[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第86部分

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see　him；　and　more　and　more　did　he　seem　to　her　unlike　
any　one　else。　At　the　door　of　the　station　she　paused；　and　
tried　to　collect　her　thoughts。　He　had　gone　to　her　house。　
By　taking　a　cab　she　could　be　there　probably　in　advance　
of　him。　But　she　pictured　herself　opening　the　drawing
room　door；　and　William　and　Cassandra　looking　up；　and　
Ralph’s　entrance　a　moment　later；　and　the　glances—the　
insinuations。　No；　she　could　not　face　it。　She　would　write　
him　a　letter　and　take　it　at　once　to　his　house。　She　bought　
paper　and　pencil　at　the　bookstall；　and　entered　an　A。B。C。　
shop；　where；　by　ordering　a　cup　of　coffee；　she　secured　an　
empty　table；　and　began　at　vice　to　write：　

“I　came　to　meet　you　and　I　have　missed　you。　I　could　not　
face　William　and　Cassandra。　They　want　us—”　here　she　
paused。　“They　insist　that　we　are　engaged；”　she　substituted；　
“and　we　couldn’t　talk　at　all；　or　explain　anything。　I　

want—”　Her　wants　were　so　vast；　now　that　she　was　in　
munication　with　Ralph；　that　the　pencil　was　utterly　
inadequate　to　conduct　them　on　to　the　paper；　it　seemed　
as　if　the　whole　torrent　of　Kingsway　had　to　run　down　her　
pencil。　She　gazed　intently　at　a　notice　hanging　on　the　
goldencrusted　wall　opposite。　“…　to　say　all　kinds　of　
things；”　she　added；　writing　each　word　with　the　painstaking　
of　a　child。　But；　when　she　raised　her　eyes　again　to　
meditate　the　next　sentence；　she　was　aware　of　a　waitress；　
whose　expression　intimated　that　it　was　closing　time；　and；　
looking　round；　Katharine　saw　herself　almost　the　last　person　
left　in　the　shop。　She　took　up　her　letter；　paid　her　bill；　
and　found　herself　once　more　in　the　street。　She　would　
now　take　a　cab　to　Highgate。　But　at　that　moment　it　flashed　
upon　her　that　she　could　not　remember　the　address。　This　
check　seemed　to　let　fall　a　barrier　across　a　very　powerful　
current　of　desire。　She　ransacked　her　memory　in　desperation；　
hunting　for　the　name；　first　by　remembering　the　look　
of　the　house；　and　then　by　trying；　in　memory；　to　retrace　
the　words　she　had　written　once；　at　least；　upon　an　envelope。　
The　more　she　pressed　the　farther　the　words　receded。　

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Night　and　Day　

Was　the　house　an　Orchard　Something；　on　the　street　a　
Hill？　She　gave　it　up。　Never；　since　she　was　a　child；　had　she　
felt　anything　like　this　blankness　and　desolation。　There　
rushed　in　upon　her；　as　if　she　were　waking　from　some　
dream；　all　the　consequences　of　her　inexplicable　indolence。　
She　figured　Ralph’s　face　as　he　turned　from　her　door　without　
a　word　of　explanation；　receiving　his　dismissal　as　a　
blow　from　herself；　a　callous　intimation　that　she　did　not　
wish　to　see　him。　She　followed　his　departure　from　her　
door；　but　it　was　far　more　easy　to　see　him　marching　far　
and　fast　in　any　direction　for　any　length　of　time　than　to　
conceive　that　he　would　turn　back　to　Highgate。　Perhaps　
he　would　try　once　more　to　see　her　in　Cheyne　Walk？　It　was　
proof　of　the　clearness　with　which　she　saw　him；　that　she　
started　forward　as　this　possibility　occurred　to　her；　and　
almost　raised　her　hand　to　beckon　to　a　cab。　No；　he　was　
too　proud　to　e　again；　he　rejected　the　desire　and　walked　
on　and　on；　on　and　on—If　only　she　could　read　the　names　
of　those　visionary　streets　down　which　he　passed！　But　her　
imagination　betrayed　her　at　this　point；　or　mocked　her　
with　a　sense　of　their　strangeness；　darkness；　and　distance。　

