[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第3部分

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small　people。　

“This　is　a　copy　of　the　first　edition　of　the　poems；”　she　
continued；　without　considering　the　fact　that　Mr。　Denham　
was　still　occupied　with　the　manuscript；　“which　contains　
several　poems　that　have　not　been　reprinted；　as　well　as　
corrections。”　She　paused　for　a　minute；　and　then　went　on；　
as　if　these　spaces　had　all　been　calculated。　

“That　lady　in　blue　is　my　greatgrandmother；　by　
Millington。　Here　is　my　uncle’s　walkingstick—he　was　Sir　
Richard　Warburton；　you　know；　and　rode　with　Havelock　to　
the　Relief　of　Lucknow。　And　then；　let　me　see—oh；　that’s　
the　original　Alardyce；　1697；　the　founder　of　the　family　
fortunes；　with　his　wife。　Some　one　gave　us　this　bowl　the　
other　day　because　it　has　their　crest　and　initials。　We　think　
it　must　have　been　given　them　to　celebrate　their　silver　
weddingday。”　

Here　she　stopped　for　a　moment；　wondering　why　it　was　

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Night　and　Day　

that　Mr。　Denham　said　nothing。　Her　feeling　that　he　was　
antagonistic　to　her；　which　had　lapsed　while　she　thought　
of　her　family　possessions；　returned　so　keenly　that　she　
stopped　in　the　middle　of　her　catalog　and　looked　at　him。　
Her　mother；　wishing　to　connect　him　reputably　with　the　
great　dead；　had　pared　him　with　Mr。　Ruskin；　and　the　
parison　was　in　Katharine’s　mind；　and　led　her　to　be　
more　critical　of　the　young　man　than　was　fair；　for　a　young　
man　paying　a　call　in　a　tailcoat　is　in　a　different　element　
altogether　from　a　head　seized　at　its　climax　of　expressiveness；　
gazing　immutably　from　behind　a　sheet　of　glass；　
which　was　all　that　remained　to　her　of　Mr。　Ruskin。　He　had　
a　singular　face—a　face　built　for　swiftness　and　decision　
rather　than　for　massive　contemplation；　the　forehead　broad；　
the　nose　long　and　formidable；　the　lips　cleanshaven　and　
at　once　dogged　and　sensitive；　the　cheeks　lean；　with　a　
deeply　running　tide　of　red　blood　in　them。　His　eyes；　expressive　
now　of　the　usual　masculine　impersonality　and　
authority；　might　reveal　more　subtle　emotions　under　favorable　
circumstances；　for　they　were　large；　and　of　a　clear；　
brown　color；　they　seemed　unexpectedly　to　hesitate　and　

speculate；　but　Katharine　only　looked　at　him　to　wonder　
whether　his　face　would　not　have　e　nearer　the　standard　
of　her　dead　heroes　if　it　had　been　adorned　with　side
whiskers。　In　his　spare　build　and　thin；　though　healthy；　
cheeks；　she　saw　tokens　of　an　angular　and　acrid　soul。　His　
voice；　she　noticed；　had　a　slight　vibrating　or　creaking　sound　
in　it；　as　he　laid　down　the　manuscript　and　said：　

“You　must　be　very　proud　of　your　family；　Miss　Hilbery。”　

“Yes；　I　am；”　Katharine　answered；　and　she　added；　“Do　
you　think　there’s　anything　wrong　in　that？”　

“Wrong？　How　should　it　be　wrong？　It　must　be　a　bore；　
though；　showing　your　things　to　visitors；”　he　added　reflectively。　


“Not　if　the　visitors　like　them。”　

“Isn’t　it　difficult　to　live　up　to　your　ancestors？”　he　proceeded。　


“I　dare　say　I　shouldn’t　try　to　write　poetry；”　Katharine　
replied。　

“No。　And　that’s　what　I　should　hate。　I　couldn’t　bear　my　
grandfather　to　cut　me　out。　And；　after　all；”　Denham　went　
on；　glancing　round　him　satirically；　as　Katharine　thought；　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“it’s　not　your　grandfather　only。　You’re　cut　out　all　the　way　
round。　I　suppose　you　e　of　one　of　the　most　distinguished　
families　in　England。　There　are　the　Warburtons　
and　the　Mannings—and　you’re　related　to　the　Otways；　
aren’t　you？　I　read　it　all　in　some　magazine；”　he　added。　

“The　Otways　are　my　cousins；”　Katharine　replied。　

“Well；”　said　Denham；　in　a　final　tone　of　voice；　as　if　his　
argument　were　proved。　

“Well；”　said　Katharine；　“I　don’t　see　that　you’ve　proved　
anything。”　

Denham　smiled；　in　a　peculiarly　provoking　way。　He　was　
amused　and　gratified　to　find　that　he　had　the　power　to　annoy　
his　oblivious；　supercilious　hostess；　if　he　could　not　impress　
her；　though　he　would　have　preferred　to　impress　her。　

He　sat　silent；　holding　the　precious　little　book　of　poems　
unopened　in　his　hands；　and　Katharine　watched　him；　the　
melancholy　or　contemplative　expression　deepening　in　her　
eyes　as　her　annoyance　faded。　She　appeared　to　be　considering　
many　things。　She　had　forgotten　her　duties。　

