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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 62/72
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But
one
only
woke
people
if
one
knew
what
one
wanted
to
say
to
them
.
And
she
wanted
to
say
not
one
thing
,
but
everything
.
Little
words
that
broke
up
the
thought
and
dismembered
it
said
nothing
.
"
About
life
,
about
death
;
about
Mrs.
Ramsay
"
--
no
,
she
thought
,
one
could
say
nothing
to
nobody
.
The
urgency
of
the
moment
always
missed
its
mark
.
Words
fluttered
sideways
and
struck
the
object
inches
too
low
.
Then
one
gave
it
up
;
then
the
idea
sunk
back
again
;
then
one
became
like
most
middle-aged
people
,
cautious
,
furtive
,
with
wrinkles
between
the
eyes
and
a
look
of
perpetual
apprehension
.
For
how
could
one
express
in
words
these
emotions
of
the
body
?
express
that
emptiness
there
?
(
She
was
looking
at
the
drawing-room
steps
;
they
looked
extraordinarily
empty
.
)
It
was
one
's
body
feeling
,
not
one
's
mind
.
The
physical
sensations
that
went
with
the
bare
look
of
the
steps
had
become
suddenly
extremely
unpleasant
.
To
want
and
not
to
have
,
sent
all
up
her
body
a
hardness
,
a
hollowness
,
a
strain
.
And
then
to
want
and
not
to
have
--
to
want
and
want
--
how
that
wrung
the
heart
,
and
wrung
it
again
and
again
!
Oh
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
she
called
out
silently
,
to
that
essence
which
sat
by
the
boat
,
that
abstract
one
made
of
her
,
that
woman
in
grey
,
as
if
to
abuse
her
for
having
gone
,
and
then
having
gone
,
come
back
again
.
It
had
seemed
so
safe
,
thinking
of
her
.
Ghost
,
air
,
nothingness
,
a
thing
you
could
play
with
easily
and
safely
at
any
time
of
day
or
night
,
she
had
been
that
,
and
then
suddenly
she
put
her
hand
out
and
wrung
the
heart
thus
.
Suddenly
,
the
empty
drawing-room
steps
,
the
frill
of
the
chair
inside
,
the
puppy
tumbling
on
the
terrace
,
the
whole
wave
and
whisper
of
the
garden
became
like
curves
and
arabesques
flourishing
round
a
centre
of
complete
emptiness
.
"
What
does
it
mean
?
How
do
you
explain
it
all
?
"
she
wanted
to
say
,
turning
to
Mr.
Carmichael
again
.
For
the
whole
world
seemed
to
have
dissolved
in
this
early
morning
hour
into
a
pool
of
thought
,
a
deep
basin
of
reality
,
and
one
could
almost
fancy
that
had
Mr.
Carmichael
spoken
,
for
instance
,
a
little
tear
would
have
rent
the
surface
pool
.
And
then
?
Something
would
emerge
.
A
hand
would
be
shoved
up
,
a
blade
would
be
flashed
.
It
was
nonsense
of
course
.
A
curious
notion
came
to
her
that
he
did
after
all
hear
the
things
she
could
not
say
.
He
was
an
inscrutable
old
man
,
with
the
yellow
stain
on
his
beard
,
and
his
poetry
,
and
his
puzzles
,
sailing
serenely
through
a
world
which
satisfied
all
his
wants
,
so
that
she
thought
he
had
only
to
put
down
his
hand
where
he
lay
on
the
lawn
to
fish
up
anything
he
wanted
.
She
looked
at
her
picture
.
That
would
have
been
his
answer
,
presumably
--
how
"
you
"
and
"
I
"
and
"
she
"
pass
and
vanish
;
nothing
stays
;
all
changes
;
but
not
words
,
not
paint
.
Yet
it
would
be
hung
in
the
attics
,
she
thought
;
it
would
be
rolled
up
and
flung
under
a
sofa
;
yet
even
so
,
even
of
a
picture
like
that
,
it
was
true
One
might
say
,
even
of
this
scrawl
,
not
of
that
actual
picture
,
perhaps
,
but
of
what
it
attempted
,
that
it
"
remained
for
ever
,
"
she
was
going
to
say
,
or
,
for
the
words
spoken
sounded
even
to
herself
,
too
boastful
,
to
hint
,
wordlessly
;
when
,
looking
at
the
picture
,
she
was
surprised
to
find
that
she
could
not
see
it
.
Her
eyes
were
full
of
a
hot
liquid
(
she
did
not
think
of
tears
at
first
)
which
,
without
disturbing
the
firmness
of
her
lips
,
made
the
air
thick
,
rolled
down
her
cheeks
.
She
had
perfect
control
of
herself
--
Oh
,
yes
!
--
in
every
other
way
.
Was
she
crying
then
for
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
without
being
aware
of
any
unhappiness
?
She
addressed
old
Mr.
Carmichael
again
.
What
was
it
then
?
What
did
it
mean
?
Could
things
thrust
their
hands
up
and
grip
one
;
could
the
blade
cut
;
the
fist
grasp
?
Was
there
no
safety
?
No
learning
by
heart
of
the
ways
of
the
world
?
No
guide
,
no
shelter
,
but
all
was
miracle
,
and
leaping
from
the
pinnacle
of
a
tower
into
the
air
?
Could
it
be
,
even
for
elderly
people
,
that
this
was
life
?
--
startling
,
unexpected
,
unknown
?
