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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 14/72
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Feelings
that
would
not
have
disgraced
a
leader
who
,
now
that
the
snow
has
begun
to
fall
and
the
mountain
top
is
covered
in
mist
,
knows
that
he
must
lay
himself
down
and
die
before
morning
comes
,
stole
upon
him
,
paling
the
colour
of
his
eyes
,
giving
him
,
even
in
the
two
minutes
of
his
turn
on
the
terrace
,
the
bleached
look
of
withered
old
age
.
Yet
he
would
not
die
lying
down
;
he
would
find
some
crag
of
rock
,
and
there
,
his
eyes
fixed
on
the
storm
,
trying
to
the
end
to
pierce
the
darkness
,
he
would
die
standing
.
He
would
never
reach
R.
He
stood
stock-still
,
by
the
urn
,
with
the
geranium
flowing
over
it
.
How
many
men
in
a
thousand
million
,
he
asked
himself
,
reach
Z
after
all
?
Surely
the
leader
of
a
forlorn
hope
may
ask
himself
that
,
and
answer
,
without
treachery
to
the
expedition
behind
him
,
"
One
perhaps
.
"
One
in
a
generation
.
Is
he
to
be
blamed
then
if
he
is
not
that
one
?
provided
he
has
toiled
honestly
,
given
to
the
best
of
his
power
,
and
till
he
has
no
more
left
to
give
?
And
his
fame
lasts
how
long
?
It
is
permissible
even
for
a
dying
hero
to
think
before
he
dies
how
men
will
speak
of
him
hereafter
.
His
fame
lasts
perhaps
two
thousand
years
.
And
what
are
two
thousand
years
?
(
asked
Mr.
Ramsay
ironically
,
staring
at
the
hedge
)
.
What
,
indeed
,
if
you
look
from
a
mountain
top
down
the
long
wastes
of
the
ages
?
The
very
stone
one
kicks
with
one
's
boot
will
outlast
Shakespeare
.
His
own
little
light
would
shine
,
not
very
brightly
,
for
a
year
or
two
,
and
would
then
be
merged
in
some
bigger
light
,
and
that
in
a
bigger
still
.
(
He
looked
into
the
hedge
,
into
the
intricacy
of
the
twigs
.
)
Who
then
could
blame
the
leader
of
that
forlorn
party
which
after
all
has
climbed
high
enough
to
see
the
waste
of
the
years
and
the
perishing
of
the
stars
,
if
before
death
stiffens
his
limbs
beyond
the
power
of
movement
he
does
a
little
consciously
raise
his
numbed
fingers
to
his
brow
,
and
square
his
shoulders
,
so
that
when
the
search
party
comes
they
will
find
him
dead
at
his
post
,
the
fine
figure
of
a
soldier
?
Mr.
Ramsay
squared
his
shoulders
and
stood
very
upright
by
the
urn
Who
shall
blame
him
,
if
,
so
standing
for
a
moment
he
dwells
upon
fame
,
upon
search
parties
,
upon
cairns
raised
by
grateful
followers
over
his
bones
?
Finally
,
who
shall
blame
the
leader
of
the
doomed
expedition
,
if
,
having
adventured
to
the
uttermost
,
and
used
his
strength
wholly
to
the
last
ounce
and
fallen
asleep
not
much
caring
if
he
wakes
or
not
,
he
now
perceives
by
some
pricking
in
his
toes
that
he
lives
,
and
does
not
on
the
whole
object
to
live
,
but
requires
sympathy
,
and
whisky
,
and
some
one
to
tell
the
story
of
his
suffering
to
at
once
?
Who
shall
blame
him
?
Who
will
not
secretly
rejoice
when
the
hero
puts
his
armour
off
,
and
halts
by
the
window
and
gazes
at
his
wife
and
son
,
who
,
very
distant
at
first
,
gradually
come
closer
and
closer
,
till
lips
and
book
and
head
are
clearly
before
him
,
though
still
lovely
and
unfamiliar
from
the
intensity
of
his
isolation
and
the
waste
of
ages
and
the
perishing
of
the
stars
,
and
finally
putting
his
pipe
in
his
pocket
and
bending
his
magnificent
head
before
her
--
who
will
blame
him
if
he
does
homage
to
the
beauty
of
the
world
?
But
his
son
hated
him
.
