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THE MARK ON THE WALL
by Virginia Woolf
运动会颁奖词Perhaps it was the middle of January in the prent that I first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or ven inches above the mantelpiece.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it. . . If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a picture, it mu
st have been for a miniature--the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. A fraud of cour, for the people who had this hou before us would have chon pictures in that way--an old picture for an old room. That is the sort of people they were--very interesting people, and I think of them so often, in such queer places, becau one will never e them again, never know what happened next. They wanted to leave this hou becau they wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.
车子违章查询But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that. I might get up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say for certain; becau once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; The inaccuracy of thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our posssions we have--what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization--let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime, beginning, for that ems always the most mysterious of loss--what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble--three pale blue canisters of book-
binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ--all
gone, and jewels, too. Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour--landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying back like the tail of a race-hor. Yes, that ems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . .
But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which are trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intercted by thick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, ro-shaped
blots of an indistinct colour--dim pinks and blues--which will, as time goes on, become more definite, become--I don't know what. . .
And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be caud by some round black substance, such as a small ro leaf, left over from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant houkeeper--look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe.
The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane. . . I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to ri from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any n of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard parate facts. To steady mylf, let me catch hold of the first idea that pass. . . Shakespeare. . . Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himlf solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so--A shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through the open door,--for this scene is suppod to take place on a summer's evening--But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn't interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon mylf, for tho are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequen
t even in the minds of modest mou-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to
hear their own prais. They are not thoughts directly praising onelf; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:
"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how I'd en a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old hou in Kingsway. The ed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First?" I asked--(but, I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple tasls to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up the figure of mylf in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily, not openly adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch mylf out, and stretch my hand at once for a book in lf-protection. Indeed, it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of onelf from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppo the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is en by other people--what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibus and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of gl
assiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future will realize more and more the importance of the reflections, for of cour there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; tho are the depths they will explore, tho the phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps--but the generalizations are very worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles, cabinet ministers--a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itlf, the standard thing, the real thing, from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes, and habits--like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, such as you may e in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths. How shocking, and yet how wonderful it was to discover that the real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country hous, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the damnation which visited the
disbeliever in them was only a n of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of tho things I wonder, tho real standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which ts the standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has become, I suppo, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon--one may hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the Lander prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating n of illegitimate freedom--if freedom exists. . .
In certain lights that mark on the wall ems actually to project from the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it ems to cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descend a small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like tho barrows on the South Downs which are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people, and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the turf. . . There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up tho bones and given them a name. . . What sort of a man is an antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the most part, I daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into correspondence 小儿咳嗽有痰
with the neighbouring clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time, gives them a feeling of importance, and the comparison of arrow-heads necessitates cross-country journeys to the county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives, who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himlf feels agreeably philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being oppod, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and his last conscious thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowhead there, which is now in the ca at the local muum, together with the foot of a Chine murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a great many Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine-glass that Nelson drank out of--proving I really don't know what.
No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really--what shall we say?--the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many generations of houmaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and is ta
king its first view of modern life in the sight of a white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain?--Knowledge? Matter for further speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up. And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increas. . . Yes, one could imagine a very pleasant world. A quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists or hou-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could slice with one's thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing the stems of the water-lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white a eggs. . . How peaceful it is drown here, rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters, with their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections--if it were not for Whitaker's Almanack--if it were not for the Table of Precedency!
I must jump up and e for mylf what that mark on the wall really is--a nail, a ro-leaf, a crack in the wood?
Here is nature once more at her old game of lf-prervation. This train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a
高丝莱菲finger against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows somebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature counls, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can't be comforted, if you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall.
善良的表姐I understand Nature's game--her prompting to take action as a way of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I suppo, comes our slight contempt for men of action--men, we assume, who don't think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.
Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I have grasped a plank in the a; I feel a satisfying n of reality which at once turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure of. . . Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree; and trees grow, and we don't know how they grow. For y
ears and years they grow, without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests, and by the side of rivers--all things one likes to think about. The cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to e its feathers all green when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out; and of water-beetles slowly raiding domes of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itlf:--first the clo dry nsation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves clo-furled, nothing tender expod to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold the feet of incts must feel upon it, as they make laborious progress up the creas of the bark, or sun themlves upon the thin green awning of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes. . . One by one the fibres snap beneath the immen cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take each one parately--but something is getting in the way. . . Where was I?
What has it all been about? A tree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker's Almanack? The fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's moving, falling, slipping, vanishing. . . There is a vast upheaval of matter. Someone is standing over me and saying— 方程思想
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"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."
"Yes?"
"Though it's no good buying newspapers. . . Nothing ever happens. Cur this war; God damn this war! . . . All the same, I don't e why we should have a snail on our wall."
Ah, the mark on the wall! It was a snail.
