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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 66/72
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Her
eyes
rested
on
the
brown
speck
of
Mr.
Ramsay
's
sailing
boat
.
They
would
be
at
the
Lighthouse
by
lunch
time
she
supposed
.
But
the
wind
had
freshened
,
and
,
as
the
sky
changed
slightly
and
the
sea
changed
slightly
and
the
boats
altered
their
positions
,
the
view
,
which
a
moment
before
had
seemed
miraculously
fixed
,
was
now
unsatisfactory
.
The
wind
had
blown
the
trail
of
smoke
about
;
there
was
something
displeasing
about
the
placing
of
the
ships
.
The
disproportion
there
seemed
to
upset
some
harmony
in
her
own
mind
.
She
felt
an
obscure
distress
.
It
was
confirmed
when
she
turned
to
her
picture
.
She
had
been
wasting
her
morning
.
For
whatever
reason
she
could
not
achieve
that
razor
edge
of
balance
between
two
opposite
forces
;
Mr.
Ramsay
and
the
picture
;
which
was
necessary
.
There
was
something
perhaps
wrong
with
the
design
?
Was
it
,
she
wondered
,
that
the
line
of
the
wall
wanted
breaking
,
was
it
that
the
mass
of
the
trees
was
too
heavy
?
She
smiled
ironically
;
for
had
she
not
thought
,
when
she
began
,
that
she
had
solved
her
problem
?
What
was
the
problem
then
?
She
must
try
to
get
hold
of
something
that
evaded
her
.
It
evaded
her
when
she
thought
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
;
it
evaded
her
now
when
she
thought
of
her
picture
.
Phrases
came
.
Visions
came
.
Beautiful
pictures
.
Beautiful
phrases
.
But
what
she
wished
to
get
hold
of
was
that
very
jar
on
the
nerves
,
the
thing
itself
before
it
has
been
made
anything
.
Get
that
and
start
afresh
;
get
that
and
start
afresh
;
she
said
desperately
,
pitching
herself
firmly
again
before
her
easel
.
It
was
a
miserable
machine
,
an
inefficient
machine
,
she
thought
,
the
human
apparatus
for
painting
or
for
feeling
;
it
always
broke
down
at
the
critical
moment
;
heroically
,
one
must
force
it
on
.
She
stared
,
frowning
.
There
was
the
hedge
,
sure
enough
.
But
one
got
nothing
by
soliciting
urgently
.
One
got
only
a
glare
in
the
eye
from
looking
at
the
line
of
the
wall
,
or
from
thinking
--
she
wore
a
grey
hat
.
She
was
astonishingly
beautiful
.
Let
it
come
,
she
thought
,
if
it
will
come
.
For
there
are
moments
when
one
can
neither
think
nor
feel
.
And
if
one
can
neither
think
nor
feel
,
she
thought
,
where
is
one
?
Here
on
the
grass
,
on
the
ground
,
she
thought
,
sitting
down
,
and
examining
with
her
brush
a
little
colony
of
plantains
.
For
the
lawn
was
very
rough
.
Here
sitting
on
the
world
,
she
thought
,
for
she
could
not
shake
herself
free
from
the
sense
that
everything
this
morning
was
happening
for
the
first
time
,
perhaps
for
the
last
time
,
as
a
traveller
,
even
though
he
is
half
asleep
,
knows
,
looking
out
of
the
train
window
,
that
he
must
look
now
,
for
he
will
never
see
that
town
,
or
that
mule-cart
,
or
that
woman
at
work
in
the
fields
,
again
.
The
lawn
was
the
world
;
they
were
up
here
together
,
on
this
exalted
station
,
she
thought
,
looking
at
old
Mr.
Carmichael
,
who
seemed
(
though
they
had
not
said
a
word
all
this
time
)
to
share
her
thoughts
.
And
she
would
never
see
him
again
perhaps
.
He
was
growing
old
.
Also
,
she
remembered
,
smiling
at
the
slipper
that
dangled
from
his
foot
,
he
was
growing
famous
.
People
said
that
his
poetry
was
"
so
beautiful
.
"
They
went
and
published
things
he
had
written
forty
years
ago
.
There
was
a
famous
man
now
called
Carmichael
,
she
smiled
,
thinking
how
many
shapes
one
person
might
wear
,
how
he
was
that
in
the
newspapers
,
but
here
the
same
as
he
had
always
been
.
He
looked
the
same
--
greyer
,
rather
.
Yes
,
he
looked
the
same
,
but
somebody
had
said
,
she
recalled
,
that
when
he
had
heard
of
Andrew
Ramsay
's
death
(
he
was
killed
in
a
second
by
a
shell
;
he
should
have
been
a
great
mathematician
)
Mr.
Carmichael
had
"
lost
all
interest
in
life
.
"
What
did
it
mean
--
that
?
she
wondered
.
Had
he
marched
through
Trafalgar
Square
grasping
a
big
stick
?
Had
he
turned
pages
over
and
over
,
without
reading
them
,
sitting
in
his
room
in
St.
John
's
Wood
alone
?
She
did
not
know
what
he
had
done
,
when
he
heard
that
Andrew
was
killed
,
but
she
felt
it
in
him
all
the
same
.
They
only
mumbled
at
each
other
on
staircases
;
they
looked
up
at
the
sky
and
said
it
will
be
fine
or
it
wo
n't
be
fine
.
But
this
was
one
way
of
knowing
people
,
she
thought
:
to
know
the
outline
,
not
the
detail
,
to
sit
in
one
's
garden
and
look
at
the
slopes
of
a
hill
running
purple
down
into
the
distant
heather
.
She
knew
him
in
that
way
.
She
knew
that
he
had
changed
somehow
.
She
had
never
read
a
line
of
his
poetry
.
She
thought
that
she
knew
how
it
went
though
,
slowly
and
sonorously
.
It
was
seasoned
and
mellow
.
It
was
about
the
desert
and
the
camel
.
It
was
about
the
palm
tree
and
the
sunset
.
It
was
extremely
impersonal
;
it
said
something
about
death
;
it
said
very
little
about
love
.
There
was
an
impersonality
about
him
.
He
wanted
very
little
of
other
people
.
Had
he
not
always
lurched
rather
awkwardly
past
the
drawing-room
window
with
some
newspaper
under
his
arm
,
trying
to
avoid
Mrs.
Ramsay
whom
for
some
reason
he
did
not
much
like
?
On
that
account
,
of
course
,
she
would
always
try
to
make
him
stop
.
He
would
bow
to
her
.
He
would
halt
unwillingly
and
bow
profoundly
.
Annoyed
that
he
did
not
want
anything
of
her
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
would
ask
him
(
Lily
could
hear
her
)
would
n't
he
like
a
coat
,
a
rug
,
a
newspaper
?
No
,
he
wanted
nothing
.
(
Here
he
bowed
.
)
There
was
some
quality
in
her
which
he
did
not
much
like
.
It
was
perhaps
her
masterfulness
,
her
positiveness
,
something
matter-of-fact
in
her
.
She
was
so
direct
.
(
A
noise
drew
her
attention
to
the
drawing-room
window
--
the
squeak
of
a
hinge
.
The
light
breeze
was
toying
with
the
window
.
)
There
must
have
been
people
who
disliked
her
very
much
,
Lily
thought
(
Yes
;
she
realised
that
the
drawing-room
step
was
empty
,
but
it
had
no
effect
on
her
whatever
.
She
did
not
want
Mrs.
Ramsay
now
.
)
--
People
who
thought
her
too
sure
,
too
drastic
.
