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- Вирджиния Вульф
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Filled
with
her
words
,
like
a
child
who
drops
off
satisfied
,
he
said
,
at
last
,
looking
at
her
with
humble
gratitude
,
restored
,
renewed
,
that
he
would
take
a
turn
;
he
would
watch
the
children
playing
cricket
.
He
went
.
Immediately
,
Mrs.
Ramsey
seemed
to
fold
herself
together
,
one
petal
closed
in
another
,
and
the
whole
fabric
fell
in
exhaustion
upon
itself
,
so
that
she
had
only
strength
enough
to
move
her
finger
,
in
exquisite
abandonment
to
exhaustion
,
across
the
page
of
Grimm
's
fairy
story
,
while
there
throbbed
through
her
,
like
a
pulse
in
a
spring
which
has
expanded
to
its
full
width
and
now
gently
ceases
to
beat
,
the
rapture
of
successful
creation
.
Every
throb
of
this
pulse
seemed
,
as
he
walked
away
,
to
enclose
her
and
her
husband
,
and
to
give
to
each
that
solace
which
two
different
notes
,
one
high
,
one
low
,
struck
together
,
seem
to
give
each
other
as
they
combine
.
Yet
as
the
resonance
died
,
and
she
turned
to
the
Fairy
Tale
again
,
Mrs.
Ramsey
felt
not
only
exhausted
in
body
(
afterwards
,
not
at
the
time
,
she
always
felt
this
)
but
also
there
tinged
her
physical
fatigue
some
faintly
disagreeable
sensation
with
another
origin
.
Not
that
,
as
she
read
aloud
the
story
of
the
Fisherman
's
Wife
,
she
knew
precisely
what
it
came
from
;
nor
did
she
let
herself
put
into
words
her
dissatisfaction
when
she
realized
,
at
the
turn
of
the
page
when
she
stopped
and
heard
dully
,
ominously
,
a
wave
fall
,
how
it
came
from
this
:
she
did
not
like
,
even
for
a
second
,
to
feel
finer
than
her
husband
;
and
further
,
could
not
bear
not
being
entirely
sure
,
when
she
spoke
to
him
,
of
the
truth
of
what
she
said
.
Universities
and
people
wanting
him
,
lectures
and
books
and
their
being
of
the
highest
importance
--
all
that
she
did
not
doubt
for
a
moment
;
but
it
was
their
relation
,
and
his
coming
to
her
like
that
,
openly
,
so
that
any
one
could
see
,
that
discomposed
her
;
for
then
people
said
he
depended
on
her
,
when
they
must
know
that
of
the
two
he
was
infinitely
the
more
important
,
and
what
she
gave
the
world
,
in
comparison
with
what
he
gave
,
negligible
But
then
again
,
it
was
the
other
thing
too
--
not
being
able
to
tell
him
the
truth
,
being
afraid
,
for
instance
,
about
the
greenhouse
roof
and
the
expense
it
would
be
,
fifty
pounds
perhaps
to
mend
it
;
and
then
about
his
books
,
to
be
afraid
that
he
might
guess
,
what
she
a
little
suspected
,
that
his
last
book
was
not
quite
his
best
book
(
she
gathered
that
from
William
Bankes
)
;
and
then
to
hide
small
daily
things
,
and
the
children
seeing
it
,
and
the
burden
it
laid
on
them
--
all
this
diminished
the
entire
joy
,
the
pure
joy
,
of
the
two
notes
sounding
together
,
and
let
the
sound
die
on
her
ear
now
with
a
dismal
flatness
.
A
shadow
was
on
the
page
;
she
looked
up
.
It
was
Augustus
Carmichael
shuffling
past
,
precisely
now
,
at
the
very
moment
when
it
was
painful
to
be
reminded
of
the
inadequacy
of
human
relationships
,
that
the
most
perfect
was
flawed
,
and
could
not
bear
the
examination
which
,
loving
her
husband
,
with
her
instinct
for
truth
,
she
turned
upon
it
;
when
it
was
painful
to
feel
herself
convicted
of
unworthiness
,
and
impeded
in
her
proper
function
by
these
lies
,
these
exaggerations
--
it
was
at
this
moment
when
she
was
fretted
thus
ignobly
in
the
wake
of
her
exaltation
,
that
Mr.
Carmichael
shuffled
past
,
in
his
yellow
slippers
,
and
some
demon
in
her
made
it
necessary
for
her
to
call
out
,
as
he
passed
,
"
Going
indoors
Mr.
Carmichael
?
"
He
said
nothing
.
He
took
opium
.
The
children
said
he
had
stained
his
beard
yellow
with
it
.
Perhaps
.
What
was
obvious
to
her
was
that
the
poor
man
was
unhappy
,
came
to
them
every
year
as
an
escape
;
and
yet
every
year
she
felt
the
same
thing
;
he
did
not
trust
her
.