Indeed；　instead　of　helping　herself　to　any　decision；　she　
only　filled　her　mind　with　the　vast　extent　of　London　and　
the　impossibility　of　finding　any　single　figure　that　wandered　
off　this　way　and　that　way；　turned　to　the　right　and　
to　the　left；　chose　that　dingy　little　back　street　where　the　
children　were　playing　in　the　road；　and　so—She　roused　
herself　impatiently。　She　walked　rapidly　along　Holborn。　
Soon　she　turned　and　walked　as　rapidly　in　the　other　direction。　
This　indecision　was　not　merely　odious；　but　had　something　
that　alarmed　her　about　it；　as　she　had　been　alarmed　
slightly　once　or　twice　already　that　day；　she　felt　unable　to　
cope　with　the　strength　of　her　own　desires。　To　a　person　
controlled　by　habit；　there　was　humiliation　as　well　as　alarm　
in　this　sudden　release　of　what　appeared　to　be　a　very　
powerful　as　well　as　an　unreasonable　force。　An　aching　in　
the　muscles　of　her　right　hand　now　showed　her　that　she　
was　crushing　her　gloves　and　the　map　of　Norfolk　in　a　grip　
sufficient　to　crack　a　more　solid　object。　She　relaxed　her　
grasp；　she　looked　anxiously　at　the　faces　of　the　passersby　
to　see　whether　their　eyes　rested　on　her　for　a　moment　
longer　than　was　natural；　or　with　any　curiosity。　But　hav


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ing　smoothed　out　her　gloves；　and　done　what　she　could　to　
look　as　usual；　she　forgot　spectators；　and　was　once　more　
given　up　to　her　desperate　desire　to　find　Ralph　Denham。　
It　was　a　desire　now—wild；　irrational；　unexplained；　resembling　
something　felt　in　childhood。　Once　more　she　
blamed　herself　bitterly　for　her　carelessness。　But　finding　
herself　opposite　the　Tube　station；　she　pulled　herself　up　
and　took　counsel　swiftly；　as　of　old。　It　flashed　upon　her　
that　she　would　go　at　once　to　Mary　Datchet；　and　ask　her　
to　give　her　Ralph’s　address。　The　decision　was　a　relief；　not　
only　in　giving　her　a　goal；　but　in　providing　her　with　a　
rational　excuse　for　her　own　actions。　It　gave　her　a　goal　
certainly；　but　the　fact　of　having　a　goal　led　her　to　dwell　
exclusively　upon　her　obsession；　so　that　when　she　rang　
the　bell　of　Mary’s　flat；　she　did　not　for　a　moment　consider　
how　this　demand　would　strike　Mary。　To　her　extreme　annoyance　
Mary　was　not　at　home；　a　charwoman　opened　the　
door。　All　Katharine　could　do　was　to　accept　the　invitation　
to　wait。　She　waited　for；　perhaps；　fifteen　minutes；　and　
spent　them　in　pacing　from　one　end　of　the　room　to　the　
other　without　intermission。　When　she　heard　Mary’s　key　in　

the　door　she　paused　in　front　of　the　fireplace；　and　Mary　
found　her　standing　upright；　looking　at　once　expectant　
and　determined；　like　a　person　who　has　e　on　an　errand　
of　such　importance　that　it　must　be　broached　without　
preface。　

Mary　exclaimed　in　surprise。　

“Yes；　yes；”　Katharine　said；　brushing　these　remarks　aside；　
as　if　they　were　in　the　way。　

“Have　you　had　tea？”　

“Oh　yes；”　she　said；　thinking　that　she　had　had　tea　hundreds　
of　years　ago；　somewhere　or　other。　

Mary　paused；　took　off　her　gloves；　and；　finding　matches；　
proceeded　to　light　the　fire。　

Katharine　checked　her　with　an　impatient　movement；　
and　said：　

“Don’t　light　the　fire　for　me…　。　I　want　to　know　Ralph　
Denham’s　address。”　

She　was　holding　a　pencil　and　preparing　to　write　on　the　
envelope。　She　waited　with　an　imperious　expression。　

“The　Apple　Orchard；　Mount　Ararat　Road；　Highgate；”　Mary　
said；　speaking　slowly　and　rather　strangely。　

