[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第45部分

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After　greeting　her　uncle　and　aunt　and　receiving；　as　usual；　
a　present　of　two　sovereigns　for　“cab　fares　and　dissipation”　
from　Uncle　Trevor；　whose　favorite　niece　she　was；　
she　changed　her　dress　and　wandered　into　Katharine’s　room　
to　await　her。　What　a　great　lookingglass　Katharine　had；　
she　thought；　and　how　mature　all　the　arrangements　upon　
the　dressingtable　were　pared　to　what　she　was　used　
to　at　home。　Glancing　round；　she　thought　that　the　bills　
stuck　upon　a　skewer　and　stood　for　ornament　upon　the　
mantelpiece　were　astonishingly　like　Katharine；　There　
wasn’t　a　photograph　of　William　anywhere　to　be　seen。　The　
room；　with　its　bination　of　luxury　and　bareness；　its　
silk　dressinggowns　and　crimson　slippers；　its　shabby　carpet　
and　bare　walls；　had　a　powerful　air　of　Katharine　herself；　
she　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　room　and　enjoyed　the　

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sensation；　and　then；　with　a　desire　to　finger　what　her　
cousin　was　in　the　habit　of　fingering；　Cassandra　began　to　
take　down　the　books　which　stood　in　a　row　upon　the　shelf　
above　the　bed。　In　most　houses　this　shelf　is　the　ledge　
upon　which　the　last　relics　of　religious　belief　lodge　themselves　
as　if；　late　at　night；　in　the　heart　of　privacy；　people；　
skeptical　by　day；　find　solace　in　sipping　one　draught　of　
the　old　charm　for　such　sorrows　or　perplexities　as　may　
steal　from　their　hidingplaces　in　the　dark。　But　there　was　
no　hymnbook　here。　By　their　battered　covers　and　enigmatical　
contents；　Cassandra　judged　them　to　be　old　schoolbooks　
belonging　to　Uncle　Trevor；　and　piously；　though　
eccentrically；　preserved　by　his　daughter。　There　was　no　
end；　she　thought；　to　the　unexpectedness　of　Katharine。　
She　had　once　had　a　passion　for　geometry　herself；　and；　
curled　upon　Katharine’s　quilt；　she　became　absorbed　in　
trying　to　remember　how　far　she　had　forgotten　what　she　
once　knew。　Katharine；　ing　in　a　little　later；　found　her　
deep　in　this　characteristic　pursuit。　

“My　dear；”　Cassandra　exclaimed；　shaking　the　book　at　
her　cousin；　“my　whole　life’s　changed　from　this　moment！　I　

must　write　the　man’s　name　down　at　once；　or　I　shall　forget—”　


Whose　name；　what　book；　which　life　was　changed　
Katharine　proceeded　to　ascertain。　She　began　to　lay　aside　
her　clothes　hurriedly；　for　she　was　very　late。　

“May　I　sit　and　watch　you？”　Cassandra　asked；　shutting　
up　her　book。　“I　got　ready　on　purpose。”　

“Oh；　you’re　ready；　are　you？”　said　Katharine；　half　turning　
in　the　midst　of　her　operations；　and　looking　at　
Cassandra；　who　sat；　clasping　her　knees；　on　the　edge　of　
the　bed。　

“There　are　people　dining　here；”　she　said；　taking　in　the　
effect　of　Cassandra　from　a　new　point　of　view。　After　an　
interval；　the　distinction；　the　irregular　charm；　of　the　small　
face　with　its　long　tapering　nose　and　its　bright　oval　eyes　
were　very　notable。　The　hair　rose　up　off　the　forehead　rather　
stiffly；　and；　given　a　more　careful　treatment　by　hairdressers　
and　dressmakers；　the　light　angular　figure　might　possess　
a　likeness　to　a　French　lady　of　distinction　in　the　eighteenth　
century。　

“Who’s　ing　to　dinner？”　Cassandra　asked；　anticipat


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ing　further　possibilities　of　rapture。　

“There’s　William；　and；　I　believe；　Aunt　Eleanor　and　Uncle　
Aubrey。”　

“I’m　so　glad　William　is　ing。　Did　he　tell　you　that　he　
sent　me　his　manuscript？　I　think　it’s　wonderful—I　think　
he’s　almost　good　enough　for　you；　Katharine。”　

“You　shall　sit　next　to　him　and　tell　him　what　you　think　
of　him。”　

“I　shan’t　dare　do　that；”　Cassandra　asserted。　

“Why？　You’re　not　afraid　of　him；　are　you？”　

“A　little—because　he’s　connected　with　you。”　

