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- Вирджиния Вульф
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'
The
boasting
boys
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
have
gone
now
in
a
vast
team
to
play
cricket
.
They
have
driven
off
in
their
great
brake
,
singing
in
chorus
.
All
their
heads
turn
simultaneously
at
the
corner
by
the
laurel
bushes
.
Now
they
are
boasting
.
Larpent
's
brother
played
football
for
Oxford
;
Smith
's
father
made
a
century
at
Lords
.
Archie
and
Hugh
;
Parker
and
Dalton
;
Larpent
and
Smith
;
then
again
Archie
and
Hugh
;
Parker
and
Dalton
;
Larpent
and
Smith
--
the
names
repeat
themselves
;
the
names
are
the
same
always
.
They
are
the
volunteers
;
they
are
the
cricketers
;
they
are
the
officers
of
the
Natural
History
Society
.
They
are
always
forming
into
fours
and
marching
in
troops
with
badges
on
their
caps
;
they
salute
simultaneously
passing
the
figure
of
their
general
.
How
majestic
is
their
order
,
how
beautiful
is
their
obedience
!
If
I
could
follow
,
if
I
could
be
with
them
,
I
would
sacrifice
all
I
know
.
But
they
also
leave
butterflies
trembling
with
their
wings
pinched
off
;
they
throw
dirty
pocket-handkerchiefs
clotted
with
blood
screwed
up
into
corners
.
They
make
little
boys
sob
in
dark
passages
.
They
have
big
red
ears
that
stand
out
under
their
caps
.
Yet
that
is
what
we
wish
to
be
,
Neville
and
I.
I
watch
them
go
with
envy
.
Peeping
from
behind
a
curtain
,
I
note
the
simultaneity
of
their
movements
with
delight
.
If
my
legs
were
reinforced
by
theirs
,
how
they
would
run
!
If
I
had
been
with
them
and
won
matches
and
rowed
in
great
races
,
and
galloped
all
day
,
how
I
should
thunder
out
songs
at
midnight
!
In
what
a
torrent
the
words
would
rush
from
my
throat
!
'
'
Percival
has
gone
now
,
'
said
Neville
.
'
He
is
thinking
of
nothing
but
the
match
.
He
never
waved
his
hand
as
the
brake
turned
the
corner
by
the
laurel
bush
.
He
despises
me
for
being
too
weak
to
play
(
yet
he
is
always
kind
to
my
weakness
)
.
He
despises
me
for
not
caring
if
they
win
or
lose
except
that
he
cares
.
He
takes
my
devotion
;
he
accepts
my
tremulous
,
no
doubt
abject
offering
,
mixed
with
contempt
as
it
is
for
his
mind
.
For
he
can
not
read
.
Yet
when
I
read
Shakespeare
or
Catullus
,
lying
in
the
long
grass
,
he
understands
more
than
Louis
.
Not
the
words
--
but
what
are
words
?
Do
I
not
know
already
how
to
rhyme
,
how
to
imitate
Pope
,
Dryden
,
even
Shakespeare
?
But
I
can
not
stand
all
day
in
the
sun
with
my
eyes
on
the
ball
;
I
can
not
feel
the
flight
of
the
ball
through
my
body
and
think
only
of
the
ball
.
I
shall
be
a
clinger
to
the
outsides
of
words
all
my
life
.
Yet
I
could
not
live
with
him
and
suffer
his
stupidity
.
He
will
coarsen
and
snore
.
He
will
marry
and
there
will
be
scenes
of
tenderness
at
breakfast
.
But
now
he
is
young
.
Not
a
thread
,
not
a
sheet
of
paper
lies
between
him
and
the
sun
,
between
him
and
the
rain
,
between
him
and
the
moon
as
he
lies
naked
,
tumbled
,
hot
,
on
his
bed
.
Now
as
they
drive
along
the
high
road
in
their
brake
his
face
is
mottled
red
and
yellow
.
He
will
throw
off
his
coat
and
stand
with
his
legs
apart
,
with
his
hands
ready
,
watching
the
wicket
.
And
he
will
pray
,
"
Lord
let
us
win
"
;
he
will
think
of
one
thing
only
,
that
they
should
win
.
'
How
could
I
go
with
them
in
a
brake
to
play
cricket
?
Only
Bernard
could
go
with
them
,
but
Bernard
is
too
late
to
go
with
them
.
He
is
always
too
late
.
He
is
prevented
by
his
incorrigible
moodiness
from
going
with
them
.
He
stops
,
when
he
washes
his
hands
,
to
say
,
"
There
is
a
fly
in
that
web
.
Shall
I
rescue
that
fly
;
shall
I
let
the
spider
eat
it
?
