-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Волны
-
- Стр. 61/81
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
'
The
gold
has
faded
between
the
trees
,
'
said
Rhoda
,
'
and
a
slice
of
green
lies
behind
them
,
elongated
like
the
blade
of
a
knife
seen
in
dreams
,
or
some
tapering
island
on
which
nobody
sets
foot
.
Now
the
cars
begin
to
wink
and
flicker
,
coming
down
the
avenue
.
Lovers
can
draw
into
the
darkness
now
;
the
boles
of
the
trees
are
swollen
,
are
obscene
with
lovers
.
'
'
It
was
different
once
,
'
said
Bernard
.
'
Once
we
could
break
the
current
as
we
chose
.
How
many
telephone
calls
,
how
many
post
cards
,
are
now
needed
to
cut
this
hole
through
which
we
come
together
,
united
,
at
Hampton
Court
?
How
swift
life
runs
from
January
to
December
!
We
are
all
swept
on
by
the
torrent
of
things
grown
so
familiar
that
they
cast
no
shade
;
we
make
no
comparisons
;
think
scarcely
ever
of
I
or
of
you
;
and
in
this
unconsciousness
attain
the
utmost
freedom
from
friction
and
part
the
weeds
that
grow
over
the
mouths
of
sunken
channels
.
We
have
to
leap
like
fish
,
high
in
the
air
,
in
order
to
catch
the
train
from
Waterloo
.
And
however
high
we
leap
we
fall
back
again
into
the
stream
.
I
shall
never
now
take
ship
for
the
South
Sea
Islands
.
A
journey
to
Rome
is
the
limit
of
my
travelling
.
I
have
sons
and
daughters
.
I
am
wedged
into
my
place
in
the
puzzle
.
'
But
it
is
only
my
body
--
this
elderly
man
here
whom
you
call
Bernard
--
that
is
fixed
irrevocably
--
so
I
desire
to
believe
.
I
think
more
disinterestedly
than
I
could
when
I
was
young
and
must
dig
furiously
like
a
child
rummaging
in
a
bran-pie
to
discover
my
self
.
"
Look
,
what
is
this
?
And
this
?
Is
this
going
to
be
a
fine
present
?
Is
that
all
?
"
and
so
on
.
Now
I
know
what
the
parcels
hold
;
and
do
not
care
much
.
I
throw
my
mind
out
in
the
air
as
a
man
throws
seeds
in
great
fan-flights
,
falling
through
the
purple
sunset
,
falling
on
the
pressed
and
shining
ploughland
which
is
bare
.
'
A
phrase
.
An
imperfect
phrase
.
And
what
are
phrases
?
They
have
left
me
very
little
to
lay
on
the
table
,
beside
Susan
's
hand
;
to
take
from
my
pocket
,
with
Neville
's
credentials
.
I
am
not
an
authority
on
law
,
or
medicine
,
or
finance
.
I
am
wrapped
round
with
phrases
,
like
damp
straw
;
I
glow
,
phosphorescent
.
And
each
of
you
feels
when
I
speak
,
"
I
am
lit
up
.
I
am
glowing
.
"
The
little
boys
used
to
feel
"
That
's
a
good
one
,
that
's
a
good
one
"
,
as
the
phrases
bubbled
up
from
my
lips
under
the
elm
trees
in
the
playing-fields
.
They
too
bubbled
up
;
they
also
escaped
with
my
phrases
.
But
I
pine
in
solitude
.
Solitude
is
my
undoing
.
'
I
pass
from
house
to
house
like
the
friars
in
the
Middle
Ages
who
cozened
the
wives
and
girls
with
beads
and
ballads
.
I
am
a
traveller
,
a
pedlar
,
paying
for
my
lodging
with
a
ballad
;
I
am
an
indiscriminate
,
an
easily
pleased
guest
;
often
putting
up
in
the
best
room
in
a
four-poster
;
then
lying
in
a
barn
on
a
haystack
.
I
do
n't
mind
the
fleas
and
find
no
fault
with
silk
either
.
I
am
very
tolerant
.
I
am
not
a
moralist
.
I
have
too
great
a
sense
of
the
shortness
of
life
and
its
temptations
to
rule
red
lines
.
Yet
I
am
not
so
indiscriminate
as
you
think
,
judging
me
--
as
you
judge
me
--
from
my
fluency
.
I
have
a
little
dagger
of
contempt
and
severity
hidden
up
my
sleeve
.
But
I
am
apt
to
be
deflected
.
I
make
stories
.
I
twist
up
toys
out
of
anything
.
A
girl
sits
at
a
cottage
door
;
she
is
waiting
;
for
whom
?
Seduced
,
or
not
seduced
?
The
headmaster
sees
the
hole
in
the
carpet
.
He
sighs
.
His
wife
,
drawing
her
fingers
through
the
waves
of
her
still
abundant
hair
,
reflects
--
et
cetera
.
Waves
of
hands
,
hesitations
at
street
corners
,
someone
dropping
a
cigarette
into
the
gutter
--
all
are
stories
.
But
which
is
the
true
story
?
That
I
do
not
know
.
Hence
I
keep
my
phrases
hung
like
clothes
in
a
cupboard
,
waiting
for
someone
to
wear
them
.
Thus
waiting
,
thus
speculating
,
making
this
note
and
then
another
,
I
do
not
cling
to
life
.
I
shall
be
brushed
like
a
bee
from
a
sunflower
.
My
philosophy
,
always
accumulating
,
welling
up
moment
by
moment
,
runs
like
quicksilver
a
dozen
ways
at
once
.
But
Louis
,
wild-eyed
but
severe
,
in
his
attic
,
in
his
office
,
has
formed
unalterable
conclusions
upon
the
true
nature
of
what
is
to
be
known
.
'
'
It
breaks
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
the
thread
I
try
to
spin
;
your
laughter
breaks
it
,
your
indifference
,
also
your
beauty
.
Jinny
broke
the
thread
when
she
kissed
me
in
the
garden
years
ago
.
The
boasting
boys
mocked
me
at
school
for
my
Australian
accent
and
broke
it
.
"
This
is
the
meaning
,
"
I
say
;
and
then
start
with
a
pang
--
vanity
.
"
Listen
,
"
I
say
,
"
to
the
nightingale
,
who
sings
among
the
trampling
feet
;
the
conquests
and
migrations
.
Believe
--
"
and
then
am
twitched
asunder
.
Over
broken
tiles
and
splinters
of
glass
I
pick
my
way
.
Different
lights
fall
,
making
the
ordinary
leopard
spotted
and
strange
.
This
moment
of
reconciliation
,
when
we
meet
together
united
,
this
evening
moment
,
with
its
wine
and
shaking
leaves
,
and
youth
coming
up
from
the
river
in
white
flannels
,
carrying
cushions
,
is
to
me
black
with
the
shadows
of
dungeons
and
the
tortures
and
infamies
practised
by
man
upon
man
.
So
imperfect
are
my
senses
that
they
never
blot
out
with
one
purple
the
serious
charge
that
my
reason
adds
and
adds
against
us
,
even
as
we
sit
here
.
What
is
the
solution
,
I
ask
myself
,
and
the
bridge
?
How
can
I
reduce
these
dazzling
,
these
dancing
apparitions
to
one
line
capable
of
linking
all
in
one
?
So
I
ponder
;
and
you
meanwhile
observe
maliciously
my
pursed
lips
,
my
sallow
cheeks
and
my
invariable
frown
.
