[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第62部分

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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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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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even　to　believe　that　they　look　with　us　upon　our　present　
joys　and　sorrows。　He　would　have　understood；　she　thought；　
suddenly；　and　instead　of　laying　her　withered　flowers　upon　
his　shrine；　she　brought　him　her　own　perplexities—perhaps　
a　gift　of　greater　value；　should　the　dead　be　conscious　
of　gifts；　than　flowers　and　incense　and　adoration。　
Doubts；　questionings；　and　despondencies　she　felt；　as　she　
looked　up；　would　be　more　wele　to　him　than　homage；　
and　he　would　hold　them　but　a　very　small　burden　if　she　
gave　him；　also；　some　share　in　what　she　suffered　and　
achieved。　The　depth　of　her　own　pride　and　love　were　not　
more　apparent　to　her　than　the　sense　that　the　dead　asked　
neither　flowers　nor　regrets；　but　a　share　in　the　life　which　
they　had　given　her；　the　life　which　they　had　lived。　

Rodney　found　her　a　moment　later　sitting　beneath　her　
grandfather’s　portrait。　She　laid　her　hand　on　the　seat　next　
her　in　a　friendly　way；　and　said：　

“e　and　sit　down；　William。　How　glad　I　was　you　were　
here！　I　felt　myself　getting　ruder　and　ruder。”　

“You　are　not　good　at　hiding　your　feelings；”　he　returned　
dryly。　

“Oh；　don’t　scold　me—I’ve　had　a　horrid　afternoon。”　She　
told　him　how　she　had　taken　the　flowers　to　Mrs。　McCormick；　
and　how　South　Kensington　impressed　her　as　the　preserve　
of　officers’　widows。　She　described　how　the　door　had　
opened；　and　what　gloomy　avenues　of　busts　and　palm
trees　and　umbrellas　had　been　revealed　to　her。　She　spoke　
lightly；　and　succeeded　in　putting　him　at　his　ease。　Indeed；　
he　rapidly　became　too　much　at　his　ease　to　persist　
in　a　condition　of　cheerful　neutrality。　He　felt　his　posure　
slipping　from　him。　Katharine　made　it　seem　so　natural　
to　ask　her　to　help　him；　or　advise　him；　to　say　straight　
out　what　he　had　in　his　mind。　The　letter　from　Cassandra　
was　heavy　in　his　pocket。　There　was　also　the　letter　to　
Cassandra　lying　on　the　table　in　the　next　room。　The　atmosphere　
seemed　charged　with　Cassandra。　But；　unless　
Katharine　began　the　subject　of　her　own　accord；　he　could　
not　even　hint—he　must　ignore　the　whole　affair；　it　was　
the　part　of　a　gentleman　to　preserve　a　bearing　that　was；　
as　far　as　he　could　make　it；　the　bearing　of　an　undoubting　
lover。　At　intervals　he　sighed　deeply。　He　talked　rather　more　
quickly　than　usual　about　the　possibility　that　some　of　the　

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operas　of　Mozart　would　be　played　in　the　summer。　He　had　
received　a　notice；　he　said；　and　at　once　produced　a　pocketbook　
stuffed　with　papers；　and　began　shuffling　them　in　
search。　He　held　a　thick　envelope　between　his　finger　and　
thumb；　as　if　the　notice　from　the　opera　pany　had　bee　
in　some　way　inseparably　attached　to　it。　

“A　letter　from　Cassandra？”　said　Katharine；　in　the　easiest　
voice　in　the　world；　looking　over　his　shoulder。　“I’ve　just　
written　to　ask　her　to　e　here；　only　I　forgot　to　post　it。”　

He　handed　her　the　envelope　in　silence。　She　took　it；　
extracted　the　sheets；　and　read　the　letter　through。　

The　reading　seemed　to　Rodney　to　take　an　intolerably　
long　time。　

“Yes；”　she　observed　at　length；　“a　very　charming　letter。”　

Rodney’s　face　was　half　turned　away；　as　if　in　bashfulness。　
Her　view　of　his　profile　almost　moved　her　to　laughter。　
She　glanced　through　the　pages　once　more。　

“I　see　no　harm；”　William　blurted　out；　“in　helping　her—　
with　Greek；　for　example—if　she　really　cares　for　that　sort　
of　thing。”　

“There’s　no　reason　why　she　shouldn’t　care；”　said　

Katharine；　consulting　the　pages　once　more。　“In　fact—　
ah；　here　it　is—’The　Greek　alphabet　is　absolutely　fascinating。’　
Obviously　she　does　care。”　

“Well；　Greek　may　be　rather　a　large　order。　I　was　thinking　
chiefly　of　English。　Her　criticisms　of　my　play；　though　they’re　
too　generous；　evidently　immature—she　can’t　be　more　than　
twentytwo；　I　suppose？—they　certainly　show　the　sort　of　
thing　one　wants：　real　feeling　for　poetry；　understanding；　
not　formed；　of　course；　but　it’s　at　the　root　of　everything　
after　all。　There’d　be　no　harm　in　lending　her　books？”　

“No。　Certainly　not。”　

“But　if　it—hum—led　to　a　correspondence？　I　mean；　
Katharine；　I　take　it；　without　going　into　matters　which　
seem　to　me　a