[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第64部分

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taking　his　place　at　the　table　and　turning　to　Mary　
as　usual　when　about　to　deliver　his　more　profound　cogitations；　
“is　that　they　are　not　based　upon　sufficiently　intellectual　
grounds。　A　mistake；　in　my　opinion。　The　British　public　
likes　a　pellet　of　reason　in　its　jam　of　eloquence—a　pill　of　
reason　in　its　pudding　of　sentiment；”　he　said；　sharpening　
the　phrase　to　a　satisfactory　degree　of　literary　precision。　

His　eyes　rested；　with　something　of　the　vanity　of　an　
author；　upon　the　yellow　leaflet　which　Mary　held　in　her　
hand。　She　rose；　took　her　seat　at　the　head　of　the　table；　
poured　out　tea　for　her　colleagues；　and　gave　her　opinion　
upon　the　leaflet。　So　she　had　poured　out　tea；　so　she　had　
criticized　Mr。　Clacton’s　leaflets　a　hundred　times　already；　

but　now　it　seemed　to　her　that　she　was　doing　it　in　a　
different　spirit；　she　had　enlisted　in　the　army；　and　was　a　
volunteer　no　longer。　She　had　renounced　something　and　
was　now—how　could　she　express　it？；—not　quite　“in　the　
running”　for　life。　She　had　always　known　that　Mr。　Clacton　
and　Mrs。　Seal　were　not　in　the　running；　and　across　the　
gulf　that　separated　them　she　had　seen　them　in　the　guise　
of　shadow　people；　flitting　in　and　out　of　the　ranks　of　the　
living—eccentrics；　undeveloped　human　beings；　from　
whose　substance　some　essential　part　had　been　cut　away。　
All　this　had　never　struck　her　so　clearly　as　it　did　this　afternoon；　
when　she　felt　that　her　lot　was　cast　with　them　for　
ever。　One　view　of　the　world　plunged　in　darkness；　so　a　
more　volatile　temperament　might　have　argued　after　a　
season　of　despair；　let　the　world　turn　again　and　show　another；　
more　splendid；　perhaps。　No；　Mary　thought；　with　
unflinching　loyalty　to　what　appeared　to　her　to　be　the　
true　view；　having　lost　what　is　best；　I　do　not　mean　to　
pretend　that　any　other　view　does　instead。　Whatever　happens；　
I　mean　to　have　no　presences　in　my　life。　Her　very　
words　had　a　sort　of　distinctness　which　is　sometimes　pro


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Virginia　Woolf　

duced　by　sharp；　bodily　pain。　To　Mrs。　Seal’s　secret　jubilation　
the　rule　which　forbade　discussion　of　shop　at　teatime　
was　overlooked。　Mary　and　Mr。　Clacton　argued　with　a　
cogency　and　a　ferocity　which　made　the　little　woman　feel　
that　something　very　important—she　hardly　knew　what—　
was　taking　place。　She　became　much　excited；　one　crucifix　
became　entangled　with　another；　and　she　dug　a　considerable　
hole　in　the　table　with　the　point　of　her　pencil　in　
order　to　emphasize　the　most　striking　heads　of　the　discourse；　
and　how　any　bination　of　Cabi　Ministers　
could　resist　such　discourse　she　really　did　not　know。　

She　could　hardly　bring　herself　to　remember　her　own　
private　instrument　of　justice—the　typewriter。　The　telephone
bell　rang；　and　as　she　hurried　off　to　answer　a　voice　
which　always　seemed　a　proof　of　importance　by　itself；　she　
felt　that　it　was　at　this　exact　spot　on　the　surface　of　the　
globe　that　all　the　subterranean　wires　of　thought　and　
progress　came　together。　When　she　returned；　with　a　message　
from　the　printer；　she　found　that　Mary　was　putting　
on　her　hat　firmly；　there　was　something　imperious　and　
dominating　in　her　attitude　altogether。　

“Look；　Sally；”　she　said；　“these　letters　want　copying。　
These　I’ve　not　looked　at。　The　question　of　the　new　census　
will　have　to　be　gone　into　carefully。　But　I’m　going　home　
now。　Good　night；　Mr。　Clacton；　good　night；　Sally。”　

“We　are　very　fortunate　in　our　secretary；　Mr。　Clacton；”　
said　Mrs。　Seal；　pausing　with　her　hand　on　the　papers；　as　
the　door　shut　behind　Mary。　Mr。　Clacton　himself　had　been　
vaguely　impressed　by　something　in　Mary’s　behavior　towards　
him。　He　envisaged　a　time　even　when　it　would　bee　
necessary　to　tell　her　that　there　could　not　be　two　
masters　in　one　office—but　she　was　certainly　able；　very　
able；　and　in　touch　with　a　group　of　very　clever　young　
men。　No　doubt　they　had　suggested　to　her　some　of　her　
new　ideas。　

He　signified　his　assent　to　Mrs。　Seal’s　remark；　but　observed；　
with　a　glance　at　the　clock；　which　showed　only　
half　an　hour　past　five：　

