[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第87部分

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upon　Mary　as　upon　vistas　of　unresponding　blankness；　
Katharine　addressed　herself　also　not　so　much　to　Mary　as　
to　the　unrelenting　spirit　which　now　appeared　to　mock　
her　from　every　quarter　of　her　survey。　

After　waiting　a　little　time　Mary　remarked　indifferently：　

“I　really　don’t　know。”　Slackly　lying　back　in　her　armchair；　
she　watched　the　little　flames　beginning　to　creep　
among　the　coals　indifferently；　as　if　they；　too；　were　very　
distant　and　indifferent。　

Katharine　looked　at　her　indignantly　and　rose。　

“Possibly　he　may　e　here；”　Mary　continued；　without　
altering　the　abstract　tone　of　her　voice。　“It　would　be　worth　
your　while　to　wait　if　you　want　to　see　him　tonight。”　She　
bent　forward　and　touched　the　wood；　so　that　the　flames　
slipped　in　between　the　interstices　of　the　coal。　

Katharine　reflected。　“I’ll　wait　half　an　hour；”　she　said。　
Mary　rose；　went　to　the　table；　spread　out　her　papers　
under　the　greenshaded　lamp　and；　with　an　action　that　

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Night　and　Day　

was　being　a　habit；　twisted　a　lock　of　hair　round　and　
round　in　her　fingers。　Once　she　looked　unperceived　at　her　
visitor；　who　never　moved；　who　sat　so　still；　with　eyes　so　
intent；　that　you　could　almost　fancy　that　she　was　watching　
something；　some　face　that　never　looked　up　at　her。　
Mary　found　herself　unable　to　go　on　writing。　She　turned　
her　eyes　away；　but　only　to　be　aware　of　the　presence　of　
what　Katharine　looked　at。　There　were　ghosts　in　the　room；　
and　one；　strangely　and　sadly；　was　the　ghost　of　herself。　
The　minutes　went　by。　

“What　would　be　the　time　now？”　said　Katharine　at　last。　
The　halfhour　was　not　quite　spent。　

“I’m　going　to　get　dinner　ready；”　said　Mary；　rising　from　
her　table。　

“Then　I’ll　go；”　said　Katharine。　

“Why　don’t　you　stay？　Where　are　you　going？”　

Katharine　looked　round　the　room；　conveying　her　uncertainty　
in　her　glance。　

“Perhaps　I　might　find　him；”　she　mused。　

“But　why　should　it　matter？　You’ll　see　him　another　day。”　

Mary　spoke；　and　intended　to　speak；　cruelly　enough。　

“I　was　wrong　to　e　here；”　Katharine　replied。　

Their　eyes　met　with　antagonism；　and　neither　flinched。　

“You　had　a　perfect　right　to　e　here；”　Mary　answered。　

A　loud　knocking　at　the　door　interrupted　them。　Mary　
went　to　open　it；　and　returning　with　some　note　or　parcel；　
Katharine　looked　away　so　that　Mary　might　not　read　her　
disappointment。　

“Of　course　you　had　a　right　to　e；”　Mary　repeated；　
laying　the　note　upon　the　table。　

“No；”　said　Katharine。　“Except　that　when　one’s　desperate　
one　has　a　sort　of　right。　I　am　desperate。　How　do　I　
know　what’s　happening　to　him　now？　He　may　do　anything。　
He　may　wander　about　the　streets　all　night。　Anything　may　
happen　to　him。”　

She　spoke　with　a　selfabandonment　that　Mary　had　never　
seen　in　her。　

“You　know　you　exaggerate；　you’re　talking　nonsense；”　
she　said　roughly。　

“Mary；　I　must　talk—I　must　tell　you—”　

“You　needn’t　tell　me　anything；”　Mary　interrupted　her。　
“Can’t　I　see　for　myself？”　

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“No；　no；”　Katharine　exclaimed。　“It’s　not　that—”　

Her　look；　passing　beyond　Mary；　beyond　the　verge　of　the　
room　and　out　beyond　any　words　that　came　her　way；　wildly　
and　passionately；　convinced　Mary　that　she；　at　any　rate；　
could　not　follow　such　a　glance　to　its　end。　She　was　baffled；　
she　tried　to　think　herself　back　again　into　the　height　of　
her　love　for　Ralph。　Pressing　her　fingers　upon　her　eyelids；　
she　murmured：　

