Волны/The waves (Вирджиния Вульф). Страница 49 из 81

Понятно

Понятно

Для того чтобы воспользоваться закладками, необходимо

Войти или зарегистрироваться

Отмена

Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо

Войти или зарегистрироваться

Отмена

Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа

Купить PRO-доступ

Отмена

Предыдущая страница

'

One

must

be

quick

and

add

facts

deftly

,

like

toys

to

a

tree

,

fixing

them

with

a

twist

of

the

fingers

.

He

stoops

,

how

he

stoops

,

even

over

an

azalea

.

He

stoops

over

the

old

woman

even

,

because

she

wears

diamonds

in

her

ears

,

and

,

bundling

about

her

estate

in

a

pony

carriage

,

directs

who

is

to

be

helped

,

what

tree

felled

,

and

who

turned

out

tomorrow

.

(

I

have

lived

my

life

,

I

must

tell

you

,

all

these

years

,

and

I

am

now

past

thirty

,

perilously

,

like

a

mountain

goat

,

leaping

from

crag

to

crag

;

I

do

not

settle

long

anywhere

;

I

do

not

attach

myself

to

one

person

in

particular

;

but

you

will

find

that

if

I

raise

my

arm

,

some

figure

at

once

breaks

off

and

will

come

.

)

And

that

man

is

a

judge

;

and

that

man

is

a

millionaire

,

and

that

man

,

with

the

eyeglass

,

shot

his

governess

through

the

heart

with

an

arrow

when

he

was

ten

years

old

.

Afterwards

he

rode

through

deserts

with

despatches

,

took

part

in

revolutions

and

now

collects

materials

for

a

history

of

his

mother

's

family

,

long

settled

in

Norfolk

.

That

little

man

with

a

blue

chin

has

a

right

hand

that

is

withered

.

But

why

?

We

do

not

know

.

That

woman

,

you

whisper

discreetly

,

with

the

pearl

pagodas

hanging

from

her

ears

,

was

the

pure

flame

who

lit

the

life

of

one

of

our

statesmen

;

now

since

his

death

she

sees

ghosts

,

tells

fortunes

,

and

has

adopted

a

coffee-coloured

youth

whom

she

calls

the

Messiah

.

That

man

with

the

drooping

moustache

,

like

a

cavalry

officer

,

lived

a

life

of

the

utmost

debauchery

(

it

is

all

in

some

memoir

)

until

one

day

he

met

a

stranger

in

a

train

who

converted

him

between

Edinburgh

and

Carlisle

by

reading

the

Bible

.

'

Thus

,

in

a

few

seconds

,

deftly

,

adroitly

,

we

decipher

the

hieroglyphs

written

on

other

people

's

faces

.

Here

,

in

this

room

,

are

the

abraded

and

battered

shells

cast

on

the

shore

.

The

door

goes

on

opening

.

The

room

fills

and

fills

with

knowledge

,

anguish

,

many

kinds

of

ambition

,

much

indifference

,

some

despair

.

Between

us

,

you

say

,

we

could

build

cathedrals

,

dictate

policies

,

condemn

men

to

death

,

and

administer

the

affairs

of

several

public

offices

.

The

common

fund

of

experience

is

very

deep

.

We

have

between

us

scores

of

children

of

both

sexes

,

whom

we

are

educating

,

going

to

see

at

school

with

the

measles

,

and

bringing

up

to

inherit

our

houses

.

In

one

way

or

another

we

make

this

day

,

this

Friday

,

some

by

going

to

the

Law

Courts

;

others

to

the

city

;

others

to

the

nursery

;

others

by

marching

and

forming

fours

.

A

million

hands

stitch

,

raise

hods

with

bricks

.

The

activity

is

endless

.

And

tomorrow

it

begins

again

;

tomorrow

we

make

Saturday

.

Some

take

train

for

France

;

others

ship

for

India

.

Some

will

never

come

into

this

room

again

.

One

may

die

tonight

.

Another

will

beget

a

child

.

From

us

every

sort

of

building

,

policy

,

venture

,

picture

,

poem

,

child

,

factory

,

will

spring

.

Life

comes

;

life

goes

;

we

make

life

.

So

you

say

.

'

But

we

who

live

in

the

body

see

with

the

body

's

imagination

things

in

outline

.

I

see

rocks

in

bright

sunshine

.

I

can

not

take

these

facts

into

some

cave

and

,

shading

my

eyes

,

grade

their

yellows

,

blues

,

umbers

into

one

substance

.

I

can

not

remain

seated

for

long

.

I

must

jump

up

and

go

.

The

coach

may

start

from

Piccadilly

.

Отключить рекламу

I

drop

all

these

facts

--

diamonds

,

withered

hands

,

china

pots

and

the

rest

of

it

--

as

a

monkey

drops

nuts

from

its

naked

paws

.

I

can

not

tell

you

if

life

is

this

or

that

.

I

am

going

to

push

out

into

the

heterogeneous

crowd

.

I

am

going

to

be

buffeted

;

to

be

flung

up

,

and

flung

down

,

among

men

,

like

a

ship

on

the

sea

.

