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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 38/96
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the
voice
of
no
age
or
sex
,
the
voice
of
an
ancient
spring
spouting
from
the
earth
;
which
issued
,
just
opposite
Regent
's
Park
Tube
station
from
a
tall
quivering
shape
,
like
a
funnel
,
like
a
rusty
pump
,
like
a
wind-beaten
tree
for
ever
barren
of
leaves
which
lets
the
wind
run
up
and
down
its
branches
singing
ee
um
fah
um
so
foo
swee
too
eem
oo
and
rocks
and
creaks
and
moans
in
the
eternal
breeze
.
Through
all
ages
--
when
the
pavement
was
grass
,
when
it
was
swamp
,
through
the
age
of
tusk
and
mammoth
,
through
the
age
of
silent
sunrise
,
the
battered
woman
--
for
she
wore
a
skirt
--
with
her
right
hand
exposed
,
her
left
clutching
at
her
side
,
stood
singing
of
love
--
love
which
has
lasted
a
million
years
,
she
sang
,
love
which
prevails
,
and
millions
of
years
ago
,
her
lover
,
who
had
been
dead
these
centuries
,
had
walked
,
she
crooned
,
with
her
in
May
;
but
in
the
course
of
ages
,
long
as
summer
days
,
and
flaming
,
she
remembered
,
with
nothing
but
red
asters
,
he
had
gone
;
death
's
enormous
sickle
had
swept
those
tremendous
hills
,
and
when
at
last
she
laid
her
hoary
and
immensely
aged
head
on
the
earth
,
now
become
a
mere
cinder
of
ice
,
she
implored
the
Gods
to
lay
by
her
side
a
bunch
of
purple-heather
,
there
on
her
high
burial
place
which
the
last
rays
of
the
last
sun
caressed
;
for
then
the
pageant
of
the
universe
would
be
over
.
As
the
ancient
song
bubbled
up
opposite
Regent
's
Park
Tube
station
still
the
earth
seemed
green
and
flowery
;
still
,
though
it
issued
from
so
rude
a
mouth
,
a
mere
hole
in
the
earth
,
muddy
too
,
matted
with
root
fibres
and
tangled
grasses
,
still
the
old
bubbling
burbling
song
,
soaking
through
the
knotted
roots
of
infinite
ages
,
and
skeletons
and
treasure
,
streamed
away
in
rivulets
over
the
pavement
and
all
along
the
Marylebone
Road
,
and
down
towards
Euston
,
fertilising
,
leaving
a
damp
stain
.
Still
remembering
how
once
in
some
primeval
May
she
had
walked
with
her
lover
,
this
rusty
pump
,
this
battered
old
woman
with
one
hand
exposed
for
coppers
the
other
clutching
her
side
,
would
still
be
there
in
ten
million
years
,
remembering
how
once
she
had
walked
in
May
,
where
the
sea
flows
now
,
with
whom
it
did
not
matter
--
he
was
a
man
,
oh
yes
,
a
man
who
had
loved
her
.
But
the
passage
of
ages
had
blurred
the
clarity
of
that
ancient
May
day
;
the
bright
petalled
flowers
were
hoar
and
silver
frosted
;
and
she
no
longer
saw
,
when
she
implored
him
(
as
she
did
now
quite
clearly
)
"
look
in
my
eyes
with
thy
sweet
eyes
intently
,
"
she
no
longer
saw
brown
eyes
,
black
whiskers
or
sunburnt
face
but
only
a
looming
shape
,
a
shadow
shape
,
to
which
,
with
the
bird-like
freshness
of
the
very
aged
she
still
twittered
"
give
me
your
hand
and
let
me
press
it
gently
"
(
Peter
Walsh
could
n't
help
giving
the
poor
creature
a
coin
as
he
stepped
into
his
taxi
)
,
"
and
if
some
one
should
see
,
what
matter
they
?
"
she
demanded
;
and
her
fist
clutched
at
her
side
,
and
she
smiled
,
pocketing
her
shilling
,
and
all
peering
inquisitive
eyes
seemed
blotted
out
,
and
the
passing
generations
--
the
pavement
was
crowded
with
bustling
middle-class
people
--
vanished
,
like
leaves
,
to
be
trodden
under
,
to
be
soaked
and
steeped
and
made
mould
of
by
that
eternal
spring
--
ee
um
fah
um
so
foo
swee
too
eem
oo
"
Poor
old
woman
,
"
said
Rezia
Warren
Smith
,
waiting
to
cross
.
