[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第26部分

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tone　had　a　hint　of　tragedy　in　it；　but　no　less；　Ralph　thought；　
than　the　situation　required。　She　addressed　the　larger　lady　
as　Aunt　Millicent；　the　smaller　was　Aunt　Celia；　Mrs。　Milvain；　
who　had　lately　undertaken　the　task　of　marrying　Cyril　to　
his　wife。　Both　ladies；　but　Mrs。　Cosham　（Aunt　Millicent）　in　
particular；　had　that　look　of　heightened；　smoothed；　
incarnadined　existence　which　is　proper　to　elderly　ladies　
paying　calls　in　London　about　five　o’clock　in　the　afternoon。　
Portraits　by　Romney；　seen　through　glass；　have　something　
of　their　pink；　mellow　look；　their　blooming　softness；　
as　of　apricots　hanging　upon　a　red　wall　in　the　afternoon　
sun。　Mrs。　Cosham　was　so　appareled　with　hanging　muffs；　
chains；　and　swinging　draperies　that　it　was　impossible　to　
detect　the　shape　of　a　human　being　in　the　mass　of　brown　
and　black　which　filled　the　armchair。　Mrs。　Milvain　was　a　
much　slighter　figure；　but　the　same　doubt　as　to　the　precise　
lines　of　her　contour　filled　Ralph；　as　he　regarded　them；　
with　dismal　foreboding。　What　remark　of　his　would　ever　
reach　these　fabulous　and　fantastic　characters？—for　there　
was　something　fantastically　unreal　in　the　curious　swayings　
and　noddings　of　Mrs。　Cosham；　as　if　her　equipment　in


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cluded　a　large　wire　spring。　Her　voice　had　a　highpitched；　
cooing　note；　which　prolonged　words　and　cut　them　short　
until　the　English　language　seemed　no　longer　fit　for　mon　
purposes。　In　a　moment　of　nervousness；　so　Ralph　
thought；　Katharine　had　turned　on　innumerable　electric　
lights。　But　Mrs。　Cosham　had　gained　impetus　（perhaps　her　
swaying　movements　had　that　end　in　view）　for　sustained　
speech；　and　she　now　addressed　Ralph　deliberately　and　
elaborately。　

“I　e　from　Woking；　Mr。　Popham。　You　may　well　ask　
me；　why　Woking？　and　to　that　I　answer；　for　perhaps　the　
hundredth　time；　because　of　the　sunsets。　We　went　there　
for　the　sunsets；　but　that　was　fiveandtwenty　years　ago。　
Where　are　the　sunsets　now？　Alas！　There　is　no　sunset　now　
nearer　than　the　South　Coast。”　Her　rich　and　romantic　notes　
were　acpanied　by　a　wave　of　a　long　white　hand；　which；　
when　waved；　gave　off　a　flash　of　diamonds；　rubies；　and　
emeralds。　Ralph　wondered　whether　she　more　resembled　
an　elephant；　with　a　jeweled　headdress；　or　a　superb　cockatoo；　
balanced　insecurely　upon　its　perch；　and　pecking　capriciously　
at　a　lump　of　sugar。　

“Where　are　the　sunsets　now？”　she　repeated。　“Do　you　
find　sunsets　now；　Mr。　Popham？”　

“I　live　at　Highgate；”　he　replied。　

“At　Highgate？　Yes；　Highgate　has　its　charms；　your　Uncle　
John　lived　at　Highgate；”　she　jerked　in　the　direction　of　
Katharine。　She　sank　her　head　upon　her　breast；　as　if　for　a　
moment’s　meditation；　which　past；　she　looked　up　and　observed：　
“I　dare　say　there　are　very　pretty　lanes　in　Highgate。　
I　can　recollect　walking　with　your　mother；　Katharine；　
through　lanes　blossoming　with　wild　hawthorn。　But　where　
is　the　hawthorn　now？　You　remember　that　exquisite　description　
in　De　Quincey；　Mr。　Popham？—but　I　forget；　you；　
in　your　generation；　with　all　your　activity　and　enlightenment；　
at　which　I　can　only　marvel”—here　she　displayed　
both　her　beautiful　white　hands—”do　not　read　De　Quincey。　
You　have　your　Belloc；　your　Chesterton；　your　Bernard　
Shaw—why　should　you　read　De　Quincey？”　

“But　I　do　read　De　Quincey；”　Ralph　protested；　“more　
than　Belloc　and　Chesterton；　anyhow。”　

“Indeed！”　exclaimed　Mrs。　Cosham；　with　a　gesture　of　
surprise　and　relief　mingled。　“You　are；　then；　a　‘rara　avis’　in　

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your　generation。　I　am　delighted　to　meet　anyone　who　reads　
De　Quincey。”　

Here　she　hollowed　her　hand　into　a　screen；　and；　leaning　
towards　Katharine；　inquired；　in　a　very　audible　whisper；　
“Does　your　friend　write？”　

“Mr。　Denham；”　said　Katharine；　with　more　than　her　usual　
clearness　and　firmness；　“writes　for　the　Review。　He　is　a　
lawyer。”　

“The　cleanshaven　lips；　showing　the　expression　of　the　
mouth！　I　recognize　them　at　once。　I　always　feel　at　home　
with　lawyers；　Mr。　Denham—”　

“They　used　to　e　about　so　much　in　the　old　days；”　
Mrs。　Milvain　interposed；　the　frail；　silvery　notes　of　her　
voice　falling　with　the　sweet　tone　of　an　old　bell。　

“You　say　you　live　at　Highgate；”　she　continued。　“I　wonder　
whether　you　happen　to　know　if　there　is　an　old　house　
called　Tempest　Lodge　still　in　existence—an　old　white　
house　in　a　garden？”　

Ralph　shook　his　head；　and　she　sighed。　

“Ah；　no；　it　must　have　been　pulled　down　by　this　time；　
with　all　the　other　old　houses。　There　were　such　pretty　

lanes　in　those　days。　That　was　how　your　uncle　met　your　
Aunt　Emily；　you　know；”　she　addressed　Katharine。　“They　
walked　home　through　the　lanes。”　

“A　sprig　of　May　in　her　bon；”　Mrs。　Cosham　ejaculated；　
reminiscently。　

“And　next　Sunday　he　had　violets　in　his　buttonhole。　And　
that　was　how　we　guessed。”　

Katharine　laughed。　She　looked　at　Ralph。　His　eyes　were　
meditative；　and　she　wondered　what　he　found　in　this　old　
gossip　to　make　him　ponder　so　contentedly。　She　felt；　she　
hardly　knew　why；　a　curious　pity　for　him。　

“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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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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Virginia　Woolf　

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。　De