[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第39部分

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Virginia　Woolf　

her　hand　in　his；　with　such　an　impulse　of　emotion　that　
Henry　was　annoyed；　and　rather　ostentatiously　opened　a　
book。　

“I　shall　e　down　with　you；”　said　William；　as　she　drew　
back　her　hand；　and　made　as　if　to　pass　him。　

“Oh　no；”　she　said　hastily。　“You　stay　here　and　talk　to　
Henry。”　

“Yes；　do；”　said　Henry；　shutting　up　his　book　again。　His　
invitation　was　polite；　without　being　precisely　cordial。　
Rodney　evidently　hesitated　as　to　the　course　he　should　
pursue；　but　seeing　Katharine　at　the　door；　he　exclaimed：　

“No。　I　want　to　e　with　you。”　

She　looked　back；　and　said　in　a　very　manding　tone；　
and　with　an　expression　of　authority　upon　her　face：　

“It’s　useless　for　you　to　e。　I　shall　go　to　bed　in　ten　
minutes。　Good　night。”　

She　nodded　to　them　both；　but　Henry　could　not　help　
noticing　that　her　last　nod　was　in　his　direction。　Rodney　
sat　down　rather　heavily。　

His　mortification　was　so　obvious　that　Henry　scarcely　
liked　to　open　the　conversation　with　some　remark　of　a　

literary　character。　On　the　other　hand；　unless　he　checked　
him；　Rodney　might　begin　to　talk　about　his　feelings；　and　
irreticence　is　apt　to　be　extremely　painful；　at　any　rate　in　
prospect。　He　therefore　adopted　a　middle　course；　that　is　
to　say；　he　wrote　a　note　upon　the　flyleaf　of　his　book；　
which　ran；　“The　situation　is　being　most　unfortable。”　
This　he　decorated　with　those　flourishes　and　decorative　
borders　which　grow　of　themselves　upon　these　occasions；　
and　as　he　did　so；　he　thought　to　himself　that　
whatever　Katharine’s　difficulties　might　be；　they　did　not　
justify　her　behavior。　She　had　spoken　with　a　kind　of　brutality　
which　suggested　that；　whether　it　is　natural　or　assumed；　
women　have　a　peculiar　blindness　to　the　feelings　
of　men。　

The　penciling　of　this　note　gave　Rodney　time　to　recover　
himself。　Perhaps；　for　he　was　a　very　vain　man；　he　was　
more　hurt　that　Henry　had　seen　him　rebuffed　than　by　the　
rebuff　itself。　He　was　in　love　with　Katharine；　and　vanity　is　
not　decreased　but　increased　by　love；　especially；　one　may　
hazard；　in　the　presence　of　one’s　own　sex。　But　Rodney　
enjoyed　the　courage　which　springs　from　that　laughable　

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Night　and　Day　

and　lovable　defect；　and　when　he　had　mastered　his　first　
impulse；　in　some　way　to　make　a　fool　of　himself；　he　drew　
inspiration　from　the　perfect　fit　of　his　evening　dress。　He　
chose　a　cigarette；　tapped　it　on　the　back　of　his　hand；　
displayed　his　exquisite　pumps　on　the　edge　of　the　fender；　
and　summoned　his　selfrespect。　

“You’ve　several　big　estates　round　here；　Otway；”　he　began。　
“Any　good　hunting？　Let　me　see；　what　pack　would　it　
be？　Who’s　your　great　man？”　

“Sir　William　Budge；　the　sugar　king；　has　the　biggest　estate。　
He　bought　out　poor　Stanham；　who　went　bankrupt。”　

“Which　Stanham　would　that　be？　Verney　or　Alfred？”　

“Alfred…　。　I　don’t　hunt　myself。　You’re　a　great　huntsman；　
aren’t　you？　You　have　a　great　reputation　as　a　horseman；　
anyhow；”　he　added；　desiring　to　help　Rodney　in　his　
effort　to　recover　his　placency。　

“Oh；　I　love　riding；”　Rodney　replied。　“Could　I　get　a　horse　
down　here？　Stupid　of　me！　I　forgot　to　bring　any　clothes。　I　can’t　
imagine；　though；　who　told　you　I　was　anything　of　a　rider？”　