“You　forget　that　I　loved　him　too。　I　thought　I　knew　him。　
I　did　know　him。”　

And　yet；　what　had　she　known？　She　could　not　remember　
it　any　more。　She　pressed　her　eyeballs　until　they　struck　
stars　and　suns　into　her　darkness。　She　convinced　herself　
that　she　was　stirring　among　ashes。　She　desisted。　She　was　
astonished　at　her　discovery。　She　did　not　love　Ralph　any　
more。　She　looked　back　dazed　into　the　room；　and　her　eyes　
rested　upon　the　table　with　its　lamplit　papers。　The　steady　
radiance　seemed　for　a　second　to　have　its　counterpart　
within　her；　she　shut　her　eyes；　she　opened　them　and　looked　
at　the　lamp　again；　another　love　burnt　in　the　place　of　the　
old　one；　or　so；　in　a　momentary　glance　of　amazement；　she　

guessed　before　the　revelation　was　over　and　the　old　surroundings　
asserted　themselves。　She　leant　in　silence　against　
the　mantelpiece。　

“There　are　different　ways　of　loving；”　she　murmured；　half　
to　herself；　at　length。　

Katharine　made　no　reply　and　seemed　unaware　of　her　
words。　She　seemed　absorbed　in　her　own　thoughts。　

“Perhaps　he’s　waiting　in　the　street　again　tonight；”　she　
exclaimed。　“I’ll　go　now。　I　might　find　him。”　

“It’s　far　more　likely　that　he’ll　e　here；”　said　Mary；　
and　Katharine；　after　considering　for　a　moment；　said：　

“I’ll　wait　another　halfhour。”　

She　sank　down　into　her　chair　again；　and　took　up　the　
same　position　which　Mary　had　pared　to　the　position　
of　one　watching　an　unseeing　face。　She　watched；　indeed；　
not　a　face；　but　a　procession；　not　of　people；　but　of　life　
itself：　the　good　and　bad；　the　meaning；　the　past；　the　
present；　and　the　future。　All　this　seemed　apparent　to　her；　
and　she　was　not　ashamed　of　her　extravagance　so　much　as　
exalted　to　one　of　the　pinnacles　of　existence；　where　it　
behoved　the　world　to　do　her　homage。　No　one　but　she　

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herself　knew　what　it　meant　to　miss　Ralph　Denham　on　
that　particular　night；　into　this　inadequate　event　crowded　
feelings　that　the　great　crises　of　life　might　have　failed　to　
call　forth。　She　had　missed　him；　and　knew　the　bitterness　
of　all　failure；　she　desired　him；　and　knew　the　torment　of　
all　passion。　It　did　not　matter　what　trivial　accidents　led　to　
this　culmination。　Nor　did　she　care　how　extravagant　she　
appeared；　nor　how　openly　she　showed　her　feelings。　

When　the　dinner　was　ready　Mary　told　her　to　e；　and　
she　came　submissively；　as　if　she　let　Mary　direct　her　movements　
for　her。　They　ate　and　drank　together　almost　in　
silence；　and　when　Mary　told　her　to　eat　more；　she　ate　
more；　when　she　was　told　to　drink　wine；　she　drank　it。　
Nevertheless；　beneath　this　superficial　obedience；　Mary　
knew　that　she　was　following　her　own　thoughts　unhindered。　
She　was　not　inattentive　so　much　as　remote；　she　
looked　at　once　so　unseeing　and　so　intent　upon　some　
vision　of　her　own　that　Mary　gradually　felt　more　than　protective—
she　became　actually　alarmed　at　the　prospect　of　
some　collision　between　Katharine　and　the　forces　of　the　
outside　world。　Directly　they　had　done；　Katharine　an


nounced　her　intention　of　going。　

“But　where　are　you　going　to？”　Mary　asked；　desiring　
vaguely　to　hinder　her。　

“Oh；　I’m　going　home—no；　to　Highgate　perhaps。”　

