[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版- 第48部分

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Virginia　Woolf　

CHAPTER　XIX　


The　afternoon　was　already　growing　dark　when　the　two　
other　wayfarers；　Mary　and　Ralph　Denham；　came　out　on　
the　high　road　beyond　the　outskirts　of　Lincoln。　The　high　
road；　as　they　both　felt；　was　better　suited　to　this　return　
journey　than　the　open　country；　and　for　the　first　mile　or　
so　of　the　way　they　spoke　little。　In　his　own　mind　Ralph　
was　following　the　passage　of　the　Otway　carriage　over　the　
heath；　he　then　went　back　to　the　five　or　ten　minutes　that　
he　had　spent　with　Katharine；　and　examined　each　word　
with　the　care　that　a　scholar　displays　upon　the　irregularities　
of　an　ancient　text。　He　was　determined　that　the　glow；　
the　romance；　the　atmosphere　of　this　meeting　should　not　
paint　what　he　must　in　future　regard　as　sober　facts。　On　
her　side　Mary　was　silent；　not　because　her　thoughts　took　
much　handling；　but　because　her　mind　seemed　empty　of　
thought　as　her　heart　of　feeling。　Only　Ralph’s　presence；　as　
she　knew；　preserved　this　numbness；　for　she　could　foresee　
a　time　of　loneliness　when　many　varieties　of　pain　would　
beset　her。　At　the　present　moment　her　effort　was　to　pre


serve　what　she　could　of　the　wreck　of　her　selfrespect；　for　
such　she　deemed　that　momentary　glimpse　of　her　love　so　
involuntarily　revealed　to　Ralph。　In　the　light　of　reason　it　
did　not　much　matter；　perhaps；　but　it　was　her　instinct　to　
be　careful　of　that　vision　of　herself　which　keeps　pace　so　
evenly　beside　every　one　of　us；　and　had　been　damaged　by　
her　confession。　The　gray　night　ing　down　over　the　
country　was　kind　to　her；　and　she　thought　that　one　of　
these　days　she　would　find　fort　in　sitting　upon　the　
earth；　alone；　beneath　a　tree。　Looking　through　the　darkness；　
she　marked　the　swelling　ground　and　the　tree。　Ralph　
made　her　start　by　saying　abruptly；　

“What　I　was　going　to　say　when　we　were　interrupted　at　
lunch　was　that　if　you　go　to　America　I　shall　e；　too。　It　
can’t　be　harder　to　earn　a　living　there　than　it　is　here。　
However；　that’s　not　the　point。　The　point　is；　Mary；　that　I　
want　to　marry　you。　Well；　what　do　you　say？”　He　spoke　
firmly；　waited　for　no　answer；　and　took　her　arm　in　his。　
“You　know　me　by　this　time；　the　good　and　the　bad；”　he　
went　on。　“You　know　my　tempers。　I’ve　tried　to　let　you　
know　my　faults。　Well；　what　do　you　say；　Mary？”　

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Night　and　Day　

She　said　nothing；　but　this　did　not　seem　to　strike　him。　

“In　most　ways；　at　least　in　the　important　ways；　as　you　
said；　we　know　each　other　and　we　think　alike。　I　believe　
you　are　the　only　person　in　the　world　I　could　live　with　
happily。　And　if　you　feel　the　same　about　me—as　you　do；　
don’t　you；　Mary？—we　should　make　each　other　happy。”　
Here　he　paused；　and　seemed　to　be　in　no　hurry　for　an　
answer；　he　seemed；　indeed；　to　be　continuing　his　own　
thoughts。　

“Yes；　but　I’m　afraid　I　couldn’t　do　it；”　Mary　said　at　last。　
The　casual　and　rather　hurried　way　in　which　she　spoke；　
together　with　the　fact　that　she　was　saying　the　exact　opposite　
of　what　he　expected　her　to　say；　baffled　him　so　
much　that　he　instinctively　loosened　his　clasp　upon　her　
arm　and　she　withdrew　it　quietly。　

“You　couldn’t　do　it？”　he　asked。　

“No；　I　couldn’t　marry　you；”　she　replied。　

“You　don’t　care　for　me？”　