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Night　and　Day　

“Oh；　I　remember　now！”　Katharine　exclaimed；　with　irritation　
at　her　own　stupidity。　“I　suppose　it　wouldn’t　take　
twenty　minutes　to　drive　there？”　She　gathered　up　her　purse　
and　gloves　and　seemed　about　to　go。　

“But　you　won’t　find　him；”　said　Mary；　pausing　with　a　
match　in　her　hand。　Katharine；　who　had　already　turned　
towards　the　door；　stopped　and　looked　at　her。　

“Why？　Where　is　he？”　she　asked。　

“He　won’t　have　left　his　office。”　

“But　he　has　left　the　office；”　she　replied。　“The　only　question　
is　will　he　have　reached　home　yet？　He　went　to　see　me　
at　Chelsea；　I　tried　to　meet　him　and　missed　him。　He　will　
have　found　no　message　to　explain。　So　I　must　find　him—　
as　soon　as　possible。”　

Mary　took　in　the　situation　at　her　leisure。　

“But　why　not　telephone？”　she　said。　

Katharine　immediately　dropped　all　that　she　was　holding；　
her　strained　expression　relaxed；　and　exclaiming；　“Of　course！　
Why　didn’t　I　think　of　that！”　she　seized　the　telephone　receiver　
and　gave　her　number。　Mary　looked　at　her　steadily；　
and　then　left　the　room。　At　length　Katharine　heard；　through　

all　the　superimposed　weight　of　London；　the　mysterious　
sound　of　feet　in　her　own　house　mounting　to　the　little　
room；　where　she　could　almost　see　the　pictures　and　the　
books；　she　listened　with　extreme　intentness　to　the　preparatory　
vibrations；　and　then　established　her　identity。　

“Has　Mr。　Denham　called？”　

“Yes；　miss。”　

“Did　he　ask　for　me？”　

“Yes。　We　said　you　were　out；　miss。”　

“Did　he　leave　any　message？”　

“No。　He　went　away。　About　twenty　minutes　ago；　miss。”　

Katharine　hung　up　the　receiver。　She　walked　the　length　
of　the　room　in　such　acute　disappointment　that　she　did　
not　at　first　perceive　Mary’s　absence。　Then　she　called　in　a　
harsh　and　peremptory　tone：　

“Mary。”　

Mary　was　taking　off　her　outdoor　things　in　the　bedroom。　
She　heard　Katharine　call　her。　“Yes；”　she　said；　“I　shan’t　be　
a　moment。”　But　the　moment　prolonged　itself；　as　if　for　
some　reason　Mary　found　satisfaction　in　making　herself　
not　only　tidy；　but　seemly　and　ornamented。　A　stage　in　her　

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life　had　been　acplished　in　the　last　months　which　left　
its　traces　for　ever　upon　her　bearing。　Youth；　and　the　bloom　
of　youth；　had　receded；　leaving　the　purpose　of　her　face　to　
show　itself　in　the　hollower　cheeks；　the　firmer　lips；　the　
eyes　no　longer　spontaneously　observing　at　random；　but　
narrowed　upon　an　end　which　was　not　near　at　hand。　This　
woman　was　now　a　serviceable　human　being；　mistress　of　
her　own　destiny；　and　thus；　by　some　bination　of　ideas；　
fit　to　be　adorned　with　the　dignity　of　silver　chains　and　
glowing　brooches。　She　came　in　at　her　leisure　and　asked：　
“Well；　did　you　get　an　answer？”　

“He　has　left　Chelsea　already；”　Katharine　replied。　

“Still；　he　won’t　be　home　yet；”　said　Mary。　

Katharine　was　once　more　irresistibly　drawn　to　gaze　upon　
an　imaginary　map　of　London；　to　follow　the　twists　and　
turns　of　unnamed　streets。　

“I’ll　ring　up　his　home　and　ask　whether　he’s　back。”　Mary　
crossed　to　the　telephone　and；　after　a　series　of　brief　remarks；　
announced：　

“No。　His　sister　says　he　hasn’t　e　back　yet。”　

“Ah！”　She　applied　her　ear　to　the　telephone　once　more。　

“They’ve　had　a　message。　He　won’t　be　back　to　dinner。”　

“Then　what　is　he　going　to　do？”　

Very　pale；　and　with　her　large　eyes　fixed　not　so　much　
upon　Mary　as　upon　vistas　of　unresponding　blankness；　
Katharine　addressed　herself　also　not　s