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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 23/81
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By
such
signs
we
diagnose
our
friends
'
diseases
.
"
Do
not
,
in
your
affluence
and
plenty
,
"
you
seem
to
say
,
"
pass
me
by
.
"
"
Stop
,
"
you
say
.
"
Ask
me
what
I
suffer
.
"
'
Let
me
then
create
you
.
(
You
have
done
as
much
for
me
.
)
You
lie
on
this
hot
bank
,
in
this
lovely
,
this
fading
,
this
still
bright
October
day
,
watching
boat
after
boat
float
through
the
combed-out
twigs
of
the
willow
tree
.
And
you
wish
to
be
a
poet
;
and
you
wish
to
be
a
lover
.
But
the
splendid
clarity
of
your
intelligence
,
and
the
remorseless
honesty
of
your
intellect
(
these
Latin
words
I
owe
you
;
these
qualities
of
yours
make
me
shift
a
little
uneasily
and
see
the
faded
patches
,
the
thin
strands
in
my
own
equipment
)
bring
you
to
a
halt
.
You
indulge
in
no
mystifications
.
You
do
not
fog
yourself
with
rosy
clouds
,
or
yellow
.
'
Am
I
right
?
Have
I
read
the
little
gesture
of
your
left
hand
correctly
?
If
so
,
give
me
your
poems
;
hand
over
the
sheets
you
wrote
last
night
in
such
a
fervour
of
inspiration
that
you
now
feel
a
little
sheepish
.
For
you
distrust
inspiration
,
yours
or
mine
.
Let
us
go
back
together
,
over
the
bridge
,
under
the
elm
trees
,
to
my
room
,
where
,
with
walls
round
us
and
red
serge
curtains
drawn
,
we
can
shut
out
these
distracting
voices
,
scents
and
savours
of
lime
trees
,
and
other
lives
;
these
pert
shop-girls
,
disdainfully
tripping
,
these
shuffling
,
heavy-laden
old
women
;
these
furtive
glimpses
of
some
vague
and
vanishing
figure
--
it
might
be
Jinny
,
it
might
be
Susan
,
or
was
that
Rhoda
disappearing
down
the
avenue
?
Again
,
from
some
slight
twitch
I
guess
your
feeling
;
I
have
escaped
you
;
I
have
gone
buzzing
like
a
swarm
of
bees
,
endlessly
vagrant
,
with
none
of
your
power
of
fixing
remorselessly
upon
a
single
object
.
But
I
will
return
.
'
'
When
there
are
buildings
like
these
,
'
said
Neville
,
'
I
can
not
endure
that
there
should
be
shop-girls
.
Their
titter
,
their
gossip
,
offends
me
;
breaks
into
my
stillness
,
and
nudges
me
,
in
moments
of
purest
exultation
,
to
remember
our
degradation
.
'
But
now
we
have
regained
our
territory
after
that
brief
brush
with
the
bicycles
and
the
lime
scent
and
the
vanishing
figures
in
the
distracted
street
.
Here
we
are
masters
of
tranquillity
and
order
;
inheritors
of
proud
tradition
.
The
lights
are
beginning
to
make
yellow
slits
across
the
square
.
Mists
from
the
river
are
filling
these
ancient
spaces
.
They
cling
,
gently
,
to
the
hoary
stone
.
The
leaves
now
are
thick
in
country
lanes
,
sheep
cough
in
the
damp
fields
;
but
here
in
your
room
we
are
dry
.
We
talk
privately
.
The
fire
leaps
and
sinks
,
making
some
knob
bright
.
'
You
have
been
reading
Byron
.
You
have
been
marking
the
passages
that
seem
to
approve
of
your
own
character
.
I
find
marks
against
all
those
sentences
which
seem
to
express
a
sardonic
yet
passionate
nature
;
a
moth-like
impetuosity
dashing
itself
against
hard
glass
.
You
thought
,
as
you
drew
your
pencil
there
,
"
I
too
throw
off
my
cloak
like
that
.
I
too
snap
my
fingers
in
the
face
of
destiny
.
"
Yet
Byron
never
made
tea
as
you
do
,
who
fill
the
pot
so
that
when
you
put
the
lid
on
the
tea
spills
over
.
There
is
a
brown
pool
on
the
table
--
it
is
running
among
your
books
and
papers
.
Now
you
mop
it
up
,
clumsily
,
with
your
pocket-handkerchief
.
You
then
stuff
your
handkerchief
back
into
your
pocket
--
that
is
not
Byron
;
that
is
you
;
that
is
so
essentially
you
that
if
I
think
of
you
in
twenty
years
'
time
,
when
we
are
both
famous
,
gouty
and
intolerable
,
it
will
be
by
that
scene
:
and
if
you
are
dead
,
I
shall
weep
.
Once
you
were
Tolstoi
's
young
man
;
now
you
are
Byron
's
young
man
;
perhaps
you
will
be
Meredith
's
young
man
;
then
you
will
visit
Paris
in
the
Easter
vacation
and
come
back
wearing
a
black
tie
,
some
detestable
Frenchman
whom
nobody
has
ever
heard
of
.
Then
I
shall
drop
you
.
'
I
am
one
person
--
myself
.
I
do
not
impersonate
Catullus
,
whom
I
adore
.
I
am
the
most
slavish
of
students
,
with
here
a
dictionary
,
there
a
notebook
in
which
I
enter
curious
uses
of
the
past
participle
.
But
one
can
not
go
on
for
ever
cutting
these
ancient
inscriptions
clearer
with
a
knife
.
Shall
I
always
draw
the
red
serge
curtain
close
and
see
my
book
,
laid
like
a
block
of
marble
,
pale
under
the
lamp
?
That
would
be
a
glorious
life
,
to
addict
oneself
to
perfection
;
to
follow
the
curve
of
the
sentence
wherever
it
might
lead
,
into
deserts
,
under
drifts
of
sand
,
regardless
of
lures
,
of
seductions
;
to
be
poor
always
and
unkempt
;
to
be
ridiculous
in
Piccadilly
.