She　made　no　answer。　

“Well；　Mary；”　he　said；　with　a　curious　laugh；　“I　must　be　
an　arrant　fool；　for　I　thought　you　did。”　They　walked　for　a　

minute　or　two　in　silence；　and　suddenly　he　turned　to　her；　
looked　at　her；　and　exclaimed：　“I　don’t　believe　you；　Mary。　
You’re　not　telling　me　the　truth。”　

“I’m　too　tired　to　argue；　Ralph；”　she　replied；　turning　her　
head　away　from　him。　“I　ask　you　to　believe　what　I　say。　I　
can’t　marry　you；　I　don’t　want　to　marry　you。”　

The　voice　in　which　she　stated　this　was　so　evidently　the　
voice　of　one　in　some　extremity　of　anguish　that　Ralph　had　
no　course　but　to　obey　her。　And　as　soon　as　the　tone　of　her　
voice　had　died　out；　and　the　surprise　faded　from　his　mind；　
he　found　himself　believing　that　she　had　spoken　the　truth；　
for　he　had　but　little　vanity；　and　soon　her　refusal　seemed　
a　natural　thing　to　him。　He　slipped　through　all　the　grades　
of　despondency　until　he　reached　a　bottom　of　absolute　
gloom。　Failure　seemed　to　mark　the　whole　of　his　life；　he　
had　failed　with　Katharine；　and　now　he　had　failed　with　
Mary。　Up　at　once　sprang　the　thought　of　Katharine；　and　
with　it　a　sense　of　exulting　freedom；　but　this　he　checked　
instantly。　No　good　had　ever　e　to　him　from　Katharine；　
his　whole　relationship　with　her　had　been　made　up　of　
dreams；　and　as　he　thought　of　the　little　substance　there　

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had　been　in　his　dreams　he　began　to　lay　the　blame　of　the　
present　catastrophe　upon　his　dreams。　

“Haven’t　I　always　been　thinking　of　Katharine　while　I　
was　with　Mary？　I　might　have　loved　Mary　if　it　hadn’t　been　
for　that　idiocy　of　mine。　She　cared　for　me　once；　I’m　certain　
of　that；　but　I　tormented　her　so　with　my　humors　that　
I　let　my　chances　slip；　and　now　she　won’t　risk　marrying　
me。　And　this　is　what　I’ve　made　of　my　life—nothing；　nothing；　
nothing。”　

The　tramp　of　their　boots　upon　the　dry　road　seemed　to　
asseverate　nothing；　nothing；　nothing。　Mary　thought　that　
this　silence　was　the　silence　of　relief；　his　depression　she　
ascribed　to　the　fact　that　he　had　seen　Katharine　and　parted　
from　her；　leaving　her　in　the　pany　of　William　Rodney。　
She　could　not　blame　him　for　loving　Katharine；　but　that；　
when　he　loved　another；　he　should　ask　her　to　marry　him—　
that　seemed　to　her　the　cruellest　treachery。　Their　old　friendship　
and　its　firm　base　upon　indestructible　qualities　of　
character　crumbled；　and　her　whole　past　seemed　foolish；　
herself　weak　and　credulous；　and　Ralph　merely　the　shell　of　
an　honest　man。　Oh；　the　past—so　much　made　up　of　Ralph；　

and　now；　as　she　saw；　made　up　of　something　strange　and　
false　and　other　than　she　had　thought　it。　She　tried　to　
recapture　a　saying　she　had　made　to　help　herself　that　
morning；　as　Ralph　paid　the　bill　for　luncheon；　but　she　
could　see　him　paying　the　bill　more　vividly　than　she　could　
remember　the　phrase。　Something　about　truth　was　in　it；　
how　to　see　the　truth　is　our　great　chance　in　this　world。　

“If　you　don’t　want　to　marry　me；”　Ralph　now　began　again；　
without　abruptness；　with　diffidence　rather；　“there　is　no　
need　why　we　should　cease　to　see　each　other；　is　there？　Or　
would　you　rather　that　we　should　keep　apart　for　the　
present？”　

“Keep　apart？　I　don’t　know—I　must　think　about　it。”　

“Tell　me　one　thing；　Mary；”　he　resumed；　“have　I　done　
anything　to　make　you　change　your　mind　about　me？”　

She　was　immensely　tempted　to　give　way　to　her　natural　
trust　in　him；　revived　by　the　deep　and　now　melancholy　
tones　of　his　voice；　and　to　tell　him　of　her　love；　and　of　
what　had　changed　it。　But　although　it　seemed　likely　that　
she　would　soon　control　her　anger　with　him；　the　certainty　
that　he　did　not　love　her；　confirmed　by　every　word　of　his　

