《[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版》

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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版- 第20部分


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laid side by side and pared before she could make out 
the truth of their story; and even when she knew the 
facts she could not decide what to make of them; and 
finally she had to reflect upon a great many pages from a 
cousin who found himself in financial difficulties; which 
forced him to the uncongenial occupation of teaching 
the young ladies of Bungay to play upon the violin。 

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Night and Day 

But the two letters which each told the same story 
differently were the chief source of her perplexity。 She 
was really rather shocked to find it definitely established 
that her own second cousin; Cyril Alardyce; had lived for 
the last four years with a woman who was not his wife; 
who had borne him two children; and was now about to 
bear him another。 This state of things had been discovered 
by Mrs。 Milvain; her aunt Celia; a zealous inquirer 
into such matters; whose letter was also under consideration。 
Cyril; she said; must be made to marry the woman 
at once; and Cyril; rightly or wrongly; was indignant with 
such interference with his affairs; and would not own 
that he had any cause to be ashamed of himself。 Had he 
any cause to be ashamed of himself; Katharine wondered; 
and she turned to her aunt again。 

“Remember;” she wrote; in her profuse; emphatic statement; 
“that he bears your grandfather’s name; and so will 
the child that is to be born。 The poor boy is not so much 
to blame as the woman who deluded him; thinking him a 
gentleman; which he is; and having money; which he has 
not。” 

“What would Ralph Denham say to this?” thought 
Katharine; beginning to pace up and down her bedroom。 
She twitched aside the curtains; so that; on turning; she 
was faced by darkness; and looking out; could just distinguish 
the branches of a plaree and the yellow lights 
of some one else’s windows。 

“What would Mary Datchet and Ralph Denham say?” 
she reflected; pausing by the window; which; as the night 
was warm; she raised; in order to feel the air upon her 
face; and to lose herself in the nothingness of night。 But 
with the air the distant humming sound of faroff crowded 
thoroughfares was admitted to the room。 The incessant 
and tumultuous hum of the distant traffic seemed; as she 
stood there; to represent the thick texture of her life; for 
her life was so hemmed in with the progress of other 
lives that the sound of its own advance was inaudible。 
People like Ralph and Mary; she thought; had it all their 
own way; and an empty space before them; and; as she 
envied them; she cast her mind out to imagine an empty 
land where all this petty intercourse of men and women; 
this life made up of the dense crossings and entangle


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Virginia Woolf 

ments of men and women; had no existence whatever。 
Even now; alone; at night; looking out into the shapeless 
mass of London; she was forced to remember that there 
was one point and here another with which she had some 
connection。 William Rodney; at this very moment; was 
seated in a minute speck of light somewhere to the east of 
her; and his mind was occupied; not with his book; but 
with her。 She wished that no one in the whole world would 
think of her。 However; there was no way of escaping from 
one’s fellowbeings; she concluded; and shut the window 
with a sigh; and returned once more to her letters。 

She could not doubt but that William’s letter was the 
most genuine she had yet received from him。 He had 
e to the conclusion that he could not live without 
her; he wrote。 He believed that he knew her; and could 
give her happiness; and that their marriage would be 
unlike other marriages。 Nor was the son; in spite of 
its acplishment; lacking in passion; and Katharine; 
as she read the pages through again; could see in what 
direction her feelings ought to flow; supposing they revealed 
themselves。 She would e to feel a humorous 

sort of tenderness for him; a zealous care for his susceptibilities; 
and; after all; she considered; thinking of her 
father and mother; what is love? 

Naturally; with her face; position; and background; she 
had experience of young men who wished to marry her; 
and made protestations of love; but; perhaps because 
she did not return the feeling; it remained something of 
a pageant to her。 Not having experience of it herself; her 
mind had unconsciously occupied itself for some years in 
dressing up an image of love; and the marriage that was 
the oute of love; and the man who inspired love; 
which naturally dwarfed any examples that came her way。 
Easily; and without correction by reason; her imagination 
made pictures; superb backgrounds casting a rich though 
phantom light upon the facts in the foreground。 Splendid 
as the waters that drop with resounding thunder from 
high ledges of rock; and plunge downwards into the blue 
depths of night; was the presence of love she dreamt; 
drawing into it every drop of the force of life; and dashing 
them all asunder in the superb catastrophe in which 
everything was surrendered; and nothing might be re


