《[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25部分


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went on repeating to herself some lines which had stuck 
to her memory: “It’s life that matters; nothing but life— 
the process of discovering —the everlasting and perpetual 
process; not the discovery itself at all。” Thus occupied; 
she did not see Denham; and he had not the courage to 
stop her。 But immediately the whole scene in the Strand 
wore that curious look of order and purpose which is imparted 
to the most heterogeneous things when music 

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sounds; and so pleasant was this impression that he was 
very glad that he had not stopped her; after all。 It grew 
slowly fainter; but lasted until he stood outside the 
barrister’s chambers。 

When his interview with the barrister was over; it was 
too late to go back to the office。 His sight of Katharine 
had put him queerly out of tune for a domestic evening。 
Where should he go? To walk through the streets of London 
until he came to Katharine’s house; to look up at the 
windows and fancy her within; seemed to him possible 
for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with 
a blush as; with a curious division of consciousness; one 
plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away; with a 
blush; when it is actually picked。 No; he would go and 
see Mary Datchet。 By this time she would be back from 
her work。 

To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw 
Mary for a second off her balance。 She had been cleaning 
knives in her little scullery; and when she had let him in 
she went back again; and turned on the coldwater tap 
to its fullest volume; and then turned it off again。 “Now;” 

she thought to herself; as she screwed it tight; “I’m not 
going to let these silly ideas e into my head… 。 Don’t 
you think Mr。 Asquith deserves to be hanged?” she called 
back into the sittingroom; and when she joined him; 
drying her hands; she began to tell him about the latest 
evasion on the part of the Government with respect to 
the Women’s Suffrage Bill。 Ralph did not want to talk 
about politics; but he could not help respecting Mary for 
taking such an interest in public questions。 He looked at 
her as she leant forward; poking the fire; and expressing 
herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the 
taint of the platform; and he thought; “How absurd Mary 
would think me if she knew that I almost made up my 
mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at 
Katharine’s windows。 She wouldn’t understand it; but I 
like her very much as she is。” 

For some time they discussed what the women had better 
do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the 
question; Mary unconsciously let her attention wander; 
and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about 
her own feelings; or; at any rate; about something per


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Virginia Woolf 

sonal; so that she might see what he felt for her; but she 
resisted this wish。 But she could not prevent him from 
feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying; and 
gradually they both became silent。 One thought after 
another came up in Ralph’s mind; but they were all; in 
some way; connected with Katharine; or with vague feelings 
of romance and adventure such as she inspired。 But 
he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he 
pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling。 
“Here;” he thought; “is where we differ from women; they 
have no sense of romance。” 

“Well; Mary;” he said at length; “why don’t you say something 
amusing?” 

His tone was certainly provoking; but; as a general rule; 
Mary was not easily provoked。 This evening; however; she 
replied rather sharply: 

“Because I’ve got nothing amusing to say; I suppose。” 

Ralph thought for a moment; and then remarked: 

“You work too hard。 I don’t mean your health;” he added; 
as she laughed scornfully; “I mean that you seem to me 
to be getting wrapped up in your work。” 

“And is that a bad thing?” she asked; shading her eyes 
with her hand。 

“I think it is;” he returned abruptly。 

“But only a week ago you were saying the opposite。” 
Her tone was defiant; but she became curiously depressed。 
Ralph did not perceive it; and took this opportunity of 
lecturing her; and expressing his latest views upon the 
proper conduct of life。 She listened; but her main impression 
was that he had been meeting some one who had 
influenced him。 He was telling her that she ought to read 
more; and to see that there were other points of view as 
deserving of attention as her own。 Naturally; having last 
seen him as he left the office in pany with Katharine; 
she attributed the change to her; it was likely that 
Katharine; on leaving the scene which she had so clearly 
despised; had pronounced some such criticism; or suggested 
it by her own attitude。 But she knew that Ralph 
would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody。 


“You don’t read enough; Mary;” he was saying。 “You 
ought to read more poetry。” 

