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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第43部分


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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; 

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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 

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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 yesterday 
by the 12。15—counted them myself。 They’ve taken 
off the 9。3; and given us an 8。30 instead—suits the business 
men; you know。 You came by the old 3。10 yesterday; 
I suppose?” 

She said “Yes;” as he seemed to wish for a reply; and 
then he looked at his watch; and made off down the path 
towards the house; holding the rose at the same angle in 
front of him。 Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the 
house; where the chickens lived; so that Mary found herself 
alone; holding Ralph’s letter in her hand。 She was 
uneasy。 She had put off the season for thinking things 
out very successfully; and now that Ralph was actually 
ing; the next day; she could only wonder how her 
family would impress him。 She thought it likely that her 
father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth 
would be bright and sensible; and always leaving 
the room to give messages to the servants。 Her brothers 
had already said that they would give him a day’s shooting。 
She was content to leave the problem of Ralph’s 
relations to the young men obscure; trusting that they 
would find some mon ground of masculine agreement。 
But what would he think of her? Would he see that she 
was different from the rest of the family? She devised a 
plan for taking him to her sittingroom; and artfully leading 
the talk towards the English poets; who now occu


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Night and Day 

pied prominent places in her little bookcase。 Moreover; 
she might give him to understand; privately; that she; 
too; thought her family a queer one—queer; yes; but not 
dull。 That was the rock past which she was bent on steering 
him。 And she thought how she would draw his attention 
to Edward’s passion for Jorrocks; and the enthusiasm 
which led Christopher to collect moths and butterflies 
though he was now twentytwo。 Perhaps Elizabeth’s 
sketching; if the fruits were invisible; might lend color to 
the general effect which she wished to produce of a family; 
eccentric and limited; perhaps; but not dull。 Edward; 
she perceived; was rolling the lawn; for the sake of exercise; 
and the sight of him; with pink cheeks; bright little 
brown eyes; and a general resemblance to a clumsy young 
carthorse in its winter coat of dusty brown hair; made 
Mary violently ashamed of her ambitious scheming。 She 
loved him precisely as he was; she loved them all; and as 
she walked by his side; up and down; and down and up; 
her strong moral sense administered a sound drubbing to 
the vain and romantic element aroused in her by the mere 
thought of Ralph。 She felt quite certain that; for good or 

for bad; she was very like the rest of her family。 

Sitting in the corner of a thirdclass railway carriage; 
on the afternoon of the following day; Ralph made several 
inquiries of a mercial traveler in the opposite 
corner。 They centered round a village called Lampsher; 
not three miles; he understood; from Lincoln; was there a 
big house in Lampsher; he asked; inhabited by a gentleman 
of the name of Otway? 

The traveler knew nothing; but rolled the name of Otway 
on his tongue; reflectively; and the sound of it gratified 
Ralph amazingly。 It gave him an excuse to take a letter 
from his pocket in order to verify the address。 

“Stogdon House; Lampsher; Lincoln;” he read out。 

“You’ll find somebody to direct you at Lincoln;” said 
the man; and Ralph had to confess that he was not bound 
there this very evening。 

“I’ve got to walk over from Disham;” he said; and in the 
heart of him could not help marveling at the pleasure 
which he derived from making a bagman in a train believe 
what he himself did not believe。 For the letter; though 
signed by Katharine’s father; contained no invitation or 

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Virginia Woolf 

warrant for thinking that Katharine herself was there; 
the only fact it disclosed was that for a fortnight this 
address would be Mr。 Hilbery’s address。 But when he looked 
out of the window; it was of her he thought; she; too; 
had seen these gray 

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