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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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The
motor
car
with
its
blinds
drawn
and
an
air
of
inscrutable
reserve
proceeded
towards
Piccadilly
,
still
gazed
at
,
still
ruffling
the
faces
on
both
sides
of
the
street
with
the
same
dark
breath
of
veneration
whether
for
Queen
,
Prince
,
or
Prime
Minister
nobody
knew
.
The
face
itself
had
been
seen
only
once
by
three
people
for
a
few
seconds
.
Even
the
sex
was
now
in
dispute
.
But
there
could
be
no
doubt
that
greatness
was
seated
within
;
greatness
was
passing
,
hidden
,
down
Bond
Street
,
removed
only
by
a
hand
's
-
breadth
from
ordinary
people
who
might
now
,
for
the
first
and
last
time
,
be
within
speaking
distance
of
the
majesty
of
England
,
of
the
enduring
symbol
of
the
state
which
will
be
known
to
curious
antiquaries
,
sifting
the
ruins
of
time
,
when
London
is
a
grass-grown
path
and
all
those
hurrying
along
the
pavement
this
Wednesday
morning
are
but
bones
with
a
few
wedding
rings
mixed
up
in
their
dust
and
the
gold
stoppings
of
innumerable
decayed
teeth
.
The
face
in
the
motor
car
will
then
be
known
.
It
is
probably
the
Queen
,
thought
Mrs.
Dalloway
,
coming
out
of
Mulberry
's
with
her
flowers
;
the
Queen
.
And
for
a
second
she
wore
a
look
of
extreme
dignity
standing
by
the
flower
shop
in
the
sunlight
while
the
car
passed
at
a
foot
's
pace
,
with
its
blinds
drawn
.
The
Queen
going
to
some
hospital
;
the
Queen
opening
some
bazaar
,
thought
Clarissa
.
The
crush
was
terrific
for
the
time
of
day
.
Lords
,
Ascot
,
Hurlingham
,
what
was
it
?
she
wondered
,
for
the
street
was
blocked
.
The
British
middle
classes
sitting
sideways
on
the
tops
of
omnibuses
with
parcels
and
umbrellas
,
yes
,
even
furs
on
a
day
like
this
,
were
,
she
thought
,
more
ridiculous
,
more
unlike
anything
there
has
ever
been
than
one
could
conceive
;
and
the
Queen
herself
held
up
;
the
Queen
herself
unable
to
pass
.
Clarissa
was
suspended
on
one
side
of
Brook
Street
;
Sir
John
Buckhurst
,
the
old
Judge
on
the
other
,
with
the
car
between
them
(
Sir
John
had
laid
down
the
law
for
years
and
liked
a
well-dressed
woman
)
when
the
chauffeur
,
leaning
ever
so
slightly
,
said
or
showed
something
to
the
policeman
,
who
saluted
and
raised
his
arm
and
jerked
his
head
and
moved
the
omnibus
to
the
side
and
the
car
passed
through
.
Slowly
and
very
silently
it
took
its
way
.
Clarissa
guessed
;
Clarissa
knew
of
course
;
she
had
seen
something
white
,
magical
,
circular
,
in
the
footman
's
hand
,
a
disc
inscribed
with
a
name
--
the
Queen
's
,
the
Prince
of
Wales
's
,
the
Prime
Minister
's
?
--
which
,
by
force
of
its
own
lustre
,
burnt
its
way
through
(
Clarissa
saw
the
car
diminishing
,
disappearing
)
,
to
blaze
among
candelabras
,
glittering
stars
,
breasts
stiff
with
oak
leaves
,
Hugh
Whitbread
and
all
his
colleagues
,
the
gentlemen
of
England
,
that
night
in
Buckingham
Palace
.
And
Clarissa
,
too
,
gave
a
party
.
She
stiffened
a
little
;
so
she
would
stand
at
the
top
of
her
stairs
.
The
car
had
gone
,
but
it
had
left
a
slight
ripple
which
flowed
through
glove
shops
and
hat
shops
and
tailors
'
shops
on
both
sides
of
Bond
Street
.
For
thirty
seconds
all
heads
were
inclined
the
same
way
--
to
the
window
.
Choosing
a
pair
of
gloves
--
should
they
be
to
the
elbow
or
above
it
,
lemon
or
pale
grey
?
--
ladies
stopped
;
when
the
sentence
was
finished
something
had
happened
.
Something
so
trifling
in
single
instances
that
no
mathematical
instrument
,
though
capable
of
transmitting
shocks
in
China
,
could
register
the
vibration
;
yet
in
its
fulness
rather
formidable
and
in
its
common
appeal
emotional
;
for
in
all
the
hat
shops
and
tailors
'
shops
strangers
looked
at
each
other
and
thought
of
the
dead
;
of
the
flag
;
of
Empire
.
In
a
public
house
in
a
back
street
a
Colonial
insulted
the
House
of
Windsor
which
led
to
words
,
broken
beer
glasses
,
and
a
general
shindy
,
which
echoed
strangely
across
the
way
in
the
ears
of
girls
buying
white
underlinen
threaded
with
pure
white
ribbon
for
their
weddings
.
For
the
surface
agitation
of
the
passing
car
as
it
sunk
grazed
something
very
profound
.
Gliding
across
Piccadilly
,
the
car
turned
down
St.
James
's
Street
.
Tall
men
,
men
of
robust
physique
,
well-dressed
men
with
their
tail-coats
and
their
white
slips
and
their
hair
raked
back
who
,
for
reasons
difficult
to
discriminate
,
were
standing
in
the
bow
window
of
Brooks
's
with
their
hands
behind
the
tails
of
their
coats
,
looking
out
,
perceived
instinctively
that
greatness
was
passing
,
and
the
pale
light
of
the
immortal
presence
fell
upon
them
as
it
had
fallen
upon
Clarissa
Dalloway
.
At
once
they
stood
even
straighter
,
and
removed
their
hands
,
and
seemed
ready
to
attend
their
Sovereign
,
if
need
be
,
to
the
cannon
's
mouth
,
as
their
ancestors
had
done
before
them
.
The
white
busts
and
the
little
tables
in
the
background
covered
with
copies
of
the
Tatler
and
syphons
of
soda
water
seemed
to
approve
;
seemed
to
indicate
the
flowing
corn
and
the
manor
houses
of
England
;
and
to
return
the
frail
hum
of
the
motor
wheels
as
the
walls
of
a
whispering
gallery
return
a
single
voice
expanded
and
made
sonorous
by
the
might
of
a
whole
cathedral
.
Shawled
Moll
Pratt
with
her
flowers
on
the
pavement
wished
the
dear
boy
well
(
it
was
the
Prince
of
Wales
for
certain
)
and
would
have
tossed
the
price
of
a
pot
of
beer
--
a
bunch
of
roses
--
into
St.
James
's
Street
out
of
sheer
light-heartedness
and
contempt
of
poverty
had
she
not
seen
the
constable
's
eye
upon
her
,
discouraging
an
old
Irishwoman
's
loyalty
.
The
sentries
at
St.
James
's
saluted
;
Queen
Alexandra
's
policeman
approved
.
A
small
crowd
meanwhile
had
gathered
at
the
gates
of
Buckingham
Palace
.
