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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第75部分


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variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea。 For the 
first time in her life; probably; she wished that Mrs。 Hilbery 
would not keep so closely to her work。 A quotation from 
Shakespeare would not have e amiss。 Now and again 
she heard a sigh from her mother’s table; but that was 
the only proof she gave of her existence; and Katharine 
did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of 
her own position at the table; or; perhaps; she would 

267 



Night and Day 

have thrown her pen down and told her mother the reason 
of her restlessness。 The only writing she managed to acplish 
in the course of the morning was one letter; addressed 
to her cousin; Cassandra Otway—a rambling letter; 
long; affectionate; playful and manding all at once。 
She bade Cassandra put her creatures in the charge of a 
groom; and e to them for a week or so。 They would go 
and hear some music together。 Cassandra’s dislike of rational 
society; she said; was an affectation fast hardening 
into a prejudice; which would; in the long run; isolate her 
from all interesting people and pursuits。 She was finishing 
the sheet when the sound she was anticipating all the 
time actually struck upon her ears。 She jumped up hastily; 
and slammed the door with a sharpness which made Mrs。 
Hilbery start。 Where was Katharine off to? In her preoccupied 
state she had not heard the bell。 

The alcove on the stairs; in which the telephone was 
placed; was screened for privacy by a curtain of purple 
velvet。 It was a pocket for superfluous possessions; such 
as exist in most houses which harbor the wreckage of 
three generations。 Prints of greatuncles; famed for their 

prowess in the East; hung above Chinese teapots; whose 
sides were riveted by little gold stitches; and the precious 
teapots; again; stood upon bookcases containing 
the plete works of William Cowper and Sir Walter Scott。 
The thread of sound; issuing from the telephone; was 
always colored by the surroundings which received it; so 
it seemed to Katharine。 Whose voice was now going to 
bine with them; or to strike a discord? 

“Whose voice?” she asked herself; hearing a man inquire; 
with great determination; for her number。 The unfamiliar 
voice now asked for Miss Hilbery。 Out of all the welter of 
voices which crowd round the far end of the telephone; 
out of the enormous range of possibilities; whose voice; 
what possibility; was this? A pause gave her time to ask 
herself this question。 It was solved next moment。 

“I’ve looked out the train… 。 Early on Saturday afternoon 
would suit me best… 。 I’m Ralph Denham… 。 But 
I’ll write it down… 。” 

With more than the usual sense of being impinged upon 
the point of a bayo; Katharine replied: 

“I think I could e。 I’ll look at my engagements… 。 

268 



Virginia Woolf 

Hold on。” 

She dropped the machine; and looked fixedly at the 
print of the greatuncle who had not ceased to gaze; 
with an air of amiable authority; into a world which; as 
yet; beheld no symptoms of the Indian Mutiny。 And yet; 
gently swinging against the wall; within the black tube; 
was a voice which recked nothing of Uncle James; of China 
teapots; or of red velvet curtains。 She watched the oscillation 
of the tube; and at the same moment became conscious 
of the individuality of the house in which she stood; 
she heard the soft domestic sounds of regular existence 
upon staircases and floors above her head; and movements 
through the wall in the house next door。 She had 
no very clear vision of Denham himself; when she lifted 
the telephone to her lips and replied that she thought 
Saturday would suit her。 She hoped that he would not say 
goodbye at once; although she felt no particular anxiety 
to attend to what he was saying; and began; even while 
he spoke; to think of her own upper room; with its books; 
its papers pressed between the leaves of dictionaries; 
and the table that could be cleared for work。 She re


placed the instrument; thoughtfully; her restlessness was 
assuaged; she finished her letter to Cassandra without 
difficulty; addressed the envelope; and fixed the stamp 
with her usual quick decision。 

A bunch of anemones caught Mrs。 Hilbery’s eye when 
they had finished luncheon。 The blue and purple and white 
of the bowl; standing in a pool of variegated light on a 
polished Chippendale table in the drawingroom window; 
made her stop dead with an exclamation of pleasure。 

“Who is lying ill in bed; Katharine?” she demanded。 
“Which of our friends wants cheering up? Who feels that 
they’ve been forgotten and passed over; and that nobody 
wants them? Whose water rates are overdue; and the cook 
leaving in a temper without waiting for her wages? There 
was somebody I know—” she concluded; but for the moment 
the name of this desirable acquaintance escaped 
her。 The best representative of the forlorn pany whose 
day would be brightened by a bunch of anemones was; in 
Katharine’s opinion; the widow of a general living in the 
Cromwell Road。 In default of the actually destitute and 
starving; whom she would much have preferred; Mrs。 

269 



Night and Day 

Hilbery was forced to acknowledge her claims; for though 
in fortable circumstances; she was extremely dull; 
unattractive; connected in some oblique fashion with literature; 
and had been touched to the verge of tears; on 
one occasion; by an afternoon call。 

It happened that Mrs。 Hilbery had an engagement elsewhere; 
so that the task of taking the flowers to the 
Cromwell Road fell upon Katharine。 She took her letter to 
Cassandra with her; meaning to post it in the first pillar
box she came to。 When; however; she was fairly out of 
doors; and constantly invited by pillarboxes and post
offices to slip her envelope down their scarlet throats; 
she forbore。 She made absurd excuses; as that she did 
not wish to cross the road; or that she was certain to 
pass another postoffice in a more central position a little 
farther on。 The longer she held the letter in her hand; 
however; the more persistently certain questions pressed 
upon her; as if from a collection of voices in the air。 
These invisible people wished to be informed whether 
she was engaged to William Rodney; or was the engagement 
broken off? Was it right; they asked; to invite 

Cassandra for a visit; and was William Rodney in love 
with her; or likely to fall in love? Then the questioners 
paused for a moment; and resumed as if another side of 
the problem had just e to their notice。 What did Ralph 
Denham mean by what he said to you last night? Do you 
consider that he is in love with you? Is it right to consent 
to a solitary walk with him; and what advice are you 
going to give him about his future? Has William Rodney 
cause to be jealous of your conduct; and what do you 
propose to do about Mary Datchet? What are you going 
to do? What does honor require you to do? they repeated。 

“Good Heavens!” Katharine exclaimed; after listening 
to all these remarks; “I suppose I ought to make up my 
mind。” 

But the debate was a formal skirmishing; a pastime to 
gain breathingspace。 Like all people brought up in a 
tradition; Katharine was able; within ten minutes or so; 
to reduce any moral difficulty to its traditional shape and 
solve it by the traditional answers。 The book of wisdom 
lay open; if not upon her mother’s knee; upon the knees 
of many uncles and aunts。 She had only to consult them; 

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Virginia Woolf 

and they would at once turn to the right page and read 
out an answer exactly suited to one in her position。 The 
rules which should govern the behavior of an unmarried 
woman are written in red ink; graved upon marble; if; by 
some freak of nature; it should fall out that the unmarried 
woman has not the same writing scored upon her 
heart。 She was ready to believe that some people are 
fortunate enough to reject; accept; resign; or lay down 
their lives at the bidding of traditional authority; she 
could envy them; but in her case the questions became 
phantoms directly she tried seriously to find an answer; 
which

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