-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джон Фоулз
-
- Волхв
-
- Стр. 68/136
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
"
You
can
’
t
refuse
to
tell
me
what
you
promised
now
.
"
"
I
wanted
only
to
warn
you
.
"
"
You
have
.
"
"
Excuse
me
for
one
minute
.
"
He
disappeared
into
his
bedroom
.
I
got
up
and
went
to
the
corner
of
the
parapet
,
from
where
I
could
see
in
three
directions
.
All
around
the
house
lay
the
silent
pine
trees
,
dim
in
the
starlight
.
Absolute
peace
.
High
and
very
far
to
the
north
I
could
just
hear
a
plane
,
only
the
third
or
fourth
I
had
heard
at
night
since
coming
to
the
island
.
I
thcught
of
an
Alison
on
it
,
moving
down
the
aisle
with
a
trolley
of
drinks
.
Like
the
ship
the
faint
drone
accentuated
,
rather
than
diminished
,
the
remoteness
of
Bourani
.
I
had
an
acute
sense
of
the
absence
of
Alison
,
of
the
probably
permanent
loss
of
her
;
I
could
imagine
her
beside
me
,
her
hand
in
mine
;
and
she
was
human
warmth
,
normality
,
standard
to
go
by
.
I
had
always
seen
myself
as
potentially
a
sort
of
protector
of
her
;
and
for
the
first
time
,
that
evening
at
Bourani
,
I
saw
that
perhaps
she
had
been
,
or
could
have
been
,
a
protector
of
me
.
A
few
seconds
later
Conchis
returned
.
He
went
to
the
parapet
,
and
breathed
deeply
.
The
sky
and
the
sea
and
the
stars
,
half
the
universe
,
stretched
out
before
us
.
I
could
still
just
hear
the
plane
.
I
lit
a
cigarette
,
as
Alison
,
at
such
a
moment
,
would
have
lit
a
cigarette
.
"
I
think
we
should
be
more
comfortable
in
the
lounging
chairs
.
"
I
helped
him
pull
the
two
long
wicker
chairs
from
the
far
end
of
the
terrace
.
Then
we
both
put
our
feet
up
and
lay
back
,
so
that
we
looked
into
the
stars
.
And
at
once
I
could
smell
it
on
the
tied
-
on
headcushion
—
that
same
elusive
,
old
-
fashioned
perfume
of
the
towel
,
of
the
glove
.
I
was
sure
it
did
not
belong
to
Conchis
or
old
Maria
.
I
should
have
smelt
it
by
then
.
There
was
a
woman
,
and
she
often
used
this
chair
.
"
It
will
take
me
a
long
time
to
define
what
I
mean
.
It
will
take
me
the
story
of
my
life
.
"
"
I
’
ve
spent
the
last
seven
months
among
people
who
can
speak
only
the
most
rudimentary
English
.
"
"
My
French
is
better
than
my
English
now
.
But
no
matter
.
Comprendre
,
c
’
est
tout
.
"
"
’
Only
connect
.
’
"
"
Who
said
that
?
"
"
An
English
novelist
.
"
"
He
should
not
have
said
it
.
Fiction
is
the
worst
form
of
connection
.
"
I
smiled
in
the
darkness
.
There
was
silence
.
The
stars
gave
signals
.
He
began
.
"
I
told
you
my
father
was
English
.
But
his
business
,
importing
tobacco
and
currants
,
lay
mainly
in
the
Levant
.
One
of
his
competitors
was
a
Greek
living
in
London
.
In
1892
this
Greek
had
tragic
news
.
His
eldest
brother
and
his
wife
had
been
killed
in
an
earthquake
over
the
mountains
there
on
the
other
side
of
the
Peloponnesus
.
Three
children
survived
.
The
two
youngest
,
two
boys
,
were
sent
out
to
South
America
,
to
a
third
brother
.
And
the
eldest
child
,
a
girl
of
seventeen
,
was
brought
to
London
to
keep
house
for
her
uncle
,
my
father
’
s
competitor
.
He
had
long
been
a
widower
.
She
had
the
prettiness
that
is
characteristic
of
Greek
women
who
have
some
Italian
blood
.
My
father
met
her
.
