[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版- 第31部分

“Yes；”　she　replied。　“I　think　even　you　would　despise　him。”　

“Even　I？”　he　repeated。　“Why　even　I？”　

“You　said　you　liked　modern　things；　I　said　I　hated　them。”　

This　was　not　a　very　accurate　report　of　their　conversation　
among　the　relics；　perhaps；　but　Ralph　was　flattered　
to　think　that　she　remembered　anything　about　it。　

“Or　did　I　confess　that　I　hated　all　books？”　she　went　on；　
seeing　him　look　up　with　an　air　of　inquiry。　“I　forget—”　

“Do　you　hate　all　books？”　he　asked。　

“It　would　be　absurd　to　say　that　I　hate　all　books　when　
I’ve　only　read　ten；　perhaps；　but—’　Here　she　pulled　herself　
up　short。　

“Well？”　

“Yes；　I　do　hate　books；”　she　continued。　“Why　do　you　
want　to　be　for　ever　talking　about　your　feelings？　That’s　
what　I　can’t　make　out。　And　poetry’s　all　about　feelings—　
novels　are　all　about　feelings。”　

She　cut　a　cake　vigorously　into　slices；　and　providing　a　
tray　with　bread　and　butter　for　Mrs。　Hilbery；　who　was　in　
her　room　with　a　cold；　she　rose　to　go　upstairs。　

Ralph　held　the　door　open　for　her；　and　then　stood　with　
clasped　hands　in　the　middle　of　the　room。　His　eyes　were　
bright；　and；　indeed；　he　scarcely　knew　whether　they　beheld　
dreams　or　realities。　All　down　the　street　and　on　the　
doorstep；　and　while　he　mounted　the　stairs；　his　dream　of　
Katharine　possessed　him；　on　the　threshold　of　the　room　
he　had　dismissed　it；　in　order　to　prevent　too　painful　a　
collision　between　what　he　dreamt　of　her　and　what　she　
was。　And　in　five　minutes　she　had　filled　the　shell　of　the　
old　dream　with　the　flesh　of　life；　looked　with　fire　out　of　
phantom　eyes。　He　glanced　about　him　with　bewilderment　
at　finding　himself　among　her　chairs　and　tables；　they　were　
solid；　for　he　grasped　the　back　of　the　chair　in　which　

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Night　and　Day　

Katharine　had　sat；　and　yet　they　were　unreal；　the　atmosphere　
was　that　of　a　dream。　He　summoned　all　the　faculties　
of　his　spirit　to　seize　what　the　minutes　had　to　give　
him；　and　from　the　depths　of　his　mind　there　rose　unchecked　
a　joyful　recognition　of　the　truth　that　human　nature　surpasses；　
in　its　beauty；　all　that　our　wildest　dreams　bring　us　
hints　of。　

Katharine　came　into　the　room　a　moment　later。　He　stood　
watching　her　e　towards　him；　and　thought　her　more　
beautiful　and　strange　than　his　dream　of　her；　for　the　real　
Katharine　could　speak　the　words　which　seemed　to　crowd　
behind　the　forehead　and　in　the　depths　of　the　eyes；　and　
the　monest　sentence　would　be　flashed　on　by　this　
immortal　light。　And　she　overflowed　the　edges　of　the　dream；　
he　remarked　that　her　softness　was　like　that　of　some　vast　
snowy　owl；　she　wore　a　ruby　on　her　finger。　

“My　mother　wants　me　to　tell　you；”　she　said；　“that　she　
hopes　you　have　begun　your　poem。　She　says　every　one　
ought　to　write　poetry…　。　All　my　relations　write　poetry；”　
she　went　on。　“I　can’t　bear　to　think　of　it　sometimes—　
because；　of　course；　it’s　none　of　it　any　good。　But　then　one　

needn’t　read　it—”　

“You　don’t　encourage　me　to　write　a　poem；”　said　Ralph。　

“But　you’re　not　a　poet；　too；　are　you？”　she　inquired；　
turning　upon　him　with　a　laugh。　

