[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第54章

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her　how　pletely　in　running　her　risk　she　had　lost　her　
prize；　lost　it　so　entirely　that　she　had　no　longer　the　right；　
in　talking　of　Ralph；　to　presume　that　her　knowledge　of　
him　supplanted　all　other　knowledge。　She　no　longer　pletely　
possessed　her　love；　since　his　share　in　it　was　doubtful；　
and　now；　to　make　things　yet　more　bitter；　her　clear　
vision　of　the　way　to　face　life　was　rendered　tremulous　and　
uncertain；　because　another　was　witness　of　it。　Feeling　her　
desire　for　the　old　unshared　intimacy　too　great　to　be　borne　
without　tears；　she　rose；　walked　to　the　farther　end　of　the　
room；　held　the　curtains　apart；　and　stood　there　mastered　
for　a　moment。　The　grief　itself　was　not　ignoble；　the　sting　
of　it　lay　in　the　fact　that　she　had　been　led　to　this　act　of　
treachery　against　herself。　Trapped；　cheated；　robbed；　first　
by　Ralph　and　then　by　Katharine；　she　seemed　all　dissolved　
in　humiliation；　and　bereft　of　anything　she　could　call　her　
own。　Tears　of　weakness　welled　up　and　rolled　down　her　
cheeks。　But　tears；　at　least；　she　could　control；　and　would　
this　instant；　and　then；　turning；　she　would　face　Katharine；　

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Night　and　Day　

and　retrieve　what　could　be　retrieved　of　the　collapse　of　
her　courage。　

She　turned。　Katharine　had　not　moved；　she　was　leaning　
a　little　forward　in　her　chair　and　looking　into　the　fire。　
Something　in　the　attitude　reminded　Mary　of　Ralph。　So　he　
would　sit；　leaning　forward；　looking　rather　fixedly　in　front　
of　him；　while　his　mind　went　far　away；　exploring；　speculating；　
until　he　broke　off　with　his；　“Well；　Mary？”—and　
the　silence；　that　had　been　so　full　of　romance　to　her；　gave　
way　to　the　most　delightful　talk　that　she　had　ever　known。　

Something　unfamiliar　in　the　pose　of　the　silent　figure；　
something　still；　solemn；　significant　about　it；　made　her　
hold　her　breath。　She　paused。　Her　thoughts　were　without　
bitterness。　She　was　surprised　by　her　own　quiet　and　confidence。　
She　came　back　silently；　and　sat　once　more　by　
Katharine’s　side。　Mary　had　no　wish　to　speak。　In　the　silence　
she　seemed　to　have　lost　her　isolation；　she　was　at　
once　the　sufferer　and　the　pitiful　spectator　of　suffering；　
she　was　happier　than　she　had　ever　been；　she　was　more　
bereft；　she　was　rejected；　and　she　was　immensely　beloved。　
Attempt　to　express　these　sensations　was　vain；　and；　more


over；　she　could　not　help　believing　that；　without　any　words　
on　her　side；　they　were　shared。　Thus　for　some　time　longer　
they　sat　silent；　side　by　side；　while　Mary　fingered　the　fur　
on　the　skirt　of　the　old　dress。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

CHAPTER　XXII　


The　fact　that　she　would　be　late　in　keeping　her　engagement　
with　William　was　not　the　only　reason　which　sent　
Katharine　almost　at　racing　speed　along　the　Strand　in　the　
direction　of　his　rooms。　Punctuality　might　have　been　
achieved　by　taking　a　cab；　had　she　not　wished　the　open　
air　to　fan　into　flame　the　glow　kindled　by　Mary’s　words。　
For　among　all　the　impressions　of　the　evening’s　talk　one　
was　of　the　nature　of　a　revelation　and　subdued　the　rest　to　
insignificance。　Thus　one　looked；　thus　one　spoke；　such　
was　love。　

