Wave

Author: Virginia Woolf
Translator: Cao Yuanyong
Country: United Kingdom
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-12-01
Features: "Now we are marching forward two abreast," Louis said, "we enter the little chapel in neat formation. I love the sudden dim light that falls upon us as we enter this sacred building. I love marching in neat formation. We enter two abreast; we sit down. When we enter, we all discard our individual characteristics. None of us stands out. Now, when Dr. steps somewhat unsteadily—yet only because of his momentum—onto the pulpit, reading a passage from the Bible placed open on the back of the bronze eagle, I love it all. I love it very much; my heart rejoices in his height, his authority. He dispels the dark clouds that hang over the trembling, disreputable chaos in my heart—when we danced around the Christmas tree, and when they forgot me while distributing gifts, that fat woman said, 'This little boy hasn’t received a gift yet,' and took a brilliantly shining flag from the top of the tree to give to me, and I cried out of anger—because I was remembered only out of pity. Now everything is calmed by his authority, his cross. I feel a sense of fullness spread throughout my body, the earth beneath my feet, my roots digging down, down, until they cling to something solid deep in the earth’s core. When he reads the Bible, I am restored to wholeness, I become a part of the marching procession, a spoke on the great wheel turning. Finally, I stand up, right here, right now. I have always existed in darkness; I have always been hidden away; but when this wheel begins to turn (as he reads the passage), I rise up into this dim light, here, where I just glimpse but do not fully see the kneeling children, the pillars, the bronze altar pieces. Here, there is no rough behavior, no sudden kisses."
"Now I pretend to read again. I lift my book so that it nearly covers my eyes. Before these grooms and pipe fitters, I can’t read at all. I don’t have the ability to deceive myself. I don’t admire that person; he doesn’t admire me either. Let me at least be honest. Let me condemn this verbose, tedious, complacent world; condemn these horsehair chairs, these color photographs of various docks and squares. I almost want to cry out in condemnation of this smug self-satisfaction, of this world’s mediocrity and boredom, a world that breeds these horse traders with coral decorations on their watch chains. There is something in my heart that could utterly annihilate them. My laughter would make them shrink in their seats, forcing them to howl before me. Oh, no; they are unchanging. They are always the victors. They will make it impossible for me to forever read Catullus’s poems in a third-class carriage. They will force me to retreat into a university in October, where I will become a teacher; I will go to Greece with the male teachers at the school; I will give a report on the ruins of the Parthenon. Living in one of those red suburban cottages, raising horses—this is better than always burrowing like a maggot in the skulls of Sophocles and Euripides, marrying a virtuous lady among the university women. Yet, in that case, my fate would be so predetermined. I would suffer. By the time I am eighty, I would already be cynical, to the point where the horse traders would despise me. That would be my victory; I will not yield or compromise. I am not lacking in confidence; I do not have an accent. I am not as critical as Louis, always worrying that others might think, ‘My father is a bank clerk in.’"
"At the same time, as I stand by the train window looking outside, I strangely and precisely feel that it is precisely because of my immense happiness (the engagement has been set) that I have become a part of this rapid speed, a part of the cannonball shot toward the city. I have become numb to the point of tolerating and accepting all of this. I would say, ‘Dear sir, why are you anxiously taking off your suitcase and stuffing your hat, which you’ve worn all night, into it? Whatever we do is in vain. We are all enveloped in a magnificent harmony. It seems as if we have been given enormous gray wings of swans (on a clear yet tedious morning), and we have all become tall, solemn, and uniform, because we share only one wish—to reach our destination. I don’t want the train to rattle to a stop. I don’t want us to sit facing each other—this connection formed over the night would be instantly severed. I don’t want hatred and hostility to take hold again; nor do I want all sorts of desires. We sit together in the speeding train, sharing only one common wish—to reach Euston, a rare common ground. But look! All of this has ended. We have fulfilled our wish. We have stopped at the platform. The urgency, the haste, the longing to rush out the door and into the elevator—all are laid bare. But I don’t want to rush out the door, to bear the burden of individual life. Since Monday—when she accepted me—every nerve in me has been filled with self-respect. If I don’t first call out, ‘Where is my toothbrush?’, I can’t see my toothbrush in the glass. But now, I wish I could just let go of my luggage and stand here on the street—indifferently watching the buses, with no desires, no yearnings—holding an infinite curiosity about the fate of humanity, if it still holds any intellectual appeal to me. But no. I have arrived. I am accepted. I have nothing to ask for."