“Should　I　tell　you　if　I　were？”　

“Yes。　Because　I　think　you　speak　the　truth；”　she　said；　
searching　him　for　proof　of　this　apparently；　with　eyes　now　
almost　impersonally　direct。　It　would　be　easy；　Ralph　
thought；　to　worship　one　so　far　removed；　and　yet　of　so　
straight　a　nature；　easy　to　submit　recklessly　to　her；　without　
thought　of　future　pain。　

“Are　you　a　poet？”　she　demanded。　He　felt　that　her　question　
had　an　unexplained　weight　of　meaning　behind　it；　as　
if　she　sought　an　answer　to　a　question　that　she　did　not　
ask。　

“No。　I　haven’t　written　any　poetry　for　years；”　he　replied。　
“But　all　the　same；　I　don’t　agree　with　you。　I　think　it’s　the　
only　thing　worth　doing。”　

“Why　do　you　say　that？”　she　asked；　almost　with　impatience；　
tapping　her　spoon　two　or　three　times　against　the　
side　of　her　cup。　

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“Why？”　Ralph　laid　hands　on　the　first　words　that　came　
to　mind。　“Because；　I　suppose；　it　keeps　an　ideal　alive　which　
might　die　otherwise。”　

A　curious　change　came　over　her　face；　as　if　the　flame　of　
her　mind　were　subdued；　and　she　looked　at　him　ironically　
and　with　the　expression　which　he　had　called　sad　before；　
for　want　of　a　better　name　for　it。　

“I　don’t　know　that　there’s　much　sense　in　having　ideals；”　
she　said。　

“But　you　have　them；”　he　replied　energetically。　“Why　do　we　
call　them　ideals？　It’s　a　stupid　word。　Dreams；　I　mean—”　

She　followed　his　words　with　parted　lips；　as　though　to　
answer　eagerly　when　he　had　done；　but　as　he　said；　“Dreams；　
I　mean；”　the　door　of　the　drawingroom　swung　open；　and　
so　remained　for　a　perceptible　instant。　They　both　held　
themselves　silent；　her　lips　still　parted。　

Far　off；　they　heard　the　rustle　of　skirts。　Then　the　owner　
of　the　skirts　appeared　in　the　doorway；　which　she　almost　
filled；　nearly　concealing　the　figure　of　a　very　much　smaller　
lady　who　acpanied　her。　

“My　aunts！”　Katharine　murmured；　under　her　breath。　Her　

tone　had　a　hint　of　tragedy　in　it；　but　no　less；　Ralph　thought；　
than　the　situation　required。　She　addressed　the　larger　lady　
as　Aunt　Millicent；　the　smaller　was　Aunt　Celia；　Mrs。　Milvain；　
who　had　lately　undertaken　the　task　of　marrying　Cyril　to　
his　wife。　Both　ladies；　but　Mrs。　Cosham　（Aunt　Millicent）　in　
particular；　had　that　look　of　heightened；　smoothed；　
incarnadined　existence　which　is　proper　to　elderly　ladies　
paying　calls　in　London　about　five　o’clock　in　the　afternoon。　
Portraits　by　Romney；　seen　through　glass；　have　something　
of　their　pink；　mellow　look；　their　blooming　softness；　
as　of　apricots　hanging　upon　a　red　wall　in　the　afternoon　
sun。　Mrs。　Cosham　was　so　appareled　with　hanging　muffs；　
chains；　and　swinging　draperies　that　it　was　impossible　to　
detect　the　shape　of　a　human　being　in　the　mass　of　brown　
and　black　which　filled　the　armchair。　Mrs。　Milvain　was　a　
much　slighter　figure；　but　the　same　doubt　as　to　the　precise　
lines　of　her　contour　filled　Ralph；　as　he　regarded　them；　
with　dismal　foreboding。　What　remark　of　his　would　ever　
reach　these　fabulous　and　fantastic　characters？—for　there　
was　something　fantastically　unreal　in　the　curious　swayings　
and　noddings　of　Mrs。　Cosham；　as　if　her　equipment　in


