星期一和星期二- 第4部分

“well；　tell　us　the　truth；”　we　bade　her。

“the　truth？　but　isn’t　it　wonderful；”　she　broke　off—“mr。　chitter　has　written　a　weekly　article　for　the　past　thirty　years　upon　love　or　hot　buttered　toast　and　has　sent　all　his　sons　to　eton—”

“the　truth！”　we　demanded。

“oh；　the　truth；”　she　stammered；　“the　truth　has　nothing　to　do　with　literature；”　and　sitting　down　she　refused　to　say　another　word。

it　all　seemed　to　us　very　inconclusive。

“ladies；　we　must　try　to　sum　up　the　results；”　jane　was　beginning；　when　a　hum；　which　had　been　heard　for　some　time　through　the　open　window；　drowned　her　voice。

“war！　war！　war！　declaration　of　war！”　men　were　shouting　in　the　street　below。

we　looked　at　each　other　in　horror。

“what　war？”　we　cried。　“what　war？”　we　remembered；　too　late；　that　we　had　never　thought　of　sending　anyone　to　the　house　of　mons。　we　had　forgotten　all　about　it。　we　turned　to　poll；　who　had　reached　the　history　shelves　in　the　london　library；　and　asked　her　to　enlighten　us。

“why；”　we　cried；　“do　men　go　to　war？”

“sometimes　for　one　reason；　sometimes　for　another；”　she　replied　calmly。　“in　1760；　for　example—”　the　shouts　outside　drowned　her　words。　“again　in　1797—in　1804—it　was　the　austrians　in　1866–1870　was　the　franco–prussian—in　1900　on　the　other　hand—”

“but　it’s　now　1914！”　we　cut　her　short。

“ah；　i　don’t　know　what　they’re　going　to　war　for　now；”　she　admitted。

＇1＇

the　war　was　over　and　peace　was　in　process　of　being　signed；　when　i　once　more　found　myself　with　castalia　in　the　room　where　our　meetings　used　to　be　held。　we　began　idly　turning　over　the　pages　of　our　old　minute　books。　“queer；”　i　mused；　“to　see　what　we　were　thinking　five　years　ago。”　“we　are　agreed；”　castalia　quoted；　reading　over　my　shoulder；　“that　it　is　the　object　of　life　to　produce　good　people　and　good　books。”　we　made　no　ment　upon　that。　“a　good　man　is　at　any　rate　honest；　passionate　and　unworldly。”　“what　a　woman’s　language！”　i　observed。　“oh；　dear；”　cried　castalia；　pushing　the　book　away　from　her；　“what　fools　we　were！　it　was　all　poll’s　father’s　fault；”　she　went　on。　“i　believe　he　did　it　on　purpose—that　ridiculous　will；　i　mean；　forcing　poll　to　read　all　the　books　in　the　london　library。　if　we　hadn’t　learnt　to　read；”　she　said　bitterly；　“we　might　still　have　been　bearing　children　in　ignorance　and　that　i　believe　was　the　happiest　life　after　all。　i　know　what　you’re　going　to　say　about　war；”　she　checked　me；　“and　the　horror　of　bearing　children　to　see　them　killed；　but　our　mothers　did　it；　and　their　mothers；　and　their　mothers　before　them。　and　they　didn’t　plain。　they　couldn’t　read。　i’ve　done　my　best；”　she　sighed；　“to　prevent　my　little　girl　from　learning　to　read；　but　what’s　the　use？　i　caught　ann　only　yesterday　with　a　newspaper　in　her　hand　and　she　was　beginning　to　ask　me　if　it　was　‘true。’　next　she’ll　ask　me　whether　mr。　lloyd　george　is　a　good　man；　then　whether　mr。　arnold　bennett　is　a　good　novelist；　and　finally　whether　i　believe　in　god。　how　can　i　bring　my　daughter　up　to　believe　in　nothing？”　she　demanded。

