《星期一和星期二》第19章

very　interesting　people；　and　i　think　of　them　so　often；　in　such　queer　places；　because　one　will　never　see　them　again；　never　know　what　happened　next。　they　wanted　to　leave　this　house　because　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。
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；　because　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　possessions　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　seems　always　the　most　mysterious　of　losses—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　pare　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–horse。　yes；　that　seems　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；　intersected　by　thick　stalks；　and　rather　higher　up　perhaps；　rose–shaped　blots　of　an　indistinct　colour—dim　pinks　and　blues—which　will；　as　time　goes　on；　bee　more　definite；　bee—i　don’t　know　what。　。　。
and　yet　that　mark　on　the　wall　is　not　a　hole　at　all。　it　may　even　be　caused　by　some　round　black　substance；　such　as　a　small　rose　leaf；　left　over　from　the　summer；　and　i；　not　being　a　very　vigilant　housekeeper—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　rise　from　my　chair；　to　slip　easily　from　one　thing　to　another；　without　any　sense　of　hostility；　or　obstacle。　i　want　to　sink　deeper　and　deeper；　away　from　the　surface；　with　its　hard　separate　facts。　to　steady　myself；　let　me　catch　hold　of　the　first　idea　that　passes。　。　。　shakespeare。　。　。　well；　he　will　do　as　well　as　another。　a　man　who　sat　himself　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　supposed　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　myself；　for　those　are　the　pleasantest　thoughts；　and　very　frequent　even　in　the　minds　of　modest　mouse–coloured　people；　who　believe　genuinely　that　they　dislike　to　hear　their　own　praises。　they　are　not　thoughts　directly　praising　oneself；　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　seen　a　flower　growing　on　a　dust　heap　on　the　site　of　an　old　house　in　kingsway。　the　seed；　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　tassels　to　them　perhaps。　and　so　it　goes　on。　all　the　time　i’m　dressing　up　the　figure　of　myself　in　my　own　mind；　lovingly；　stealthily；　not　openly　adoring　it；　for　if　i　did　that；　i　should　catch　myself　out；　and　stretch　my　hand　at　once　for　a　book　in　self–protection。　indeed；　it　is　curious　how　instinctively　one　protects　the　image　of　oneself　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。　suppose　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　seen　by　other　people—what　an　airless；　shallow；　bald；　prominent　world　it　bees！　a　world　not　to　be　lived　in。　as　we　face　each　other　in　omnibuses　and　underground　railways　we　are　looking　into　the　mirror　that　accounts　for　the　vagueness；　the　gleam　of　glassiness；　in　our　eyes。　and　the　novelists　in　future　will　realize　more　and　more　the　importance　of　these　reflections；　for　of　course　there　is　not　one　reflection　but　an　almost　infinite　number；　those　are　the　depths　they　will　explore；　those　the　phantoms　they　will　pursue；　leaving　the　description　of　reality　more　and　more　out　of　their　stories；　taking　a　knowledge　of　it　for　gr