[夜与日].(night.and.day).(英)弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙.文字版-第15章

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than　a　moment　or　so。　The　task　which　lay　before　her　was　
to　organize　a　series　of　entertainments；　the　profits　of　which　
were　to　benefit　the　society；　which　drooped　for　want　of　
funds。　It　was　her　first　attempt　at　organization　on　a　large　

scale；　and　she　meant　to　achieve　something　remarkable。　
She　meant　to　use　the　cumbrous　machine　to　pick　out　this；　
that；　and　the　other　interesting　person　from　the　muddle　
of　the　world；　and　to　set　them　for　a　week　in　a　pattern　
which　must　catch　the　eyes　of　Cabi　Ministers；　and　the　
eyes　once　caught；　the　old　arguments　were　to　be　delivered　
with　unexampled　originality。　Such　was　the　scheme　
as　a　whole；　and　in　contemplation　of　it　she　would　bee　
quite　flushed　and　excited；　and　have　to　remind　herself　of　
all　the　details　that　intervened　between　her　and　success。　

The　door　would　open；　and　Mr。　Clacton　would　e　in　to　
search　for　a　certain　leaflet　buried　beneath　a　pyramid　of　
leaflets。　He　was　a　thin；　sandyhaired　man　of　about　thirty
five；　spoke　with　a　Cockney　accent；　and　had　about　him　a　
frugal　look；　as　if　nature　had　not　dealt　generously　with　
him　in　any　way；　which；　naturally；　prevented　him　from　
dealing　generously　with　other　people。　When　he　had　found　
his　leaflet；　and　offered　a　few　jocular　hints　upon　keeping　
papers　in　order；　the　typewriting　would　stop　abruptly；　and　
Mrs。　Seal　would　burst　into　the　room　with　a　letter　which　
needed　explanation　in　her　hand。　This　was　a　more　serious　

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Night　and　Day　

interruption　than　the　other；　because　she　never　knew　exactly　
what　she　wanted；　and　half　a　dozen　requests　would　
bolt　from　her；　no　one　of　which　was　clearly　stated。　Dressed　
in　plumcolored　velveteen；　with　short；　gray　hair；　and　a　
face　that　seemed　permanently　flushed　with　philanthropic　
enthusiasm；　she　was　always　in　a　hurry；　and　always　in　
some　disorder。　She　wore　two　crucifixes；　which　got　themselves　
entangled　in　a　heavy　gold　chain　upon　her　breast；　
and　seemed　to　Mary　expressive　of　her　mental　ambiguity。　
Only　her　vast　enthusiasm　and　her　worship　of　Miss　Markham；　
one　of　the　pioneers　of　the　society；　kept　her　in　her　place；　
for　which　she　had　no　sound　qualification。　

So　the　morning　wore　on；　and　the　pile　of　letters　grew；　
and　Mary　felt；　at　last；　that　she　was　the　center　ganglion　of　
a　very　fine　work　of　nerves　which　fell　over　England；　
and　one　of　these　days；　when　she　touched　the　heart　of　the　
system；　would　begin　feeling　and　rushing　together　and　
emitting　their　splendid　blaze　of　revolutionary　fireworks　
—for　some　such　metaphor　represents　what　she　felt　about　
her　work；　when　her　brain　had　been　heated　by　three　hours　
of　application。　

Shortly　before　one　o’clock　Mr。　Clacton　and　Mrs。　Seal　
desisted　from　their　labors；　and　the　old　joke　about　luncheon；　
which　came　out　regularly　at　this　hour；　was　repeated　
with　scarcely　any　variation　of　words。　Mr。　Clacton　
patronized　a　vegetarian　restaurant；　Mrs。　Seal　brought　
sandwiches；　which　she　ate　beneath　the　plarees　in　
Russell　Square；　while　Mary　generally　went　to　a　gaudy　establishment；　
upholstered　in　red　plush；　near　by；　where；　
much　to　the　vegetarian’s　disapproval；　you　could　buy　steak；　
two　inches　thick；　or　a　roast　section　of　fowl；　swimming　in　
a　pewter　dish。　

“The　bare　branches　against　the　sky　do　one　so　much　
good；”　Mrs。　Seal　asserted；　looking　out　into　the　Square。　