Katharine　smiled。　

“But　then；　with　your　wellknown　fidelity；　considering　that　
you’re　staying　here　at　least　a　fortnight；　you　won’t　have　
any　illusions　left　about　me　by　the　time　you　go。　I　give　you　
a　week；　Cassandra。　I　shall　see　my　power　fading　day　by　day。　
Now　it’s　at　the　climax；　but　tomorrow　it’ll　have　begun　to　
fade。　What　am　I　to　wear；　I　wonder？　Find　me　a　blue　dress；　
Cassandra；　over　there　in　the　long　wardrobe。”　

She　spoke　disconnectedly；　handling　brush　and　b；　and　
pulling　out　the　little　drawers　in　her　dressingtable　and　

leaving　them　open。　Cassandra；　sitting　on　the　bed　behind　
her；　saw　the　reflection　of　her　cousin’s　face　in　the　looking
glass。　The　face　in　the　lookingglass　was　serious　and　intent；　
apparently　occupied　with　other　things　besides　the　
straightness　of　the　parting　which；　however；　was　being　driven　
as　straight　as　a　Roman　road　through　the　dark　hair。　Cassandra　
was　impressed　again　by　Katharine’s　maturity；　and；　as　she　
enveloped　herself　in　the　blue　dress　which　filled　almost　the　
whole　of　the　long　lookingglass　with　blue　light　and　made　
it　the　frame　of　a　picture；　holding　not　only　the　slightly　
moving　effigy　of　the　beautiful　woman；　but　shapes　and　colors　
of　objects　reflected　from　the　background；　Cassandra　
thought　that　no　sight　had　ever　been　quite　so　romantic。　It　
was　all　in　keeping　with　the　room　and　the　house；　and　the　
city　round　them；　for　her　ears　had　not　yet　ceased　to　notice　
the　hum　of　distant　wheels。　

They　went　downstairs　rather　late；　in　spite　of　Katharine’s　
extreme　speed　in　getting　ready。　To　Cassandra’s　ears　the　
buzz　of　voices　inside　the　drawingroom　was　like　the　tuning　
up　of　the　instruments　of　the　orchestra。　It　seemed　to　
her　that　there　were　numbers　of　people　in　the　room；　and　

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that　they　were　strangers；　and　that　they　were　beautiful　
and　dressed　with　the　greatest　distinction；　although　they　
proved　to　be　mostly　her　relations；　and　the　distinction　of　
their　clothing　was　confined；　in　the　eyes　of　an　impartial　
observer；　to　the　white　waistcoat　which　Rodney　wore。　But　
they　all　rose　simultaneously；　which　was　by　itself　impressive；　
and　they　all　exclaimed；　and　shook　hands；　and　she　
was　introduced　to　Mr。　Peyton；　and　the　door　sprang　open；　
and　dinner　was　announced；　and　they　filed　off；　William　
Rodney　offering　her　his　slightly　bent　black　arm；　as　she　
had　secretly　hoped　he　would。　In　short；　had　the　scene　
been　looked　at　only　through　her　eyes；　it　must　have　been　
described　as　one　of　magical　brilliancy。　The　pattern　of　the　
soupplates；　the　stiff　folds　of　the　napkins；　which　rose　by　
the　side　of　each　plate　in　the　shape　of　arum　lilies；　the　
long　sticks　of　bread　tied　with　pink　ribbon；　the　silver　dishes　
and　the　seacolored　champagne　glasses；　with　the　flakes　
of　gold　congealed　in　their　stems—all　these　details；　together　
with　a　curiously　pervasive　smell　of　kid　gloves；　contributed　
to　her　exhilaration；　which　must　be　repressed；　
however；　because　she　was　grown　up；　and　the　world　held　

no　more　for　her　to　marvel　at。　

The　world　held　no　more　for　her　to　marvel　at；　it　is　true；　
but　it　held　other　people；　and　each　other　person　possessed　
in　Cassandra’s　mind　some　fragment　of　what　privately　
she　called　“reality。”　It　was　a　gift　that　they　would　
impart　if　you　asked　them　for　it；　and　thus　no　dinnerparty　
could　possibly　be　dull；　and　little　Mr。　Peyton　on　her　right　
and　William　Rodney　on　her　left　were　in　equal　measure　
endowed　with　the　quality　which　seemed　to　her　so　unmistakable　
and　so　precious　that　the　way　people　neglected　to　
demand　it　was　a　constant　source　of　surprise　to　her。　She　
scarcely　knew；　indeed；　whether　she　was　talking　to　Mr。　
Peyton　or　to　William　Rodney。　But　to　one　who；　by　degrees；　
assumed　the　shape　of　an　elderly　man　with　a　mustache；　
she　described　how　she　had　arrived　in　London　that　very　
afternoon；　and　how　she　had　taken　a　cab　and　driven　
through　the　streets。　Mr。　Peyton；　an　editor　of　fifty　years；　
bowed　his　bald　head　repeatedly；　with　apparent　understanding。　
At　least；　he　understood　that　she　was　very　young　
and　pretty；　and　saw　that　she　was　excited；　though　he　could　
not　gather　at　once　from　her　words　or　remember　from　his　