"
He
is
shaded
with
innumerable
perplexities
,
or
he
would
go
with
them
to
play
cricket
,
and
would
lie
in
the
grass
,
watching
the
sky
,
and
would
start
when
the
ball
was
hit
.
But
they
would
forgive
him
;
for
he
would
tell
them
a
story
.
'
'
They
have
bowled
off
,
'
said
Bernard
,
'
and
I
am
too
late
to
go
with
them
.
The
horrid
little
boys
,
who
are
also
so
beautiful
,
whom
you
and
Louis
,
Neville
,
envy
so
deeply
,
have
bowled
off
with
their
heads
all
turned
the
same
way
.
But
I
am
unaware
of
these
profound
distinctions
.
My
fingers
slip
over
the
keyboard
without
knowing
which
is
black
and
which
white
.
Archie
makes
easily
a
hundred
;
I
by
a
fluke
make
sometimes
fifteen
.
But
what
is
the
difference
between
us
?
Wait
though
,
Neville
;
let
me
talk
.
The
bubbles
are
rising
like
the
silver
bubbles
from
the
floor
of
a
saucepan
;
image
on
top
of
image
.
I
can
not
sit
down
to
my
book
,
like
Louis
,
with
ferocious
tenacity
.
I
must
open
the
little
trap-door
and
let
out
these
linked
phrases
in
which
I
run
together
whatever
happens
,
so
that
instead
of
incoherence
there
is
perceived
a
wandering
thread
,
lightly
joining
one
thing
to
another
.
I
will
tell
you
the
story
of
the
doctor
.
'
When
Dr
Crane
lurches
through
the
swing-doors
after
prayers
he
is
convinced
,
it
seems
,
of
his
immense
superiority
;
and
indeed
Neville
,
we
can
not
deny
that
his
departure
leaves
us
not
only
with
a
sense
of
relief
,
but
also
with
a
sense
of
something
removed
,
like
a
tooth
.
Now
let
us
follow
him
as
he
heaves
through
the
swing-door
to
his
own
apartments
.
Let
us
imagine
him
in
his
private
room
over
the
stables
undressing
.
He
unfastens
his
sock
suspenders
(
let
us
be
trivial
,
let
us
be
intimate
)
.
Then
with
a
characteristic
gesture
(
it
is
difficult
to
avoid
these
ready-made
phrases
,
and
they
are
,
in
his
case
,
somehow
appropriate
)
he
takes
the
silver
,
he
takes
the
coppers
from
his
trouser
pockets
and
places
them
there
,
and
there
,
on
his
dressing-table
.
With
both
arms
stretched
on
the
arms
of
his
chair
he
reflects
(
this
is
his
private
moment
;
it
is
here
we
must
try
to
catch
him
)
:
shall
he
cross
the
pink
bridge
into
his
bedroom
or
shall
he
not
cross
it
?
The
two
rooms
are
united
by
a
bridge
of
rosy
light
from
the
lamp
at
the
bedside
where
Mrs
Crane
lies
with
her
hair
on
the
pillow
reading
a
French
memoir
.
As
she
reads
,
she
sweeps
her
hand
with
an
abandoned
and
despairing
gesture
over
her
forehead
,
and
sighs
,
"
Is
this
all
?
"
comparing
herself
with
some
French
duchess
.
Now
,
says
the
doctor
,
in
two
years
I
shall
retire
.
I
shall
clip
yew
hedges
in
a
west
country
garden
.
An
admiral
I
might
have
been
;
or
a
judge
;
not
a
schoolmaster
.
What
forces
,
he
asks
,
staring
at
the
gas-fire
with
his
shoulders
hunched
up
more
hugely
than
we
know
them
(
he
is
in
his
shirt-sleeves
remember
)
,
have
brought
me
to
this
?
What
vast
forces
?
he
thinks
,
getting
into
the
stride
of
his
majestic
phrases
as
he
looks
over
his
shoulder
at
the
window
.
It
is
a
stormy
night
;
the
branches
of
the
chestnut
trees
are
ploughing
up
and
down
.
Stars
flash
between
them
.
What
vast
forces
of
good
and
evil
have
brought
me
here
?
he
asks
,
and
sees
with
sorrow
that
his
chair
has
worn
a
little
hole
in
the
pile
of
the
purple
carpet
.
So
there
he
sits
,
swinging
his
braces
.
But
stories
that
follow
people
into
their
private
rooms
are
difficult
.
I
can
not
go
on
with
this
story
.
I
twiddle
a
piece
of
string
;
I
turn
over
four
or
five
coins
in
my
trouser
pocket
.
'
