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- Вирджиния Вульф
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'N
ow
the
meal
is
finished
;
we
are
surrounded
by
peelings
and
breadcrumbs
.
I
have
tried
to
break
off
this
bunch
and
hand
it
you
;
but
whether
there
is
substance
or
truth
in
it
I
do
not
know
.
Nor
do
I
know
exactly
where
we
are
.
What
city
does
that
stretch
of
sky
look
down
upon
?
Is
it
Paris
,
is
it
London
where
we
sit
,
or
some
southern
city
of
pink-washed
houses
lying
under
cypresses
,
under
high
mountains
,
where
eagles
soar
?
I
do
not
at
this
moment
feel
certain
.
'
I
begin
now
to
forget
;
I
begin
to
doubt
the
fixity
of
tables
,
the
reality
of
here
and
now
,
to
tap
my
knuckles
smartly
upon
the
edges
of
apparently
solid
objects
and
say
,
"
Are
you
hard
?
"
I
have
seen
so
many
different
things
,
have
made
so
many
different
sentences
.
I
have
lost
in
the
process
of
eating
and
drinking
and
rubbing
my
eyes
along
surfaces
that
thin
,
hard
shell
which
cases
the
soul
,
which
,
in
youth
,
shuts
one
in
--
hence
the
fierceness
,
and
the
tap
,
tap
,
tap
of
the
remorseless
beaks
of
the
young
.
And
now
I
ask
,
"
Who
am
I
?
"
I
have
been
talking
of
Bernard
,
Neville
,
Jinny
,
Susan
,
Rhoda
and
Louis
.
Am
I
all
of
them
?
Am
I
one
and
distinct
?
I
do
not
know
.
We
sat
here
together
.
But
now
Percival
is
dead
,
and
Rhoda
is
dead
;
we
are
divided
;
we
are
not
here
.
Yet
I
can
not
find
any
obstacle
separating
us
.
There
is
no
division
between
me
and
them
.
As
I
talked
I
felt
"
I
am
you
"
.
This
difference
we
make
so
much
of
,
this
identity
we
so
feverishly
cherish
,
was
overcome
.
Yes
,
ever
since
old
Mrs
Constable
lifted
her
sponge
and
pouring
warm
water
over
me
covered
me
with
flesh
I
have
been
sensitive
,
percipient
.
Here
on
my
brow
is
the
blow
I
got
when
Percival
fell
.
Here
on
the
nape
of
my
neck
is
the
kiss
Jinny
gave
Louis
.
My
eyes
fill
with
Susan
's
tears
.
I
see
far
away
,
quivering
like
a
gold
thread
,
the
pillar
Rhoda
saw
,
and
feel
the
rush
of
the
wind
of
her
flight
when
she
leapt
.
'
Thus
when
I
come
to
shape
here
at
this
table
between
my
hands
the
story
of
my
life
and
set
it
before
you
as
a
complete
thing
,
I
have
to
recall
things
gone
far
,
gone
deep
,
sunk
into
this
life
or
that
and
become
part
of
it
;
dreams
,
too
,
things
surrounding
me
,
and
the
inmates
,
those
old
half-articulate
ghosts
who
keep
up
their
hauntings
by
day
and
night
;
who
turn
over
in
their
sleep
,
who
utter
their
confused
cries
,
who
put
out
their
phantom
fingers
and
clutch
at
me
as
I
try
to
escape
--
shadows
of
people
one
might
have
been
;
unborn
selves
.
There
is
the
old
brute
,
too
,
the
savage
,
the
hairy
man
who
dabbles
his
fingers
in
ropes
of
entrails
;
and
gobbles
and
belches
;
whose
speech
is
guttural
,
visceral
--
well
,
he
is
here
.
He
squats
in
me
.
To-night
he
has
been
feasted
on
quails
,
salad
,
and
sweetbread
.
He
now
holds
a
glass
of
fine
old
brandy
in
his
paw
.
He
brindles
,
purrs
and
shoots
warm
thrills
all
down
my
spine
as
I
sip
.
It
is
true
,
he
washes
his
hands
before
dinner
,
but
they
are
still
hairy
.
He
buttons
on
trousers
and
waistcoats
,
but
they
contain
the
same
organs
.
He
jibs
if
I
keep
him
waiting
for
dinner
.
He
mops
and
mows
perpetually
,
pointing
with
his
half-idiot
gestures
of
greed
and
covetousness
at
what
he
desires
.
