[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第34部分

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now　that　William　was　out　of　hearing；　that　she　could　not　
help　looking　at　her　for　an　explanation。　She　looked　almost　
stern；　so　that　Mary；　trying　to　smile　at　her；　only　succeeded　
in　producing　a　silent　stare　of　interrogation。　

As　the　door　shut　for　the　second　time；　she　sank　on　to　
the　floor　in　front　of　the　fire；　trying；　now　that　their　bodies　
were　not　there　to　distract　her；　to　piece　together　her　impressions　
of　them　as　a　whole。　And；　though　priding　herself；　
with　all　other　men　and　women；　upon　an　infallible　
eye　for　character；　she　could　not　feel　at　all　certain　that　
she　knew　what　motives　inspired　Katharine　Hilbery　in　life。　
There　was　something　that　carried　her　on　smoothly；　out　of　
reach—something；　yes；　but　what？—something　that　reminded　
Mary　of　Ralph。　Oddly　enough；　he　gave　her　the　
same　feeling；　too；　and　with　him；　too；　she　felt　baffled。　
Oddly　enough；　for　no　two　people；　she　hastily　concluded；　

150　



Virginia　Woolf　

were　more　unlike。　And　yet　both　had　this　hidden　impulse；　
this　incalculable　force　—this　thing　they　cared　for　and　
didn’t　talk　about—oh；　what　was　it？　

CHAPTER　XV　


The　village　of　Disham　lies　somewhere　on　the　rolling　piece　
of　cultivated　ground　in　the　neighborhood　of　Lincoln；　not　
so　far　inland　but　that　a　sound；　bringing　rumors　of　the　
sea；　can　be　heard　on　summer　nights　or　when　the　winter　
storms　fling　the　waves　upon　the　long　beach。　So　large　is　
the　church；　and　in　particular　the　church　tower；　in　parison　
with　the　little　street　of　cottages　which　pose　
the　village；　that　the　traveler　is　apt　to　cast　his　mind　back　
to　the　Middle　Ages；　as　the　only　time　when　so　much　piety　
could　have　been　kept　alive。　So　great　a　trust　in　the　Church　
can　surely　not　belong　to　our　day；　and　he　goes　on　to　conjecture　
that　every　one　of　the　villagers　has　reached　the　
extreme　limit　of　human　life。　Such　are　the　reflections　of　
the　superficial　stranger；　and　his　sight　of　the　population；　
as　it　is　represented　by　two　or　three　men　hoeing　in　a　
turnipfield；　a　small　child　carrying　a　jug；　and　a　young　
woman　shaking　a　piece　of　carpet　outside　her　cottage　door；　
will　not　lead　him　to　see　anything　very　much　out　of　keeping　
with　the　Middle　Ages　in　the　village　of　Disham　as　it　is　

151　



Night　and　Day　

today。　These　people；　though　they　seem　young　enough；　
look　so　angular　and　so　crude　that　they　remind　him　of　the　
little　pictures　painted　by　monks　in　the　capital　letters　of　
their　manuscripts。　He　only　half　understands　what　they　
say；　and　speaks　very　loud　and　clearly；　as　though；　indeed；　
his　voice　had　to　carry　through　a　hundred　years　or　more　
before　it　reached　them。　He　would　have　a　far　better　chance　
of　understanding　some　dweller　in　Paris　or　Rome；　Berlin　or　
Madrid；　than　these　countrymen　of　his　who　have　lived　for　
the　last　two　thousand　years　not　two　hundred　miles　from　
the　City　of　London。　

The　Rectory　stands　about　half　a　mile　beyond　the　village。　
It　is　a　large　house；　and　has　been　growing　steadily　
for　some　centuries　round　the　great　kitchen；　with　its　narrow　
red　tiles；　as　the　Rector　would　point　out　to　his　guests　
on　the　first　night　of　their　arrival；　taking　his　brass　candlestick；　
and　bidding　them　mind　the　steps　up　and　the　steps　
down；　and　notice　the　immense　thickness　of　the　walls；　the　
old　beams　across　the　ceiling；　the　staircases　as　steep　as　
ladders；　and　the　attics；　with　their　deep；　tentlike　roofs；　
in　which　swallows　bred；　and　once　a　white　owl。　But　noth


ing　very　interesting　or　very　beautiful　had　resulted　from　
the　different　additions　made　by　the　different　rectors。　

