-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джон Фоулз
-
- Волхв
-
- Стр. 65/136
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Long
before
I
came
up
to
the
gate
out
of
Bourani
,
I
saw
something
whitish
lying
in
the
gap
.
At
first
I
thought
it
was
a
handkerchief
,
but
when
I
stooped
to
pick
it
up
I
saw
it
was
a
cream
-
colored
glove
;
and
of
all
gloves
,
an
elbow
-
length
woman
’
s
glove
.
Inside
the
wrist
was
a
yellowish
label
,
with
the
words
Mireille
,
gantiêre
embroidered
on
it
in
blue
silk
.
The
label
,
like
the
glove
,
seemed
unreasonably
old
,
something
from
the
bottom
of
a
long
-
stored
trunk
.
I
smelt
it
,
and
there
it
was
,
that
same
scent
as
on
the
towel
the
week
before
—
musky
,
old
-
fashioned
like
sandalwood
.
When
Conchis
had
said
that
he
’
d
been
down
on
Moutsa
the
week
before
,
it
had
been
this
one
fact
,
the
sweet
womanish
perfume
,
that
had
puzzled
me
.
Now
I
began
to
understand
why
he
might
not
want
unexpected
visits
,
or
gossip
.
Why
he
should
want
to
risk
his
secret
with
me
,
perhaps
,
next
week
,
let
me
know
it
,
I
couldn
’
t
imagine
;
what
the
lady
was
doing
out
in
Ascot
gloves
,
I
couldn
’
t
imagine
;
and
who
she
was
,
I
couldn
’
t
imagine
.
She
might
be
a
mistress
,
but
she
might
equally
well
be
a
daughter
,
a
wife
,
a
sister
—
perhaps
someone
weakminded
,
perhaps
someone
elderly
.
It
flashed
through
my
mind
that
it
was
someone
who
was
allowed
out
in
the
grounds
of
Bourani
and
down
at
Moutsa
only
on
pain
of
keeping
herself
concealed
.
She
would
have
seen
me
the
week
before
;
and
this
time
,
have
heard
my
arrival
and
tried
to
catch
a
glimpse
of
me
—
that
explained
the
old
man
’
s
quick
looks
past
me
,
and
perhaps
some
of
his
nervous
strangeness
.
He
knew
she
was
"
out
"
;
it
explained
the
second
place
at
the
tea
table
,
and
the
mysterious
bell
.
I
turned
around
,
half
expecting
to
hear
a
giggle
,
a
rather
inane
giggle
;
and
then
as
I
looked
at
the
thick
shadowy
scrub
near
the
gate
,
and
remembered
the
grim
reference
to
Prospero
,
a
more
sinister
explanation
came
to
me
.
Not
weakmindedness
,
but
some
terrible
disfigurement
.
Not
all
young
and
beautiful
,
Mr
.
Urfe
.
I
felt
,
for
the
first
time
on
the
island
,
a
small
cold
shiver
of
solitary
-
place
fear
.
The
sun
was
getting
low
and
night
comes
with
near
tropical
speed
in
Greece
.
I
didn
’
t
want
to
have
to
negotiate
the
steep
northside
paths
in
darkness
.
So
I
hung
the
glove
neatly
over
the
center
of
the
top
bar
of
the
gate
and
went
on
quickly
.
Half
an
hour
later
the
charming
hypothesis
occurred
to
me
that
Conchis
was
a
transvestite
.
After
a
while
I
began
,
for
the
first
time
in
months
,
to
sing
.
I
told
no
one
,
not
even
Méli
,
about
my
visit
to
Conchis
,
but
I
spent
many
hours
conjecturing
about
the
mysterious
third
person
in
the
house
.
I
decided
that
a
weakminded
wife
was
the
most
likely
answer
;
it
would
explain
the
seclusion
,
the
taciturn
servants
.
I
tried
to
make
up
my
mind
about
Conchis
too
.
I
was
far
from
sure
that
he
was
not
just
a
homosexual
;
that
would
explain
Mitford
’
s
inadequate
warning
,
though
not
very
flatteringly
to
me
.
