[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第38部分

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But　at　this　moment　they　seemed　terribly　in　keeping　with　
her　own　conclusions；　so　that　she　took　up　her　knitting　
again　and　listened；　chiefly　with　a　view　to　confirming　
herself　in　the　belief　that　to　be　engaged　to　marry　some　
one　with　whom　you　are　not　in　love　is　an　inevitable　step　
in　a　world　where　the　existence　of　passion　is　only　a　

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Virginia　Woolf　

traveller’s　story　brought　from　the　heart　of　deep　forests　
and　told　so　rarely　that　wise　people　doubt　whether　the　
story　can　be　true。　She　did　her　best　to　listen　to　her　mother　
asking　for　news　of　John；　and　to　her　aunt　replying　with　
the　authentic　history　of　Hilda’s　engagement　to　an　officer　
in　the　Indian　Army；　but　she　cast　her　mind　alternately　
towards　forest　paths　and　starry　blossoms；　and　towards　
pages　of　neatly　written　mathematical　signs。　When　her　
mind　took　this　turn　her　marriage　seemed　no　more　than　
an　archway　through　which　it　was　necessary　to　pass　in　
order　to　have　her　desire。　At　such　times　the　current　of　her　
nature　ran　in　its　deep　narrow　channel　with　great　force　
and　with　an　alarming　lack　of　consideration　for　the　feelings　
of　others。　Just　as　the　two　elder　ladies　had　finished　
their　survey　of　the　family　prospects；　and　Lady　Otway　was　
nervously　anticipating　some　general　statement　as　to　life　
and　death　from　her　sisterinlaw；　Cassandra　burst　into　
the　room　with　the　news　that　the　carriage　was　at　the　door。　

“Why　didn’t　Andrews　tell　me　himself？”　said　Lady　Otway；　
peevishly；　blaming　her　servants　for　not　living　up　to　her　
ideals。　

When　Mrs。　Hilbery　and　Katharine　arrived　in　the　hall；　
ready　dressed　for　their　drive；　they　found　that　the　usual　
discussion　was　going　forward　as　to　the　plans　of　the　rest　
of　the　family。　In　token　of　this；　a　great　many　doors　were　
opening　and　shutting；　two　or　three　people　stood　irresolutely　
on　the　stairs；　now　going　a　few　steps　up；　and　now　a　
few　steps　down；　and　Sir　Francis　himself　had　e　out　
from　his　study；　with　the　“Times”　under　his　arm；　and　a　
plaint　about　noise　and　draughts　from　the　open　door　
which；　at　least；　had　the　effect　of　bundling　the　people　
who　did　not　want　to　go　into　the　carriage；　and　sending　
those　who　did　not　want　to　stay　back　to　their　rooms。　It　
was　decided　that　Mrs。　Hilbery；　Katharine；　Rodney；　and　
Henry　should　drive　to　Lincoln；　and　any　one　else　who　wished　
to　go　should　follow　on　bicycles　or　in　the　ponycart。　Every　
one　who　stayed　at　Stogdon　House　had　to　make　this　expedition　
to　Lincoln　in　obedience　to　Lady　Otway’s　conception　
of　the　right　way　to　entertain　her　guests；　which　she　
had　imbibed　from　reading　in　fashionable　papers　of　the　
behavior　of　Christmas　parties　in　ducal　houses。　The　carriage　
horses　were　both　fat　and　aged；　still　they　matched；　

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Night　and　Day　

the　carriage　was　shaky　and　unfortable；　but　the　Otway　
arms　were　visible　on　the　panels。　Lady　Otway　stood　on　the　
topmost　step；　wrapped　in　a　white　shawl；　and　waved　her　
hand　almost　mechanically　until　they　had　turned　the　corner　
under　the　laurelbushes；　when　she　retired　indoors　
with　a　sense　that　she　had　played　her　part；　and　a　sigh　at　
the　thought　that　none　of　her　children　felt　it　necessary　to　
play　theirs。　

The　carriage　bowled　along　smoothly　over　the　gently　
curving　road。　Mrs。　Hilbery　dropped　into　a　pleasant；　inattentive　
state　of　mind；　in　which　she　was　conscious　of　the　
running　green　lines　of　the　hedges；　of　the　swelling　
ploughland；　and　of　the　mild　blue　sky；　which　served　her；　
after　the　first　five　minutes；　for　a　pastoral　background　to　
the　drama　of　human　life；　and　then　she　thought　of　a　cottage　
garden；　with　the　flash　of　yellow　daffodils　against　
blue　water；　and　what　with　the　arrangement　of　these　different　
prospects；　and　the　shaping　of　two　or　three　lovely　
phrases；　she　did　not　notice　that　the　young　people　in　the　
carriage　were　almost　silent。　Henry；　indeed；　had　been　included　
against　his　wish；　and　revenged　himself　by　observ


