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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 59/96
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"
An
hour
's
complete
rest
after
luncheon
,
"
he
said
.
And
he
went
.
How
like
him
!
He
would
go
on
saying
"
An
hour
's
complete
rest
after
luncheon
"
to
the
end
of
time
,
because
a
doctor
had
ordered
it
once
.
It
was
like
him
to
take
what
doctors
said
literally
;
part
of
his
adorable
,
divine
simplicity
,
which
no
one
had
to
the
same
extent
;
which
made
him
go
and
do
the
thing
while
she
and
Peter
frittered
their
time
away
bickering
.
He
was
already
halfway
to
the
House
of
Commons
,
to
his
Armenians
,
his
Albanians
,
having
settled
her
on
the
sofa
,
looking
at
his
roses
.
And
people
would
say
,
"
Clarissa
Dalloway
is
spoilt
.
"
She
cared
much
more
for
her
roses
than
for
the
Armenians
.
Hunted
out
of
existence
,
maimed
,
frozen
,
the
victims
of
cruelty
and
injustice
(
she
had
heard
Richard
say
so
over
and
over
again
)
--
no
,
she
could
feel
nothing
for
the
Albanians
,
or
was
it
the
Armenians
?
but
she
loved
her
roses
(
did
n't
that
help
the
Armenians
?
)
--
the
only
flowers
she
could
bear
to
see
cut
.
But
Richard
was
already
at
the
House
of
Commons
;
at
his
Committee
,
having
settled
all
her
difficulties
.
But
no
;
alas
,
that
was
not
true
.
He
did
not
see
the
reasons
against
asking
Ellie
Henderson
.
She
would
do
it
,
of
course
,
as
he
wished
it
.
Since
he
had
brought
the
pillows
,
she
would
lie
down
...
But
--
but
--
why
did
she
suddenly
feel
,
for
no
reason
that
she
could
discover
,
desperately
unhappy
?
As
a
person
who
has
dropped
some
grain
of
pearl
or
diamond
into
the
grass
and
parts
the
tall
blades
very
carefully
,
this
way
and
that
,
and
searches
here
and
there
vainly
,
and
at
last
spies
it
there
at
the
roots
,
so
she
went
through
one
thing
and
another
;
no
,
it
was
not
Sally
Seton
saying
that
Richard
would
never
be
in
the
Cabinet
because
he
had
a
second-class
brain
(
it
came
back
to
her
)
;
no
,
she
did
not
mind
that
;
nor
was
it
to
do
with
Elizabeth
either
and
Doris
Kilman
;
those
were
facts
.
It
was
a
feeling
,
some
unpleasant
feeling
,
earlier
in
the
day
perhaps
;
something
that
Peter
had
said
,
combined
with
some
depression
of
her
own
,
in
her
bedroom
,
taking
off
her
hat
;
and
what
Richard
had
said
had
added
to
it
,
but
what
had
he
said
?
There
were
his
roses
.
Her
parties
!
That
was
it
!
Her
parties
!
Both
of
them
criticised
her
very
unfairly
,
laughed
at
her
very
unjustly
,
for
her
parties
.
That
was
it
!
That
was
it
!
Well
,
how
was
she
going
to
defend
herself
?
Now
that
she
knew
what
it
was
,
she
felt
perfectly
happy
.
They
thought
,
or
Peter
at
any
rate
thought
,
that
she
enjoyed
imposing
herself
;
liked
to
have
famous
people
about
her
;
great
names
;
was
simply
a
snob
in
short
.
Well
,
Peter
might
think
so
.
Richard
merely
thought
it
foolish
of
her
to
like
excitement
when
she
knew
it
was
bad
for
her
heart
.
It
was
childish
,
he
thought
.
And
both
were
quite
wrong
.
What
she
liked
was
simply
life
.
"
That
's
what
I
do
it
for
,
"
she
said
,
speaking
aloud
,
to
life
.
Since
she
was
lying
on
the
sofa
,
cloistered
,
exempt
,
the
presence
of
this
thing
which
she
felt
to
be
so
obvious
became
physically
existent
;
with
robes
of
sound
from
the
street
,
sunny
,
with
hot
breath
,
whispering
,
blowing
out
the
blinds
.
But
suppose
Peter
said
to
her
,
"
Yes
,
yes
,
but
your
parties
--
what
's
the
sense
of
your
parties
?
"
all
she
could
say
was
(
and
nobody
could
be
expected
to
understand
)
:
They
're
an
offering
;
which
sounded
horribly
vague
.
But
who
was
Peter
to
make
out
that
life
was
all
plain
sailing
?
--
Peter
always
in
love
,
always
in
love
with
the
wrong
woman
?
What
's
your
love
?
she
might
say
to
him
.
And
she
knew
his
answer
;
how
it
is
the
most
important
thing
in
the
world
and
no
woman
possibly
understood
it
.
Very
well
.
But
could
any
man
understand
what
she
meant
either
?
about
life
?
She
could
not
imagine
Peter
or
Richard
taking
the
trouble
to
give
a
party
for
no
reason
whatever
.
But
to
go
deeper
,
beneath
what
people
said
(
and
these
judgements
,
how
superficial
,
how
fragmentary
they
are
!
)
in
her
own
mind
now
,
what
did
it
mean
to
her
,
this
thing
she
called
life
?
Oh
,
it
was
very
queer
.
Here
was
So-and-so
in
South
Kensington
;
some
one
up
in
Bayswater
;
and
somebody
else
,
say
,
in
Mayfair
.
And
she
felt
quite
continuously
a
sense
of
their
existence
;
and
she
felt
what
a
waste
;
and
she
felt
what
a
pity
;
and
she
felt
if
only
they
could
be
brought
together
;
so
she
did
it
.
And
it
was
an
offering
;
to
combine
,
to
create
;
but
to
whom
?
An
offering
for
the
sake
of
offering
,
perhaps
.
Anyhow
,
it
was
her
gift
.
Nothing
else
had
she
of
the
slightest
importance
;
could
not
think
,
write
,
even
play
the
piano
.
She
muddled
Armenians
and
Turks
;
loved
success
;
hated
discomfort
;
must
be
liked
;
talked
oceans
of
nonsense
:
and
to
this
day
,
ask
her
what
the
Equator
was
,
and
she
did
not
know
.
All
the
same
,
that
one
day
should
follow
another
;
Wednesday
,
Thursday
,
Friday
,
Saturday
;
that
one
should
wake
up
in
the
morning
;
see
the
sky
;
walk
in
the
park
;
meet
Hugh
Whitbread
;
then
suddenly
in
came
Peter
;
then
these
roses
;
it
was
enough
.
After
that
,
how
unbelievable
death
was
!
--
that
it
must
end
;
and
no
one
in
the
whole
world
would
know
how
she
had
loved
it
all
;
how
,
every
instant
...