For
one
moment
she
felt
that
if
they
both
got
up
,
here
,
now
on
the
lawn
,
and
demanded
an
explanation
,
why
was
it
so
short
,
why
was
it
so
inexplicable
,
said
it
with
violence
,
as
two
fully
equipped
human
beings
from
whom
nothing
should
be
hid
might
speak
,
then
,
beauty
would
roll
itself
up
;
the
space
would
fill
;
those
empty
flourishes
would
form
into
shape
;
if
they
shouted
loud
enough
Mrs.
Ramsay
would
return
.
"
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
"
she
said
aloud
,
"
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
"
The
tears
ran
down
her
face
.
[
Macalister
's
boy
took
one
of
the
fish
and
cut
a
square
out
of
its
side
to
bait
his
hook
with
.
The
mutilated
body
(
it
was
alive
still
)
was
thrown
back
into
the
sea
.
]
"
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
"
Lily
cried
,
"
Mrs.
Ramsay
!
"
But
nothing
happened
.
The
pain
increased
.
That
anguish
could
reduce
one
to
such
a
pitch
of
imbecility
,
she
thought
!
Anyhow
the
old
man
had
not
heard
her
.
He
remained
benignant
,
calm
--
if
one
chose
to
think
it
,
sublime
.
Heaven
be
praised
,
no
one
had
heard
her
cry
that
ignominious
cry
,
stop
pain
,
stop
!
She
had
not
obviously
taken
leave
of
her
senses
.
No
one
had
seen
her
step
off
her
strip
of
board
into
the
waters
of
annihilation
.
She
remained
a
skimpy
old
maid
,
holding
a
paint-brush
.
And
now
slowly
the
pain
of
the
want
,
and
the
bitter
anger
(
to
be
called
back
,
just
as
she
thought
she
would
never
feel
sorrow
for
Mrs.
Ramsay
again
.
Had
she
missed
her
among
the
coffee
cups
at
breakfast
?
not
in
the
least
)
lessened
;
and
of
their
anguish
left
,
as
antidote
,
a
relief
that
was
balm
in
itself
,
and
also
,
but
more
mysteriously
,
a
sense
of
some
one
there
,
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
relieved
for
a
moment
of
the
weight
that
the
world
had
put
on
her
,
staying
lightly
by
her
side
and
then
(
for
this
was
Mrs.
Ramsay
in
all
her
beauty
)
raising
to
her
forehead
a
wreath
of
white
flowers
with
which
she
went
.
Lily
squeezed
her
tubes
again
.
She
attacked
that
problem
of
the
hedge
.
It
was
strange
how
clearly
she
saw
her
,
stepping
with
her
usual
quickness
across
fields
among
whose
folds
,
purplish
and
soft
,
among
whose
flowers
,
hyacinth
or
lilies
,
she
vanished
.
It
was
some
trick
of
the
painter
's
eye
.
For
days
after
she
had
heard
of
her
death
she
had
seen
her
thus
,
putting
her
wreath
to
her
forehead
and
going
unquestioningly
with
her
companion
,
a
shade
across
the
fields
.
The
sight
,
the
phrase
,
had
its
power
to
console
.
Wherever
she
happened
to
be
,
painting
,
here
,
in
the
country
or
in
London
,
the
vision
would
come
to
her
,
and
her
eyes
,
half
closing
,
sought
something
to
base
her
vision
on
.
She
looked
down
the
railway
carriage
,
the
omnibus
;
took
a
line
from
shoulder
or
cheek
;
looked
at
the
windows
opposite
;
at
Piccadilly
,
lamp-strung
in
the
evening
.
All
had
been
part
of
the
fields
of
death
.
But
always
something
--
it
might
be
a
face
,
a
voice
,
a
paper
boy
crying
STANDARD
,
NEWS
--
thrust
through
,
snubbed
her
,
waked
her
,
required
and
got
in
the
end
an
effort
of
attention
,
so
that
the
vision
must
be
perpetually
remade
.
Now
again
,
moved
as
she
was
by
some
instinctive
need
of
distance
and
blue
,
she
looked
at
the
bay
beneath
her
,
making
hillocks
of
the
blue
bars
of
the
waves
,
and
stony
fields
of
the
purpler
spaces
,
again
she
was
roused
as
usual
by
something
incongruous
.
There
was
a
brown
spot
in
the
middle
of
the
bay
.
It
was
a
boat
.
Yes
,
she
realised
that
after
a
second
.
But
whose
boat
?
Mr.
Ramsay
's
boat
,
she
replied
.
Mr.
Ramsay
;
the
man
who
had
marched
past
her
,
with
his
hand
raised
,
aloof
,
at
the
head
of
a
procession
,
in
his
beautiful
boots
,
asking
her
for
sympathy
,
which
she
had
refused
.
The
boat
was
now
half
way
across
the
bay
So
fine
was
the
morning
except
for
a
streak
of
wind
here
and
there
that
the
sea
and
sky
looked
all
one
fabric
,
as
if
sails
were
stuck
high
up
in
the
sky
,
or
the
clouds
had
dropped
down
into
the
sea
.
A
steamer
far
out
at
sea
had
drawn
in
the
air
a
great
scroll
of
smoke
which
stayed
there
curving
and
circling
decoratively
,
as
if
the
air
were
a
fine
gauze
which
held
things
and
kept
them
softly
in
its
mesh
,
only
gently
swaying
them
this
way
and
that
.
And
as
happens
sometimes
when
the
weather
is
very
fine
,
the
cliffs
looked
as
if
they
were
conscious
of
the
ships
,
and
the
ships
looked
as
if
they
were
conscious
of
the
cliffs
,
as
if
they
signalled
to
each
other
some
message
of
their
own
.
For
sometimes
quite
close
to
the
shore
,
the
Lighthouse
looked
this
morning
in
the
haze
an
enormous
distance
away
.
