[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第26部分

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disagreeable　to　interrupt　the　stride　of　one’s　thought；　and　
she　walked　up　and　down　two　or　three　times　under　the　
trees　before　approaching　his　staircase。　She　liked　getting　
hold　of　some　book　which　neither　her　father　or　mother　
had　read；　and　keeping　it　to　herself；　and　gnawing　its　contents　
in　privacy；　and　pondering　the　meaning　without　sharing　
her　thoughts　with　any　one；　or　having　to　decide　whether　
the　book　was　a　good　one　or　a　bad　one。　This　evening　she　
had　twisted　the　words　of　Dostoevsky　to　suit　her　mood—　
a　fatalistic　mood—to　proclaim　that　the　process　of　discovery　
was　life；　and　that；　presumably；　the　nature　of　one’s　

goal　mattered　not　at　all。　She　sat　down　for　a　moment　
upon　one　of　the　seats；　felt　herself　carried　along　in　the　
swirl　of　many　things；　decided；　in　her　sudden　way；　that　it　
was　time　to　heave　all　this　thinking　overboard；　and　rose；　
leaving　a　fishmonger’s　basket　on　the　seat　behind　her。　
Two　minutes　later　her　rap　sounded　with　authority　upon　
Rodney’s　door。　

“Well；　William；”　she　said；　“I’m　afraid　I’m　late。”　

It　was　true；　but　he　was　so　glad　to　see　her　that　he　forgot　
his　annoyance。　He　had　been　occupied　for　over　an　hour　in　
making　things　ready　for　her；　and　he　now　had　his　reward　
in　seeing　her　look　right　and　left；　as　she　slipped　her　cloak　
from　her　shoulders；　with　evident　satisfaction；　although　
she　said　nothing。　He　had　seen　that　the　fire　burnt　well；　
jampots　were　on　the　table；　tin　covers　shone　in　the　fender；　
and　the　shabby　fort　of　the　room　was　extreme。　He　was　
dressed　in　his　old　crimson　dressinggown；　which　was　faded　
irregularly；　and　had　bright　new　patches　on　it；　like　the　
paler　grass　which　one　finds　on　lifting　a　stone。　He　made　
the　tea；　and　Katharine　drew　off　her　gloves；　and　crossed　
her　legs　with　a　gesture　that　was　rather　masculine　in　its　

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ease。　Nor　did　they　talk　much　until　they　were　smoking　
cigarettes　over　the　fire；　having　placed　their　teacups　upon　
the　floor　between　them。　

They　had　not　met　since　they　had　exchanged　letters　about　
their　relationship。　Katharine’s　answer　to　his　protestation　
had　been　short　and　sensible。　Half　a　sheet　of　notepaper　
contained　the　whole　of　it；　for　she　merely　had　to　say　that　
she　was　not　in　love　with　him；　and　so　could　not　marry　
him；　but　their　friendship　would　continue；　she　hoped；　
unchanged。　She　had　added　a　postscript　in　which　she　
stated；　“I　like　your　son　very　much。”　

So　far　as　William　was　concerned；　this　appearance　of　
ease　was　assumed。　Three　times　that　afternoon　he　had　
dressed　himself　in　a　tailcoat；　and　three　times　he　had　
discarded　it　for　an　old　dressinggown；　three　times　he　had　
placed　his　pearl　tiepin　in　position；　and　three　times　he　
had　removed　it　again；　the　little　lookingglass　in　his　room　
being　the　witness　of　these　changes　of　mind。　The　question　
was；　which　would　Katharine　prefer　on　this　particular　
afternoon　in　December？　He　read　her　note　once　more；　and　
the　postscript　about　the　son　settled　the　matter。　Evi


dently　she　admired　most　the　poet　in　him；　and　as　this；　on　
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　enou