“She　sat　up　straight　and　looked　at　me；　and　then　she　
said；　‘I’m　in　love；’”　Katharine　mused；　trying　to　set　the　
whole　scene　in　motion。　It　was　a　scene　to　dwell　on　with　so　
much　wonder　that　not　a　grain　of　pity　occurred　to　her；　it　
was　a　flame　blazing　suddenly　in　the　dark；　by　its　light　
Katharine　perceived　far　too　vividly　for　her　fort　the　
mediocrity；　indeed　the　entirely　fictitious　character　of　her　
own　feelings　so　far　as　they　pretended　to　correspond　with　
Mary’s　feelings。　She　made　up　her　mind　to　act　instantly　

upon　the　knowledge　thus　gained；　and　cast　her　mind　in　
amazement　back　to　the　scene　upon　the　heath；　when　she　
had　yielded；　heaven　knows　why；　for　reasons　which　seemed　
now　imperceptible。　So　in　broad　daylight　one　might　revisit　
the　place　where　one　has　groped　and　turned　and　
succumbed　to　utter　bewilderment　in　a　fog。　

“It’s　all　so　simple；”　she　said　to　herself。　“There　can’t　be　
any　doubt。　I’ve　only　got　to　speak　now。　I’ve　only　got　to　
speak；”　she　went　on　saying；　in　time　to　her　own　footsteps；　
and　pletely　forgot　Mary　Datchet。　

William　Rodney；　having　e　back　earlier　from　the　office　
than　he　expected；　sat　down　to　pick　out　the　melodies　
in　“The　Magic　Flute”　upon　the　piano。　Katharine　was　late；　
but　that　was　nothing　new；　and；　as　she　had　no　particular　
liking　for　music；　and　he　felt　in　the　mood　for　it；　perhaps　it　
was　as　well。　This　defect　in　Katharine　was　the　more　strange；　
William　reflected；　because；　as　a　rule；　the　women　of　her　
family　were　unusually　musical。　Her　cousin；　Cassandra　
Otway；　for　example；　had　a　very　fine　taste　in　music；　and　
he　had　charming　recollections　of　her　in　a　light　fantastic　
attitude；　playing　the　flute　in　the　morningroom　at　Stogdon　

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Night　and　Day　

House。　He　recalled　with　pleasure　the　amusing　way　in　which　
her　nose；　long　like　all　the　Otway　noses；　seemed　to　extend　
itself　into　the　flute；　as　if　she　were　some　inimitably　graceful　
species　of　musical　mole。　The　little　picture　suggested　
very　happily　her　melodious　and　whimsical　temperament。　
The　enthusiasms　of　a　young　girl　of　distinguished　upbringing　
appealed　to　William；　and　suggested　a　thousand　ways　
in　which；　with　his　training　and　acplishments；　he　could　
be　of　service　to　her。　She　ought　to　be　given　the　chance　of　
hearing　good　music；　as　it　is　played　by　those　who　have　
inherited　the　great　tradition。　Moreover；　from　one　or　two　
remarks　let　fall　in　the　course　of　conversation；　he　thought　
it　possible　that　she　had　what　Katharine　professed　to　lack；　
a　passionate；　if　untaught；　appreciation　of　literature。　He　
had　lent　her　his　play。　Meanwhile；　as　Katharine　was　certain　
to　be　late；　and　“The　Magic　Flute”　is　nothing　without　
a　voice；　he　felt　inclined　to　spend　the　time　of　waiting　in　
writing　a　letter　to　Cassandra；　exhorting　her　to　read　Pope　
in　preference　to　Dostoevsky；　until　her　feeling　for　form　
was　more　highly　developed。　He　set　himself　down　to　pose　
this　piece　of　advice　in　a　shape　which　was　light　and　

playful；　and　yet　did　no　injury　to　a　cause　which　he　had　
near　at　heart；　when　he　heard　Katharine　upon　the　stairs。　
A　moment　later　it　was　plain　that　he　had　been　mistaken；　
it　was　not　Katharine；　but　he　could　not　settle　himself　to　
his　letter。　His　temper　had　changed　from　one　of　urbane　
contentment—indeed　of　delicious　expansion—to　one　of　
uneasiness　and　expectation。　The　dinner　was　brought　in；　
and　had　to　be　set　by　the　fire　to　keep　hot。　It　was　now　a　
quarter　of　an　hour　beyond　the　specified　time。　He　bethought　
him　of　a　piece　of　news　which　had　depressed　him　
in　the　earlier　part　of　the　day。　Owing　to　the　illness　of　one　
of　his　fellowclerks；　it　was　likely　that　he　would　get　no　
holiday　until　later　in　the　year；　which　would　mean　the　
postponement　of　their　marriage。　But　this　possibility；　after　
all；　was　not　so　disagreeable　as　the　probability　which　
forced　itself　upon　him　with　every　tick　of　the　clock　that　
Katharine　had　pletely　forgotten　her　engagement。　Such　
things　had　happened　less　frequently　since　Christmas；　but　
what　if　they　were　going　to　begin　to　happen　again？　What　
if　their　marriage　should　turn　out；　as　she　had　said；　a　farce？　
He　acquitted　her　of　any　wish　to　hurt　him　wantonly；　but　

