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- Стр. 56/72
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And
as
she
lost
consciousness
of
outer
things
,
and
her
name
and
her
personality
and
her
appearance
,
and
whether
Mr.
Carmichael
was
there
or
not
,
her
mind
kept
throwing
up
from
its
depths
,
scenes
,
and
names
,
and
sayings
,
and
memories
and
ideas
,
like
a
fountain
spurting
over
that
glaring
,
hideously
difficult
white
space
,
while
she
modelled
it
with
greens
and
blues
.
Charles
Tansley
used
to
say
that
,
she
remembered
,
women
ca
n't
paint
,
ca
n't
write
.
Coming
up
behind
her
,
he
had
stood
close
beside
her
,
a
thing
she
hated
,
as
she
painted
her
on
this
very
spot
.
"
Shag
tobacco
,
"
he
said
,
"
fivepence
an
ounce
,
"
parading
his
poverty
,
his
principles
.
(
But
the
war
had
drawn
the
sting
of
her
femininity
.
Poor
devils
,
one
thought
,
poor
devils
,
of
both
sexes
.
)
He
was
always
carrying
a
book
about
under
his
arm
--
a
purple
book
.
He
"
worked
.
"
He
sat
,
she
remembered
,
working
in
a
blaze
of
sun
.
At
dinner
he
would
sit
right
in
the
middle
of
the
view
.
But
after
all
,
she
reflected
,
there
was
the
scene
on
the
beach
.
One
must
remember
that
.
It
was
a
windy
morning
.
They
had
all
gone
down
to
the
beach
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
sat
down
and
wrote
letters
by
a
rock
.
She
wrote
and
wrote
.
"
Oh
,
"
she
said
,
looking
up
at
something
floating
in
the
sea
,
"
is
it
a
lobster
pot
?
Is
it
an
upturned
boat
?
"
She
was
so
short-sighted
that
she
could
not
see
,
and
then
Charles
Tansley
became
as
nice
as
he
could
possibly
be
.
He
began
playing
ducks
and
drakes
.
They
chose
little
flat
black
stones
and
sent
them
skipping
over
the
waves
.
Every
now
and
then
Mrs.
Ramsay
looked
up
over
her
spectacles
and
laughed
at
them
.
What
they
said
she
could
not
remember
,
but
only
she
and
Charles
throwing
stones
and
getting
on
very
well
all
of
a
sudden
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
watching
them
.
She
was
highly
conscious
of
that
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
she
thought
,
stepping
back
and
screwing
up
her
eyes
.
(
It
must
have
altered
the
design
a
good
deal
when
she
was
sitting
on
the
step
with
James
.
There
must
have
been
a
shadow
.
)
When
she
thought
of
herself
and
Charles
throwing
ducks
and
drakes
and
of
the
whole
scene
on
the
beach
,
it
seemed
to
depend
somehow
upon
Mrs.
Ramsay
sitting
under
the
rock
,
with
a
pad
on
her
knee
,
writing
letters
.
(
She
wrote
innumerable
letters
,
and
sometimes
the
wind
took
them
and
she
and
Charles
just
saved
a
page
from
the
sea
.
)
But
what
a
power
was
in
the
human
soul
!
she
thought
.
That
woman
sitting
there
writing
under
the
rock
resolved
everything
into
simplicity
;
made
these
angers
,
irritations
fall
off
like
old
rags
;
she
brought
together
this
and
that
and
then
this
,
and
so
made
out
of
that
miserable
silliness
and
spite
(
she
and
Charles
squabbling
,
sparring
,
had
been
silly
and
spiteful
)
something
--
this
scene
on
the
beach
for
example
,
this
moment
of
friendship
and
liking
--
which
survived
,
after
all
these
years
complete
,
so
that
she
dipped
into
it
to
re-fashion
her
memory
of
him
,
and
there
it
stayed
in
the
mind
affecting
one
almost
like
a
work
of
art
.
"
Like
a
work
of
art
,
"
she
repeated
,
looking
from
her
canvas
to
the
drawing-room
steps
and
back
again
.
She
must
rest
for
a
moment
.
And
,
resting
,
looking
from
one
to
the
other
vaguely
,
the
old
question
which
traversed
the
sky
of
the
soul
perpetually
,
the
vast
,
the
general
question
which
was
apt
to
particularise
itself
at
such
moments
as
these
,
when
she
released
faculties
that
had
been
on
the
strain
,
stood
over
her
,
paused
over
her
,
darkened
over
her
.
What
is
the
meaning
of
life
?
That
was
all
--
a
simple
question
;
one
that
tended
to
close
in
on
one
with
years
.
The
great
revelation
had
never
come
.
The
great
revelation
perhaps
never
did
come
.
Instead
there
were
little
daily
miracles
,
illuminations
,
matches
struck
unexpectedly
in
the
dark
;
here
was
one
.
This
,
that
,
and
the
other
;
herself
and
Charles
Tansley
and
the
breaking
wave
;
Mrs.
