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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 64/72
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Something
,
he
remembered
,
stayed
flourished
up
in
the
air
,
something
arid
and
sharp
descended
even
there
,
like
a
blade
,
a
scimitar
,
smiting
through
the
leaves
and
flowers
even
of
that
happy
world
and
making
it
shrivel
and
fall
.
"
It
will
rain
,
"
he
remembered
his
father
saying
.
"
You
wo
n't
be
able
to
go
to
the
Lighthouse
.
"
The
Lighthouse
was
then
a
silvery
,
misty-looking
tower
with
a
yellow
eye
,
that
opened
suddenly
,
and
softly
in
the
evening
.
Now
--
James
looked
at
the
Lighthouse
.
He
could
see
the
white-washed
rocks
;
the
tower
,
stark
and
straight
;
he
could
see
that
it
was
barred
with
black
and
white
;
he
could
see
windows
in
it
;
he
could
even
see
washing
spread
on
the
rocks
to
dry
.
So
that
was
the
Lighthouse
,
was
it
?
No
,
the
other
was
also
the
Lighthouse
.
For
nothing
was
simply
one
thing
.
The
other
Lighthouse
was
true
too
.
It
was
sometimes
hardly
to
be
seen
across
the
bay
.
In
the
evening
one
looked
up
and
saw
the
eye
opening
and
shutting
and
the
light
seemed
to
reach
them
in
that
airy
sunny
garden
where
they
sat
.
But
he
pulled
himself
up
.
Whenever
he
said
"
they
"
or
"
a
person
,
"
and
then
began
hearing
the
rustle
of
some
one
coming
,
the
tinkle
of
some
one
going
,
he
became
extremely
sensitive
to
the
presence
of
whoever
might
be
in
the
room
.
It
was
his
father
now
.
The
strain
was
acute
.
For
in
one
moment
if
there
was
no
breeze
,
his
father
would
slap
the
covers
of
his
book
together
,
and
say
:
"
What
's
happening
now
?
What
are
we
dawdling
about
here
for
,
eh
?
"
as
,
once
before
he
had
brought
his
blade
down
among
them
on
the
terrace
and
she
had
gone
stiff
all
over
,
and
if
there
had
been
an
axe
handy
,
a
knife
,
or
anything
with
a
sharp
point
he
would
have
seized
it
and
struck
his
father
through
the
heart
.
She
had
gone
stiff
all
over
,
and
then
,
her
arm
slackening
,
so
that
he
felt
she
listened
to
him
no
longer
,
she
had
risen
somehow
and
gone
away
and
left
him
there
,
impotent
,
ridiculous
,
sitting
on
the
floor
grasping
a
pair
of
scissors
.
Not
a
breath
of
wind
blew
.
The
water
chuckled
and
gurgled
in
the
bottom
of
the
boat
where
three
or
four
mackerel
beat
their
tails
up
and
down
in
a
pool
of
water
not
deep
enough
to
cover
them
.
At
any
moment
Mr.
Ramsay
(
he
scarcely
dared
look
at
him
)
might
rouse
himself
,
shut
his
book
,
and
say
something
sharp
;
but
for
the
moment
he
was
reading
,
so
that
James
stealthily
,
as
if
he
were
stealing
downstairs
on
bare
feet
,
afraid
of
waking
a
watchdog
by
a
creaking
board
,
went
on
thinking
what
was
she
like
,
where
did
she
go
that
day
?
He
began
following
her
from
room
to
room
and
at
last
they
came
to
a
room
where
in
a
blue
light
,
as
if
the
reflection
came
from
many
china
dishes
,
she
talked
to
somebody
;
he
listened
to
her
talking
.
She
talked
to
a
servant
,
saying
simply
whatever
came
into
her
head
.
She
alone
spoke
the
truth
;
to
her
alone
could
he
speak
it
That
was
the
source
of
her
everlasting
attraction
for
him
,
perhaps
;
she
was
a
person
to
whom
one
could
say
what
came
into
one
's
head
.
But
all
the
time
he
thought
of
her
,
he
was
conscious
of
his
father
following
his
thought
,
surveying
it
,
making
it
shiver
and
falter
.
At
last
he
ceased
to
think
.
There
he
sat
with
his
hand
on
the
tiller
in
the
sun
,
staring
at
the
Lighthouse
,
powerless
to
move
,
powerless
to
flick
off
these
grains
of
misery
which
settled
on
his
mind
one
after
another
.
A
rope
seemed
to
bind
him
there
,
and
his
father
had
knotted
it
and
he
could
only
escape
by
taking
a
knife
and
plunging
it
...
But
at
that
moment
the
sail
swung
slowly
round
,
filled
slowly
out
,
the
boat
seemed
to
shake
herself
,
and
then
to
move
off
half
conscious
in
her
sleep
,
and
then
she
woke
and
shot
through
the
waves
.
The
relief
was
extraordinary
.
They
all
seemed
to
fall
away
from
each
other
again
and
to
be
at
their
ease
,
and
the
fishing-lines
slanted
taut
across
the
side
of
the
boat
.
But
his
father
did
not
rouse
himself
.
He
only
raised
his
right
hand
mysteriously
high
in
the
air
,
and
let
it
fall
upon
his
knee
again
as
if
he
were
conducting
some
secret
symphony
.
