《星期一和星期二》第2章

a　man　called　benton　or　henson；　or　something　of　that　kind。　she　read　the　first　few　pages。　we　listened　in　silence。　“but　that’s　not　a　book；”　someone　said。　so　she　chose　another。　this　time　it　was　a　history；　but　i　have　forgotten　the　writer’s　name。　our　trepidation　increased　as　she　went　on。　not　a　word　of　it　seemed　to　be　true；　and　the　style　in　which　it　was　written　was　execrable。
“poetry！　poetry！”　we　cried；　impatiently。
“read　us　poetry！”　i　cannot　describe　the　desolation　which　fell　upon　us　as　she　opened　a　little　volume　and　mouthed　out　the　verbose；　sentimental　foolery　which　it　contained。
“it　must　have　been　written　by　a　woman；”　one　of　us　urged。　but　no。　she　told　us　that　it　was　written　by　a　young　man；　one　of　the　most　famous　poets　of　the　day。　i　leave　you　to　imagine　what　the　shock　of　the　discovery　was。　though　we　all　cried　and　begged　her　to　read　no　more；　she　persisted　and　read　us　extracts　from　the　lives　of　the　lord　chancellors。　when　she　had　finished；　jane；　the　eldest　and　wisest　of　us；　rose　to　her　feet　and　said　that　she　for　one　was　not　convinced。
“why；”　she　asked；　“if　men　write　such　rubbish　as　this；　should　our　mothers　have　wasted　their　youth　in　bringing　them　into　the　world？”
we　were　all　silent；　and；　in　the　silence；　poor　poll　could　be　heard　sobbing　out；　“why；　why　did　my　father　teach　me　to　read？”
clorinda　was　the　first　to　e　to　her　senses。　“it’s　all　our　fault；”　she　said。　“every　one　of　us　knows　how　to　read。　but　no　one；　save　poll；　has　ever　taken　the　trouble　to　do　it。　i；　for　one；　have　taken　it　for　granted　that　it　was　a　woman’s　duty　to　spend　her　youth　in　bearing　children。　i　venerated　my　mother　for　bearing　ten；　still　more　my　grandmother　for　bearing　fifteen；　it　was；　i　confess；　my　own　ambition　to　bear　twenty。　we　have　gone　on　all　these　ages　supposing　that　men　were　equally　industrious；　and　that　their　works　were　of　equal　merit。　while　we　have　borne　the　children；　they；　we　supposed；　have　borne　the　books　and　the　pictures。　we　have　populated　the　world。　they　have　civilized　it。　but　now　that　we　can　read；　what　prevents　us　from　judging　the　results？　before　we　bring　another　child　into　the　world　we　must　swear　that　we　will　find　out　what　the　world　is　like。”
so　we　made　ourselves　into　a　society　for　asking　questions。　one　of　us　was　to　visit　a　man–of–war；　another　was　to　hide　herself　in　a　scholar’s　study；　another　was　to　attend　a　meeting　of　business　men；　while　all　were　to　read　books；　look　at　pictures；　go　to　concerts；　keep　our　eyes　open　in　the　streets；　and　ask　questions　perpetually。　we　were　very　young。　you　can　judge　of　our　simplicity　when　i　tell　you　that　before　parting　that　night　we　agreed　that　the　objects　of　life　were　to　produce　good　people　and　good　books。　our　questions　were　to　be　directed　to　finding　out　how　far　these　objects　were　now　attained　by　men。　we　vowed　solemnly　that　we　would　not　bear　a　single　child　until　we　were　satisfied。
off　we　went　then；　some　to　the　british　museum；　others　to　the　king’s　navy；　some　to　oxford；　others　to　cambridge；　we　visited　the　royal　academy　and　the　tate；　heard　modern　music　in　concert　rooms；　went　to　the　law　courts；　and　saw　new　plays。　no　one　dined　out　without　asking　her　partner　certain　questions　and　carefully　noting　his　replies。　at　intervals　we　met　together　and　pared　our　observations。　oh；　those　were　merry　meeting！　never　have　i　laughed　so　much　as　i　did　when　rose　read　her　notes　upon　“honour”　and　described　how　she　had　dressed　herself　as　an　ethiopian　prince　and　gone　aboard　one　of　his　majesty’s　ships。　discovering　the　hoax；　the　captain　visited　her　（now　disguised　as　a　private　gentleman）　and　demanded　that　honour　should　be　satisfied。　“but　how？”　she　asked。　“how？”　he　bellowed。　“with　the　cane　of　course！”　seeing　that　he　was　beside　himself　with　rage　and　expecting　that　her　last　moment　had　e；　she　bent　over　and　received；　to　her　amazement；　six　light　taps　upon　the　behind。　“the　honour　of　the　british　navy　is　avenged！”　he　cried；　and；　raising　herself；　she　saw　him　with　the　sweat　pouring　down　his　face　holding　out　a　trembling　right　hand。　“away！”　she　exclaimed；　striking　an　attitude　and　imitating　the　ferocity　of　his　own　expression；　“my　honour　has　still　to　be　satisfied！”　“spoken　like　a　gentleman！”　he　returned；　and　fell　into　profound　thought。　“if　sitrokes　avenge　the　honour　of　the　king’s　navy；”　he　mused；　“how　many　avenge　the　honour　of　a　private　gentleman？”　he　said　he　would　prefer　to　lay　the　case　before　his　brother　officers。　she　replied　haughtily　that　she　could　not　wait。　he　praised　her　sensibility。　“let　me　see；”　he　cried　suddenly；　“did　your　father　keep　a　carriage？”　“no；”　she　said。　“or　a　riding　horse？”　“we　had　a　donkey；”　she　bethought　her；　“which　drew　the　mowing　machine。”　at　this　his　face　lighted。　“my　mother’s　name—”　she　added。　“for　god’s　sake；　man；　don’t　mention　your　mother’s　name！”　he　shrieked；　trembling　like　an　aspen　and　flushing　to　the　roots　of　his　hair；　and　it　was　ten　minutes　at　least　before　she　could　induce　him　to　proceed。　at　length　he　decreed　that　if　she　gave　him　four　strokes　and　a　half　in　the　small　of　the　back　at　a　spot　indicated　by　himself　（the　half　conceded；　he　said；　in　recognition　of　the　fact　that　her　great　grandmother’s　uncle　was　killed　at　trafalgar）　it　was　his　opinion　that　her　honour　would　be　as　good　as　new。　this　was　done；　they　retired　to　a　restaurant；　drank　two　bottles　of　wine　for　which　he　insisted　upon　paying；　and　parted　with　protestations　of　eternal　friendship。
then　we　had　fanny’s　account　of　her　visit　to　the　law　courts。　at　her　first　visit　she　had　e　to　the　conclusion　that　the　judges　were　either　made　of　wood　or　were　impersonated　by　large　animals　resembling　man　who　had　been　trained　to　move　with　extreme　dignity；　mumble　and　nod　their　heads。　to　test　her　theory　she　had　liberated　a　handkerchief　of　bluebottles　at　the　critical　moment　of　a　trial；　but　was　unable　to　judge　whether　the　creatures　gave　signs　of　humanity　for　the　buzzing　of　the　flies　induced　so　sound　a　sleep　that　she　only　woke　in　time　to　see　the　prisoners　led　into　the　cells　below。　but　from　the　evidence　she　brought　we　voted　that　it　is　unfair　to　suppose　that　the　judges　are　men。
helen　went　to　the　royal　academy；　but　when　asked　to　deliver　her　report　upon　the　pictures　she　began　to　recite　from　a　pale　blue　volume；　“o！　for　the　touch　o