He
was
much
older
,
but
quite
good
-
looking
,
I
suppose
,
and
he
spoke
some
demotic
Greek
.
There
were
business
interests
which
could
be
profitably
merged
.
In
short
,
they
married
.
and
I
exist
.
"
The
first
thing
I
remember
clearly
is
my
mother
’
s
singing
.
She
always
sang
,
whether
she
was
happy
or
sad
.
She
could
sing
classical
music
quite
well
,
and
play
the
piano
,
but
it
was
the
Greek
folk
tunes
I
remember
best
.
Those
she
always
sang
when
she
was
sad
.
I
remember
her
telling
me
—
much
later
in
life
—
of
that
standing
on
a
distant
hillside
and
seeing
the
ochre
dust
float
slowly
up
into
the
azure
sky
.
When
the
news
about
her
parents
came
,
she
was
filled
with
a
black
hatred
of
Greece
.
She
wanted
to
leave
it
then
,
never
to
return
.
Like
so
many
Greeks
.
And
like
so
many
Greeks
she
never
accepted
her
exile
.
That
is
the
cost
of
being
born
in
the
most
beautiful
and
the
most
cruel
country
in
the
world
.
"
My
mother
sang
—
and
music
was
the
most
important
thing
in
my
life
,
from
as
far
back
as
I
can
remember
.
I
was
something
of
a
child
prodigy
.
I
gave
my
first
concert
at
the
age
of
nine
,
and
people
were
very
kind
.
But
I
was
a
bad
pupil
at
all
the
other
subjects
at
school
.
I
was
not
stupid
,
but
I
was
very
lazy
.
I
knew
only
one
obligation
:
to
play
the
piano
well
.
Duty
largely
consists
of
pretending
that
the
trivial
is
critical
.
And
I
was
never
accomplished
at
that
.
"
I
was
fortunate
,
I
had
a
very
remarkable
music
teacher
—
Charles
Victor
Bruneau
.
He
had
many
of
the
traditional
faults
of
his
kind
.
Vain
of
his
methods
and
vain
of
his
pupils
.
A
sarcastic
agony
if
one
was
not
talented
,
and
a
painstaking
angel
if
one
was
.
But
he
was
a
very
learned
man
musicologically
.
In
those
days
that
meant
he
was
rarissima
avis
.
Most
executants
then
wanted
only
to
express
themselves
.
And
so
they
developed
accomplishments
like
enormous
velocity
and
great
skill
at
expressive
rubato
.
No
one
today
plays
like
that
.
Or
could
play
like
it
,
even
if
they
wanted
to
.
The
Rosenthals
and
Godowskys
are
gone
forever
.
But
Bruneau
was
far
in
advance
of
his
time
and
there
are
still
many
Haydn
and
Mozart
sonatas
I
can
hear
only
as
he
played
them
.
"
However
,
his
most
remarkable
acquirement
—
I
speak
of
before
1914
—
was
the
then
almost
unknown
one
of
being
as
good
a
harpsichordist
as
a
pianist
.
I
first
came
under
him
at
a
period
in
his
life
when
he
was
abandoning
the
piano
.
You
know
the
harpsichord
requires
a
very
different
finger
technique
from
the
piano
.
It
is
not
easy
to
change
.
He
dreamed
of
a
school
of
harpsichord
players
who
were
trained
as
early
as
possible
as
pure
harpsichordists
.
And
not
,
as
he
used
to
say
,
des
pianistes
en
costume
de
bal
masqué
.
"
When
I
was
fifteen
,
I
had
what
we
would
call
today
a
nervous
breakdown
.
Bruneau
had
been
driving
me
too
hard
.
I
never
had
the
least
interest
in
games
.
I
was
a
day
boy
,
I
had
permission
to
concentrate
on
music
.
I
never
made
any
real
friends
at
school
.
Perhaps
because
I
was
taken
for
a
Jew
.
But
the
doctor
said
that
when
I
recovered
I
would
have
to
practice
less
and
go
out
more
often
.
I
made
a
face
.
My
father
came
back
one
day
with
an
expensive
book
on
birds
.
I
could
hardly
tell
the
commonest
birds
apart
,
had
never
thought
of
doing
so
.
But
my
father
’
s
was
an
inspired
guess
.
