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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 17/72
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He
was
bearing
down
upon
them
.
Now
he
stopped
dead
and
stood
looking
in
silence
at
the
sea
.
Now
he
had
turned
away
again
.
Yes
,
Mr.
Bankes
said
,
watching
him
go
.
It
was
a
thousand
pities
.
(
Lily
had
said
something
about
his
frightening
her
--
he
changed
from
one
mood
to
another
so
suddenly
.
)
Yes
,
said
Mr.
Bankes
,
it
was
a
thousand
pities
that
Ramsay
could
not
behave
a
little
more
like
other
people
.
(
For
he
liked
Lily
Briscoe
;
he
could
discuss
Ramsay
with
her
quite
openly
.
)
It
was
for
that
reason
,
he
said
,
that
the
young
do
n't
read
Carlyle
.
A
crusty
old
grumbler
who
lost
his
temper
if
the
porridge
was
cold
,
why
should
he
preach
to
us
?
was
what
Mr.
Bankes
understood
that
young
people
said
nowadays
.
It
was
a
thousand
pities
if
you
thought
,
as
he
did
,
that
Carlyle
was
one
of
the
great
teachers
of
mankind
.
Lily
was
ashamed
to
say
that
she
had
not
read
Carlyle
since
she
was
at
school
.
But
in
her
opinion
one
liked
Mr.
Ramsay
all
the
better
for
thinking
that
if
his
little
finger
ached
the
whole
world
must
come
to
an
end
.
It
was
not
THAT
she
minded
.
For
who
could
be
deceived
by
him
?
He
asked
you
quite
openly
to
flatter
him
,
to
admire
him
,
his
little
dodges
deceived
nobody
.
What
she
disliked
was
his
narrowness
,
his
blindness
,
she
said
,
looking
after
him
.
"
A
bit
of
a
hypocrite
?
"
Mr.
Bankes
suggested
,
looking
too
at
Mr.
Ramsay
's
back
,
for
was
he
not
thinking
of
his
friendship
,
and
of
Cam
refusing
to
give
him
a
flower
,
and
of
all
those
boys
and
girls
,
and
his
own
house
,
full
of
comfort
,
but
,
since
his
wife
's
death
,
quiet
rather
?
Of
course
,
he
had
his
work
...
All
the
same
,
he
rather
wished
Lily
to
agree
that
Ramsay
was
,
as
he
said
,
"
a
bit
of
a
hypocrite
.
"
Lily
Briscoe
went
on
putting
away
her
brushes
,
looking
up
,
looking
down
.
Looking
up
,
there
he
was
--
Mr.
Ramsay
--
advancing
towards
them
,
swinging
,
careless
,
oblivious
,
remote
.
A
bit
of
a
hypocrite
?
she
repeated
.
Oh
,
no
--
the
most
sincere
of
men
,
the
truest
(
here
he
was
)
,
the
best
;
but
,
looking
down
,
she
thought
,
he
is
absorbed
in
himself
,
he
is
tyrannical
,
he
is
unjust
;
and
kept
looking
down
,
purposely
,
for
only
so
could
she
keep
steady
,
staying
with
the
Ramsays
.
Directly
one
looked
up
and
saw
them
,
what
she
called
"
being
in
love
"
flooded
them
.
They
became
part
of
that
unreal
but
penetrating
and
exciting
universe
which
is
the
world
seen
through
the
eyes
of
love
.
The
sky
stuck
to
them
;
the
birds
sang
through
them
.
And
,
what
was
even
more
exciting
,
she
felt
,
too
,
as
she
saw
Mr.
Ramsay
bearing
down
and
retreating
,
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
sitting
with
James
in
the
window
and
the
cloud
moving
and
the
tree
bending
,
how
life
,
from
being
made
up
of
little
separate
incidents
which
one
lived
one
by
one
,
became
curled
and
whole
like
a
wave
which
bore
one
up
and
threw
one
down
with
it
,
there
,
with
a
dash
on
the
beach
.
