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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第27部分


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which they kept steadily in view—but she was interrupted。 

Mrs。 Hilbery had risen from her table; and was standing 
looking out of the window at a string of barges swimming 
up the river。 

Katharine watched her。 Suddenly Mrs。 Hilbery turned 
abruptly; and exclaimed: 

“I really believe I’m bewitched! I only want three sentences; 
you see; something quite straightforward and 
monplace; and I can’t find ‘em。” 

She began to pace up and down the room; snatching up 
her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any 
relief; as yet; in polishing the backs of books。 

“Besides;” she said; giving the sheet she had written to 
Katharine; “I don’t believe this’ll do。 Did your grandfather 
ever visit the Hebrides; Katharine?” She looked in a 
strangely beseeching way at her daughter。 “My mind got 
running on the Hebrides; and I couldn’t help writing a 
little description of them。 Perhaps it would do at the 

beginning of a chapter。 Chapters often begin quite differently 
from the way they go on; you know。” Katharine 
read what her mother had written。 She might have been 
a schoolmaster criticizing a child’s essay。 Her face gave 
Mrs。 Hilbery; who watched it anxiously; no ground for 
hope。 

“It’s very beautiful;” she stated; “but; you see; mother; 
we ought to go from point to point—” 

“Oh; I know;” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed。 “And that’s just 
what I can’t do。 Things keep ing into my head。 It 
isn’t that I don’t know everything and feel everything 
(who did know him; if I didn’t?); but I can’t put it down; 
you see。 There’s a kind of blind spot;” she said; touching 
her forehead; “there。 And when I can’t sleep o’ nights; I 
fancy I shall die without having done it。” 

From exultation she had passed to the depths of depression 
which the imagination of her death aroused。 The 
depression municated itself to Katharine。 How impotent 
they were; fiddling about all day long with papers! 
And the clock was striking eleven and nothing done! She 
watched her mother; now rummaging in a great brass


96 



Virginia Woolf 

bound box which stood by her table; but she did not go 
to her help。 Of course; Katharine reflected; her mother 
had now lost some paper; and they would waste the rest 
of the morning looking for it。 She cast her eyes down in 
irritation; and read again her mother’s musical sentences 
about the silver gulls; and the roots of little pink flowers 
washed by pellucid streams; and the blue mists of hyacinths; 
until she was struck by her mother’s silence。 She 
raised her eyes。 Mrs。 Hilbery had emptied a portfolio containing 
old photographs over her table; and was looking 
from one to another。 

“Surely; Katharine;” she said; “the men were far handsomer 
in those days than they are now; in spite of their 
odious whiskers? Look at old John Graham; in his white 
waistcoat—look at Uncle Harley。 That’s Peter the manservant; 
I suppose。 Uncle John brought him back from India。” 

Katharine looked at her mother; but did not stir or answer。 
She had suddenly bee very angry; with a rage 
which their relationship made silent; and therefore doubly 
powerful and critical。 She felt all the unfairness of 
the claim which her mother tacitly made to her time and 

sympathy; and what Mrs。 Hilbery took; Katharine thought 
bitterly; she wasted。 Then; in a flash; she remembered 
that she had still to tell her about Cyril’s misbehavior。 
Her anger immediately dissipated itself; it broke like some 
wave that has gathered itself high above the rest; the 
waters were resumed into the sea again; and Katharine 
felt once more full of peace and solicitude; and anxious 
only that her mother should be protected from pain。 She 
crossed the room instinctively; and sat on the arm of her 
mother’s chair。 Mrs。 Hilbery leant her head against her 
daughter’s body。 

“What is nobler;” she mused; turning over the photographs; 
“than to be a woman to whom every one turns; in 
sorrow or difficulty? How have the young women of your 
generation improved upon that; Katharine? I can see them 
now; sweeping over the lawns at Melbury House; in their 
flounces and furbelows; so calm and stately and imperial 
(and the monkey and the little black dwarf following behind); 
as if nothing mattered in the world but to be beautiful 
and kind。 But they did more than we do; I sometimes 
think。 They were; and that’s better than doing。 They seem 

97 



Night and Day 

to me like ships; like majestic ships; holding on their 
way; not shoving or pushing; not fretted by little things; 
as we are; but taking their way; like ships with white 
sails。” 

Katharine tried to interrupt this discourse; but the opportunity 
did not e; and she could not forbear to turn 
over the pages of the album in which the old photographs 
were stored。 The faces of these men and women 
shone forth wonderfully after the hubbub of living faces; 
and seemed; as her mother had said; to wear a marvelous 
dignity and calm; as if they had ruled their kingdoms 
justly and deserved great love。 Some were of almost incredible 
beauty; others were ugly enough in a forcible 
way; but none were dull or bored or insignificant。 The 
superb stiff folds of the crinolines suited the women; the 
cloaks and hats of the gentlemen seemed full of character。 
Once more Katharine felt the serene air all round her; 
and seemed far off to hear the solemn beating of the sea 
upon the shore。 But she knew that she must join the 
present on to this past。 

Mrs。 Hilbery was rambling on; from story to story。 

“That’s Janie Mannering;” she said; pointing to a superb; 
whitehaired dame; whose satin robes seemed strung 
with pearls。 “I must have told you how she found her 
cook drunk under the kitchen table when the Empress 
was ing to dinner; and tucked up her velvet sleeves 
(she always dressed like an Empress herself); cooked the 
whole meal; and appeared in the drawingroom as if she’d 
been sleeping on a bank of roses all day。 She could do 
anything with her hands—they all could—make a cottage 
or embroider a petticoat。 

“And that’s Queenie Colquhoun;” she went on; turning 
the pages; “who took her coffin out with her to Jamaica; 
packed with lovely shawls and bons; because you 
couldn’t get coffins in Jamaica; and she had a horror of 
dying there (as she did); and being devoured by the white 
ants。 And there’s Sabine; the loveliest of them all; ah! it 
was like a star rising when she came into the room。 And 
that’s Miriam; in her coachman’s cloak; with all the little 
capes on; and she wore great topboots underneath。 You 
young people may say you’re unconventional; but you’re 
nothing pared with her。” 

98 



Virginia Woolf 

Turning the page; she came upon the picture of a very 
masculine; handsome lady; whose head the photographer 
had adorned with an imperial crown。 

“Ah; you wretch!” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed; “what a wicked 
old despot you were; in your day! How we all bowed down 
before you! ‘Maggie;’ she used to say; ‘if it hadn’t been for 
me; where would you be now?’ And it was true; she brought 
them together; you know。 She said to my father; ‘Marry 
her;’ and he did; and she said to poor little Clara; ‘Fall 
down and worship him;’ and she did; but she got up again; 
of course。 What else could one expect? She was a mere 
child—eighteen—and half dead with fright; too。 But that 
old tyrant never repented。 She used to say that she had 
given them three perfect months; and no one had a right 
to more; and I sometimes think; Katharine; that’s true; 
you know。 It’s more than most of us have; only we have 
to pretend; which was a thing neither of them could ever 
do。 I fancy;” Mrs。 Hilbery mused; “that there was a kind 
of sincerity in those days between men and women which; 
with all your outspokenness; you haven’t got。” 

Katharine again tried to interrupt。 But Mrs。 Hilbery had 

been gathering impetus from her recollections; and was 
now in high spirits。 

“They must have been good friends at heart;” she resumed; 
“because she used to sing his songs。 Ah; how d

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