The
old
man
’
s
nervous
intensity
,
that
jerking
from
one
place
to
another
,
one
subject
to
another
,
his
jaunty
walk
,
the
gnomic
answers
and
mystifications
,
the
weird
ffinging
-
up
of
his
arms
when
I
left
—
all
his
mannerisms
suggested
,
were
calculated
to
suggest
,
that
he
wanted
to
seem
younger
and
more
vital
than
he
was
.
There
remained
the
peculiar
business
of
the
poetry
book
,
which
he
must
have
had
ready
to
puzzle
me
.
I
had
been
swimming
a
long
time
that
first
Sunday
,
far
out
in
the
bay
,
and
he
could
easily
have
slipped
the
things
onto
the
Bourani
end
of
the
beach
while
I
was
in
the
water
.
But
it
seemed
an
oddly
devious
means
of
introduction
.
Then
what
did
my
"
being
elect
"
mean
—
our
"
having
much
to
discover
"
?
In
itself
it
could
mean
nothing
;
in
regard
to
him
it
could
mean
only
that
he
was
mad
.
And
Some
would
say
I
lived
alone
:
I
remembered
the
scarcely
concealed
contempt
with
which
he
had
said
that
.
I
found
a
large
-
scale
map
of
the
island
in
the
school
library
.
The
boundaries
of
the
Bourani
estate
were
marked
.
I
saw
it
was
bigger
,
especially
to
the
east
,
than
I
had
realized
:
six
or
seven
hectares
,
some
fifteen
acres
.
Again
and
again
I
thought
of
it
,
perched
on
its
lonely
promontory
,
during
the
weary
hours
of
plodding
through
Eckersley
’
s
purgatorial
English
Course
.
I
enjoyed
conversation
classes
,
I
enjoyed
doing
more
advanced
work
with
what
was
known
as
the
Philologic
Sixth
,
a
small
group
of
eighteen
-
year
-
old
duds
who
were
doing
languages
only
because
they
were
hopeless
at
science
,
but
the
endless
business
of
"
drilling
"
the
beginners
bored
me
into
stone
What
am
I
doing
?
I
am
raising
my
arm
.
What
is
he
doing
?
He
is
raising
his
arm
.
What
are
they
doing
?
They
are
raising
their
arms
.
Have
they
raised
their
arms
?
They
have
raised
their
arms
.
It
was
like
being
a
champion
at
tennis
,
and
condemned
to
play
with
rabbits
,
as
well
as
having
always
to
get
their
wretched
balls
out
of
the
net
for
them
.
I
would
look
out
of
the
window
at
the
blue
sky
and
the
cypresses
and
the
sea
,
and
pray
for
the
day
’
s
end
,
when
I
could
retire
to
the
masters
’
wing
,
lie
back
on
my
bed
and
sip
an
ouzo
.
Bourani
seemed
greenly
remote
from
all
that
;
so
far
,
and
yet
so
near
;
its
small
mysteries
,
which
grew
smaller
as
the
week
passed
,
no
more
than
an
added
tang
in
its
other
promise
of
civilized
pleasure
.
This
time
he
was
waiting
for
me
at
the
table
.
I
dumped
my
dufflebag
by
the
wall
and
he
called
for
Maria
to
bring
the
tea
.
He
was
much
less
eccentric
,
perhaps
because
he
had
transparently
determined
to
pump
me
.
We
talked
about
the
school
,
about
Oxford
,
my
family
,
about
teaching
English
to
foreigners
,
about
why
I
had
come
to
Greece
.
Though
he
kept
asking
questions
,
I
still
felt
that
he
had
no
real
interest
in
what
I
was
saying
.
What
interested
him
was
something
else
,
some
specificness
I
exhibited
,
some
category
I
filled
.
I
was
not
interesting
in
myself
,
but
only
as
an
example
.
I
tried
once
or
twice
to
reverse
our
roles
,
but
he
again
made
it
clear
that
he
did
not
want
to
talk
about
himself
.
I
said
nothing
about
the
glove
.
Only
once
did
he
seem
really
surprised
.
He
had
asked
me
about
my
unusual
name
.
"
French
.
My
ancestors
were
Huguenots
.
"
"
Ah
.
