[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第65部分

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his　presence。　He　could　recall　himself；　of　course；　by　
a　word　or　a　movement—but　why？　She　was　happier　thus。　
She　needed　nothing　that　he　could　give　her。　And　for　him；　
too；　perhaps；　it　was　best　to　keep　aloof；　only　to　know　that　
she　existed；　to　preserve　what　he　already　had—perfect；　
remote；　and　unbroken。　Further；　her　still　look；　standing　
among　the　orchids　in　that　hot　atmosphere；　strangely　illustrated　
some　scene　that　he　had　imagined　in　his　room　
at　home。　The　sight；　mingling　with　his　recollection；　kept　
him　silent　when　the　door　was　shut　and　they　were　walking　

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on　again。　

But　though　she　did　not　speak；　Katharine　had　an　uneasy　
sense　that　silence　on　her　part　was　selfishness。　It　was　selfish　
of　her　to　continue；　as　she　wished　to　do；　a　discussion　of　
subjects　not　remotely　connected　with　any　human　beings。　
She　roused　herself　to　consider　their　exact　position　upon　
the　turbulent　map　of　the　emotions。　Oh　yes—it　was　a　question　
whether　Ralph　Denham　should　live　in　the　country　and　
write　a　book；　it　was　getting　late；　they　must　waste　no　more　
time；　Cassandra　arrived　tonight　for　dinner；　she　flinched　
and　roused　herself；　and　discovered　that　she　ought　to　be　
holding　something　in　her　hands。　But　they　were　empty。　She　
held　them　out　with　an　exclamation。　

“I’ve　left　my　bag　somewhere—where？”　The　gardens　had　
no　points　of　the　pass；　so　far　as　she　was　concerned。　
She　had　been　walking　for　the　most　part　on　grass—that　
was　all　she　knew。　Even　the　road　to　the　Orchid　House　had　
now　split　itself　into　three。　But　there　was　no　bag　in　the　
Orchid　House。　It　must；　therefore；　have　been　left　upon　the　
seat。　They　retraced　their　steps　in　the　preoccupied　manner　
of　people　who　have　to　think　about　something　that　is　

lost。　What　did　this　bag　look　like？　What　did　it　contain？　

“A　purse—a　ticket—some　letters；　papers；”　Katharine　
counted；　being　more　agitated　as　she　recalled　the　list。　
Denham　went　on　quickly　in　advance　of　her；　and　she　heard　
him　shout　that　he　had　found　it　before　she　reached　the　
seat。　In　order　to　make　sure　that　all　was　safe　she　spread　
the　contents　on　her　knee。　It　was　a　queer　collection；　
Denham　thought；　gazing　with　the　deepest　interest。　Loose　
gold　coins　were　tangled　in　a　narrow　strip　of　lace；　there　
were　letters　which　somehow　suggested　the　extreme　of　
intimacy；　there　were　two　or　three　keys；　and　lists　of　missions　
against　which　crosses　were　set　at　intervals。　But　
she　did　not　seem　satisfied　until　she　had　made　sure　of　a　
certain　paper　so　folded　that　Denham　could　not　judge　what　
it　contained。　In　her　relief　and　gratitude　she　began　at　
once　to　say　that　she　had　been　thinking　over　what　Denham　
had　told　her　of　his　plans。　

He　cut　her　short。　“Don’t　let’s　discuss　that　dreary　business。”　


“But　I　thought—”　

“It’s　a　dreary　business。　I　ought　never　to　have　bothered　

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you—”　

“Have　you　decided；　then？”　

He　made　an　impatient　sound。　“It’s　not　a　thing　that　
matters。”　

She　could　only　say　rather　flatly；　“Oh！”　

“I　mean　it　matters　to　me；　but　it　matters　to　no　one　else。　
Anyhow；”　he　continued；　more　amiably；　“I　see　no　reason　
why　you　should　be　bothered　with　other　people’s　nuisances。”　


She　supposed　that　she　had　let　him　see　too　clearly　her　
weariness　of　this　side　of　life。　

“I’m　afraid　I’ve　been　absentminded；”　she　began；　remembering　
how　often　William　had　brought　this　charge　
against　her。　