Lying
in
bed
,
looking
at
the
stiff
poses
in
the
pictures
,
I
began
to
want
to
see
the
living
reality
—
and
the
only
reality
to
begin
with
for
me
was
the
singing
that
I
heard
through
my
sickroom
window
.
I
came
to
birds
through
sound
.
Suddenly
even
the
chirping
of
sparrows
seemed
mysterious
.
And
the
singing
of
birds
I
had
heard
a
thousand
times
,
thrushes
,
blackbirds
in
our
garden
,
I
heard
as
if
I
had
never
heard
them
before
.
Later
in
my
life
—
ça
sera
pour
un
autre
jour
—
birds
led
me
into
a
very
unusual
experience
.
"
You
see
the
child
I
was
.
Lazy
,
lonely
,
yes
,
very
lonely
.
What
is
that
word
?
A
sissy
.
Talented
in
music
,
and
in
nothing
else
.
And
I
was
an
only
child
,
spoilt
by
my
parents
.
As
I
entered
my
fourth
luster
,
it
became
evident
that
I
was
not
going
to
fulfill
my
early
promise
.
Bruneau
saw
it
first
,
and
then
I
did
.
Though
we
tacitly
agreed
not
to
tell
my
parents
,
it
was
difficult
for
me
to
accept
.
Sixteen
is
a
bad
age
at
which
to
know
one
will
never
be
a
genius
.
But
by
then
I
was
in
love
.
"
I
first
saw
Lily
when
she
was
fourteen
,
and
I
was
a
year
older
,
soon
after
my
breakdown
.
We
lived
in
St
.
John
’
s
Wood
.
In
one
of
those
small
white
mansions
for
successful
merchants
.
You
know
them
?
A
semi
-
circular
drive
.
A
portico
.
At
the
back
was
a
long
garden
,
at
the
end
of
it
a
little
orchard
,
some
six
or
seven
overgrown
apple
and
pear
trees
.
Unkempt
,
but
very
green
.
Ombreux
.
I
had
a
private
’
house
’
under
a
lime
tree
.
One
day
—
June
,
a
noble
blue
day
,
burning
,
clear
,
as
they
are
here
in
Greece
—
I
was
reading
a
life
of
Chopin
.
I
remember
that
exactly
.
You
know
at
my
age
you
recall
the
first
twenty
years
far
better
than
the
second
—
or
the
third
.
I
was
reading
and
no
doubt
seeing
myself
as
Chopin
,
and
I
had
my
new
book
on
birds
beside
me
.
It
is
1910
.
"
Suddenly
I
hear
a
noise
on
the
other
side
of
the
brick
wall
which
separates
the
garden
of
the
next
house
from
ours
.
This
house
is
empty
,
so
I
am
surprised
.
And
then
…
a
head
appears
.
Cautiously
.
Like
a
mouse
.
It
is
the
head
of
a
young
girl
.
I
am
half
hidden
in
my
bower
,
I
am
the
last
thing
she
sees
,
so
I
have
time
to
examine
her
.
Her
head
is
in
sunshine
,
a
mass
of
pale
blonde
hair
that
falls
behind
her
and
out
of
sight
.
The
sun
is
to
the
south
,
so
that
it
is
caught
in
her
hair
,
in
a
cloud
of
light
.
I
see
her
shadowed
face
,
her
dark
eyes
and
her
small
half
-
opened
inquisitive
mouth
.
She
is
grave
,
timid
,
yet
determined
to
be
daring
.
She
sees
me
.
She
stares
at
me
for
a
moment
in
her
shocked
haze
of
light
.
She
seems
more
erect
,
like
a
bird
.
I
stand
up
in
the
entrance
of
my
bower
,
still
in
shadow
.
We
do
not
speak
or
smile
.
All
the
unspoken
mysteries
of
puberty
tremble
in
the
air
.
I
do
not
know
why
I
cannot
speak
…
and
then
a
voice
called
.
Li
-
ly
!
Li
-
ly
!
"
The
spell
was
broken
.
And
all
my
past
was
broken
,
too
.
Do
you
know
that
image
from
Seferis
—
’
The
broken
pomegranate
is
full
of
stars
’
?
It
was
like
that
.
She
disappeared
,
I
sat
down
again
,
but
to
read
was
impossible
.
