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[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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Night and Day 

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

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