“If　she　takes　the　work　seriously；　Mrs。　Seal—but　that’s　
just　what　some　of　your　clever　young　ladies　don’t　do。”　So　
saying　he　returned　to　his　room；　and　Mrs。　Seal；　after　a　
moment’s　hesitation；　hurried　back　to　her　labors。　

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Night　and　Day　

CHAPTER　XXI　


Mary　walked　to　the　nearest　station　and　reached　home　in　
an　incredibly　short　space　of　time；　just　so　much；　indeed；　
as　was　needed　for　the　intelligent　understanding　of　the　
news　of　the　world　as　the　“Westminster　Gazette”　reported　
it。　Within　a　few　minutes　of　opening　her　door；　she　was　in　
trim　for　a　hard　evening’s　work。　She　unlocked　a　drawer　
and　took　out　a　manuscript；　which　consisted　of　a　very　few　
pages；　entitled；　in　a　forcible　hand；　“Some　Aspects　of　the　
Democratic　State。”　The　aspects　dwindled　out　in　a　cries
cross　of　blotted　lines　in　the　very　middle　of　a　sentence；　
and　suggested　that　the　author　had　been　interrupted；　or　
convinced　of　the　futility　of　proceeding；　with　her　pen　in　
the　air…　。　Oh；　yes；　Ralph　had　e　in　at　that　point。　She　
scored　that　sheet　very　effectively；　and；　choosing　a　fresh　
one；　began　at　a　great　rate　with　a　generalization　upon　the　
structure　of　human　society；　which　was　a　good　deal　bolder　
than　her　custom。　Ralph　had　told　her　once　that　she　couldn’t　
write　English；　which　accounted　for　those　frequent　blots　
and　insertions；　but　she　put　all　that　behind　her；　and　drove　

ahead　with　such　words　as　came　her　way；　until　she　had　
acplished　half　a　page　of　generalization　and　might　
legitimately　draw　breath。　Directly　her　hand　stopped　her　
brain　stopped　too；　and　she　began　to　listen。　A　paperboy　
shouted　down　the　street；　an　omnibus　ceased　and　lurched　
on　again　with　the　heave　of　duty　once　more　shouldered；　
the　dullness　of　the　sounds　suggested　that　a　fog　had　risen　
since　her　return；　if；　indeed；　a　fog　has　power　to　deaden　
sound；　of　which　fact；　she　could　not　be　sure　at　the　present　
moment。　It　was　the　sort　of　fact　Ralph　Denham　knew。　At　
any　rate；　it　was　no　concern　of　hers；　and　she　was　about　to　
dip　a　pen　when　her　ear　was　caught　by　the　sound　of　a　step　
upon　the　stone　staircase。　She　followed　it　past　Mr。　Chippen’s　
chambers；　past　Mr。　Gibson’s；　past　Mr。　Turner’s；　after　which　
it　became　her　sound。　A　postman；　a　washerwoman；　a　circular；　
a　bill—she　presented　herself　with　each　of　these　
perfectly　natural　possibilities；　but；　to　her　surprise；　her　
mind　rejected　each　one　of　them　impatiently；　even　apprehensively。　
The　step　became　slow；　as　it　was　apt　to　do　at　
the　end　of　the　steep　climb；　and　Mary；　listening　for　the　
regular　sound；　was　filled　with　an　intolerable　nervous


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Virginia　Woolf　

ness。　Leaning　against　the　table；　she　felt　the　knock　of　her　
heart　push　her　body　perceptibly　backwards　and　forwards—　
a　state　of　nerves　astonishing　and　reprehensible　in　a　stable　
woman。　Grotesque　fancies　took　shape。　Alone；　at　the　top　
of　the　house；　an　unknown　person　approaching　nearer　and　
nearer—how　could　she　escape？　There　was　no　way　of　escape。　
She　did　not　even　know　whether　that　oblong　mark　
on　the　ceiling　was　a　trapdoor　to　the　roof　or　not。　And　if　
she　got　on　to　the　roof—well；　there　was　a　drop　of　sixty　
feet　or　so　on　to　the　pavement。　But　she　sat　perfectly　still；　
and　when　the　knock　sounded；　she　got　up　directly　and　
opened　the　door　without　hesitation。　She　saw　a　tall　figure　
outside；　with　something　ominous　to　her　eyes　in　the　look　
of　it。　

“What　do　you　want？”　she　said；　not　recognizing　the　face　
in　the　fitful　light　of　the　staircase。　

“Mary？　I’m　Katharine　Hilbery！”　

Mary’s　selfpossession　returned　almost　excessively；　and　
her　wele　was　decidedly　cold；　as　if　she　must　recoup　
herself　for　this　ridiculous　waste　of　emotion。　She　moved　
her　greenshaded　lamp　to　another　table；　and　covered　

“Some　Aspects　of　the　Democratic　State”　with　a　sheet　of　
blottingpaper。　

“Why　can’t　they　leave　me　alone？”　she　thought　bitterly；　
connecting　Katharine　and　Ralph　in　a　conspiracy　to　take　
from　her　even　this　hour　of　solitary　study；　even　this　poor　
little　defence　against　the　world。　And；　as　she　smoothed　
down　the　sheet　of　blottingpaper　over　the　manuscript；　
she　braced　herself　to　resist　Katharine；　whose　presence　
struck　her；　not　mer