-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джон Фоулз
-
- Волхв
-
- Стр. 74/136
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
That
she
saw
herself
not
as
I
so
much
wanted
,
as
my
angel
of
forgiveness
,
but
as
my
angel
of
salvation
.
She
begged
me
to
go
back
.
She
thought
I
would
be
spiritually
dead
until
I
did
.
Again
and
again
she
used
the
word
’
resurrected
.
’
And
again
and
again
,
on
my
side
,
I
wanted
to
know
what
would
happen
to
us
.
And
finally
she
said
,
this
was
her
judgment
,
that
the
price
of
her
love
was
that
I
should
return
to
the
front
—
not
for
her
,
but
for
myself
.
To
find
my
true
self
again
.
And
that
the
reality
of
her
love
was
as
it
had
been
in
the
wood
:
she
should
never
marry
anyone
else
,
whatever
happened
.
"
In
the
end
we
were
silent
.
You
will
have
understood
.
Love
is
the
mystery
between
two
people
,
not
the
identity
.
We
were
at
the
opposite
poles
of
humanity
.
Lily
was
humanity
bound
to
duty
,
unable
to
choose
,
suffering
,
at
the
mercy
of
social
ideals
.
Humanity
both
crucified
and
marching
towards
the
cross
.
And
I
was
free
,
I
was
Peter
three
times
to
renounce
—
determined
to
survive
,
whatever
the
cost
.
I
still
see
her
face
.
Her
face
staring
,
staring
into
the
darkness
as
if
she
was
trying
to
gaze
herself
into
another
world
.
It
was
as
if
we
were
locked
in
a
torture
chamber
.
Still
in
love
,
yet
chained
to
opposite
walls
,
facing
each
other
for
eternity
and
for
eternity
unable
to
touch
.
"
Of
course
,
as
men
always
will
,
I
tried
to
extract
some
hope
from
her
.
That
she
would
wait
for
me
,
not
judge
me
too
quickly
…
such
things
.
But
she
stopped
me
with
a
look
.
A
look
I
shall
never
forget
,
because
it
was
almost
one
of
hatred
,
and
hatred
in
her
face
was
like
spite
in
the
Virgin
Mary
’
s
.
It
reversed
the
entire
order
of
nature
.
"
I
walked
back
beside
her
,
in
silence
.
I
said
goodbye
to
her
under
a
streetlamp
.
By
a
garden
full
of
lilac
trees
.
We
did
not
touch
.
Not
a
single
word
.
Two
young
faces
,
suddenly
old
,
facing
each
other
.
The
moment
that
endures
when
all
the
other
noises
,
objects
,
all
that
dull
street
,
have
sunk
into
dust
and
oblivion
.
Two
white
faces
.
The
scent
of
lilac
.
And
bottomless
darkness
.
"
He
paused
.
There
was
no
emotion
in
his
voice
;
but
I
was
thinking
of
Alison
,
of
that
last
look
she
had
given
me
.
"
And
that
is
all
.
Four
days
later
I
spent
a
very
disagreeable
twelve
hours
crouched
in
the
bilges
of
a
Greek
cargo
boat
in
Liverpool
docks
.
"
There
was
a
silence
.
"
And
did
you
ever
see
her
again
?
"
A
bat
squeaked
over
our
heads
.
"
She
died
.
"
I
had
to
prompt
him
.
"
Soon
after
?
"
"
In
the
early
hours
of
February
the
nineteenth
,
1916
.
"
I
tried
to
see
the
expression
on
his
face
,
but
it
was
too
dark
.
"
There
was
a
typhoid
epidemic
.
She
was
working
in
a
hospital
.
"
"
Poor
girl
.
"
"
All
past
.
All
under
the
sea
.
"
"
You
make
it
seem
present
.
"
"
I
do
not
wish
to
make
you
sad
.
"
"
The
scent
of
lilac
.
"
"
Old
man
’
s
sentiment
.
Forgive
me
.
"
There
was
a
silence
between
us
.
He
was
staring
into
the
night
.
The
bat
flitted
so
low
that
I
saw
its
silhouette
for
a
brief
moment
against
the
Milky
Way
.
"
Is
this
why
you
never
married
?
"
"
The
dead
live
.
"
The
blackness
of
the
trees
.
I
listened
for
footsteps
,
but
none
came
.
A
suspension
.
"
How
do
they
live
?
