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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第35部分


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a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses; 
in its beauty; all that our wildest dreams bring us 
hints of。 

Katharine came into the room a moment later。 He stood 
watching her e towards him; and thought her more 
beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real 
Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd 
behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes; and 
the monest sentence would be flashed on by this 
immortal light。 And she overflowed the edges of the dream; 
he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast 
snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger。 

“My mother wants me to tell you;” she said; “that she 
hopes you have begun your poem。 She says every one 
ought to write poetry… 。 All my relations write poetry;” 
she went on。 “I can’t bear to think of it sometimes— 
because; of course; it’s none of it any good。 But then one 

needn’t read it—” 

“You don’t encourage me to write a poem;” said Ralph。 

“But you’re not a poet; too; are you?” she inquired; 
turning upon him with a laugh。 

“Should I tell you if I were?” 

“Yes。 Because I think you speak the truth;” she said; 
searching him for proof of this apparently; with eyes now 
almost impersonally direct。 It would be easy; Ralph 
thought; to worship one so far removed; and yet of so 
straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her; without 
thought of future pain。 

“Are you a poet?” she demanded。 He felt that her question 
had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it; as 
if she sought an answer to a question that she did not 
ask。 

“No。 I haven’t written any poetry for years;” he replied。 
“But all the same; I don’t agree with you。 I think it’s the 
only thing worth doing。” 

“Why do you say that?” she asked; almost with impatience; 
tapping her spoon two or three times against the 
side of her cup。 

124 



Virginia Woolf 

“Why?” Ralph laid hands on the first words that came 
to mind。 “Because; I suppose; it keeps an ideal alive which 
might die otherwise。” 

A curious change came over her face; as if the flame of 
her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically 
and with the expression which he had called sad before; 
for want of a better name for it。 

“I don’t know that there’s much sense in having ideals;” 
she said。 

“But you have them;” he replied energetically。 “Why do we 
call them ideals? It’s a stupid word。 Dreams; I mean—” 

She followed his words with parted lips; as though to 
answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said; “Dreams; 
I mean;” the door of the drawingroom swung open; and 
so remained for a perceptible instant。 They both held 
themselves silent; her lips still parted。 

Far off; they heard the rustle of skirts。 Then the owner 
of the skirts appeared in the doorway; which she almost 
filled; nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller 
lady who acpanied her。 

“My aunts!” Katharine murmured; under her breath。 Her 

tone had a hint of tragedy in it; but no less; Ralph thought; 
than the situation required。 She addressed the larger lady 
as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia; Mrs。 Milvain; 
who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to 
his wife。 Both ladies; but Mrs。 Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in 
particular; had that look of heightened; smoothed; 
incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies 
paying calls in London about five o’clock in the afternoon。 
Portraits by Romney; seen through glass; have something 
of their pink; mellow look; their blooming softness; 
as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon 
sun。 Mrs。 Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs; 
chains; and swinging draperies that it was impossible to 
detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown 
and black which filled the armchair。 Mrs。 Milvain was a 
much slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise 
lines of her contour filled Ralph; as he regarded them; 
with dismal foreboding。 What remark of his would ever 
reach these fabulous and fantastic characters?—for there 
was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings 
and noddings of Mrs。 Cosham; as if her equipment in


125 



Night and Day 

cluded a large wire spring。 Her voice had a highpitched; 
cooing note; which prolonged words and cut them short 
until the English language seemed no longer fit for mon 
purposes。 In a moment of nervousness; so Ralph 
thought; Katharine had turned on innumerable electric 
lights。 But Mrs。 Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her 
swaying movements had that end in view) for sustained 
speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and 
elaborately。 

“I e from Woking; Mr。 Popham。 You may well ask 
me; why Woking? and to that I answer; for perhaps the 
hundredth time; because of the sunsets。 We went there 
for the sunsets; but that was fiveandtwenty years ago。 
Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now 
nearer than the South Coast。” Her rich and romantic notes 
were acpanied by a wave of a long white hand; which; 
when waved; gave off a flash of diamonds; rubies; and 
emeralds。 Ralph wondered whether she more resembled 
an elephant; with a jeweled headdress; or a superb cockatoo; 
balanced insecurely upon its perch; and pecking capriciously 
at a lump of sugar。 

“Where are the sunsets now?” she repeated。 “Do you 
find sunsets now; Mr。 Popham?” 

“I live at Highgate;” he replied。 

“At Highgate? Yes; Highgate has its charms; your Uncle 
John lived at Highgate;” she jerked in the direction of 
Katharine。 She sank her head upon her breast; as if for a 
moment’s meditation; which past; she looked up and observed: 
“I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate。 
I can recollect walking with your mother; Katharine; 
through lanes blossoming with wild hawthorn。 But where 
is the hawthorn now? You remember that exquisite description 
in De Quincey; Mr。 Popham?—but I forget; you; 
in your generation; with all your activity and enlightenment; 
at which I can only marvel”—here she displayed 
both her beautiful white hands—”do not read De Quincey。 
You have your Belloc; your Chesterton; your Bernard 
Shaw—why should you read De Quincey?” 

“But I do read De Quincey;” Ralph protested; “more 
than Belloc and Chesterton; anyhow。” 

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs。 Cosham; with a gesture of 
surprise and relief mingled。 “You are; then; a ‘rara avis’ in 

126 



Virginia Woolf 

your generation。 I am delighted to meet anyone who reads 
De Quincey。” 

Here she hollowed her hand into a screen; and; leaning 
towards Katharine; inquired; in a very audible whisper; 
“Does your friend write?” 

“Mr。 Denham;” said Katharine; with more than her usual 
clearness and firmness; “writes for the Review。 He is a 
lawyer。” 

“The cleanshaven lips; showing the expression of the 
mouth! I recognize them at once。 I always feel at home 
with lawyers; Mr。 Denham—” 

“They used to e about so much in the old days;” 
Mrs。 Milvain interposed; the frail; silvery notes of her 
voice falling with the sweet tone of an old bell。 

“You say you live at Highgate;” she continued。 “I wonder 
whether you happen to know if there is an old house 
called Tempest Lodge still in existence—an old white 
house in a garden?” 

Ralph shook his head; and she sighed。 

“Ah; no; it must have been pulled down by this time; 
with all the other old houses。 There were such pretty 

lanes in those days。 That was how your uncle met your 
Aunt Emily; you know;” she addressed Katharine。 “They 
walked home through the lanes。” 

“A sprig of May in her bon;” Mrs。 Cosham ejaculated; 
reminiscently。 

“And next Sunday he had violets in his buttonhole。 And 
that was how we guessed。” 

Katharine laughed。 She looked at Ralph。 His eyes were 
meditative; and she wondered what he found in this old 
gossip to make him ponder so contentedly。 She felt; she 
hardly knew why; a curious pity for him。 

“Uncle John—yes; ‘poor John;’ you always called him。 
Why was that?” she asked; to make them go on talki

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