[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第68部分

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“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　Maggie　and　Aunt　Eleanor。　After　a　time　
she　perceived　that　Katharine　was　outside　the　munity　
in　some　way；　and；　suddenly；　she　threw　aside　her　wisdom　
and　gentleness　and　concern　and　began　to　laugh。　

“What　are　you　laughing　at？”　Katharine　asked。　

A　joke　so　foolish　and　unfilial　wasn’t　worth　explaining。　

“It　was　nothing—ridiculous—in　the　worst　of　taste；　but　
still；　if　you　half　shut　your　eyes　and　looked—”　Katharine　
half　shut　her　eyes　and　looked；　but　she　looked　in　the　wrong　
direction；　and　Cassandra　laughed　more　than　ever；　and　

was　still　laughing　and　doing　her　best　to　explain　in　a　
whisper　that　Aunt　Eleanor；　through　halfshut　eyes；　was　
like　the　parrot　in　the　cage　at　Stogdon　House；　when　the　
gentlemen　came　in　and　Rodney　walked　straight　up　to　
them　and　wanted　to　know　what　they　were　laughing　at。　

“I　utterly　refuse　to　tell　you！”　Cassandra　replied；　standing　
up　straight；　clasping　her　hands　in　front　of　her；　and　
facing　him。　Her　mockery　was　delicious　to　him。　He　had　
not　even　for　a　second　the　fear　that　she　had　been　laughing　
at　him。　She　was　laughing　because　life　was　so　adorable；　
so　enchanting。　

“Ah；　but　you’re　cruel　to　make　me　feel　the　barbarity　of　
my　sex；”　he　replied；　drawing　his　feet　together　and　pressing　
his　fingertips　upon　an　imaginary　operahat　or　malacca　
cane。　“We’ve　been　discussing　all　sorts　of　dull　things；　
and　now　I　shall　never　know　what　I　want　to　know　more　
than　anything　in　the　world。”　

“You　don’t　deceive　us　for　a　minute！”　she　cried。　“Not　for　
a　second。　We　both　know　that　you’ve　been　enjoying　yourself　
immensely。　Hasn’t　he；　Katharine？”　

“No；”　she　replied；　“I　think　he’s　speaking　the　truth。　He　

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doesn’t　care　much　for　politics。”　

Her　words；　though　spoken　simply；　produced　a　curious　
change　in　the　light；　sparkling　atmosphere。　William　at　once　
lost　his　look　of　animation　and　said　seriously：　

“I　detest　politics。”　

“I　don’t　think　any　man　has　the　right　to　say　that；”　said　
Cassandra；　almost　severely。　

“I　agree。　I　mean　that　I　detest　politicians；”　he　corrected　
himself　quickly。　

“You　see；　I　believe　Cassandra　is　what　they　call　a　Feminist；”　
Katharine　went　on。　“Or　rather；　she　was　a　Feminist　
six　months　ago；　but　it’s　no　good　supposing　that　she　is　
now　what　she　was　then。　That　is　one　of　her　greatest　charms　
in　my　eyes。　One　never　can　tell。”　She　smiled　at　her　as　an　
elder　sister　might　smile。　

“Katharine；　you　make　one　feel　so　horribly　small！”　
Cassandra　exclaimed。　

“No；　no；　that’s　not　what　she　means；”　Rodney　interposed。　
“I　quite　agree　that　women　have　an　immense　advantage　
over　us　there。　One　misses　a　lot　by　attempting　to　know　
things　thoroughly。”　

“He　knows　Greek　thoroughly；”　said　Katharine。　“But　then　
he　also　knows　a　good　deal　about　painting；　and　a　certain　
amount　about　music。　He’s　very　cultivated—perhaps　the　
most　cultivated　person　I　know。”　

“And　poetry；”　Cassandra　added。　

“Yes；　I　was　forgetting　his　play；”　Katharine　remarked；　
and　turning　her　head　as　though　she　saw　something　that　
needed　her　attention　in　a　far　corner　of　the　room；　she　left　
them。　

For　a　moment　they　stood　silent；　after　what　seemed　a　
deliberate　introduction　to　each　other；　and　Cassandra　
watched　her　crossing　the　room。　

“Henry；”　she　said　next　moment；　“would　say　that　a　stage　
ought　to　be　no　bigger　than　this　drawingroom。　He　wants　
there　to　be　singing　and　dancing　as　well　as　acting—only　
all　the　opposite　of　Wagner—you　understand？”　

They　sat　down；　and　Katharine；　turning　when　she　reached　
the　window；　saw　William　with　his　hand　raised　in　gesticulation　
and　his　mouth　open；　as　if　ready　to　speak　the　moment　
Cassandra　ceased。　

Katharine’s　duty；　whether　it　was　to　pull　a　curtain　or　

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move　a　chair；　was　either　forgotten　or　discharged；　but　she　
continued　to　stand　by　the　window　without　doing　anything。　
The　elderly　people　were　all　grouped　together　round　
the　fire。　They　seemed　an　independent；　middleaged　munity　
busy　with　its　own　concerns。　They　were　telling　
stories　very　well　and　listening　to　them　very　graciously。　
But　for　her　there　was　no　obvious　employment。　

“If　anybody　says　anything；　I　shall　say　that　I’m　looking　
at　the　river；”　she　thought；　for　in　her　slavery　to　her　family　
traditions；　she　was　ready　to　pay　for　her　transgression　
with　some　plausible　falsehood。　She　pushed　aside　the　blind　
and　looked　at　the　river。　But　it　was　a　dark　night　and　the　
water　was　barely　visible。　Cabs　were　passing；　and　couples　
were　loitering　slowly　along　the　road；　keeping　as　close　to　
the　railings　as　possible；　though　the　trees　had　as　yet　no　
leaves　to　cast　shadow　upon　their　embraces。　Katharine；　
thus　withdrawn；　felt　her　loneliness。　The　evening　had　been　
one　of　pain；　offering　her；　minute　after　minute；　plainer　
proof　that　things　would　fall　out　as　she　had　foreseen。　She　
had　faced　tones；　gestures；　glances；　she　knew；　with　her　
back　to　them；　that　William；　even　now；　was　plunging　deeper　

and　deeper　into　the　delight　of　unexpec