[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第60部分

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“My　dear　child；　how　odious　the　triumphs　of　science　are！”　
Mrs。　Hilbery　exclaimed　on　her　return。　“They’ll　be　linking　
us　with　the　moon　next—but　who　was　that？”　

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“William；”　Katharine　replied　yet　more　briefly。　

“I’ll　forgive　William　anything；　for　I’m　certain　that　there　
aren’t　any　Williams　in　the　moon。　I　hope　he’s　ing　to　
luncheon？”　

“He’s　ing　to　tea。”　

“Well；　that’s　better　than　nothing；　and　I　promise　to　leave　
you　alone。”　

“There’s　no　need　for　you　to　do　that；”　said　Katharine。　

She　swept　her　hand　over　the　faded　sheet；　and　drew　
herself　up　squarely　to　the　table　as　if　she　refused　to　waste　
time　any　longer。　The　gesture　was　not　lost　upon　her　mother。　
It　hinted　at　the　existence　of　something　stern　and　unapproachable　
in　her　daughter’s　character；　which　struck　chill　
upon　her；　as　the　sight　of　poverty；　or　drunkenness；　or　the　
logic　with　which　Mr。　Hilbery　sometimes　thought　good　to　
demolish　her　certainty　of　an　approaching　millennium　
struck　chill　upon　her。　She　went　back　to　her　own　table；　
and　putting　on　her　spectacles　with　a　curious　expression　
of　quiet　humility；　addressed　herself　for　the　first　time　that　
morning　to　the　task　before　her。　The　shock　with　an　unsympathetic　
world　had　a　sobering　effect　on　her。　For　once；　

her　industry　surpassed　her　daughter’s。　Katharine　could　
not　reduce　the　world　to　that　particular　perspective　in　
which　Harriet　Martineau；　for　instance；　was　a　figure　of　
solid　importance；　and　possessed　of　a　genuine　relationship　
to　this　figure　or　to　that　date。　Singularly　enough；　the　
sharp　call　of　the　telephonebell　still　echoed　in　her　ear；　
and　her　body　and　mind　were　in　a　state　of　tension；　as　if；　
at　any　moment；　she　might　hear　another　summons　of　
greater　interest　to　her　than　the　whole　of　the　nieenth　
century。　She　did　not　clearly　realize　what　this　call　was　to　
be；　but　when　the　ears　have　got　into　the　habit　of　listening；　
they　go　on　listening　involuntarily；　and　thus　Katharine　
spent　the　greater　part　of　the　morning　in　listening　to　a　
variety　of　sounds　in　the　back　streets　of　Chelsea。　For　the　
first　time　in　her　life；　probably；　she　wished　that　Mrs。　Hilbery　
would　not　keep　so　closely　to　her　work。　A　quotation　from　
Shakespeare　would　not　have　e　amiss。　Now　and　again　
she　heard　a　sigh　from　her　mother’s　table；　but　that　was　
the　only　proof　she　gave　of　her　existence；　and　Katharine　
did　not　think　of　connecting　it　with　the　square　aspect　of　
her　own　position　at　the　table；　or；　perhaps；　she　would　

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Night　and　Day　

have　thrown　her　pen　down　and　told　her　mother　the　reason　
of　her　restlessness。　The　only　writing　she　managed　to　acplish　
in　the　course　of　the　morning　was　one　letter；　addressed　
to　her　cousin；　Cassandra　Otway—a　rambling　letter；　
long；　affectionate；　playful　and　manding　all　at　once。　
She　bade　Cassandra　put　her　creatures　in　the　charge　of　a　
groom；　and　e　to　them　for　a　week　or　so。　They　would　go　
and　hear　some　music　together。　Cassandra’s　dislike　of　rational　
society；　she　said；　was　an　affectation　fast　hardening　
into　a　prejudice；　which　would；　in　the　long　run；　isolate　her　
from　all　interesting　people　and　pursuits。　She　was　finishing　
the　sheet　when　the　sound　she　was　anticipating　all　the　
time　actually　struck　upon　her　ears。　She　jumped　up　hastily；　
and　slammed　the　door　with　a　sharpness　which　made　Mrs。　
Hilbery　start。　Where　was　Katharine　off　to？　In　her　preoccupied　
state　she　had　not　heard　the　bell。　