“You　have　a　good　deal　to　make　you　absentminded；”　he　
replied。　

“Yes；”　she　replied；　flushing。　“No；”　she　contradicted　herself。　
“Nothing　particular；　I　mean。　But　I　was　thinking　about　
plants。　I　was　enjoying　myself。　In　fact；　I’ve　seldom　enjoyed　
an　afternoon　more。　But　I　want　to　hear　what　you’ve　
settled；　if　you　don’t　mind　telling　me。”　

“Oh；　it’s　all　settled；”　he　replied。　“I’m　going　to　this　infernal　
cottage　to　write　a　worthless　book。”　

“How　I　envy　you；”　she　replied；　with　the　utmost　sincerity。　


“Well；　cottages　are　to　be　had　for　fifteen　shillings　a　
week。”　

“Cottages　are　to　be　had—yes；”　she　replied。　“The　question　
is—”　She　checked　herself。　“Two　rooms　are　all　I　should　
want；”　she　continued；　with　a　curious　sigh；　“one　for　eating；　
one　for　sleeping。　Oh；　but　I　should　like　another；　a　
large　one　at　the　top；　and　a　little　garden　where　one　could　
grow　flowers。　A　path—so—down　to　a　river；　or　up　to　a　
wood；　and　the　sea　not　very　far　off；　so　that　one　could　hear　
the　waves　at　night。　Ships　just　vanishing　on　the　horizon—”　
She　broke　off。　“Shall　you　be　near　the　sea？”　

“My　notion　of　perfect　happiness；”　he　began；　not　replying　
to　her　question；　“is　to　live　as　you’ve　said。”　

“Well；　now　you　can。　You　will　work；　I　suppose；”　she　continued；　
“you’ll　work　all　the　morning　and　again　after　tea　
and　perhaps　at　night。　You　won’t　have　people　always　ing　
about　you　to　interrupt。”　

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“How　far　can　one　live　alone？”　he　asked。　“Have　you　tried　
ever？”　

“Once　for　three　weeks；”　she　replied。　“My　father　and　
mother　were　in　Italy；　and　something　happened　so　that　I　
couldn’t　join　them。　For　three　weeks　I　lived　entirely　by　
myself；　and　the　only　person　I　spoke　to　was　a　stranger　in　
a　shop　where　I　lunched—a　man　with　a　beard。　Then　I　
went　back　to　my　room　by　myself　and—well；　I　did　what　I　
liked。　It　doesn’t　make　me　out　an　amiable　character；　I’m　
afraid；”　she　added；　“but　I　can’t　endure　living　with　other　
people。　An　occasional　man　with　a　beard　is　interesting；　
he’s　detached；　he　lets　me　go　my　way；　and　we　know　we　
shall　never　meet　again。　Therefore；　we　are　perfectly　sincere—
a　thing　not　possible　with　one’s　friends。”　

“Nonsense；”　Denham　replied　abruptly。　

“Why　‘nonsense’？”　she　inquired。　

“Because　you　don’t　mean　what　you　say；”　he　expostulated。　


“You’re　very　positive；”　she　said；　laughing　and　looking　at　
him。　How　arbitrary；　hottempered；　and　imperious　he　was！　
He　had　asked　her　to　e　to　Kew　to　advise　him；　he　then　

told　her　that　he　had　settled　the　question　already；　he　then　
proceeded　to　find　fault　with　her。　He　was　the　very　opposite　
of　William　Rodney；　she　thought；　he　was　shabby；　his　clothes　
were　badly　made；　he　was　ill　versed　in　the　amenities　of　life；　
he　was　tonguetied　and　awkward　to　the　verge　of　obliterating　
his　real　character。　He　was　awkwardly　silent；　he　was　
awkwardly　emphatic。　And　yet　she　liked　him。　

“I　don’t　mean　what　I　say；”　she　repeated　goodhumoredly。　
“Well—？”　

“I　doubt　whether　you　make　absolute　sincerity　your　standard　
in　life；”　he　answered　significantly。　

