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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第32部分


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Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs。 
But probably these extreme passions are very rare; and 
the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last 
stages of love; when the power to resist has been eaten 
away; week by week or day by day。 Like most intelligent 
people; Mary was something of an egoist; to the extent; 
that is; of attaching great importance to what she felt; 
and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to 

make certain; from time to time; that her feelings were 
creditable to her。 When Ralph left her she thought over 
her state of mind; and came to the conclusion that it 
would be a good thing to learn a language—say Italian 
or German。 She then went to a drawer; which she had to 
unlock; and took from it certain deeply scored manuscript 
pages。 She read them through; looking up from her 
reading every now and then and thinking very intently 
for a few seconds about Ralph。 She did her best to verify 
all the qualities in him which gave rise to emotions in 
her; and persuaded herself that she accounted reasonably 
for them all。 Then she looked back again at her manuscript; 
and decided that to write grammatical English prose 
is the hardest thing in the world。 But she thought about 
herself a great deal more than she thought about grammatical 
English prose or about Ralph Denham; and it may 
therefore be disputed whether she was in love; or; if so; 
to which branch of the family her passion belonged。 

113 



Night and Day 

CHAPTER XI 


It’s life that matters; nothing but life—the process of 
discovering; the everlasting and perpetual process;” said 
Katharine; as she passed under the archway; and so into 
the wide space of King’s Bench Walk; “not the discovery 
itself at all。” She spoke the last words looking up at 
Rodney’s windows; which were a semilucent red color; in 
her honor; as she knew。 He had asked her to tea with 
him。 But she was in a mood when it is almost physically 
disagreeable to interrupt the stride of one’s thought; and 
she walked up and down two or three times under the 
trees before approaching his staircase。 She liked getting 
hold of some book which neither her father or mother 
had read; and keeping it to herself; and gnawing its contents 
in privacy; and pondering the meaning without sharing 
her thoughts with any one; or having to decide whether 
the book was a good one or a bad one。 This evening she 
had twisted the words of Dostoevsky to suit her mood— 
a fatalistic mood—to proclaim that the process of discovery 
was life; and that; presumably; the nature of one’s 

goal mattered not at all。 She sat down for a moment 
upon one of the seats; felt herself carried along in the 
swirl of many things; decided; in her sudden way; that it 
was time to heave all this thinking overboard; and rose; 
leaving a fishmonger’s basket on the seat behind her。 
Two minutes later her rap sounded with authority upon 
Rodney’s door。 

“Well; William;” she said; “I’m afraid I’m late。” 

It was true; but he was so glad to see her that he forgot 
his annoyance。 He had been occupied for over an hour in 
making things ready for her; and he now had his reward 
in seeing her look right and left; as she slipped her cloak 
from her shoulders; with evident satisfaction; although 
she said nothing。 He had seen that the fire burnt well; 
jampots were on the table; tin covers shone in the fender; 
and the shabby fort of the room was extreme。 He was 
dressed in his old crimson dressinggown; which was faded 
irregularly; and had bright new patches on it; like the 
paler grass which one finds on lifting a stone。 He made 
the tea; and Katharine drew off her gloves; and crossed 
her legs with a gesture that was rather masculine in its 

114 



Virginia Woolf 

ease。 Nor did they talk much until they were smoking 
cigarettes over the fire; having placed their teacups upon 
the floor between them。 

They had not met since they had exchanged letters about 
their relationship。 Katharine’s answer to his protestation 
had been short and sensible。 Half a sheet of notepaper 
contained the whole of it; for she merely had to say that 
she was not in love with him; and so could not marry 
him; but their friendship would continue; she hoped; 
unchanged。 She had added a postscript in which she 
stated; “I like your son very much。” 

So far as William was concerned; this appearance of 
ease was assumed。 Three times that afternoon he had 
dressed himself in a tailcoat; and three times he had 
discarded it for an old dressinggown; three times he had 
placed his pearl tiepin in position; and three times he 
had removed it again; the little lookingglass in his room 
being the witness of these changes of mind。 The question 
was; which would Katharine prefer on this particular 
afternoon in December? He read her note once more; and 
the postscript about the son settled the matter。 Evi


dently she admired most the poet in him; and as this; on 
the whole; agreed with his own opinion; he decided to 
err; if anything; on the side of shabbiness。 His demeanor 
was also regulated with premeditation; he spoke little; 
and only on impersonal matters; he wished her to realize 
that in visiting him for the first time alone she was doing 
nothing remarkable; although; in fact; that was a point 
about which he was not at all sure。 

Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing 
thoughts; and if he had been pletely master 
of himself; he might; indeed; have plained that she 
was a trifle absentminded。 The ease; the familiarity of 
the situation alone with Rodney; among teacups and 
candles; had more effect upon her than was apparent。 
She asked to look at his books; and then at his pictures。 
It was while she held photograph from the Greek in her 
hands that she exclaimed; impulsively; if incongruously: 

“My oysters! I had a basket;” she explained; “and I’ve 
left it somewhere。 Uncle Dudley dines with us tonight。 
What in the world have I done with them?” 

She rose and began to wander about the room。 William 

115 



Night and Day 

rose also; and stood in front of the fire; muttering; “Oysters; 
oysters—your basket of oysters!” but though he 
looked vaguely here and there; as if the oysters might be 
on the top of the bookshelf; his eyes returned always to 
Katharine。 She drew the curtain and looked out among 
the scanty leaves of the plarees。 

“I had them;” she calculated; “in the Strand; I sat on a 
seat。 Well; never mind;” she concluded; turning back into 
the room abruptly; “I dare say some old creature is enjoying 
them by this time。” 

“I should have thought that you never forgot anything;” 
William remarked; as they settled down again。 

“That’s part of the myth about me; I know;” Katharine 
replied。 

“And I wonder;” William proceeded; with some caution; 
“what the truth about you is? But I know this sort of 
thing doesn’t interest you;” he added hastily; with a touch 
of peevishness。 

“No; it doesn’t interest me very much;” she replied candidly。 


“What shall we talk about then?” he asked。 

She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the 
room。 

“However we start; we end by talking about the same 
thing—about poetry; I mean。 I wonder if you realize; 
William; that I’ve never read even Shakespeare? It’s rather 
wonderful how I’ve kept it up all these years。” 

“You’ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully; as far 
as I’m concerned;” he said。 

“Ten years? So long as that?” 

“And I don’t think it’s always bored you;” he added。 

She looked into the fire silently。 She could not deny 
that the surface of her feeling was absolutely unruffled 
by anything in William’s character; on the contrary; she 
felt certain that she could deal with whatever turned up。 
He gave her peace; in which she could think of things 
that were far removed from what they talked about。 Even 
now; when he sat within a yard of her; how easily her 
mind ranged hither and thither! Suddenly a picture presented 
itself before her; without any effort on her par

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