Ramsay
bringing
them
together
;
Mrs.
Ramsay
saying
,
"
Life
stand
still
here
"
;
Mrs.
Ramsay
making
of
the
moment
something
permanent
(
as
in
another
sphere
Lily
herself
tried
to
make
of
the
moment
something
permanent
)
--
this
was
of
the
nature
of
a
revelation
.
In
the
midst
of
chaos
there
was
shape
;
this
eternal
passing
and
flowing
(
she
looked
at
the
clouds
going
and
the
leaves
shaking
)
was
struck
into
stability
.
Life
stand
still
here
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
said
.
"
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
"
she
repeated
.
She
owed
it
all
to
her
.
All
was
silence
.
Nobody
seemed
yet
to
be
stirring
in
the
house
.
She
looked
at
it
there
sleeping
in
the
early
sunlight
with
its
windows
green
and
blue
with
the
reflected
leaves
.
The
faint
thought
she
was
thinking
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
seemed
in
consonance
with
this
quiet
house
;
this
smoke
;
this
fine
early
morning
air
Faint
and
unreal
,
it
was
amazingly
pure
and
exciting
.
She
hoped
nobody
would
open
the
window
or
come
out
of
the
house
,
but
that
she
might
be
left
alone
to
go
on
thinking
,
to
go
on
painting
.
She
turned
to
her
canvas
.
But
impelled
by
some
curiosity
,
driven
by
the
discomfort
of
the
sympathy
which
she
held
undischarged
,
she
walked
a
pace
or
so
to
the
end
of
the
lawn
to
see
whether
,
down
there
on
the
beach
,
she
could
see
that
little
company
setting
sail
.
Down
there
among
the
little
boats
which
floated
,
some
with
their
sails
furled
,
some
slowly
,
for
it
was
very
calm
moving
away
,
there
was
one
rather
apart
from
the
others
.
The
sail
was
even
now
being
hoisted
.
She
decided
that
there
in
that
very
distant
and
entirely
silent
little
boat
Mr.
Ramsay
was
sitting
with
Cam
and
James
.
Now
they
had
got
the
sail
up
;
now
after
a
little
flagging
and
silence
,
she
watched
the
boat
take
its
way
with
deliberation
past
the
other
boats
out
to
sea
.
The
sails
flapped
over
their
heads
.
The
water
chuckled
and
slapped
the
sides
of
the
boat
,
which
drowsed
motionless
in
the
sun
.
Now
and
then
the
sails
rippled
with
a
little
breeze
in
them
,
but
the
ripple
ran
over
them
and
ceased
.
The
boat
made
no
motion
at
all
.
Mr.
Ramsay
sat
in
the
middle
of
the
boat
.
He
would
be
impatient
in
a
moment
,
James
thought
,
and
Cam
thought
,
looking
at
her
father
,
who
sat
in
the
middle
of
the
boat
between
them
(
James
steered
;
Cam
sat
alone
in
the
bow
)
with
his
legs
tightly
curled
.
He
hated
hanging
about
.
Sure
enough
,
after
fidgeting
a
second
or
two
,
he
said
something
sharp
to
Macalister
's
boy
,
who
got
out
his
oars
and
began
to
row
.
But
their
father
,
they
knew
,
would
never
be
content
until
they
were
flying
along
.
He
would
keep
looking
for
a
breeze
,
fidgeting
,
saying
things
under
his
breath
,
which
Macalister
and
Macalister
's
boy
would
overhear
,
and
they
would
both
be
made
horribly
uncomfortable
.
He
had
made
them
come
.
He
had
forced
them
to
come
.
In
their
anger
they
hoped
that
the
breeze
would
never
rise
,
that
he
might
be
thwarted
in
every
possible
way
,
since
he
had
forced
them
to
come
against
their
wills
.
All
the
way
down
to
the
beach
they
had
lagged
behind
together
,
though
he
bade
them
"
Walk
up
,
walk
up
,
"
without
speaking
.
Their
heads
were
bent
down
,
their
heads
were
pressed
down
by
some
remorseless
gale
.
Speak
to
him
they
could
not
.
They
must
come
;
they
must
follow
.
They
must
walk
behind
him
carrying
brown
paper
parcels
.
But
they
vowed
,
in
silence
,
as
they
walked
,
to
stand
by
each
other
and
carry
out
the
great
compact
--
to
resist
tyranny
to
the
death
.
So
there
they
would
sit
,
one
at
one
end
of
the
boat
,
one
at
the
other
,
in
silence
.
They
would
say
nothing
,
only
look
at
him
now
and
then
where
he
sat
with
his
legs
twisted
,
frowning
and
fidgeting
,
and
pishing
and
pshawing
and
muttering
things
to
himself
,
and
waiting
impatiently
for
a
breeze
.
And
they
hoped
it
would
be
calm
.
They
hoped
he
would
be
thwarted
.
They
hoped
the
whole
expedition
would
fail
,
and
they
would
have
to
put
back
,
with
their
parcels
,
to
the
beach
.
