-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Волны
-
- Стр. 25/81
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
What
malevolent
yet
searching
light
would
Louis
throw
upon
this
dwindling
autumn
evening
,
upon
this
china-smashing
and
trolling
of
hunting-songs
,
upon
Neville
,
Byron
and
our
life
here
?
His
thin
lips
are
somewhat
pursed
;
his
cheeks
are
pale
;
he
pores
in
an
office
over
some
obscure
commercial
document
.
"
My
father
,
a
banker
at
Brisbane
"
--
being
ashamed
of
him
he
always
talks
of
him
--
failed
.
So
he
sits
in
an
office
,
Louis
the
best
scholar
in
the
school
.
But
I
seeking
contrasts
often
feel
his
eye
on
us
,
his
laughing
eye
,
his
wild
eye
,
adding
us
up
like
insignificant
items
in
some
grand
total
which
he
is
for
ever
pursuing
in
his
office
.
And
one
day
,
taking
a
fine
pen
and
dipping
it
in
red
ink
,
the
addition
will
be
complete
;
our
total
will
be
known
;
but
it
will
not
be
enough
.
'
Bang
!
They
have
thrown
a
chair
now
against
the
wall
.
We
are
damned
then
.
My
case
is
dubious
too
.
Am
I
not
indulging
in
unwarranted
emotions
?
Yes
,
as
I
lean
out
of
the
window
and
drop
my
cigarette
so
that
it
twirls
lightly
to
the
ground
,
I
feel
Louis
watching
even
my
cigarette
.
And
Louis
says
,
"
That
means
something
.
But
what
?
"
'
'
People
go
on
passing
,
'
said
Louis
.
They
pass
the
window
of
this
eating-shop
incessantly
.
Motor-cars
,
vans
,
motor-omnibuses
;
and
again
motor-omnibuses
,
vans
,
motor-cars
--
they
pass
the
window
.
In
the
background
I
perceive
shops
and
houses
;
also
the
grey
spires
of
a
city
church
.
In
the
foreground
are
glass
shelves
set
with
plates
of
buns
and
ham
sandwiches
.
All
is
somewhat
obscured
by
steam
from
a
tea-urn
.
A
meaty
,
vapourish
smell
of
beef
and
mutton
,
sausages
and
mash
,
hangs
down
like
a
damp
net
in
the
middle
of
the
eating-house
.
I
prop
my
book
against
a
bottle
of
Worcester
sauce
and
try
to
look
like
the
rest
.
'
Yet
I
can
not
.
(
They
go
on
passing
,
they
go
on
passing
in
disorderly
procession
.
)
I
can
not
read
my
book
,
or
order
my
beef
,
with
conviction
.
I
repeat
,
"
I
am
an
average
Englishman
;
I
am
an
average
clerk
"
,
yet
I
look
at
the
little
men
at
the
next
table
to
be
sure
that
I
do
what
they
do
.
Supple-faced
,
with
rippling
skins
,
that
are
always
twitching
with
the
multiplicity
of
their
sensations
,
prehensile
like
monkeys
,
greased
to
this
particular
moment
,
they
are
discussing
with
all
the
right
gestures
the
sale
of
a
piano
.
It
blocks
up
the
hall
;
so
he
would
take
a
Tenner
.
People
go
on
passing
;
they
go
on
passing
against
the
spires
of
the
church
and
the
plates
of
ham
sandwiches
.
The
streamers
of
my
consciousness
waver
out
and
are
perpetually
torn
and
distressed
by
their
disorder
.
I
can
not
therefore
concentrate
on
my
dinner
.
"
I
would
take
a
tenner
.
The
case
is
handsome
;
but
it
blocks
up
the
hall
.
"
They
dive
and
plunge
like
guillemots
whose
feathers
are
slippery
with
oil
.
All
excesses
beyond
that
norm
are
vanity
.
That
is
the
mean
;
that
is
the
average
.
Meanwhile
the
hats
bob
up
and
down
;
the
door
perpetually
shuts
and
opens
.
I
am
conscious
of
flux
,
of
disorder
;
of
annihilation
and
despair
.
If
this
is
all
,
this
is
worthless
.
Yet
I
feel
,
too
,
the
rhythm
of
the
eating-house
.
It
is
like
a
waltz
tune
,
eddying
in
and
out
,
round
and
round
.
The
waitresses
,
balancing
trays
,
swing
in
and
out
,
round
and
round
,
dealing
plates
of
greens
,
of
apricot
and
custard
,
dealing
them
at
the
right
time
,
to
the
right
customers
.
The
average
men
,
including
her
rhythm
in
their
rhythm
(
"
I
would
take
a
tenner
;
for
it
blocks
up
the
hall
"
)
take
their
greens
,
take
their
apricots
and
custard
.
Where
then
is
the
break
in
this
continuity
?
