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[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第50部分


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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 his cruelty。 

“But I refuse—I refuse to hate any one;” she said aloud; 
chose the moment to cross the road with circumspection; 
and ten minutes later lunched in the Strand; cutting her 
meat firmly into small pieces; but giving her fellowdiners 
no further cause to judge her eccentric。 Her soliloquy 
crystallized itself into little fragmentary phrases emerging 
suddenly from the turbulence of her thought; particularly 
when she had to exert herself in any way; either 
to move; to count money; or to choose a turning。 “To 
know the truth—to accept without bitterness”—those; 

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Virginia Woolf 

perhaps; were the most articulate of her utterances; for 
no one could have made head or tail of the queer gibberish 
murmured in front of the statue of Francis; Duke of 
Bedford; save that the name of Ralph occurred frequently 
in very strange connections; as if; having spoken it; she 
wished; superstitiously; to cancel it by adding some other 
word that robbed the sentence with his name in it of any 
meaning。 

Those champions of the cause of women; Mr。 Clacton 
and Mrs。 Seal; did not perceive anything strange in Mary’s 
behavior; save that she was almost half an hour later than 
usual in ing back to the office。 Happily; their own affairs 
kept them busy; and she was free from their inspection。 
If they had surprised her they would have found her 
lost; apparently; in admiration of the large hotel across 
the square; for; after writing a few words; her pen rested 
upon the paper; and her mind pursued its own journey 
among the sunblazoned windows and the drifts of purplish 
smoke which formed her view。 And; indeed; this background 
was by no means out of keeping with her thoughts。 
She saw to the remote spaces behind the strife of the 

foreground; enabled now to gaze there; since she had renounced 
her own demands; privileged to see the larger 
view; to share the vast desires and sufferings of the mass 
of mankind。 She had been too lately and too roughly mastered 
by facts to take an easy pleasure in the relief of 
renunciation; such satisfaction as she felt came only from 
the discovery that; having renounced everything that made 
life happy; easy; splendid; individual; there remained a hard 
reality; unimpaired by one’s personal adventures; remote 
as the stars; unquenchable as they are。 

While Mary Datchet was undergoing this curious transformation 
from the particular to the universal; Mrs。 Seal 
remembered her duties with regard to the kettle and the 
gasfire。 She was a little surprised to find that Mary had 
drawn her chair to the window; and; having lit the gas; she 
raised herself from a stooping posture and looked at her。 
The most obvious reason for such an attitude in a secretary 
was some kind of indisposition。 But Mary; rousing 
herself with an effort; denied that she was indisposed。 

“I’m frightfully lazy this afternoon;” she added; with a 
glance at her table。 “You must really get another secre


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Night and Day 

tary; Sally。” 

The words were meant to be taken lightly; but something 
in the tone of them roused a jealous fear which 
was always dormant in Mrs。 Seal’s breast。 She was terribly 
afraid that one of these days Mary; the young woman 
who typified so many rather sentimental and enthusiastic 
ideas; who had some sort of visionary existence in 
white with a sheaf of lilies in her hand; would announce; 
in a jaunty way; that she was about to be married。 

“You don’t mean that you’re going to leave us?” she 
said。 

“I’ve not made up my mind about anything;” said Mary— 
a remark which could be taken as a generalization。 

Mrs。 Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set 
them on the table。 

“You’re not going to be married; are you?” she asked; 
pronouncing the words with nervous speed。 

“Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon; 
Sally?” Mary asked; not very steadily。 “Must we all 
get married?” 

Mrs。 Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle。 She 

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