-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Волны
-
- Стр. 77/81
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
'
What
interested
the
hairdresser
?
What
did
the
hairdresser
see
in
the
street
?
It
is
thus
that
I
am
recalled
.
(
For
I
am
no
mystic
;
something
always
plucks
at
me
--
curiosity
,
envy
,
admiration
,
interest
in
hairdressers
and
the
like
bring
me
to
the
surface
.
)
While
he
brushed
the
fluff
from
my
coat
I
took
pains
to
assure
myself
of
his
identity
,
and
then
,
swinging
my
stick
,
I
went
into
the
Strand
,
and
evoked
to
serve
as
opposite
to
myself
the
figure
of
Rhoda
,
always
so
furtive
,
always
with
fear
in
her
eyes
,
always
seeking
some
pillar
in
the
desert
,
to
find
which
she
had
gone
;
she
had
killed
herself
.
"
Wait
,
"
I
said
,
putting
my
arm
in
imagination
(
thus
we
consort
with
our
friends
)
through
her
arm
.
"
Wait
until
these
omnibuses
have
gone
by
.
Do
not
cross
so
dangerously
.
These
men
are
your
brothers
.
"
In
persuading
her
I
was
also
persuading
my
own
soul
.
For
this
is
not
one
life
;
nor
do
I
always
know
if
I
am
man
or
woman
,
Bernard
or
Neville
,
Louis
,
Susan
,
Jinny
,
or
Rhoda
--
so
strange
is
the
contact
of
one
with
another
.
'S
winging
my
stick
,
with
my
hair
newly
cut
and
the
nape
of
my
neck
tingling
,
I
went
past
all
those
trays
of
penny
toys
imported
from
Germany
that
men
hold
out
in
the
street
by
St
Paul
's
--
St
Paul
's
,
the
brooding
hen
with
spread
wings
from
whose
shelter
run
omnibuses
and
streams
of
men
and
women
at
the
rush
hour
.
I
thought
how
Louis
would
mount
those
steps
in
his
neat
suit
with
his
cane
in
his
hand
and
his
angular
,
rather
detached
gait
.
With
his
Australian
accent
(
"
My
father
,
a
banker
at
Brisbane
"
)
he
would
come
,
I
thought
,
with
greater
respect
to
these
old
ceremonies
than
I
do
,
who
have
heard
the
same
lullabies
for
a
thousand
years
.
I
am
always
impressed
,
as
I
enter
,
by
the
rubbed
roses
;
the
polished
brasses
;
the
flapping
and
the
chanting
,
while
one
boy
's
voice
wails
round
the
dome
like
some
lost
and
wandering
dove
.
The
recumbency
and
the
peace
of
the
dead
impress
me
--
warriors
at
rest
under
their
old
banners
.
Then
I
scoff
at
the
floridity
and
absurdity
of
some
scrolloping
tomb
;
and
the
trumpets
and
the
victories
and
the
coats
of
arms
and
the
certainty
,
so
sonorously
repeated
,
of
resurrection
,
of
eternal
life
.
My
wandering
and
inquisitive
eye
then
shows
me
an
awe-stricken
child
;
a
shuffling
pensioner
;
or
the
obeisances
of
tired
shop-girls
burdened
with
heaven
knows
what
strife
in
their
poor
thin
breasts
come
to
solace
themselves
in
the
rush
hour
.
I
stray
and
look
and
wonder
,
and
sometimes
,
rather
furtively
,
try
to
rise
on
the
shaft
of
somebody
else
's
prayer
into
the
dome
,
out
,
beyond
,
wherever
they
go
.
But
then
like
the
lost
and
wailing
dove
,
I
find
myself
failing
,
fluttering
,
descending
and
perching
upon
some
curious
gargoyle
,
some
battered
nose
or
absurd
tombstone
,
with
humour
,
with
wonder
,
and
so
again
watch
the
sightseers
with
their
Baedekers
shuffling
past
,
while
the
boy
's
voice
soars
in
the
dome
and
the
organ
now
and
then
indulges
in
a
moment
of
elephantine
triumph
.
How
then
,
I
asked
,
would
Louis
roof
us
all
in
?
How
would
he
confine
us
,
make
us
one
,
with
his
red
ink
,
with
his
very
fine
nib
?
The
voice
petered
out
in
the
dome
,
wailing
.
'S
o
into
the
street
again
,
swinging
my
stick
,
looking
at
wire
trays
in
stationers
'
shop-windows
,
at
baskets
of
fruit
grown
in
the
colonies
,
murmuring
Pillicock
sat
on
Pillicock
's
hill
,
or
Hark
,
hark
,
the
dogs
do
bark
,
or
The
World
's
great
age
begins
anew
,
or
Come
away
,
come
away
,
death
--
mingling
nonsense
and
poetry
,
floating
in
the
stream
.
