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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 90/96
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"
Oh
!
thought
Clarissa
,
in
the
middle
of
my
party
,
here
's
death
,
she
thought
.
She
went
on
,
into
the
little
room
where
the
Prime
Minister
had
gone
with
Lady
Bruton
.
Perhaps
there
was
somebody
there
.
But
there
was
nobody
.
The
chairs
still
kept
the
impress
of
the
Prime
Minister
and
Lady
Bruton
,
she
turned
deferentially
,
he
sitting
four-square
,
authoritatively
.
They
had
been
talking
about
India
.
There
was
nobody
.
The
party
's
splendour
fell
to
the
floor
,
so
strange
it
was
to
come
in
alone
in
her
finery
.
What
business
had
the
Bradshaws
to
talk
of
death
at
her
party
?
A
young
man
had
killed
himself
.
And
they
talked
of
it
at
her
party
--
the
Bradshaws
,
talked
of
death
.
He
had
killed
himself
--
but
how
?
Always
her
body
went
through
it
first
,
when
she
was
told
,
suddenly
,
of
an
accident
;
her
dress
flamed
,
her
body
burnt
.
He
had
thrown
himself
from
a
window
.
Up
had
flashed
the
ground
;
through
him
,
blundering
,
bruising
,
went
the
rusty
spikes
.
There
he
lay
with
a
thud
,
thud
,
thud
in
his
brain
,
and
then
a
suffocation
of
blackness
.
So
she
saw
it
.
But
why
had
he
done
it
?
And
the
Bradshaws
talked
of
it
at
her
party
!
She
had
once
thrown
a
shilling
into
the
Serpentine
,
never
anything
more
.
But
he
had
flung
it
away
.
They
went
on
living
(
she
would
have
to
go
back
;
the
rooms
were
still
crowded
;
people
kept
on
coming
)
.
They
(
all
day
she
had
been
thinking
of
Bourton
,
of
Peter
,
of
Sally
)
,
they
would
grow
old
.
A
thing
there
was
that
mattered
;
a
thing
,
wreathed
about
with
chatter
,
defaced
,
obscured
in
her
own
life
,
let
drop
every
day
in
corruption
,
lies
,
chatter
.
This
he
had
preserved
.
Death
was
defiance
.
Death
was
an
attempt
to
communicate
;
people
feeling
the
impossibility
of
reaching
the
centre
which
,
mystically
,
evaded
them
;
closeness
drew
apart
;
rapture
faded
,
one
was
alone
.
There
was
an
embrace
in
death
.
But
this
young
man
who
had
killed
himself
--
had
he
plunged
holding
his
treasure
?
"
If
it
were
now
to
die
,
'
twere
now
to
be
most
happy
,
"
she
had
said
to
herself
once
,
coming
down
in
white
.
Or
there
were
the
poets
and
thinkers
.
Suppose
he
had
had
that
passion
,
and
had
gone
to
Sir
William
Bradshaw
,
a
great
doctor
yet
to
her
obscurely
evil
,
without
sex
or
lust
,
extremely
polite
to
women
,
but
capable
of
some
indescribable
outrage
--
forcing
your
soul
,
that
was
it
--
if
this
young
man
had
gone
to
him
,
and
Sir
William
had
impressed
him
,
like
that
,
with
his
power
,
might
he
not
then
have
said
(
indeed
she
felt
it
now
)
,
Life
is
made
intolerable
;
they
make
life
intolerable
,
men
like
that
?
Then
(
she
had
felt
it
only
this
morning
)
there
was
the
terror
;
the
overwhelming
incapacity
,
one
's
parents
giving
it
into
one
's
hands
,
this
life
,
to
be
lived
to
the
end
,
to
be
walked
with
serenely
;
there
was
in
the
depths
of
her
heart
an
awful
fear
.
Even
now
,
quite
often
if
Richard
had
not
been
there
reading
the
Times
,
so
that
she
could
crouch
like
a
bird
and
gradually
revive
,
send
roaring
up
that
immeasurable
delight
,
rubbing
stick
to
stick
,
one
thing
with
another
,
she
must
have
perished
.
But
that
young
man
had
killed
himself
.
Somehow
it
was
her
disaster
--
her
disgrace
.
It
was
her
punishment
to
see
sink
and
disappear
here
a
man
,
there
a
woman
,
in
this
profound
darkness
,
and
she
forced
to
stand
here
in
her
evening
dress
.
She
had
schemed
;
she
had
pilfered
.
She
was
never
wholly
admirable
.
She
had
wanted
success
.
Lady
Bexborough
and
the
rest
of
it
.
And
once
she
had
walked
on
the
terrace
at
Bourton
.
