[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第66部分

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sometimes　think—”　She　paused；　she　did　not　know　how　
to　express　what　she　meant。　

“It　came　over　me　in　the　Tube　the　other　day；”　she　resumed；　
with　a　smile；　“what　is　it　that　makes　these　people　
go　one　way　rather　than　the　other？　It’s　not　love；　it’s　not　
reason；　I　think　it　must　be　some　idea。　Perhaps；　Mary；　our　
affections　are　the　shadow　of　an　idea。　Perhaps　there　isn’t　
any　such　thing　as　affection　in　itself…　。”　She　spoke　half
mockingly；　asking　her　question；　which　she　scarcely　troubled　
to　frame；　not　of　Mary；　or　of　any　one　in　particular。　

But　the　words　seemed　to　Mary　Datchet　shallow；　supercilious；　
coldblooded；　and　cynical　all　in　one。　All　her　natural　
instincts　were　roused　in　revolt　against　them。　

“I’m　the　opposite　way　of　thinking；　you　see；”　she　said。　

“Yes；　I　know　you　are；”　Katharine　replied；　looking　at　her　
as　if　now　she　were　about；　perhaps；　to　explain　something　
very　important。　

Mary　could　not　help　feeling　the　simplicity　and　good　
faith　that　lay　behind　Katharine’s　words。　

“I　think　affection　is　the　only　reality；”　she　said。　

“Yes；”　said　Katharine；　almost　sadly。　She　understood　that　
Mary　was　thinking　of　Ralph；　and　she　felt　it　impossible　to　
press　her　to　reveal　more　of　this　exalted　condition；　she　
could　only　respect　the　fact　that；　in　some　few　cases；　life　
arranged　itself　thus　satisfactorily　and　pass　on。　She　rose　
to　her　feet　accordingly。　But　Mary　exclaimed；　with　unmistakable　
earnestness；　that　she　must　not　go；　that　they　met　
so　seldom；　that　she　wanted　to　talk　to　her　so　much…　。　
Katharine　was　surprised　at　the　earnestness　with　which　
she　spoke。　It　seemed　to　her　that　there　could　be　no　indiscretion　
in　mentioning　Ralph　by　name。　

Seating　herself　“for　ten　minutes；”　she　said：　“By　the　
way；　Mr。　Denham　told　me　he　was　going　to　give　up　the　Bar　
and　live　in　the　country。　Has　he　gone？　He　was　beginning　
to　tell　me　about　it；　when　we　were　interrupted。”　

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Night　and　Day　

“He　thinks　of　it；”　said　Mary　briefly。　The　color　at　once　
came　to　her　face。　

“It　would　be　a　very　good　plan；”　said　Katharine　in　her　
decided　way。　

“You　think　so？”　

“Yes；　because　he　would　do　something　worth　while；　he　
would　write　a　book。　My　father　always　says　that　he’s　the　
most　remarkable　of　the　young　men　who　write　for　him。”　

Mary　bent　low　over　the　fire　and　stirred　the　coal　between　
the　bars　with　a　poker。　Katharine’s　mention　of　Ralph　
had　roused　within　her　an　almost　irresistible　desire　to　
explain　to　her　the　true　state　of　the　case　between　herself　
and　Ralph。　She　knew；　from　the　tone　of　her　voice；　that　in　
speaking　of　Ralph　she　had　no　desire　to　probe　Mary’s　secrets；　
or　to　insinuate　any　of　her　own。　Moreover；　she　liked　
Katharine；　she　trusted　her；　she　felt　a　respect　for　her。　The　
first　step　of　confidence　was　paratively　simple；　but　a　
further　confidence　had　revealed　itself；　as　Katharine　spoke；　
which　was　not　so　simple；　and　yet　it　impressed　itself　upon　
her　as　a　necessity；　she　must　tell　Katharine　what　it　was　
clear　that　she　had　no　conception　of—she　must　tell　

Katharine　that　Ralph　was　in　love　with　her。　

“I　don’t　know　what　he　means　to　do；”　she　said　hurriedly；　
seeking　time　against　the　pressure　of　her　own　conviction。　
“I’ve　not　seen　him　since　Christmas。”　

Katharine　reflected　that　this　was　odd；　perhaps；　after　
all；　she　had　misunderstood　the　position。　She　was　in　the　
habit　of　assuming；　however；　that　she　was　rather　unobservant　
of　the　finer　shades　of　feeling；　and　she　noted　her　
present　failure　as　another　proof　that　she　was　a　practical；　
abstractminded　person；　better　fitted　to　deal　with　figures　
than　with　the　feelings　of　men　and　women。　Anyhow；　
William　Rodney　would　say　so。　

“And　now—”　she　said。　

“Oh；　please　stay！”　Mary　exclaimed；　putting　out　her　hand　
to　stop　her。　Directly　Katharine　moved　she　felt；　inarticulately　
and　violently；　that　she　could　not　bear　to　let　her　go。　
If　Katharine　went；　her　only　chance　of　speaking　was　lost；　
her　only　chance　of　saying　something　tremendously　important　
was　lost。　Half　a　dozen　words　were　sufficient　to　
wake　Katharine’s　attention；　and　put　flight　and　further　
silence　beyond　her　power。　But　although　the　words　came　