'

For

now

my

body

,

my

companion

,

which

is

always

sending

its

signals

,

the

rough

black

"

No

"

,

the

golden

"

Come

"

,

in

rapid

running

arrows

of

sensation

,

beckons

.

Someone

moves

.

Did

I

raise

my

arm

?

Did

I

look

?

Did

my

yellow

scarf

with

the

strawberry

spots

float

and

signal

?

He

has

broken

from

the

wall

.

He

follows

.

I

am

pursued

through

the

forest

.

All

is

rapt

,

all

is

nocturnal

,

and

the

parrots

go

screaming

through

the

branches

.

All

my

senses

stand

erect

.

Now

I

feel

the

roughness

of

the

fibre

of

the

curtain

through

which

I

push

;

now

I

feel

the

cold

iron

railing

and

its

blistered

paint

beneath

my

palm

.

Now

the

cool

tide

of

darkness

breaks

its

waters

over

me

.

We

are

out

of

doors

.

Night

opens

;

night

traversed

by

wandering

moths

;

night

hiding

lovers

roaming

to

adventure

.

I

smell

roses

;

I

smell

violets

;

I

see

red

and

blue

just

hidden

.

Now

gravel

is

under

my

shoes

;

now

grass

.

Up

reel

the

tall

backs

of

houses

guilty

with

lights

.

All

London

is

uneasy

with

flashing

lights

.

Now

let

us

sing

our

love

song

--

Come

,

come

,

come

.

Now

my

gold

signal

is

like

a

dragonfly

flying

taut

.

Jug

,

jug

,

jug

,

I

sing

like

the

nightingale

whose

melody

is

crowded

in

the

too

narrow

passage

of

her

throat

.

Now

I

hear

crash

and

rending

of

boughs

and

the

crack

of

antlers

as

if

the

beasts

of

the

forest

were

all

hunting

,

all

rearing

high

and

plunging

down

among

the

thorns

.

One

has

pierced

me

.

One

is

driven

deep

within

me

.

'

And

velvet

flowers

and

leaves

whose

coolness

has

been

stood

in

water

wash

me

round

,

and

sheathe

me

,

embalming

me

.

'

Отключить рекламу

'

Why

,

look

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

at

the

clock

ticking

on

the

mantelpiece

?

Time

passes

,

yes

.

And

we

grow

old

.

But

to

sit

with

you

,

alone

with

you

,

here

in

London

,

in

this

firelit

room

,

you

there

,

I

here

,

is

all

.

The

world

ransacked

to

its

uttermost

ends

,

and

all

its

heights

stripped

and

gathered

of

their

flowers

,

holds

no

more

.

Look

at

the

firelight

running

up

and

down

the

gold

thread

in

the

curtain

.

The

fruit

it

circles

droops

heavy

.

It

falls

on

the

toe

of

your

boot

,

it

gives

your

face

a

red

rim

--

I

think

it

is

the

firelight

and

not

your

face

;

I

think

those

are

books

against

the

wall

,

and

that

a

curtain

,

and

that

perhaps

an

armchair

.

But

when

you

come

everything

changes

.

The

cups

and

saucers

changed

when

you

came

in

this

morning

.

There

can

be

no

doubt

,

I

thought

,

pushing

aside

the

newspaper

,

that

our

mean

lives

,

unsightly

as

they

are

,

put

on

splendour

and

have

meaning

only

under

the

eyes

of

love

.

'

I

rose

.

I

had

done

my

breakfast

.

There

was

the

whole

day

before

us

,

and

as

it

was

fine

,

tender

,

non-committal

,

we

walked

through

the

Park

to

the

Embankment

,

along

the

Strand

to

St

Paul

's

,

then

to

the

shop

where

I

bought

an

umbrella

,

always

talking

,

and

now

and

then

stopping

to

look

.

But

can

this

last

?

I

said

to

myself

,

by

a

lion

in

Trafalgar

Square

,

by

the

lion

seen

once

and

for

ever

;

--

so

I

revisit

my

past

life

,

scene

by

scene

;

there

is

an

elm

tree

,

and

there

lies

Percival

.

For

ever

and

ever

,

I

swore

.

Then

darted

in

the

usual

doubt

.

I

clutched

your

hand

.

You

left

me

.

The

descent

into

the

Tube

was

like

death

.

We

were

cut

up

,

we

were

dissevered

by

all

those

faces

and

the

hollow

wind

that

seemed

to

roar

down

there

over

desert

boulders

.

I

sat

staring

in

my

own

room

.

By

five

I

knew

that

you

were

faithless

.

I

snatched

the

telephone

and

the

buzz

,

buzz

,

buzz

of

its

stupid

voice

in

your

empty

room

battered

my

heart

down

,

when

the

door

opened

and

there

you

stood

.

That

was

the

most

perfect

of

our

meetings

.

But

these

meetings

,

these

partings

,

finally

destroy

us

.

Предыдущая страница

Предыдущая

Следующая

Следующая страница

Следующая страница