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第85章

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第85章


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natural instinct for an upstart or a pretender; and knew 
to a hairbreadth what literature should be and what it 
should not be。 She was born to the knowledge; and scarcely 

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Virginia Woolf 

thought it a matter to be proud of。 

“Insanity is not a fit subject for fiction;” she announced 
positively。 

“There’s the wellknown case of Hamlet;” Mr。 Hilbery 
interposed; in his leisurely; halfhumorous tones。 

“Ah; but poetry’s different; Trevor;” said Aunt Eleanor; 
as if she had special authority from Shakespeare to say 
so。 “Different altogether。 And I’ve never thought; for my 
part; that Hamlet was as mad as they make out。 What is 
your opinion; Mr。 Peyton?” For; as there was a minister of 
literature present in the person of the editor of an esteemed 
review; she deferred to him。 

Mr。 Peyton leant a little back in his chair; and; putting 
his head rather on one side; observed that that was a question 
that he had never been able to answer entirely to his 
satisfaction。 There was much to be said on both sides; but 
as he considered upon which side he should say it; Mrs。 
Hilbery broke in upon his judicious meditations。 

“Lovely; lovely Ophelia!” she exclaimed。 “What a wonderful 
power it is—poetry! I wake up in the morning all 
bedraggled; there’s a yellow fog outside; little Emily turns 

on the electric light when she brings me my tea; and 
says; ‘Oh; ma’am; the water’s frozen in the cistern; and 
cook’s cut her finger to the bone。’ And then I open a little 
green book; and the birds are singing; the stars shining; 
the flowers twinkling—” She looked about her as if these 
presences had suddenly manifested themselves round her 
diningroom table。 

“Has the cook cut her finger badly?” Aunt Eleanor demanded; 
addressing herself naturally to Katharine。 

“Oh; the cook’s finger is only my way of putting it;” 
said Mrs。 Hilbery。 “But if she had cut her arm off; Katharine 
would have sewn it on again;” she remarked; with an 
affectionate glance at her daughter; who looked; she 
thought; a little sad。 “But what horrid; horrid thoughts;” 
she wound up; laying down her napkin and pushing her 
chair back。 “e; let us find something more cheerful 
to talk about upstairs。” 

Upstairs in the drawingroom Cassandra found fresh 
sources of pleasure; first in the distinguished and expectant 
look of the room; and then in the chance of exercising 
her diviningrod upon a new assortment of human 

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beings。 But the low tones of the women; their meditative 
silences; the beauty which; to her at least; shone even 
from black satin and the knobs of amber which encircled 
elderly necks; changed her wish to chatter to a more subdued 
desire merely to watch and to whisper。 She entered 
with delight into an atmosphere in which private matters 
were being interchanged freely; almost in monosyllables; 
by the older women who now accepted her as one of 
themselves。 Her expression became very gentle and sympathetic; 
as if she; too; were full of solicitude for the 
world which was somehow being cared for; managed and 
deprecated by Aunt Maggie and Aunt Eleanor。 After a time 
she perceived that Katharine was outside the munity 
in some way; and; suddenly; she threw aside her wisdom 
and gentleness and concern and began to laugh。 

“What are you laughing at?” Katharine asked。 

A joke so foolish and unfilial wasn’t worth explaining。 

“It was nothing—ridiculous—in the worst of taste; but 
still; if you half shut your eyes and looked—” Katharine 
half shut her eyes and looked; but she looked in the wrong 
direction; and Cassandra laughed more than ever; and 

was still laughing and doing her best to explain in a 
whisper that Aunt Eleanor; through halfshut eyes; was 
like the parrot in the cage at Stogdon House; when the 
gentlemen came in and Rodney walked straight up to 
them and wanted to know what they were laughing at。 

“I utterly refuse to tell you!” Cassandra replied; standing 
up straight; clasping her hands in front of her; and 
facing him。 Her mockery was delicious to him。 He had 
not even for a second the fear that she had been laughing 
at him。 She was laughing because life was so adorable; 
so enchanting。 

“Ah; but you’re cruel to make me feel the barbarity of 
my sex;” he replied; drawing his feet together and pressing 
his fingertips upon an imaginary operahat or malacca 
cane。 “We’ve been discussing all sorts of dull things; 
and now I shall never know what I want to know more 
than anything in the world。” 

“You don’t deceive us for a minute!” she cried。 “Not for 
a second。 We both know that you’ve been enjoying yourself 
immensely。 Hasn’t he; Katharine?” 

“No;” she replied; “I think he’s speaking the truth。 He 

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Virginia Woolf 

doesn’t care much for politics。” 

Her words; though spoken simply; produced a curious 
change in the light; sparkling atmosphere。 William at once 
lost his look of animation and said seriously: 

“I detest politics。” 

“I don’t think any man has the right to say that;” said 
Cassandra; almost severely。 

“I agree。 I mean that I detest politicians;” he corrected 
himself quickly。 

“You see; I believe Cassandra is what they call a Feminist;” 
Katharine went on。 “Or rather; she was a Feminist 
six months ago; but it’s no good supposing that she is 
now what she was then。 That is one of her greatest charms 
in my eyes。 One never can tell。” She smiled at her as an 
elder sister might smile。 

“Katharine; you make one feel so horribly small!” 
Cassandra exclaimed。 

“No; no; that’s not what she means;” Rodney interposed。 
“I quite agree that women have an immense advantage 
over us there。 One misses a lot by attempting to know 
things thoroughly。” 

“He knows Greek thoroughly;” said Katharine。 “But then 
he also knows a good deal about painting; and a certain 
amount about music。 He’s very cultivated—perhaps the 
most cultivated person I know。” 

“And poetry;” Cassandra added。 

“Yes; I was forgetting his play;” Katharine remarked; 
and turning her head as though she saw something that 
needed her attention in a far corner of the room; she left 
them。 

For a moment they stood silent; after what seemed a 
deliberate introduction to each other; and Cassandra 
watched her crossing the room。 

“Henry;” she said next moment; “would say that a stage 
ought to be no bigger than this drawingroom。 He wants 
there to be singing and dancing as well as acting—only 
all the opposite of Wagner—you understand?” 

They sat down; and Katharine; turning when she reached 
the window; saw William with his hand raised in gesticulation 
and his mouth open; as if ready to speak the moment 
Cassandra ceased。 

Katharine’s duty; whether it was to pull a curtain or 

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Night and Day 

move a chair; was either forgotten or discharged; but she 
continued to stand by the window without doing anything。 
The elderly people were all grouped together round 
the fire。 They seemed an independent; middleaged munity 
busy with its own concerns。 They were telling 
stories very well and listening to them very graciously。 
But for her there was no obvious employment。 

“If anybody says anything; I shall say that I’m looking 
at the river;” she thought; for in her slavery to her family 
traditions; she was ready to pay for her transgression 
with some plausible falsehood。 She pushed aside the blind 
and looked at the river。 But it was a dark night and the 
water was barely visible。 Cabs were passing; and couples 
were loitering slowly along the road; keeping as close to 
the railings as possible; though the trees had as yet no 
leaves to cast shadow upon their embraces。 Katharine; 
thus withdrawn; felt her loneliness。 The evening had been 
one of pain; offering her; minute after minute; plainer 
proof that things would fall out as she had foreseen。 She 
had faced tones; gestures; glances; she knew; with her 
back to them; that William; even now; was plunging deeper 

and deeper into the delight of unexpected u

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