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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 25/96
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Not
that
he
blamed
her
or
this
effigy
of
a
man
in
a
tail-coat
with
a
carnation
in
his
buttonhole
coming
towards
him
.
Only
one
person
in
the
world
could
be
as
he
was
,
in
love
.
And
there
he
was
,
this
fortunate
man
,
himself
,
reflected
in
the
plate-glass
window
of
a
motor-car
manufacturer
in
Victoria
Street
.
All
India
lay
behind
him
;
plains
,
mountains
;
epidemics
of
cholera
;
a
district
twice
as
big
as
Ireland
;
decisions
he
had
come
to
alone
--
he
,
Peter
Walsh
;
who
was
now
really
for
the
first
time
in
his
life
,
in
love
.
Clarissa
had
grown
hard
,
he
thought
;
and
a
trifle
sentimental
into
the
bargain
,
he
suspected
,
looking
at
the
great
motor-cars
capable
of
doing
--
how
many
miles
on
how
many
gallons
?
For
he
had
a
turn
for
mechanics
;
had
invented
a
plough
in
his
district
,
had
ordered
wheel-barrows
from
England
,
but
the
coolies
would
n't
use
them
,
all
of
which
Clarissa
knew
nothing
whatever
about
.
The
way
she
said
"
Here
is
my
Elizabeth
!
"
--
that
annoyed
him
.
Why
not
"
Here
's
Elizabeth
"
simply
?
It
was
insincere
.
And
Elizabeth
did
n't
like
it
either
.
(
Still
the
last
tremors
of
the
great
booming
voice
shook
the
air
round
him
;
the
half-hour
;
still
early
;
only
half-past
eleven
still
.
)
For
he
understood
young
people
;
he
liked
them
.
There
was
always
something
cold
in
Clarissa
,
he
thought
.
She
had
always
,
even
as
a
girl
,
a
sort
of
timidity
,
which
in
middle
age
becomes
conventionality
,
and
then
it
's
all
up
,
it
's
all
up
,
he
thought
,
looking
rather
drearily
into
the
glassy
depths
,
and
wondering
whether
by
calling
at
that
hour
he
had
annoyed
her
;
overcome
with
shame
suddenly
at
having
been
a
fool
;
wept
;
been
emotional
;
told
her
everything
,
as
usual
,
as
usual
.
As
a
cloud
crosses
the
sun
,
silence
falls
on
London
;
and
falls
on
the
mind
.
Effort
ceases
.
Time
flaps
on
the
mast
.
There
we
stop
;
there
we
stand
.
Rigid
,
the
skeleton
of
habit
alone
upholds
the
human
frame
.
Where
there
is
nothing
,
Peter
Walsh
said
to
himself
;
feeling
hollowed
out
,
utterly
empty
within
.
Clarissa
refused
me
,
he
thought
.
He
stood
there
thinking
,
Clarissa
refused
me
.
Ah
,
said
St.
Margaret
's
,
like
a
hostess
who
comes
into
her
drawing-room
on
the
very
stroke
of
the
hour
and
finds
her
guests
there
already
.
I
am
not
late
.
No
,
it
is
precisely
half-past
eleven
,
she
says
.
Yet
,
though
she
is
perfectly
right
,
her
voice
,
being
the
voice
of
the
hostess
,
is
reluctant
to
inflict
its
individuality
.
Some
grief
for
the
past
holds
it
back
;
some
concern
for
the
present
.
It
is
half-past
eleven
,
she
says
,
and
the
sound
of
St.
Margaret
's
glides
into
the
recesses
of
the
heart
and
buries
itself
in
ring
after
ring
of
sound
,
like
something
alive
which
wants
to
confide
itself
,
to
disperse
itself
,
to
be
,
with
a
tremor
of
delight
,
at
rest
--
like
Clarissa
herself
,
thought
Peter
Walsh
,
coming
down
the
stairs
on
the
stroke
of
the
hour
in
white
.
It
is
Clarissa
herself
,
he
thought
,
with
a
deep
emotion
,
and
an
extraordinarily
clear
,
yet
puzzling
,
recollection
of
her
,
as
if
this
bell
had
come
into
the
room
years
ago
,
where
they
sat
at
some
moment
of
great
intimacy
,
and
had
gone
from
one
to
the
other
and
had
left
,
like
a
bee
with
honey
,
laden
with
the
moment
.
But
what
room
?
What
moment
?
And
why
had
he
been
so
profoundly
happy
when
the
clock
was
striking
?
Then
,
as
the
sound
of
St.
Margaret
's
languished
,
he
thought
,
She
has
been
ill
,
and
the
sound
expressed
languor
and
suffering
.
It
was
her
heart
,
he
remembered
;
and
the
sudden
loudness
of
the
final
stroke
tolled
for
death
that
surprised
in
the
midst
of
life
,
Clarissa
falling
where
she
stood
,
in
her
drawing-room
.
No
!
No
!
he
cried
.
She
is
not
dead
!
I
am
not
old
,
he
cried
,
and
marched
up
Whitehall
,
as
if
there
rolled
down
to
him
,
vigorous
,
unending
,
his
future
.
He
was
not
old
,
or
set
,
or
dried
in
the
least
.
As
for
caring
what
they
said
of
him
--
the
Dalloways
,
the
Whitbreads
,
and
their
set
,
he
cared
not
a
straw
--
not
a
straw
(
though
it
was
true
he
would
have
,
some
time
or
other
,
to
see
whether
Richard
could
n't
help
him
to
some
job
)
.
Striding
,
staring
,
he
glared
at
the
statue
of
the
Duke
of
Cambridge
.
He
had
been
sent
down
from
Oxford
--
true
.
He
had
been
a
Socialist
,
in
some
sense
a
failure
--
true
.
Still
the
future
of
civilisation
lies
,
he
thought
,
in
the
hands
of
young
men
like
that
;
of
young
men
such
as
he
was
,
thirty
years
ago
;
with
their
love
of
abstract
principles
;
getting
books
sent
out
to
them
all
the
way
from
London
to
a
peak
in
the
Himalayas
;
reading
science
;
reading
philosophy
.
The
future
lies
in
the
hands
of
young
men
like
that
,
he
thought
.
A
patter
like
the
patter
of
leaves
in
a
wood
came
from
behind
,
and
with
it
a
rustling
,
regular
thudding
sound
,
which
as
it
overtook
him
drummed
his
thoughts
,
strict
in
step
,
up
Whitehall
,
without
his
doing
.
Boys
in
uniform
,
carrying
guns
,
marched
with
their
eyes
ahead
of
them
,
marched
,
their
arms
stiff
,
and
on
their
faces
an
expression
like
the
letters
of
a
legend
written
round
the
base
of
a
statue
praising
duty
,
gratitude
,
fidelity
,
love
of
England
.
It
is
,
thought
Peter
Walsh
,
beginning
to
keep
step
with
them
,
a
very
fine
training
.
But
they
did
not
look
robust
.
They
were
weedy
for
the
most
part
,
boys
of
sixteen
,
who
might
,
to-morrow
,
stand
behind
bowls
of
rice
,
cakes
of
soap
on
counters
.
Now
they
wore
on
them
unmixed
with
sensual
pleasure
or
daily
preoccupations
the
solemnity
of
the
wreath
which
they
had
fetched
from
Finsbury
Pavement
to
the
empty
tomb
.
They
had
taken
their
vow
.
The
traffic
respected
it
;
vans
were
stopped
.