“But　one　can’t　lunch　off　trees；　Sally；”　said　Mary。　

“I　confess　I　don’t　know　how　you　manage　it；　Miss　
Datchet；”　Mr。　Clacton　remarked。　“I　should　sleep　all　the　
afternoon；　I　know；　if　I　took　a　heavy　meal　in　the　middle　of　
the　day。”　

“What’s　the　very　latest　thing　in　literature？”　Mary　asked；　
goodhumoredly　pointing　to　the　yellowcovered　volume　
beneath　Mr。　Clacton’s　arm；　for　he　invariably　read　some　

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new　French　author　at　lunchtime；　or　squeezed　in　a　visit　
to　a　picture　gallery；　balancing　his　social　work　with　an　
ardent　culture　of　which　he　was　secretly　proud；　as　Mary　
had　very　soon　divined。　

So　they　parted　and　Mary　walked　away；　wondering　if　
they　guessed　that　she　really　wanted　to　get　away　from　
them；　and　supposing　that　they　had　not　quite　reached　
that　degree　of　subtlety。　She　bought　herself　an　evening　
paper；　which　she　read　as　she　ate；　looking　over　the　top　of　
it　again　and　again　at　the　queer　people　who　were　buying　
cakes　or　imparting　their　secrets；　until　some　young　woman　
whom　she　knew　came　in；　and　she　called　out；　“Eleanor；　
e　and　sit　by　me；”　and　they　finished　their　lunch　together；　
parting　on　the　strip　of　pavement　among　the　different　
lines　of　traffic　with　a　pleasant　feeling　that　they　
were　stepping　once　more　into　their　separate　places　in　
the　great　and　eternally　moving　pattern　of　human　life。　

But；　instead　of　going　straight　back　to　the　office　today；　
Mary　turned　into　the　British　Museum；　and　strolled　down　
the　gallery　with　the　shapes　of　stone　until　she　found　an　
empty　seat　directly　beneath　the　gaze　of　the　Elgin　marbles。　

She　looked　at　them；　and　seemed；　as　usual；　borne　up　on　
some　wave　of　exaltation　and　emotion；　by　which　her　life　
at　once　became　solemn　and　beautiful—an　impression　
which　was　due　as　much；　perhaps；　to　the　solitude　and　
chill　and　silence　of　the　gallery　as　to　the　actual　beauty　of　
the　statues。　One　must　suppose；　at　least；　that　her　emotions　
were　not　purely　esthetic；　because；　after　she　had　
gazed　at　the　Ulysses　for　a　minute　or　two；　she　began　to　
think　about　Ralph　Denham。　So　secure　did　she　feel　with　
these　silent　shapes　that　she　almost　yielded　to　an　impulse　
to　say　“I　am　in　love　with　you”　aloud。　The　presence　of　this　
immense　and　enduring　beauty　made　her　almost　alarmingly　
conscious　of　her　desire；　and　at　the　same　time　proud　
of　a　feeling　which　did　not　display　anything　like　the　same　
proportions　when　she　was　going　about　her　daily　work。　

She　repressed　her　impulse　to　speak　aloud；　and　rose　and　
wandered　about　rather　aimlessly　among　the　statues　until　
she　found　herself　in　another　gallery　devoted　to　engraved　
obelisks　and　winged　Assyrian　bulls；　and　her　emotion　took　
another　turn。　She　began　to　picture　herself　traveling　with　
Ralph　in　a　land　where　these　monsters　were　couchant　in　

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the　sand。　“For；”　she　thought　to　herself；　as　she　gazed　fixedly　
at　some　information　printed　behind　a　piece　of　glass；　
“the　wonderful　thing　about　you　is　that　you’re　ready　for　
anything；　you’re　not　in　the　least　conventional；　like　most　
clever　men。”　

And　she　conjured　up　a　scene　of　herself　on　a　camel’s　
back；　in　the　desert；　while　Ralph　manded　a　whole　tribe　
of　natives。　

“That　is　what　you　can　do；”　she　went　on；　moving　on　to　the　
next　statue。　“You　always　make　people　do　what　you　want。”　

