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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第42部分


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so much else—everything; I should say—everything。 
Leave us something; eh; Katharine?” 

“Leave you something?” said Katharine; apparently waking 
from a brown study。 “I was thinking we must be going—” 

“Is it tonight that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No; we 
mustn’t be late;” said Rodney; rising。 “D’you know the 
Ferrilbys; Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey;” he 
added; for her information; as she looked doubtful。 “And 
if Katharine makes herself very charming tonight; 
perhaps’ll lend it to us for the honeymoon。” 

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Night and Day 

“I agree that may be a reason。 Otherwise she’s a dull 
woman;” said Katharine。 “At least;” she added; as if to 
qualify her abruptness; “I find it difficult to talk to her。” 

“Because you expect every one else to take all the 
trouble。 I’ve seen her sit silent a whole evening;” he said; 
turning to Mary; as he had frequently done already。 “Don’t 
you find that; too? Sometimes when we’re alone; I’ve 
counted the time on my watch”—here he took out a large 
gold watch; and tapped the glass—”the time between 
one remark and the next。 And once I counted ten minutes 
and twenty seconds; and then; if you’ll believe me; 
she only said ‘Um!’” 

“I’m sure I’m sorry;” Katharine apologized。 “I know it’s 
a bad habit; but then; you see; at home—” 

The rest of her excuse was cut short; so far as Mary was 
concerned; by the closing of the door。 She fancied she 
could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs。 A 
moment later; the doorbell rang again; and Katharine 
reappeared; having left her purse on a chair。 She soon 
found it; and said; pausing for a moment at the door; and 
speaking differently as they were alone: 

“I think being engaged is very bad for the character。” 
She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled; 
as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness。 
But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to 
something else; and her manner had changed so strangely; 
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; 

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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 

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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 

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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 s

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