The　house；　however；　was　surrounded　by　a　garden；　in　
which　the　Rector　took　considerable　pride。　The　lawn；　which　
fronted　the　drawingroom　windows；　was　a　rich　and　uniform　
green；　unspotted　by　a　single　daisy；　and　on　the　other　
side　of　it　two　straight　paths　led　past　beds　of　tall；　standing　
flowers　to　a　charming　grassy　walk；　where　the　Rev。　
Wyndham　Datchet　would　pace　up　and　down　at　the　same　
hour　every　morning；　with　a　sundial　to　measure　the　time　
for　him。　As　often　as　not；　he　carried　a　book　in　his　hand；　
into　which　he　would　glance；　then　shut　it　up；　and　repeat　
the　rest　of　the　ode　from　memory。　He　had　most　of　Horace　
by　heart；　and　had　got　into　the　habit　of　connecting　this　
particular　walk　with　certain　odes　which　he　repeated　duly；　
at　the　same　time　noting　the　condition　of　his　flowers；　and　
stooping　now　and　again　to　pick　any　that　were　withered　
or　overblown。　On　wet　days；　such　was　the　power　of　habit　
over　him；　he　rose　from　his　chair　at　the　same　hour；　and　
paced　his　study　for　the　same　length　of　time；　pausing　now　
and　then　to　straighten　some　book　in　the　bookcase；　or　

152　



Virginia　Woolf　

alter　the　position　of　the　two　brass　crucifixes　standing　
upon　cairns　of　serpentine　stone　upon　the　mantelpiece。　
His　children　had　a　great　respect　for　him；　credited　him　
with　far　more　learning　than　he　actually　possessed；　and　
saw　that　his　habits　were　not　interfered　with；　if　possible。　
Like　most　people　who　do　things　methodically；　the　Rector　
himself　had　more　strength　of　purpose　and　power　of　self
sacrifice　than　of　intellect　or　of　originality。　On　cold　and　
windy　nights　he　rode　off　to　visit　sick　people；　who　might　
need　him；　without　a　murmur；　and　by　virtue　of　doing　dull　
duties　punctually；　he　was　much　employed　upon　mittees　
and　local　Boards　and　Councils；　and　at　this　period　of　
his　life　（he　was　sixtyeight）　he　was　beginning　to　be　miserated　
by　tender　old　ladies　for　the　extreme　leanness　
of　his　person；　which；　they　said；　was　worn　out　upon　the　
roads　when　it　should　have　been　resting　before　a　fortable　
fire。　His　elder　daughter；　Elizabeth；　lived　with　him　
and　managed　the　house；　and　already　much　resembled　him　
in　dry　sincerity　and　methodical　habit　of　mind；　of　the　two　
sons　one；　Richard；　was　an　estate　agent；　the　other；　Christopher；　
was　reading　for　the　Bar。　At　Christmas；　naturally；　

they　met　together；　and　for　a　month　past　the　arrangement　
of　the　Christmas　week　had　been　much　in　the　mind　of　
mistress　and　maid；　who　prided　themselves　every　year　more　
confidently　upon　the　excellence　of　their　equipment。　The　
late　Mrs。　Datchet　had　left　an　excellent　cupboard　of　linen；　
to　which　Elizabeth　had　succeeded　at　the　age　of　nieen；　
when　her　mother　died；　and　the　charge　of　the　family　rested　
upon　the　shoulders　of　the　eldest　daughter。　She　kept　a　
fine　flock　of　yellow　chickens；　sketched　a　little；　certain　
rosetrees　in　the　garden　were　mitted　specially　to　her　
care；　and　what　with　the　care　of　the　house；　the　care　of　the　
chickens；　and　the　care　of　the　poor；　she　scarcely　knew　
what　it　was　to　have　an　idle　minute。　An　extreme　rectitude　
of　mind；　rather　than　any　gift；　gave　her　weight　in　the　
family。　When　Mary　wrote　to　say　that　she　had　asked　Ralph　
Denham　to　stay　with　them；　she　added；　out　of　deference　
to　Elizabeth’s　character；　that　he　was　very　nice；　though　
rather　queer；　and　had　been　overworking　himself　in　London。　
No　doubt　Elizabeth　would　conclude　that　Ralph　was　
in　love　with　her；　but　there　could　be　no　doubt　either　that　
not　a　word　of　this　would　be　spoken　by　either　of　them；　