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to　her　lips；　her　throat　closed　upon　them　and　drove　them　
back。　After　all；　she　considered；　why　should　she　speak？　
Because　it　is　right；　her　instinct　told　her；　right　to　expose　
oneself　without　reservations　to　other　human　beings。　She　
flinched　from　the　thought。　It　asked　too　much　of　one　already　
stripped　bare。　Something　she　must　keep　of　her　own。　
But　if　she　did　keep　something　of　her　own？　Immediately　
she　figured　an　immured　life；　continuing　for　an　immense　
period；　the　same　feelings　living　for　ever；　neither　dwindling　
nor　changing　within　the　ring　of　a　thick　stone　wall。　
The　imagination　of　this　loneliness　frightened　her；　and　
yet　to　speak—to　lose　her　loneliness；　for　it　had　already　
bee　dear　to　her；　was　beyond　her　power。　

Her　hand　went　down　to　the　hem　of　Katharine’s　skirt；　
and；　fingering　a　line　of　fur；　she　bent　her　head　as　if　to　
examine　it。　

“I　like　this　fur；”　she　said；　“I　like　your　clothes。　And　you　
mustn’t　think　that　I’m　going　to　marry　Ralph；”　she　continued；　
in　the　same　tone；　“because　he　doesn’t　care　for　me　at　
all。　He　cares　for　some　one　else。”　Her　head　remained　bent；　
and　her　hand　still　rested　upon　the　skirt。　

“It’s　a　shabby　old　dress；”　said　Katharine；　and　the　only　
sign　that　Mary’s　words　had　reached　her　was　that　she　spoke　
with　a　little　jerk。　

“You　don’t　mind　my　telling　you　that？”　said　Mary；　raising　
herself。　

“No；　no；”　said　Katharine；　“but　you’re　mistaken；　aren’t　
you？”　She　was；　in　truth；　horribly　unfortable；　dismayed；　
indeed；　disillusioned。　She　disliked　the　turn　things　had　
taken　quite　intensely。　The　indecency　of　it　afflicted　her。　
The　suffering　implied　by　the　tone　appalled　her。　She　looked　
at　Mary　furtively；　with　eyes　that　were　full　of　apprehension。　
But　if　she　had　hoped　to　find　that　these　words　had　
been　spoken　without　understanding　of　their　meaning；　
she　was　at　once　disappointed。　Mary　lay　back　in　her　chair；　
frowning　slightly；　and　looking；　Katharine　thought；　as　if　
she　had　lived　fifteen　years　or　so　in　the　space　of　a　few　
minutes。　

“There　are　some　things；　don’t　you　think；　that　one　can’t　
be　mistaken　about？”　Mary　said；　quietly　and　almost　coldly。　
“That　is　what　puzzles　me　about　this　question　of　being　in　
love。　I’ve　always　prided　myself　upon　being　reasonable；”　

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she　added。　“I　didn’t　think　I　could　have　felt　this—I　mean　
if　the　other　person　didn’t。　I　was　foolish。　I　let　myself　
pretend。”　Here　she　paused。　“For；　you　see；　Katharine；”　she　
proceeded；　rousing　herself　and　speaking　with　greater　
energy；　“I　am　in　love。　There’s　no　doubt　about　that…　。　I’m　
tremendously　in　love　…　with　Ralph。”　The　little　forward　
shake　of　her　head；　which　shook　a　lock　of　hair；　together　
with　her　brighter　color；　gave　her　an　appearance　at　once　
proud　and　defiant。　

Katharine　thought　to　herself；　“That’s　how　it　feels　then。”　
She　hesitated；　with　a　feeling　that　it　was　not　for　her　to　
speak；　and　then　said；　in　a　low　tone；　“You’ve　got　that。”　

“Yes；”　said　Mary；　“I’ve　got　that。　One　wouldn’t　not　be　in　
love…　。　But　I　didn’t　mean　to　talk　about　that；　I　only　
wanted　you　to　know。　There’s　another　thing　I　want　to　tell　
you　…”　She　paused。　“I　haven’t　any　authority　from　Ralph　
to　say　it；　but　I’m　sure　of　this—he’s　in　love　with　you。”　

Katharine　looked　at　her　again；　as　if　her　first　glance　
must　have　been　deluded；　for；　surely；　there　must　be　some　
outward　sign　that　Mary　was　talking　in　an　excited；　or　bewildered；　
or　fantastic　manner。　No；　she　still　frowned；　as　if　

she　sought　her　way　through　the　clauses　of　a　difficult　
argument；　but　she　still　looked　more　like　one　who　reasons　
than　one　who　feels。　

“That　proves　that　you’re　mistaken—utterly　mistaken；”　
said　Katharine；　speaking　reasonably；　too。　She　had　no　need　
to　verify　the　mistake　by　a　glance　at　her　own　recollections；　
when　the　fact　was　so　clearly　stamped　upon　her　
mind　that　if　Ralph　had　any　feeling　towards　her　it　was　one　
of　critical　hostility。　She　did　not　give　the　matter　another　
though