[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第25部分

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face；　and　to　lose　herself　in　the　nothingness　of　night。　But　
with　the　air　the　distant　humming　sound　of　faroff　crowded　
thoroughfares　was　admitted　to　the　room。　The　incessant　
and　tumultuous　hum　of　the　distant　traffic　seemed；　as　she　
stood　there；　to　represent　the　thick　texture　of　her　life；　for　
her　life　was　so　hemmed　in　with　the　progress　of　other　
lives　that　the　sound　of　its　own　advance　was　inaudible。　
People　like　Ralph　and　Mary；　she　thought；　had　it　all　their　
own　way；　and　an　empty　space　before　them；　and；　as　she　
envied　them；　she　cast　her　mind　out　to　imagine　an　empty　
land　where　all　this　petty　intercourse　of　men　and　women；　
this　life　made　up　of　the　dense　crossings　and　entangle


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Virginia　Woolf　

ments　of　men　and　women；　had　no　existence　whatever。　
Even　now；　alone；　at　night；　looking　out　into　the　shapeless　
mass　of　London；　she　was　forced　to　remember　that　there　
was　one　point　and　here　another　with　which　she　had　some　
connection。　William　Rodney；　at　this　very　moment；　was　
seated　in　a　minute　speck　of　light　somewhere　to　the　east　of　
her；　and　his　mind　was　occupied；　not　with　his　book；　but　
with　her。　She　wished　that　no　one　in　the　whole　world　would　
think　of　her。　However；　there　was　no　way　of　escaping　from　
one’s　fellowbeings；　she　concluded；　and　shut　the　window　
with　a　sigh；　and　returned　once　more　to　her　letters。　

She　could　not　doubt　but　that　William’s　letter　was　the　
most　genuine　she　had　yet　received　from　him。　He　had　
e　to　the　conclusion　that　he　could　not　live　without　
her；　he　wrote。　He　believed　that　he　knew　her；　and　could　
give　her　happiness；　and　that　their　marriage　would　be　
unlike　other　marriages。　Nor　was　the　son；　in　spite　of　
its　acplishment；　lacking　in　passion；　and　Katharine；　
as　she　read　the　pages　through　again；　could　see　in　what　
direction　her　feelings　ought　to　flow；　supposing　they　revealed　
themselves。　She　would　e　to　feel　a　humorous　

sort　of　tenderness　for　him；　a　zealous　care　for　his　susceptibilities；　
and；　after　all；　she　considered；　thinking　of　her　
father　and　mother；　what　is　love？　

Naturally；　with　her　face；　position；　and　background；　she　
had　experience　of　young　men　who　wished　to　marry　her；　
and　made　protestations　of　love；　but；　perhaps　because　
she　did　not　return　the　feeling；　it　remained　something　of　
a　pageant　to　her。　Not　having　experience　of　it　herself；　her　
mind　had　unconsciously　occupied　itself　for　some　years　in　
dressing　up　an　image　of　love；　and　the　marriage　that　was　
the　oute　of　love；　and　the　man　who　inspired　love；　
which　naturally　dwarfed　any　examples　that　came　her　way。　
Easily；　and　without　correction　by　reason；　her　imagination　
made　pictures；　superb　backgrounds　casting　a　rich　though　
phantom　light　upon　the　facts　in　the　foreground。　Splendid　
as　the　waters　that　drop　with　resounding　thunder　from　
high　ledges　of　rock；　and　plunge　downwards　into　the　blue　
depths　of　night；　was　the　presence　of　love　she　dreamt；　
drawing　into　it　every　drop　of　the　force　of　life；　and　dashing　
them　all　asunder　in　the　superb　catastrophe　in　which　
everything　was　surrendered；　and　nothing　might　be　re


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Night　and　Day　

claimed。　The　man；　too；　was　some　magnanimous　hero；　
riding　a　great　horse　by　the　shore　of　the　sea。　They　rode　
through　forests　together；　they　galloped　by　the　rim　of　the　
sea。　But　waking；　she　was　able　to　contemplate　a　perfectly　
loveless　marriage；　as　the　thing　one　did　actually　in　real　
life；　for　possibly　the　people　who　dream　thus　are　those　
who　do　the　most　prosaic　things。　

At　this　moment　she　was　much　inclined　to　sit　on　into　
the　night；　spinning　her　light　fabric　of　thoughts　until　she　
tired　of　their　futility；　and　went　to　her　mathematics；　but；　
as　she　knew　very　well；　it　was　necessary　that　she　should　
see　her　father　before　he　went　to　bed。　The　case　of　Cyril　
Alardyce　must　be　discussed；　her　mother’s　illusions　and　
the　rights　of　the　family　attended　to。　Being　vague　herself　
as　to　what　all　this　amounted　to；　she　had　to　take　counsel　
with　her　father。　She　took　her　letters　in　her　hand　and　went　
downstairs。　It　was　past　eleven；　and　the　clocks　had　e　
into　their　reign；　the　grandfather’s　clock　in　the　hall　ticking　
in　petition　with　the　small　clock　on　the　landing。　
Mr。　Hilbery’s　study　ran　out　behind　the　rest　of　the　house；　
on　the　ground　floor；　and　was　a　very　silent；　subterranean　

