[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第11部分

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quiet。　Mary　was　led　to　think　of　the　heights　of　a　Sussex　
down；　and　the　swelling　green　circle　of　some　camp　of　ancient　
warriors。　The　moonlight　would　be　falling　there　so　
peacefully　now；　and　she　could　fancy　the　rough　pathway　
of　silver　upon　the　wrinkled　skin　of　the　sea。　

“And　here　we　are；”　she　said；　half　aloud；　half　satirically；　
yet　with　evident　pride；　“talking　about　art。”　

She　pulled　a　basket　containing　balls　of　differently　colored　
wools　and　a　pair　of　stockings　which　needed　darning　

towards　her；　and　began　to　set　her　fingers　to　work；　while　
her　mind；　reflecting　the　lassitude　of　her　body；　went　on　
perversely；　conjuring　up　visions　of　solitude　and　quiet；　
and　she　pictured　herself　laying　aside　her　knitting　and　
walking　out　on　to　the　down；　and　hearing　nothing　but　the　
sheep　cropping　the　grass　close　to　the　roots；　while　the　
shadows　of　the　little　trees　moved　very　slightly　this　way　
and　that　in　the　moonlight；　as　the　breeze　went　through　
them。　But　she　was　perfectly　conscious　of　her　present　situation；　
and　derived　some　pleasure　from　the　reflection　that　
she　could　rejoice　equally　in　solitude；　and　in　the　presence　
of　the　many　very　different　people　who　were　now　making　
their　way；　by　divers　paths；　across　London　to　the　spot　
where　she　was　sitting。　

As　she　ran　her　needle　in　and　out　of　the　wool；　she　thought　
of　the　various　stages　in　her　own　life　which　made　her　
present　position　seem　the　culmination　of　successive　
miracles。　She　thought　of　her　clerical　father　in　his　country　
parsonage；　and　of　her　mother’s　death；　and　of　her　own　
determination　to　obtain　education；　and　of　her　college　
life；　which　had　merged；　not　so　very　long　ago；　in　the　won


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derful　maze　of　London；　which　still　seemed　to　her；　in　spite　
of　her　constitutional　levelheadedness；　like　a　vast　electric　
light；　casting　radiance　upon　the　myriads　of　men　and　
women　who　crowded　round　it。　And　here　she　was　at　the　
very　center　of　it　all；　that　center　which　was　constantly　in　
the　minds　of　people　in　remote　Canadian　forests　and　on　
the　plains　of　India；　when　their　thoughts　turned　to　England。　
The　nine　mellow　strokes；　by　which　she　was　now　
apprised　of　the　hour；　were　a　message　from　the　great　clock　
at　Westminster　itself。　As　the　last　of　them　died　away；　there　
was　a　firm　knocking　on　her　own　door；　and　she　rose　and　
opened　it。　She　returned　to　the　room；　with　a　look　of　steady　
pleasure　in　her　eyes；　and　she　was　talking　to　Ralph　Denham；　
who　followed　her。　

“Alone？”　he　said；　as　if　he　were　pleasantly　surprised　by　
that　fact。　

“I　am　sometimes　alone；”　she　replied。　

“But　you　expect　a　great　many　people；”　he　added；　looking　
round　him。　“It’s　like　a　room　on　the　stage。　Who　is　it　
tonight？”　

“William　Rodney；　upon　the　Elizabethan　use　of　meta


phor。　I　expect　a　good　solid　paper；　with　plenty　of　quotations　
from　the　classics。”　

Ralph　warmed　his　hands　at　the　fire；　which　was　flapping　
bravely　in　the　grate；　while　Mary　took　up　her　stocking　
again。　

“I　suppose　you　are　the　only　woman　in　London　who　darns　
her　own　stockings；”　he　observed。　

“I’m　only　one　of　a　great　many　thousands　really；”　she　
replied；　“though　I　must　admit　that　I　was　thinking　myself　
very　remarkable　when　you　came　in。　And　now　that　you’re　
here　I　don’t　think　myself　remarkable　at　all。　How　horrid　of　
you！　But　I’m　afraid　you’re　much　more　remarkable　than　I　
am。　You’ve　done　much　more　than　I’ve　done。”　

“If　that’s　your　standard；　you’ve　nothing　to　be　proud　
of；”　said　Ralph　grimly。　

“Well；　I　must　reflect　with　Emerson　that　it’s　being　and　
not　doing　that　matters；”　she　continued。　

“Emerson？”　Ralph　exclaimed；　with　derision。　“You　don’t　
mean　to　say　you　read　Emerson？”　

“Perhaps　it　wasn’t　Emerson；　but　why　shouldn’t　I　read　
Emerson？”　she　asked；　with　a　tinge　of　anxiety。　

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Night　and　Day　

“There’s　no　reason　that　I　know　of。　It’s　the　bination　
that’s　odd—books　and　stockings。　The　bination　is　very　
odd。”　But　it　seemed　to　remend　itself　to　him。　Mary　gave　
a　little　laugh；　expressive　of　happiness；　and　the　particular　
stitches　that　she　was　now　putting　into　her　work　appeared　
to　her　to　be　done　with　singular　grace　and　felicity。　She　held　
out　the　stocking　and　looked　at　it　approvingly。　