Mary　saw　that　it　would　be　useless　to　try　to　stop　her。　All　
she　could　do　was　to　insist　upon　ing　too；　but　she　met　
with　no　opposition；　Katharine　seemed　indifferent　to　her　
presence。　In　a　few　minutes　they　were　walking　along　the　
Strand。　They　walked　so　rapidly　that　Mary　was　deluded　
into　the　belief　that　Katharine　knew　where　she　was　going。　
She　herself　was　not　attentive。　She　was　glad　of　the　movement　
along　lamplit　streets　in　the　open　air。　She　was　fingering；　
painfully　and　with　fear；　yet　with　strange　hope；　
too；　the　discovery　which　she　had　stumbled　upon　unexpectedly　
that　night。　She　was　free　once　more　at　the　cost　
of　a　gift；　the　best；　perhaps；　that　she　could　offer；　but　she　
was；　thank　Heaven；　in　love　no　longer。　She　was　tempted　
to　spend　the　first　instalment　of　her　freedom　in　some　dissipation；　
in　the　pit　of　the　Coliseum；　for　example；　since　
they　were　now　passing　the　door。　Why　not　go　in　and　celebrate　
her　independence　of　the　tyranny　of　love？　Or；　per


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haps；　the　top　of　an　omnibus　bound　for　some　remote　place　
such　as　Camberwell；　or　Sidcup；　or　the　Welsh　Harp　would　
suit　her　better。　She　noticed　these　names　painted　on　little　
boards　for　the　first　time　for　weeks。　Or　should　she　return　
to　her　room；　and　spend　the　night　working　out　the　details　
of　a　very　enlightened　and　ingenious　scheme？　Of　all　possibilities　
this　appealed　to　her　most；　and　brought　to　mind　
the　fire；　the　lamplight；　the　steady　glow　which　had　seemed　
lit　in　the　place　where　a　more　passionate　flame　had　once　
burnt。　

Now　Katharine　stopped；　and　Mary　woke　to　the　fact　that　
instead　of　having　a　goal　she　had　evidently　none。　She　
paused　at　the　edge　of　the　crossing；　and　looked　this　way　
and　that；　and　finally　made　as　if　in　the　direction　of　
Haverstock　Hill。　

“Look　here—where　are　you　going？”　Mary　cried；　catching　
her　by　the　hand。　“We　must　take　that　cab　and　go　home。”　
She　hailed　a　cab　and　insisted　that　Katharine　should　get　in；　
while　she　directed　the　driver　to　take　them　to　Cheyne　Walk。　

Katharine　submitted。　“Very　well；”　she　said。　“We　may　as　
well　go　there　as　anywhere　else。”　

A　gloom　seemed　to　have　fallen　on　her。　She　lay　back　in　
her　corner；　silent　and　apparently　exhausted。　Mary；　in　spite　
of　her　own　preoccupation；　was　struck　by　her　pallor　and　
her　attitude　of　dejection。　

“I’m　sure　we　shall　find　him；”　she　said　more　gently　than　
she　had　yet　spoken。　

“It　may　be　too　late；”　Katharine　replied。　Without　understanding　
her；　Mary　began　to　pity　her　for　what　she　was　
suffering。　

“Nonsense；”　she　said；　taking　her　hand　and　rubbing　it。　
“If　we　don’t　find　him　there　we　shall　find　him　somewhere　
else。”　

“But　suppose　he’s　walking　about　the　streets—for　hours　
and　hours？”　

She　leant　forward　and　looked　out　of　the　window。　

“He　may　refuse　ever　to　speak　to　me　again；”　she　said　in　
a　low　voice；　almost　to　herself。　

The　exaggeration　was　so　immense　that　Mary　did　not　
attempt　to　cope　with　it；　save　by　keeping　hold　of　
Katharine’s　wrist。　She　half　expected　that　Katharine　might　
open　the　door　suddenly　and　jump　out。　Perhaps　Katharine　

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perceived　the　purpose　with　which　her　hand　was　held。　

“Don’t　be　frightened；”　she　said；　with　a　little　laugh。　“I’m　
not　going　to　jump　out　of　the　cab。　It　wouldn’t　do　much　
good　after　all。”　

Upon　this；　Mary　ostentatiously　withdrew　her　hand。　

“I　ought　to　have　apologized；”　Katharine　continued；　with　
an　effort；　“for　bringing　you　into　all　this　business；　I　haven’t　
told　you　half；　either。　I’m　no　longer　engaged　to　William　
Rodney。　He　is　to　marr