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第62章

[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第62章


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Bingham’s address to his constituents? That’s a hint of 
the sort of thing we’ve got to meet; Miss Datchet。” 

He handed her a great bundle of newspaper cuttings; 
and; begging her to give him her views upon the yellow 
leaflet before lunchtime; he turned with alacrity to his 
different sheets of paper and his different bottles of ink。 

Mary shut the door; laid the documents upon her table; 
and sank her head on her hands。 Her brain was curiously 

empty of any thought。 She listened; as if; perhaps; by 
listening she would bee merged again in the atmosphere 
of the office。 From the next room came the rapid 
spasmodic sounds of Mrs。 Seal’s erratic typewriting; she; 
doubtless; was already hard at work helping the people 
of England; as Mr。 Clacton put it; to think rightly; “generating 
and stimulating;” those were his words。 She was 
striking a blow against the enemy; no doubt; who didn’t 
let the grass grow beneath their feet。 Mr。 Clacton’s words 
repeated themselves accurately in her brain。 She pushed 
the papers wearily over to the farther side of the table。 It 
was no use; though; something or other had happened to 
her brain—a change of focus so that near things were 
indistinct again。 The same thing had happened to her 
once before; she remembered; after she had met Ralph in 
the gardens of Lincoln’s Inn Fields; she had spent the 
whole of a mittee meeting in thinking about sparrows 
and colors; until; almost at the end of the meeting; 
her old convictions had all e back to her。 But they 
had only e back; she thought with scorn at her feebleness; 
because she wanted to use them to fight against 

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Night and Day 

Ralph。 They weren’t; rightly speaking; convictions at all。 
She could not see the world divided into separate partments 
of good people and bad people; any more than 
she could believe so implicitly in the rightness of her 
own thought as to wish to bring the population of the 
British Isles into agreement with it。 She looked at the 
lemoncolored leaflet; and thought almost enviously of 
the faith which could find fort in the issue of such 
documents; for herself she would be content to remain 
silent for ever if a share of personal happiness were 
granted her。 She read Mr。 Clacton’s statement with a curious 
division of judgment; noting its weak and pompous 
verbosity on the one hand; and; at the same time; feeling 
that faith; faith in an illusion; perhaps; but; at any 
rate; faith in something; was of all gifts the most to be 
envied。 An illusion it was; no doubt。 She looked curiously 
round her at the furniture of the office; at the machinery 
in which she had taken so much pride; and marveled to 
think that once the copyingpresses; the cardindex; the 
files of documents; had all been shrouded; wrapped in 
some mist which gave them a unity and a general dignity 

and purpose independently of their separate significance。 
The ugly cumbersomeness of the furniture alone impressed 
her now。 Her attitude had bee very lax and despondent 
when the typewriter stopped in the next room。 Mary 
immediately drew up to the table; laid hands on an unopened 
envelope; and adopted an expression which might 
hide her state of mind from Mrs。 Seal。 Some instinct of 
decency required that she should not allow Mrs。 Seal to 
see her face。 Shading her eyes with her fingers; she 
watched Mrs。 Seal pull out one drawer after another in 
her search for some envelope or leaflet。 She was tempted 
to drop her fingers and exclaim: 

“Do sit down; Sally; and tell me how you manage it— 
how you manage; that is; to bustle about with perfect 
confidence in the necessity of your own activities; which 
to me seem as futile as the buzzing of a belated bluebottle。” 
She said nothing of the kind; however; and the 
presence of industry which she preserved so long as Mrs。 
Seal was in the room served to set her brain in motion; 
so that she dispatched her morning’s work much as usual。 
At one o’clock she was surprised to find how efficiently 

222 



Virginia Woolf 

she had dealt with the morning。 As she put her hat on 
she determined to lunch at a shop in the Strand; so as to 
set that other piece of mechanism; her body; into action。 
With a brain working and a body working one could keep 
step with the crowd and never be found out for the hollow 
machine; lacking the essential thing; that one was 
conscious of being。 

She considered her case as she walked down the Charing 
Cross Road。 She put to herself a series of questions。 Would 
she mind; for example; if the wheels of that motoromnibus 
passed over her and crushed her to death? No; not in 
the least; or an adventure with that disagreeablelooking 
man hanging about the entrance of the Tube station? 
No; she could not conceive fear or excitement。 Did suffering 
in any form appall her? No; suffering was neither 
good nor bad。 And this essential thing? In the eyes of 
every single person she detected a flame; as if a spark in 
the brain ignited spontaneously at contact with the things 
they met and drove them on。 The young women looking 
into the milliners’ windows had that look in their eyes; 
and elderly men turning over books in the secondhand 

bookshops; and eagerly waiting to hear what the price 
was—the very lowest price—they had it; too。 But she 
cared nothing at all for clothes or for money either。 Books 
she shrank from; for they were connected too closely with 
Ralph。 She kept on her way resolutely through the crowd 
of people; among whom she was so much of an alien; 
feeling them cleave and give way before her。 

Strange thoughts are bred in passing through crowded 
streets should the passenger; by chance; have no exact 
destination in front of him; much as the mind shapes all 
kinds of forms; solutions; images when listening inattentively 
to music。 From an acute consciousness of herself 
as an individual; Mary passed to a conception of the 
scheme of things in which; as a human being; she must 
have her share。 She half held a vision; the vision shaped 
and dwindled。 She wished she had a pencil and a piece of 
paper to help her to give a form to this conception which 
posed itself as she walked down the Charing Cross 
Road。 But if she talked to any one; the conception might 
escape her。 Her vision seemed to lay out the lines of her 
life until death in a way which satisfied her sense of 

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Night and Day 

harmony。 It only needed a persistent effort of thought; 
stimulated in this strange way by the crowd and the noise; 
to climb the crest of existence and see it all laid out once 
and for ever。 Already her suffering as an individual was 
left behind her。 Of this process; which was to her so full 
of effort; which prised infinitely swift and full passages 
of thought; leading from one crest to another; as 
she shaped her conception of life in this world; only two 
articulate words escaped her; muttered beneath her 
breath—”Not happiness—not happiness。” 

She sat down on a seat opposite the statue of one of 
London’s heroes upon the Embankment; and spoke the 
words aloud。 To her they represented the rare flower or 
splinter of rock brought down by a climber in proof that 
he has stood for a moment; at least; upon the highest 
peak of the mountain。 She had been up there and seen 
the world spread to the horizon。 It was now necessary to 
alter her course to some extent; according to her new 
resolve。 Her post should be in one of those exposed and 
desolate stations which are shunned naturally by happy 
people。 She arranged the details of the new plan in her 

mind; not without a grim satisfaction。 

“Now;” she said to herself; rising from her seat; “I’ll 
think of Ralph。” 

Where was he to be placed in the new scale of life? Her 
exalted mood seemed to make it safe to handle the question。 
But she was dismayed to find how quickly her passions 
leapt forward the moment she sanctioned this line 
of thought。 Now she was identified with him and rethought 
his thoughts with plete selfsurrender; now; with a 
sudden cleavage of spirit; she turned upon him and denounced 
him for hi

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