[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第104部分

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the　windows　across　the　road。　

CHAPTER　XXXI　


The　tray　which　brought　Katharine’s　cup　of　tea　the　next　
morning　brought；　also；　a　note　from　her　mother；　announcing　
that　it　was　her　intention　to　catch　an　early　train　to　
StratfordonAvon　that　very　day。　

“Please　find　out　the　best　way　of　getting　there；”　the　
note　ran；　“and　wire　to　dear　Sir　John　Burdett　to　expect　
me；　with　my　love。　I’ve　been　dreaming　all　night　of　you　and　
Shakespeare；　dearest　Katharine。”　

This　was　no　momentary　impulse。　Mrs。　Hilbery　had　been　
dreaming　of　Shakespeare　any　time　these　six　months；　toying　
with　the　idea　of　an　excursion　to　what　she　considered　
the　heart　of　the　civilized　world。　To　stand　six　feet　above　
Shakespeare’s　bones；　to　see　the　very　stones　worn　by　his　
feet；　to　reflect　that　the　oldest　man’s　oldest　mother　had　
very　likely　seen　Shakespeare’s　daughter—such　thoughts　
roused　an　emotion　in　her；　which　she　expressed　at　unsuitable　
moments；　and　with　a　passion　that　would　not　have　
been　unseemly　in　a　pilgrim　to　a　sacred　shrine。　The　only　
strange　thing　was　that　she　wished　to　go　by　herself。　But；　

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naturally　enough；　she　was　well　provided　with　friends　who　
lived　in　the　neighborhood　of　Shakespeare’s　tomb；　and　
were　delighted　to　wele　her；　and　she　left　later　to　catch　
her　train　in　the　best　of　spirits。　There　was　a　man　selling　
violets　in　the　street。　It　was　a　fine　day。　She　would　remember　
to　send　Mr。　Hilbery　the　first　daffodil　she　saw。　And；　as　
she　ran　back　into　the　hall　to　tell　Katharine；　she　felt；　she　
had　always　felt；　that　Shakespeare’s　mand　to　leave　
his　bones　undisturbed　applied　only　to　odious　curiositymongers—
not　to　dear　Sir　John　and　herself。　Leaving　her　
daughter　to　cogitate　the　theory　of　Anne　Hathaway’s　sons；　
and　the　buried　manuscripts　here　referred　to；　with　
the　implied　menace　to　the　safety　of　the　heart　of　civilization　
itself；　she　briskly　shut　the　door　of　her　taxicab；　and　
was　whirled　off　upon　the　first　stage　of　her　pilgrimage。　

The　house　was　oddly　different　without　her。　Katharine　
found　the　maids　already　in　possession　of　her　room；　which　
they　meant　to　clean　thoroughly　during　her　absence。　To　
Katharine　it　seemed　as　if　they　had　brushed　away　sixty　
years　or　so　with　the　first　flick　of　their　damp　dusters。　It　
seemed　to　her　that　the　work　she　had　tried　to　do　in　that　

room　was　being　swept　into　a　very　insignificant　heap　of　
dust。　The　china　shepherdesses　were　already　shining　from　
a　bath　of　hot　water。　The　writingtable　might　have　belonged　
to　a　professional　man　of　methodical　habits。　

Gathering　together　a　few　papers　upon　which　she　was　at　
work；　Katharine　proceeded　to　her　own　room　with　the　intention　
of　looking　through　them；　perhaps；　in　the　course　
of　the　morning。　But　she　was　met　on　the　stairs　by　
Cassandra；　who　followed　her　up；　but　with　such　intervals　
between　each　step　that　Katharine　began　to　feel　her　purpose　
dwindling　before　they　had　reached　the　door。　
Cassandra　leant　over　the　banisters；　and　looked　down　upon　
the　Persian　rug　that　lay　on　the　floor　of　the　hall。　

“Doesn’t　everything　look　odd　this　morning？”　she　inquired。　
“Are　you　really　going　to　spend　the　morning　with　
those　dull　old　letters；　because　if　so—”　

The　dull　old　letters；　which　would　have　turned　the　heads　
of　the　most　sober　of　collectors；　were　laid　upon　a　table；　
and；　after　a　moment’s　pause；　Cassandra；　looking　grave　all　
of　a　sudden；　asked　Katharine　where　she　should　find　the　
“History　of　England”　by　Lord　Macaulay。　It　was　downstairs　

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in　Mr。　Hilbery’s　study。　The　cousins　descended　together　in　
search　of　it。　They　diverged　into　the　drawingroom　for　the　
good　reason　that　the　door　was　open。　The　portrait　of　Richard　
Alardyce　attracted　their　attention。　

“I　wonder　what　he　was　like？”　It　was　a　question　that　
Katharine　had　often　asked　herself　lately。　

“Oh；　a　fraud　like　the　rest　of　them—at　least　Henry　says　
so；”　Cassandra　replied。　“Though　I　don’t　believe　everything　
Henry　says；”　she　added　a　little　defensively。　