She
said
,
"
I
am
going
to
the
town
.
Shall
I
get
you
stamps
,
paper
,
tobacco
?
"
and
she
felt
him
wince
.
He
did
not
trust
her
.
It
was
his
wife
's
doing
.
She
remembered
that
iniquity
of
his
wife
's
towards
him
,
which
had
made
her
turn
to
steel
and
adamant
there
,
in
the
horrible
little
room
in
St
John
's
Wood
,
when
with
her
own
eyes
she
had
seen
that
odious
woman
turn
him
out
of
the
house
.
He
was
unkempt
;
he
dropped
things
on
his
coat
;
he
had
the
tiresomeness
of
an
old
man
with
nothing
in
the
world
to
do
;
and
she
turned
him
out
of
the
room
.
She
said
,
in
her
odious
way
,
"
Now
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
and
I
want
to
have
a
little
talk
together
,
"
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
could
see
,
as
if
before
her
eyes
,
the
innumerable
miseries
of
his
life
.
Had
he
money
enough
to
buy
tobacco
?
Did
he
have
to
ask
her
for
it
?
half
a
crown
?
eighteenpence
?
Oh
,
she
could
not
bear
to
think
of
the
little
indignities
she
made
him
suffer
.
And
always
now
(
why
,
she
could
not
guess
,
except
that
it
came
probably
from
that
woman
somehow
)
he
shrank
from
her
.
He
never
told
her
anything
.
But
what
more
could
she
have
done
?
There
was
a
sunny
room
given
up
to
him
.
The
children
were
good
to
him
.
Never
did
she
show
a
sign
of
not
wanting
him
.
She
went
out
of
her
way
indeed
to
be
friendly
.
Do
you
want
stamps
,
do
you
want
tobacco
?
Here
's
a
book
you
might
like
and
so
on
.
And
after
all
--
after
all
(
here
insensibly
she
drew
herself
together
,
physically
,
the
sense
of
her
own
beauty
becoming
,
as
it
did
so
seldom
,
present
to
her
)
after
all
,
she
had
not
generally
any
difficulty
in
making
people
like
her
;
for
instance
,
George
Manning
;
Mr.
Wallace
;
famous
as
they
were
,
they
would
come
to
her
of
an
evening
,
quietly
,
and
talk
alone
over
her
fire
.
She
bore
about
with
her
,
she
could
not
help
knowing
it
,
the
torch
of
her
beauty
;
she
carried
it
erect
into
any
room
that
she
entered
;
and
after
all
,
veil
it
as
she
might
,
and
shrink
from
the
monotony
of
bearing
that
it
imposed
on
her
,
her
beauty
was
apparent
.
She
had
been
admired
.
She
had
been
loved
.
She
had
entered
rooms
where
mourners
sat
.
Tears
had
flown
in
her
presence
.
Men
,
and
women
too
,
letting
go
to
the
multiplicity
of
things
,
had
allowed
themselves
with
her
the
relief
of
simplicity
.
It
injured
her
that
he
should
shrink
.
It
hurt
her
.
And
yet
not
cleanly
,
not
rightly
.
That
was
what
she
minded
,
coming
as
it
did
on
top
of
her
discontent
with
her
husband
;
the
sense
she
had
now
when
Mr.
Carmichael
shuffled
past
,
just
nodding
to
her
question
,
with
a
book
beneath
his
arm
,
in
his
yellow
slippers
,
that
she
was
suspected
;
and
that
all
this
desire
of
hers
to
give
,
to
help
,
was
vanity
.
For
her
own
self-satisfaction
was
it
that
she
wished
so
instinctively
to
help
,
to
give
,
that
people
might
say
of
her
,
"
O
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
dear
Mrs.
Ramsay
...
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
of
course
!
"
and
need
her
and
send
for
her
and
admire
her
?
Was
it
not
secretly
this
that
she
wanted
,
and
therefore
when
Mr.
Carmichael
shrank
away
from
her
,
as
he
did
at
this
moment
,
making
off
to
some
corner
where
he
did
acrostics
endlessly
,
she
did
not
feel
merely
snubbed
back
in
her
instinct
,
but
made
aware
of
the
pettiness
of
some
part
of
her
,
and
of
human
relations
,
how
flawed
they
are
,
how
despicable
,
how
self-seeking
,
at
their
best
.
Shabby
and
worn
out
,
and
not
presumably
(
her
cheeks
were
hollow
,
her
hair
was
white
)
any
longer
a
sight
that
filled
the
eyes
with
joy
,
she
had
better
devote
her
mind
to
the
story
of
the
Fisherman
and
his
Wife
and
so
pacify
that
bundle
of
sensitiveness
(
none
of
her
children
was
as
sensitive
as
he
was
)
,
her
son
James
.
