《夜与日》第3章

manner　which　always　gave　her　phrases　the　likeness　of　
butterflies　flaunting　from　one　sunny　spot　to　another；　
“D’you　know；　Mr。　Denham；　you　remind　me　so　much　of　
dear　Mr。　Ruskin…　。　Is　it　his　tie；　Katharine；　or　his　hair；　or　
7　
Night　and　Day　
the　way　he　sits　in　his　chair？　Do　tell　me；　Mr。　Denham；　are　
you　an　admirer　of　Ruskin？　Some　one；　the　other　day；　said　
to　me；　‘Oh；　no；　we　don’t　read　Ruskin；　Mrs。　Hilbery。’　What　
do　you　read；　I　wonder？—for　you　can’t　spend　all　your　time　
going　up　in　aeroplanes　and　burrowing　into　the　bowels　of　
the　earth。”　
She　looked　benevolently　at　Denham；　who　said　nothing　
articulate；　and　then　at　Katharine；　who　smiled　but　said　
nothing　either；　upon　which　Mrs。　Hilbery　seemed　possessed　
by　a　brilliant　idea；　and　exclaimed：　
“I’m　sure　Mr。　Denham　would　like　to　see　our　things；　
Katharine。　I’m　sure　he’s　not　like　that　dreadful　young　man；　
Mr。　Ponting；　who　told　me　that　he　considered　it　our　duty　
to　live　exclusively　in　the　present。　After　all；　what　IS　the　
present？　Half　of　it’s　the　past；　and　the　better　half；　too；　I　
should　say；”　she　added；　turning　to　Mr。　Fortescue。　
Denham　rose；　half　meaning　to　go；　and　thinking　that　he　
had　seen　all　that　there　was　to　see；　but　Katharine　rose　at　
the　same　moment；　and　saying；　“Perhaps　you　would　like　
to　see　the　pictures；”　led　the　way　across　the　drawing
room　to　a　smaller　room　opening　out　of　it。　
The　smaller　room　was　something　like　a　chapel　in　a　cathedral；　
or　a　grotto　in　a　cave；　for　the　booming　sound　of　
the　traffic　in　the　distance　suggested　the　soft　surge　of　waters；　
and　the　oval　mirrors；　with　their　silver　surface；　were　
like　deep　pools　trembling　beneath　starlight。　But　the　parison　
to　a　religious　temple　of　some　kind　was　the　more　
apt　of　the　two；　for　the　little　room　was　crowded　with　relics。　
As　Katharine　touched　different　spots；　lights　sprang　here　
and　there；　and　revealed　a　square　mass　of　redandgold　
books；　and　then　a　long　skirt　in　blueandwhite　paint　lustrous　
behind　glass；　and　then　a　mahogany　writingtable；　
with　its　orderly　equipment；　and；　finally；　a　picture　above　
the　table；　to　which　special　illumination　was　accorded。　
When　Katharine　had　touched　these　last　lights；　she　stood　
back；　as　much　as　to　say；　“There！”　Denham　found　himself　
looked　down　upon　by　the　eyes　of　the　great　poet；　Richard　
Alardyce；　and　suffered　a　little　shock　which　would　have　
led　him；　had　he　been　wearing　a　hat；　to　remove　it。　The　
eyes　looked　at　him　out　of　the　mellow　pinks　and　yellows　
of　the　paint　with　divine　friendliness；　which　embraced　him；　
and　passed　on　to　contemplate　the　entire　world。　The　paint　
8　
Virginia　Woolf　
had　so　faded　that　very　little　but　the　beautiful　large　eyes　
were　left；　dark　in　the　surrounding　dimness。　
Katharine　waited　as　though　for　him　to　receive　a　full　
impression；　and　then　she　said：　
“This　is　his　writingtable。　He　used　this　pen；”　and　she　
lifted　a　quill　pen　and　laid　it　down　again。　The　writing
table　was　splashed　with　old　ink；　and　the　pen　disheveled　
in　service。　There　lay　the　gigantic　goldrimmed　spectacles；　
