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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第77部分


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the impulse towards definite action; laid firmly upon 
the table beside her an envelope which she had been 
grasping all this time in plete forgetfulness。 The address 
was uppermost; and a moment later she saw William’s 
eye rest upon it as he rose to fulfil some duty with a 
plate。 His expression instantly changed。 He did what he 
was on the point of doing; and then looked at Katharine 
with a look which revealed enough of his confusion to 
show her that he was not entirely represented by his appearance。 
In a minute or two he proved himself at a loss 
with Mrs。 Vermont Bankes; and Mrs。 Hilbery; aware of the 
silence with her usual quickness; suggested that; perhaps; 
it was now time that Mrs。 Bankes should be shown 
“our things。” 

Katharine accordingly rose; and led the way to the little 
inner room with the pictures and the books。 Mrs。 Bankes 
and Rodney followed her。 

274 



Virginia Woolf 

She turned on the lights; and began directly in her low; 
pleasant voice: “This table is my grandfather’s writing
table。 Most of the later poems were written at it。 And 
this is his pen—the last pen he ever used。” She took it in 
her hand and paused for the right number of seconds。 
“Here;” she continued; “is the original manuscript of the 
‘Ode to Winter。’ The early manuscripts are far less corrected 
than the later ones; as you will see directly… 。 
Oh; do take it yourself;” she added; as Mrs。 Bankes asked; 
in an awestruck tone of voice; for that privilege; and 
began a preliminary unbuttoning of her white kid gloves。 

“You are wonderfully like your grandfather; Miss Hilbery;” 
the American lady observed; gazing from Katharine to 
the portrait; “especially about the eyes。 e; now; I 
expect she writes poetry herself; doesn’t she?” she asked 
in a jocular tone; turning to William。 “Quite one’s ideal of 
a poet; is it not; Mr。 Rodney? I cannot tell you what a 
privilege I feel it to be standing just here with the poet’s 
granddaughter。 You must know we think a great deal of 
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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Night and Day 

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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Virginia Woolf 

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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Night and Day 

even to believe that they look with us upon our present 
joys and sorrows。 He wo

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