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


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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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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。 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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Virginia Woolf 

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

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