ready　to　his　hand；　and　beneath　the　table　was　a　pair　of　
large；　worn　slippers；　one　of　which　Katharine　picked　up；　
remarking：　
“I　think　my　grandfather　must　have　been　at　least　twice　as　
large　as　any　one　is　nowadays。　This；”　she　went　on；　as　if　she　
knew　what　she　had　to　say　by　heart；　“is　the　original　manuscript　
of　the　‘Ode　to　Winter。’　The　early　poems　are　far　less　
corrected　than　the　later。　Would　you　like　to　look　at　it？”　
While　Mr。　Denham　examined　the　manuscript；　she　glanced　
up　at　her　grandfather；　and；　for　the　thousandth　time；　fell　
into　a　pleasant　dreamy　state　in　which　she　seemed　to　be　
the　panion　of　those　giant　men；　of　their　own　lineage；　
at　any　rate；　and　the　insignificant　present　moment　was　
put　to　shame。　That　magnificent　ghostly　head　on　the　canvas；　
surely；　never　beheld　all　the　trivialities　of　a　Sunday　
afternoon；　and　it　did　not　seem　to　matter　what　she　and　
this　young　man　said　to　each　other；　for　they　were　only　
small　people。　
“This　is　a　copy　of　the　first　edition　of　the　poems；”　she　
continued；　without　considering　the　fact　that　Mr。　Denham　
was　still　occupied　with　the　manuscript；　“which　contains　
several　poems　that　have　not　been　reprinted；　as　well　as　
corrections。”　She　paused　for　a　minute；　and　then　went　on；　
as　if　these　spaces　had　all　been　calculated。　
“That　lady　in　blue　is　my　greatgrandmother；　by　
Millington。　Here　is　my　uncle’s　walkingstick—he　was　Sir　
Richard　Warburton；　you　know；　and　rode　with　Havelock　to　
the　Relief　of　Lucknow。　And　then；　let　me　see—oh；　that’s　
the　original　Alardyce；　1697；　the　founder　of　the　family　
fortunes；　with　his　wife。　Some　one　gave　us　this　bowl　the　
other　day　because　it　has　their　crest　and　initials。　We　think　
it　must　have　been　given　them　to　celebrate　their　silver　
weddingday。”　
Here　she　stopped　for　a　moment；　wondering　why　it　was　
9　
Night　and　Day　
that　Mr。　Denham　said　nothing。　Her　feeling　that　he　was　
antagonistic　to　her；　which　had　lapsed　while　she　thought　
of　her　family　possessions；　returned　so　keenly　that　she　
stopped　in　the　middle　of　her　catalog　and　looked　at　him。　
Her　mother；　wishing　to　connect　him　reputably　with　the　
great　dead；　had　pared　him　with　Mr。　Ruskin；　and　the　
parison　was　in　Katharine’s　mind；　and　led　her　to　be　
more　critical　of　the　young　man　than　was　fair；　for　a　young　
man　paying　a　call　in　a　tailcoat　is　in　a　different　element　
altogether　from　a　head　seized　at　its　climax　of　expressiveness；　
gazing　immutably　from　behind　a　sheet　of　glass；　
which　was　all　that　remained　to　her　of　Mr。　Ruskin。　He　had　
a　singular　face—a　face　built　for　swiftness　and　decision　
rather　than　for　massive　contemplation；　the　forehead　broad；　
the　nose　long　and　formidable；　the　lips　cleanshaven　and　
at　once　dogged　and　sensitive；　the　cheeks　lean；　with　a　
deeply　running　tide　of　red　blood　in　them。　His　eyes；　expressive　
now　of　the　usual　masculine　impersonality　and　
authority；　might　reveal　more　subtle　emotions　under　favorable　
circumstances；　for　they　were　large；　and　of　a　clear；　
brown　color；　they　seemed　unexpectedly　to　hesitate　and　
speculate；　but　Katharine　only　looked　at　him　to　wonder　
whether　his