“Well；”　said　Denham　again；　suddenly　opening　the　little　
book　of　poems；　as　though　he　had　said　all　that　he　meant　

to　say　or　could；　with　propriety；　say。　He　turned　over　the　
pages　with　great　decision；　as　if　he　were　judging　the　book　
in　its　entirety；　the　printing　and　paper　and　binding；　as　
well　as　the　poetry；　and　then；　having　satisfied　himself　of　
its　good　or　bad　quality；　he　placed　it　on　the　writingtable；　
and　examined　the　malacca　cane　with　the　gold　knob　which　
had　belonged　to　the　soldier。　

“But　aren’t　you　proud　of　your　family？”　Katharine　demanded。　


“No；”　said　Denham。　“We’ve　never　done　anything　to　be　
proud　of—unless　you　count　paying　one’s　bills　a　matter　
for　pride。”　

“That　sounds　rather　dull；”　Katharine　remarked。　

“You　would　think　us　horribly　dull；”　Denham　agreed。　

“Yes；　I　might　find　you　dull；　but　I　don’t　think　I　should　
find　you　ridiculous；”　Katharine　added；　as　if　Denham　had　
actually　brought　that　charge　against　her　family。　

“No—because　we’re　not　in　the　least　ridiculous。　We’re　a　
respectable　middleclass　family；　living　at　Highgate。”　

“We　don’t　live　at　Highgate；　but　we’re　middle　class　too；　
I　suppose。”　

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Night　and　Day　

Denham　merely　smiled；　and　replacing　the　malacca　cane　
on　the　rack；　he　drew　a　sword　from　its　ornamental　sheath。　

“That　belonged　to　Clive；　so　we　say；”　said　Katharine；　
taking　up　her　duties　as　hostess　again　automatically。　

“Is　it　a　lie？”　Denham　inquired。　

“It’s　a　family　tradition。　I　don’t　know　that　we　can　prove　
it。”　

“You　see；　we　don’t　have　traditions　in　our　family；”　said　
Denham。　

“You　sound　very　dull；”　Katharine　remarked；　for　the　second　
time。　

“Merely　middle　class；”　Denham　replied。　

“You　pay　your　bills；　and　you　speak　the　truth。　I　don’t　see　
why　you　should　despise　us。”　

Mr。　Denham　carefully　sheathed　the　sword　which　the　
Hilberys　said　belonged　to　Clive。　

“I　shouldn’t　like　to　be　you；　that’s　all　I　said；”　he　replied；　
as　if　he　were　saying　what　he　thought　as　accurately　as　he　
could。　

“No；　but　one　never　would　like　to　be　any　one　else。”　

“I　should。　I　should　like　to　be　lots　of　other　people。”　

“Then　why　not　us？”　Katharine　asked。　

Denham　looked　at　her　as　she　sat　in　her　grandfather’s　
armchair；　drawing　her　greatuncle’s　malacca　cane　
smoothly　through　her　fingers；　while　her　background　was　
made　up　equally　of　lustrous　blueandwhite　paint；　and　
crimson　books　with　gilt　lines　on　them。　The　vitality　and　
posure　of　her　attitude；　as　of　a　brightplumed　bird　
poised　easily　before　further　flights；　roused　him　to　show　
her　the　limitations　of　her　lot。　So　soon；　so　easily；　would　
he　be　forgotten。　

“You’ll　never　know　anything　at　first　hand；”　he　began；　
almost　savagely。　“It’s　all　been　done　for　you。　You’ll　never　
know　the　pleasure　of　buying　things　after　saving　up　for　
them；　or　reading　books　for　the　first　time；　or　making　discoveries。”　


“Go　on；”　Katharine　observed；　as　he　paused；　suddenly　
doubtful；　when　he　heard　his　voice　proclaiming　aloud　these　
facts；　whether　there　was　any　truth　in　them。　

“Of　course；　I　don’t　know　how　you　spend　your　time；”　he　
continued；　a　little　stiffly；　“but　I　suppose　you　have　to　
show　people　round。　You　are　writing　a　life　of　your　grand


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Virginia　Woolf　

father；　aren’t　you？　And　this　kind　of　thing”—he　nodded　
towards　the　other　room；　where　they　could　hear　bursts　of　
cultivated　laughter—”must　take　up　a　lot　of　time。”　

She　looked　at　him　expectantly；　as　if　between　them　they　
were　decorating　a　small　figure　of　herself；　and　she　saw　
him　hesitating　in　the　disposition　of　some　bow　or　sash。　

“You’ve　got　it　very　nearly　right；”　she　said；　“but　I　only　
help　my　mother。　I　don’t　write　myself。”　

“Do　you　do　anything　yourself？”　he　demanded。　

“What　do　you　mean？”　she　asked。　“I　don’t　leave　the　
house　at　ten　and　e　back　at　six。”　

“I　don’t　mean　that。”　

Mr。　Denham　had　recovered　his　selfcontrol；　he　spoke　
with　a　quietness　which　made　Katharine　rather　anxiou