[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第36章

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“Uncle　John—yes；　‘poor　John；’　you　always　called　him。　
Why　was　that？”　she　asked；　to　make　them　go　on　talking；　
which；　indeed；　they　needed　little　invitation　to　do。　

“That　was　what　his　father；　old　Sir　Richard；　always　called　
him。　Poor　John；　or　the　fool　of　the　family；”　Mrs。　Milvain　
hastened　to　inform　them。　“The　other　boys　were　so　brilliant；　
and　he　could　never　pass　his　examinations；　so　they　
sent　him　to　India—a　long　voyage　in　those　days；　poor　
fellow。　You　had　your　own　room；　you　know；　and　you　did　it　
up。　But　he　will　get　his　knighthood　and　a　pension；　I　be


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Night　and　Day　

lieve；”　she　said；　turning　to　Ralph；　“only　it　is　not　England。”　


“No；”　Mrs。　Cosham　confirmed　her；　“it　is　not　England。　In　
those　days　we　thought　an　Indian　Judgeship　about　equal　
to　a　countycourt　judgeship　at　home。　His　Honor—a　pretty　
title；　but　still；　not　at　the　top　of　the　tree。　However；”　she　
sighed；　“if　you　have　a　wife　and　seven　children；　and　people　
nowadays　very　quickly　forget　your　father’s　name—well；　
you　have　to　take　what　you　can　get；”　she　concluded。　

“And　I　fancy；”　Mrs。　Milvain　resumed；　lowering　her　voice　
rather　confidentially；　“that　John　would　have　done　more　
if　it　hadn’t　been　for　his　wife；　your　Aunt　Emily。　She　was　a　
very　good　woman；　devoted　to　him；　of　course；　but　she　was　
not　ambitious　for　him；　and　if　a　wife　isn’t　ambitious　for　
her　husband；　especially　in　a　profession　like　the　law；　clients　
soon　get　to　know　of　it。　In　our　young　days；　Mr。　
Denham；　we　used　to　say　that　we　knew　which　of　our　friends　
would　bee　judges；　by　looking　at　the　girls　they　married。　
And　so　it　was；　and　so；　I　fancy；　it　always　will　be。　I　
don’t　think；”　she　added；　summing　up　these　scattered　remarks；　
“that　any　man　is　really　happy　unless　he　succeeds　

in　his　profession。”　

Mrs。　Cosham　approved　of　this　sentiment　with　more　ponderous　
sagacity　from　her　side　of　the　teatable；　in　the　first　
place　by　swaying　her　head；　and　in　the　second　by　remarking：　

“No；　men　are　not　the　same　as　women。　I　fancy　Alfred　
Tennyson　spoke　the　truth　about　that　as　about　many　other　
things。　How　I　wish　he’d　lived　to　write　‘The　Prince’—a　
sequel　to　‘The　Princess’！　I　confess　I’m　almost　tired　of　
Princesses。　We　want　some　one　to　show　us　what　a　good　
man　can　be。　We　have　Laura　and　Beatrice；　Antigone　and　
Cordelia；　but　we　have　no　heroic　man。　How　do　you；　as　a　
poet；　account　for　that；　Mr。　Denham？”　

“I’m　not　a　poet；”　said　Ralph　goodhumoredly。　“I’m　only　
a　solicitor。”　

“But　you　write；　too？”　Mrs。　Cosham　demanded；　afraid　
lest　she　should　be　balked　of　her　priceless　discovery；　a　
young　man　truly　devoted　to　literature。　

“In　my　spare　time；”　Denham　reassured　her。　

“In　your　spare　time！”　Mrs。　Cosham　echoed。　“That　is　a　
proof　of　devotion；　indeed。”　She　half　closed　her　eyes；　and　
indulged　herself　in　a　fascinating　picture　of　a　briefless　

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barrister　lodged　in　a　garret；　writing　immortal　novels　by　
the　light　of　a　farthing　dip。　But　the　romance　which　fell　
upon　the　figures　of　great　writers　and　illumined　their　pages　
was　no　false　radiance　in　her　case。　She　carried　her　pocket　
Shakespeare　about　with　her；　and　met　life　fortified　by　the　
words　of　the　poets。　How　far　she　saw　Denham；　and　how　far　
she　confused　him　with　some　hero　of　fiction；　it　would　be　
hard　to　say。　Literature　had　taken　possession　even　of　her　
memories。　She　was　matching　him；　presumably；　with　certain　
characters　in　the　old　novels；　for　she　came　out；　after　
a　pause；　with：　

“Um—um—Pendennis—Warrington—I　could　never　forgive　
Laura；”　she　pronounced　energetically；　“for　not　marrying　
George；　in　spite　of　everything。　George　Eliot　did　the　
very　same　thing；　and　Lewes　was　a　little　frogfaced　man；　
with　the　manner　of　a　dancing　master。　But　Warrington；　
now；　had　everything　in　his　favor；　intellect；　passion；　romance；　
distinction；　and　the　connection　was　a　mere　piece　
of　undergraduate　folly。　Arthur；　I　confess；　has　always　
seemed　to　me　a　bit　of　a　fop；　I　can’t　imagine　how　Laura　
married　him。　But　you　say　you’re　a　solicitor；　Mr。　Denham。　