"Yet I still keep my little attic. There, I often read paperbacks; there, I often watch raindrops sparkle on the rooftops until they shine like police raincoats; there, I can see the dilapidated windows of the poor people’s houses; I can see thin cats, or a prostitute preparing to go out on the street, making faces at a cracked mirror. Sometimes Rhoda also comes up there to water, for we are lovers."
"Percival is dead (he died in Egypt; he died in Greece; all deaths are ultimately one death). Susan has children: Neville has quickly climbed to a prominent position. Life is passing. The clouds above our house change continuously. I do this, I do that, then I do this again, and then I do that again. As we sometimes meet and sometimes part, we gradually develop different temperaments and habits. However, if I don’t firmly hold onto these traces and blend the many different characters within me into one person; if I don’t exist here and now, like a snowflake that melts away in the distance; if I don’t ask Miss Johnson about the movies as I pass through the office and have a cup of tea, taking a biscuit that I love—then I will drift away like snow, dissolve and fade."
"But whenever it’s six o’clock, I tap my hat to greet the uniformed doorman, for I especially long to be accepted, so I always behave with great politeness; then I fasten my coat buttons tightly, bow my head, and struggle forward against the wind, my chin turning blue from the wind, my eyes streaming with tears. Whenever this happens, I wish a petite secretary would snuggle up to my knees; I think of my favorite meals being animal liver and smoked pork; then I want to turn toward the river, into those narrow alleys, where there are some common taverns, and at the end of the alleys, you can see the silhouettes of passing boats, and women often fight there. But I quickly regain my senses, reminding myself that I have an appointment with Prance at four o’clock and with Eres at half past four. The axe must fall on the wood; the oak must be split to the heart. The weight of the world rests on my shoulders. Here are pens and paper; on the letters in the wire basket, I must sign my name—me, me, or still me."
"It’s truly absurd and ridiculous," Neville said, "when we walk, time returns. It’s caused by a dog strutting ahead. The machines are turning. Time has aged that gate. Now, compared to that dog, three hundred years seem no longer than a fleeting moment. King William rides on horseback with a false head, while the court ladies, in whalebone-supported embroidered gowns, pass through the meadow. As we walk together, I begin to believe that the fate of Europe is very important, and although it sounds still a bit absurd, indeed, everything depends on that Battle of Blenheim. Yes, as we pass through this gate, I declare that it is time; I am now a loyal subject of King George."
"We walk along this avenue," Louis said, "I lean lightly on Jeanne, Bernard and Neville hold hands, Susan’s hand is in mine, we call ourselves children, praying that God will keep us safe as we sleep. It’s hard not to tear up. How sweet it is to sing together, clapping our hands to drive away the fear of the dark, while Miss Coulie plays the reed organ beside us!"
"That big iron gate is already closed," Jeanne said. "Time’s sharp teeth have stopped their greedy chewing. We have defeated the unfathomable universe with lipstick, powder, and thin handkerchiefs."
"I will hold on, I will hold tight," Susan said. "I will hold this hand firmly, whoever it is, filled with love, filled with hatred—it doesn’t matter."
"A sense of peace, a sense of transcendence, surrounds us," Rhoda said. "We are enjoying this temporary ease (such a carefree calm is not often found), while the walls of our souls become transparent. The court built by Reynolds is like a quartet played for a cold, indifferent audience in the hall. It is rectangular. On top of the rectangle is a square. We say, ‘This is our home.’ Now the building is quite visible. Almost nothing is left outside."
"That flower," Bernard said, "the carnation placed in the vase on the table when we had dinner at the restaurant with Percival, now has six petals; it contains six kinds of life."
"Against the background of the cypresses," Louis said, "a mysterious light is clearly visible."
"It was built through many pains and efforts," Jeanne said. "Marriage, death, travel, friendship," Bernard said, "city and country, children, and all sorts of things; a polyhedron separated from this darkness; it is a flower with multiple faces. Let’s stay for a moment; let’s look at what we have created. Let it shine under the cypresses. That is a life. Right there. It has passed. It has dimmed."
"Now they are gradually disappearing," Louis said. "Susan and Bernard. Neville and Jeanne. You and me, Rhoda, we pause beside this marble tomb. What kind of songs will we hear? These pairs have searched for tombs, now Jeanne points her gloved hand, feigning interest in the lotus flowers, while Susan, who has always loved Bernard, is telling him, ‘My ruined life, my wasted life.’ And Neville, holding Jeanne’s small hand painted with cherry-red nail polish, is shouting by the lake, by the water lit by the moon, ‘Oh, love, love!’ And Jeanne imitates the call of birds, replying, ‘Love? Love?’ What songs will we hear?"