A　glow　spread　over　her　spirit；　and　filled　her　eyes　with　
brightness。　Nevertheless；　before　she　left　the　Museum　she　
was　very　far　from　saying；　even　in　the　privacy　of　her　own　
mind；　“I　am　in　love　with　you；”　and　that　sentence　might　
very　well　never　have　framed　itself。　She　was；　indeed；　rather　
annoyed　with　herself　for　having　allowed　such　an　illconsidered　
breach　of　her　reserve；　weakening　her　powers　of　
resistance；　she　felt；　should　this　impulse　return　again。　
For；　as　she　walked　along　the　street　to　her　office；　the　force　
of　all　her　customary　objections　to　being　in　love　with　any　
one　overcame　her。　She　did　not　want　to　marry　at　all。　It　

seemed　to　her　that　there　was　something　amateurish　in　
bringing　love　into　touch　with　a　perfectly　straightforward　
friendship；　such　as　hers　was　with　Ralph；　which；　for　two　
years　now；　had　based　itself　upon　mon　interests　in　
impersonal　topics；　such　as　the　housing　of　the　poor；　or　
the　taxation　of　land　values。　

But　the　afternoon　spirit　differed　intrinsically　from　the　
morning　spirit。　Mary　found　herself　watching　the　flight　of　
a　bird；　or　making　drawings　of　the　branches　of　the　plane
trees　upon　her　blottingpaper。　People　came　in　to　see　Mr。　
Clacton　on　business；　and　a　seductive　smell　of　cigarette　
smoke　issued　from　his　room。　Mrs。　Seal　wandered　about　
with　newspaper　cuttings；　which　seemed　to　her　either　
“quite　splendid”　or　“really　too　bad　for　words。”　She　used　
to　paste　these　into　books；　or　send　them　to　her　friends；　
having　first　drawn　a　broad　bar　in　blue　pencil　down　the　
margin；　a　proceeding　which　signified　equally　and　indistinguishably　
the　depths　of　her　reprobation　or　the　heights　
of　her　approval。　

About　four　o’clock　on　that　same　afternoon　Katharine　
Hilbery　was　walking　up　Kingsway。　The　question　of　tea　

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presented　itself。　The　street　lamps　were　being　lit　already；　
and　as　she　stood　still　for　a　moment　beneath　one　of　them；　
she　tried　to　think　of　some　neighboring　drawingroom　
where　there　would　be　firelight　and　talk　congenial　to　her　
mood。　That　mood；　owing　to　the　spinning　traffic　and　the　
evening　veil　of　unreality；　was　illadapted　to　her　home　
surroundings。　Perhaps；　on　the　whole；　a　shop　was　the　best　
place　in　which　to　preserve　this　queer　sense　of　heightened　
existence。　At　the　same　time　she　wished　to　talk。　
Remembering　Mary　Datchet　and　her　repeated　invitations；　
she　crossed　the　road；　turned　into　Russell　Square；　and　
peered　about；　seeking　for　numbers　with　a　sense　of　adventure　
that　was　out　of　all　proportion　to　the　deed　itself。　
She　found　herself　in　a　dimly　lighted　hall；　unguarded　by　a　
porter；　and　pushed　open　the　first　swing　door。　But　the　
officeboy　had　never　heard　of　Miss　Datchet。　Did　she　belong　
to　the　S。R。F。R。？　Katharine　shook　her　head　with　a　
smile　of　dismay。　A　voice　from　within　shouted；　“No。　The　
S。G。S。—top　floor。”　

Katharine　mounted　past　innumerable　glass　doors；　with　
initials　on　them；　and　became　steadily　more　and　more　

doubtful　of　the　wisdom　of　her　venture。　At　the　top　she　
paused　for　a　moment　to　breathe　and　collect　herself。　She　
heard　the　typewriter　and　formal　professional　voices　inside；　
not　belonging；　she　thought；　to　any　one　she　had　
ever　spoken　to。　She　touched　the　bell；　and　the　door　was　
opened　almost　immediately　by　Mary　herself。　Her　face　had　
to　change　its　expression　entirely　when　she　saw　Katharine。　

“You！”　she　exclaimed。　“We　thought　you　were　the　printer。”　
Still　holding　the　door　open；　she　called　back；　“No；　Mr。　
Clacton；　it’s　not　Penningtons。　I　should　ring　them　up　again—　
double　three　double　eight；　Central。　Well；　this　is　a　surpri