《夜与日》第138章

“But　I’m　sure　you　read　poetry　at　night。　I　always　judge　
by　the　expression　of　the　eyes；”　Mrs。　Hilbery　continued。　
（“The　windows　of　the　soul；”　she　added　parenthetically。）　
“I　don’t　know　much　about　the　law；”　she　went　on；　“though　
many　of　my　relations　were　lawyers。　Some　of　them　looked　
very　handsome；　too；　in　their　wigs。　But　I　think　I　do　know　
a　little　about　poetry；”　she　added。　“And　all　the　things　that　
aren’t　written　down；　but—but—”　She　waved　her　hand；　
as　if　to　indicate　the　wealth　of　unwritten　poetry　all　about　
them。　“The　night　and　the　stars；　the　dawn　ing　up；　the　
barges　swimming　past；　the　sun　setting…　。　Ah　dear；”　she　
sighed；　“well；　the　sunset　is　very　lovely　too。　I　sometimes　
think　that　poetry　isn’t　so　much　what　we　write　as　what　we　
feel；　Mr。　Denham。”　
During　this　speech　of　her　mother’s　Katharine　had　turned　
away；　and　Ralph　felt　that　Mrs。　Hilbery　was　talking　to　him　
apart；　with　a　desire　to　ascertain　something　about　him　
which　she　veiled　purposely　by　the　vagueness　of　her　words。　
He　felt　curiously　encouraged　and　heartened　by　the　beam　
in　her　eye　rather　than　by　her　actual　words。　From　the　dis
370　
Virginia　Woolf　
tance　of　her　age　and　sex　she　seemed　to　be　waving　to　
him；　hailing　him　as　a　ship　sinking　beneath　the　horizon　
might　wave　its　flag　of　greeting　to　another　setting　out　
upon　the　same　voyage。　He　bent　his　head；　saying　nothing；　
but　with　a　curious　certainty　that　she　had　read　an　
answer　to　her　inquiry　that　satisfied　her。　At　any　rate；　she　
rambled　off　into　a　description　of　the　Law　Courts　which　
turned　to　a　denunciation　of　English　justice；　which；　according　
to　her；　imprisoned　poor　men　who　couldn’t　pay　
their　debts。　“Tell　me；　shall　we　ever　do　without　it　all？”　she　
asked；　but　at　this　point　Katharine　gently　insisted　that　
her　mother　should　go　to　bed。　Looking　back　from　halfway　
up　the　staircase；　Katharine　seemed　to　see　Denham’s　eyes　
watching　her　steadily　and　intently　with　an　expression　
that　she　had　guessed　in　them　when　he　stood　looking　at　
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；　
371　
Night　and　Day　
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　
372　
Virginia　Woolf　
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