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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第65部分


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down the sheet of blottingpaper over the manuscript; 
she braced herself to resist Katharine; whose presence 
struck her; not merely by its force; as usual; but as something 
in the nature of a menace。 

“You’re working?” said Katharine; with hesitation; perceiving 
that she was not wele。 

“Nothing that matters;” Mary replied; drawing forward 
the best of the chairs and poking the fire。 

“I didn’t know you had to work after you had left the 
office;” said Katharine; in a tone which gave the impression 
that she was thinking of something else; as was; 
indeed; the case。 

She had been paying calls with her mother; and in between 
the calls Mrs。 Hilbery had rushed into shops and 
bought pillowcases and blottingbooks on no percep


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Night and Day 

tible method for the furnishing of Katharine’s house。 
Katharine had a sense of impedimenta accumulating on 
all sides of her。 She had left her at length; and had e 
on to keep an engagement to dine with Rodney at his 
rooms。 But she did not mean to get to him before seven 
o’clock; and so had plenty of time to walk all the way 
from Bond Street to the Temple if she wished it。 The flow 
of faces streaming on either side of her had hypnotized 
her into a mood of profound despondency; to which her 
expectation of an evening alone with Rodney contributed。 
They were very good friends again; better friends; 
they both said; than ever before。 So far as she was concerned 
this was true。 There were many more things in 
him than she had guessed until emotion brought them 
forth—strength; affection; sympathy。 And she thought 
of them and looked at the faces passing; and thought 
how much alike they were; and how distant; nobody feeling 
anything as she felt nothing; and distance; she 
thought; lay inevitably between the closest; and their 
intimacy was the worst presence of all。 For; “Oh dear;” 
she thought; looking into a tobacconist’s window; “I don’t 

care for any of them; and I don’t care for William; and 
people say this is the thing that matters most; and I 
can’t see what they mean by it。” 

She looked desperately at the smoothbowled pipes; 
and wondered—should she walk on by the Strand or by 
the Embankment? It was not a simple question; for it 
concerned not different streets so much as different 
streams of thought。 If she went by the Strand she would 
force herself to think out the problem of the future; or 
some mathematical problem; if she went by the river she 
would certainly begin to think about things that didn’t 
exist—the forest; the ocean beach; the leafy solitudes; 
the magnanimous hero。 No; no; no! A thousand times 
no!—it wouldn’t do; there was something repulsive in 
such thoughts at present; she must take something else; 
she was out of that mood at present。 And then she thought 
of Mary; the thought gave her confidence; even pleasure 
of a sad sort; as if the triumph of Ralph and Mary proved 
that the fault of her failure lay with herself and not with 
life。 An indistinct idea that the sight of Mary might be of 
help; bined with her natural trust in her; suggested a 

232 



Virginia Woolf 

visit; for; surely; her liking was of a kind that implied 
liking upon Mary’s side also。 After a moment’s hesitation 
she decided; although she seldom acted upon impulse; to 
act upon this one; and turned down a side street and 
found Mary’s door。 But her reception was not encouraging; 
clearly Mary didn’t want to see her; had no help to 
impart; and the halfformed desire to confide in her was 
quenched immediately。 She was slightly amused at her 
own delusion; looked rather absentminded; and swung 
her gloves to and fro; as if doling out the few minutes 
accurately before she could say goodby。 

Those few minutes might very well be spent in asking 
for information as to the exact position of the Suffrage 
Bill; or in expounding her own very sensible view of the 
situation。 But there was a tone in her voice; or a shade in 
her opinions; or a swing of her gloves which served to 
irritate Mary Datchet; whose manner became increasingly 
direct; abrupt; and even antagonistic。 She became conscious 
of a wish to make Katharine realize the importance 
of this work; which she discussed so coolly; as 
though she; too; had sacrificed what Mary herself had 

sacrificed。 The swinging of the gloves ceased; and 
Katharine; after ten minutes; began to make movements 
preliminary to departure。 At the sight of this; Mary was 
aware—she was abnormally aware of things tonight—of 
another very strong desire; Katharine was not to be allowed 
to go; to disappear into the free; happy world of 
irresponsible individuals。 She must be made to realize— 
to feel。 

“I don’t quite see;” she said; as if Katharine had challenged 
her explicitly; “how; things being as they are; any 
one can help trying; at least; to do something。” 

“No。 But how are things?” 

Mary pressed her lips; and smiled ironically; she had 
Katharine at her mercy; she could; if she liked; discharge 
upon her head wagonloads of revolting proof of the state 
of things ignored by the casual; the amateur; the looker
on; the cynical observer of life at a distance。 And yet she 
hesitated。 As usual; when she found herself in talk with 
Katharine; she began to feel rapid alternations of opinion 
about her; arrows of sensation striking strangely 
through the envelope of personality; which shelters us so 

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Night and Day 

conveniently from our fellows。 What an egoist; how aloof 
she was! And yet; not in her words; perhaps; but in her 
voice; in her face; in her attitude; there were signs of a 
soft brooding spirit; of a sensibility unblunted and profound; 
playing over her thoughts and deeds; and investing 
her manner with an habitual gentleness。 The arguments 
and phrases of Mr。 Clacton fell flat against such 
armor。 

“You’ll be married; and you’ll have other things to think 
of;” she said inconsequently; and with an accent of condescension。 
She was not going to make Katharine understand 
in a second; as she would; all she herself had learnt 
at the cost of such pain。 No。 Katharine was to be happy; 
Katharine was to be ignorant; Mary was to keep this knowledge 
of the impersonal life for herself。 The thought of 
her morning’s renunciation stung her conscience; and she 
tried to expand once more into that impersonal condition 
which was so lofty and so painless。 She must check 
this desire to be an individual again; whose wishes were 
in conflict with those of other people。 She repented of 
her bitterness。 

Katharine now renewed her signs of leavetaking; she 
had drawn on one of her gloves; and looked about her as 
if in search of some trivial saying to end with。 Wasn’t 
there some picture; or clock; or chest of drawers which 
might be singled out for notice? something peaceable 
and friendly to end the unfortable interview? The 
greenshaded lamp burnt in the corner; and illumined 
books and pens and blottingpaper。 The whole aspect of 
the place started another train of thought and struck her 
as enviably free; in such a room one could work—one 
could have a life of one’s own。 

“I think you’re very lucky;” she observed。 “I envy you; 
living alone and having your own things”—and engaged 
in this exalted way; which had no recognition or engage
mentring; she added in her own mind。 

Mary’s lips parted slightly。 She could not conceive in what 
respects Katharine; who spoke sincerely; could envy her。 

“I don’t think you’ve got any reason to envy me;” she 
said。 

“Perhaps one always envies other people;” Katharine 
observed vaguely。 

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Virginia Woolf 

“Well; but you’ve got everything that any one can want。” 

Katharine remained silent。 She gazed into the fire quietly; 
and without a trace of selfconsciousness。 The hostility 
which she had divined in Mary’s tone had pletely 
disappeared; and she forgot that she had been upon the 
point of going。 

“Well; I suppose I have;” she said at length。 “And yet I 
sometimes think—” She paused; she did not know how 
to express w

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