[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第58部分

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instead　by　running　over　the　list　of　his　gifts　and　acquirements；　
his　knowledge　of　Greek　and　Latin；　his　knowledge　
of　art　and　literature；　his　skill　in　the　management　of　meters；　
and　his　ancient　westcountry　blood。　But　the　feeling　that　
underlay　all　these　feelings　and　puzzled　him　profoundly　
and　kept　him　silent　was　the　certainty　that　he　loved　
Katharine　as　sincerely　as　he　had　it　in　him　to　love　any　
one。　And　yet　she　could　speak　to　him　like　that！　In　a　sort　
of　bewilderment　he　lost　all　desire　to　speak；　and　would　
quite　readily　have　taken　up　some　different　topic　of　conversation　
if　Katharine　had　started　one。　This；　however；　
she　did　not　do。　

He　glanced　at　her；　in　case　her　expression　might　help　
him　to　understand　her　behavior。　As　usual；　she　had　quickened　
her　pace　unconsciously；　and　was　now　walking　a　little　
in　front　of　him；　but　he　could　gain　little　information　from　
her　eyes；　which　looked　steadily　at　the　brown　heather；　or　
from　the　lines　drawn　seriously　upon　her　forehead。　Thus　
to　lose　touch　with　her；　for　he　had　no　idea　what　she　was　
thinking；　was　so　unpleasant　to　him　that　he　began　to　talk　

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Virginia　Woolf　

about　his　grievances　again；　without；　however；　much　conviction　
in　his　voice。　

“If　you　have　no　feeling　for　me；　wouldn’t　it　be　kinder　to　
say　so　to　me　in　private？”　

“Oh；　William；”　she　burst　out；　as　if　he　had　interrupted　some　
absorbing　train　of　thought；　“how　you　go　on　about　feelings！　
Isn’t　it　better　not　to　talk　so　much；　not　to　be　worrying　always　
about　small　things　that　don’t　really　matter？”　

“That’s　the　question　precisely；”　he　exclaimed。　“I　only　
want　you　to　tell　me　that　they　don’t　matter。　There　are　
times　when　you　seem　indifferent　to　everything。　I’m　vain；　
I’ve　a　thousand　faults；　but　you　know　they’re　not　everything；　
you　know　I　care　for　you。”　

“And　if　I　say　that　I　care　for　you；　don’t　you　believe　me？”　

“Say　it；　Katharine！　Say　it　as　if　you　meant　it！　Make　me　
feel　that　you　care　for　me！”　

She　could　not　force　herself　to　speak　a　word。　The　heather　
was　growing　dim　around　them；　and　the　horizon　was　blotted　
out　by　white　mist。　To　ask　her　for　passion　or　for　certainty　
seemed　like　asking　that　damp　prospect　for　fierce　blades　of　
fire；　or　the　faded　sky　for　the　intense　blue　vault　of　June。　

He　went　on　now　to　tell　her　of　his　love　for　her；　in　words　
which　bore；　even　to　her　critical　senses；　the　stamp　of　truth；　
but　none　of　this　touched　her；　until；　ing　to　a　gate　
whose　hinge　was　rusty；　he　heaved　it　open　with　his　shoulder；　
still　talking　and　taking　no　account　of　his　effort。　The　
virility　of　this　deed　impressed　her；　and　yet；　normally；　she　
attached　no　value　to　the　power　of　opening　gates。　The　
strength　of　muscles　has　nothing　to　do　on　the　face　of　it　
with　the　strength　of　affections；　nevertheless；　she　felt　a　
sudden　concern　for　this　power　running　to　waste　on　her　
account；　which；　bined　with　a　desire　to　keep　possession　
of　that　strangely　attractive　masculine　power；　made　
her　rouse　herself　from　her　torpor。　

Why　should　she　not　simply　tell　him　the　truth—which　
was　that　she　had　accepted　him　in　a　misty　state　of　mind　
when　nothing　had　its　right　shape　or　size？　that　it　was　
deplorable；　but　that　with　clearer　eyesight　marriage　was　
out　of　the　question？　She　did　not　want　to　marry　any　one。　
She　wanted　to　go　away　by　herself；　preferably　to　some　
bleak　northern　moor；　and　there　study　mathematics　and　
the　science　of　astronomy。　Twenty　words　would　explain　

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Night　and　Day　

the　whole　situation　to　him。　He　had　ceased　to　speak；　he　
had　told　her　once　more　how　he　loved　her　and　why。　She　
summoned　her　courage；　fixed　her　eyes　upon　a　lightning
splintered　ashtree；　and；　almost　as　if　she　were　reading　a　
writing　fixed　to　the　trunk；　began：　

“I　was　wrong　to　get　engaged　to　you。　I　shall　never　make　
you　happy。　I　have　never　loved　you。”　

“Katharine！”　he　protested。　

“No；　never；”　she　repeated　obstinately。　“Not　rightly。　Don’t　
you　see；　I　didn’t　know　what　I　was　doing？”　

“You　love　some　one　else？”　he　cut　her　short。　

“Absolutely　no　one。”　

“Henry？”　he　demanded。　

“Henry？　I　should　have　thought；　William；　even　you—”　

