[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第33部分

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She　winced；　but　she　respected　him　for　saying　what　he　
did；　for　this；　after　all；　was　a　fragment　of　the　truth　which　
she　had　vowed　to　live　by。　

“And　to　me　marriage　without　love　doesn’t　seem　worth　

while；”　she　said。　

“Well；　Mary；　I’m　not　going　to　press　you；”　he　said。　“I　see　
you　don’t　want　to　marry　me。　But　love—don’t　we　all　talk　a　
great　deal　of　nonsense　about　it？　What　does　one　mean？　I　
believe　I　care　for　you　more　genuinely　than　nine　men　out　
of　ten　care　for　the　women　they’re　in　love　with。　It’s　only　a　
story　one　makes　up　in　one’s　mind　about　another　person；　
and　one　knows　all　the　time　it　isn’t　true。　Of　course　one　
knows；　why；　one’s　always　taking　care　not　to　destroy　the　
illusion。　One　takes　care　not　to　see　them　too　often；　or　to　
be　alone　with　them　for　too　long　together。　It’s　a　pleasant　
illusion；　but　if　you’re　thinking　of　the　risks　of　marriage；　it　
seems　to　me　that　the　risk　of　marrying　a　person　you’re　in　
love　with　is　something　colossal。”　

“I　don’t　believe　a　word　of　that；　and　what’s　more　you　
don’t；　either；”　she　replied　with　anger。　“However；　we　don’t　
agree；　I　only　wanted　you　to　understand。”　She　shifted　her　
position；　as　if　she　were　about　to　go。　An　instinctive　desire　
to　prevent　her　from　leaving　the　room　made　Ralph　rise　at　
this　point　and　begin　pacing　up　and　down　the　nearly　empty　
kitchen；　checking　his　desire；　each　time　he　reached　the　

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door；　to　open　it　and　step　out　into　the　garden。　A　moralist　
might　have　said　that　at　this　point　his　mind　should　have　
been　full　of　selfreproach　for　the　suffering　he　had　caused。　
On　the　contrary；　he　was　extremely　angry；　with　the　confused　
impotent　anger　of　one　who　finds　himself　unreasonably　
but　efficiently　frustrated。　He　was　trapped　by　the　
illogicality　of　human　life。　The　obstacles　in　the　way　of　his　
desire　seemed　to　him　purely　artificial；　and　yet　he　could　
see　no　way　of　removing　them。　Mary’s　words；　the　tone　of　
her　voice　even；　angered　him；　for　she　would　not　help　him。　
She　was　part　of　the　insanely　jumbled　muddle　of　a　world　
which　impedes　the　sensible　life。　He　would　have　liked　to　
slam　the　door　or　break　the　hind　legs　of　a　chair；　for　the　
obstacles　had　taken　some　such　curiously　substantial　shape　
in　his　mind。　

“I　doubt　that　one　human　being　ever　understands　another；”　
he　said；　stopping　in　his　march　and　confronting　
Mary　at　a　distance　of　a　few　feet。　

“Such　damned　liars　as　we　all　are；　how　can　we？　But　we　
can　try。　If　you　don’t　want　to　marry　me；　don’t；　but　the　
position　you　take　up　about　love；　and　not　seeing　each　

other—isn’t　that　mere　sentimentality？　You　think　I’ve　
behaved　very　badly；”　he　continued；　as　she　did　not　speak。　
“Of　course　I　behave　badly；　but　you　can’t　judge　people　by　
what　they　do。　You　can’t　go　through　life　measuring　right　
and　wrong　with　a　footrule。　That’s　what　you’re　always　
doing；　Mary；　that’s　what　you’re　doing　now。”　

She　saw　herself　in　the　Suffrage　Office；　delivering　judgment；　
meting　out　right　and　wrong；　and　there　seemed　to　
her　to　be　some　justice　in　the　charge；　although　it　did　not　
affect　her　main　position。　

“I’m　not　angry　with　you；”　she　said　slowly。　“I　will　go　on　
seeing　you；　as　I　said　I　would。”　

It　was　true　that　she　had　promised　that　much　already；　
and　it　was　difficult　for　him　to　say　what　more　it　was　that　
he　wanted—some　intimacy；　some　help　against　the　ghost　
of　Katharine；　perhaps；　something　that　he　knew　he　had　no　
right　to　ask；　and　yet；　as　he　sank　into　his　chair　and　looked　
once　more　at　the　dying　fire　it　seemed　to　him　that　he　had　
been　defeated；　not　so　much　by　Mary　as　by　life　itself。　He　
felt　himself　thrown　back　to　the　beginning　of　life　again；　
where　everything　has　yet　to　be　won；　but　in　extreme　youth　

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one　has　an　ignorant　hope。　He　was　no　longer　certain　that　
he　would　triumph。　

