[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第77部分

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the　impulse　towards　definite　action；　laid　firmly　upon　
the　table　beside　her　an　envelope　which　she　had　been　
grasping　all　this　time　in　plete　forgetfulness。　The　address　
was　uppermost；　and　a　moment　later　she　saw　William’s　
eye　rest　upon　it　as　he　rose　to　fulfil　some　duty　with　a　
plate。　His　expression　instantly　changed。　He　did　what　he　
was　on　the　point　of　doing；　and　then　looked　at　Katharine　
with　a　look　which　revealed　enough　of　his　confusion　to　
show　her　that　he　was　not　entirely　represented　by　his　appearance。　
In　a　minute　or　two　he　proved　himself　at　a　loss　
with　Mrs。　Vermont　Bankes；　and　Mrs。　Hilbery；　aware　of　the　
silence　with　her　usual　quickness；　suggested　that；　perhaps；　
it　was　now　time　that　Mrs。　Bankes　should　be　shown　
“our　things。”　

Katharine　accordingly　rose；　and　led　the　way　to　the　little　
inner　room　with　the　pictures　and　the　books。　Mrs。　Bankes　
and　Rodney　followed　her。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

She　turned　on　the　lights；　and　began　directly　in　her　low；　
pleasant　voice：　“This　table　is　my　grandfather’s　writing
table。　Most　of　the　later　poems　were　written　at　it。　And　
this　is　his　pen—the　last　pen　he　ever　used。”　She　took　it　in　
her　hand　and　paused　for　the　right　number　of　seconds。　
“Here；”　she　continued；　“is　the　original　manuscript　of　the　
‘Ode　to　Winter。’　The　early　manuscripts　are　far　less　corrected　
than　the　later　ones；　as　you　will　see　directly…　。　
Oh；　do　take　it　yourself；”　she　added；　as　Mrs。　Bankes　asked；　
in　an　awestruck　tone　of　voice；　for　that　privilege；　and　
began　a　preliminary　unbuttoning　of　her　white　kid　gloves。　

“You　are　wonderfully　like　your　grandfather；　Miss　Hilbery；”　
the　American　lady　observed；　gazing　from　Katharine　to　
the　portrait；　“especially　about　the　eyes。　e；　now；　I　
expect　she　writes　poetry　herself；　doesn’t　she？”　she　asked　
in　a　jocular　tone；　turning　to　William。　“Quite　one’s　ideal　of　
a　poet；　is　it　not；　Mr。　Rodney？　I　cannot　tell　you　what　a　
privilege　I　feel　it　to　be　standing　just　here　with　the　poet’s　
granddaughter。　You　must　know　we　think　a　great　deal　of　
your　grandfather　in　America；　Miss　Hilbery。　We　have　societies　
for　reading　him　aloud。　What！　His　very　own　slip


pers！”　Laying　aside　the　manuscript；　she　hastily　grasped　
the　old　shoes；　and　remained　for　a　moment　dumb　in　contemplation　
of　them。　

While　Katharine　went　on　steadily　with　her　duties　as　
showwoman；　Rodney　examined　intently　a　row　of　little　
drawings　which　he　knew　by　heart　already。　His　disordered　
state　of　mind　made　it　necessary　for　him　to　take　advantage　
of　these　little　respites；　as　if　he　had　been　out　in　a　
high　wind　and　must　straighten　his　dress　in　the　first　shelter　
he　reached。　His　calm　was　only　superficial；　as　he　knew　
too　well；　it　did　not　exist　much　below　the　surface　of　tie；　
waistcoat；　and　white　slip。　

On　getting　out　of　bed　that　morning　he　had　fully　made　
up　his　mind　to　ignore　what　had　been　said　the　night　before；　
he　had　been　convinced；　by　the　sight　of　Denham；　
that　his　love　for　Katharine　was　passionate；　and　when　he　
addressed　her　early　that　morning　on　the　telephone；　he　
had　meant　his　cheerful　but　authoritative　tones　to　convey　
to　her　the　fact　that；　after　a　night　of　madness；　they　were　
as　indissolubly　engaged　as　ever。　But　when　he　reached　his　
office　his　torments　began。　He　found　a　letter　from　Cassandra　

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Night　and　Day　

waiting　for　him。　She　had　read　his　play；　and　had　taken　the　
very　first　opportunity　to　write　and　tell　him　what　she　
thought　of　it。　She　knew；　she　wrote；　that　her　praise　meant　
absolutely　nothing；　but　still；　she　had　sat　up　all　night；　
she　thought　this；　that；　and　the　other；　she　was　full　of　
enthusiasm　most　elaborately　scratched　out　in　places；　but　
enough　was　written　plain　to　gratify　William’s　vanity　exceedingly。　
She　was　quite　intelligent　enough　to　say　the　
right　things；　or；　even　more　charmingly；　to　hint　at　them。　
In　other　ways；　too；　it　was　a　very　charming　letter。　She　
told　him　about　her　music；　and　about　a　Suffrage　meeting　
to　which　Henry　had　taken　her；　and　she　asserted；　half　
seriously；　that　she　had　learnt　the　Greek　alphabet；　and　
found　it　“fascinating。”　The　word　was　underlined。　Had　she　
laughed　when　she　drew　that　line？　Was　she　ever　serious？　
Didn’t　the　letter　show　the　most　engaging　pound　of　
enthusiasm　and　spirit　and　whimsicality；　all　tapering　into　
a　flame　of　girlish　freakishness；　which　flitted；　for　the　rest　
of　the　morning；　as　a　willo’thewisp；　across　Rodney’s　
landscape。　He　could　not　resist　beginning　an　answer　to　
her　there　and　then。　He　found　it　particularly　delightful　to　