"
And
yet
again
he
let
the
silence
come
,
as
if
the
silence
would
answer
my
questions
better
than
he
could
himself
;
but
just
when
I
had
decided
he
would
not
answer
,
he
spoke
.
"
By
love
.
"
It
was
as
if
he
said
it
not
to
me
,
but
equally
to
everything
around
us
;
as
if
she
stood
listening
,
in
the
dark
shadows
by
the
doors
;
as
if
the
telling
of
his
past
had
reminded
him
of
some
great
principle
he
was
seeing
freshly
again
.
I
found
myself
touched
,
and
touched
to
silence
.
Some
time
later
,
he
stood
up
.
"
You
must
leave
early
in
the
morning
?
"
"
At
six
,
I
’
m
afraid
.
"
"
I
should
like
you
to
come
next
week
.
"
"
If
you
invite
me
nothing
could
keep
me
away
.
"
"
I
shall
not
see
you
in
the
morning
.
But
Maria
will
have
some
breakfast
ready
.
"
"
I
shall
never
forget
this
weekend
.
"
He
moved
towards
the
doors
to
his
room
.
"
Good
.
I
am
glad
.
"
But
his
gladness
now
sounded
merely
polite
.
His
peremptoriness
had
regained
command
.
"
There
are
so
many
things
I
’
d
like
to
ask
you
.
Would
have
liked
to
ask
you
.
"
He
stood
at
the
doors
for
me
to
pass
,
smiled
.
"
The
most
important
questions
in
life
can
never
be
answered
by
anyone
except
oneself
.
"
"
I
think
you
know
what
I
mean
.
"
"
But
I
am
trying
to
show
you
what
I
mean
.
"
He
led
me
through
to
my
room
,
where
he
lit
the
lamp
.
He
stood
in
the
doorway
and
held
out
his
hand
.
"
I
do
not
want
my
life
discussed
over
there
.
"
"
Of
course
not
.
"
"
I
shall
see
you
next
Saturday
?
"
"
You
will
indeed
.
"
He
reached
out
and
gripped
my
shoulder
,
as
if
I
needed
encouragement
,
gave
me
one
last
piercing
stare
,
then
left
me
alone
I
went
to
the
bathroom
,
closed
my
door
,
turned
the
lamp
out
.
But
I
didn
’
t
undress
.
I
stood
by
the
window
and
waited
.
For
at
least
twenty
minutes
there
was
no
sound
.
Conchis
went
to
the
bathroom
and
back
to
his
room
.
Then
there
was
silence
.
It
went
on
so
long
that
I
undressed
and
started
to
give
in
to
the
sleep
I
could
feel
coming
on
me
.
But
the
silence
was
broken
.
His
door
opened
and
closed
,
quietly
,
but
not
secretively
,
and
I
heard
him
going
down
the
stairs
.
A
minute
,
two
minutes
passed
;
then
I
sat
up
and
swung
out
of
bed
.
It
was
music
again
,
but
from
downstairs
,
the
harpsichord
.
It
echoed
,
percussive
but
dim
,
through
the
stone
house
.
For
a
few
moments
I
felt
disappointment
.
It
seemed
merely
that
Conchis
was
sleepless
,
or
sad
,
and
playing
to
himself
.
But
then
there
was
a
sound
that
sent
me
swiftly
to
the
door
.
I
cautiously
opened
it
.
The
downstairs
door
must
also
have
been
open
,
because
I
could
hear
the
clatter
of
the
harpsichord
mechanism
.
But
the
thing
that
sent
a
shiver
up
my
back
was
the
thin
,
haunted
piping
of
a
recorder
.
I
knew
it
was
not
on
a
gramophone
;
someone
was
playing
it
.
The
music
stopped
and
went
on
in
a
brisker
six
-
eight
rhythm
.
The
recorder
piped
solemnly
along
,
made
a
mistake
,
then
another
;
though
the
player
was
evidently
quite
skilled
,
and
executed
professional
-
sounding
trills
and
ornaments
.
I
went
out
naked
onto
the
landing
and
looked
over
the
banisters
.
There
was
a
faint
radiance
on
the
floor
outside
the
music
room
.
I
was
probably
meant
to
listen
,
not
to
go
down
;
but
this
was
too
much
.
I
pulled
on
a
sweater
and
trousers
and
crept
down
the
stairs
in
my
rubber
-
soled
beachshoes
.
