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- Вирджиния Вульф
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She
had
come
late
last
night
when
it
was
all
mysterious
,
dark
.
Now
she
was
awake
,
at
her
old
place
at
the
breakfast
table
,
but
alone
.
It
was
very
early
too
,
not
yet
eight
.
There
was
this
expedition
--
they
were
going
to
the
Lighthouse
,
Mr.
Ramsay
,
Cam
,
and
James
.
They
should
have
gone
already
--
they
had
to
catch
the
tide
or
something
.
And
Cam
was
not
ready
and
James
was
not
ready
and
Nancy
had
forgotten
to
order
the
sandwiches
and
Mr.
Ramsay
had
lost
his
temper
and
banged
out
of
the
room
.
"
What
's
the
use
of
going
now
?
"
he
had
stormed
.
Nancy
had
vanished
.
There
he
was
,
marching
up
and
down
the
terrace
in
a
rage
.
One
seemed
to
hear
doors
slamming
and
voices
calling
all
over
the
house
.
Now
Nancy
burst
in
,
and
asked
,
looking
round
the
room
,
in
a
queer
half
dazed
,
half
desperate
way
,
"
What
does
one
send
to
the
Lighthouse
?
"
as
if
she
were
forcing
herself
to
do
what
she
despaired
of
ever
being
able
to
do
.
What
does
one
send
to
the
Lighthouse
indeed
!
At
any
other
time
Lily
could
have
suggested
reasonably
tea
,
tobacco
,
newspapers
.
But
this
morning
everything
seemed
so
extraordinarily
queer
that
a
question
like
Nancy
's
--
What
does
one
send
to
the
Lighthouse
?
--
opened
doors
in
one
's
mind
that
went
banging
and
swinging
to
and
fro
and
made
one
keep
asking
,
in
a
stupefied
gape
,
What
does
one
send
?
What
does
one
do
?
Why
is
one
sitting
here
,
after
all
?
Sitting
alone
(
for
Nancy
went
out
again
)
among
the
clean
cups
at
the
long
table
,
she
felt
cut
off
from
other
people
,
and
able
only
to
go
on
watching
,
asking
,
wondering
.
The
house
,
the
place
,
the
morning
,
all
seemed
strangers
to
her
.
She
had
no
attachment
here
,
she
felt
,
no
relations
with
it
,
anything
might
happen
,
and
whatever
did
happen
,
a
step
outside
,
a
voice
calling
(
"
It
's
not
in
the
cupboard
;
it
's
on
the
landing
,
"
some
one
cried
)
,
was
a
question
,
as
if
the
link
that
usually
bound
things
together
had
been
cut
,
and
they
floated
up
here
,
down
there
,
off
,
anyhow
.
How
aimless
it
was
,
,
how
chaotic
,
how
unreal
it
was
,
she
thought
,
looking
at
her
empty
coffee
cup
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
dead
;
Andrew
killed
;
Prue
dead
too
--
repeat
it
as
she
might
,
it
roused
no
feeling
in
her
.
And
we
all
get
together
in
a
house
like
this
on
a
morning
like
this
,
she
said
,
looking
out
of
the
window
.
It
was
a
beautiful
still
day
.
Suddenly
Mr.
Ramsay
raised
his
head
as
he
passed
and
looked
straight
at
her
,
with
his
distraught
wild
gaze
which
was
yet
so
penetrating
,
as
if
he
saw
you
,
for
one
second
,
for
the
first
time
,
for
ever
;
and
she
pretended
to
drink
out
of
her
empty
coffee
cup
so
as
to
escape
him
--
to
escape
his
demand
on
her
,
to
put
aside
a
moment
longer
that
imperious
need
.
And
he
shook
his
head
at
her
,
and
strode
on
(
"
Alone
"
she
heard
him
say
,
"
Perished
"
she
heard
him
say
)
and
like
everything
else
this
strange
morning
the
words
became
symbols
,
wrote
themselves
all
over
the
grey-green
walls
.
If
only
she
could
put
them
together
,
she
felt
,
write
them
out
in
some
sentence
,
then
she
would
have
got
at
the
truth
of
things
.
Old
Mr.
Carmichael
came
padding
softly
in
,
fetched
his
coffee
,
took
his
cup
and
made
off
to
sit
in
the
sun
.
The
extraordinary
unreality
was
frightening
;
but
it
was
also
exciting
.
Going
to
the
Lighthouse
.
But
what
does
one
send
to
the
Lighthouse
?
Perished
.
Alone
.
The
grey-green
light
on
the
wall
opposite
.
The
empty
places
.
Such
were
some
of
the
parts
,
but
how
bring
them
together
?
she
asked
.
As
if
any
interruption
would
break
the
frail
shape
she
was
building
on
the
table
she
turned
her
back
to
the
window
lest
Mr.