To　tell　the　truth；　Henry　labored　under　the　same　difficulty；　
he　did　not　wish　to　introduce　Katharine’s　name；　and；　

therefore；　he　replied　vaguely　that　he　had　always　heard　
that　Rodney　was　a　great　rider。　In　truth；　he　had　heard　
very　little　about　him；　one　way　or　another；　accepting　him　
as　a　figure　often　to　be　found　in　the　background　at　his　
aunt’s　house；　and　inevitably；　though　inexplicably；　engaged　
to　his　cousin。　

“I　don’t　care　much　for　shooting；”　Rodney　continued；　
“but　one　has　to　do　it；　unless　one　wants　to　be　altogether　
out　of　things。　I　dare　say　there’s　some　very　pretty　country　
round　here。　I　stayed　once　at　Bolham　Hall。　Young　
Cranthorpe　was　up　with　you；　wasn’t　he？　He　married　old　
Lord　Bolham’s　daughter。　Very　nice　people—in　their　way。”　

“I　don’t　mix　in　that　society；”　Henry　remarked；　rather　
shortly。　But　Rodney；　now　started　on　an　agreeable　current　
of　reflection；　could　not　resist　the　temptation　of　pursuing　
it　a　little　further。　He　appeared　to　himself　as　a　man　who　
moved　easily　in　very　good　society；　and　knew　enough　about　
the　true　values　of　life　to　be　himself　above　it。　

“Oh；　but　you　should；”　he　went　on。　“It’s　well　worth　staying　
there；　anyhow；　once　a　year。　They　make　one　very　fortable；　
and　the　women　are　ravishing。”　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“The　women？”　Henry　thought　to　himself；　with　disgust。　
“What　could　any　woman　see　in　you？”　His　tolerance　was　
rapidly　being　exhausted；　but　he　could　not　help　liking　
Rodney　nevertheless；　and　this　appeared　to　him　strange；　
for　he　was　fastidious；　and　such　words　in　another　mouth　
would　have　condemned　the　speaker　irreparably。　He　began；　
in　short；　to　wonder　what　kind　of　creature　this　man　
who　was　to　marry　his　cousin　might　be。　Could　any　one；　
except　a　rather　singular　character；　afford　to　be　so　ridiculously　
vain？　

“I　don’t　think　I　should　get　on　in　that　society；”　he　replied。　
“I　don’t　think　I　should　know　what　to　say　to　Lady　
Rose　if　I　met　her。”　

“I　don’t　find　any　difficulty；”　Rodney　chuckled。　“You　talk　
to　them　about　their　children；　if　they　have　any；　or　their　
acplishments—painting；　gardening；　poetry—they’re　
so　delightfully　sympathetic。　Seriously；　you　know　I　think　a　
woman’s　opinion　of　one’s　poetry　is　always　worth　having。　
Don’t　ask　them　for　their　reasons。　Just　ask　them　for　their　
feelings。　Katharine；　for　example—”　

“Katharine；”　said　Henry；　with　an　emphasis　upon　the　

name；　almost　as　if　he　resented　Rodney’s　use　of　it；　
“Katharine　is　very　unlike　most　women。”　

“Quite；”　Rodney　agreed。　“She　is—”　He　seemed　about　
to　describe　her；　and　he　hesitated　for　a　long　time。　“She’s　
looking　very　well；”　he　stated；　or　rather　almost　inquired；　
in　a　different　tone　from　that　in　which　he　had　been　speaking。　
Henry　bent　his　head。　

“But；　as　a　family；　you’re　given　to　moods；　eh？”　

“Not　Katharine；”　said　Henry；　with　decision。　

“Not　Katharine；”　Rodney　repeated；　as　if　he　weighed　the　
meaning　of　the　words。　“No；　perhaps　you’re　right。　But　her　
engagement　has　changed　her。　Naturally；”　he　added；　“one　
would　expect　that　to　be　so。”　He　waited　for　Henry　to　confirm　
this　statement；　but　Henry　remained　silent。　

“Katharine　has　had　a　difficult　life；　in　some　ways；”　he　
continued。　“I　expect　that　marriage　will　be　good　for　her。　
She　has　great　powers。”　

“Great；”　said　Henry；　with　decision。　

“Yes—but　now　what　direction　d’you　think　they　take？”　
Rodney　had　pletely　dropped　his　pose　as　a　man　of　
the　world；　and　seemed　to　be　asking　Henry　to　help　him　in　

