神鸟电子书 > 文学名著电子书 > [夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版 >

第81部分

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第81部分


按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页,按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页,按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部!
————未阅读完?加入书签已便下次继续阅读!



his presence。 He could recall himself; of course; by 
a word or a movement—but why? She was happier thus。 
She needed nothing that he could give her。 And for him; 
too; perhaps; it was best to keep aloof; only to know that 
she existed; to preserve what he already had—perfect; 
remote; and unbroken。 Further; her still look; standing 
among the orchids in that hot atmosphere; strangely illustrated 
some scene that he had imagined in his room 
at home。 The sight; mingling with his recollection; kept 
him silent when the door was shut and they were walking 

288 



Virginia Woolf 

on again。 

But though she did not speak; Katharine had an uneasy 
sense that silence on her part was selfishness。 It was selfish 
of her to continue; as she wished to do; a discussion of 
subjects not remotely connected with any human beings。 
She roused herself to consider their exact position upon 
the turbulent map of the emotions。 Oh yes—it was a question 
whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and 
write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more 
time; Cassandra arrived tonight for dinner; she flinched 
and roused herself; and discovered that she ought to be 
holding something in her hands。 But they were empty。 She 
held them out with an exclamation。 

“I’ve left my bag somewhere—where?” The gardens had 
no points of the pass; so far as she was concerned。 
She had been walking for the most part on grass—that 
was all she knew。 Even the road to the Orchid House had 
now split itself into three。 But there was no bag in the 
Orchid House。 It must; therefore; have been left upon the 
seat。 They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner 
of people who have to think about something that is 

lost。 What did this bag look like? What did it contain? 

“A purse—a ticket—some letters; papers;” Katharine 
counted; being more agitated as she recalled the list。 
Denham went on quickly in advance of her; and she heard 
him shout that he had found it before she reached the 
seat。 In order to make sure that all was safe she spread 
the contents on her knee。 It was a queer collection; 
Denham thought; gazing with the deepest interest。 Loose 
gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there 
were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of 
intimacy; there were two or three keys; and lists of missions 
against which crosses were set at intervals。 But 
she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a 
certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what 
it contained。 In her relief and gratitude she began at 
once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham 
had told her of his plans。 

He cut her short。 “Don’t let’s discuss that dreary business。” 


“But I thought—” 

“It’s a dreary business。 I ought never to have bothered 

289 



Night and Day 

you—” 

“Have you decided; then?” 

He made an impatient sound。 “It’s not a thing that 
matters。” 

She could only say rather flatly; “Oh!” 

“I mean it matters to me; but it matters to no one else。 
Anyhow;” he continued; more amiably; “I see no reason 
why you should be bothered with other people’s nuisances。” 


She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her 
weariness of this side of life。 

“I’m afraid I’ve been absentminded;” she began; remembering 
how often William had brought this charge 
against her。 

“You have a good deal to make you absentminded;” he 
replied。 

“Yes;” she replied; flushing。 “No;” she contradicted herself。 
“Nothing particular; I mean。 But I was thinking about 
plants。 I was enjoying myself。 In fact; I’ve seldom enjoyed 
an afternoon more。 But I want to hear what you’ve 
settled; if you don’t mind telling me。” 

“Oh; it’s all settled;” he replied。 “I’m going to this infernal 
cottage to write a worthless book。” 

“How I envy you;” she replied; with the utmost sincerity。 


“Well; cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a 
week。” 

“Cottages are to be had—yes;” she replied。 “The question 
is—” She checked herself。 “Two rooms are all I should 
want;” she continued; with a curious sigh; “one for eating; 
one for sleeping。 Oh; but I should like another; a 
large one at the top; and a little garden where one could 
grow flowers。 A path—so—down to a river; or up to a 
wood; and the sea not very far off; so that one could hear 
the waves at night。 Ships just vanishing on the horizon—” 
She broke off。 “Shall you be near the sea?” 

“My notion of perfect happiness;” he began; not replying 
to her question; “is to live as you’ve said。” 

“Well; now you can。 You will work; I suppose;” she continued; 
“you’ll work all the morning and again after tea 
and perhaps at night。 You won’t have people always ing 
about you to interrupt。” 

290 



Virginia Woolf 

“How far can one live alone?” he asked。 “Have you tried 
ever?” 

“Once for three weeks;” she replied。 “My father and 
mother were in Italy; and something happened so that I 
couldn’t join them。 For three weeks I lived entirely by 
myself; and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in 
a shop where I lunched—a man with a beard。 Then I 
went back to my room by myself and—well; I did what I 
liked。 It doesn’t make me out an amiable character; I’m 
afraid;” she added; “but I can’t endure living with other 
people。 An occasional man with a beard is interesting; 
he’s detached; he lets me go my way; and we know we 
shall never meet again。 Therefore; we are perfectly sincere—
a thing not possible with one’s friends。” 

“Nonsense;” Denham replied abruptly。 

“Why ‘nonsense’?” she inquired。 

“Because you don’t mean what you say;” he expostulated。 


“You’re very positive;” she said; laughing and looking at 
him。 How arbitrary; hottempered; and imperious he was! 
He had asked her to e to Kew to advise him; he then 

told her that he had settled the question already; he then 
proceeded to find fault with her。 He was the very opposite 
of William Rodney; she thought; he was shabby; his clothes 
were badly made; he was ill versed in the amenities of life; 
he was tonguetied and awkward to the verge of obliterating 
his real character。 He was awkwardly silent; he was 
awkwardly emphatic。 And yet she liked him。 

“I don’t mean what I say;” she repeated goodhumoredly。 
“Well—?” 

“I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard 
in life;” he answered significantly。 

She flushed。 He had perated at once to the weak 
spot—her engagement; and had reason for what he said。 
He was not altogether justified now; at any rate; she was 
glad to remember; but she could not enlighten him and 
must bear his insinuations; though from the lips of a man 
who had behaved as he had behaved their force should 
not have been sharp。 Nevertheless; what he said had its 
force; she mused; partly because he seemed unconscious 
of his own lapse in the case of Mary Datchet; and thus 
baffled her insight; partly because he always spoke with 

291 



Night and Day 

force; for what reason she did not yet feel certain。 

“Absolute sincerity is rather difficult; don’t you think?” 
she inquired; with a touch of irony。 

“There are people one credits even with that;” he replied 
a little vaguely。 He was ashamed of his savage wish 
to hurt her; and yet it was not for the sake of hurting her; 
who was beyond his shafts; but in order to mortify his 
own incredibly reckless impulse of abandonment to the 
spirit which seemed; at moments; about to rush him to 
the uttermost ends of the earth。 She affected him beyond 
the scope of his wildest dreams。 He seemed to see 
that beneath the quiet surface of her manner; which was 
almost pathetically at hand and within reach for all the 
trivial demands of daily life; there was a spirit which she 
reserved or repressed for some reason either of loneliness 
or—could it be possible—of love。 Was it given to Rodney 
to see her unmasked; unrestrained; unconscious of her 
duties? a creature of uncalculating passion and instinctive 
freedom? No; he ref

返回目录 上一页 下一页 回到顶部 0 0

你可能喜欢的