Ramsay
should
see
her
.
She
must
escape
somewhere
,
be
alone
somewhere
.
Suddenly
she
remembered
.
When
she
had
sat
there
last
ten
years
ago
there
had
been
a
little
sprig
or
leaf
pattern
on
the
table-cloth
,
which
she
had
looked
at
in
a
moment
of
revelation
.
There
had
been
a
problem
about
a
foreground
of
a
picture
.
Move
the
tree
to
the
middle
,
she
had
said
.
She
had
never
finished
that
picture
.
She
would
paint
that
picture
now
.
It
had
been
knocking
about
in
her
mind
all
these
years
.
Where
were
her
paints
,
she
wondered
?
Her
paints
,
yes
.
She
had
left
them
in
the
hall
last
night
.
She
would
start
at
once
.
She
got
up
quickly
,
before
Mr.
Ramsay
turned
.
She
fetched
herself
a
chair
.
She
pitched
her
easel
with
her
precise
old-maidish
movements
on
the
edge
of
the
lawn
,
not
too
close
to
Mr.
Carmichael
,
but
close
enough
for
his
protection
.
Yes
,
it
must
have
been
precisely
here
that
she
had
stood
ten
years
ago
.
There
was
the
wall
;
the
hedge
;
the
tree
.
The
question
was
of
some
relation
between
those
masses
.
She
had
borne
it
in
her
mind
all
these
years
.
It
seemed
as
if
the
solution
had
come
to
her
:
she
knew
now
what
she
wanted
to
do
.
But
with
Mr.
Ramsay
bearing
down
on
her
,
she
could
do
nothing
.
Every
time
he
approached
--
he
was
walking
up
and
down
the
terrace
--
ruin
approached
,
chaos
approached
.
She
could
not
paint
.
She
stooped
,
she
turned
;
she
took
up
this
rag
;
she
squeezed
that
tube
.
But
all
she
did
was
to
ward
him
off
a
moment
.
He
made
it
impossible
for
her
to
do
anything
.
For
if
she
gave
him
the
least
chance
,
if
he
saw
her
disengaged
a
moment
,
looking
his
way
a
moment
,
he
would
be
on
her
,
saying
,
as
he
had
said
last
night
,
"
You
find
us
much
changed
.
"
Last
night
he
had
got
up
and
stopped
before
her
,
and
said
that
.
Dumb
and
staring
though
they
had
all
sat
,
the
six
children
whom
they
used
to
call
after
the
Kings
and
Queens
of
England
--
the
Red
,
the
Fair
,
the
Wicked
,
the
Ruthless
--
she
felt
how
they
raged
under
it
.
Kind
old
Mrs.
Beckwith
said
something
sensible
.
But
it
was
a
house
full
of
unrelated
passions
--
she
had
felt
that
all
the
evening
.
And
on
top
of
this
chaos
Mr.
Ramsay
got
up
,
pressed
her
hand
,
and
said
:
"
You
will
find
us
much
changed
"
and
none
of
them
had
moved
or
had
spoken
;
but
had
sat
there
as
if
they
were
forced
to
let
him
say
it
.
Only
James
(
certainly
the
Sullen
)
scowled
at
the
lamp
;
and
Cam
screwed
her
handkerchief
round
her
finger
.
Then
he
reminded
them
that
they
were
going
to
the
Lighthouse
tomorrow
.
They
must
be
ready
,
in
the
hall
,
on
the
stroke
of
half-past
seven
.
Then
,
with
his
hand
on
the
door
,
he
stopped
;
he
turned
upon
them
.
Did
they
not
want
to
go
?
he
demanded
.
Had
they
dared
say
No
(
he
had
some
reason
for
wanting
it
)
he
would
have
flung
himself
tragically
backwards
into
the
bitter
waters
of
despair
.
Such
a
gift
he
had
for
gesture
.
He
looked
like
a
king
in
exile
.
Doggedly
James
said
yes
.
Cam
stumbled
more
wretchedly
.
Yes
,
oh
,
yes
,
they
'd
both
be
ready
,
they
said
.
And
it
struck
her
,
this
was
tragedy
--
not
palls
,
dust
,
and
the
shroud
;
but
children
coerced
,
their
spirits
subdued
.
James
was
sixteen
,
Cam
,
seventeen
,
perhaps
.
She
had
looked
round
for
some
one
who
was
not
there
,
for
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
presumably
.
But
there
was
only
kind
Mrs.
Beckwith
turning
over
her
sketches
under
the
lamp
.
Then
,
being
tired
,
her
mind
still
rising
and
falling
with
the
sea
,
the
taste
and
smell
that
places
have
after
long
absence
possessing
her
,
the
candles
wavering
in
her
eyes
,
she
had
lost
herself
and
gone
under
.
