an excuse; for how could he break 
away when Rodney’s arm was actually linked in his? “You 
must not think that I have any bitterness against her— 
far from it。 It’s not altogether her fault; poor girl。 She 
lives; you know; one of those odious; selfcentered lives— 
at least; I think them odious for a woman—feeding her 
wits upon everything; having control of everything; getting 
far too much her own way at home—spoilt; in a 
sense; feeling that every one is at her feet; and so not 
realizing how she hurts—that is; how rudely she behaves 
to people who haven’t all her advantages。 Still; to do her 
justice; she’s no fool;” he added; as if to warn Denham 
not to take any liberties。 “She has taste。 She has sense。 

She can understand you when you talk to her。 But she’s a 
woman; and there’s an end of it;” he added; with another 
little chuckle; and dropped Denham’s arm。 

“And did you tell her all this tonight?” Denham asked。 

“Oh dear me; no。 I should never think of telling Katharine 
the truth about herself。 That wouldn’t do at all。 One has 
to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with 
Katharine。 

“Now I’ve learnt that she’s refused to marry him why 
don’t I go home?” Denham thought to himself。 But he 
went on walking beside Rodney; and for a time they did 
not speak; though Rodney hummed snatches of a tune 
out of an opera by Mozart。 A feeling of contempt and 
liking bine very naturally in the mind of one to whom 
another has just spoken unpremeditatedly; revealing rather 
more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal。 
Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney 
was; and at the same time Rodney began to think about 
Denham。 

“You’re a slave like me; I suppose?” he asked。 

“A solicitor; yes。” 

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Virginia Woolf 

“I sometimes wonder why we don’t chuck it。 Why don’t 
you emigrate; Denham? I should have thought that would 
suit you。” 

“I’ve a family。” 

“I’m often on the point of going myself。 And then I 
know I couldn’t live without this”—and he waved his 
hand towards the City of London; which wore; at this 
moment; the appearance of a town cut out of grayblue 
cardboard; and pasted flat against the sky; which was of 
a deeper blue。 

“There are one or two people I’m fond of; and there’s a 
little good music; and a few pictures; now and then— 
just enough to keep one dangling about here。 Ah; but I 
couldn’t live with savages! Are you fond of books? Music? 
Pictures? D’you care at all for first editions? I’ve got a 
few nice things up here; things I pick up cheap; for I 
can’t afford to give what they ask。” 

They had reached a small court of high eighteenth
century houses; in one of which Rodney had his rooms。 
They climbed a very steep staircase; through whose 
uncurtained windows the moonlight fell; illuminating the 

banisters with their twisted pillars; and the piles of plates 
set on the windowsills; and jars halffull of milk。 Rodney’s 
rooms were small; but the sittingroom window looked 
out into a courtyard; with its flagged pavement; and its 
single tree; and across to the flat redbrick fronts of the 
opposite houses; which would not have surprised Dr。 
Johnson; if he had e out of his grave for a turn in the 
moonlight。 Rodney lit his lamp; pulled his curtains; offered 
Denham a chair; and; flinging the manuscript of his 
paper on the Elizabethan use of Metaphor on to the table; 
exclaimed: 

“Oh dear me; what a waste of time! But it’s over now; 
and so we may think no more about it。” 

He then busied himself very dexterously in lighting a 
fire; producing glasses; whisky; a cake; and cups and saucers。 
He put on a faded crimson dressinggown; and a 
pair of red slippers; and advanced to Denham with a tumbler 
in one hand and a wellburnished book in the other。 

“The Baskerville Congreve;” said Rodney; offering it to 
his guest。 “I couldn’t read him in a cheap edition。” 

When he was seen thus among his books and his valu


59 



Night and Day 

ables; amiably anxious to make his visitor fortable; 
and moving about with something of the dexterity and 
grace of a Persian cat; Denham relaxed his critical attitude; 
and felt more at home with Rodney than he would 
have done with many men better known to him。 Rodney’s 
room was the room of a person who cherishes a great 
many personal tastes; guarding them from the rough blasts 
of the public with scrupulous attention。 His papers and 
his books rose in jagged mounds on table and floor; round 
which he skirted with nervous care lest his dressinggown 
might disarrange them ever so slightly。 On a chair stood 
a stack of photographs of statues and pictures; which it 
was his habit to exhibit; one by one; for the space of a 
day or two。 The books on his shelves were as orderly as 
regiments of soldiers; and the backs of them shone like 
so many bronze beetlewings; though; if you took one 
from its place you saw a shabbier volume behind it; since 
space was limited。 An oval Veian mirror stood above 
the fireplace; and reflected duskily in its spotted depths 
the faint yellow and crimson of a jarful of tulips which 
stood among the letters and pipes and cigarettes upon 

the mantelpiece。 A small piano occupied a corner of the 
room; with the score of “Don Giovanni” open upon the 
bracket。 

“Well; Rodney;” said Denham; as he filled his pipe and 
looked about him; “this is all very nice and fortable。” 

Rodney turned his head half round and smiled; with 
the pride of a proprietor; and then prevented himself from 
smiling。 

“Tolerable;” he muttered。 

“But I dare say it’s just as well that you have to earn 
your own living。” 

“If you mean that I shouldn’t do anything good with 
leisure if I had it; I dare say you’re right。 But I should be 
ten times as happy with my whole day to spend as I 
liked。” 

“I doubt that;” Denham replied。 

They sat silent; and the smoke from their pipes joined 
amicably in a blue vapor above their heads。 

“I could spend three hours every day reading 
Shakespeare;” Rodney remarked。 “And there’s music and 
pictures; let alone the society of the people one likes。” 

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Virginia Woolf 

“You’d be bored to death in a year’s time。” 

“Oh; I grant you I should be bored if

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