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- Джон Фоулз
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- Волхв
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Soon
I
took
to
the
hills
.
None
of
the
other
masters
ever
stirred
an
inch
farther
than
they
needed
to
,
and
the
boys
were
not
allowed
beyond
the
chevaux
de
frise
of
the
high
-
walled
school
grounds
except
on
Sundays
,
and
then
only
for
the
half
-
mile
along
the
coast
road
to
the
village
.
The
hills
were
always
intoxicatingly
clean
and
light
and
remote
.
With
no
company
but
my
own
boredom
,
I
began
for
the
first
time
in
my
life
to
look
at
nature
,
and
to
regret
that
I
knew
its
Ianguage
as
little
as
I
knew
Greek
.
I
became
aware
of
stones
,
birds
,
flowers
,
land
,
in
a
new
way
,
and
the
walking
,
swimming
,
the
magnificent
climate
,
the
absence
of
all
traffic
—
ground
or
air
,
for
there
wasn
’
t
a
single
car
on
the
island
,
there
being
no
roads
outside
the
village
,
and
airplanes
passed
over
not
once
a
month
—
these
things
made
me
feel
healthier
than
I
had
ever
felt
before
.
I
began
to
get
some
sort
of
harmony
between
body
and
mind
;
or
so
it
seemed
.
It
was
an
illusion
.
There
had
been
a
letter
from
Alison
waiting
for
me
when
I
arrived
at
the
school
.
It
was
very
brief
.
She
must
have
written
it
at
work
the
day
I
left
London
.
I
love
you
,
you
can
’
t
understand
what
that
means
because
you
’
ve
never
loved
anyone
yourself
.
It
’
s
what
I
’
ve
been
trying
to
make
you
see
this
last
week
.
All
I
want
to
say
is
that
one
day
,
when
you
do
fall
in
love
,
remember
today
.
Remember
I
kissed
you
and
walked
out
of
the
room
.
Remember
I
walked
all
the
way
down
the
street
and
never
once
looked
back
.
I
knew
you
were
watching
.
Remember
I
did
all
this
and
I
love
you
.
If
you
forget
everything
else
about
me
,
please
remember
this
.
I
walked
down
that
street
and
I
never
looked
back
and
I
love
you
.
I
love
you
.
I
love
you
so
much
that
I
shall
hate
you
forever
for
today
.
Another
letter
came
from
her
the
next
day
.
It
contained
nothing
but
my
check
torn
in
two
and
a
scribble
on
the
back
of
one
half
:
No
thanks
.
And
two
days
later
there
was
a
third
letter
,
full
of
enthusiasm
for
some
film
she
had
been
to
see
,
almost
a
chatty
letter
.
But
at
the
end
she
wrote
:
Forget
the
first
letter
I
sent
you
.
I
was
so
upset
.
It
’
s
all
over
now
.
I
won
’
t
be
old
-
fashioned
again
.
Of
course
I
wrote
back
,
if
not
every
day
,
two
or
three
times
a
week
;
long
letters
full
of
self
-
excuse
and
seff
-
justification
until
one
day
she
wrote
Please
don
’
t
go
on
so
about
you
and
me
.
Tell
me
about
things
,
about
the
island
,
the
school
.
I
know
what
you
are
.
So
be
what
you
are
.
When
you
write
about
things
I
can
think
I
’
m
with
you
,
seeing
them
with
you
.
And
don
’
t
be
offended
.
Forgiving
’
s
forgetting
.
Imperceptibly
information
took
the
place
of
emotion
in
our
letters
.
She
wrote
to
me
about
her
work
,
a
girl
she
had
become
friendly
with
,
about
minor
domestic
things
,
films
,
books
.
I
wrote
about
the
school
and
the
island
,
as
she
asked
.
One
day
there
was
a
photo
of
her
in
her
uniform
.
She
’
d
had
her
hair
cut
short
and
it
was
tucked
back
under
her
fore
-
and
-
aft
cap
.
She
was
smiling
,
but
the
uniform
and
the
smile
combined
gave
her
an
insincere
,
professional
look
;
she
had
become
,
the
photo
sharply
warned
me
,
a
stranger
,
someone
not
the
someone
I
liked
to
remember
;
the
private
,
the
uniquely
my
,
Alison
.
And
then
the
letters
became
once
-
weekly
.
The
physical
ache
I
had
felt
for
her
during
the
first
weeks
seemed
to
disappear
;
there
were
still
times
when
I
knew
I
wanted
her
very
much
,
and
would
have
given
anything
to
have
her
in
bed
beside
me
.
But
they
were
moments
of
sexual
frustration
,
not
regretted
love
.
One
day
I
thought
:
if
I
wasn
’
t
on
this
island
I
should
be
dropping
this
girl
.
The
writing
of
the
letters
had
become
as
often
as
not
more
of
a
chore
than
a
pleasure
,
and
I
didn
’
t
hurry
back
to
my
room
after
dinner
to
write
them
—
I
scribbled
them
off
hurriedly
in
class
and
got
a
boy
to
run
down
to
the
gate
at
the
last
minute
to
give
them
to
the
school
postman
.
At
half
-
term
I
went
with
Demetriades
to
Athens
.
He
wanted
to
take
me
to
his
favorite
brothel
,
in
a
suburb
.
He
assured
me
the
girls
were
clean
.
I
hesitated
,
then
.
—
isn
’
t
it
a
poet
’
s
,
to
say
nothing
of
a
cynic
’
s
,
moral
duty
to
be
immoral
?
—
I
went
.
When
we
came
out
of
it
,
it
was
raining
,
and
the
shadowing
wet
leaves
on
the
lower
branches
of
a
eucalyptus
,
caught
under
a
light
in
the
entrance
,
made
me
remember
our
bedroom
in
Russell
Square
.
But
Alison
and
London
were
gone
,
dead
,
exorcized
;
I
had
cut
them
away
from
my
life
.
I
decided
I
would
write
a
letter
to
Alison
that
night
,
to
say
that
I
didn
’
t
want
to
hear
from
her
again
.
I
was
too
drunk
by
the
time
we
got
back
to
the
hotel
,
and
I
don
’
t
know
what
I
would
have
said
.
Perhaps
,
that
I
had
proved
beyond
doubt
that
I
was
not
worth
waiting
for
;
perhaps
that
she
bored
me
;
perhaps
that
I
was
lonelier
than
ever
—
and
wanted
to
stay
that
way
.