The　alcove　on　the　stairs；　in　which　the　telephone　was　
placed；　was　screened　for　privacy　by　a　curtain　of　purple　
velvet。　It　was　a　pocket　for　superfluous　possessions；　such　
as　exist　in　most　houses　which　harbor　the　wreckage　of　
three　generations。　Prints　of　greatuncles；　famed　for　their　

prowess　in　the　East；　hung　above　Chinese　teapots；　whose　
sides　were　riveted　by　little　gold　stitches；　and　the　precious　
teapots；　again；　stood　upon　bookcases　containing　
the　plete　works　of　William　Cowper　and　Sir　Walter　Scott。　
The　thread　of　sound；　issuing　from　the　telephone；　was　
always　colored　by　the　surroundings　which　received　it；　so　
it　seemed　to　Katharine。　Whose　voice　was　now　going　to　
bine　with　them；　or　to　strike　a　discord？　

“Whose　voice？”　she　asked　herself；　hearing　a　man　inquire；　
with　great　determination；　for　her　number。　The　unfamiliar　
voice　now　asked　for　Miss　Hilbery。　Out　of　all　the　welter　of　
voices　which　crowd　round　the　far　end　of　the　telephone；　
out　of　the　enormous　range　of　possibilities；　whose　voice；　
what　possibility；　was　this？　A　pause　gave　her　time　to　ask　
herself　this　question。　It　was　solved　next　moment。　

“I’ve　looked　out　the　train…　。　Early　on　Saturday　afternoon　
would　suit　me　best…　。　I’m　Ralph　Denham…　。　But　
I’ll　write　it　down…　。”　

With　more　than　the　usual　sense　of　being　impinged　upon　
the　point　of　a　bayo；　Katharine　replied：　

“I　think　I　could　e。　I’ll　look　at　my　engagements…　。　

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Hold　on。”　

She　dropped　the　machine；　and　looked　fixedly　at　the　
print　of　the　greatuncle　who　had　not　ceased　to　gaze；　
with　an　air　of　amiable　authority；　into　a　world　which；　as　
yet；　beheld　no　symptoms　of　the　Indian　Mutiny。　And　yet；　
gently　swinging　against　the　wall；　within　the　black　tube；　
was　a　voice　which　recked　nothing　of　Uncle　James；　of　China　
teapots；　or　of　red　velvet　curtains。　She　watched　the　oscillation　
of　the　tube；　and　at　the　same　moment　became　conscious　
of　the　individuality　of　the　house　in　which　she　stood；　
she　heard　the　soft　domestic　sounds　of　regular　existence　
upon　staircases　and　floors　above　her　head；　and　movements　
through　the　wall　in　the　house　next　door。　She　had　
no　very　clear　vision　of　Denham　himself；　when　she　lifted　
the　telephone　to　her　lips　and　replied　that　she　thought　
Saturday　would　suit　her。　She　hoped　that　he　would　not　say　
goodbye　at　once；　although　she　felt　no　particular　anxiety　
to　attend　to　what　he　was　saying；　and　began；　even　while　
he　spoke；　to　think　of　her　own　upper　room；　with　its　books；　
its　papers　pressed　between　the　leaves　of　dictionaries；　
and　the　table　that　could　be　cleared　for　work。　She　re


placed　the　instrument；　thoughtfully；　her　restlessness　was　
assuaged；　she　finished　her　letter　to　Cassandra　without　
difficulty；　addressed　the　envelope；　and　fixed　the　stamp　
with　her　usual　quick　decision。　

A　bunch　of　anemones　caught　Mrs。　Hilbery’s　eye　when　
they　had　finished　luncheon。　The　blue　and　purple　and　white　
of　the　bowl；　standing　in　a　pool　of　variegated　light　on　a　
polished　Chippendale　table　in　the　drawingroom　window；　
made　her　stop　dead　with　an　exclamation　of　pleasure。　