89 



Night and Day 

claimed。 The man; too; was some magnanimous hero; 
riding a great horse by the shore of the sea。 They rode 
through forests together; they galloped by the rim of the 
sea。 But waking; she was able to contemplate a perfectly 
loveless marriage; as the thing one did actually in real 
life; for possibly the people who dream thus are those 
who do the most prosaic things。 

At this moment she was much inclined to sit on into 
the night; spinning her light fabric of thoughts until she 
tired of their futility; and went to her mathematics; but; 
as she knew very well; it was necessary that she should 
see her father before he went to bed。 The case of Cyril 
Alardyce must be discussed; her mother’s illusions and 
the rights of the family attended to。 Being vague herself 
as to what all this amounted to; she had to take counsel 
with her father。 She took her letters in her hand and went 
downstairs。 It was past eleven; and the clocks had e 
into their reign; the grandfather’s clock in the hall ticking 
in petition with the small clock on the landing。 
Mr。 Hilbery’s study ran out behind the rest of the house; 
on the ground floor; and was a very silent; subterranean 

place; the sun in daytime casting a mere abstract of light 
through a skylight upon his books and the large table; 
with its spread of white papers; now illumined by a green 
readinglamp。 Here Mr。 Hilbery sat editing his review; or 
placing together documents by means of which it could 
be proved that Shelley had written “of” instead of “and;” 
or that the inn in which Byron had slept was called the 
“Nag’s Head” and not the “Turkish Knight;” or that the 
Christian name of Keats’s uncle had been John rather 
than Richard; for he knew more minute details about these 
poets than any man in England; probably; and was preparing 
an edition of Shelley which scrupulously observed 
the poet’s system of punctuation。 He saw the humor of 
these researches; but that did not prevent him from carrying 
them out with the utmost scrupulosity。 

He was lying back fortably in a deep armchair smoking 
a cigar; and ruminating the fruitful question as to 
whether Coleridge had wished to marry Dorothy 
Wordsworth; and what; if he had done so; would have 
been the consequences to him in particular; and to literature 
in general。 When Katharine came in he reflected 

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Virginia Woolf 

that he knew what she had e for; and he made a 
pencil note before he spoke to her。 Having done this; he 
saw that she was reading; and he watched her for a moment 
without saying anything。 She was reading “Isabella 
and the Pot of Basil;” and her mind was full of the Italian 
hills and the blue daylight; and the hedges set with little 
rosettes of red and white roses。 Feeling that her father 
waited for her; she sighed and said; shutting her book: 

“I’ve had a letter from Aunt Celia about Cyril; father… 。 It 
seems to be true—about his marriage。 What are we to do?” 

“Cyril seems to have been behaving in a very foolish 
manner;” said Mr。 Hilbery; in his pleasant and deliberate 
tones。 

Katharine found some difficulty in carrying on the conversation; 
while her father balanced his fingertips so 
judiciously; and seemed to reserve so many of his thoughts 
for himself。 

“He’s about done for himself; I should say;” he continued。 
Without saying anything; he took Katharine’s letters 
out of her hand; adjusted his eyeglasses; and read them 
through。 

At length he said “Humph!” and gave the letters back 
to her。 

“Mother knows nothing about it;” Katharine remarked。 
“Will you tell her?” 

“I shall tell your mother。 But I shall tell her that there 
is nothing whatever for us to do。” 

“But the marriage?” Katharine asked; with some diffidence。 


Mr。 Hilbery said nothing; and stared into the fire。 

“What in the name of conscience did he do it for?” he 
speculated at last; rather to himself than to her。 

Katharine had begun to read her aunt’s letter over again; 
and she now quoted a sentence。 “Ibsen and Butler… 。 He 
has sent me a letter full of quotations—nonsense; though 
clever nonsense。” 

“Well; if the younger generation want to carry on its 
life on those lines; it’s none of our affair;” he remarked。 

“But isn’t it our affair; perhaps; to make them get married?” 
Katharine asked rather wearily。 

“Why the dickens should they apply to me?” her father 
demanded with sudden irritation。 

91 



Night and Day 

“Only as the head of the family—” 

“But I’m not the head of the family。 Alfred’s the head of 
the family。 Let them apply to Alfred;” said Mr。 Hilbery; 
relapsing again into his armchair。 Katharine was aware 
that she had touched a sensitive spot; however; in mentioning 
the family。 

“I think; perhaps; the best thing would be for me to go 
and see them;” she observed。 

“I won’t have you going anywhere near them;” Mr。 
Hilbery replied with unwonted decision and authority。 
“Indeed; I don’t understand why they’ve dragged you int

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