He
hated
him
for
coming
up
to
them
,
for
stopping
and
looking
down
on
them
;
he
hated
him
for
interrupting
them
;
he
hated
him
for
the
exaltation
and
sublimity
of
his
gestures
;
for
the
magnificence
of
his
head
;
for
his
exactingness
and
egotism
(
for
there
he
stood
,
commanding
them
to
attend
to
him
)
but
most
of
all
he
hated
the
twang
and
twitter
of
his
father
's
emotion
which
,
vibrating
round
them
,
disturbed
the
perfect
simplicity
and
good
sense
of
his
relations
with
his
mother
.
By
looking
fixedly
at
the
page
,
he
hoped
to
make
him
move
on
;
by
pointing
his
finger
at
a
word
,
he
hoped
to
recall
his
mother
's
attention
,
which
,
he
knew
angrily
,
wavered
instantly
his
father
stopped
.
But
,
no
.
Nothing
would
make
Mr.
Ramsay
move
on
.
There
he
stood
,
demanding
sympathy
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
who
had
been
sitting
loosely
,
folding
her
son
in
her
arm
,
braced
herself
,
and
,
half
turning
,
seemed
to
raise
herself
with
an
effort
,
and
at
once
to
pour
erect
into
the
air
a
rain
of
energy
,
a
column
of
spray
,
looking
at
the
same
time
animated
and
alive
as
if
all
her
energies
were
being
fused
into
force
,
burning
and
illuminating
(
quietly
though
she
sat
,
taking
up
her
stocking
again
)
,
and
into
this
delicious
fecundity
,
this
fountain
and
spray
of
life
,
the
fatal
sterility
of
the
male
plunged
itself
,
like
a
beak
of
brass
,
barren
and
bare
.
He
wanted
sympathy
.
He
was
a
failure
,
he
said
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
flashed
her
needles
.
Mr.
Ramsay
repeated
,
never
taking
his
eyes
from
her
face
,
that
he
was
a
failure
.
She
blew
the
words
back
at
him
.
"
Charles
Tansley
...
"
she
said
.
But
he
must
have
more
than
that
.
It
was
sympathy
he
wanted
,
to
be
assured
of
his
genius
,
first
of
all
,
and
then
to
be
taken
within
the
circle
of
life
,
warmed
and
soothed
,
to
have
his
senses
restored
to
him
,
his
barrenness
made
fertile
,
and
all
the
rooms
of
the
house
made
full
of
life
--
the
drawing-room
;
behind
the
drawing-room
the
kitchen
;
above
the
kitchen
the
bedrooms
;
and
beyond
them
the
nurseries
;
they
must
be
furnished
,
they
must
be
filled
with
life
.
Charles
Tansley
thought
him
the
greatest
metaphysician
of
the
time
,
she
said
.
But
he
must
have
more
than
that
.
He
must
have
sympathy
.
He
must
be
assured
that
he
too
lived
in
the
heart
of
life
;
was
needed
;
not
only
here
,
but
all
over
the
world
.
Flashing
her
needles
,
confident
,
upright
,
she
created
drawing-room
and
kitchen
,
set
them
all
aglow
;
bade
him
take
his
ease
there
,
go
in
and
out
,
enjoy
himself
.
She
laughed
,
she
knitted
.
Standing
between
her
knees
,
very
stiff
,
James
felt
all
her
strength
flaring
up
to
be
drunk
and
quenched
by
the
beak
of
brass
,
the
arid
scimitar
of
the
male
,
which
smote
mercilessly
,
again
and
again
,
demanding
sympathy
.
He
was
a
failure
,
he
repeated
.
Well
,
look
then
,
feel
then
.
Flashing
her
needles
,
glancing
round
about
her
,
out
of
the
window
,
into
the
room
,
at
James
himself
,
she
assured
him
,
beyond
a
shadow
of
a
doubt
,
by
her
laugh
,
her
poise
,
her
competence
(
as
a
nurse
carrying
a
light
across
a
dark
room
assures
a
fractious
child
)
,
that
it
was
real
;
the
house
was
full
;
the
garden
blowing
.
If
he
put
implicit
faith
in
her
,
nothing
should
hurt
him
;
however
deep
he
buried
himself
or
climbed
high
,
not
for
a
second
should
he
find
himself
without
her
.
So
boasting
of
her
capacity
to
surround
and
protect
,
there
was
scarcely
a
shell
of
herself
left
for
her
to
know
herself
by
;
all
was
so
lavished
and
spent
;
and
James
,
as
he
stood
stiff
between
her
knees
,
felt
her
rise
in
a
rosy-flowered
fruit
tree
laid
with
leaves
and
dancing
boughs
into
which
the
beak
of
brass
,
the
arid
scimitar
of
his
father
,
the
egotistical
man
,
plunged
and
smote
,
demanding
sympathy
.