Now　there　are　one　or　two　things　I　should　like　to　ask　
you—about　Shakespeare—”　She　drew　out　her　small；　worn　
volume　with　some　difficulty；　opened　it；　and　shook　it　in　
the　air。　“They　say；　nowadays；　that　Shakespeare　was　a　lawyer。　
They　say；　that　accounts　for　his　knowledge　of　human　
nature。　There’s　a　fine　example　for　you；　Mr。　Denham。　Study　
your　clients；　young　man；　and　the　world　will　be　the　richer　
one　of　these　days；　I　have　no　doubt。　Tell　me；　how　do　we　
e　out　of　it；　now；　better　or　worse　than　you　expected？”　

Thus　called　upon　to　sum　up　the　worth　of　human　nature　
in　a　few　words；　Ralph　answered　unhesitatingly：　

“Worse；　Mrs。　Cosham；　a　good　deal　worse。　I’m　afraid　the　
ordinary　man　is　a　bit　of　a　rascal—”　

“And　the　ordinary　woman？”　

“No；　I　don’t　like　the　ordinary　woman　either—”　

Ah；　dear　me；　I’ve　no　doubt　that’s　very　true；　very　true。”　
Mrs。　Cosham　sighed。　“Swift　would　have　agreed　with　you；　
anyhow—”　She　looked　at　him；　and　thought　that　there　
were　signs　of　distinct　power　in　his　brow。　He　would　do　
well；　she　thought；　to　devote　himself　to　satire。　

“Charles　Lavington；　you　remember；　was　a　solicitor；”　Mrs。　

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Night　and　Day　

Milvain　interposed；　rather　resenting　the　waste　of　time　
involved　in　talking　about　fictitious　people　when　you　might　
be　talking　about　real　people。　“But　you　wouldn’t　remember　
him；　Katharine。”　

“Mr。　Lavington？　Oh；　yes；　I　do；”　said　Katharine；　waking　
from　other　thoughts　with　her　little　start。　“The　summer　
we　had　a　house　near　Tenby。　I　remember　the　field　and　the　
pond　with　the　tadpoles；　and　making　haystacks　with　Mr。　
Lavington。”　

“She　is　right。　There　was　a　pond　with　tadpoles；”　Mrs。　
Cosham　corroborated。　“Millais　made　studies　of　it　for　
‘Ophelia。’　Some　say　that　is　the　best　picture　he　ever　
painted—”　

“And　I　remember　the　dog　chained　up　in　the　yard；　and　
the　dead　snakes　hanging　in　the　toolhouse。”　

“It　was　at　Tenby　that　you　were　chased　by　the　bull；”　
Mrs。　Milvain　continued。　“But　that　you　couldn’t　remember；　
though　it’s　true　you　were　a　wonderful　child。　Such　
eyes　she　had；　Mr。　Denham！　I　used　to　say　to　her　father；　
‘She’s　watching　us；　and　summing　us　all　up　in　her　little　
mind。’　And　they　had　a　nurse　in　those　days；”　she　went　on；　

telling　her　story　with　charming　solemnity　to　Ralph；　“who　
was　a　good　woman；　but　engaged　to　a　sailor。　When　she　
ought　to　have　been　attending　to　the　baby；　her　eyes　were　
on　the　sea。　And　Mrs。　Hilbery　allowed　this　girl—Susan　her　
name　was—to　have　him　to　stay　in　the　village。　They　abused　
her　goodness；　I’m　sorry　to　say；　and　while　they　walked　in　
the　lanes；　they　stood　the　perambulator　alone　in　a　field　
where　there　was　a　bull。　The　animal　became　enraged　by　
the　red　blanket　in　the　perambulator；　and　Heaven　knows　
what　might　have　happened　if　a　gentleman　had　not　been　
walking　by　in　the　nick　of　time；　and　rescued　Katharine　in　
his　arms！”　

“I　think　the　bull　was　only　a　cow；　Aunt　Celia；”　said　
Katharine。　

“My　darling；　it　was　a　great　red　Devonshire　bull；　and　not　
long　after　it　gored　a　man　to　death　and　had　to　be　destroyed。　
And　your　mother　forgave　Susan—a　thing　I　could　
never　have　done。”　

“Maggie’s　sympathies　were　entirely　with　Susan　and　the　
sailor；　I　am　sure；”　said　Mrs。　Cosham；　rather　tartly。　“My　
sisterinlaw；”　she　continued；　“has　laid　her　burdens　upon　

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Providence　at　every　crisis　in　her　life；　and　Providence；　I　
must　confess；　has　responded　nobly；　so　far—”　

“Yes；”　said　Katharine；　with　a　laugh；　for　she　liked　the　
rashness　which　irritated　the　rest　of　the　family。　“My　
mother’s　bulls　always　turn　into　cows　at　the　critical　moment。”　


“Well；”　said　Mrs。　Milvain；　“I’m　glad　you　have　some　one　
to　protect　you　from　bulls　now。”　

“I　can’t　imagine　William　protecting　any　one　from　bulls；”　
said　Katharine。　

It　happened　that　Mrs。　Cosham　had　once　more　produced　
her　pocket　volume　of　Shakespeare；　and　was　consulting　
Ralph　upon　an　obscure　passage　in　“Measure　for　Measure。”　
He　did　not　at　once　seize　the　meaning　of　what　Katharine　
and　her　aunt　were　saying；　William；　he　supposed；　referr