I
went
to
the
wall
near
the
house
,
and
heard
a
man
’
s
voice
,
and
silver
female
voices
that
faded
through
a
door
.
"
I
was
in
a
morbid
state
.
But
that
first
meeting
,
that
mysterious
…
how
shall
I
say
,
message
from
her
light
,
from
her
light
to
my
shadow
,
haunted
me
for
weeks
.
"
Her
parents
moved
into
the
house
next
door
.
I
met
Lily
face
to
face
.
And
there
was
some
bridge
between
us
.
It
was
not
all
my
imagination
,
this
something
came
from
her
as
well
as
from
me
—
a
joint
umbilical
cord
,
something
we
dared
not
speak
of
,
of
course
,
yet
which
we
both
knew
was
there
.
"
She
was
very
like
me
in
many
ordinary
ways
.
She
too
had
few
friends
in
London
.
And
the
final
touch
to
this
faiiy
story
was
that
she
too
was
musical
.
Not
very
strikingly
gifted
,
but
musical
.
Her
father
was
a
peculiar
man
,
Irish
,
with
private
means
,
and
with
a
passion
for
music
.
He
played
the
flute
very
well
.
Of
course
he
had
to
meet
Bruneau
,
who
sometimes
came
to
our
house
,
and
through
Bruneau
he
met
Dolmetsch
,
who
interested
him
in
the
recorder
.
Another
forgotten
instrument
in
those
days
.
I
remember
so
well
Lily
playing
her
first
solo
on
a
flat
-
sounding
descant
recorder
made
by
Dolmetsch
and
bought
for
her
by
her
father
.
"
Our
two
families
grew
very
close
.
I
accompanied
Lily
,
we
sometimes
played
duets
,
sometimes
her
father
would
join
us
,
sometimes
the
two
mothers
would
sing
.
We
discovered
a
whole
new
continent
of
music
.
The
Fitzwilliam
Virginal
Book
,
Arbeau
,
Frescobaldi
,
Froberger
—
in
those
years
people
suddenly
realized
that
there
had
been
music
before
1700
.
"
He
paused
.
I
wanted
to
light
a
cigarette
,
but
more
than
that
I
wanted
not
to
distract
him
,
his
reaching
back
.
So
I
held
the
cigarette
between
my
fingers
,
and
waited
.
"
Lily
.
She
had
,
yes
,
I
suppose
a
Botticelli
beauty
,
long
fair
hair
,
gray
-
violet
eyes
.
But
that
makes
her
sound
too
pale
,
too
Pre
-
Raphaelite
.
She
had
something
that
is
gone
from
the
world
,
from
the
female
world
.
A
sweetness
without
sentimentality
,
a
limpidity
without
naïvety
.
She
was
so
easy
to
hurt
,
to
tease
.
And
when
she
teased
,
it
was
like
a
caress
.
I
make
her
sound
too
colorless
to
you
.
Of
course
,
in
those
days
,
what
we
young
men
looked
for
was
not
so
much
the
body
as
the
soul
.
Lily
was
a
very
pretty
girl
.
But
it
was
her
soul
that
was
sans
pareil
.
"
No
obstacles
except
those
of
propriety
were
ever
put
between
us
.
I
said
just
now
that
we
were
very
alike
in
interests
and
tastes
.
But
we
were
opposites
in
temperament
.
Lily
was
always
so
very
selfcontrolled
,
patient
,
helping
.
I
was
temperamental
.
Moody
.
And
very
selfish
.
I
never
saw
her
hurt
anyone
or
anything
.
But
if
I
wanted
something
I
wanted
it
at
once
.
Lily
used
to
disgust
me
with
myself
.
I
used
to
think
of
my
Greek
blood
as
’
dark
’
blood
.
Almost
Negro
blood
.
"
And
then
too
I
soon
began
to
love
her
physically
.
Whereas
she
loved
me
,
or
treated
me
,
more
as
a
brother
.
Of
course
we
knew
we
were
going
to
marry
;
we
promised
ourselves
to
each
other
when
she
was
only
sixteen
.
But
I
was
hardly
ever
allowed
to
kiss
her
.
You
cannot
imagine
this
.
To
be
so
close
to
a
girl
and
yet
so
rarely
be
able
to
caress
her
.
