[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第30章

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She　nodded　her　head　rather　vaguely。　“You　should　
meet　each　other。”　

Denham’s　one　wish　was　to　leave　the　house　as　soon　as　
he　could；　but　the　elderly　ladies　had　risen；　and　were　proposing　
to　visit　Mrs。　Hilbery　in　her　bedroom；　so　that　any　
move　on　his　part　was　impossible。　At　the　same　time；　he　
wished　to　say　something；　but　he　knew　not　what；　to　
Katharine　alone。　She　took　her　aunts　upstairs；　and　returned；　
ing　towards　him　once　more　with　an　air　of　innocence　
and　friendliness　that　amazed　him。　

“My　father　will　be　back；”　she　said。　“Won’t　you　sit　down？”　
and　she　laughed；　as　if　now　they　might　share　a　perfectly　
friendly　laugh　at　the　teaparty。　

But　Ralph　made　no　attempt　to　seat　himself。　

“I　must　congratulate　you；”　he　said。　“It　was　news　to　
me。”　He　saw　her　face　change；　but　only　to　bee　graver　
than　before。　

“My　engagement？”　she　asked。　“Yes；　I　am　going　to　marry　
William　Rodney。”　

Ralph　remained　standing　with　his　hand　on　the　back　of　
a　chair　in　absolute　silence。　Abysses　seemed　to　plunge　
into　darkness　between　them。　He　looked　at　her；　but　her　
face　showed　that　she　was　not　thinking　of　him。　No　regret　
or　consciousness　of　wrong　disturbed　her。　

“Well；　I　must　go；”　he　said　at　length。　

She　seemed　about　to　say　something；　then　changed　her　
mind　and　said　merely：　

“You　will　e　again；　I　hope。　We　always　seem”—she　
hesitated—”to　be　interrupted。”　

He　bowed　and　left　the　room。　

Ralph　strode　with　extreme　swiftness　along　the　Embank


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ment。　Every　muscle　was　taut　and　braced　as　if　to　resist　
some　sudden　attack　from　outside。　For　the　moment　it　
seemed　as　if　the　attack　were　about　to　be　directed　against　
his　body；　and　his　brain　thus　was　on　the　alert；　but　without　
understanding。　Finding　himself；　after　a　few　minutes；　no　
longer　under　observation；　and　no　attack　delivered；　he　
slackened　his　pace；　the　pain　spread　all　through　him；　took　
possession　of　every　governing　seat；　and　met　with　scarcely　
any　resistance　from　powers　exhausted　by　their　first　effort　
at　defence。　He　took　his　way　languidly　along　the　river　
embankment；　away　from　home　rather　than　towards　it。　
The　world　had　him　at　its　mercy。　He　made　no　pattern　out　
of　the　sights　he　saw。　He　felt　himself　now；　as　he　had　often　
fancied　other　people；　adrift　on　the　stream；　and　far　removed　
from　control　of　it；　a　man　with　no　grasp　upon　circumstances　
any　longer。　Old　battered　men　loafing　at　the　
doors　of　publichouses　now　seemed　to　be　his　fellows；　and　
he　felt；　as　he　supposed　them　to　feel；　a　mingling　of　envy　
and　hatred　towards　those　who　passed　quickly　and　certainly　
to　a　goal　of　their　own。　They；　too；　saw　things　very　
thin　and　shadowy；　and　were　wafted　about　by　the　lightest　

breath　of　wind。　For　the　substantial　world；　with　its　prospect　
of　avenues　leading　on　and　on　to　the　invisible　distance；　
had　slipped　from　him；　since　Katharine　was　engaged。　
Now　all　his　life　was　visible；　and　the　straight；　meager　
path　had　its　ending　soon　enough。　Katharine　was　engaged；　
and　she　had　deceived　him；　too。　He　felt　for　corners　
of　his　being　untouched　by　his　disaster；　but　there　was　no　
limit　to　the　flood　of　damage；　not　one　of　his　possessions　
was　safe　now。　Katharine　had　deceived　him；　she　had　mixed　
herself　with　every　thought　of　his；　and　reft　of　her　they　
seemed　false　thoughts　which　he　would　blush　to　think　
again。　His　life　seemed　immeasurably　impoverished。　

