[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第6章

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not　perceive　what　poor　dear　Joan　had　gained　from　the　
fact　that　she　was　the　granddaughter　of　a　man　who　kept　a　
shop；　and　herself　earned　her　own　living。　The　infinite　
dreariness　and　sordidness　of　their　life　oppressed　him　in　
spite　of　his　fundamental　belief　that；　as　a　family；　they　
were　somehow　remarkable。　

“Shall　you　talk　to　mother？”　Joan　inquired。　“Because；　
you　see；　the　thing’s　got　to　be　settled；　one　way　or　another。　
Charles　must　write　to　Uncle　John　if　he’s　going　
there。”　

Ralph　sighed　impatiently。　

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“I　suppose　it　doesn’t　much　matter　either　way；”　he　exclaimed。　
“He’s　doomed　to　misery　in　the　long　run。”　

A　slight　flush　came　into　Joan’s　cheek。　

“You　know　you’re　talking　nonsense；”　she　said。　“It　doesn’t　
hurt　any　one　to　have　to　earn　their　own　living。　I’m　very　
glad　I　have　to　earn　mine。”　

Ralph　was　pleased　that　she　should　feel　this；　and　wished　
her　to　continue；　but　he　went　on；　perversely　enough。　

“Isn’t　that　only　because　you’ve　forgotten　how　to　enjoy　
yourself？　You　never　have　time　for　anything　decent—”　

“As　for　instance？”　

“Well；　going　for　walks；　or　music；　or　books；　or　seeing　
interesting　people。　You　never　do　anything　that’s　really　
worth　doing　any　more　than　I　do。”　

“I　always　think　you　could　make　this　room　much　nicer；　if　
you　liked；”　she　observed。　

“What　does　it　matter　what　sort　of　room　I　have　when　
I’m　forced　to　spend　all　the　best　years　of　my　life　drawing　
up　deeds　in　an　office？”　

“You　said　two　days　ago　that　you　found　the　law　so　interesting。”　


“So　it　is　if　one　could　afford　to　know　anything　about　it。”　

（“That’s　Herbert　only　just　going　to　bed　now；”　Joan　interposed；　
as　a　door　on　the　landing　slammed　vigorously。　
“And　then　he　won’t　get　up　in　the　morning。”）　

Ralph　looked　at　the　ceiling；　and　shut　his　lips　closely　
together。　Why；　he　wondered；　could　Joan　never　for　one　
moment　detach　her　mind　from　the　details　of　domestic　
life？　It　seemed　to　him　that　she　was　getting　more　and　
more　enmeshed　in　them；　and　capable　of　shorter　and　less　
frequent　flights　into　the　outer　world；　and　yet　she　was　
only　thirtythree。　

“D’you　ever　pay　calls　now？”　he　asked　abruptly。　

“I　don’t　often　have　the　time。　Why　do　you　ask？”　

“It　might　be　a　good　thing；　to　get　to　know　new　people；　
that’s　all。”　

“Poor　Ralph！”　said　Joan　suddenly；　with　a　smile。　“You　
think　your　sister’s　getting　very　old　and　very　dull—that’s　
it；　isn’t　it？”　

“I　don’t　think　anything　of　the　kind；”　he　said　stoutly；　
but　he　flushed。　“But　you　lead　a　dog’s　life；　Joan。　When　
you’re　not　working　in　an　office；　you’re　worrying　over　the　

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Night　and　Day　

rest　of　us。　And　I’m　not　much　good　to　you；　I’m　afraid。”　

Joan　rose；　and　stood　for　a　moment　warming　her　hands；　
and；　apparently；　meditating　as　to　whether　she　should　say　
anything　more　or　not。　A　feeling　of　great　intimacy　united　
the　brother　and　sister；　and　the　semicircular　lines　above　
their　eyebrows　disappeared。　No；　there　was　nothing　more　
to　be　said　on　either　side。　Joan　brushed　her　brother’s　head　
with　her　hand　as　she　passed　him；　murmured　good　night；　
and　left　the　room。　For　some　minutes　after　she　had　gone　
Ralph　lay　quiescent；　resting　his　head　on　his　hand；　but　
gradually　his　eyes　filled　with　thought；　and　the　line　reappeared　
on　his　brow；　as　the　pleasant　impression　of　panionship　
and　ancient　sympathy　waned；　and　he　was　left　
to　think　on　alone。　