My
desires
were
very
innocent
.
I
had
all
the
usual
notions
of
the
time
about
the
nobility
of
chastity
.
But
I
was
not
completely
English
.
"
There
was
o
Pappous
—
my
grandfather
—
really
my
mother
’
s
uncle
.
He
had
become
a
naturalized
Englishman
,
but
he
never
carried
his
anglophilia
to
the
point
of
being
puritan
,
or
even
respectable
.
He
was
not
,
I
think
,
a
very
wicked
old
man
.
What
I
knew
of
him
corrupted
me
far
less
than
the
false
ideas
I
conceived
.
I
always
spoke
with
him
in
Greek
,
and
as
you
perhaps
realize
Greek
is
a
naturally
sensual
and
uneuphemistic
language
.
I
surreptitiously
read
certain
books
I
found
on
his
shelves
.
I
saw
La
Vie
Parisienne
.
I
came
one
day
on
a
folder
full
of
tinted
engravings
.
And
so
I
began
to
have
erotic
daydreams
.
The
demure
Lily
in
her
straw
hat
,
a
hat
I
could
describe
to
you
now
,
still
,
as
well
as
if
I
had
it
here
in
front
of
me
,
the
crown
swathed
in
a
pale
tulle
the
color
of
a
summer
haze
…
in
a
long
-
sleeved
,
high
-
necked
,
pink
-
and
-
white
striped
blouse
…
a
dark
blue
hobble
skirt
,
beside
whom
I
walked
across
Regent
’
s
Park
in
the
spring
of
1914
.
The
entranced
girl
I
stood
behind
in
the
gallery
at
Covent
Garden
in
June
,
nearly
fainting
in
the
heat
—
such
a
summer
,
that
year
—
to
hear
Chaliapin
in
Prince
Igor
…
Lily
—
she
became
in
my
mind
at
night
the
abandoned
young
prostitute
.
I
thought
I
was
very
abnormal
to
have
created
this
second
Lily
from
the
real
one
.
I
was
bitterly
ashamed
again
of
my
Greek
blood
.
Yet
possessed
by
it
.
I
blamed
everything
on
that
,
and
my
mother
suffered
,
poor
woman
.
My
father
’
s
family
had
already
humiliated
her
enough
,
without
her
own
son
joining
in
.
"
I
was
ashamed
then
.
I
am
proud
now
to
have
Greek
and
Italian
and
English
blood
and
even
some
Celtic
blood
.
One
of
my
father
’
s
grandmothers
was
a
Scotswoman
.
I
am
European
.
That
is
all
that
matters
to
me
.
But
in
1914
I
wanted
to
be
purely
English
so
as
to
be
able
to
offer
myself
untainted
to
Lily
.
"
You
know
,
of
course
,
that
something
far
more
monstrous
than
my
adolescent
Arabian
Night
was
being
imagined
in
the
young
mind
of
twentieth
-
century
Europe
.
I
was
just
eighteen
.
The
war
began
.
They
were
unreal
,
the
first
days
of
that
war
.
So
much
peace
and
plenty
,
for
so
long
a
time
.
Unconsciously
,
in
the
Jungian
collective
id
,
perhaps
everyone
wanted
a
change
,
a
purge
.
A
holocaust
.
But
it
appeared
to
us
unpolitical
citizens
a
matter
of
pride
,
of
purely
military
pride
.
Something
which
the
Regular
Army
and
His
Majesty
’
s
invincible
Navy
would
settle
.
There
was
no
conscription
,
no
feeling
,
in
my
world
,
of
necessity
to
volunteer
.
It
never
crossed
my
mind
that
I
might
one
day
have
to
fight
.
Moltke
,
Bülow
,
Foch
,
Haig
,
French
—
the
names
meant
nothing
.
But
then
came
the
somber
coup
d
’
archet
of
Mons
and
Le
Cateau
.
That
was
totally
new
.
The
efficiency
of
the
Germans
,
the
horror
stories
about
the
Prussian
Guards
,
the
Belgian
outrages
,
the
black
shock
of
the
casualty
lists
.
Kitchener
.
The
Million
Army
.
And
then
in
September
the
battle
of
the
Marne
—
that
was
no
longer
cricket
.
