[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第22部分

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watched　her　mother；　now　rummaging　in　a　great　brass


96　



Virginia　Woolf　

bound　box　which　stood　by　her　table；　but　she　did　not　go　
to　her　help。　Of　course；　Katharine　reflected；　her　mother　
had　now　lost　some　paper；　and　they　would　waste　the　rest　
of　the　morning　looking　for　it。　She　cast　her　eyes　down　in　
irritation；　and　read　again　her　mother’s　musical　sentences　
about　the　silver　gulls；　and　the　roots　of　little　pink　flowers　
washed　by　pellucid　streams；　and　the　blue　mists　of　hyacinths；　
until　she　was　struck　by　her　mother’s　silence。　She　
raised　her　eyes。　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　emptied　a　portfolio　containing　
old　photographs　over　her　table；　and　was　looking　
from　one　to　another。　

“Surely；　Katharine；”　she　said；　“the　men　were　far　handsomer　
in　those　days　than　they　are　now；　in　spite　of　their　
odious　whiskers？　Look　at　old　John　Graham；　in　his　white　
waistcoat—look　at　Uncle　Harley。　That’s　Peter　the　manservant；　
I　suppose。　Uncle　John　brought　him　back　from　India。”　

Katharine　looked　at　her　mother；　but　did　not　stir　or　answer。　
She　had　suddenly　bee　very　angry；　with　a　rage　
which　their　relationship　made　silent；　and　therefore　doubly　
powerful　and　critical。　She　felt　all　the　unfairness　of　
the　claim　which　her　mother　tacitly　made　to　her　time　and　

sympathy；　and　what　Mrs。　Hilbery　took；　Katharine　thought　
bitterly；　she　wasted。　Then；　in　a　flash；　she　remembered　
that　she　had　still　to　tell　her　about　Cyril’s　misbehavior。　
Her　anger　immediately　dissipated　itself；　it　broke　like　some　
wave　that　has　gathered　itself　high　above　the　rest；　the　
waters　were　resumed　into　the　sea　again；　and　Katharine　
felt　once　more　full　of　peace　and　solicitude；　and　anxious　
only　that　her　mother　should　be　protected　from　pain。　She　
crossed　the　room　instinctively；　and　sat　on　the　arm　of　her　
mother’s　chair。　Mrs。　Hilbery　leant　her　head　against　her　
daughter’s　body。　

“What　is　nobler；”　she　mused；　turning　over　the　photographs；　
“than　to　be　a　woman　to　whom　every　one　turns；　in　
sorrow　or　difficulty？　How　have　the　young　women　of　your　
generation　improved　upon　that；　Katharine？　I　can　see　them　
now；　sweeping　over　the　lawns　at　Melbury　House；　in　their　
flounces　and　furbelows；　so　calm　and　stately　and　imperial　
（and　the　monkey　and　the　little　black　dwarf　following　behind）；　
as　if　nothing　mattered　in　the　world　but　to　be　beautiful　
and　kind。　But　they　did　more　than　we　do；　I　sometimes　
think。　They　were；　and　that’s　better　than　doing。　They　seem　

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Night　and　Day　

to　me　like　ships；　like　majestic　ships；　holding　on　their　
way；　not　shoving　or　pushing；　not　fretted　by　little　things；　
as　we　are；　but　taking　their　way；　like　ships　with　white　
sails。”　

Katharine　tried　to　interrupt　this　discourse；　but　the　opportunity　
did　not　e；　and　she　could　not　forbear　to　turn　
over　the　pages　of　the　album　in　which　the　old　photographs　
were　stored。　The　faces　of　these　men　and　women　
shone　forth　wonderfully　after　the　hubbub　of　living　faces；　
and　seemed；　as　her　mother　had　said；　to　wear　a　marvelous　
dignity　and　calm；　as　if　they　had　ruled　their　kingdoms　
justly　and　deserved　great　love。　Some　were　of　almost　incredible　
beauty；　others　were　ugly　enough　in　a　forcible　
way；　but　none　were　dull　or　bored　or　insignificant。　The　
superb　stiff　folds　of　the　crinolines　suited　the　women；　the　
cloaks　and　hats　of　the　gentlemen　seemed　full　of　character。　
Once　more　Katharine　felt　the　serene　air　all　round　her；　
and　seemed　far　off　to　hear　the　solemn　beating　of　the　sea　
upon　the　shore。　But　she　knew　that　she　must　join　the　
present　on　to　this　past。　

