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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第78部分


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277 



Night and Day 

even to believe that they look with us upon our present 
joys and sorrows。 He would have understood; she thought; 
suddenly; and instead of laying her withered flowers upon 
his shrine; she brought him her own perplexities—perhaps 
a gift of greater value; should the dead be conscious 
of gifts; than flowers and incense and adoration。 
Doubts; questionings; and despondencies she felt; as she 
looked up; would be more wele to him than homage; 
and he would hold them but a very small burden if she 
gave him; also; some share in what she suffered and 
achieved。 The depth of her own pride and love were not 
more apparent to her than the sense that the dead asked 
neither flowers nor regrets; but a share in the life which 
they had given her; the life which they had lived。 

Rodney found her a moment later sitting beneath her 
grandfather’s portrait。 She laid her hand on the seat next 
her in a friendly way; and said: 

“e and sit down; William。 How glad I was you were 
here! I felt myself getting ruder and ruder。” 

“You are not good at hiding your feelings;” he returned 
dryly。 

“Oh; don’t scold me—I’ve had a horrid afternoon。” She 
told him how she had taken the flowers to Mrs。 McCormick; 
and how South Kensington impressed her as the preserve 
of officers’ widows。 She described how the door had 
opened; and what gloomy avenues of busts and palm
trees and umbrellas had been revealed to her。 She spoke 
lightly; and succeeded in putting him at his ease。 Indeed; 
he rapidly became too much at his ease to persist 
in a condition of cheerful neutrality。 He felt his posure 
slipping from him。 Katharine made it seem so natural 
to ask her to help him; or advise him; to say straight 
out what he had in his mind。 The letter from Cassandra 
was heavy in his pocket。 There was also the letter to 
Cassandra lying on the table in the next room。 The atmosphere 
seemed charged with Cassandra。 But; unless 
Katharine began the subject of her own accord; he could 
not even hint—he must ignore the whole affair; it was 
the part of a gentleman to preserve a bearing that was; 
as far as he could make it; the bearing of an undoubting 
lover。 At intervals he sighed deeply。 He talked rather more 
quickly than usual about the possibility that some of the 

278 



Virginia Woolf 

operas of Mozart would be played in the summer。 He had 
received a notice; he said; and at once produced a pocketbook 
stuffed with papers; and began shuffling them in 
search。 He held a thick envelope between his finger and 
thumb; as if the notice from the opera pany had bee 
in some way inseparably attached to it。 

“A letter from Cassandra?” said Katharine; in the easiest 
voice in the world; looking over his shoulder。 “I’ve just 
written to ask her to e here; only I forgot to post it。” 

He handed her the envelope in silence。 She took it; 
extracted the sheets; and read the letter through。 

The reading seemed to Rodney to take an intolerably 
long time。 

“Yes;” she observed at length; “a very charming letter。” 

Rodney’s face was half turned away; as if in bashfulness。 
Her view of his profile almost moved her to laughter。 
She glanced through the pages once more。 

“I see no harm;” William blurted out; “in helping her— 
with Greek; for example—if she really cares for that sort 
of thing。” 

“There’s no reason why she shouldn’t care;” said 

Katharine; consulting the pages once more。 “In fact— 
ah; here it is—’The Greek alphabet is absolutely fascinating。’ 
Obviously she does care。” 

“Well; Greek may be rather a large order。 I was thinking 
chiefly of English。 Her criticisms of my play; though they’re 
too generous; evidently immature—she can’t be more than 
twentytwo; I suppose?—they certainly show the sort of 
thing one wants: real feeling for poetry; understanding; 
not formed; of course; but it’s at the root of everything 
after all。 There’d be no harm in lending her books?” 

“No。 Certainly not。” 

“But if it—hum—led to a correspondence? I mean; 
Katharine; I take it; without going into matters which 
seem to me a little morbid; I mean;” he floundered; “you; 
from your point of view; feel that there’s nothing disagreeable 
to you in the notion? If so; you’ve only to 
speak; and I never think of it again。” 

She was surprised by the violence of her desire that he 
never should think of it again。 For an instant it seemed 
to her impossible to surrender an intimacy; which might 
not be the intimacy of love; but was certainly the inti


279 



Night and Day 

macy of true friendship; to any woman in the world。 
Cassandra would never understand him—she was not good 
enough for him。 The letter seemed to her a letter of flattery—
a letter addressed to his weakness; which it made 
her angry to think was known to another。 For he was not 
weak; he had the rare strength of doing what he prom
ised—she had only to speak; and he would never think 
of Cassandra again。 

She paused。 Rodney guessed the reason。 He was amazed。 

“She loves me;” he thought。 The woman he admired 
more than any one in the world; loved him; as he had 
given up hope that she would ever love him。 And now 
that for the first time he was sure of her love; he resented 
it。 He felt it as a fetter; an encumbrance; something 
which made them both; but him in particular; ridiculous。 
He was in her power pletely; but his eyes 
were open and he was no longer her slave or her dupe。 He 
would be her master in future。 The instant prolonged itself 
as Katharine realized the strength of her desire to 
speak the words that should keep William for ever; and 
the baseness of the temptation which assailed her to 

make the movement; or speak the word; which he had 
often begged her for; which she was now near enough to 
feeling。 She held the letter in her hand。 She sat silent。 

At this moment there was a stir in the other room; the 
voice of Mrs。 Hilbery was heard talking of proofsheets 
rescued by miraculous providence from butcher’s ledgers 
in Australia; the curtain separating one room from the 
other was drawn apart; and Mrs。 Hilbery and Augustus 
Pelham stood in the doorway。 Mrs。 Hilbery stopped short。 
She looked at her daughter; and at the man her daughter 
was to marry; with her peculiar smile that always seemed 
to tremble on the brink of satire。 

“The best of all my treasures; Mr。 Pelham!” she exclaimed。 
“Don’t move; Katharine。 Sit still; William。 Mr。 Pelham will 
e another day。” 

Mr。 Pelham looked; smiled; bowed; and; as his hostess 
had moved on; followed her without a word。 The curtain 
was drawn again either by him or by Mrs。 Hilbery。 

But her mother had settled the question somehow。 
Katharine doubted no longer。 

“As I told you last night;” she said; “I think it’s your 

280 



Virginia Woolf 

duty; if there’s a chance that you care for Cassandra; to 
discover what your feeling is for her now。 It’s your duty 
to her; as well as to me。 But we must tell my mother。 We 
can’t go on pretending。” 

“That is entirely in your hands; of course;” said Rodney; 
with an immediate return to the manner of a formal man 
of honor。 

“Very well;” said Katharine。 

Directly he left her she would go to her mother; and 
explain that the engagement was at an end—or it might 
be better that they should go together? 

“But; Katharine;” Rodney began; nervously attempting 
to stuff Cassandra’s sheets back into their envelope; “if 
Cassandra—should Cassandra—you’ve asked Cassandra to 
stay with you。” 

“Yes; but I’ve not posted the letter。” 

He crossed his knees in a disfited silence。 By all his 
codes it was impossible to ask a woman with whom he 
had just broken off his engagement to help him to bee 
acquainted with another woman with a view to his 
falling in love with her。 If it was announced that their 

engagement was over; a long and plete separation 
would inevitably follow; in those circumstances; letters 
and gifts were returned; after years of distance the severed 
couple met; perhaps at an eveni

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