What
the
fissure
through
which
one
sees
disaster
?
The
circle
is
unbroken
;
the
harmony
complete
.
Here
is
the
central
rhythm
;
here
the
common
mainspring
.
I
watch
it
expand
,
contract
;
and
then
expand
again
.
Yet
I
am
not
included
.
If
I
speak
,
imitating
their
accent
,
they
prick
their
ears
,
waiting
for
me
to
speak
again
,
in
order
that
they
may
place
me
--
if
I
come
from
Canada
or
Australia
,
I
,
who
desire
above
all
things
to
be
taken
to
the
arms
with
love
,
am
alien
,
external
.
I
,
who
would
wish
to
feel
close
over
me
the
protective
waves
of
the
ordinary
,
catch
with
the
tail
of
my
eye
some
far
horizon
;
am
aware
of
hats
bobbing
up
and
down
in
perpetual
disorder
.
To
me
is
addressed
the
plaint
of
the
wandering
and
distracted
spirit
(
a
woman
with
bad
teeth
falters
at
the
counter
)
,
"
Bring
us
back
to
the
fold
,
we
who
pass
so
disjectedly
,
bobbing
up
and
down
,
past
windows
with
plates
of
ham
sandwiches
in
the
foreground
.
"
Yes
;
I
will
reduce
you
to
order
.
'
I
will
read
in
the
book
that
is
propped
against
the
bottle
of
Worcester
sauce
.
It
contains
some
forged
rings
,
some
perfect
statements
,
a
few
words
,
but
poetry
.
You
,
all
of
you
,
ignore
it
.
What
the
dead
poet
said
,
you
have
forgotten
.
And
I
can
not
translate
it
to
you
so
that
its
binding
power
ropes
you
in
,
and
makes
it
clear
to
you
that
you
are
aimless
;
and
the
rhythm
is
cheap
and
worthless
;
and
so
remove
that
degradation
which
,
if
you
are
unaware
of
your
aimlessness
,
pervades
you
,
making
you
senile
,
even
while
you
are
young
.
To
translate
that
poem
so
that
it
is
easily
read
is
to
be
my
endeavour
.
I
,
the
companion
of
Plato
,
of
Virgil
,
will
knock
at
the
grained
oak
door
.
I
oppose
to
what
is
passing
this
ramrod
of
beaten
steel
.
I
will
not
submit
to
this
aimless
passing
of
billycock
hats
and
Homburg
hats
and
all
the
plumed
and
variegated
head-dresses
of
women
.
(
Susan
,
whom
I
respect
,
would
wear
a
plain
straw
hat
on
a
summer
's
day
.
)
And
the
grinding
and
the
steam
that
runs
in
unequal
drops
down
the
window
pane
;
and
the
stopping
and
the
starting
with
a
jerk
of
motor-omnibuses
;
and
the
hesitations
at
counters
;
and
the
words
that
trail
drearily
without
human
meaning
;
I
will
reduce
you
to
order
.
'M
y
roots
go
down
through
veins
of
lead
and
silver
,
through
damp
,
marshy
places
that
exhale
odours
,
to
a
knot
made
of
oak
roots
bound
together
in
the
centre
.
Sealed
and
blind
,
with
earth
stopping
my
ears
,
I
have
yet
heard
rumours
of
wars
;
and
the
nightingale
;
have
felt
the
hurrying
of
many
troops
of
men
flocking
hither
and
thither
in
quest
of
civilization
like
flocks
of
birds
migrating
seeking
the
summer
;
I
have
seen
women
carrying
red
pitchers
to
the
banks
of
the
Nile
.
I
woke
in
a
garden
,
with
a
blow
on
the
nape
of
my
neck
,
a
hot
kiss
,
Jinny
's
;
remembering
all
this
as
one
remembers
confused
cries
and
toppling
pillars
and
shafts
of
red
and
black
in
some
nocturnal
conflagration
.
I
am
for
ever
sleeping
and
waking
.
Now
I
sleep
;
now
I
wake
.
I
see
the
gleaming
tea-urn
;
the
glass
cases
full
of
pale-yellow
sandwiches
;
the
men
in
round
coats
perched
on
stools
at
the
counter
;
and
also
behind
them
,
eternity
.
It
is
a
stigma
burnt
on
my
quivering
flesh
by
a
cowled
man
with
a
red-hot
iron
.
I
see
this
eating-shop
against
the
packed
and
fluttering
birds
'
wings
,
many
feathered
,
folded
,
of
the
past
.
Hence
my
pursed
lips
,
my
sickly
pallor
;
my
distasteful
and
uninviting
aspect
as
I
turn
my
face
with
hatred
and
bitterness
upon
Bernard
and
Neville
,
who
saunter
under
yew
trees
;
who
inherit
armchairs
;
and
draw
their
curtains
close
,
so
that
lamplight
falls
on
their
books
.