Mrs。　Hilbery　was　rambling　on；　from　story　to　story。　

“That’s　Janie　Mannering；”　she　said；　pointing　to　a　superb；　
whitehaired　dame；　whose　satin　robes　seemed　strung　
with　pearls。　“I　must　have　told　you　how　she　found　her　
cook　drunk　under　the　kitchen　table　when　the　Empress　
was　ing　to　dinner；　and　tucked　up　her　velvet　sleeves　
（she　always　dressed　like　an　Empress　herself）；　cooked　the　
whole　meal；　and　appeared　in　the　drawingroom　as　if　she’d　
been　sleeping　on　a　bank　of　roses　all　day。　She　could　do　
anything　with　her　hands—they　all　could—make　a　cottage　
or　embroider　a　petticoat。　

“And　that’s　Queenie　Colquhoun；”　she　went　on；　turning　
the　pages；　“who　took　her　coffin　out　with　her　to　Jamaica；　
packed　with　lovely　shawls　and　bons；　because　you　
couldn’t　get　coffins　in　Jamaica；　and　she　had　a　horror　of　
dying　there　（as　she　did）；　and　being　devoured　by　the　white　
ants。　And　there’s　Sabine；　the　loveliest　of　them　all；　ah！　it　
was　like　a　star　rising　when　she　came　into　the　room。　And　
that’s　Miriam；　in　her　coachman’s　cloak；　with　all　the　little　
capes　on；　and　she　wore　great　topboots　underneath。　You　
young　people　may　say　you’re　unconventional；　but　you’re　
nothing　pared　with　her。”　

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Virginia　Woolf　

Turning　the　page；　she　came　upon　the　picture　of　a　very　
masculine；　handsome　lady；　whose　head　the　photographer　
had　adorned　with　an　imperial　crown。　

“Ah；　you　wretch！”　Mrs。　Hilbery　exclaimed；　“what　a　wicked　
old　despot　you　were；　in　your　day！　How　we　all　bowed　down　
before　you！　‘Maggie；’　she　used　to　say；　‘if　it　hadn’t　been　for　
me；　where　would　you　be　now？’　And　it　was　true；　she　brought　
them　together；　you　know。　She　said　to　my　father；　‘Marry　
her；’　and　he　did；　and　she　said　to　poor　little　Clara；　‘Fall　
down　and　worship　him；’　and　she　did；　but　she　got　up　again；　
of　course。　What　else　could　one　expect？　She　was　a　mere　
child—eighteen—and　half　dead　with　fright；　too。　But　that　
old　tyrant　never　repented。　She　used　to　say　that　she　had　
given　them　three　perfect　months；　and　no　one　had　a　right　
to　more；　and　I　sometimes　think；　Katharine；　that’s　true；　
you　know。　It’s　more　than　most　of　us　have；　only　we　have　
to　pretend；　which　was　a　thing　neither　of　them　could　ever　
do。　I　fancy；”　Mrs。　Hilbery　mused；　“that　there　was　a　kind　
of　sincerity　in　those　days　between　men　and　women　which；　
with　all　your　outspokenness；　you　haven’t　got。”　

Katharine　again　tried　to　interrupt。　But　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　

been　gathering　impetus　from　her　recollections；　and　was　
now　in　high　spirits。　

“They　must　have　been　good　friends　at　heart；”　she　resumed；　
“because　she　used　to　sing　his　songs。　Ah；　how　did　
it　go？”　and　Mrs。　Hilbery；　who　had　a　very　sweet　voice；　
trolled　out　a　famous　lyric　of　her　father’s　which　had　been　
set　to　an　absurdly　and　charmingly　sentimental　air　by　some　
early　Victorian　poser。　

“It’s　the　vitality　of　them！”　she　concluded；　striking　her　
fist　against　the　table。　“That’s　what　we　haven’t　got！　We’re　
virtuous；　we’re　earnest；　we　go　to　meetings；　we　pay　the　
poor　their　wages；　but　we　don’t　live　as　they　lived。　As　often　
as　not；　my　father　wasn’t　in　bed　three　nights　out　of　the　
seven；　but　always　fresh　as　paint　in　the　morning。　I　hear　
him　now；　e　singing　up　the　stairs　to　the　nursery；　and　
tossing　the　loaf　for　breakfast　on　his　swordstick；　and　then　
off　we　went　for　a　day’s　pleasuring—Richmond；　Hampton　
Court；　the　Surrey　Hills。　Why　shouldn’t　we　go；　Katharine？　
It’s　going　to　be　a　fine　day。”　