The
recorder
stopped
and
I
heard
the
rustle
of
paper
being
turned
—
the
music
stand
.
The
harpsichord
began
a
long
lute
-
stop
passage
,
a
new
movement
,
as
gentle
as
rain
,
the
sounds
stealing
through
the
house
,
mysterious
,
remote
-
sounding
harmonies
.
The
recorder
came
in
with
an
adagiolike
slowness
and
gravity
,
momentarily
wobbled
off
-
key
,
then
recovered
.
I
tiptoed
to
the
open
door
of
the
music
room
,
but
there
something
held
me
back
—
an
odd
childlike
feeling
,
of
misbehaving
after
bedtime
.
The
door
was
wide
open
,
but
it
opened
towards
the
harpsichord
,
and
the
edge
of
one
of
the
bookshelves
blocked
the
view
through
the
crack
.
The
music
came
to
an
end
.
A
chair
shifted
,
my
heart
raced
,
Conchis
spoke
a
single
indistinguishable
word
in
a
low
voice
.
I
flattened
myself
against
the
wall
.
There
was
a
rustle
.
Someone
was
standing
at
the
door
of
the
music
room
.
It
was
a
slim
girl
of
about
my
own
height
,
in
her
early
twenties
.
In
one
hand
she
held
a
recorder
,
in
the
other
a
small
crimson
fluebrush
for
it
.
She
was
wearing
a
wide
-
collared
,
blue
-
and
-
white
-
striped
dress
that
left
her
arms
bare
.
There
was
a
bracelet
above
one
elbow
,
and
the
skirt
came
down
narrow
-
bottomed
almost
to
her
ankles
.
She
had
a
ravishingly
pretty
face
,
but
completely
untanned
,
without
any
makeup
,
and
her
hair
,
her
outline
,
the
upright
way
she
held
herself
,
everything
about
her
was
of
forty
years
before
.
I
knew
I
was
supposed
to
be
looking
at
Lily
.
It
was
unmistakably
the
same
girl
as
in
the
photographs
;
especially
that
on
the
cabinet
of
cuiiosa
.
The
Botticelli
face
;
gray
-
violet
eyes
.
The
eyes
especially
were
beautiful
;
very
large
,
their
ovals
faintly
twisted
,
a
cool
doe
’
s
eyes
,
almond
eyes
,
giving
a
natural
mystery
to
a
face
otherwise
so
regular
that
it
risked
perfection
.
Perfectly
beautiful
faces
are
always
boring
.
She
saw
me
at
once
.
I
stood
rooted
to
the
stone
floor
.
For
a
moment
she
seemed
as
surprised
as
I
was
.
Then
she
looked
swiftly
,
secretly
with
her
large
eyes
back
to
where
Conchis
must
have
been
sitting
at
the
harpsichord
,
and
then
again
at
me
.
She
raised
the
fluebrush
to
her
lips
,
shook
it
,
forbidding
me
to
move
,
to
say
anything
,
and
she
smiled
.
It
was
like
some
genre
picture
—
The
Secret
.
The
Admonition
.
But
her
smile
was
strange
—
as
if
she
was
sharing
a
secret
with
me
,
that
this
was
an
illusion
that
we
must
both
keep
up
.
There
was
something
about
her
mouth
,
calm
and
amused
,
that
was
at
the
same
time
enigmatic
and
debunking
;
pretending
and
admitting
the
pretense
.
She
flashed
another
look
back
at
Conchis
,
then
leant
forward
and
lightly
pushed
my
arm
with
the
tip
of
the
brush
,
as
if
to
say
,
Go
away
.
The
whole
business
can
’
t
have
taken
more
than
five
seconds
.
The
door
was
closed
,
and
I
was
standing
in
darkness
and
an
eddy
of
sandalwood
.
I
think
if
it
had
been
a
ghost
,
if
the
girl
had
been
transparent
and
headless
,
I
might
have
been
less
astonished
.
She
had
so
clearly
implied
that
of
course
it
was
all
a
charade
,
but
that
Conchs
must
not
know
it
was
;
that
she
was
in
fancy
dress
for
him
,
not
for
me
.
I
went
swiftly
down
the
hall
to
the
front
door
,
and
eased
its
bolts
open
.
Then
I
padded
out
onto
the
colonnade
.
I
looked
through
one
of
the
narrow
arched
windows
and
immediately
saw
Conchs
.