shape　a　style　which　should　express　the　bowing　and　curtsying；　
advancing　and　retreating；　which　are　characteristic　
of　one　of　the　many　million　partnerships　of　men　and　
women。　Katharine　never　trod　that　particular　measure；　he　
could　not　help　reflecting；　Katharine—Cassandra；　
Cassandra—Katharine—they　alternated　in　his　consciousness　
all　day　long。　It　was　all　very　well　to　dress　oneself　
carefully；　pose　one’s　face；　and　start　off　punctually　at　
halfpast　four　to　a　teaparty　in　Cheyne　Walk；　but　Heaven　
only　knew　what　would　e　of　it　all；　and　when　Katharine；　
after　sitting　silent　with　her　usual　immobility；　wantonly　
drew　from　her　pocket　and　slapped　down　on　the　table　
beneath　his　eyes　a　letter　addressed　to　Cassandra　herself；　
his　posure　deserted　him。　What　did　she　mean　by　her　
behavior？　

He　looked　up　sharply　from　his　row　of　little　pictures。　
Katharine　was　disposing　of　the　American　lady　in　far　too　
arbitrary　a　fashion。　Surely　the　victim　herself　must　see　
how　foolish　her　enthusiasms　appeared　in　the　eyes　of　the　
poet’s　granddaughter。　Katharine　never　made　any　attempt　
to　spare　people’s　feelings；　he　reflected；　and；　being　him


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self　very　sensitive　to　all　shades　of　fort　and　disfort；　
he　cut　short　the　auctioneer’s　catalog；　which　Katharine　
was　reeling　off　more　and　more　absentmindedly；　and　took　
Mrs。　Vermont　Bankes；　with　a　queer　sense　of　fellowship　in　
suffering；　under　his　own　protection。　

But　within　a　few　minutes　the　American　lady　had　pleted　
her　inspection；　and　inclining　her　head　in　a　little　
nod　of　reverential　farewell　to　the　poet　and　his　shoes；　she　
was　escorted　downstairs　by　Rodney。　Katharine　stayed　by　
herself　in　the　little　room。　The　ceremony　of　ancestorworship　
had　been　more　than　usually　oppressive　to　her。　Moreover；　
the　room　was　being　crowded　beyond　the　bounds　
of　order。　Only　that　morning　a　heavily　insured　proofsheet　
had　reached　them　from　a　collector　in　Australia；　which　
recorded　a　change　of　the　poet’s　mind　about　a　very　famous　
phrase；　and；　therefore；　had　claims　to　the　honor　of　
glazing　and　framing。　But　was　there　room　for　it？　Must　it　
be　hung　on　the　staircase；　or　should　some　other　relic　give　
place　to　do　it　honor？　Feeling　unable　to　decide　the　question；　
Katharine　glanced　at　the　portrait　of　her　grandfather；　
as　if　to　ask　his　opinion。　The　artist　who　had　painted　

it　was　now　out　of　fashion；　and　by　dint　of　showing　it　to　
visitors；　Katharine　had　almost　ceased　to　see　anything　
but　a　glow　of　faintly　pleasing　pink　and　brown　tints；　enclosed　
within　a　circular　scroll　of　gilt　laurelleaves。　The　
young　man　who　was　her　grandfather　looked　vaguely　over　
her　head。　The　sensual　lips　were　slightly　parted；　and　gave　
the　face　an　expression　of　beholding　something　lovely　or　
miraculous　vanishing　or　just　rising　upon　the　rim　of　the　
distance。　The　expression　repeated　itself　curiously　upon　
Katharine’s　face　as　she　gazed　up　into　his。　They　were　the　
same　age；　or　very　nearly　so。　She　wondered　what　he　was　
looking　for；　were　there　waves　beating　upon　a　shore　for　
him；　too；　she　wondered；　and　heroes　riding　through　the　
leafhung　forests？　For　perhaps　the　first　time　in　her　life　
she　thought　of　him　as　a　man；　young；　unhappy；　tempestuous；　
full　of　desires　and　faults；　for　the　first　time　she　realized　
him　for　herself；　and　not　from　her　mother’s　memory。　
He　might　have　been　her　brother；　she　thought。　It　seemed　
to　her　that　they　were　akin；　with　the　mysterious　kinship　
of　blood　which　makes　it　seem　possible　to　interpret　the　
sights　which　the　eyes　of　the　dead　behold　so　intently；　or　

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Night　and　Day　

even　to　believe　that　they　look　with　us　upon　our　present　
joys　and　sorrows。　He　wo