“surely　you　could　teach　her　to　believe　that　a　man’s　intellect　is；　and　always　will　be；　fundamentally　superior　to　a　woman’s？”　i　suggested。　she　brightened　at　this　and　began　to　turn　over　our　old　minutes　again。　“yes；”　she　said；　“think　of　their　discoveries；　their　mathematics；　their　science；　their　philosophy；　their　scholarship—”　and　then　she　began　to　laugh；　“i　shall　never　forget　old　hobkin　and　the　hairpin；”　she　said；　and　went　on　reading　and　laughing　and　i　thought　she　was　quite　happy；　when　suddenly　she　drew　the　book　from　her　and　burst　out；　“oh；　cassandra；　why　do　you　torment　me？　don’t　you　know　that　our　belief　in　man’s　intellect　is　the　greatest　fallacy　of　them　all？”　“what？”　i　exclaimed。　“ask　any　journalist；　schoolmaster；　politician　or　public　house　keeper　in　the　land　and　they　will　all　tell　you　that　men　are　much　cleverer　than　women。”　“as　if　i　doubted　it；”　she　said　scornfully。　“how　could　they　help　it？　haven’t　we　bred　them　and　fed　and　kept　them　in　fort　since　the　beginning　of　time　so　that　they　may　be　clever　even　if　they’re　nothing　else？　it’s　all　our　doing！”　she　cried。　“we　insisted　upon　having　intellect　and　now　we’ve　got　it。　and　it’s　intellect；”　she　continued；　“that’s　at　the　bottom　of　it。　what　could　be　more　charming　than　a　boy　before　he　has　begun　to　cultivate　his　intellect？　he　is　beautiful　to　look　at；　he　gives　himself　no　airs；　he　understands　the　meaning　of　art　and　literature　instinctively；　he　goes　about　enjoying　his　life　and　making　other　people　enjoy　theirs。　then　they　teach　him　to　cultivate　his　intellect。　he　bees　a　barrister；　a　civil　servant；　a　general；　an　author；　a　professor。　every　day　he　goes　to　an　office。　every　year　he　produces　a　book。　he　maintains　a　whole　family　by　the　products　of　his　brain—poor　devil！　soon　he　cannot　e　into　a　room　without　making　us　all　feel　unfortable；　he　condescends　to　every　woman　he　meets；　and　dares　not　tell　the　truth　even　to　his　own　wife；　instead　of　rejoicing　our　eyes　we　have　to　shut　them　if　we　are　to　take　him　in　our　arms。　true；　they　console　themselves　with　stars　of　all　shapes；　ribbons　of　all　shades；　and　ines　of　all　sizes—but　what　is　to　console　us？　that　we　shall　be　able　in　ten　years’　time　to　spend　a　weekend　at　lahore？　or　that　the　least　insect　in　japan　has　a　name　twice　the　length　of　its　body？　oh；　cassandra；　for　heaven’s　sake　let　us　devise　a　method　by　which　men　may　bear　children！　it　is　our　only　chance。　for　unless　we　provide　them　with　some　innocent　occupation　we　shall　get　neither　good　people　nor　good　books；　we　shall　perish　beneath　the　fruits　of　their　unbridled　activity；　and　not　a　human　being　will　survive　to　know　that　there　once　was　shakespeare！”

“it　is　too　late；”　i　replied。　“we　cannot　provide　even　for　the　children　that　we　have。”

“and　then　you　ask　me　to　believe　in　intellect；”　she　said。

while　we　spoke；　man　were　crying　hoarsely　and　wearily　in　the　street；　and；　listening；　we　heard　that　the　treaty　of　peace　had　just　been　signed。　the　voices　died　away。　the　rain　was　falling　and　interfered　no　doubt　with　the　proper　explosion　of　the　fireworks。

“my　cook　will　have　bought　the　evening　news；”　said　castalia；　“and　ann　will　be　spelling　it　out　over　her　tea。　i　must　go　home。”

