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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 1/96
Mrs. Dalloway
Mrs.
Dalloway
said
she
would
buy
the
flowers
herself
.
For
Lucy
had
her
work
cut
out
for
her
.
The
doors
would
be
taken
off
their
hinges
;
Rumpelmayer
's
men
were
coming
.
And
then
,
thought
Clarissa
Dalloway
,
what
a
morning
--
fresh
as
if
issued
to
children
on
a
beach
.
What
a
lark
!
What
a
plunge
!
For
so
it
had
always
seemed
to
her
,
when
,
with
a
little
squeak
of
the
hinges
,
which
she
could
hear
now
,
she
had
burst
open
the
French
windows
and
plunged
at
Bourton
into
the
open
air
.
How
fresh
,
how
calm
,
stiller
than
this
of
course
,
the
air
was
in
the
early
morning
;
like
the
flap
of
a
wave
;
the
kiss
of
a
wave
;
chill
and
sharp
and
yet
(
for
a
girl
of
eighteen
as
she
then
was
)
solemn
,
feeling
as
she
did
,
standing
there
at
the
open
window
,
that
something
awful
was
about
to
happen
;
looking
at
the
flowers
,
at
the
trees
with
the
smoke
winding
off
them
and
the
rooks
rising
,
falling
;
standing
and
looking
until
Peter
Walsh
said
,
"
Musing
among
the
vegetables
?
"
--
was
that
it
?
--
"
I
prefer
men
to
cauliflowers
"
--
was
that
it
?
He
must
have
said
it
at
breakfast
one
morning
when
she
had
gone
out
on
to
the
terrace
--
Peter
Walsh
.
He
would
be
back
from
India
one
of
these
days
,
June
or
July
,
she
forgot
which
,
for
his
letters
were
awfully
dull
;
it
was
his
sayings
one
remembered
;
his
eyes
,
his
pocket-knife
,
his
smile
,
his
grumpiness
and
,
when
millions
of
things
had
utterly
vanished
--
how
strange
it
was
!
--
a
few
sayings
like
this
about
cabbages
.
She
stiffened
a
little
on
the
kerb
,
waiting
for
Durtnall
's
van
to
pass
.
A
charming
woman
,
Scrope
Purvis
thought
her
(
knowing
her
as
one
does
know
people
who
live
next
door
to
one
in
Westminster
)
;
a
touch
of
the
bird
about
her
,
of
the
jay
,
blue-green
,
light
,
vivacious
,
though
she
was
over
fifty
,
and
grown
very
white
since
her
illness
.
There
she
perched
,
never
seeing
him
,
waiting
to
cross
,
very
upright
.
For
having
lived
in
Westminster
--
how
many
years
now
?
over
twenty
--
one
feels
even
in
the
midst
of
the
traffic
,
or
waking
at
night
,
Clarissa
was
positive
,
a
particular
hush
,
or
solemnity
;
an
indescribable
pause
;
a
suspense
(
but
that
might
be
her
heart
,
affected
,
they
said
,
by
influenza
)
before
Big
Ben
strikes
.
There
!
Out
it
boomed
.
First
a
warning
,
musical
;
then
the
hour
,
irrevocable
.
The
leaden
circles
dissolved
in
the
air
.
Such
fools
we
are
,
she
thought
,
crossing
Victoria
Street
.
For
Heaven
only
knows
why
one
loves
it
so
,
how
one
sees
it
so
,
making
it
up
,
building
it
round
one
,
tumbling
it
,
creating
it
every
moment
afresh
;
but
the
veriest
frumps
,
the
most
dejected
of
miseries
sitting
on
doorsteps
(
drink
their
downfall
)
do
the
same
;
ca
n't
be
dealt
with
,
she
felt
positive
,
by
Acts
of
Parliament
for
that
very
reason
:
they
love
life
.
In
people
's
eyes
,
in
the
swing
,
tramp
,
and
trudge
;
in
the
bellow
and
the
uproar
;
the
carriages
,
motor
cars
,
omnibuses
,
vans
,
sandwich
men
shuffling
and
swinging
;
brass
bands
;
barrel
organs
;
in
the
triumph
and
the
jingle
and
the
strange
high
singing
of
some
aeroplane
overhead
was
what
she
loved
;
life
;
London
;
this
moment
of
June
.
For
it
was
the
middle
of
June
.
The
War
was
over
,
except
for
some
one
like
Mrs.
Foxcroft
at
the
Embassy
last
night
eating
her
heart
out
because
that
nice
boy
was
killed
and
now
the
old
Manor
House
must
go
to
a
cousin
;
or
Lady
Bexborough
who
opened
a
bazaar
,
they
said
,
with
the
telegram
in
her
hand
,
John
,
her
favourite
,
killed
;
but
it
was
over
;
thank
Heaven
--
over
.
It
was
June
.
The
King
and
Queen
were
at
the
Palace
.
And
everywhere
,
though
it
was
still
so
early
,
there
was
a
beating
,
a
stirring
of
galloping
ponies
,
tapping
of
cricket
bats
;
Lords
,
Ascot
,
Ranelagh
and
all
the
rest
of
it
;
wrapped
in
the
soft
mesh
of
the
grey-blue
morning
air
,
which
,
as
the
day
wore
on
,
would
unwind
them
,
and
set
down
on
their
lawns
and
pitches
the
bouncing
ponies
,
whose
forefeet
just
struck
the
ground
and
up
they
sprung
,
the
whirling
young
men
,
and
laughing
girls
in
their
transparent
muslins
who
,
even
now
,
after
dancing
all
night
,
were
taking
their
absurd
woolly
dogs
for
a
run
;
and
even
now
,
at
this
hour
,
discreet
old
dowagers
were
shooting
out
in
their
motor
cars
on
errands
of
mystery
;
and
the
shopkeepers
were
fidgeting
in
their
windows
with
their
paste
and
diamonds
,
their
lovely
old
sea-green
brooches
in
eighteenth-century
settings
to
tempt
Americans
(
but
one
must
economise
,
not
buy
things
rashly
for
Elizabeth
)
,
and
she
,
too
,
loving
it
as
she
did
with
an
absurd
and
faithful
passion
,
being
part
of
it
,
since
her
people
were
courtiers
once
in
the
time
of
the
Georges
,
she
,
too
,
was
going
that
very
night
to
kindle
and
illuminate
;
to
give
her
party
.
But
how
strange
,
on
entering
the
Park
,
the
silence
;
the
mist
;
the
hum
;
the
slow-swimming
happy
ducks
;
the
pouched
birds
waddling
;
and
who
should
be
coming
along
with
his
back
against
the
Government
buildings
,
most
appropriately
,
carrying
a
despatch
box
stamped
with
the
Royal
Arms
,
who
but
Hugh
Whitbread
;
her
old
friend
Hugh
--
the
admirable
Hugh
!
"
Good-morning
to
you
,
Clarissa
!
"
said
Hugh
,
rather
extravagantly
,
for
they
had
known
each
other
as
children
.
"
Where
are
you
off
to
?
"
