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- Вирджиния Вульф
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It
was
a
wonderful
night
,
starlit
;
the
waves
sounded
as
they
went
upstairs
;
the
moon
surprised
them
,
enormous
,
pale
,
as
they
passed
the
staircase
window
.
She
had
slept
at
once
.
She
set
her
clean
canvas
firmly
upon
the
easel
,
as
a
barrier
,
frail
,
but
she
hoped
sufficiently
substantial
to
ward
off
Mr.
Ramsay
and
his
exactingness
.
She
did
her
best
to
look
,
when
his
back
was
turned
,
at
her
picture
;
that
line
there
,
that
mass
there
.
But
it
was
out
of
the
question
.
Let
him
be
fifty
feet
away
,
let
him
not
even
speak
to
you
,
let
him
not
even
see
you
,
he
permeated
,
he
prevailed
,
he
imposed
himself
.
He
changed
everything
.
She
could
not
see
the
colour
;
she
could
not
see
the
lines
;
even
with
his
back
turned
to
her
,
she
could
only
think
,
But
he
'll
be
down
on
me
in
a
moment
,
demanding
--
something
she
felt
she
could
not
give
him
.
She
rejected
one
brush
;
she
chose
another
.
When
would
those
children
come
?
When
would
they
all
be
off
?
she
fidgeted
.
That
man
,
she
thought
,
her
anger
rising
in
her
,
never
gave
;
that
man
took
.
She
,
on
the
other
hand
,
would
be
forced
to
give
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
had
given
.
Giving
,
giving
,
giving
,
she
had
died
--
and
had
left
all
this
.
Really
,
she
was
angry
with
Mrs.
Ramsay
.
With
the
brush
slightly
trembling
in
her
fingers
she
looked
at
the
hedge
,
the
step
,
the
wall
.
It
was
all
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
doing
.
She
was
dead
.
Here
was
Lily
,
at
forty-four
,
wasting
her
time
,
unable
to
do
a
thing
,
standing
there
,
playing
at
painting
,
playing
at
the
one
thing
one
did
not
play
at
,
and
it
was
all
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
fault
.
She
was
dead
.
The
step
where
she
used
to
sit
was
empty
She
was
dead
.
But
why
repeat
this
over
and
over
again
?
Why
be
always
trying
to
bring
up
some
feeling
she
had
not
got
?
There
was
a
kind
of
blasphemy
in
it
.
It
was
all
dry
:
all
withered
:
all
spent
.
They
ought
not
to
have
asked
her
;
she
ought
not
to
have
come
.
One
ca
n't
waste
one
's
time
at
forty-four
,
she
thought
.
She
hated
playing
at
painting
.
A
brush
,
the
one
dependable
thing
in
a
world
of
strife
,
ruin
,
chaos
--
that
one
should
not
play
with
,
knowingly
even
:
she
detested
it
.
But
he
made
her
.
You
sha
n't
touch
your
canvas
,
he
seemed
to
say
,
bearing
down
on
her
,
till
you
've
given
me
what
I
want
of
you
.
Here
he
was
,
close
upon
her
again
,
greedy
,
distraught
.
Well
,
thought
Lily
in
despair
,
letting
her
right
hand
fall
at
her
side
,
it
would
be
simpler
then
to
have
it
over
.
Surely
,
she
could
imitate
from
recollection
the
glow
,
the
rhapsody
,
the
self-surrender
,
she
had
seen
on
so
many
women
's
faces
(
on
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
,
for
instance
)
when
on
some
occasion
like
this
they
blazed
up
--
she
could
remember
the
look
on
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
face
--
into
a
rapture
of
sympathy
,
of
delight
in
the
reward
they
had
,
which
,
though
the
reason
of
it
escaped
her
,
evidently
conferred
on
them
the
most
supreme
bliss
of
which
human
nature
was
capable
.
Here
he
was
,
stopped
by
her
side
.
She
would
give
him
what
she
could
.