Something
always
has
to
be
done
next
.
Tuesday
follows
Monday
:
Wednesday
,
Tuesday
.
Each
spreads
the
same
ripple
.
The
being
grows
rings
,
like
a
tree
.
Like
a
tree
,
leaves
fall
.
'
For
one
day
as
I
leant
over
a
gate
that
led
into
a
field
,
the
rhythm
stopped
;
the
rhymes
and
the
hummings
,
the
nonsense
and
the
poetry
.
A
space
was
cleared
in
my
mind
.
I
saw
through
the
thick
leaves
of
habit
.
Leaning
over
the
gate
I
regretted
so
much
litter
,
so
much
unaccomplishment
and
separation
,
for
one
can
not
cross
London
to
see
a
friend
,
life
being
so
full
of
engagements
;
nor
take
ship
to
India
and
see
a
naked
man
spearing
fish
in
blue
water
.
I
said
life
had
been
imperfect
,
an
unfinishing
phrase
.
It
had
been
impossible
for
me
,
taking
snuff
as
I
do
from
any
bagman
met
in
a
train
,
to
keep
coherency
--
that
sense
of
the
generations
,
of
women
carrying
red
pitchers
to
the
Nile
,
of
the
nightingale
who
sings
among
conquests
and
migrations
.
It
had
been
too
vast
an
undertaking
,
I
said
,
and
how
can
I
go
on
lifting
my
foot
perpetually
to
climb
the
stair
?
I
addressed
myself
as
one
would
speak
to
a
companion
with
whom
one
is
voyaging
to
the
North
Pole
.
'
I
spoke
to
that
self
who
had
been
with
me
in
many
tremendous
adventures
;
the
faithful
man
who
sits
over
the
fire
when
everybody
has
gone
to
bed
,
stirring
the
cinders
with
a
poker
;
the
man
who
has
been
so
mysteriously
and
with
sudden
accretions
of
being
built
up
,
in
a
beech
wood
,
sitting
by
a
willow
tree
on
a
bank
,
leaning
over
a
parapet
at
Hampton
Court
;
the
man
who
has
collected
himself
in
moments
of
emergency
and
banged
his
spoon
on
the
table
,
saying
,
"
I
will
not
consent
.
"
'
This
self
now
as
I
leant
over
the
gate
looking
down
over
fields
rolling
in
waves
of
colour
beneath
me
made
no
answer
.
He
threw
up
no
opposition
.
He
attempted
no
phrase
.
His
fist
did
not
form
.
I
waited
.
I
listened
.
Nothing
came
,
nothing
.
I
cried
then
with
a
sudden
conviction
of
complete
desertion
,
Now
there
is
nothing
.
No
fin
breaks
the
waste
of
this
immeasurable
sea
.
Life
has
destroyed
me
.
No
echo
comes
when
I
speak
,
no
varied
words
.
This
is
more
truly
death
than
the
death
of
friends
,
than
the
death
of
youth
.
I
am
the
swathed
figure
in
the
hairdresser
's
shop
taking
up
only
so
much
space
.
'
The
scene
beneath
me
withered
.
It
was
like
the
eclipse
when
the
sun
went
out
and
left
the
earth
,
flourishing
in
full
summer
foliage
,
withered
,
brittle
,
false
.
Also
I
saw
on
a
winding
road
in
a
dust
dance
the
groups
we
had
made
,
how
they
came
together
,
how
they
ate
together
,
how
they
met
in
this
room
or
that
.
I
saw
my
own
indefatigable
busyness
--
how
I
had
rushed
from
one
to
the
other
,
fetched
and
carried
,
travelled
and
returned
,
joined
this
group
and
that
,
here
kissed
,
here
withdrawn
;
always
kept
hard
at
it
by
some
extraordinary
purpose
,
with
my
nose
to
the
ground
like
a
dog
on
the
scent
;
with
an
occasional
toss
of
the
head
,
an
occasional
cry
of
amazement
,
despair
and
then
back
again
with
my
nose
to
the
scent
.
What
a
litter
--
what
a
confusion
;
with
here
birth
,
here
death
;
succulence
and
sweetness
;
effort
and
anguish
;
and
myself
always
running
hither
and
thither
.
Now
it
was
done
with
.
I
had
no
more
appetites
to
glut
;
no
more
stings
in
me
with
which
to
poison
people
;
no
more
sharp
teeth
and
clutching
hands
or
desire
to
feel
the
pear
and
the
grape
and
the
sun
beating
down
from
the
orchard
wall
.
