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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第61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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Night and Day
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�
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