“Who　is　lying　ill　in　bed；　Katharine？”　she　demanded。　
“Which　of　our　friends　wants　cheering　up？　Who　feels　that　
they’ve　been　forgotten　and　passed　over；　and　that　nobody　
wants　them？　Whose　water　rates　are　overdue；　and　the　cook　
leaving　in　a　temper　without　waiting　for　her　wages？　There　
was　somebody　I　know—”　she　concluded；　but　for　the　moment　
the　name　of　this　desirable　acquaintance　escaped　
her。　The　best　representative　of　the　forlorn　pany　whose　
day　would　be　brightened　by　a　bunch　of　anemones　was；　in　
Katharine’s　opinion；　the　widow　of　a　general　living　in　the　
Cromwell　Road。　In　default　of　the　actually　destitute　and　
starving；　whom　she　would　much　have　preferred；　Mrs。　

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Night　and　Day　

Hilbery　was　forced　to　acknowledge　her　claims；　for　though　
in　fortable　circumstances；　she　was　extremely　dull；　
unattractive；　connected　in　some　oblique　fashion　with　literature；　
and　had　been　touched　to　the　verge　of　tears；　on　
one　occasion；　by　an　afternoon　call。　

It　happened　that　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　an　engagement　elsewhere；　
so　that　the　task　of　taking　the　flowers　to　the　
Cromwell　Road　fell　upon　Katharine。　She　took　her　letter　to　
Cassandra　with　her；　meaning　to　post　it　in　the　first　pillar
box　she　came　to。　When；　however；　she　was　fairly　out　of　
doors；　and　constantly　invited　by　pillarboxes　and　post
offices　to　slip　her　envelope　down　their　scarlet　throats；　
she　forbore。　She　made　absurd　excuses；　as　that　she　did　
not　wish　to　cross　the　road；　or　that　she　was　certain　to　
pass　another　postoffice　in　a　more　central　position　a　little　
farther　on。　The　longer　she　held　the　letter　in　her　hand；　
however；　the　more　persistently　certain　questions　pressed　
upon　her；　as　if　from　a　collection　of　voices　in　the　air。　
These　invisible　people　wished　to　be　informed　whether　
she　was　engaged　to　William　Rodney；　or　was　the　engagement　
broken　off？　Was　it　right；　they　asked；　to　invite　

Cassandra　for　a　visit；　and　was　William　Rodney　in　love　
with　her；　or　likely　to　fall　in　love？　Then　the　questioners　
paused　for　a　moment；　and　resumed　as　if　another　side　of　
the　problem　had　just　e　to　their　notice。　What　did　Ralph　
Denham　mean　by　what　he　said　to　you　last　night？　Do　you　
consider　that　he　is　in　love　with　you？　Is　it　right　to　consent　
to　a　solitary　walk　with　him；　and　what　advice　are　you　
going　to　give　him　about　his　future？　Has　William　Rodney　
cause　to　be　jealous　of　your　conduct；　and　what　do　you　
propose　to　do　about　Mary　Datchet？　What　are　you　going　
to　do？　What　does　honor　require　you　to　do？　they　repeated。　

“Good　Heavens！”　Katharine　exclaimed；　after　listening　
to　all　these　remarks；　“I　suppose　I　ought　to　make　up　my　
mind。”　

But　the　debate　was　a　formal　skirmishing；　a　pastime　to　
gain　breathingspace。　Like　all　people　brought　up　in　a　
tradition；　Katharine　was　able；　within　ten　minutes　or　so；　
to　reduce　any　moral　difficulty　to　its　traditional　shape　and　
solve　it　by　the　traditional　answers。　The　book　of　wisdom　
lay　open；　if　not　upon　her　mother’s　knee；　upon　the　knees　
of　many　uncles　and　aunts。　She　had　only　to　consult　them；　

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Virginia　Woolf　

and　they　would　at　once　turn　to　the　right　page　and　read　
out　an　answer　exactly　suited　to　one　in　her　position。　The　
rules　which　should　govern　the　behavior　of　an　unmarried　
woman　are　written　in　red　ink；　graved　upon　marble；　if；　by　
some　freak　of　nature；　it　should　fall　out　that　the　unmarried　
woman　has　not　the　same　writing　scored　upon　her　
heart。　She　was　ready　to　believe　that　some　people　are　
fortunate　enough　to　reject；　accept；　resign；　or　lay　down　
their　lives　at　the　bidding　of　traditional　authority；　she　
could　envy　them；　but　in　her　case　the　questions　became　
phantoms　directly　she　tried　seriously　to　fi