《夜与日》第157章

ever　marry。　Always　to　be　finding　the　other　an　illusion；　
and　going　off　and　forgetting　about　them；　never　to　be　
certain　that　you　cared；　or　that　he　wasn’t　caring　for　some　
one　not　you　at　all；　the　horror　of　changing　from　one　state　
to　the　other；　being　happy　one　moment　and　miserable　the　
next—that’s　the　reason　why　we　can’t　possibly　marry。　At　
the　same　time；”　she　continued；　“we　can’t　live　without　
each　other；　because—”　Mrs。　Hilbery　waited　patiently　for　
the　sentence　to　be　pleted；　but　Katharine　fell　silent　
421　
Night　and　Day　
and　fingered　her　sheet　of　figures。　
“We　have　to　have　faith　in　our　vision；”　Mrs。　Hilbery　resumed；　
glancing　at　the　figures；　which　distressed　her　
vaguely；　and　had　some　connection　in　her　mind　with　the　
household　accounts；　“otherwise；　as　you　say—”　She　cast　
a　lightning　glance　into　the　depths　of　disillusionment　which　
were；　perhaps；　not　altogether　unknown　to　her。　
“Believe　me；　Katharine；　it’s　the　same　for　every　one—　
for　me；　too—for　your　father；”　she　said　earnestly；　and　
sighed。　They　looked　together　into　the　abyss　and；　as　the　
elder　of　the　two；　she　recovered　herself　first　and　asked：　
“But　where　is　Ralph？　Why　isn’t　he　here　to　see　me？”　
Katharine’s　expression　changed　instantly。　
“Because　he’s　not　allowed　to　e　here；”　she　replied　
bitterly。　
Mrs。　Hilbery　brushed　this　aside。　
“Would　there　be　time　to　send　for　him　before　luncheon？”　
she　asked。　
Katharine　looked　at　her　as　if；　indeed；　she　were　some　
magician。　Once　more　she　felt　that　instead　of　being　a　
grown　woman；　used　to　advise　and　mand；　she　was　
only　a　foot　or　two　raised　above　the　long　grass　and　the　
little　flowers　and　entirely　dependent　upon　the　figure　of　
indefinite　size　whose　head　went　up　into　the　sky；　whose　
hand　was　in　hers；　for　guidance。　
“I’m　not　happy　without　him；”　she　said　simply。　
Mrs。　Hilbery　nodded　her　head　in　a　manner　which　indicated　
plete　understanding；　and　the　immediate　conception　
of　certain　plans　for　the　future。　She　swept　up　her　
flowers；　breathed　in　their　sweetness；　and；　humming　a　
little　song　about　a　miller’s　daughter；　left　the　room。　
The　case　upon　which　Ralph　Denham　was　engaged　that　
afternoon　was　not　apparently　receiving　his　full　attention；　
and　yet　the　affairs　of　the　late　John　Leake　of　Dublin　
were　sufficiently　confused　to　need　all　the　care　that　a　
solicitor　could　bestow　upon　them；　if　the　widow　Leake　
and　the　five　Leake　children　of　tender　age　were　to　receive　
any　pittance　at　all。　But　the　appeal　to　Ralph’s　humanity　
had　little　chance　of　being　heard　today；　he　was　no　longer　
a　model　of　concentration。　The　partition　so　carefully　erected　
between　the　different　sections　of　his　life　had　been　broken　
down；　with　the　result　that　though　his　eyes　were　fixed　
422　
Virginia　Woolf　
upon　the　last　Will　and　Testament；　he　saw　through　the　
page　a　certain　drawingroom　in　Cheyne　Walk。　
He　tried　every　device　that　had　proved　effective　in　the　
past　for　keeping　up　the　partitions　of　the　mind；　until　he　
could　decently　go　home；　but　a　little　to　his　alarm　he　found　
himself　assailed　so　persistently；　as　if　from　outside；　by　
Katharine；　that　he　launched　forth　desperately　into　an　
imaginary　interview　with　her。　She　obliterated　a　bookcase　
full　of　law　reports；　and　the　corners　and　lines　of　the　room　
underwent　a　curious　softening　of　outline　like　that　which　
sometimes　makes　a　room　unfamiliar　at　the　moment　of　
waking　from　sleep。　By　degrees；　a　pulse　or　stress　began　to　
beat　at　regular　intervals　in　his　mind；　heaping　his　thoughts　
into　waves　to　which　words　fitted　themselves；　and　without　
much　consciousness　of　what　he　was　doing；　he　began　
to　write　on　a　sheet　of　draft　paper　what　had　the　appearance　
of　a　poem　lacking　several　words　in　each　line。　Not　
many　lines　had　been　set　down；　however；　before　he　threw　
away　his　pen　as　violently　as　if　that　were　responsible　for　
his　misdeeds；　and　tore　the　paper　into　many　separate　
pieces。　This　was　a　sign　that　Katharine　had　asserted　her
self　and　put　to　him　a　remark　that　could　not　be　met　poetically。　
Her　remark　was　entirely　destructive　of　poetry；　since　
it　was　to　the　effect　that　poetry　had　nothing　whatever　to　
do　with　her；　all　her　friends　spent　their　lives　in　making　up　
phrases；　she　said；　all　his　feeling　was　an　illusion；　and　next　
moment；　as　if　to　taunt　him　with　his　impotence；　she　had　
sunk　into　one　of　those　dreamy　states　which　took　no　account　
whatever　of　his　existence。　Ralph　was　roused　by　his　
passionate　attempts　to　attract　her　attention　to　the　fact　
that　he　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　his　little　private　
room　in　Lincoln’s　Inn　Fields　at　a　considerable　distance　
from　Chelsea。　The　physical　distance　increased　his　desperation。　
He　began　pacing　in　circles　until　the　process　
sickened　him；　and　then　took　a　sheet　of　paper　for　the　
position　of　a　letter　which；　he　vowed　before　he　began　
it；　should　be　sent　that　same　evening。　
It　was　a　difficult　matter　to　put　into　words；　poetry　would　
have　done　it　better　justice；　but　he　must　abstain　from　
poetry。　In　an　infinite　number　of　halfobliterated　scratches　
he　tried　to　convey　to　her　the　possibility　that　although　
human　beings　are　woefully　illadapted　for　munica
423　
Night　and　Day　
tion；　still；　such　munion　is　the　best　we　know；　moreover；　
they　make　it　possible　for　each　to　have　access　to　
another　world　independent　of　personal　affairs；　a　world　of　
law；　of　philosophy；　or　more　strangely　a　world　such　as　he　
had　had　a　glimpse　of　the　other　evening　when　together　
they　seemed　to　be　sharing　something；　creating　something；　
an　ideal—a　vision　flung　out　in　advance　of　our　
actual　circumstances。　If　this　golden　rim　were　quenched；　
if　life　were　no　longer　circled　by　an　illusion　（but　was　it　an　
illusion　after　all？）；　then　it　would　be　too　dismal　an　affair　
to　carry　to　an　end；　so　he　wrote　with　a　sudden　spurt　of　
conviction　which　made　clear　way　for　a　space　and　left　at　
least　one　sentence　standing　whole。　Making　every　allowance　
for　other　desires；　on　the　whole　this　conclusion　appeared　
to　him　to　justify　their　relationship。　But　the　conclusion　
was　mystical；　it　plunged　him　into　thought。　The　
difficulty　with　which　even　this　amount　was　written；　the　
ina