[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第7部分

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closed　them　again。　Then　she　said；　very　tentatively：　

“Aren’t　you　happy；　Ralph？”　

“No。　Are　you？　Perhaps　I’m　as　happy　as　most　people；　
though。　God　knows　whether　I’m　happy　or　not。　What　is　
happiness？”　

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Night　and　Day　

He　glanced　with　half　a　smile；　in　spite　of　his　gloomy　
irritation；　at　his　sister。　She　looked；　as　usual；　as　if　she　
were　weighing　one　thing　with　another；　and　balancing　
them　together　before　she　made　up　her　mind。　

“Happiness；”　she　remarked　at　length　enigmatically；　
rather　as　if　she　were　sampling　the　word；　and　then　she　
paused。　She　paused　for　a　considerable　space；　as　if　she　
were　considering　happiness　in　all　its　bearings。　“Hilda　was　
here　today；”　she　suddenly　resumed；　as　if　they　had　never　
mentioned　happiness。　“She　brought　Bobbie—he’s　a　fine　
boy　now。”　Ralph　observed；　with　an　amusement　that　had　
a　tinge　of　irony　in　it；　that　she　was　now　going　to　sidle　
away　quickly　from　this　dangerous　approach　to　intimacy　
on　to　topics　of　general　and　family　interest。　Nevertheless；　
he　reflected；　she　was　the　only　one　of　his　family　with　
whom　he　found　it　possible　to　discuss　happiness；　although　
he　might　very　well　have　discussed　happiness　with　Miss　
Hilbery　at　their　first　meeting。　He　looked　critically　at　Joan；　
and　wished　that　she　did　not　look　so　provincial　or　suburban　
in　her　high　green　dress　with　the　faded　trimming；　so　
patient；　and　almost　resigned。　He　began　to　wish　to　tell　

her　about　the　Hilberys　in　order　to　abuse　them；　for　in　the　
miniature　battle　which　so　often　rages　between　two　quickly　
following　impressions　of　life；　the　life　of　the　Hilberys　was　
getting　the　better　of　the　life　of　the　Denhams　in　his　mind；　
and　he　wanted　to　assure　himself　that　there　was　some　
quality　in　which　Joan　infinitely　surpassed　Miss　Hilbery。　
He　should　have　felt　that　his　own　sister　was　more　original；　
and　had　greater　vitality　than　Miss　Hilbery　had；　but　
his　main　impression　of　Katharine　now　was　of　a　person　of　
great　vitality　and　posure；　and　at　the　moment　he　could　
not　perceive　what　poor　dear　Joan　had　gained　from　the　
fact　that　she　was　the　granddaughter　of　a　man　who　kept　a　
shop；　and　herself　earned　her　own　living。　The　infinite　
dreariness　and　sordidness　of　their　life　oppressed　him　in　
spite　of　his　fundamental　belief　that；　as　a　family；　they　
were　somehow　remarkable。　

“Shall　you　talk　to　mother？”　Joan　inquired。　“Because；　
you　see；　the　thing’s　got　to　be　settled；　one　way　or　another。　
Charles　must　write　to　Uncle　John　if　he’s　going　
there。”　

Ralph　sighed　impatiently。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“I　suppose　it　doesn’t　much　matter　either　way；”　he　exclaimed。　
“He’s　doomed　to　misery　in　the　long　run。”　

A　slight　flush　came　into　Joan’s　cheek。　

“You　know　you’re　talking　nonsense；”　she　said。　“It　doesn’t　
hurt　any　one　to　have　to　earn　their　own　living。　I’m　very　
glad　I　have　to　earn　mine。”　

Ralph　was　pleased　that　she　should　feel　this；　and　wished　
her　to　continue；　but　he　went　on；　perversely　enough。　

“Isn’t　that　only　because　you’ve　forgotten　how　to　enjoy　
yourself？　You　never　have　time　for　anything　decent—”　

“As　for　instance？”　

“Well；　going　for　walks；　or　music；　or　books；　or　seeing　
interesting　people。　You　never　do　anything　that’s　really　
worth　doing　any　more　than　I　do。”　

“I　always　think　you　could　make　this　room　much　nicer；　if　
you　liked；”　she　observed。　

“What　does　it　matter　what　sort　of　room　I　have　when　
I’m　forced　to　spend　all　the　best　years　of　my　life　drawing　
up　deeds　in　an　office？”　

“You　said　two　days　ago　that　you　found　the　law　so　interesting。”　


“So　it　is　if　one　could　afford　to　know　anything　about　it。”　

（“That’s　Herbert　only　just　going　to　bed　now；”　Joan　interposed；　
as　a　door　on　the　landing　slammed　vigorously。　
“And　then　he　won’t　get　up　in　the　morning。”）　

Ralph　looked　at　the　ceiling；　and　shut　his　lips　closely　
together。　Why；　he　wondered；　could　Joan　never　for　one　
moment　detach　her　mind　from　the　details　of　domestic　
life？　It　seemed　to　him　that　she　was　getting　more　and　
more　enmeshed　in　them；　and　capable　of　shorter　and　less　
frequent　flights　into　the　outer　world；　and　yet　she　was　
only　thirtythree。　