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proposal；　forbade　any　freedom　of　speech。　To　hear　him　
speak　and　to　feel　herself　unable　to　reply；　or　constrained　
in　her　replies；　was　so　painful　that　she　longed　for　the　time　
when　she　should　be　alone。　A　more　pliant　woman　would　
have　taken　this　chance　of　an　explanation；　whatever　risks　
attached　to　it；　but　to　one　of　Mary’s　firm　and　resolute　
temperament　there　was　degradation　in　the　idea　of　self
abandonment；　let　the　waves　of　emotion　rise　ever　so　high；　
she　could　not　shut　her　eyes　to　what　she　conceived　to　be　
the　truth。　Her　silence　puzzled　Ralph。　He　searched　his　
memory　for　words　or　deeds　that　might　have　made　her　
think　badly　of　him。　In　his　present　mood　instances　came　
but　too　quickly；　and　on　top　of　them　this　culminating　
proof　of　his　baseness—that　he　had　asked　her　to　marry　
him　when　his　reasons　for　such　a　proposal　were　selfish　
and　halfhearted。　

“You　needn’t　answer；”　he　said　grimly。　“There　are　reasons　
enough；　I　know。　But　must　they　kill　our　friendship；　
Mary？　Let　me　keep　that；　at　least。”　

“Oh；”　she　thought　to　herself；　with　a　sudden　rush　of　
anguish　which　threatened　disaster　to　her　selfrespect；　

“it　has　e　to　this—to　this—when　I　could　have　given　
him　everything！”　

“Yes；　we　can　still　be　friends；”　she　said；　with　what　firmness　
she　could　muster。　

“I　shall　want　your　friendship；”　he　said。　He　added；　“If　
you　find　it　possible；　let　me　see　you　as　often　as　you　can。　
The　oftener　the　better。　I　shall　want　your　help。”　

She　promised　this；　and　they　went　on　to　talk　calmly　of　
things　that　had　no　reference　to　their　feelings—a　talk　which；　
in　its　constraint；　was　infinitely　sad　to　both　of　them。　

One　more　reference　was　made　to　the　state　of　things　
between　them　late　that　night；　when　Elizabeth　had　gone　
to　her　room；　and　the　two　young　men　had　stumbled　off　to　
bed　in　such　a　state　of　sleep　that　they　hardly　felt　the　floor　
beneath　their　feet　after　a　day’s　shooting。　

Mary　drew　her　chair　a　little　nearer　to　the　fire；　for　the　
logs　were　burning　low；　and　at　this　time　of　night　it　was　
hardly　worth　while　to　replenish　them。　Ralph　was　reading；　
but　she　had　noticed　for　some　time　that　his　eyes　instead　
of　following　the　print　were　fixed　rather　above　the　page　
with　an　intensity　of　gloom　that　came　to　weigh　upon　her　

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Virginia　Woolf　

mind。　She　had　not　weakened　in　her　resolve　not　to　give　
way；　for　reflection　had　only　made　her　more　bitterly　certain　
that；　if　she　gave　way；　it　would　be　to　her　own　wish　
and　not　to　his。　But　she　had　determined　that　there　was　no　
reason　why　he　should　suffer　if　her　reticence　were　the　
cause　of　his　suffering。　Therefore；　although　she　found　it　
painful；　she　spoke：　

“You　asked　me　if　I　had　changed　my　mind　about　you；　
Ralph；”　she　said。　“I　think　there’s　only　one　thing。　When　
you　asked　me　to　marry　you；　I　don’t　think　you　meant　it。　
That　made　me　angry—for　the　moment。　Before；　you’d　always　
spoken　the　truth。”　

Ralph’s　book　slid　down　upon　his　knee　and　fell　upon　the　
floor。　He　rested　his　forehead　on　his　hand　and　looked　into　
the　fire。　He　was　trying　to　recall　the　exact　words　in　which　
he　had　made　his　proposal　to　Mary。　

“I　never　said　I　loved　you；”　he　said　at　last。　

She　winced；　but　she　respected　him　for　saying　what　he　
did；　for　this；　after　all；　was　a　fragment　of　the　truth