Mr.
Bankes
expected
her
to
answer
.
And
she
was
about
to
say
something
criticizing
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
how
she
was
alarming
,
too
,
in
her
way
,
high-handed
,
or
words
to
that
effect
,
when
Mr.
Bankes
made
it
entirely
unnecessary
for
her
to
speak
by
his
rapture
.
For
such
it
was
considering
his
age
,
turned
sixty
,
and
his
cleanliness
and
his
impersonality
,
and
the
white
scientific
coat
which
seemed
to
clothe
him
.
For
him
to
gaze
as
Lily
saw
him
gazing
at
Mrs.
Ramsay
was
a
rapture
,
equivalent
,
Lily
felt
,
to
the
loves
of
dozens
of
young
men
(
and
perhaps
Mrs.
Ramsay
had
never
excited
the
loves
of
dozens
of
young
men
)
.
It
was
love
,
she
thought
,
pretending
to
move
her
canvas
,
distilled
and
filtered
;
love
that
never
attempted
to
clutch
its
object
;
but
,
like
the
love
which
mathematicians
bear
their
symbols
,
or
poets
their
phrases
,
was
meant
to
be
spread
over
the
world
and
become
part
of
the
human
gain
.
So
it
was
indeed
.
The
world
by
all
means
should
have
shared
it
,
could
Mr.
Bankes
have
said
why
that
woman
pleased
him
so
;
why
the
sight
of
her
reading
a
fairy
tale
to
her
boy
had
upon
him
precisely
the
same
effect
as
the
solution
of
a
scientific
problem
,
so
that
he
rested
in
contemplation
of
it
,
and
felt
,
as
he
felt
when
he
had
proved
something
absolute
about
the
digestive
system
of
plants
,
that
barbarity
was
tamed
,
the
reign
of
chaos
subdued
.
Such
a
rapture
--
for
by
what
other
name
could
one
call
it
?
--
made
Lily
Briscoe
forget
entirely
what
she
had
been
about
to
say
.
It
was
nothing
of
importance
;
something
about
Mrs.
Ramsay
.
It
paled
beside
this
"
rapture
,
"
this
silent
stare
,
for
which
she
felt
intense
gratitude
;
for
nothing
so
solaced
her
,
eased
her
of
the
perplexity
of
life
,
and
miraculously
raised
its
burdens
,
as
this
sublime
power
,
this
heavenly
gift
,
and
one
would
no
more
disturb
it
,
while
it
lasted
,
than
break
up
the
shaft
of
sunlight
,
lying
level
across
the
floor
.
That
people
should
love
like
this
,
that
Mr.
Bankes
should
feel
this
for
Mrs.
Ramsey
(
she
glanced
at
him
musing
)
was
helpful
,
was
exalting
.
She
wiped
one
brush
after
another
upon
a
piece
of
old
rag
,
menially
,
on
purpose
.
She
took
shelter
from
the
reverence
which
covered
all
women
;
she
felt
herself
praised
.
Let
him
gaze
;
she
would
steal
a
look
at
her
picture
.
She
could
have
wept
.
It
was
bad
,
it
was
bad
,
it
was
infinitely
bad
!
She
could
have
done
it
differently
of
course
;
the
colour
could
have
been
thinned
and
faded
;
the
shapes
etherealised
;
that
was
how
Paunceforte
would
have
seen
it
.
But
then
she
did
not
see
it
like
that
.
She
saw
the
colour
burning
on
a
framework
of
steel
;
the
light
of
a
butterfly
's
wing
lying
upon
the
arches
of
a
cathedral
.
Of
all
that
only
a
few
random
marks
scrawled
upon
the
canvas
remained
.
And
it
would
never
be
seen
;
never
be
hung
even
,
and
there
was
Mr.
Tansley
whispering
in
her
ear
,
"
Women
ca
n't
paint
,
women
ca
n't
write
...
"