place；　the　sun　in　daytime　casting　a　mere　abstract　of　light　
through　a　skylight　upon　his　books　and　the　large　table；　
with　its　spread　of　white　papers；　now　illumined　by　a　green　
readinglamp。　Here　Mr。　Hilbery　sat　editing　his　review；　or　
placing　together　documents　by　means　of　which　it　could　
be　proved　that　Shelley　had　written　“of”　instead　of　“and；”　
or　that　the　inn　in　which　Byron　had　slept　was　called　the　
“Nag’s　Head”　and　not　the　“Turkish　Knight；”　or　that　the　
Christian　name　of　Keats’s　uncle　had　been　John　rather　
than　Richard；　for　he　knew　more　minute　details　about　these　
poets　than　any　man　in　England；　probably；　and　was　preparing　
an　edition　of　Shelley　which　scrupulously　observed　
the　poet’s　system　of　punctuation。　He　saw　the　humor　of　
these　researches；　but　that　did　not　prevent　him　from　carrying　
them　out　with　the　utmost　scrupulosity。　

He　was　lying　back　fortably　in　a　deep　armchair　smoking　
a　cigar；　and　ruminating　the　fruitful　question　as　to　
whether　Coleridge　had　wished　to　marry　Dorothy　
Wordsworth；　and　what；　if　he　had　done　so；　would　have　
been　the　consequences　to　him　in　particular；　and　to　literature　
in　general。　When　Katharine　came　in　he　reflected　

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Virginia　Woolf　

that　he　knew　what　she　had　e　for；　and　he　made　a　
pencil　note　before　he　spoke　to　her。　Having　done　this；　he　
saw　that　she　was　reading；　and　he　watched　her　for　a　moment　
without　saying　anything。　She　was　reading　“Isabella　
and　the　Pot　of　Basil；”　and　her　mind　was　full　of　the　Italian　
hills　and　the　blue　daylight；　and　the　hedges　set　with　little　
rosettes　of　red　and　white　roses。　Feeling　that　her　father　
waited　for　her；　she　sighed　and　said；　shutting　her　book：　

“I’ve　had　a　letter　from　Aunt　Celia　about　Cyril；　father…　。　It　
seems　to　be　true—about　his　marriage。　What　are　we　to　do？”　

“Cyril　seems　to　have　been　behaving　in　a　very　foolish　
manner；”　said　Mr。　Hilbery；　in　his　pleasant　and　deliberate　
tones。　

Katharine　found　some　difficulty　in　carrying　on　the　conversation；　
while　her　father　balanced　his　fingertips　so　
judiciously；　and　seemed　to　reserve　so　many　of　his　thoughts　
for　himself。　

“He’s　about　done　for　himself；　I　should　say；”　he　continued。　
Without　saying　anything；　he　took　Katharine’s　letters　
out　of　her　hand；　adjusted　his　eyeglasses；　and　read　them　
through。　

At　length　he　said　“Humph！”　and　gave　the　letters　back　
to　her。　

“Mother　knows　nothing　about　it；”　Katharine　remarked。　
“Will　you　tell　her？”　

“I　shall　tell　your　mother。　But　I　shall　tell　her　that　there　
is　nothing　whatever　for　us　to　do。”　

“But　the　marriage？”　Katharine　asked；　with　some　diffidence。　


Mr。　Hilbery　said　nothing；　and　stared　into　the　fire。　

“What　in　the　name　of　conscience　did　he　do　it　for？”　he　
speculated　at　last；　rather　to　himself　than　to　her。　

Katharine　had　begun　to　read　her　aunt’s　letter　over　again；　
and　she　now　quoted　a　sentence。　“Ibsen　and　Butler…　。　He　
has　sent　me　a　letter　full　of　quotations—nonsense；　though　
clever　nonsense。”　

“Well；　if　the　younger　generation　want　to　carry　on　its　
life　on　those　lines；　it’s　none　of　our　affair；”　he　remarked。　

“But　isn’t　it　our　affair；　perhaps；　to　make　them　get　married？”　
Katharine　asked　rather　wearily。　

“Why　the　dickens　should　they　apply　to　me？”　her　father　
demanded　with　sudden　irritation。　

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Night　and　Day　

“Only　as　the　head　of　the　family—”　

“But　I’m　not　the　head　of　the　family。　Alfred’s　the　head　of　
the　family。　Let　them　apply　to　Alfred；”　said　Mr。　Hilbery；　
relapsing　again　into　his　armchair。　Katharine　was　aware　
that　she　had　touched　a　sensitive　spot；　however；　in　mentioning　
the　family。　

“I　think；　perhaps；　the　best　thing　would　be　for　me　to　go　
and　see　them；”　she　observed。　

“I　won’t　have　you　going　anywhere　near　them；”　Mr。　
Hilbery　replied　with　unwonted　decision　and　authority。　
“Indeed；　I　don’t　understand　why　they’ve　dragged　you　into　
the　busi