Down　they　went　into　Mr。　Hilbery’s　study；　where　they　
began　to　look　among　his　books。　So　desultory　was　this　
examination　that　some　fifteen　minutes　failed　to　discover　
the　work　they　were　in　search　of。　

“Must　you　read　Macaulay’s　History；　Cassandra？”　Katharine　
asked；　with　a　stretch　of　her　arms。　

“I　must；”　Cassandra　replied　briefly。　

“Well；　I’m　going　to　leave　you　to　look　for　it　by　yourself。”　

“Oh；　no；　Katharine。　Please　stay　and　help　me。　You　see—　
you　see—I　told　William　I’d　read　a　little　every　day。　And　I　
want　to　tell　him　that　I’ve　begun　when　he　es。”　

“When　does　William　e？”　Katharine　asked；　turning　

to　the　shelves　again。　

“To　tea；　if　that　suits　you？”　

“If　it　suits　me　to　be　out；　I　suppose　you　mean。”　

“Oh；　you’re　horrid…　。　Why　shouldn’t　you—？”　

“Yes　？”　

“Why　shouldn’t　you　be　happy　too？”　

“I　am　quite　happy；”　Katharine　replied。　

“I　mean　as　I　am。　Katharine；”　she　said　impulsively；　“do　
let’s　be　married　on　the　same　day。”　

“To　the　same　man？”　

“Oh；　no；　no。　But　why　shouldn’t　you　marry—some　one　
else？”　

“Here’s　your　Macaulay；”　said　Katharine；　turning　round　with　
the　book　in　her　hand。　“I　should　say　you’d　better　begin　to　
read　at　once　if　you　mean　to　be　educated　by　teatime。”　

“Damn　Lord　Macaulay！”　cried　Cassandra；　slapping　the　
book　upon　the　table。　“Would　you　rather　not　talk？”　

“We’ve　talked　enough　already；”　Katharine　replied　evasively。　


“I　know　I　shan’t　be　able　to　settle　to　Macaulay；”　said　
Cassandra；　looking　ruefully　at　the　dull　red　cover　of　the　

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prescribed　volume；　which；　however；　possessed　a　talismanic　
property；　since　William　admired　it。　He　had　advised　a　little　
serious　reading　for　the　morning　hours。　

“Have　you　read　Macaulay？”　she　asked。　

“No。　William　never　tried　to　educate　me。”　As　she　spoke　
she　saw　the　light　fade　from　Cassandra’s　face；　as　if　she　
had　implied　some　other；　more　mysterious；　relationship。　
She　was　stung　with　punction。　She　marveled　at　her　
own　rashness　in　having　influenced　the　life　of　another；　as　
she　had　influenced　Cassandra’s　life。　

“We　weren’t　serious；”　she　said　quickly。　

“But　I’m　fearfully　serious；”　said　Cassandra；　with　a　little　
shudder；　and　her　look　showed　that　she　spoke　the　truth。　
She　turned　and　glanced　at　Katharine　as　she　had　never　
glanced　at　her　before。　There　was　fear　in　her　glance；　which　
darted　on　her　and　then　dropped　guiltily。　Oh；　Katharine　
had　everything—beauty；　mind；　character。　She　could　never　
pete　with　Katharine；　she　could　never　be　safe　so　long　
as　Katharine　brooded　over　her；　dominating　her；　disposing　
of　her。　She　called　her　cold；　unseeing；　unscrupulous；　but　
the　only　sign　she　gave　outwardly　was　a　curious　one—she　

reached　out　her　hand　and　grasped　the　volume　of　history。　
At　that　moment　the　bell　of　the　telephone　rang　and　
Katharine　went　to　answer　it。　Cassandra；　released　from　
observation；　dropped　her　book　and　clenched　her　hands。　
She　suffered　more　fiery　torture　in　those　few　minutes　than　
she　had　suffered　in　the　whole　of　her　life；　she　learnt　more　
of　her　capacities　for　feeling。　But　when　Katharine　reappeared　
she　was　calm；　and　had　gained　a　look　of　dignity　
that　was　new　to　her。　

“Was　that　him？”　she　asked。　

“It　was　Ralph　Denham；”　Katharine　replied。　

“I　meant　Ralph　Denham。”　

“Why　did　you　mean　Ralph　Denham？　What　has　William　
told　you　about　Ralph　Denham？”　The　accusation　that　
Katharine　was　calm；　callous；　and　indifferent　was　not　possible　
in　face　of　her　present　air　of　animation。　She　gave　
Cassandra　no　time　to　frame　an　answer。　“Now；　when　are　
you　and　William　going　to　be　married？”　she　asked。　

Cassandra　made　no　reply　for　some　moments。　It　was；　
indeed；　a　very　difficult　question　to　answer。　In　conversation　
the　night　before；　William　had　indicated　to　Cassandra　

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that；　in　his　belief；　Katharine　was　being　engaged　to　
Ralph　Denham　in　the　diningroom。　Cassandra；　in　the　rosy　
light　of　her　own　circumstances；　had　been　disposed　to　
think　that　the　matter　must　be　settled　already。　But　a　letter　
which　she　had　received　that　morning　from　William；　
while　ardent　in　its　expres