“it’s　no　good—not　a　bit　of　good；”　i　said。　“once　she　knows　how　to　read　there’s　only　one　thing　you　can　teach　her　to　believe　in—and　that　is　herself。”

“well；　that　would　be　a　change；”　sighed　castalia。

so　we　swept　up　the　papers　of　our　society；　and；　though　ann　was　playing　with　her　doll　very　happily；　we　solemnly　made　her　a　present　of　the　lot　and　told　her　we　had　chosen　her　to　be　president　of　the　society　of　the　future—upon　which　she　burst　into　tears；　poor　little　girl。

　．．



3。　Monday　or　Tuesday

小！说
3。　monday　or　tuesday

lazy　and　indifferent；　shaking　space　easily　from　his　wings；　knowing　his　way；　the　heron　passes　over　the　church　beneath　the　sky。　white　and　distant；　absorbed　in　itself；　endlessly　the　sky　covers　and　uncovers；　moves　and　remains。　a　lake？　blot　the　shores　of　it　out！　a　mountain？　oh；　perfect—the　sun　gold　on　its　slopes。　down　that　falls。　ferns　then；　or　white　feathers；　for　ever　and　ever—

desiring　truth；　awaiting　it；　laboriously　distilling　a　few　words；　for　ever　desiring—（a　cry　starts　to　the　left；　another　to　the　right。　wheels　strike　divergently。　omnibuses　conglomerate　in　conflict）—for　ever　desiring—（the　clock　asseverates　with　twelve　distinct　strokes　that　it　is　midday；　light　sheds　gold　scales；　children　swarm）—for　ever　desiring　truth。　red　is　the　dome；　coins　hang　on　the　trees；　smoke　trails　from　the　chimneys；　bark；　shout；　cry　“iron　for　sale”—and　truth？

radiating　to　a　point　men’s　feet　and　women’s　feet；　black　or　gold–encrusted—（this　foggy　weather—sugar？　no；　thank　you—the　monwealth　of　the　future）—the　firelight　darting　and　making　the　room　red；　save　for　the　black　figures　and　their　bright　eyes；　while　outside　a　van　discharges；　miss　thingummy　drinks　tea　at　her　desk；　and　plate–glass　preserves　fur　coats—

flaunted；　leaf—light；　drifting　at　corners；　blown　across　the　wheels；　silver–splashed；　home　or　not　home；　gathered；　scattered；　squandered　in　separate　scales；　swept　up；　down；　torn；　sunk；　assembled—and　truth？

now　to　recollect　by　the　fireside　on　the　white　square　of　marble。　from　ivory　depths　words　rising　shed　their　blackness；　blossom　and　penetrate。　fallen　the　book；　in　the　flame；　in　the　smoke；　in　the　momentary　sparks—or　now　voyaging；　the　marble　square　pendant；　minarets　beneath　and　the　indian　seas；　while　space　rushes　blue　and　stars　glint—truth？　content　with　closeness？

lazy　and　indifferent　the　heron　returns；　the　sky　veils　her　stars；　then　bares　them。

　。。



4。　An　Unwritten　Novel


4。　an　unwritten　novel

such　an　expression　of　unhappiness　was　enough　by　itself　to　make　one’s　eyes　slide　above　the　paper’s　edge　to　the　poor　woman’s　face—insignificant　without　that　look；　almost　a　symbol　of　human　destiny　with　it。　life’s　what　you　see　in　people’s　eyes；　life’s　what　they　learn；　and；　having　learnt　it；　never；　though　they　seek　to　hide　it；　cease　to　be　aware　of—what？　that　life’s　like　that；　it　seems。　five　faces　opposite—five　mature　faces—and　the　knowledge　in　each　face。　strange；　though；　how　people　want　to　conceal　it！　marks　of　reticence　are　on　all　those　faces：　lips　shut