"
"
There
’
s
a
writer
called
Honoré
d
’
Urfé
—
"
He
gave
me
a
swift
look
.
"
He
is
an
ancestor
of
yours
?
"
"
It
’
s
just
a
family
tradition
.
No
one
’
s
ever
traced
it
.
As
far
as
I
know
.
"
Poor
old
d
’
Urfé
;
I
had
used
him
before
to
suggest
centuries
of
high
culture
lay
in
my
blood
.
Conchis
’
s
smile
was
genuinely
warm
,
almost
radiant
,
and
I
smiled
back
.
"
That
makes
a
difference
?
"
"
It
is
amusing
.
"
"
It
’
s
probably
all
rubbish
.
"
"
No
,
no
,
I
believe
it
.
And
have
you
read
L
’
Astree
?
"
"
For
my
pains
.
Terrible
bore
.
"
"
Oui
,
un
peu
fade
.
Mais
pa
.
s
tout
a
fait
sans
charmes
.
"
Impeccable
accent
;
he
could
not
stop
smiling
.
"
So
you
speak
French
.
"
"
Not
very
well
.
"
"
I
have
a
direct
link
with
le
grand
siècle
at
my
table
.
"
"
Hardly
direct
.
"
But
I
didn
’
t
mind
his
thinking
it
;
his
sudden
flattering
benignity
.
He
stood
up
.
"
Now
.
In
your
honor
.
Today
I
will
play
Rameau
.
"
He
led
the
way
into
the
room
,
which
ran
the
whole
width
of
the
house
.
Books
lined
three
walls
.
At
one
end
there
was
a
green
-
glazed
tile
stove
under
a
mantelpiece
on
which
stood
two
bronzes
,
one
a
modern
one
.
Above
them
was
a
life
-
size
reproduction
of
a
Modigliani
,
a
fine
portrait
of
a
somber
woman
in
black
against
a
glaucous
green
background
.
He
sat
me
in
an
armchair
,
sorted
through
some
scores
,
found
the
one
he
wanted
;
began
to
play
,
short
,
chirrupy
little
pieces
,
then
some
elaborately
ornamented
courantes
and
passacaglias
.
I
didn
’
t
much
like
them
,
but
I
realized
he
played
with
some
mastery
.
He
might
be
pretentious
in
other
ways
,
but
he
was
not
posing
at
the
keyboard
.
He
stopped
abruptly
,
in
midpiece
,
as
if
a
light
had
fused
;
pretention
began
again
.
"
Voilà
.
"
"
Very
nice
.
"
I
determined
to
stamp
out
the
French
flu
before
it
spread
.
"
I
’
ve
been
admiring
that
.
"
I
nodded
at
the
reproduction
.
"
Yes
?
"
We
went
and
stood
in
front
of
it
.
"
My
mother
.
"
For
a
moment
I
thought
he
was
joking
.
"
Your
mother
?
"
"
In
name
.
In
reality
,
it
is
his
mother
.
It
was
always
his
mother
.
"
I
looked
at
the
woman
’
s
eyes
;
they
hadn
’
t
the
usual
fishlike
pallor
of
Modigliani
eyes
.
They
stared
,
they
watched
,
they
were
simian
.
I
also
looked
at
the
painted
surface
.
With
a
delayed
shock
I
realized
I
was
not
looking
at
a
reproduction
.
"
Good
Lord
.
It
must
be
worth
a
fortune
.
"
"
No
doubt
.
"
He
spoke
without
looking
at
me
.
"
You
must
not
think
that
because
I
live
simply
here
I
am
poor
.
I
am
very
rich
.
"
He
said
it
as
if
"
very
rich
"
was
a
nationality
;
as
perhaps
it
is
.
I
stared
at
the
picture
again
.
I
think
it
was
the
first
time
I
had
seen
a
really
valuable
modern
picture
hanging
in
a
private
house
.
"
It
cost
me
…
nothing
.
And
that
was
charity
.
I
should
like
to
say
that
I
recognized
his
genius
.
But
I
did
not
.
No
one
did
.
Not
even
the
clever
Mr
.
Zborowski
.
"
"
You
knew
him
?
"
"
Modigliani
?
I
met
him
.
Many
times
.