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own　experience　what　there　was　to　be　excited　about。　“Were　
there　any　buds　on　the　trees？”　he　asked。　“Which　line　did　
she　travel　by？”　

He　was　cut　short　in　these　amiable　inquiries　by　her　desire　
to　know　whether　he　was　one　of　those　who　read；　or　
one　of　those　who　look　out　of　the　window？　Mr。　Peyton　was　
by　no　means　sure　which　he　did。　He　rather　thought　he　did　
both。　He　was　told　that　he　had　made　a　most　dangerous　
confession。　She　could　deduce　his　entire　history　from　that　
one　fact。　He　challenged　her　to　proceed；　and　she　proclaimed　
him　a　Liberal　Member　of　Parliament。　

William；　nominally　engaged　in　a　desultory　conversation　
with　Aunt　Eleanor；　heard　every　word；　and　taking　advantage　
of　the　fact　that　elderly　ladies　have　little　continuity　
of　conversation；　at　least　with　those　whom　they　
esteem　for　their　youth　and　their　sex；　he　asserted　his　presence　
by　a　very　nervous　laugh。　

Cassandra　turned　to　him　directly。　She　was　enchanted　to　
find　that；　instantly　and　with　such　ease；　another　of　these　
fascinating　beings　was　offering　untold　wealth　for　her　extraction。　


“There’s　no　doubt　what　you　do　in　a　railway　carriage；　
William；”　she　said；　making　use　in　her　pleasure　of　his　first　
name。　“You　never　once　look　out　of　the　window；　you　read　
all　the　time。”　

“And　what　facts　do　you　deduce　from　that？”　Mr。　Peyton　
asked。　

“Oh；　that　he’s　a　poet；　of　course；”　said　Cassandra。　“But　I　
must　confess　that　I　knew　that　before；　so　it　isn’t　fair。　I’ve　
got　your　manuscript　with　me；”　she　went　on；　disregarding　
Mr。　Peyton　in　a　shameless　way。　“I’ve　got　all　sorts　of　things　
I　want　to　ask　you　about　it。”　

William　inclined　his　head　and　tried　to　conceal　the　pleasure　
that　her　remark　gave　him。　But　the　pleasure　was　not　
unalloyed。　However　susceptible　to　flattery　William　might　
be；　he　would　never　tolerate　it　from　people　who　showed　a　
gross　or　emotional　taste　in　literature；　and　if　Cassandra　
erred　even　slightly　from　what　he　considered　essential　in　
this　respect　he　would　express　his　disfort　by　flinging　
out　his　hands　and　wrinkling　his　forehead；　he　would　find　
no　pleasure　in　her　flattery　after　that。　

“First　of　all；”　she　proceeded；　“I　want　to　know　why　you　

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chose　to　write　a　play？”　

“Ah！　You　mean　it’s　not　dramatic？”　

“I　mean　that　I　don’t　see　what　it　would　gain　by　being　
acted。　But　then　does　Shakespeare　gain？　Henry　and　I　are　
always　arguing　about　Shakespeare。　I’m　certain　he’s　wrong；　
but　I　can’t　prove　it　because　I’ve　only　seen　Shakespeare　
acted　once　in　Lincoln。　But　I’m　quite　positive；”　she　insisted；　
“that　Shakespeare　wrote　for　the　stage。”　

“You’re　perfectly　right；”　Rodney　exclaimed。　“I　was　hoping　
you　were　on　that　side。　Henry’s　wrong—entirely　wrong。　
Of　course；　I’ve　failed；　as　all　the　moderns　fail。　Dear；　dear；　
I　wish　I’d　consulted　you　before。”　

From　this　point　they　proceeded　to　go　over；　as　far　as　
memory　served　them；　the　different　aspects　of　Rodney’s　
drama。　She　said　nothing　that　jarred　upon　him；　and　untrained　
daring　had　the　power　to　stimulate　experience　to　
such　an　extent　that　Rodney　was　frequently　seen　to　hold　
his　fork　suspended　before　him；　while　he　debated　the　first　
principles　of　the　art。　Mrs。　Hilbery　thought　to　herself　that　
she　had　never　seen　him　to　such　advantage；　yes；　he　was　
somehow　different；　he　reminded　her　of　some　one　who　

was　dead；　some　one　who　was　distinguished—she　had　

forgotten　his　name。　

Cassandra’s　voice　rose　high　in　its　excitement。　

“You’ve　not　read　‘The　Idiot’！”　she　exclaimed。　

“I’ve　read　‘War　and　Peace’；”　William　replied；　a　little　testily。　


“‘War　and　Peace’！”　she　echoed；　in　a　tone　of　derision。　

“I　confess　I　don’t　understand　the　Russians。”　

