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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 37/96
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And
of
course
she
enjoyed
life
immensely
.
It
was
her
nature
to
enjoy
(
though
goodness
only
knows
,
she
had
her
reserves
;
it
was
a
mere
sketch
,
he
often
felt
,
that
even
he
,
after
all
these
years
,
could
make
of
Clarissa
)
.
Anyhow
there
was
no
bitterness
in
her
;
none
of
that
sense
of
moral
virtue
which
is
so
repulsive
in
good
women
.
She
enjoyed
practically
everything
.
If
you
walked
with
her
in
Hyde
Park
now
it
was
a
bed
of
tulips
,
now
a
child
in
a
perambulator
,
now
some
absurd
little
drama
she
made
up
on
the
spur
of
the
moment
.
(
Very
likely
,
she
would
have
talked
to
those
lovers
,
if
she
had
thought
them
unhappy
.
)
She
had
a
sense
of
comedy
that
was
really
exquisite
,
but
she
needed
people
,
always
people
,
to
bring
it
out
,
with
the
inevitable
result
that
she
frittered
her
time
away
,
lunching
,
dining
,
giving
these
incessant
parties
of
hers
,
talking
nonsense
,
sayings
things
she
did
n't
mean
,
blunting
the
edge
of
her
mind
,
losing
her
discrimination
.
There
she
would
sit
at
the
head
of
the
table
taking
infinite
pains
with
some
old
buffer
who
might
be
useful
to
Dalloway
--
they
knew
the
most
appalling
bores
in
Europe
--
or
in
came
Elizabeth
and
everything
must
give
way
to
HER
.
She
was
at
a
High
School
,
at
the
inarticulate
stage
last
time
he
was
over
,
a
round-eyed
,
pale-faced
girl
,
with
nothing
of
her
mother
in
her
,
a
silent
stolid
creature
,
who
took
it
all
as
a
matter
of
course
,
let
her
mother
make
a
fuss
of
her
,
and
then
said
"
May
I
go
now
?
"
like
a
child
of
four
;
going
off
,
Clarissa
explained
,
with
that
mixture
of
amusement
and
pride
which
Dalloway
himself
seemed
to
rouse
in
her
,
to
play
hockey
.
And
now
Elizabeth
was
"
out
,
"
presumably
;
thought
him
an
old
fogy
,
laughed
at
her
mother
's
friends
.
Ah
well
,
so
be
it
.
The
compensation
of
growing
old
,
Peter
Walsh
thought
,
coming
out
of
Regent
's
Park
,
and
holding
his
hat
in
hand
,
was
simply
this
;
that
the
passions
remain
as
strong
as
ever
,
but
one
has
gained
--
at
last
!
--
the
power
which
adds
the
supreme
flavour
to
existence
--
the
power
of
taking
hold
of
experience
,
of
turning
it
round
,
slowly
,
in
the
light
.
A
terrible
confession
it
was
(
he
put
his
hat
on
again
)
,
but
now
,
at
the
age
of
fifty-three
one
scarcely
needed
people
any
more
.
Life
itself
,
every
moment
of
it
,
every
drop
of
it
,
here
,
this
instant
,
now
,
in
the
sun
,
in
Regent
's
Park
,
was
enough
.
Too
much
indeed
.
A
whole
lifetime
was
too
short
to
bring
out
,
now
that
one
had
acquired
the
power
,
the
full
flavour
;
to
extract
every
ounce
of
pleasure
,
every
shade
of
meaning
;
which
both
were
so
much
more
solid
than
they
used
to
be
,
so
much
less
personal
.
It
was
impossible
that
he
should
ever
suffer
again
as
Clarissa
had
made
him
suffer
.
For
hours
at
a
time
(
pray
God
that
one
might
say
these
things
without
being
overheard
!
)
,
for
hours
and
days
he
never
thought
of
Daisy
.
Could
it
be
that
he
was
in
love
with
her
then
,
remembering
the
misery
,
the
torture
,
the
extraordinary
passion
of
those
days
?
It
was
a
different
thing
altogether
--
a
much
pleasanter
thing
--
the
truth
being
,
of
course
,
that
now
SHE
was
in
love
with
HIM
.
And
that
perhaps
was
the
reason
why
,
when
the
ship
actually
sailed
,
he
felt
an
extraordinary
relief
,
wanted
nothing
so
much
as
to
be
alone
;
was
annoyed
to
find
all
her
little
attentions
--
cigars
,
notes
,
a
rug
for
the
voyage
--
in
his
cabin
.
Every
one
if
they
were
honest
would
say
the
same
;
one
does
n't
want
people
after
fifty
;
one
does
n't
want
to
go
on
telling
women
they
are
pretty
;
that
's
what
most
men
of
fifty
would
say
,
Peter
Walsh
thought
,
if
they
were
honest
.
But
then
these
astonishing
accesses
of
emotion
--
bursting
into
tears
this
morning
,
what
was
all
that
about
?
What
could
Clarissa
have
thought
of
him
?
thought
him
a
fool
presumably
,
not
for
the
first
time
.
It
was
jealousy
that
was
at
the
bottom
of
it
--
jealousy
which
survives
every
other
passion
of
mankind
,
Peter
Walsh
thought
,
holding
his
pocket-knife
at
arm
's
length
.
She
had
been
meeting
Major
Orde
,
Daisy
said
in
her
last
letter
;
said
it
on
purpose
he
knew
;
said
it
to
make
him
jealous
;
he
could
see
her
wrinkling
her
forehead
as
she
wrote
,
wondering
what
she
could
say
to
hurt
him
;
and
yet
it
made
no
difference
;
he
was
furious
!
All
this
pother
of
coming
to
England
and
seeing
lawyers
was
n't
to
marry
her
,
but
to
prevent
her
from
marrying
anybody
else
.
That
was
what
tortured
him
,
that
was
what
came
over
him
when
he
saw
Clarissa
so
calm
,
so
cold
,
so
intent
on
her
dress
or
whatever
it
was
;
realising
what
she
might
have
spared
him
,
what
she
had
reduced
him
to
--
a
whimpering
,
snivelling
old
ass
.
But
women
,
he
thought
,
shutting
his
pocket-knife
,
do
n't
know
what
passion
is
.
They
do
n't
know
the
meaning
of
it
to
men
.
Clarissa
was
as
cold
as
an
icicle
.
There
she
would
sit
on
the
sofa
by
his
side
,
let
him
take
her
hand
,
give
him
one
kiss
--
Here
he
was
at
the
crossing
.
A
sound
interrupted
him
;
a
frail
quivering
sound
,
a
voice
bubbling
up
without
direction
,
vigour
,
beginning
or
end
,
running
weakly
and
shrilly
and
with
an
absence
of
all
human
meaning
into
ee
um
fah
um
so
foo
swee
too
eem
oo
--