I
knew
Max
Jacob
,
who
was
a
friend
of
his
.
That
was
in
the
last
year
of
his
life
.
He
was
quite
famous
by
then
.
One
of
the
sights
of
Montparnasse
.
"
I
stole
a
look
at
Conchis
as
he
gazed
up
at
the
picture
;
he
had
,
by
no
other
logic
than
that
of
cultural
snobbery
,
gained
a
whole
new
dimension
of
social
respectability
for
me
,
and
I
began
to
feel
much
less
sure
of
his
eccentricity
and
his
phoniness
,
of
my
own
superiority
in
the
matter
of
what
life
was
really
about
.
"
You
must
wish
you
bought
more
from
him
.
"
"
I
did
.
"
"
You
still
own
them
?
"
"
Of
course
.
Only
a
bankrupt
would
sell
beautiful
paintings
.
They
are
in
my
other
houses
.
"
I
stored
away
that
plural
;
one
day
I
would
mimic
it
to
someone
.
"
Where
are
your
…
other
houses
?
"
"
Do
you
like
this
?
"
He
touched
the
bronze
of
a
young
man
beneath
the
Modigliani
.
"
This
is
a
maquette
by
Rodin
.
My
other
houses
.
Well
.
In
France
.
In
the
Lebanon
.
In
America
.
I
have
business
interests
all
over
the
world
.
"
He
turned
to
the
other
characteristically
skeletal
bronze
.
"
And
this
is
by
the
Italian
sculptor
Giacometti
.
"
I
looked
at
it
,
then
at
him
.
"
I
’
m
staggered
.
Here
on
Phraxos
.
"
"
Why
not
?
"
"
Thieves
?
"
"
If
you
have
many
valuable
paintings
,
as
I
have
—
I
will
show
you
two
more
upstairs
later
—
you
make
a
decision
.
You
treat
them
as
what
they
are
—
squares
of
painted
canvas
.
Or
you
treat
them
as
you
would
treat
gold
ingots
.
You
put
bars
on
your
windows
,
you
lie
awake
at
night
worrying
.
There
.
"
He
indicated
the
bronzes
.
"
If
you
want
,
steal
them
.
I
shall
tell
the
police
,
but
you
may
get
away
with
them
.
The
only
thing
you
will
not
do
is
make
me
worry
.
"
"
They
’
re
safe
from
me
.
"
"
And
on
Greek
islands
,
no
thieves
.
But
I
do
not
like
everyone
to
know
they
are
here
.
"
"
Of
course
.
"
"
This
picture
is
interesting
.
It
was
omitted
from
the
only
catalogue
raisonné
of
his
work
I
have
seen
.
You
see
also
it
is
not
signed
.
However
—
it
would
not
be
difficult
to
authenticate
.
I
will
show
you
.
Take
the
corner
.
"
He
moved
the
Rodin
to
one
side
and
we
lifted
the
frame
down
.
He
tilted
it
for
me
to
see
.
On
the
back
were
the
first
few
lines
of
a
sketch
for
another
painting
,
then
scrawled
across
the
lower
half
of
the
untreated
canvas
were
some
illegible
words
with
numbers
beside
them
,
added
up
at
the
bottom
,
by
the
stretcher
.
"
Debts
.
That
one
there
.
"
Toto
.
"
Toto
was
the
Algerian
he
bought
his
hashish
from
.
"
He
pointed
:
Zbo
.
"
Zborowski
.
"
I
stared
down
at
those
careless
,
drunken
scrawls
;
felt
the
immediacy
of
the
man
,
and
the
terrible
but
necessary
alienation
of
genius
from
ordinariness
.
A
man
who
would
touch
you
for
ten
francs
;
and
go
home
and
paint
what
would
one
day
be
worth
ten
million
.
Conchis
watched
me
.
"
This
is
the
side
the
museums
never
show
.
"
"
Poor
devil
.
"
"
He
would
say
the
same
of
us
.
With
much
more
reason
.
"
I
helped
him
put
the
frame
back
.
Then
he
made
me
look
at
the
windows
.
They
were
rather
small
and
narrow
,
arched
,
each
one
with
a
center
pillar
and
a
capital
of
carved
marble
.
