[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　

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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