CHAPTER　XX　


Happily　for　Mary　Datchet　she　returned　to　the　office　to　
find　that　by　some　obscure　Parliamentary　maneuver　the　
vote　had　once　more　slipped　beyond　the　attainment　of　
women。　Mrs。　Seal　was　in　a　condition　bordering　upon　frenzy。　
The　duplicity　of　Ministers；　the　treachery　of　mankind；　the　
insult　to　womanhood；　the　setback　to　civilization；　the　ruin　
of　her　life’s　work；　the　feelings　of　her　father’s　daughter—　
all　these　topics　were　discussed　in　turn；　and　the　office　
was　littered　with　newspaper　cuttings　branded　with　the　
blue；　if　ambiguous；　marks　of　her　displeasure。　She　confessed　
herself　at　fault　in　her　estimate　of　human　nature。　

“The　simple　elementary　acts　of　justice；”　she　said；　waving　
her　hand　towards　the　window；　and　indicating　the　foot
passengers　and　omnibuses　then　passing　down　the　far　side　
of　Russell　Square；　“are　as　far　beyond　them　as　they　ever　
were。　We　can　only　look　upon　ourselves；　Mary；　as　pioneers　
in　a　wilderness。　We　can　only　go　on　patiently　putting　the　
truth　before　them。　It　isn’t　them；”　she　continued；　taking　
heart　from　her　sight　of　the　traffic；　“it’s　their　leaders。　It’s　

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those　gentlemen　sitting　in　Parliament　and　drawing　four　
hundred　a　year　of　the　people’s　money。　If　we　had　to　put　our　
case　to　the　people；　we　should　soon　have　justice　done　to　
us。　I　have　always　believed　in　the　people；　and　I　do　so　still。　
But—”　She　shook　her　head　and　implied　that　she　would　
give　them　one　more　chance；　and　if　they　didn’t　take　advantage　
of　that　she　couldn’t　answer　for　the　consequences。　

Mr。　Clacton’s　attitude　was　more　philosophical　and　better　
supported　by　statistics。　He　came　into　the　room　after　
Mrs。　Seal’s　outburst　and　pointed　out；　with　historical　illustrations；　
that　such　reverses　had　happened　in　every　
political　campaign　of　any　importance。　If　anything；　his　
spirits　were　improved　by　the　disaster。　The　enemy；　he　said；　
had　taken　the　offensive；　and　it　was　now　up　to　the　Society　
to　outwit　the　enemy。　He　gave　Mary　to　understand　that　he　
had　taken　the　measure　of　their　cunning；　and　had　already　
bent　his　mind　to　the　task　which；　so　far　as　she　could　make　
out；　depended　solely　upon　him。　It　depended；　so　she　came　
to　think；　when　invited　into　his　room　for　a　private　conference；　
upon　a　systematic　revision　of　the　cardindex；　upon　
the　issue　of　certain　new　lemoncolored　leaflets；　in　which　

the　facts　were　marshaled　once　more　in　a　very　striking　
way；　and　upon　a　large　scale　map　of　England　dotted　with　
little　pins　tufted　with　differently　colored　plumes　of　hair　
according　to　their　geographical　position。　Each　district；　
under　the　new　system；　had　its　flag；　its　bottle　of　ink；　its　
sheaf　of　documents　tabulated　and　filed　for　reference　in　a　
drawer；　so　that　by　looking　under　M　or　S；　as　the　case　might　
be；　you　had　all　the　facts　with　respect　to　the　Suffrage　
organizations　of　that　county　at　your　fingers’　ends。　This　
would　require　a　great　deal　of　work；　of　course。　

“We　must　try　to　consider　ourselves　rather　in　the　light　of　
a　telephone　exchange—for　the　exchange　of　ideas；　Miss　
Datchet；”　he　said；　and　taking　pleasure　in　his　image；　he　
continued　it。　“We　should　consider　ourselves　the　center　of　
an　enormous　system　of　wires；　connecting　us　up　with　every　
district　of　the　country。　We　must　have　our　fingers　upon　
the　pulse　of　the　munity；　we　want　to　know　what　people　
all　over　England　are　thinking；　we　want　to　put　them　in　the　
way　of　thinking　rightly。”　The　system；　of　course；　was　only　
roughly　sketched　so　far—jotted　down；　in　fact；　during　the　
Christmas　holidays。　

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Virginia　Woolf　

“When　you　ought　to　have　been　taking　a　rest；　Mr。　
Clacton；”　said　Mary　dutifully；　but　her　tone　was　flat　and　
tired。　

“We　learn　to　do　without　holidays；　Miss　Datchet；”　said　
Mr。　Clacton；　with　a　spark　of　satisfaction　in　his　eye。　

He　wished　particularly　to　have　her　opinion　of　the　lemon
colored　leaflet。　According　to　his　plan；　it　was　to　be　distributed　
in　immense　quantities　immediately；　in　order　to　
stimulate　and　generate；　“to　generate　and　stimulate；”　he　
repeated；　“right　thoughts　in　the　country　before　the　meeting　
of　Parliament。”　

“We　have　to　take　the　enemy　by　surprise；”　he　said。　“They　
don’t　let　the　grass　grow　under　their　feet。　Have　you　seen　
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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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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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　th