“You　always　say　that；”　she　said。　“I　assure　you　it’s　a　
mon　‘bination；’　as　you　call　it；　in　the　houses　of　
the　clergy。　The　only　thing　that’s　odd　about　me　is　that　I　
enjoy　them　both—Emerson　and　the　stocking。”　

A　knock　was　heard；　and　Ralph　exclaimed：　

“Damn　those　people！　I　wish　they　weren’t　ing！”　

“It’s　only　Mr。　Turner；　on　the　floor　below；”　said　Mary；　and　
she　felt　grateful　to　Mr。　Turner　for　having　alarmed　Ralph；　
and　for　having　given　a　false　alarm。　

“Will　there　be　a　crowd？”　Ralph　asked；　after　a　pause。　

“There’ll　be　the　Morrises　and　the　Crashaws；　and　Dick　
Osborne；　and　Septimus；　and　all　that　set。　Katharine　Hilbery　
is　ing；　by　the　way；　so　William　Rodney　told　me。”　

“Katharine　Hilbery！”　Ralph　exclaimed。　

“You　know　her？”　Mary　asked；　with　some　surprise。　

“I　went　to　a　teaparty　at　her　house。”　

Mary　pressed　him　to　tell　her　all　about　it；　and　Ralph　was　
not　at　all　unwilling　to　exhibit　proofs　of　the　extent　of　his　
knowledge。　He　described　the　scene　with　certain　additions　
and　exaggerations　which　interested　Mary　very　much。　

“But；　in　spite　of　what　you　say；　I　do　admire　her；”　she　
said。　“I’ve　only　seen　her　once　or　twice；　but　she　seems　to　
me　to　be　what　one　calls　a　‘personality。’”　

“I　didn’t　mean　to　abuse　her。　I　only　felt　that　she　wasn’t　
very　sympathetic　to　me。”　

“They　say　she’s　going　to　marry　that　queer　creature　
Rodney。”　

“Marry　Rodney？　Then　she　must　be　more　deluded　than　I　
thought　her。”　

“Now　that’s　my　door；　all　right；”　Mary　exclaimed；　carefully　
putting　her　wools　away；　as　a　succession　of　knocks　
reverberated　unnecessarily；　acpanied　by　a　sound　of　
people　stamping　their　feet　and　laughing。　A　moment　later　
the　room　was　full　of　young　men　and　women；　who　came　in　
with　a　peculiar　look　of　expectation；　exclaimed　“Oh！”　when　

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they　saw　Denham；　and　then　stood　still；　gaping　rather　
foolishly。　

The　room　very　soon　contained　between　twenty　and　thirty　
people；　who　found　seats　for　the　most　part　upon　the　floor；　
occupying　the　mattresses；　and　hunching　themselves　together　
into　triangular　shapes。　They　were　all　young　and　
some　of　them　seemed　to　make　a　protest　by　their　hair　and　
dress；　and　something　somber　and　truculent　in　the　expression　
of　their　faces；　against　the　more　normal　type；　
who　would　have　passed　unnoticed　in　an　omnibus　or　an　
underground　railway。　It　was　notable　that　the　talk　was　
confined　to　groups；　and　was；　at　first；　entirely　spasmodic　
in　character；　and　muttered　in　undertones　as　if　the　speakers　
were　suspicious　of　their　fellowguests。　

Katharine　Hilbery　came　in　rather　late；　and　took　up　a　
position　on　the　floor；　with　her　back　against　the　wall。　She　
looked　round　quickly；　recognized　about　half　a　dozen　
people；　to　whom　she　nodded；　but　failed　to　see　Ralph；　or；　
if　so；　had　already　forgotten　to　attach　any　name　to　him。　
But　in　a　second　these　heterogeneous　elements　were　all　
united　by　the　voice　of　Mr。　Rodney；　who　suddenly　strode　

up　to　the　table；　and　began　very　rapidly　in　highstrained　
tones：　

“In　undertaking　to　speak　of　the　Elizabethan　use　of　metaphor　
in　poetry—”　

All　the　different　heads　swung　slightly　or　steadied　themselves　
into　a　position　in　which　they　could　gaze　straight　
at　the　speaker’s　face；　and　the　same　rather　solemn　expression　
was　visible　on　all　of　them。　But；　at　the　same　time；　
even　the　faces　that　were　most　exposed　to　view；　and　therefore　
most　tautly　under　control；　disclosed　a　sudden　impulsive　
tremor　which；　unless　directly　checked；　would　have　
developed　into　an　outburst　of　laughter。　The　first　sight　of　
Mr。　Rodney　was　irresistibly　ludicrous。　He　was　very　red　in　
the　face；　whether　from　the　cool　November　night　or　nervousness；　
and　every　movement；　from　the　way　he　wrung　
his　hands　to　the　way　he　jerked　his　head　to　right　and　left；　
as　though　a　vision　drew　him　now　to　the　door；　now　to　the　
window；　bespoke　his　horrible　disfort　under　the　stare　
of　so　many　eyes。　He