She　flushed。　He　had　perated　at　once　to　the　weak　
spot—her　engagement；　and　had　reason　for　what　he　said。　
He　was　not　altogether　justified　now；　at　any　rate；　she　was　
glad　to　remember；　but　she　could　not　enlighten　him　and　
must　bear　his　insinuations；　though　from　the　lips　of　a　man　
who　had　behaved　as　he　had　behaved　their　force　should　
not　have　been　sharp。　Nevertheless；　what　he　said　had　its　
force；　she　mused；　partly　because　he　seemed　unconscious　
of　his　own　lapse　in　the　case　of　Mary　Datchet；　and　thus　
baffled　her　insight；　partly　because　he　always　spoke　with　

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force；　for　what　reason　she　did　not　yet　feel　certain。　

“Absolute　sincerity　is　rather　difficult；　don’t　you　think？”　
she　inquired；　with　a　touch　of　irony。　

“There　are　people　one　credits　even　with　that；”　he　replied　
a　little　vaguely。　He　was　ashamed　of　his　savage　wish　
to　hurt　her；　and　yet　it　was　not　for　the　sake　of　hurting　her；　
who　was　beyond　his　shafts；　but　in　order　to　mortify　his　
own　incredibly　reckless　impulse　of　abandonment　to　the　
spirit　which　seemed；　at　moments；　about　to　rush　him　to　
the　uttermost　ends　of　the　earth。　She　affected　him　beyond　
the　scope　of　his　wildest　dreams。　He　seemed　to　see　
that　beneath　the　quiet　surface　of　her　manner；　which　was　
almost　pathetically　at　hand　and　within　reach　for　all　the　
trivial　demands　of　daily　life；　there　was　a　spirit　which　she　
reserved　or　repressed　for　some　reason　either　of　loneliness　
or—could　it　be　possible—of　love。　Was　it　given　to　Rodney　
to　see　her　unmasked；　unrestrained；　unconscious　of　her　
duties？　a　creature　of　uncalculating　passion　and　instinctive　
freedom？　No；　he　refused　to　believe　it。　It　was　in　her　
loneliness　that　Katharine　was　unreserved。　“I　went　back　
to　my　room　by　myself　and　I　did—what　I　liked。”　She　had　

said　that　to　him；　and　in　saying　it　had　given　him　a　glimpse　
of　possibilities；　even　of　confidences；　as　if　he　might　be　
the　one　to　share　her　loneliness；　the　mere　hint　of　which　
made　his　heart　beat　faster　and　his　brain　spin。　He　checked　
himself　as　brutally　as　he　could。　He　saw　her　redden；　and　in　
the　irony　of　her　reply　he　heard　her　resentment。　

He　began　slipping　his　smooth；　silver　watch　in　his　pocket；　
in　the　hope　that　somehow　he　might　help　himself　back　to　
that　calm　and　fatalistic　mood　which　had　been　his　when　
he　looked　at　its　face　upon　the　bank　of　the　lake；　for　that　
mood　must；　at　whatever　cost；　be　the　mood　of　his　intercourse　
with　Katharine。　He　had　spoken　of　gratitude　and　
acquiescence　in　the　letter　which　he　had　never　sent；　and　
now　all　the　force　of　his　character　must　make　good　those　
vows　in　her　presence。　

She；　thus　challenged；　tried　meanwhile　to　define　her　
points。　She　wished　to　make　Denham　understand。　

“Don’t　you　see　that　if　you　have　no　relations　with　people　
it’s　easier　to　be　honest　with　them？”　she　inquired。　“That　
is　what　I　meant。　One　needn’t　cajole　them；　one’s　under　no　
obligation　to　them。　Surely　you　must　have　found　with　your　

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own　family　that　it’s　impossible　to　discuss　what　matters　
to　you　most　because　you’re　all　herded　together；　because　
you’re　in　a　conspiracy；　because　the　position　is　false—”　
Her　reasoning　suspended　itself　a　little　inconclusively；　for　
the　subject　was　plex；　and　she　found　herself　in　ignorance　
whether　Denham　had　a　family　or　not。　Denham　was　
agreed　with　her　as　to　the　destructiveness　of　the　family　
system；　but　he　did　not　wish　to　discuss　the　problem　at　
that　moment。　

He　turned　to　a　problem　which　was　of　greater　interest　to　
him。　

“I’m　convinced；”　he　said；　“that　there　are　cases　in　which　
perfect　sincerity　is　possible—cases　where　there’s　no　relationshi