At　this　moment；　just　as　Mrs。　Hilbery　was　examining　the　
weather　from　the　window；　there　was　a　knock　at　the　door。　

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Night　and　Day　

A　slight；　elderly　lady　came　in；　and　was　saluted　by　
Katharine；　with　very　evident　dismay；　as　“Aunt　Celia！”　She　
was　dismayed　because　she　guessed　why　Aunt　Celia　had　
e。　It　was　certainly　in　order　to　discuss　the　case　of　Cyril　
and　the　woman　who　was　not　his　wife；　and　owing　to　her　
procrastination　Mrs。　Hilbery　was　quite　unprepared。　Who　
could　be　more　unprepared？　Here　she　was；　suggesting　that　
all　three　of　them　should　go　on　a　jaunt　to　Blackfriars　to　
inspect　the　site　of　Shakespeare’s　theater；　for　the　weather　
was　hardly　settled　enough　for　the　country。　

To　this　proposal　Mrs。　Milvain　listened　with　a　patient　
smile；　which　indicated　that　for　many　years　she　had　accepted　
such　eccentricities　in　her　sisterinlaw　with　bland　
philosophy。　Katharine　took　up　her　position　at　some　distance；　
standing　with　her　foot　on　the　fender；　as　though　by　
so　doing　she　could　get　a　better　view　of　the　matter。　But；　
in　spite　of　her　aunt’s　presence；　how　unreal　the　whole　
question　of　Cyril　and　his　morality　appeared！　The　difficulty；　
it　now　seemed；　was　not　to　break　the　news　gently　to　
Mrs。　Hilbery；　but　to　make　her　understand　it。　How　was　one　
to　lasso　her　mind；　and　tether　it　to　this　minute；　unimpor


tant　spot？　A　matteroffact　statement　seemed　best。　

“I　think　Aunt　Celia　has　e　to　talk　about　Cyril；　mother；”　
she　said　rather　brutally。　“Aunt　Celia　has　discovered　that　
Cyril　is　married。　He　has　a　wife　and　children。”　

“No；　he　is　not　married；”　Mrs。　Milvain　interposed；　in　low　
tones；　addressing　herself　to　Mrs。　Hilbery。　“He　has　two　
children；　and　another　on　the　way。”　

Mrs。　Hilbery　looked　from　one　to　the　other　in　bewilderment。　


“We　thought　it　better　to　wait　until　it　was　proved　before　
we　told　you；”　Katharine　added。　

“But　I　met　Cyril　only　a　fortnight　ago　at　the　National　
Gallery！”　Mrs。　Hilbery　exclaimed。　“I　don’t　believe　a　word　
of　it；”　and　she　tossed　her　head　with　a　smile　on　her　lips　at　
Mrs。　Milvain；　as　though　she　could　quite　understand　her　
mistake；　which　was　a　very　natural　mistake；　in　the　case　of　
a　childless　woman；　whose　husband　was　something　very　
dull　in　the　Board　of　Trade。　

“I　didn’t　wish　to　believe　it；　Maggie；”　said　Mrs。　Milvain。　
“For　a　long　time　I　couldn’t　believe　it。　But　now　I’ve　seen；　
and　I　have　to　believe　it。”　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“Katharine；”　Mrs。　Hilbery　demanded；　“does　your　father　
know　of　this？”　

Katharine　nodded。　

“Cyril　married！”　Mrs。　Hilbery　repeated。　“And　never　telling　
us　a　word；　though　we’ve　had　him　in　our　house　since　he　was　
a　child—noble　William’s　son！　I　can’t　believe　my　ears！”　

Feeling　that　the　burden　of　proof　was　laid　upon　her；　Mrs。　
Milvain　now　proceeded　with　her　story。　She　was　elderly　
and　fragile；　but　her　childlessness　seemed　always　to　impose　
these　painful　duties　on　her；　and　to　revere　the　family；　
and　to　keep　it　in　repair；　had　now　bee　the　chief　
object　of　her　life。　She　told　her　story　in　a　low；　spasmodic；　
and　somewhat　broken　voice。　

“I　have　suspected　for　some　time　that　he　was　not　happy。　
There　were　new　lines　on　his　face。　So　I　went　to　his　roo