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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第8部分


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nieenth century; are apt to bee people of importance—
philanthropists and educationalists if they are 
spinsters; and the wives of distinguished men if they marry。 
It is true that there were several lamentable exceptions 
to this rule in the Alardyce group; which seems to indicate 
that the cadets of such houses go more rapidly to 
the bad than the children of ordinary fathers and mothers; 
as if it were somehow a relief to them。 But; on the 
whole; in these first years of the twentieth century; the 

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Night and Day 

Alardyces and their relations were keeping their heads well 
above water。 One finds them at the tops of professions; 
with letters after their names; they sit in luxurious public 
offices; with private secretaries attached to them; they 
write solid books in dark covers; issued by the presses of 
the two great universities; and when one of them dies the 
chances are that another of them writes his biography。 

Now the source of this nobility was; of course; the poet; 
and his immediate descendants; therefore; were invested 
with greater luster than the collateral branches。 Mrs。 
Hilbery; in virtue of her position as the only child of the 
poet; was spiritually the head of the family; and Katharine; 
her daughter; had some superior rank among all the cousins 
and connections; the more so because she was an only 
child。 The Alardyces had married and intermarried; and 
their offspring were generally profuse; and had a way of 
meeting regularly in each other’s houses for meals and 
family celebrations which had acquired a semisacred 
character; and were as regularly observed as days of feasting 
and fasting in the Church。 

In times gone by; Mrs。 Hilbery had known all the poets; 

all the novelists; all the beautiful women and distinguished 
men of her time。 These being now either dead or secluded 
in their infirm glory; she made her house a meet
ingplace for her own relations; to whom she would lament 
the passing of the great days of the nieenth 
century; when every department of letters and art was 
represented in England by two or three illustrious names。 
Where are their successors? she would ask; and the absence 
of any poet or painter or novelist of the true caliber 
at the present day was a text upon which she liked to 
ruminate; in a sunset mood of benignant reminiscence; 
which it would have been hard to disturb had there been 
need。 But she was far from visiting their inferiority upon 
the younger generation。 She weled them very heartily 
to her house; told them her stories; gave them sovereigns 
and ices and good advice; and weaved round them 
romances which had generally no likeness to the truth。 

The quality of her birth oozed into Katharine’s consciousness 
from a dozen different sources as soon as she 
was able to perceive anything。 Above her nursery fireplace 
hung a photograph of her grandfather’s tomb in 

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Virginia Woolf 

Poets’ Corner; and she was told in one of those moments 
of grownup confidence which are so tremendously impressive 
to the child’s mind; that he was buried there 
because he was a “good and great man。” Later; on an 
anniversary; she was taken by her mother through the 
fog in a hansom cab; and given a large bunch of bright; 
sweetscented flowers to lay upon his tomb。 The candles 
in the church; the singing and the booming of the organ; 
were all; she thought; in his honor。 Again and again she 
was brought down into the drawingroom to receive the 
blessing of some awful distinguished old man; who sat; 
even to her childish eye; somewhat apart; all gathered 
together and clutching a stick; unlike an ordinary visitor 
in her father’s own armchair; and her father himself was 
there; unlike himself; too; a little excited and very polite。 
These formidable old creatures used to take her in 
their arms; look very keenly in her eyes; and then to 
bless her; and tell her that she must mind and be a good 
girl; or detect a look in her face something like Richard’s 
as a small boy。 That drew down upon her her mother’s 
fervent embrace; and she was sent back to the nursery 

very proud; and with a mysterious sense of an important 
and unexplained state of things; which time; by degrees; 
unveiled to her。 

There were always visitors—uncles and aunts and cousins 
“from India;” to be reverenced for their relationship 
alone; and others of the solitary and formidable class; 
whom she was enjoined by her parents to “remember all 
your life。” By these means; and from hearing constant 
talk of great men and their works; her earliest conceptions 
of the world included an august circle of beings to 
whom she gave the names of Shakespeare; Milton; 
Wordsworth; Shelley; and so on; who were; for some reason; 
much more nearly akin to the Hilberys than to other 
people。 They made a kind of boundary to her vision of 
life; and played a considerable part in determining her 
scale of good and bad in her own small affairs。 Her descent 
from one of these gods was no surprise to her; but 
matter for satisfaction; until; as the years wore on; the 
privileges of her lot were taken for granted; and certain 
drawbacks made themselves very manifest。 Perhaps it is 
a little depressing to inherit not lands but an example of 

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Night and Day 

intellectual and spiritual virtue; perhaps the conclusiveness 
of a great ancestor is a little discouraging to those 
who run the risk of parison with him。 It seems as if; 
having flowered so splendidly; nothing now remained 
possible but a steady growth of good; green stalk and 
leaf。 For these reasons; and for others; Katharine had her 
moments of despondency。 The glorious past; in which men 
and women grew to unexampled size; intruded too much 
upon the present; and dwarfed it too consistently; to be 
altogether encouraging to one forced to make her experiment 
in living when the great age was dead。 

She was drawn to dwell upon these matters more than 
was natural; in the first place owing to her mother’s absorption 
in them; and in the second because a great part 
of her time was spent in imagination with the dead; since 
she was helping her mother to produce a life of the great 
poet。 When Katharine was seventeen or eighteen—that 
is to say; some ten years ago—her mother had enthusiastically 
announced that now; with a daughter to help 
her; the biography would soon be published。 Notices to 
this effect found their way into the literary papers; and 

for some time Katharine worked with a sense of great 
pride and achievement。 

Lately; however; it had seemed to her that they were 
making no way at all; and this was the more tantalizing 
because no one with the ghost of a literary temperament 
could doubt but that they had materials for one of the 
greatest biographies that has ever been written。 Shelves 
and boxes bulged with the precious stuff。 The most private 
lives of the most interesting people lay furled in 
yellow bundles of closewritten manuscript。 In addition 
to this Mrs。 Hilbery had in her own head as bright a vision 
of that time as now remained to the living; and 
could give those flashes and thrills to the old words which 
gave them almost the substance of flesh。 She had no 
difficulty in writing; and covered a page every morning 
as instinctively as a thrush sings; but nevertheless; with 
all this to urge and inspire; and the most devout intention 
to acplish the work; the book still remained unwritten。 
Papers accumulated without much furthering their 
task; and in dull moments Katharine had her doubts 
whether they would ever produce anything at all fit to 

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Virginia Woolf 

lay before the public。 Where did the difficulty lie? Not in 
their materials; alas! nor in their ambitions; but in something 
more profound; in her own inaptitude; and above 
all; in her mother’s temperament。 Katharine would calculate 
that she had never known her write for more than 
ten minutes at a time。 Ideas came to her chiefly when 
she was in motion。 She liked to perambulate the room 
with a duster in her hand; with which she stopped to 
polish the backs of

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