She
seemed
to
have
shrivelled
slightly
,
he
thought
.
She
looked
a
little
skimpy
,
wispy
;
but
not
unattractive
.
He
liked
her
.
There
had
been
some
talk
of
her
marrying
William
Bankes
once
,
but
nothing
had
come
of
it
.
His
wife
had
been
fond
of
her
.
He
had
been
a
little
out
of
temper
too
at
breakfast
.
And
then
,
and
then
--
this
was
one
of
those
moments
when
an
enormous
need
urged
him
,
without
being
conscious
what
it
was
,
to
approach
any
woman
,
to
force
them
,
he
did
not
care
how
,
his
need
was
so
great
,
to
give
him
what
he
wanted
:
sympathy
.
Was
anybody
looking
after
her
?
he
said
.
Had
she
everything
she
wanted
?
"
Oh
,
thanks
,
everything
,
"
said
Lily
Briscoe
nervously
.
No
;
she
could
not
do
it
.
She
ought
to
have
floated
off
instantly
upon
some
wave
of
sympathetic
expansion
:
the
pressure
on
her
was
tremendous
.
But
she
remained
stuck
.
There
was
an
awful
pause
.
They
both
looked
at
the
sea
.
Why
,
thought
Mr.
Ramsay
,
should
she
look
at
the
sea
when
I
am
here
?
She
hoped
it
would
be
calm
enough
for
them
to
land
at
the
Lighthouse
,
she
said
.
The
Lighthouse
!
The
Lighthouse
!
What
's
that
got
to
do
with
it
?
he
thought
impatiently
.
Instantly
,
with
the
force
of
some
primeval
gust
(
for
really
he
could
not
restrain
himself
any
longer
)
,
there
issued
from
him
such
a
groan
that
any
other
woman
in
the
whole
world
would
have
done
something
,
said
something
--
all
except
myself
,
thought
Lily
,
girding
at
herself
bitterly
,
who
am
not
a
woman
,
but
a
peevish
,
ill-tempered
,
dried-up
old
maid
,
presumably
.
[
Mr.
Ramsay
sighed
to
the
full
.
He
waited
.
Was
she
not
going
to
say
anything
?
Did
she
not
see
what
he
wanted
from
her
?
Then
he
said
he
had
a
particular
reason
for
wanting
to
go
to
the
Lighthouse
.
His
wife
used
to
send
the
men
things
.
There
was
a
poor
boy
with
a
tuberculous
hip
,
the
lightkeeper
's
son
.
He
sighed
profoundly
.
He
sighed
significantly
.
All
Lily
wished
was
that
this
enormous
flood
of
grief
,
this
insatiable
hunger
for
sympathy
,
this
demand
that
she
should
surrender
herself
up
to
him
entirely
,
and
even
so
he
had
sorrows
enough
to
keep
her
supplied
for
ever
,
should
leave
her
,
should
be
diverted
(
she
kept
looking
at
the
house
,
hoping
for
an
interruption
)
before
it
swept
her
down
in
its
flow
.
"
Such
expeditions
,
"
said
Mr.
Ramsay
,
scraping
the
ground
with
his
toe
,
"
are
very
painful
.
"
Still
Lily
said
nothing
.
(
She
is
a
stock
,
she
is
a
stone
,
he
said
to
himself
.
)
"
They
are
very
exhausting
,
"
he
said
,
looking
,
with
a
sickly
look
that
nauseated
her
(
he
was
acting
,
she
felt
,
this
great
man
was
dramatising
himself
)
,
at
his
beautiful
hands
.
It
was
horrible
,
it
was
indecent
.
Would
they
never
come
,
she
asked
,
for
she
could
not
sustain
this
enormous
weight
of
sorrow
,
support
these
heavy
draperies
of
grief
(
he
had
assumed
a
pose
of
extreme
decrepitude
;
he
even
tottered
a
little
as
he
stood
there
)
a
moment
longer
.