ing　Katharine　and　Rodney　with　disillusioned　eyes；　while　
Katharine　was　in　a　state　of　gloomy　selfsuppression　which　
resulted　in　plete　apathy。　When　Rodney　spoke　to　her　
she　either　said　“Hum！”　or　assented　so　listlessly　that　he　
addressed　his　next　remark　to　her　mother。　His　deference　
was　agreeable　to　her；　his　manners　were　exemplary；　and　
when　the　church　towers　and　factory　chimneys　of　the　town　
came　into　sight；　she　roused　herself；　and　recalled　memories　
of　the　fair　summer　of　1853；　which　fitted　in　harmoniously　
with　what　she　was　dreaming　of　the　future。　

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CHAPTER　XVIII　


But　other　passengers　were　approaching　Lincoln　meanwhile　
by　other　roads　on　foot。　A　county　town　draws　the　
inhabitants　of　all　vicarages；　farms；　country　houses；　and　
wayside　cottages；　within　a　radius　of　ten　miles　at　least；　
once　or　twice　a　week　to　its　streets；　and　among　them；　on　
this　occasion；　were　Ralph　Denham　and　Mary　Datchet。　They　
despised　the　roads；　and　took　their　way　across　the　fields；　
and　yet；　from　their　appearance；　it　did　not　seem　as　if　they　
cared　much　where　they　walked　so　long　as　the　way　did　not　
actually　trip　them　up。　When　they　left　the　Vicarage；　they　
had　begun　an　argument　which　swung　their　feet　along　so　
rhythmically　in　time　with　it　that　they　covered　the　ground　
at　over　four　miles　an　hour；　and　saw　nothing　of　the　
hedgerows；　the　swelling　plowland；　or　the　mild　blue　sky。　
What　they　saw　were　the　Houses　of　Parliament　and　the　
Government　Offices　in　Whitehall。　They　both　belonged　to　
the　class　which　is　conscious　of　having　lost　its　birthright　
in　these　great　structures　and　is　seeking　to　build　another　
kind　of　lodging　for　its　own　notion　of　law　and　govern


ment。　Purposely；　perhaps；　Mary　did　not　agree　with　Ralph；　
she　loved　to　feel　her　mind　in　conflict　with　his；　and　to　be　
certain　that　he　spared　her　female　judgment　no　ounce　of　
his　male　muscularity。　He　seemed　to　argue　as　fiercely　with　
her　as　if　she　were　his　brother。　They　were　alike；　however；　
in　believing　that　it　behooved　them　to　take　in　hand　the　
repair　and　reconstruction　of　the　fabric　of　England。　They　
agreed　in　thinking　that　nature　has　not　been　generous　in　
the　endowment　of　our　councilors。　They　agreed；　unconsciously；　
in　a　mute　love　for　the　muddy　field　through　which　
they　tramped；　with　eyes　narrowed　close　by　the　concentration　
of　their　minds。　At　length　they　drew　breath；　let　
the　argument　fly　away　into　the　limbo　of　other　good　arguments；　
and；　leaning　over　a　gate；　opened　their　eyes　for　
the　first　time　and　looked　about　them。　Their　feet　tingled　
with　warm　blood　and　their　breath　rose　in　steam　around　
them。　The　bodily　exercise　made　them　both　feel　more　direct　
and　less　selfconscious　than　usual；　and　Mary；　indeed；　
was　overe　by　a　sort　of　lightheadedness　which　made　
it　seem　to　her　that　it　mattered　very　little　what　happened　
next。　It　mattered　so　little；　indeed；　that　she　felt　herself　

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Night　and　Day　

on　the　point　of　saying　to　Ralph：　

“I　love　you；　I　shall　never　love　anybody　else。　Marry　me　
or　leave　me；　think　what　you　like　of　me—I　don’t　care　a　
straw。”　At　the　moment；　however；　speech　or　silence　seemed　
immaterial；　and　she　merely　clapped　her　hands　together；　
and　looked　at　the　distant　woods　with　the　rustlike　bloom　
on　their　brown；　and　the　green　and　blue　landscape　through　
the　steam　of　her　own　breath。　It　seemed　a　mere　tossup　
whether　she　said；　“I　love　you；”　or　whether　she　said；　“I　
love　the　beechtrees；”　or　only　“I　love—I　love。”　

“Do　you　know；　Mary；”　Ralph　suddenly　interrupted　her；　
“I’ve　made　up　my　mind。”　