153　



Night　and　Day　

unless；　indeed；　some　catastrophe　made　mention　of　it　unavoidable。　


Mary　went　down　to　Disham　without　knowing　whether　
Ralph　intended　to　e；　but　two　or　three　days　before　
Christmas　she　received　a　telegram　from　Ralph；　asking　her　
to　take　a　room　for　him　in　the　village。　This　was　followed　
by　a　letter　explaining　that　he　hoped　he　might　have　his　
meals　with　them；　but　quiet；　essential　for　his　work；　made　
it　necessary　to　sleep　out。　

Mary　was　walking　in　the　garden　with　Elizabeth；　and　
inspecting　the　roses；　when　the　letter　arrived。　

“But　that’s　absurd；”　said　Elizabeth　decidedly；　when　the　
plan　was　explained　to　her。　“There　are　five　spare　rooms；　
even　when　the　boys　are　here。　Besides；　he　wouldn’t　get　a　
room　in　the　village。　And　he　oughtn’t　to　work　if　he’s　overworked。”　


“But　perhaps　he　doesn’t　want　to　see　so　much　of　us；”　
Mary　thought　to　herself；　although　outwardly　she　assented；　
and　felt　grateful　to　Elizabeth　for　supporting　her　in　what　
was；　of　course；　her　desire。　They　were　cutting　roses　at　the　
time；　and　laying　them；　head　by　head；　in　a　shallow　basket。　

“If　Ralph　were　here；　he’d　find　this　very　dull；”　Mary　
thought；　with　a　little　shiver　of　irritation；　which　led　her　
to　place　her　rose　the　wrong　way　in　the　basket。　Meanwhile；　
they　had　e　to　the　end　of　the　path；　and　while　
Elizabeth　straightened　some　flowers；　and　made　them　stand　
upright　within　their　fence　of　string；　Mary　looked　at　her　
father；　who　was　pacing　up　and　down；　with　his　hand　behind　
his　back　and　his　head　bowed　in　meditation。　Obeying　
an　impulse　which　sprang　from　some　desire　to　interrupt　
this　methodical　marching；　Mary　stepped　on　to　the　
grass　walk　and　put　her　hand　on　his　arm。　

“A　flower　for　your　buttonhole；　father；”　she　said；　presenting　
a　rose。　

“Eh；　dear？”　said　Mr。　Datchet；　taking　the　flower；　and　
holding　it　at　an　angle　which　suited　his　bad　eyesight；　
without　pausing　in　his　walk。　

“Where　does　this　fellow　e　from？　One　of　Elizabeth’s　
roses—I　hope　you　asked　her　leave。　Elizabeth　doesn’t　like　having　
her　roses　picked　without　her　leave；　and　quite　right；　too。”　

He　had　a　habit；　Mary　remarked；　and　she　had　never　noticed　
it　so　clearly　before；　of　letting　his　sentences　tail　

154　



Virginia　Woolf　

away　in　a　continuous　murmur；　whereupon　he　passed　into　
a　state　of　abstraction；　presumed　by　his　children　to　indicate　
some　train　of　thought　too　profound　for　utterance。　

“What？”　said　Mary；　interrupting；　for　the　first　time　in　
her　life；　perhaps；　when　the　murmur　ceased。　He　made　no　
reply。　She　knew　very　well　that　he　wished　to　be　left　alone；　
but　she　stuck　to　his　side　much　as　she　might　have　stuck　to　
some　sleepwalker；　whom　she　thought　it　right　gradually　
to　awaken。　She　could　think　of　nothing　to　rouse　him　with　
except：　

“The　garden’s　looking　very　nice；　father。”　

“Yes；　yes；　yes；”　said　Mr。　Datchet；　running　his　words　together　
in　the　same　abstracted　manner；　and　sinking　his　
head　yet　lower　upon　his　breast。　And　suddenly；　as　they　
turned　their　steps　to　retrace　their　way；　he　jerked　out：　

“The　traffic’s　very　much　increased；　you　know。　More　rolling
stock　needed　already。　Forty　trucks　went　down　yeste