175　



Night　and　Day　

a　difficulty。　

“I　don’t　know；”　Henry　hesitated　cautiously。　

“D’you　think　children—a　household—that　sort　of　
thing—d’you　think　that’ll　satisfy　her？　Mind；　I’m　out　all　
day。”　

“She　would　certainly　be　very　petent；”　Henry　stated。　

“Oh；　she’s　wonderfully　petent；”　said　Rodney。　“But—　
I　get　absorbed　in　my　poetry。　Well；　Katharine　hasn’t　got　
that。　She　admires　my　poetry；　you　know；　but　that　wouldn’t　
be　enough　for　her？”　

“No；”　said　Henry。　He　paused。　“I　think　you’re　right；”　he　
added；　as　if　he　were　summing　up　his　thoughts。　“Katharine　
hasn’t　found　herself　yet。　Life　isn’t　altogether　real　to　her　
yet—I　sometimes　think—”　

“Yes？”　Rodney　inquired；　as　if　he　were　eager　for　Henry　
to　continue。　“That　is　what　I—”　he　was　going　on；　as　Henry　
remained　silent；　but　the　sentence　was　not　finished；　for　
the　door　opened；　and　they　were　interrupted　by　Henry’s　
younger　brother　Gilbert；　much　to　Henry’s　relief；　for　he　
had　already　said　more　than　he　liked。　

CHAPTER　XVII　


When　the　sun　shone；　as　it　did　with　unusual　brightness　
that　Christmas　week；　it　revealed　much　that　was　faded　
and　not　altogether　wellkeptup　in　Stogdon　House　and　
its　grounds。　In　truth；　Sir　Francis　had　retired　from　service　
under　the　Government　of　India　with　a　pension　that　was　
not　adequate；　in　his　opinion；　to　his　services；　as　it　certainly　
was　not　adequate　to　his　ambitions。　His　career　had　
not　e　up　to　his　expectations；　and　although　he　was　a　
very　fine；　whitewhiskered；　mahoganycolored　old　man　
to　look　at；　and　had　laid　down　a　very　choice　cellar　of　good　
reading　and　good　stories；　you　could　not　long　remain　ignorant　
of　the　fact　that　some　thunderstorm　had　soured　
them；　he　had　a　grievance。　This　grievance　dated　back　to　
the　middle　years　of　the　last　century；　when；　owing　to　some　
official　intrigue；　his　merits　had　been　passed　over　in　a　
disgraceful　manner　in　favor　of　another；　his　junior。　

The　rights　and　wrongs　of　the　story；　presuming　that　they　
had　some　existence　in　fact；　were　no　longer　clearly　known　
to　his　wife　and　children；　but　this　disappointment　had　

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Virginia　Woolf　

played　a　very　large　part　in　their　lives；　and　had　poisoned　
the　life　of　Sir　Francis　much　as　a　disappointment　in　love　is　
said　to　poison　the　whole　life　of　a　woman。　Long　brooding　
on　his　failure；　continual　arrangement　and　rearrangement　
of　his　deserts　and　rebuffs；　had　made　Sir　Francis　much　of　
an　egoist；　and　in　his　retirement　his　temper　became　increasingly　
difficult　and　exacting。　

His　wife　now　offered　so　little　resistance　to　his　moods　
that　she　was　practically　useless　to　him。　He　made　his　
daughter　Eleanor　into　his　chief　confidante；　and　the　prime　
of　her　life　was　being　rapidly　consumed　by　her　father。　To　
her　he　dictated　the　memoirs　which　were　to　avenge　his　
memory；　and　she　had　to　assure　him　constantly　that　his　
treatment　had　been　a　disgrace。　Already；　at　the　age　of　
thirtyfive；　her　cheeks　were　whitening　as　her　mother’s　
had　whitened；　but　for　her　there　would　be　no　memories　of　
Indian　suns　and　Indian　rivers；　and　clamor　of　children　in　a　
nursery；　she　would　have　very　little　of　substance　to　think　
about　when　she　sat；　as　Lady　Otway　now　sat；　knitting　
white　wool；　with　her　eyes　fixed　almost　perpetually　upon　
the　same　embroidered　bird　upon　the　same　firescreen。　

But　then　Lady　Otway　was　one　of　the　people　for　whom　the　
great　makebelieve　game　of　English　social　life　has　been　
invented；　she　spent　most　o