He　sat　himself　down；　in　spite　of　the　chilly　fog　which　
obscured　the　farther　bank　and　left　its　lights　suspended　
upon　a　blank　surface；　upon　one　of　the　riverside　seats；　
and　let　the　tide　of　disillusionment　sweep　through　him。　
For　the　time　being　all　bright　points　in　his　life　were　blotted　
out；　all　prominences　leveled。　At　first　he　made　himself　
believe　that　Katharine　had　treated　him　badly；　and　drew　
fort　from　the　thought　that；　left　alone；　she　would　recollect　
this；　and　think　of　him　and　tender　him；　in　silence；　

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Night　and　Day　

at　any　rate；　an　apology。　But　this　grain　of　fort　failed　
him　after　a　second　or　two；　for；　upon　reflection；　he　had　to　
admit　that　Katharine　owed　him　nothing。　Katharine　had　
promised　nothing；　taken　nothing；　to　her　his　dreams　had　
meant　nothing。　This；　indeed；　was　the　lowest　pitch　of　his　
despair。　If　the　best　of　one’s　feelings　means　nothing　to　
the　person　most　concerned　in　those　feelings；　what　reality　
is　left　us？　The　old　romance　which　had　warmed　his　
days　for　him；　the　thoughts　of　Katharine　which　had　painted　
every　hour；　were　now　made　to　appear　foolish　and　enfeebled。　
He　rose；　and　looked　into　the　river；　whose　swift　
race　of　duncolored　waters　seemed　the　very　spirit　of　futility　
and　oblivion。　

“In　what　can　one　trust；　then？”　he　thought；　as　he　leant　
there。　So　feeble　and　insubstantial　did　he　feel　himself　that　
he　repeated　the　word　aloud。　

“In　what　can　one　trust？　Not　in　men　and　women。　Not　in　
one’s　dreams　about　them。　There’s　nothing—nothing；　nothing　
left　at　all。”　

Now　Denham　had　reason　to　know　that　he　could　bring　to　
birth　and　keep　alive　a　fine　anger　when　he　chose。　Rodney　

provided　a　good　target　for　that　emotion。　And　yet　at　the　
moment；　Rodney　and　Katharine　herself　seemed　disembodied　
ghosts。　He　could　scarcely　remember　the　look　of　
them。　His　mind　plunged　lower　and　lower。　Their　marriage　
seemed　of　no　importance　to　him。　All　things　had　turned　
to　ghosts；　the　whole　mass　of　the　world　was　insubstantial　
vapor；　surrounding　the　solitary　spark　in　his　mind；　whose　
burning　point　he　could　remember；　for　it　burnt　no　more。　
He　had　once　cherished　a　belief；　and　Katharine　had　embodied　
this　belief；　and　she　did　so　no　longer。　He　did　not　
blame　her；　he　blamed　nothing；　nobody；　he　saw　the　truth。　
He　saw　the　duncolored　race　of　waters　and　the　blank　shore。　
But　life　is　vigorous；　the　body　lives；　and　the　body；　no　
doubt；　dictated　the　reflection；　which　now　urged　him　to　
movement；　that　one　may　cast　away　the　forms　of　human　
beings；　and　yet　retain　the　passion　which　seemed　inseparable　
from　their　existence　in　the　flesh。　Now　this　passion　
burnt　on　his　horizon；　as　the　winter　sun　makes　a　greenish　
pane　in　the　west　through　thinning　clouds。　His　eyes　were　
set　on　something　infinitely　far　and　remote；　by　that　light　
he　felt　he　could　walk；　and　would；　in　future；　have　to　find　

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his　way。　But　that　was　all　there　was　left　to　him　of　a　populous　
and　teeming　world。　

CHAPTER　XIII　


The　lunch　hour　in　the　office　was　only　partly　spent　by　
Denham　in　the　consumption　of　food。　Whether　fine　or　wet；　
he　passed　most　of　it　pacing　the　gravel　paths　in　Lincoln’s　
Inn　Fields。　The　children　got　to　know　his　figure；　and　the　
sparrows　expected　their　daily　scattering　of　breadcrumbs。　
No　doubt；　since　he　often　gave　a　copper　and　almost　always　
a　handful　of　bread；　he　was　not　as　blind　to　his　surroundings　
as　he　thought　himself。　

