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- Вирджиния Вульф
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'
But
I
yielded
.
Sneers
and
yawns
were
covered
with
my
hand
.
I
did
not
go
out
into
the
street
and
break
a
bottle
in
the
gutter
as
a
sign
of
rage
.
Trembling
with
ardour
,
I
pretended
that
I
was
not
surprised
.
What
you
did
,
I
did
.
If
Susan
and
Jinny
pulled
up
their
stockings
like
that
,
I
pulled
mine
up
like
that
also
.
So
terrible
was
life
that
I
held
up
shade
after
shade
.
Look
at
life
through
this
,
look
at
life
through
that
;
let
there
be
rose
leaves
,
let
there
be
vine
leaves
--
I
covered
the
whole
street
,
Oxford
Street
,
Piccadilly
Circus
,
with
the
blaze
and
ripple
of
my
mind
,
with
vine
leaves
and
rose
leaves
.
There
were
boxes
too
,
standing
in
the
passage
when
the
school
broke
up
.
I
stole
secretly
to
read
the
labels
and
dream
of
names
and
faces
.
Harrogate
,
perhaps
,
Edinburgh
,
perhaps
,
was
ruffled
with
golden
glory
where
some
girl
whose
name
I
forget
stood
on
the
pavement
.
But
it
was
the
name
only
.
I
left
Louis
;
I
feared
embraces
.
With
fleeces
,
with
vestments
,
I
have
tried
to
cover
the
blue-black
blade
.
I
implored
day
to
break
into
night
.
I
have
longed
to
see
the
cupboard
dwindle
,
to
feel
the
bed
soften
,
to
float
suspended
,
to
perceive
lengthened
trees
,
lengthened
faces
,
a
green
bank
on
a
moor
and
two
figures
in
distress
saying
good-bye
.
I
flung
words
in
fans
like
those
the
sower
throws
over
the
ploughed
fields
when
the
earth
is
bare
.
I
desired
always
to
stretch
the
night
and
fill
it
fuller
and
fuller
with
dreams
.
'
Then
in
some
Hall
I
parted
the
boughs
of
music
and
saw
the
house
we
have
made
;
the
square
stood
upon
the
oblong
.
"
The
house
which
contains
all
,
"
I
said
,
lurching
against
people
's
shoulders
in
an
omnibus
after
Percival
died
;
yet
I
went
to
Greenwich
.
Walking
on
the
embankment
,
I
prayed
that
I
might
thunder
for
ever
on
the
verge
of
the
world
where
there
is
no
vegetation
,
but
here
and
there
a
marble
pillar
.
I
threw
my
bunch
into
the
spreading
wave
.
I
said
,
"
Consume
me
,
carry
me
to
the
furthest
limit
.
"
The
wave
has
broken
;
the
bunch
is
withered
.
I
seldom
think
of
Percival
now
.
'N
ow
I
climb
this
Spanish
hill
;
and
I
will
suppose
that
this
mule-back
is
my
bed
and
that
I
lie
dying
.
There
is
only
a
thin
sheet
between
me
now
and
the
infinite
depths
.
The
lumps
in
the
mattress
soften
beneath
me
.
We
stumble
up
--
we
stumble
on
.
My
path
has
been
up
and
up
,
towards
some
solitary
tree
with
a
pool
beside
it
on
the
very
top
.
I
have
sliced
the
waters
of
beauty
in
the
evening
when
the
hills
close
themselves
like
birds
'
wings
folded
.
I
have
picked
sometimes
a
red
carnation
,
and
wisps
of
hay
.
I
have
sunk
alone
on
the
turf
and
fingered
some
old
bone
and
thought
:
When
the
wind
stoops
to
brush
this
height
,
may
there
be
nothing
found
but
a
pinch
of
dust
.
'
The
mule
stumbles
up
and
on
.
The
ridge
of
the
hill
rises
like
mist
,
but
from
the
top
I
shall
see
Africa
.
Now
the
bed
gives
under
me
.
The
sheets
spotted
with
yellow
holes
let
me
fall
through
.
The
good
woman
with
a
face
like
a
white
horse
at
the
end
of
the
bed
makes
a
valedictory
movement
and
turns
to
go
.
Who
then
comes
with
me
?
Flowers
only
,
the
cowbind
and
the
moonlight-coloured
May
.
Gathering
them
loosely
in
a
sheaf
I
made
of
them
a
garland
and
gave
them
--
Oh
,
to
whom
?
We
launch
out
now
over
the
precipice
.
Beneath
us
lie
the
lights
of
the
herring
fleet
.
The
cliffs
vanish
.
Rippling
small
,
rippling
grey
,
innumerable
waves
spread
beneath
us
.
I
touch
nothing
.
I
see
nothing
.
We
may
sink
and
settle
on
the
waves
.
The
sea
will
drum
in
my
ears
.
The
white
petals
will
be
darkened
with
sea
water
.
They
will
float
for
a
moment
and
then
sink
.
Rolling
me
over
the
waves
will
shoulder
me
under
.
Everything
falls
in
a
tremendous
shower
,
dissolving
me
.
'
Yet
that
tree
has
bristling
branches
;
that
is
the
hard
line
of
a
cottage
roof
.
Those
bladder
shapes
painted
red
and
yellow
are
faces
.
Putting
my
foot
to
the
ground
I
step
gingerly
and
press
my
hand
against
the
hard
door
of
a
Spanish
inn
.
'
The
sun
was
sinking
.
The
hard
stone
of
the
day
was
cracked
and
light
poured
through
its
splinters
.
Red
and
gold
shot
through
the
waves
,
in
rapid
running
arrows
,
feathered
with
darkness
.
Erratically
rays
of
light
flashed
and
wandered
,
like
signals
from
sunken
islands
,
or
darts
shot
through
laurel
groves
by
shameless
,
laughing
boys
.
But
the
waves
,
as
they
neared
the
shore
,
were
robbed
of
light
,
and
fell
in
one
long
concussion
,
like
a
wall
falling
,
a
wall
of
grey
stone
,
unpierced
by
any
chink
of
light
.
A
breeze
rose
;
a
shiver
ran
through
the
leaves
;
and
thus
stirred
they
lost
their
brown
density
and
became
grey
or
white
as
the
tree
shifted
its
mass
,
winked
and
lost
its
domed
uniformity
.
The
hawk
poised
on
the
topmost
branch
flicked
its
eyelids
and
rose
and
sailed
and
soared
far
away
.
The
wild
plover
cried
in
the
marshes
,
evading
,
circling
,
and
crying
further
off
in
loneliness
.
The
smoke
of
trains
and
chimneys
was
stretched
and
torn
and
became
part
of
the
fleecy
canopy
that
hung
over
the
sea
and
the
fields
.
