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- Вирджиния Вульф
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'
Had
I
been
born
,
'
said
Bernard
,
'n
ot
knowing
that
one
word
follows
another
I
might
have
been
,
who
knows
,
perhaps
anything
.
As
it
is
,
finding
sequences
everywhere
,
I
can
not
bear
the
pressure
of
solitude
.
When
I
can
not
see
words
curling
like
rings
of
smoke
round
me
I
am
in
darkness
--
I
am
nothing
.
When
I
am
alone
I
fall
into
lethargy
,
and
say
to
myself
dismally
as
I
poke
the
cinders
through
the
bars
of
the
grate
,
Mrs
Moffat
will
come
.
She
will
come
and
sweep
it
all
up
.
When
Louis
is
alone
he
sees
with
astonishing
intensity
,
and
will
write
some
words
that
may
outlast
us
all
.
Rhoda
loves
to
be
alone
.
She
fears
us
because
we
shatter
the
sense
of
being
which
is
so
extreme
in
solitude
--
see
how
she
grasps
her
fork
--
her
weapon
against
us
.
But
I
only
come
into
existence
when
the
plumber
,
or
the
horse-dealer
,
or
whoever
it
may
be
,
says
something
which
sets
me
alight
.
Then
how
lovely
the
smoke
of
my
phrase
is
,
rising
and
falling
,
flaunting
and
falling
,
upon
red
lobsters
and
yellow
fruit
,
wreathing
them
into
one
beauty
.
But
observe
how
meretricious
the
phrase
is
--
made
up
of
what
evasions
and
old
lies
.
Thus
my
character
is
in
part
made
of
the
stimulus
which
other
people
provide
,
and
is
not
mine
,
as
yours
are
.
There
is
some
fatal
streak
,
some
wandering
and
irregular
vein
of
silver
,
weakening
it
.
Hence
the
fact
that
used
to
enrage
Neville
at
school
,
that
I
left
him
.
I
went
with
the
boasting
boys
with
little
caps
and
badges
,
driving
off
in
big
brakes
--
there
are
some
here
tonight
,
dining
together
,
correctly
dressed
,
before
they
go
off
in
perfect
concord
to
the
music
hall
;
I
loved
them
.
For
they
bring
me
into
existence
as
certainly
as
you
do
.
Hence
,
too
,
when
I
am
leaving
you
and
the
train
is
going
,
you
feel
that
it
is
not
the
train
that
is
going
,
but
I
,
Bernard
,
who
does
not
care
,
who
does
not
feel
,
who
has
no
ticket
,
and
has
lost
perhaps
his
purse
.
Susan
,
staring
at
the
string
that
slips
in
and
out
among
the
leaves
of
the
beech
trees
,
cries
:
"
He
is
gone
!
He
has
escaped
me
!
"
For
there
is
nothing
to
lay
hold
of
.
I
am
made
and
remade
continually
.
Different
people
draw
different
words
from
me
.
'
Thus
there
is
not
one
person
but
fifty
people
whom
I
want
to
sit
beside
tonight
.
But
I
am
the
only
one
of
you
who
is
at
home
here
without
taking
liberties
.
I
am
not
gross
;
I
am
not
a
snob
.
If
I
lie
open
to
the
pressure
of
society
I
often
succeed
with
the
dexterity
of
my
tongue
in
putting
something
difficult
into
the
currency
.
See
my
little
toys
,
twisted
out
of
nothing
in
a
second
,
how
they
entertain
.
I
am
no
hoarder
--
I
shall
leave
only
a
cupboard
of
old
clothes
when
I
die
--
and
I
am
almost
indifferent
to
the
minor
vanities
of
life
which
cause
Louis
so
much
torture
.
But
I
have
sacrificed
much
.
Veined
as
I
am
with
iron
,
with
silver
and
streaks
of
common
mud
,
I
can
not
contract
into
the
firm
fist
which
those
clench
who
do
not
depend
upon
stimulus
.