Her　indifference　must　have　been　superficial；　for　it　disappeared　
at　once。　Indeed；　she　lost　sight　of　the　trees；　and　
saw　her　own　hand　upon　the　topmost　bar　of　the　gate　with　
extreme　distinctness；　while　he　went　on：　

“I’ve　made　up　my　mind　to　chuck　my　work　and　live　down　
here。　I　want　you　to　tell　me　about　that　cottage　you　spoke　
of。　However；　I　suppose　there’ll　be　no　difficulty　about　getting　
a　cottage；　will　there？”　He　spoke　with　an　assumption　
of　carelessness　as　if　expecting　her　to　dissuade　him。　

She　still　waited；　as　if　for　him　to　continue；　she　was　
convinced　that　in　some　roundabout　way　he　approached　
the　subject　of　their　marriage。　

“I　can’t　stand　the　office　any　longer；”　he　proceeded。　“I　
don’t　know　what　my　family　will　say；　but　I’m　sure　I’m　right。　
Don’t　you　think　so？”　

“Live　down　here　by　yourself？”　she　asked。　

“Some　old　woman　would　do　for　me；　I　suppose；”　he　replied。　
“I’m　sick　of　the　whole　thing；”　he　went　on；　and　
opened　the　gate　with　a　jerk。　They　began　to　cross　the　
next　field　walking　side　by　side。　

“I　tell　you；　Mary；　it’s　utter　destruction；　working　away；　
day　after　day；　at　stuff　that　doesn’t　matter　a　damn　to　any　
one。　I’ve　stood　eight　years　of　it；　and　I’m　not　going　to　
stand　it　any　longer。　I　suppose　this　all　seems　to　you　mad；　
though？”　

By　this　time　Mary　had　recovered　her　selfcontrol。　

“No。　I　thought　you　weren’t　happy；”　she　said。　

“Why　did　you　think　that？”　he　asked；　with　some　surprise。　


“Don’t　you　remember　that　morning　in　Lincoln’s　Inn　

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Virginia　Woolf　

Fields？”　she　asked。　

“Yes；”　said　Ralph；　slackening　his　pace　and　remembering　
Katharine　and　her　engagement；　the　purple　leaves　
stamped　into　the　path；　the　white　paper　radiant　under　the　
electric　light；　and　the　hopelessness　which　seemed　to　surround　
all　these　things。　

“You’re　right；　Mary；”　he　said；　with　something　of　an　effort；　
“though　I　don’t　know　how　you　guessed　it。”　

She　was　silent；　hoping　that　he　might　tell　her　the　reason　
of　his　unhappiness；　for　his　excuses　had　not　deceived　her。　

“I　was　unhappy—very　unhappy；”　he　repeated。　Some　
six　weeks　separated　him　from　that　afternoon　when　he　
had　sat　upon　the　Embankment　watching　his　visions　dissolve　
in　mist　as　the　waters　swam　past　and　the　sense　of　
his　desolation　still　made　him　shiver。　He　had　not　recovered　
in　the　least　from　that　depression。　Here　was　an　opportunity　
for　making　himself　face　it；　as　he　felt　that　he　
ought　to；　for；　by　this　time；　no　doubt；　it　was　only　a　sentimental　
ghost；　better　exorcised　by　ruthless　exposure　to　
such　an　eye　as　Mary’s；　than　allowed　to　underlie　all　his　
actions　and　thoughts　as　had　been　the　case　ever　since　he　

first　saw　Katharine　Hilbery　pouring　out　tea。　He　must　begin；　
however；　by　mentioning　her　name；　and　this　he　found　
it　impossible　to　do。　He　persuaded　himself　that　he　could　
make　an　honest　statement　without　speaking　her　name；　
he　persuaded　himself　that　his　feeling　had　very　little　to　
do　with　her。　

“Unhappiness　is　a　state　of　mind；”　he　said；　“by　which　I　
mean　that　it　is　not　necessarily　the　result　of　any　particular　
cause。”　

This　rather　stilted　beginning　did　not　please　him；　and　it　
became　more　and　more　obvious　to　him　that；　whatever　he　
might　say；　his　unhappiness　had　been　directly　caused　by　
Katharine。　

“I　began　to　find　my　life　unsatisfactory；”　he　started　
afresh。　“It　seemed　to　me　meaningless。”　He　paused　again；　
but　felt　that　this；　at　any　rate；　was　true；　and　that　on　these　
lines　he　could　go　on。　

“All　this　moneymaking　and　working　ten　hours　a　day　in　
an　office；　what’s　it　for？　When　one’s　a　boy；　you　see；　one’s　
head　is　so　full　of　dreams　that　it　doesn’t　seem　to　matter　
what　one　does。　And　if　you’re　ambitious；　you’re　all　right；　

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Nigh