After　a　time　he　opened　his　book；　and　read　on　steadily；　
glancing　once　or　twice　at　his　watch；　as　if　he　had　set　
himself　a　task　to　be　acplished　in　a　certain　measure　of　
time。　Now　and　then　he　heard　voices　in　the　house；　and　the　
closing　of　bedroom　doors；　which　showed　that　the　building；　
at　the　top　of　which　he　sat；　was　inhabited　in　every　
one　of　its　cells。　When　midnight　struck；　Ralph　shut　his　

book；　and　with　a　candle　in　his　hand；　descended　to　the　
ground　floor；　to　ascertain　that　all　lights　were　extinct　and　
all　doors　locked。　It　was　a　threadbare；　wellworn　house　
that　he　thus　examined；　as　if　the　inmates　had　grazed　down　
all　luxuriance　and　plenty　to　the　verge　of　decency；　and　in　
the　night；　bereft　of　life；　bare　places　and　ancient　blemishes　
were　unpleasantly　visible。　Katharine　Hilbery；　he　
thought；　would　condemn　it　offhand。　

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CHAPTER　III　


Denham　had　accused　Katharine　Hilbery　of　belonging　to　
one　of　the　most　distinguished　families　in　England；　and　if　
any　one　will　take　the　trouble　to　consult　Mr。　Galton’s　“Hereditary　
Genius；”　he　will　find　that　this　assertion　is　not　far　
from　the　truth。　The　Alardyces；　the　Hilberys；　the　
Millingtons；　and　the　Otways　seem　to　prove　that　intellect　
is　a　possession　which　can　be　tossed　from　one　member　of　
a　certain　group　to　another　almost　indefinitely；　and　with　
apparent　certainty　that　the　brilliant　gift　will　be　safely　
caught　and　held　by　nine　out　of　ten　of　the　privileged　race。　
They　had　been　conspicuous　judges　and　admirals；　lawyers　
and　servants　of　the　State　for　some　years　before　the　richness　
of　the　soil　culminated　in　the　rarest　flower　that　any　
family　can　boast；　a　great　writer；　a　poet　eminent　among　
the　poets　of　England；　a　Richard　Alardyce；　and　having　produced　
him；　they　proved　once　more　the　amazing　virtues　of　
their　race　by　proceeding　unconcernedly　again　with　their　
usual　task　of　breeding　distinguished　men。　They　had　sailed　
with　Sir　John　Franklin　to　the　North　Pole；　and　ridden　with　

Havelock　to　the　Relief　of　Lucknow；　and　when　they　were　
not　lighthouses　firmly　based　on　rock　for　the　guidance　of　
their　generation；　they　were　steady；　serviceable　candles；　
illuminating　the　ordinary　chambers　of　daily　life。　Whatever　
profession　you　looked　at；　there　was　a　Warburton　or　
an　Alardyce；　a　Millington　or　a　Hilbery　somewhere　in　authority　
and　prominence。　

It　may　be　said；　indeed；　that　English　society　being　what　
it　is；　no　very　great　merit　is　required；　once　you　bear　a　
wellknown　name；　to　put　you　into　a　position　where　it　is　
easier　on　the　whole　to　be　eminent　than　obscure。　And　if　
this　is　true　of　the　sons；　even　the　daughters；　even　in　the　
nieenth　century；　are　apt　to　bee　people　of　importance—
philanthropists　and　educationalists　if　they　are　
spinsters；　and　the　wives　of　distinguished　men　if　they　marry。　
It　is　true　that　there　were　several　lamentable　exceptions　
to　this　rule　in　the　Alardyce　group；　which　seems　to　indicate　
that　the　cadets　of　such　houses　go　more　rapidly　to　
the　bad　than　the　children　of　ordinary　fathers　and　mothers；　
as　if　it　were　somehow　a　relief　to　them。　But；　on　the　
whole；　in　these　first　years　of　the　twentieth　century；　the　