I
am
incapable
of
the
denials
,
the
heroisms
of
Louis
and
Rhoda
.
I
shall
never
succeed
,
even
in
talk
,
in
making
a
perfect
phrase
.
But
I
shall
have
contributed
more
to
the
passing
moment
than
any
of
you
;
I
shall
go
into
more
rooms
,
more
different
rooms
,
than
any
of
you
.
But
because
there
is
something
that
comes
from
outside
and
not
from
within
I
shall
be
forgotten
;
when
my
voice
is
silent
you
will
not
remember
me
,
save
as
the
echo
of
a
voice
that
once
wreathed
the
fruit
into
phrases
.
'
'
Look
,
'
said
Rhoda
;
'
listen
.
Look
how
the
light
becomes
richer
,
second
by
second
,
and
bloom
and
ripeness
lie
everywhere
;
and
our
eyes
,
as
they
range
round
this
room
with
all
its
tables
,
seem
to
push
through
curtains
of
colour
,
red
,
orange
,
umber
and
queer
ambiguous
tints
,
which
yield
like
veils
and
close
behind
them
,
and
one
thing
melts
into
another
.
'
'
Yes
,
'
said
Jinny
,
'
our
senses
have
widened
.
Membranes
,
webs
of
nerve
that
lay
white
and
limp
,
have
filled
and
spread
themselves
and
float
round
us
like
filaments
,
making
the
air
tangible
and
catching
in
them
far-away
sounds
unheard
before
.
'
'
The
roar
of
London
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
is
round
us
.
Motor-cars
,
vans
,
omnibuses
pass
and
repass
continuously
.
All
are
merged
in
one
turning
wheel
of
single
sound
.
All
separate
sounds
--
wheels
,
bells
,
the
cries
of
drunkards
,
of
merrymakers
--
are
churned
into
one
sound
,
steel
blue
,
circular
.
Then
a
siren
hoots
.
At
that
shores
slip
away
,
chimneys
flatten
themselves
,
the
ship
makes
for
the
open
sea
.
'
'
Percival
is
going
,
'
said
Neville
.
'
We
sit
here
,
surrounded
,
lit
up
,
many
coloured
;
all
things
--
hands
,
curtains
,
knives
and
forks
,
other
people
dining
--
run
into
each
other
.
We
are
walled
in
here
.
But
India
lies
outside
.
'
'
I
see
India
,
'
said
Bernard
.
'
I
see
the
low
,
long
shore
;
I
see
the
tortuous
lanes
of
stamped
mud
that
lead
in
and
out
among
ramshackle
pagodas
;
I
see
the
gilt
and
crenellated
buildings
which
have
an
air
of
fragility
and
decay
as
if
they
were
temporarily
run
up
buildings
in
some
Oriental
exhibition
.
I
see
a
pair
of
bullocks
who
drag
a
low
cart
along
the
sun-baked
road
.
The
cart
sways
incompetently
from
side
to
side
.
Now
one
wheel
sticks
in
the
rut
,
and
at
once
innumerable
natives
in
loin-cloths
swarm
round
it
,
chattering
excitedly
.
But
they
do
nothing
.
Time
seems
endless
,
ambition
vain
.
Over
all
broods
a
sense
of
the
uselessness
of
human
exertion
.
There
are
strange
sour
smells
.
An
old
man
in
a
ditch
continues
to
chew
betel
and
to
contemplate
his
navel
.
But
now
,
behold
,
Percival
advances
;
Percival
rides
a
flea-bitten
mare
,
and
wears
a
sun-helmet
.
By
applying
the
standards
of
the
West
,
by
using
the
violent
language
that
is
natural
to
him
,
the
bullock-cart
is
righted
in
less
than
five
minutes
.
The
Oriental
problem
is
solved
.
He
rides
on
;
the
multitude
cluster
round
him
,
regarding
him
as
if
he
were
--
what
indeed
he
is
--
a
God
.
