《星期一和星期二》第3章

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　of　a　vanished　hand　and　the　sound　of　a　voice　that　is　still。　home　is　the　hunter；　home　from　the　hill。　he　gave　his　bridle　reins　a　shake。　love　is　sweet；　love　is　brief。　spring；　the　fair　spring；　is　the　year’s　pleasant　king。　o！　to　be　in　england　now　that　april’s　there。　men　must　work　and　women　must　weep。　the　path　of　duty　is　the　way　to　glory—”　we　could　listen　to　no　more　of　this　gibberish。
“we　want　no　more　poetry！”　we　cried。
“daughters　of　england！”　she　began；　but　here　we　pulled　her　down；　a　vase　of　water　getting　spilt　over　her　in　the　scuffle。
“thank　god！”　she　exclaimed；　shaking　herself　like　a　dog。　“now　i’ll　roll　on　the　carpet　and　see　if　i　can’t　brush　off　what　remains　of　the　union　jack。　then　perhaps—”　here　she　rolled　energetically。　getting　up　she　began　to　explain　to　us　what　modern　pictures　are　like　when　castalia　stopped　her。
“what　is　the　average　size　of　a　picture？”　she　asked。　“perhaps　two　feet　by　two　and　a　half；”　she　said。　castalia　made　notes　while　helen　spoke；　and　when　she　had　done；　and　we　were　trying　not　to　meet　each　other’s　eyes；　rose　and　said；　“at　your　wish　i　spent　last　week　at　oxbridge；　disguised　as　a　charwoman。　i　thus　had　access　to　the　rooms　of　several　professors　and　will　now　attempt　to　give　you　some　idea—only；”　she　broke　off；　“i　can’t　think　how　to　do　it。　it’s　all　so　queer。　these　professors；”　she　went　on；　“live　in　large　houses　built　round　grass　plots　each　in　a　kind　of　cell　by　himself。　yet　they　have　every　convenience　and　fort。　you　have　only　to　press　a　button　or　light　a　little　lamp。　theirs　papers　are　beautifully　filed。　books　abound。　there　are　no　children　or　animals；　save　half　a　dozen　stray　cats　and　one　aged　bullfinch—a　cock。　i　remember；”　she　broke　off；　“an　aunt　of　mine　who　lived　at　dulwich　and　kept　cactuses。　you　reached　the　conservatory　through　the　double　drawing–room；　and　there；　on　the　hot　pipes；　were　dozens　of　them；　ugly；　squat；　bristly　little　plants　each　in　a　separate　pot。　once　in　a　hundred　years　the　aloe　flowered；　so　my　aunt　said。　but　she　died　before　that　happened—”　we　told　her　to　keep　to　the　point。　“well；”　she　resumed；　“when　professor　hobkin　was　out；　i　examined　his　life　work；　an　edition　of　sappho。　it’s　a　queer　looking　book；　six　or　seven　inches　thick；　not　all　by　sappho。　oh；　no。　most　of　it　is　a　defence　of　sappho’s　chastity；　which　some　german　had　denied；　add　i　can　assure　you　the　passion　with　which　these　two　gentlemen　argued；　the　learning　they　displayed；　the　prodigious　ingenuity　with　which　they　disputed　the　use　of　some　implement　which　looked　to　me　for　all　the　world　like　a　hairpin　astounded　me；　especially　when　the　door　opened　and　professor　hobkin　himself　appeared。　a　very　nice；　mild；　old　gentleman；　but　what　could　he　know　about　chastity？”　we　misunderstood　her。
“no；　no；”　she　protested；　“he’s　the　soul　of　honour　i’m　sure—not　that　he　resembled　rose’s　sea　captain　in　the　least。　i　was　thinking　rather　of　my　aunt’s　cactuses。　what　could　they　know　about　chastity？”
again　we　told　her　not　to　wander　from　the　point；—did　the　oxbridge　professors　help　to　produce　good　people　and　good　books？—the　objects　of　life。
“there！”　she　exclaimed。　“it　never　struck　me　to　ask。　it　never　occurred　to　me　that　they　could　possibly　produce　anything。”
“i　believe；”　said　sue；　“that　you　made　some　mistake。　probably　professor　hobkin　was　a　gynecologist。　a　scholar　is　a　very　different　sort　of　man。　a　scholar　is　overflowing　with　humour　and　invention—perhaps　addicted　to　wine；　but　what　of　that？—a　delightful　panion；　generous；　subtle；　imaginative—as　stands　to　reason。　for　he　spends　his　life　in　pany　with　the　finest　human　beings　that　have　ever　existed。”
“hum；”　said　castalia。　“perhaps　i’d　better　go　back　and　try　again。”
some　three　months　later　it　happened　that　i　was　sitting　alone　when　castalia　entered。　i　don’t　know　what　it　was　in　the　look　of　her　that　so　moved　me；　but　i　could　not　restrain　myself；　and；　dashing　across　the　room；　i　clasped　her　in　my　arms。　not　only　was　she　very　beautiful；　she　seemed　also　in　the　highest　spirits。　“how　happy　you　look！”　i　exclaimed；　as　she　sat　down。
“i’ve　been　at　oxbridge；”　she　said。
“asking　questions？”
“answering　them；”　she　replied。
“you　have　not　broken　our　vows？”　i　said　anxiously；　noticing　something　about　her　figure。
“oh；　the　vow；”　she　said　casually。　“i’m　going　to　have　a　baby；　if　that’s　what　you　mean。　you　can’t　imagine；”　she　burst　out；　“how　exciting；　how　beautiful；　how　satisfying—”
“what　is？”　i　asked。
“to—to—answer　questions；”　she　replied　in　some　confusion。　whereupon　she　told　me　the　whole　of　her　story。　but　in　the　middle　of　an　account　which　interested　and　excited　me　more　than　anything　i　had　ever　heard；　she　gave　the　strangest　cry；　half　whoop；　half　holloa—
“chastity！　chastity！　where’s　my　chastity！”　she　cried。　“help　ho！　the　scent　bottle！”
there　was　nothing　in　the　room　but　a　cruet　containing　mustard；　which　i　was　about　to　administer　when　she　recovered　her　posure。
“you　should　have　thought　of　that　three　months　ago；”　i　said　severely。
“true；”　she　replied。　“there’s　not　much　good　in　thinking　of　it　now。　it　was　unfortunate；　by　the　way；　that　my　mother　had　me　called　castalia。”
“oh；　castalia；　your　mother—”　i　was　beginning　when　she　reached　for　the　mustard　pot。
“no；　no；　no；”　she　said；　shaking　her　head。　“if　you’d　been　a　chaste　woman　yourself　you　would　have　screamed　at　the　sight　of　me—instead　of　which　you　rushed　across　the　room　and　took　me　in　your　arms。　no；　cassandra。　we　are　neither　of　us　chaste。”　so　we　went　on　talking。
meanwhile　the　room　was　filling　up；　for　it　was　the　day　appointed　to　discuss　the　results　of　our　observations。　everyone；　i　thought；　felt　as　i　did　about　castalia。　they　kissed　her　and　said　how　glad　they　were　to　see　her　again。　at　length；　when　we　were　all　assembled；　jane　rose　and　said　that　it　was　time　to　begin。　she　began　by　saying　that　we　had　now　asked　questions　for　over　five　years；　and　that　though　the　results　were　bound　to　be　inconclusive—here　castalia　nudged　me　and　whispered　that　she　was　not　so　sure　about　that。　then　she　got　up；　and；　interrupting