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Alardyces　and　their　relations　were　keeping　their　heads　well　
above　water。　One　finds　them　at　the　tops　of　professions；　
with　letters　after　their　names；　they　sit　in　luxurious　public　
offices；　with　private　secretaries　attached　to　them；　they　
write　solid　books　in　dark　covers；　issued　by　the　presses　of　
the　two　great　universities；　and　when　one　of　them　dies　the　
chances　are　that　another　of　them　writes　his　biography。　

Now　the　source　of　this　nobility　was；　of　course；　the　poet；　
and　his　immediate　descendants；　therefore；　were　invested　
with　greater　luster　than　the　collateral　branches。　Mrs。　
Hilbery；　in　virtue　of　her　position　as　the　only　child　of　the　
poet；　was　spiritually　the　head　of　the　family；　and　Katharine；　
her　daughter；　had　some　superior　rank　among　all　the　cousins　
and　connections；　the　more　so　because　she　was　an　only　
child。　The　Alardyces　had　married　and　intermarried；　and　
their　offspring　were　generally　profuse；　and　had　a　way　of　
meeting　regularly　in　each　other’s　houses　for　meals　and　
family　celebrations　which　had　acquired　a　semisacred　
character；　and　were　as　regularly　observed　as　days　of　feasting　
and　fasting　in　the　Church。　

In　times　gone　by；　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　known　all　the　poets；　

all　the　novelists；　all　the　beautiful　women　and　distinguished　
men　of　her　time。　These　being　now　either　dead　or　secluded　
in　their　infirm　glory；　she　made　her　house　a　meet
ingplace　for　her　own　relations；　to　whom　she　would　lament　
the　passing　of　the　great　days　of　the　nieenth　
century；　when　every　department　of　letters　and　art　was　
represented　in　England　by　two　or　three　illustrious　names。　
Where　are　their　successors？　she　would　ask；　and　the　absence　
of　any　poet　or　painter　or　novelist　of　the　true　caliber　
at　the　present　day　was　a　text　upon　which　she　liked　to　
ruminate；　in　a　sunset　mood　of　benignant　reminiscence；　
which　it　would　have　been　hard　to　disturb　had　there　been　
need。　But　she　was　far　from　visiting　their　inferiority　upon　
the　younger　generation。　She　weled　them　very　heartily　
to　her　house；　told　them　her　stories；　gave　them　sovereigns　
and　ices　and　good　advice；　and　weaved　round　them　
romances　which　had　generally　no　likeness　to　the　truth。　

The　quality　of　her　birth　oozed　into　Katharine’s　consciousness　
from　a　dozen　different　sources　as　soon　as　she　
was　able　to　perceive　anything。　Above　her　nursery　fireplace　
hung　a　photograph　of　her　grandfather’s　tomb　in　

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Poets’　Corner；　and　she　was　told　in　one　of　those　moments　
of　grownup　confidence　which　are　so　tremendously　impressive　
to　the　child’s　mind；　that　he　was　buried　there　
because　he　was　a　“good　and　great　man。”　Later；　on　an　
anniversary；　she　was　taken　by　her　mother　through　the　
fog　in　a　hansom　cab；　and　given　a　large　bunch　of　bright；　
sweetscented　flowers　to　lay　upon　his　tomb。　The　candles　
in　the　church；　the　singing　and　the　booming　of　the　organ；　
were　all；　she　thought；　in　his　honor。　Again　and　again　she　
was　brought　down　into　the　drawingroom　to　receive　the　
blessing　of　some　awful　distinguished　old　man；　who　sat；　
even　to　her　childish　eye；　somewhat　apart；　all　gathered　
together　and　clutching　a　stick；　unlike　an　ordinary　visitor　
in　her　father’s　own　armchair；　and　her　father　himself　was　
there；　unlike　himself；　too；　a　little　excited　and　very　polite。　
These　formidable　old　creatures　used　to　take　her　in　
their　arms；　look　very　keenly　in　her　eyes；　and　then　to　
bless　her；　and　tell　her　that　she　must　mind　and　be　a　good　
girl；　or　detect　a　look　in　her　face　something　like　Richard’s　
as　a　small　boy。　That　drew　down　upon　her　her　mother’s　
fervent　embrace；　and　she　was