“D’you　ever　pay　calls　now？”　he　asked　abruptly。　

“I　don’t　often　have　the　time。　Why　do　you　ask？”　

“It　might　be　a　good　thing；　to　get　to　know　new　people；　
that’s　all。”　

“Poor　Ralph！”　said　Joan　suddenly；　with　a　smile。　“You　
think　your　sister’s　getting　very　old　and　very　dull—that’s　
it；　isn’t　it？”　

“I　don’t　think　anything　of　the　kind；”　he　said　stoutly；　
but　he　flushed。　“But　you　lead　a　dog’s　life；　Joan。　When　
you’re　not　working　in　an　office；　you’re　worrying　over　the　

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Night　and　Day　

rest　of　us。　And　I’m　not　much　good　to　you；　I’m　afraid。”　

Joan　rose；　and　stood　for　a　moment　warming　her　hands；　
and；　apparently；　meditating　as　to　whether　she　should　say　
anything　more　or　not。　A　feeling　of　great　intimacy　united　
the　brother　and　sister；　and　the　semicircular　lines　above　
their　eyebrows　disappeared。　No；　there　was　nothing　more　
to　be　said　on　either　side。　Joan　brushed　her　brother’s　head　
with　her　hand　as　she　passed　him；　murmured　good　night；　
and　left　the　room。　For　some　minutes　after　she　had　gone　
Ralph　lay　quiescent；　resting　his　head　on　his　hand；　but　
gradually　his　eyes　filled　with　thought；　and　the　line　reappeared　
on　his　brow；　as　the　pleasant　impression　of　panionship　
and　ancient　sympathy　waned；　and　he　was　left　
to　think　on　alone。　

After　a　time　he　opened　his　book；　and　read　on　steadily；　
glancing　once　or　twice　at　his　watch；　as　if　he　had　set　
himself　a　task　to　be　acplished　in　a　certain　measure　of　
time。　Now　and　then　he　heard　voices　in　the　house；　and　the　
closing　of　bedroom　doors；　which　showed　that　the　building；　
at　the　top　of　which　he　sat；　was　inhabited　in　every　
one　of　its　cells。　When　midnight　struck；　Ralph　shut　his　

book；　and　with　a　candle　in　his　hand；　descended　to　the　
ground　floor；　to　ascertain　that　all　lights　were　extinct　and　
all　doors　locked。　It　was　a　threadbare；　wellworn　house　
that　he　thus　examined；　as　if　the　inmates　had　grazed　down　
all　luxuriance　and　plenty　to　the　verge　of　decency；　and　in　
the　night；　bereft　of　life；　bare　places　and　ancient　blemishes　
were　unpleasantly　visible。　Katharine　Hilbery；　he　
thought；　would　condemn　it　offhand。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

CHAPTER　III　


Denham　had　accused　Katharine　Hilbery　of　belonging　to　
one　of　the　most　distinguished　families　in　England；　and　if　
any　one　will　take　the　trouble　to　consult　Mr。　Galton’s　“Hereditary　
Genius；”　he　will　find　that　this　assertion　is　not　far　
from　the　truth。　The　Alardyces；　the　Hilberys；　the　
Millingtons；　and　the　Otways　seem　to　prove　that　intellect　
is　a　possession　which　can　be　tossed　from　one　member　of　
a　certain　group　to　another　almost　indefinitely；　and　with　
apparent　certainty　that　the　brilliant　gift　will　be　safely　
caught　and　held　by　nine　out　of　ten　of　the　privileged　race。　
They　had　been　conspicuous　judges　and　admirals；　lawyers　
and　servants　of　the　State　for　some　years　before　the　richness　
of　the　soil　culminated　in　the　rarest　flower　that　any　
family　can　boast；　a　great　writer；　a　poet　eminent　among　
the　poets　of　England；　a　Richard　Alardyce；　and　having　produced　
him；　they　proved　once　more　the　amazing　virtues　of　
their　race　by　proceeding　unconcernedly　again　with　their　
usual　task　of　breeding　distinguished　men。　They　had　sailed　
with　Sir　John　Franklin　to　the　North　Pole；　and　ridden　with　

Havelock　to　the　Relief　of　Lucknow；　and　when　they　were　
not　lighthouses　firmly　based　on　rock　for　the　guidance　of　
their　generation；　they　were　steady；　serviceable　candles；　
illuminating　the　ordinary　chambers　of　daily　life。　Whatever　
profession　you　looked　at；　there　was　a　Warburton　or　
an　Alardyce；　a　Millington　or　a　Hilbery　somewhere　in　authority　
and　prominence。　

It　may　be　said；　indeed；　that　English　society　being　what　
it　is；　no　very　great　merit　is　required；　once　you　bear　a　
wellknown　name；　to　put　you　into　a　position　where　it　is　
easier　on　the　whole　to　be　eminent　than　obscure。　And　if　
this　is　true　of　the　sons；　even　the　daughters；　even　in　the　
nieenth　century；　are　apt　to　bee　people　of　importance—
philanthropists　and　educationalists