“Shake　hands！　Shake　hands！”　boomed　Uncle　Aubrey　from　
across　the　table。　“Neither　do　I。　And　I　hazard　the　opinion　
that　they　don’t　themselves。”　

The　old　gentleman　had　ruled　a　large　part　of　the　Indian　
Empire；　but　he　was　in　the　habit　of　saying　that　he　had　
rather　have　written　the　works　of　Dickens。　The　table　now　
took　possession　of　a　subject　much　to　its　liking。　Aunt　
Eleanor　showed　premonitory　signs　of　pronouncing　an　
opinion。　Although　she　had　blunted　her　taste　upon　some　
form　of　philanthropy　for　twentyfive　years；　she　had　a　fine　
natural　instinct　for　an　upstart　or　a　pretender；　and　knew　
to　a　hairbreadth　what　literature　should　be　and　what　it　
should　not　be。　She　was　born　to　the　knowledge；　and　scarcely　

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thought　it　a　matter　to　be　proud　of。　

“Insanity　is　not　a　fit　subject　for　fiction；”　she　announced　
positively。　

“There’s　the　wellknown　case　of　Hamlet；”　Mr。　Hilbery　
interposed；　in　his　leisurely；　halfhumorous　tones。　

“Ah；　but　poetry’s　different；　Trevor；”　said　Aunt　Eleanor；　
as　if　she　had　special　authority　from　Shakespeare　to　say　
so。　“Different　altogether。　And　I’ve　never　thought；　for　my　
part；　that　Hamlet　was　as　mad　as　they　make　out。　What　is　
your　opinion；　Mr。　Peyton？”　For；　as　there　was　a　minister　of　
literature　present　in　the　person　of　the　editor　of　an　esteemed　
review；　she　deferred　to　him。　

Mr。　Peyton　leant　a　little　back　in　his　chair；　and；　putting　
his　head　rather　on　one　side；　observed　that　that　was　a　question　
that　he　had　never　been　able　to　answer　entirely　to　his　
satisfaction。　There　was　much　to　be　said　on　both　sides；　but　
as　he　considered　upon　which　side　he　should　say　it；　Mrs。　
Hilbery　broke　in　upon　his　judicious　meditations。　

“Lovely；　lovely　Ophelia！”　she　exclaimed。　“What　a　wonderful　
power　it　is—poetry！　I　wake　up　in　the　morning　all　
bedraggled；　there’s　a　yellow　fog　outside；　little　Emily　turns　

on　the　electric　light　when　she　brings　me　my　tea；　and　
says；　‘Oh；　ma’am；　the　water’s　frozen　in　the　cistern；　and　
cook’s　cut　her　finger　to　the　bone。’　And　then　I　open　a　little　
green　book；　and　the　birds　are　singing；　the　stars　shining；　
the　flowers　twinkling—”　She　looked　about　her　as　if　these　
presences　had　suddenly　manifested　themselves　round　her　
diningroom　table。　

“Has　the　cook　cut　her　finger　badly？”　Aunt　Eleanor　demanded；　
addressing　herself　naturally　to　Katharine。　

“Oh；　the　cook’s　finger　is　only　my　way　of　putting　it；”　
said　Mrs。　Hilbery。　“But　if　she　had　cut　her　arm　off；　Katharine　
would　have　sewn　it　on　again；”　she　remarked；　with　an　
affectionate　glance　at　her　daughter；　who　looked；　she　
thought；　a　little　sad。　“But　what　horrid；　horrid　thoughts；”　
she　wound　up；　laying　down　her　napkin　and　pushing　her　
chair　back。　“e；　let　us　find　something　more　cheerful　
to　talk　about　upstairs。”　

Upstairs　in　the　drawingroom　Cassandra　found　fresh　
sources　of　pleasure；　first　in　the　distinguished　and　expectant　
look　of　the　room；　and　then　in　the　chance　of　exercising　
her　diviningrod　upon　a　new　assortment　of　human　

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beings。　But　the　low　tones　of　the　women；　their　meditative　
silences；　the　beauty　which；　to　her　at　least；　shone　even　
from　black　satin　and　the　knobs　of　amber　which　encircled　
elderly　necks；　changed　her　wish　to　chatter　to　a　more　subdued　
desire　merely　to　watch　and　to　whisper。　She　entered　
with　delight　into　an　atmosphere　in　which　private　matters　
were　being　interchanged　freely；　almost　in　monosyllables；　
by　the　older　women　who　now　accepted　her　as　one　of　
themselves。　Her　expression　became　very　gentle　and　sympathetic；　
as　if　she；　too；　were　full　of　solicitude　for　the　
world　which　was　somehow　being　cared　for；　managed　and　
deprecated　by　Aunt　Maggi