"
These
come
from
Monemvasia
.
I
found
them
built
into
a
cottage
.
So
I
bought
the
cottage
.
"
"
Like
an
American
.
"
He
did
not
smile
.
"
They
are
Venetian
.
Of
the
fifteenth
century
.
"
He
turned
to
the
bookshelves
and
pulled
down
an
art
book
.
"
Here
.
"
I
looked
over
his
shoulder
and
saw
Fra
Angelico
’
s
famous
Annunciation
;
and
at
once
knew
why
the
colonnade
outside
had
seemed
so
familiar
.
There
was
even
the
same
white
-
edged
floor
of
red
tiles
.
"
Now
what
else
can
I
show
you
?
My
harpsichord
is
very
rare
.
It
is
one
of
the
original
Pleyels
.
Not
in
fashion
.
But
very
beautiful
.
"
He
stroked
its
shining
black
top
,
as
if
it
were
a
cat
.
There
was
a
music
stand
on
the
far
side
,
by
the
wall
.
It
seemed
an
unnecessary
thing
to
have
with
a
harpsichord
.
"
You
play
some
other
instrument
,
Mr
.
Conchis
?
"
He
looked
at
it
,
shook
his
head
.
"
No
.
It
has
sentimental
value
.
"
But
he
sounded
quite
unsentimental
.
He
looked
at
his
watch
.
"
Now
,
I
must
leave
you
for
some
time
.
I
have
letters
to
write
.
You
will
find
newspapers
and
magazines
over
there
.
Or
books
—
take
what
you
want
.
You
will
excuse
me
?
Your
room
is
upstairs
…
if
you
wish
?
"
"
No
,
this
is
fine
.
Thank
you
.
"
He
went
;
and
I
stared
again
at
the
Modigliani
,
caressed
the
Rodin
,
surveyed
the
room
.
I
felt
rather
like
a
man
who
has
knocked
on
a
cottage
door
and
found
himself
in
a
palace
;
vaguely
foolish
.
I
took
a
pile
of
the
French
and
American
magazines
that
lay
on
a
table
in
the
corner
and
went
out
under
the
colonnade
.
After
a
while
I
did
something
else
I
hadn
’
t
done
for
several
months
.
I
began
to
rough
out
a
poem
.
From
this
skull
-
rock
strange
golden
roots
throwIkons
and
incidents
;
the
man
in
the
maskManipulates
.
I
am
the
fool
that
fallsAnd
never
learns
to
wait
and
watch
,
Icarus
eternally
damned
,
the
dupe
of
time
…
He
suggested
we
look
over
the
rest
of
the
house
.
A
door
led
into
a
bare
,
ugly
hall
.
There
was
a
dining
room
,
which
he
said
he
never
used
,
on
the
north
side
of
the
house
,
and
another
room
which
resembled
nothing
so
much
as
a
secondhand
-
book
shop
;
a
chaos
of
books
—
shelves
of
books
,
stacks
of
books
,
piles
of
magazines
and
newspapers
,
and
one
large
and
evidently
newly
arrived
parcel
that
lay
unopened
on
a
desk
by
the
window
.
He
turned
to
me
with
a
pair
of
calipers
in
his
hand
.
"
I
am
interested
in
anthropology
.
May
I
measure
your
skull
?
"
He
took
my
permission
for
granted
,
and
I
bent
my
head
.
As
he
gently
pinched
my
head
,
he
said
,
"
You
like
books
?
"
He
seemed
to
have
forgotten
,
but
perhaps
he
hadn
’
t
,
that
I
had
read
English
at
Oxford
.
"
Of
course
.
"
"
What
do
you
read
?
"
He
wrote
down
my
measurements
in
a
little
notebook
.
"
Oh
…
novels
mainly
.
Poetry
.
And
criticism
.
"
"
I
have
not
a
single
novel
here
.
"
"
No
?
"
"
The
novel
is
no
longer
an
art
form
.
"
I
grinned
.
"
Why
do
you
smile
?
"
"
It
was
a
sort
of
joke
when
I
was
at
Oxford
.
If
you
didn
’
t
know
what
to
say
at
a
party
,
you
used
to
ask
a
question
like
that
.