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Night and Day 

It was true that Mary’s reading had been rather limited 
to such works as she needed to know for the sake of 
examinations; and her time for reading in London was 
very little。 For some reason; no one likes to be told that 
they do not read enough poetry; but her resentment was 
only visible in the way she changed the position of her 
hands; and in the fixed look in her eyes。 And then she 
thought to herself; “I’m behaving exactly as I said I 
wouldn’t behave;” whereupon she relaxed all her muscles 
and said; in her reasonable way: 

“Tell me what I ought to read; then。” 

Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary; and he 
now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which 
were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of 
Mary’s character and way of life。 

“You live with your inferiors;” he said; warming unreasonably; 
as he knew; to his text。 “And you get into a 
groove because; on the whole; it’s rather a pleasant groove。 
And you tend to forget what you’re there for。 You’ve the 
feminine habit of making much of details。 You don’t see 
when things matter and when they don’t。 And that’s what’s 

the ruin of all these organizations。 That’s why the Suffragists 
have never done anything all these years。 What’s 
the point of drawingroom meetings and bazaars? You 
want to have ideas; Mary; get hold of something big; 
never mind making mistakes; but don’t niggle。 Why don’t 
you throw it all up for a year; and travel?—see something 
of the world。 Don’t be content to live with half a 
dozen people in a backwater all your life。 But you won’t;” 
he concluded。 

“I’ve rather e to that way of thinking myself—about 
myself; I mean;” said Mary; surprising him by her acquiescence。 
“I should like to go somewhere far away。” 

For a moment they were both silent。 Ralph then said: 
“But look here; Mary; you haven’t been taking this seriously; 
have you?” His irritation was spent; and the depression; 
which she could not keep out of her voice; made him 
feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her。 

“You won’t go away; will you?” he asked。 And as she 
said nothing; he added; “Oh no; don’t go away。” 

“I don’t know exactly what I mean to do;” she replied。 
She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans; 

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Virginia Woolf 

but she received no encouragement。 He fell into one of 
his queer silences; which seemed to Mary; in spite of all 
her precautions; to have reference to what she also could 
not prevent herself from thinking about—their feeling 
for each other and their relationship。 She felt that the 
two lines of thought bored their way in long; parallel 
tunnels which came very close indeed; but never ran into 
each other。 

When he had gone; and he left her without breaking his 
silence more than was needed to wish her good night; 
she sat on for a time; reviewing what he had said。 If love 
is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into 
one mountain torrent; Mary was no more in love with 
Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs。 
But probably these extreme passions are very rare; and 
the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last 
stages of love; when the power to resist has been eaten 
away; week by week or day by day。 Like most intelligent 
people; Mary was something of an egoist; to the extent; 
that is; of attaching great importance to what she felt; 
and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to 

make certain; from time to time; that her feelings were 
creditable to her。 When Ralph left her she thought over 
her state of mind; and came to the conclusion that it 
would be a good thing to learn a language—say Italian 
or German。 She then went to a drawer; which she had to 
unlock; and took from it certain deeply scored manuscript 
pages。 She read them through; looking up from her 
reading every now and then and thinking very intently 
for a few seconds about Ralph。 She did her best to verify 
all the qualities in him which gave rise to emotions in 
her; and persuaded herself that she accounted reasonably 
for them all。 Then she looked back again at her manuscript; 
and decided that to write grammatical English prose 
is the hardest thing in the world。 But she thought about 
herself a great deal more than she thought about grammatical 
English prose or about Ralph Denham; and it may 
therefore be disputed whether she was in love; or; if so; 
to which branch of the family her passion belonged。 

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Night and Day 

CHAPTER XI 


It’s life that matters; nothing but life—the process of 
discovering; the everlasting and perpetual process;” said 
Katharine; as she passed under the archway; and so into 
the wide space of King’s Bench Walk; “not the discovery 
itself at all。” She spoke the last words looking up at 
Rodney’s windows; which were a semilucent red color; in 
her honor; as she knew。 He had asked her to tea with 
him。 But she was in a mood when it is almost physically 
disagreeable to interrupt the stride of one’s thought; and 
she walked up and down two or three times under the

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