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Virginia　Woolf　

there　was　something　in　her　character　which　made　it　impossible　
for　her　to　help　hurting　people。　Was　she　cold？　
Was　she　selfabsorbed？　He　tried　to　fit　her　with　each　of　
these　descriptions；　but　he　had　to　own　that　she　puzzled　
him。　

“There　are　so　many　things　that　she　doesn’t　understand；”　
he　reflected；　glancing　at　the　letter　to　Cassandra　which　he　
had　begun　and　laid　aside。　What　prevented　him　from　finishing　
the　letter　which　he　had　so　much　enjoyed　beginning？　
The　reason　was　that　Katharine　might；　at　any　moment；　
enter　the　room。　The　thought；　implying　his　bondage　
to　her；　irritated　him　acutely。　It　occurred　to　him　that　
he　would　leave　the　letter　lying　open　for　her　to　see；　and　
he　would　take　the　opportunity　of　telling　her　that　he　had　
sent　his　play　to　Cassandra　for　her　to　criticize。　Possibly；　
but　not　by　any　means　certainly；　this　would　annoy　her—　
and　as　he　reached　the　doubtful　fort　of　this　conclusion；　
there　was　a　knock　on　the　door　and　Katharine　came　
in。　They　kissed　each　other　coldly　and　she　made　no　apology　
for　being　late。　Nevertheless；　her　mere　presence　moved　
him　strangely；　but　he　was　determined　that　this　should　

not　weaken　his　resolution　to　make　some　kind　of　stand　
against　her；　to　get　at　the　truth　about　her。　He　let　her　
make　her　own　disposition　of　clothes　and　busied　himself　
with　the　plates。　

“I’ve　got　a　piece　of　news　for　you；　Katharine；”　he　said　
directly　they　sat　down　to　table；　“I　shan’t　get　my　holiday　
in　April。　We　shall　have　to　put　off　our　marriage。”　

He　rapped　the　words　out　with　a　certain　degree　of　briskness。　
Katharine　started　a　little；　as　if　the　announcement　
disturbed　her　thoughts。　

“That　won’t　make　any　difference；　will　it？　I　mean　the　
lease　isn’t　signed；”　she　replied。　“But　why？　What　has　happened？”　


He　told　her；　in　an　offhand　way；　how　one　of　his　fellow
clerks　had　broken　down；　and　might　have　to　be　away　for　
months；　six　months　even；　in　which　case　they　would　have　
to　think　over　their　position。　He　said　it　in　a　way　which　
struck　her；　at　last；　as　oddly　casual。　She　looked　at　him。　
There　was　no　outward　sign　that　he　was　annoyed　with　her。　
Was　she　well　dressed？　She　thought　sufficiently　so。　Perhaps　
she　was　late？　She　looked　for　a　clock。　

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Night　and　Day　

“It’s　a　good　thing　we　didn’t　take　the　house　then；”　she　
repeated　thoughtfully。　

“It’ll　mean；　too；　I’m　afraid；　that　I　shan’t　be　as　free　for　
a　considerable　time　as　I　have　been；”　he　continued。　She　
had　time　to　reflect　that　she　gained　something　by　all　this；　
though　it　was　too　soon　to　determine　what。　But　the　light　
which　had　been　burning　with　such　intensity　as　she　came　
along　was　suddenly　overclouded；　as　much　by　his　manner　
as　by　his　news。　She　had　been　prepared　to　meet　opposition；　
which　is　simple　to　encounter　pared　with—she　
did　not　know　what　it　was　that　she　had　to　encounter。　The　
meal　passed　in　quiet；　wellcontrolled　talk　about　indifferent　
things。　Music　was　not　a　subject　ab