“There　is　some　one；”　he　persisted。　“There　has　been　a　
change　in　the　last　few　weeks。　You　owe　it　to　me　to　be　
honest；　Katharine。”　

“If　I　could；　I　would；”　she　replied。　

“Why　did　you　tell　me　you　would　marry　me；　then？”　he　
demanded。　

Why；　indeed？　A　moment　of　pessimism；　a　sudden　con


viction　of　the　undeniable　prose　of　life；　a　lapse　of　the　
illusion　which　sustains　youth　midway　between　heaven　
and　earth；　a　desperate　attempt　to　reconcile　herself　with　
facts—she　could　only　recall　a　moment；　as　of　waking　from　
a　dream；　which　now　seemed　to　her　a　moment　of　surrender。　
But　who　could　give　reasons　such　as　these　for　doing　
what　she　had　done？　She　shook　her　head　very　sadly。　

“But　you’re　not　a　child—you’re　not　a　woman　of　moods；”　
Rodney　persisted。　“You　couldn’t　have　accepted　me　if　you　
hadn’t　loved　me！”　he　cried。　

A　sense　of　her　own　misbehavior；　which　she　had　succeeded　
in　keeping　from　her　by　sharpening　her　consciousness　
of　Rodney’s　faults；　now　swept　over　her　and　almost　
overwhelmed　her。　What　were　his　faults　in　parison　with　
the　fact　that　he　cared　for　her？　What　were　her　virtues　in　
parison　with　the　fact　that　she　did　not　care　for　him？　
In　a　flash　the　conviction　that　not　to　care　is　the　uttermost　
sin　of　all　stamped　itself　upon　her　inmost　thought；　and　
she　felt　herself　branded　for　ever。　

He　had　taken　her　arm；　and　held　her　hand　firmly　in　his；　
nor　had　she　the　force　to　resist　what　now　seemed　to　her　

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Virginia　Woolf　

his　enormously　superior　strength。　Very　well；　she　would　
submit；　as　her　mother　and　her　aunt　and　most　women；　
perhaps；　had　submitted；　and　yet　she　knew　that　every　
second　of　such　submission　to　his　strength　was　a　second　
of　treachery　to　him。　

“I　did　say　I　would　marry　you；　but　it　was　wrong；”　she　
forced　herself　to　say；　and　she　stiffened　her　arm　as　if　to　
annul　even　the　seeming　submission　of　that　separate　part　
of　her；　“for　I　don’t　love　you；　William；　you’ve　noticed　it；　
every　one’s　noticed　it；　why　should　we　go　on　pretending？　
When　I　told　you　I　loved　you；　I　was　wrong。　I　said　what　I　
knew　to　be　untrue。”　

As　none　of　her　words　seemed　to　her　at　all　adequate　to　
represent　what　she　felt；　she　repeated　them；　and　emphasized　
them　without　realizing　the　effect　that　they　might　
have　upon　a　man　who　cared　for　her。　She　was　pletely　
taken　aback　by　finding　her　arm　suddenly　dropped；　then　
she　saw　his　face　most　strangely　contorted；　was　he　laughing；　
it　flashed　across　her？　In　another　moment　she　saw　
that　he　was　in　tears。　In　her　bewilderment　at　this　apparition　
she　stood　aghast　for　a　second。　With　a　desperate　

sense　that　this　horror　must；　at　all　costs；　be　stopped；　she　
then　put　her　arms　about　him；　drew　his　head　for　a　moment　
upon　her　shoulder；　and　led　him　on；　murmuring　words　of　
consolation；　until　he　heaved　a　great　sigh。　They　held　fast　
to　each　other；　her　tears；　too；　ran　down　her　cheeks；　and　
were　both　quite　silent。　Noticing　the　difficulty　with　which　
he　walked；　and　feeling　the　same　extreme　lassitude　in　her　
own　limbs；　she　proposed　that　they　should　rest　for　a　moment　
where　the　bracken　was　brown　and　shriveled　beneath　
an　oaktree。　He　assented。　Once　more　he　gave　a　
great　sigh；　and　wiped　his　eyes　with　a　childlike　unconsciousness；　
and　began　to　speak　without　a　trace　of　his　
previous　anger。　The　idea　came　to　her　that　they　were　like　
the　children　in　the　fairy　tale　who　were　lost　in　a　wood；　
and　with　this　in　her　mind　she　noticed　the　scattering　of　
dead　leaves　all　round　them　which　had　been　blown　by　the　
wind　into　heaps；　a　foot　or　two　deep；　here　and　there。　

“When　did　you　begin　to　feel　this；　Katharine？”　he　said；　
“for　it　isn’t　true　to　say　that　you’ve　always　felt　it。　I　admit　
I　was　unreasonable　the　first　night　when　you　found　that　
your　clothes　had　been　left　behind。　Still；　where’s　the　fault　

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Night　and　Day　

in　that？　I　could　promise　you　never　to　interfere　with　your　
clothes　again。　I　admit　I　was　cross　when　I　found　you　upstairs　
with　Henry。　Perhaps　I　showed　it　too　openly。　But　
that’s　not　unreasonable　either　when　one’s　e