He
had
begun
to
play
again
.
I
moved
to
look
for
the
girl
.
I
was
sure
that
no
one
could
have
had
time
to
cross
the
gravel
.
But
she
was
not
there
.
I
moved
round
behind
his
back
,
until
I
had
seen
every
part
of
the
room
.
And
she
was
not
there
.
I
thought
she
might
be
under
the
front
part
of
the
colonnade
,
and
peered
cautiously
round
the
corner
.
It
was
empty
.
The
music
went
on
.
I
stood
,
undecided
.
She
must
have
run
through
the
opposite
end
of
the
colonnade
and
round
the
back
of
the
house
.
Ducking
under
the
windows
and
stealing
past
the
open
doors
,
I
stared
out
across
the
vegetable
terrace
,
then
walked
around
it
.
I
felt
sure
she
must
have
escaped
this
way
.
But
there
was
no
sign
of
anybody
.
I
waited
out
there
for
several
minutes
,
and
then
Conchis
stopped
playing
.
Soon
the
lamp
went
out
and
he
disappeared
.
I
went
back
and
sat
in
the
darkness
on
one
of
the
chairs
under
the
colonnade
.
There
was
a
deep
silence
.
Only
the
crickets
cheeped
,
like
drops
of
water
striking
the
bottom
of
a
gigantic
well
.
Conjectures
flew
through
my
head
.
The
people
I
had
seen
,
the
sounds
I
had
heard
,
and
that
vile
smell
,
had
been
real
,
not
supernatural
;
what
was
not
real
was
the
absence
of
any
visible
machinery
—
no
secret
rooms
,
nowhere
to
disappear
—
or
of
any
motive
.
And
this
new
dimension
,
this
suggestion
that
the
"
apparitions
"
were
mounted
for
Conchs
as
well
as
myself
,
was
the
most
baffling
of
all
.
I
sat
in
the
darkness
,
half
hoping
that
someone
,
I
hoped
"
Lily
,
"
would
appear
and
explain
.
I
felt
once
again
like
a
child
,
like
a
child
who
walks
into
a
room
and
is
aware
that
everyone
there
knows
something
about
him
that
he
does
not
.
I
also
felt
deceived
by
Conchis
’
s
sadness
.
The
dead
live
by
love
;
and
they
could
evidently
also
live
by
impersonation
.
But
I
waited
most
for
whoever
had
acted
Lily
.
I
had
to
know
the
owner
of
that
young
,
intelligent
,
amused
,
dazzlingly
pretty
North
European
face
.
I
wanted
to
know
what
she
was
doing
on
Phraxos
,
where
she
came
from
,
the
reality
behind
all
the
mystery
.
I
waited
nearly
an
hour
,
and
nothing
happened
.
No
one
came
,
I
heard
no
sounds
.
In
the
end
I
crept
back
up
to
my
room
.
But
I
had
a
poor
night
’
s
sleep
.
When
Maria
knocked
on
the
door
at
half
-
past
five
I
woke
as
if
I
had
a
hangover
.
Yet
I
enjoyed
the
walk
back
to
the
school
.
I
enjoyed
the
cool
air
,
the
delicate
pink
sky
that
turned
primrose
,
then
blue
,
the
still
-
sleeping
gray
and
incorporeal
sea
,
the
long
slopes
of
silent
pines
.
In
a
sense
I
reentered
reality
as
I
walked
.
The
events
of
the
weekend
seemed
to
recede
,
to
become
locked
away
,
as
if
I
had
dreamt
them
;
and
yet
as
I
walked
I
had
the
strangest
feeling
,
compounded
of
the
early
hour
,
the
absolute
solitude
,
and
what
had
happened
,
of
having
entered
a
myth
;
a
knowledge
of
what
it
was
like
physically
,
moment
by
moment
,
to
have
been
young
and
ancient
,
a
Ulysses
on
his
way
to
meet
Circe
,
a
Theseus
on
his
journey
to
Crete
,
an
Oedipus
still
searching
for
his
destiny
.
I
could
not
describe
it
It
was
not
in
the
least
a
literary
feeling
,
but
an
intensely
mysterious
present
and
concrete
feeling
of
excitement
,
of
being
in
a
situation
where
anything
still
might
happen
.
As
if
the
world
had
suddenly
,
during
those
last
three
days
,
changed
from
being
the
discovered
to
the
still
undiscovered
.