He　thought　that　these　winter　days　were　spent　in　long　
hours　before　white　papers　radiant　in　electric　light；　and　in　
short　passages　through　fogdimmed　streets。　When　he　came　
back　to　his　work　after　lunch　he　carried　in　his　head　a　
picture　of　the　Strand；　scattered　with　omnibuses；　and　of　
the　purple　shapes　of　leaves　pressed　flat　upon　the　gravel；　
as　if　his　eyes　had　always　been　bent　upon　the　ground。　His　
brain　worked　incessantly；　but　his　thought　was　attended　
with　so　little　joy　that　he　did　not　willingly　recall　it；　but　
drove　ahead；　now　in　this　direction；　now　in　that；　and　came　
home　laden　with　dark　books　borrowed　from　a　library。　

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Night　and　Day　

Mary　Datchet；　ing　from　the　Strand　at　lunchtime；　
saw　him　one　day　taking　his　turn；　closely　buttoned　in　an　
overcoat；　and　so　lost　in　thought　that　he　might　have　been　
sitting　in　his　own　room。　

She　was　overe　by　something　very　like　awe　by　the　
sight　of　him；　then　she　felt　much　inclined　to　laugh；　although　
her　pulse　beat　faster。　She　passed　him；　and　he　
never　saw　her。　She　came　back　and　touched　him　on　the　
shoulder。　

“Gracious；　Mary！”　he　exclaimed。　“How　you　startled　me！”　

“Yes。　You　looked　as　if　you　were　walking　in　your　sleep；”　
she　said。　“Are　you　arranging　some　terrible　love　affair？　
Have　you　got　to　reconcile　a　desperate　couple？”　

“I　wasn’t　thinking　about　my　work；”　Ralph　replied；　rather　
hastily。　“And；　besides；　that　sort　of　thing’s　not　in　my　line；”　
he　added；　rather　grimly。　

The　morning　was　fine；　and　they　had　still　some　minutes　
of　leisure　to　spend。　They　had　not　met　for　two　or　three　
weeks；　and　Mary　had　much　to　say　to　Ralph；　but　she　was　
not　certain　how　far　he　wished　for　her　pany。　However；　
after　a　turn　or　two；　in　which　a　few　facts　were　muni


cated；　he　suggested　sitting　down；　and　she　took　the　seat　
beside　him。　The　sparrows　came　fluttering　about　them；　and　
Ralph　produced　from　his　pocket　the　half　of　a　roll　saved　
from　his　luncheon。　He　threw　a　few　crumbs　among　them。　

“I’ve　never　seen　sparrows　so　tame；”　Mary　observed；　by　
way　of　saying　something。　

“No；”　said　Ralph。　“The　sparrows　in　Hyde　Park　aren’t　as　
tame　as　this。　If　we　keep　perfectly　still；　I’ll　get　one　to　
settle　on　my　arm。”　

Mary　felt　that　she　could　have　forgone　this　display　of　
animal　good　temper；　but　seeing　that　Ralph；　for　some　curious　
reason；　took　a　pride　in　the　sparrows；　she　bet　him　
sixpence　that　he　would　not　succeed。　

“Done！”　he　said；　and　his　eye；　which　had　been　gloomy；　
showed　a　spark　of　light。　His　conversation　was　now　addressed　
entirely　to　a　bald　cocksparrow；　who　seemed　bolder　
than　the　rest；　and　Mary　took　the　opportunity　of　looking　
at　him。　She　was　not　satisfied；　his　face　was　worn；　and　his　
expression　stern。　A　child　came　bowling　its　hoop　through　
the　concourse　of　birds；　and　Ralph　threw　his　last　crumbs　
of　bread　into　the　bushes　with　a　snort　of　impatience。　

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“That’s　what　always　happens—just　as　I’ve　almost　got　
him；”　he　said。　“Here’s　your　sixpence；　Mary。　But　you’ve　
only　got　it　thanks　to　that　brute　of　a　boy。　They　oughtn’t　
to　be　allowed　to　bowl　hoops　here—”　

“Oughtn’t　to　be　allowed　to　bowl　hoops！　My　dear　Ralph；　
what　nonsense！”　

“You　always　say　that；”　he　plained；　“and　it　isn’t　nonsense。　
What’s　the　point　of　having　a　garden　if　one　can’t　
watch　birds　in　it？　The　street　does　all　right　for　hoops。　And　
if　children　can’t　be　trusted　in　the　s