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第80章

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第80章


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wasting time wasted also high private hopes of his own。 

His face was no bad index to what went on within him。 
He was in a condition of mind rather too exalted for the 
trivialities of daily life。 He could not accept the fact that 
a lady was fifteen minutes late in keeping her appointment 
without seeing in that accident the frustration of 
his entire life。 Looking at his watch; he seemed to look 

deep into the springs of human existence; and by the 
light of what he saw there altered his course towards the 
north and the midnight… 。 Yes; one’s voyage must be 
made absolutely without panions through ice and 
black water—towards what goal? Here he laid his finger 
upon the halfhour; and decided that when the minute
hand reached that point he would go; at the same time 
answering the question put by another of the many voices 
of consciousness with the reply that there was undoubtedly 
a goal; but that it would need the most relentless 
energy to keep anywhere in its direction。 Still; still; one 
goes on; the ticking seconds seemed to assure him; with 
dignity; with open eyes; with determination not to accept 
the secondrate; not to be tempted by the unworthy; 
not to yield; not to promise。 Twentyfive minutes 
past three were now marked upon the face of the 
watch。 The world; he assured himself; since Katharine 
Hilbery was now half an hour behind her time; offers no 
happiness; no rest from struggle; no certainty。 In a scheme 
of things utterly bad from the start the only unpardonable 
folly is that of hope。 Raising his eyes for a moment 

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from the face of his watch; he rested them upon the 
opposite bank; reflectively and not without a certain wistfulness; 
as if the sternness of their gaze were still capable 
of mitigation。 Soon a look of the deepest satisfaction 
filled them; though; for a moment; he did not move。 
He watched a lady who came rapidly; and yet with a trace 
of hesitation; down the broad grasswalk towards him。 
She did not see him。 Distance lent her figure an indescribable 
height; and romance seemed to surround her 
from the floating of a purple veil which the light air filled 
and curved from her shoulders。 

“Here she es; like a ship in full sail;” he said to 
himself; half remembering some line from a play or poem 
where the heroine bore down thus with feathers flying 
and airs saluting her。 The greenery and the high presences 
of the trees surrounded her as if they stood forth 
at her ing。 He rose; and she saw him; her little exclamation 
proved that she was glad to find him; and then 
that she blamed herself for being late。 

“Why did you never tell me? I didn’t know there was 
this;” she remarked; alluding to the lake; the broad green 

space; the vista of trees; with the ruffled gold of the 
Thames in the distance and the Ducal castle standing in 
its meadows。 She paid the rigid tail of the Ducal lion the 
tribute of incredulous laughter。 

“You’ve never been to Kew?” Denham remarked。 

But it appeared that she had e once as a small 
child; when the geography of the place was entirely different; 
and the fauna included certainly flamingoes and; 
possibly; camels。 They strolled on; refashioning these legendary 
gardens。 She was; as he felt; glad merely to stroll 
and loiter and let her fancy touch upon anything her 
eyes encountered—a bush; a parkkeeper; a decorated 
goose—as if the relaxation soothed her。 The warmth of 
the afternoon; the first of spring; tempted them to sit 
upon a seat in a glade of beechtrees; with forest drives 
striking green paths this way and that around them。 She 
sighed deeply。 

“It’s so peaceful;” she said; as if in explanation of her 
sigh。 Not a single person was in sight; and the stir of the 
wind in the branches; that sound so seldom heard by 
Londoners; seemed to her as if wafted from fathomless 

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oceans of sweet air in the distance。 

While she breathed and looked; Denham was engaged 
in uncovering with the point of his stick a group of green 
spikes half smothered by the dead leaves。 He did this 
with the peculiar touch of the botanist。 In naming the 
little green plant to her he used the Latin name; thus 
disguising some flower familiar even to Chelsea; and 
making her exclaim; half in amusement; at his knowledge。 
Her own ignorance was vast; she confessed。 What 
did one call that tree opposite; for instance; supposing 
one condescended to call it by its English name? Beech 
or elm or sycamore? It chanced; by the testimony of a 
dead leaf; to be oak; and a little attention to a diagram 
which Denham proceeded to draw upon an envelope soon 
put Katharine in possession of some of the fundamental 
distinctions between our British trees。 She then asked 
him to inform her about flowers。 To her they were variously 
shaped and colored petals; poised; at different seasons 
of the year; upon very similar green stalks; but to 
him they were; in the first instance; bulbs or seeds; and 
later; living things endowed with sex; and pores; and 

susceptibilities which adapted themselves by all manner 
of ingenious devices to live and beget life; and could be 
fashioned squat or tapering; flamecolored or pale; pure 
or spotted; by processes which might reveal the secrets 
of human existence。 Denham spoke with increasing ardor 
of a hobby which had long been his in secret。 No discourse 
could have worn a more wele sound in 
Katharine’s ears。 For weeks she had heard nothing that 
made such pleasant music in her mind。 It wakened echoes 
in all those remote fastnesses of her being where 
loneliness had brooded so long undisturbed。 

She wished he would go on for ever talking of plants; 
and showing her how science felt not quite blindly for 
the law that ruled their endless variations。 A law that 
might be inscrutable but was certainly omnipotent appealed 
to her at the moment; because she could find 
nothing like it in possession of human lives。 Circumstances 
had long forced her; as they force most women in the 
flower of youth; to consider; painfully and minutely; all 
that part of life which is conspicuously without order; 
she had had to consider moods and wishes; degrees of 

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Night and Day 

liking or disliking; and their effect upon the destiny of 
people dear to her; she had been forced to deny herself 
any contemplation of that other part of life where thought 
constructs a destiny which is independent of human beings。 
As Denham spoke; she followed his words and considered 
their bearing with an easy vigor which spoke of a 
capacity long hoarded and unspent。 The very trees and 
the green merging into the blue distance became symbols 
of the vast external world which recks so little of the 
happiness; of the marriages or deaths of individuals。 In 
order to give her examples of what he was saying; Denham 
led the way; first to the Rock Garden; and then to the 
Orchid House。 

For him there was safety in the direction which the talk 
had taken。 His emphasis might e from feelings more 
personal than those science roused in him; but it was 
disguised; and naturally he found it easy to expound and 
explain。 Nevertheless; when he saw Katharine among the 
orchids; her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic 
plants; which seemed to peer and gape at her from 
striped hoods and fleshy throats; his ardor for botany 

waned; and a more plex feeling replaced it。 She fell 
silent。 The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections。 
In defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved 
hand and touched one。 The sight of the rubies upon her 
finger affected him so disagreeably that he started and 
turned away。 But next moment he controlled himself; he 
looked at her taking in one strange shape after another 
with the contemplative; considering gaze of a person who 
sees not exactly what is before him; but gropes in regions 
that lie beyond it。 The faraway look entirely lacked 
selfconsciousness。 Denham doubted whether she remembered 
his presence。 He could recall himself; of course; by 
a word or a movement—but why? She was happier thus。 

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