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- Вирджиния Вульф
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Neville
,
after
staring
at
the
window
through
his
tears
,
will
see
through
his
tears
,
and
ask
,
"
Who
passes
the
window
?
"
--
"
What
lovely
boy
?
"
This
is
my
tribute
to
Percival
;
withered
violets
,
blackened
violets
.
'
Where
shall
I
go
then
?
To
some
museum
,
where
they
keep
rings
under
glass
cases
,
where
there
are
cabinets
,
and
the
dresses
that
queens
have
worn
?
Or
shall
I
go
to
Hampton
Court
and
look
at
the
red
walls
and
courtyards
and
the
seemliness
of
herded
yew
trees
making
black
pyramids
symmetrically
on
the
grass
among
flowers
?
There
shall
I
recover
beauty
,
and
impose
order
upon
my
raked
,
my
dishevelled
soul
?
But
what
can
one
make
in
loneliness
?
Alone
I
should
stand
on
the
empty
grass
and
say
,
Rooks
fly
;
somebody
passes
with
a
bag
;
there
is
a
gardener
with
a
wheelbarrow
.
I
should
stand
in
a
queue
and
smell
sweat
,
and
scent
as
horrible
as
sweat
;
and
be
hung
with
other
people
like
a
joint
of
meat
among
other
joints
of
meat
.
'
Here
is
a
hall
where
one
pays
money
and
goes
in
,
where
one
hears
music
among
somnolent
people
who
have
come
here
after
lunch
on
a
hot
afternoon
.
We
have
eaten
beef
and
pudding
enough
to
live
for
a
week
without
tasting
food
.
Therefore
we
cluster
like
maggots
on
the
back
of
something
that
will
carry
us
on
.
Decorous
,
portly
--
we
have
white
hair
waved
under
our
hats
;
slim
shoes
;
little
bags
;
clean-shaven
cheeks
;
here
and
there
a
military
moustache
;
not
a
speck
of
dust
has
been
allowed
to
settle
anywhere
on
our
broadcloth
.
Swaying
and
opening
programmes
,
with
a
few
words
of
greeting
to
friends
,
we
settle
down
,
like
walruses
stranded
on
rocks
,
like
heavy
bodies
incapable
of
waddling
to
the
sea
,
hoping
for
a
wave
to
lift
us
,
but
we
are
too
heavy
,
and
too
much
dry
shingle
lies
between
us
and
the
sea
.
We
lie
gorged
with
food
,
torpid
in
the
heat
.
Then
,
swollen
but
contained
in
slippery
satin
,
the
seagreen
woman
comes
to
our
rescue
.
She
sucks
in
her
lips
,
assumes
an
air
of
intensity
,
inflates
herself
and
hurls
herself
precisely
at
the
right
moment
as
if
she
saw
an
apple
and
her
voice
was
the
arrow
into
the
note
,
"
Ah
!
"
'
An
axe
has
split
a
tree
to
the
core
;
the
core
is
warm
;
sound
quivers
within
the
bark
.
"
Ah
!
"
cried
a
woman
to
her
lover
,
leaning
from
her
window
in
Venice
.
"
Ah
,
ah
!
"
she
cried
,
and
again
she
cries
"
Ah
!
"
She
has
provided
us
with
a
cry
.
But
only
a
cry
.
And
what
is
a
cry
?
Then
the
beetle-shaped
men
come
with
their
violins
;
wait
;
count
;
nod
;
down
come
their
bows
.
And
there
is
ripple
and
laughter
like
the
dance
of
olive
trees
and
their
myriad-tongued
grey
leaves
when
a
seafarer
,
biting
a
twig
between
his
lips
where
the
many-backed
steep
hills
come
down
,
leaps
on
shore
.
'
"
Like
"
and
"
like
"
and
"
like
"
--
but
what
is
the
thing
that
lies
beneath
the
semblance
of
the
thing
?
Now
that
lightning
has
gashed
the
tree
and
the
flowering
branch
has
fallen
and
Percival
,
by
his
death
,
has
made
me
this
gift
,
let
me
see
the
thing
.
There
is
a
square
;
there
is
an
oblong
.
The
players
take
the
square
and
place
it
upon
the
oblong
.
They
place
it
very
accurately
;
they
make
a
perfect
dwelling-place
.
Very
little
is
left
outside
.
The
structure
is
now
visible
;
what
is
inchoate
is
here
stated
;
we
are
not
so
various
or
so
mean
;
we
have
made
oblongs
and
stood
them
upon
squares
.
This
is
our
triumph
;
this
is
our
consolation
.
The
sweetness
of
this
content
overflowing
runs
down
the
walls
of
my
mind
,
and
liberates
understanding
.
Wander
no
more
,
I
say
;
this
is
the
end
.
The
oblong
has
been
set
upon
the
square
;
the
spiral
is
on
top
.
We
have
been
hauled
over
the
shingle
,
down
to
the
sea
.
The
players
come
again
.
But
they
are
mopping
their
faces
.
They
are
no
longer
so
spruce
or
so
debonair
.
I
will
go
.
I
will
set
aside
this
afternoon
.
I
will
make
a
pilgrimage
.
I
will
go
to
Greenwich
.
I
will
fling
myself
fearlessly
into
trams
,
into
omnibuses
.
As
we
lurch
down
Regent
Street
,
and
I
am
flung
upon
this
woman
,
upon
this
man
,
I
am
not
injured
,
I
am
not
outraged
by
the
collision
.
A
square
stands
upon
an
oblong
.
Here
are
mean
streets
where
chaffering
goes
on
in
street
markets
,
and
every
sort
of
iron
rod
,
bolt
and
screw
is
laid
out
,
and
people
swarm
off
the
pavement
,
pinching
raw
meat
with
thick
fingers
.
The
structure
is
visible
.
We
have
made
a
dwelling-place
.
'
These
,
then
,
are
the
flowers
that
grow
among
the
rough
grasses
of
the
field
which
the
cows
trample
,
wind-bitten
,
almost
deformed
,
without
fruit
or
blossom
.
These
are
what
I
bring
,
torn
up
by
the
roots
from
the
pavement
of
Oxford
Street
,
my
penny
bunch
,
my
penny
bunch
of
violets
.
Now
from
the
window
of
the
tram
I
see
masts
among
chimneys
;
there
is
the
river
;
there
are
ships
that
sail
to
India
.
I
will
walk
by
the
river
.
I
will
pace
this
embankment
,
where
an
old
man
reads
a
newspaper
in
a
glass
shelter
.
I
will
pace
this
terrace
and
watch
the
ships
bowling
down
the
tide
.
A
woman
walks
on
deck
,
with
a
dog
barking
round
her
.
Her
skirts
are
blown
;
her
hair
is
blown
;
they
are
going
out
to
sea
;
they
are
leaving
us
;
they
are
vanishing
this
summer
evening
.
Now
I
will
relinquish
;
now
I
will
let
loose
.
Now
I
will
at
last
free
the
checked
,
the
jerked-back
desire
to
be
spent
,
to
be
consumed
.
We
will
gallop
together
over
desert
hills
where
the
swallow
dips
her
wings
in
dark
pools
and
the
pillars
stand
entire
.
Into
the
wave
that
dashes
upon
the
shore
,
into
the
wave
that
flings
its
white
foam
to
the
uttermost
corners
of
the
earth
,
I
throw
my
violets
,
my
offering
to
Percival
.
'