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cluded　a　large　wire　spring。　Her　voice　had　a　highpitched；　
cooing　note；　which　prolonged　words　and　cut　them　short　
until　the　English　language　seemed　no　longer　fit　for　mon　
purposes。　In　a　moment　of　nervousness；　so　Ralph　
thought；　Katharine　had　turned　on　innumerable　electric　
lights。　But　Mrs。　Cosham　had　gained　impetus　（perhaps　her　
swaying　movements　had　that　end　in　view）　for　sustained　
speech；　and　she　now　addressed　Ralph　deliberately　and　
elaborately。　

“I　e　from　Woking；　Mr。　Popham。　You　may　well　ask　
me；　why　Woking？　and　to　that　I　answer；　for　perhaps　the　
hundredth　time；　because　of　the　sunsets。　We　went　there　
for　the　sunsets；　but　that　was　fiveandtwenty　years　ago。　
Where　are　the　sunsets　now？　Alas！　There　is　no　sunset　now　
nearer　than　the　South　Coast。”　Her　rich　and　romantic　notes　
were　acpanied　by　a　wave　of　a　long　white　hand；　which；　
when　waved；　gave　off　a　flash　of　diamonds；　rubies；　and　
emeralds。　Ralph　wondered　whether　she　more　resembled　
an　elephant；　with　a　jeweled　headdress；　or　a　superb　cockatoo；　
balanced　insecurely　upon　its　perch；　and　pecking　capriciously　
at　a　lump　of　sugar。　

“Where　are　the　sunsets　now？”　she　repeated。　“Do　you　
find　sunsets　now；　Mr。　Popham？”　

“I　live　at　Highgate；”　he　replied。　

“At　Highgate？　Yes；　Highgate　has　its　charms；　your　Uncle　
John　lived　at　Highgate；”　she　jerked　in　the　direction　of　
Katharine。　She　sank　her　head　upon　her　breast；　as　if　for　a　
moment’s　meditation；　which　past；　she　looked　up　and　observed：　
“I　dare　say　there　are　very　pretty　lanes　in　Highgate。　
I　can　recollect　walking　with　your　mother；　Katharine；　
through　lanes　blossoming　with　wild　hawthorn。　But　where　
is　the　hawthorn　now？　You　remember　that　exquisite　description　
in　De　Quincey；　Mr。　Popham？—but　I　forget；　you；　
in　your　generation；　with　all　your　activity　and　enlightenment；　
at　which　I　can　only　marvel”—here　she　displayed　
both　her　beautiful　white　hands—”do　not　read　De　Quincey。　
You　have　your　Belloc；　your　Chesterton；　your　Bernard　
Shaw—why　should　you　read　De　Quincey？”　

“But　I　do　read　De　Quincey；”　Ralph　protested；　“more　
than　Belloc　and　Chesterton；　anyhow。”　

“Indeed！”　exclaimed　Mrs。　Cosham；　with　a　gesture　of　
surprise　and　relief　mingled。　“You　are；　then；　a　‘rara　avis’　in　

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your　generation。　I　am　delighted　to　meet　anyone　who　reads　
De　Quincey。”　

Here　she　hollowed　her　hand　into　a　screen；　and；　leaning　
towards　Katharine；　inquired；　in　a　very　audible　whisper；　
“Does　your　friend　write？”　

“Mr。　Denham；”　said　Katharine；　with　more　than　her　usual　
clearness　and　firmness；　“writes　for　the　Review。　He　is　a　
lawyer。”　

“The　cleanshaven　lips；　showing　the　expression　of　the　
mouth！　I　recognize　them　at　once。　I　always　feel　at　home　
with　lawyers；　Mr。　Denham—”　

“They　used　to　e　about　so　much　in　the　old　days；”　
Mrs。　Milvain　interposed；　the　frail；　silvery　notes　of　her　
voice　falling　with　the　sweet　tone　of