[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第84章

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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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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—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　
s