I
assure
you
,
I
have
great
difficulty
sometimes
in
controlling
him
.
That
man
,
the
hairy
,
the
ape-like
,
has
contributed
his
part
to
my
life
.
He
has
given
a
greener
glow
to
green
things
,
has
held
his
torch
with
its
red
flames
,
its
thick
and
smarting
smoke
,
behind
every
leaf
.
He
has
lit
up
the
cool
garden
even
.
He
has
brandished
his
torch
in
murky
by-streets
where
girls
suddenly
seem
to
shine
with
a
red
and
intoxicating
translucency
.
Oh
,
he
has
tossed
his
torch
high
!
He
has
led
me
wild
dances
!
'
But
no
more
.
Now
to-night
,
my
body
rises
tier
upon
tier
like
some
cool
temple
whose
floor
is
strewn
with
carpets
and
murmurs
rise
and
the
altars
stand
smoking
;
but
up
above
,
here
in
my
serene
head
,
comes
only
fine
gusts
of
melody
,
waves
of
incense
,
while
the
lost
dove
wails
,
and
the
banners
tremble
above
tombs
,
and
the
dark
airs
of
midnight
shake
trees
outside
the
open
windows
.
When
I
look
down
from
this
transcendency
,
how
beautiful
are
even
the
crumbled
relics
of
bread
!
What
shapely
spirals
the
peelings
of
pears
make
--
how
thin
,
and
mottled
like
some
sea-bird
's
egg
.
Even
the
forks
laid
straight
side
by
side
appear
lucid
,
logical
,
exact
;
and
the
horns
of
the
rolls
which
we
have
left
are
glazed
,
yellow-plated
,
hard
.
I
could
worship
my
hand
even
,
with
its
fan
of
bones
laced
by
blue
mysterious
veins
and
its
astonishing
look
of
aptness
,
suppleness
and
ability
to
curl
softly
or
suddenly
crush
--
its
infinite
sensibility
.
'
Immeasurably
receptive
,
holding
everything
,
trembling
with
fullness
,
yet
clear
,
contained
--
so
my
being
seems
,
now
that
desire
urges
it
no
more
out
and
away
;
now
that
curiosity
no
longer
dyes
it
a
thousand
colours
.
It
lies
deep
,
tideless
,
immune
,
now
that
he
is
dead
,
the
man
I
called
"
Bernard
"
,
the
man
who
kept
a
book
in
his
pocket
in
which
he
made
notes
--
phrases
for
the
moon
,
notes
of
features
;
how
people
looked
,
turned
,
dropped
their
cigarette
ends
;
under
B
,
butterfly
powder
,
under
D
,
ways
of
naming
death
.
But
now
let
the
door
open
,
the
glass
door
that
is
for
ever
turning
on
its
hinges
.
Let
a
woman
come
,
let
a
young
man
in
evening-dress
with
a
moustache
sit
down
:
is
there
anything
that
they
can
tell
me
?
No
!
I
know
all
that
,
too
.
And
if
she
suddenly
gets
up
and
goes
,
"
My
dear
,
"
I
say
,
"
you
no
longer
make
me
look
after
you
.
"
The
shock
of
the
falling
wave
which
has
sounded
all
my
life
,
which
woke
me
so
that
I
saw
the
gold
loop
on
the
cupboard
,
no
longer
makes
quiver
what
I
hold
.
'S
o
now
,
taking
upon
me
the
mystery
of
things
,
I
could
go
like
a
spy
without
leaving
this
place
,
without
stirring
from
my
chair
.
I
can
visit
the
remote
verges
of
the
desert
lands
where
the
savage
sits
by
the
camp-fire
.
Day
rises
;
the
girl
lifts
the
watery
fire-hearted
jewels
to
her
brow
;
the
sun
levels
his
beams
straight
at
the
sleeping
house
;
the
waves
deepen
their
bars
;
they
fling
themselves
on
shore
;
back
blows
the
spray
;
sweeping
their
waters
they
surround
the
boat
and
the
sea-holly
.
The
birds
sing
in
chorus
;
deep
tunnels
run
between
the
stalks
of
flowers
;
the
house
is
whitened
;
the
sleeper
stretches
;
gradually
all
is
astir
.
Light
floods
the
room
and
drives
shadow
beyond
shadow
to
where
they
hang
in
folds
inscrutable
.
What
does
the
central
shadow
hold
?
Something
?
Nothing
?
I
do
not
know
.
'
Oh
,
but
there
is
your
face
.
I
catch
your
eye
.
