The Complete Novels of Virginia Woolf. Вирджиния Вулф

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СКАЧАТЬ where we hope you will come and see us when we get back.” Choosing “affectionately,” after some further speculation, rather than sincerely, she signed the letter and was doggedly beginning on another when Terence remarked, quoting from his book:

      “Listen to this, Rachel. ‘It is probable that Hugh’ (he’s the hero, a literary man), ‘had not realised at the time of his marriage, any more than the young man of parts and imagination usually does realise, the nature of the gulf which separates the needs and desires of the male from the needs and desires of the female…. At first they had been very happy. The walking tour in Switzerland had been a time of jolly companionship and stimulating revelations for both of them. Betty had proved herself the ideal comrade…. They had shouted Love in the Valley to each other across the snowy slopes of the Riffelhorn’ (and so on, and so on—I’ll skip the descriptions)…. ‘But in London, after the boy’s birth, all was changed. Betty was an admirable mother; but it did not take her long to find out that motherhood, as that function is understood by the mother of the upper middle classes, did not absorb the whole of her energies. She was young and strong, with healthy limbs and a body and brain that called urgently for exercise….’ (In short she began to give tea-parties.) … ‘Coming in late from this singular talk with old Bob Murphy in his smoky, book-lined room, where the two men had each unloosened his soul to the other, with the sound of the traffic humming in his ears, and the foggy London sky slung tragically across his mind … he found women’s hats dotted about among his papers. Women’s wraps and absurd little feminine shoes and umbrellas were in the hall…. Then the bills began to come in…. He tried to speak frankly to her. He found her lying on the great polar-bear skin in their bedroom, half-undressed, for they were dining with the Greens in Wilton Crescent, the ruddy firelight making the diamonds wink and twinkle on her bare arms and in the delicious curve of her breast—a vision of adorable femininity. He forgave her all.’ (Well, this goes from bad to worse, and finally about fifty pages later, Hugh takes a week-end ticket to Swanage and ‘has it out with himself on the downs above Corfe.’ … Here there’s fifteen pages or so which we’ll skip. The conclusion is …) ‘They were different. Perhaps, in the far future, when generations of men had struggled and failed as he must now struggle and fail, woman would be, indeed, what she now made a pretence of being—the friend and companion—not the enemy and parasite of man.’

      “The end of it is, you see, Hugh went back to his wife, poor fellow. It was his duty, as a married man. Lord, Rachel,” he concluded, “will it be like that when we’re married?”

      Instead of answering him she asked,

      “Why don’t people write about the things they do feel?”

      “Ah, that’s the difficulty!” he sighed, tossing the book away.

      “Well, then, what will it be like when we’re married? What are the things people do feel?”

      She seemed doubtful.

      “Sit on the floor and let me look at you,” he commanded. Resting her chin on his knee, she looked straight at him.

      He examined her curiously.

      “You’re not beautiful,” he began, “but I like your face. I like the way your hair grows down in a point, and your eyes too—they never see anything. Your mouth’s too big, and your cheeks would be better if they had more colour in them. But what I like about your face is that it makes one wonder what the devil you’re thinking about—it makes me want to do that—” He clenched his fist and shook it so near her that she started back, “because now you look as if you’d blow my brains out. There are moments,” he continued, “when, if we stood on a rock together, you’d throw me into the sea.”

      Hypnotised by the force of his eyes in hers, she repeated, “If we stood on a rock together—”

      To be flung into the sea, to be washed hither and thither, and driven about the roots of the world—the idea was incoherently delightful. She sprang up, and began moving about the room, bending and thrusting aside the chairs and tables as if she were indeed striking through the waters. He watched her with pleasure; she seemed to be cleaving a passage for herself, and dealing triumphantly with the obstacles which would hinder their passage through life.

      “It does seem possible!” he exclaimed, “though I’ve always thought it the most unlikely thing in the world—I shall be in love with you all my life, and our marriage will be the most exciting thing that’s ever been done! We’ll never have a moment’s peace—” He caught her in his arms as she passed him, and they fought for mastery, imagining a rock, and the sea heaving beneath them. At last she was thrown to the floor, where she lay gasping, and crying for mercy.

      “I’m a mermaid! I can swim,” she cried, “so the game’s up.” Her dress was torn across, and peace being established, she fetched a needle and thread and began to mend the tear.

      “And now,” she said, “be quiet and tell me about the world; tell me about everything that’s ever happened, and I’ll tell you—let me see, what can I tell you?—I’ll tell you about Miss Montgomerie and the river party. She was left, you see, with one foot in the boat, and the other on shore.”

      They had spent much time already in thus filling out for the other the course of their past lives, and the characters of their friends and relations, so that very soon Terence knew not only what Rachel’s aunts might be expected to say upon every occasion, but also how their bedrooms were furnished, and what kind of bonnets they wore. He could sustain a conversation between Mrs. Hunt and Rachel, and carry on a tea-party including the Rev. William Johnson and Miss Macquoid, the Christian Scientists, with remarkable likeness to the truth. But he had known many more people, and was far more highly skilled in the art of narrative than Rachel was, whose experiences were, for the most part, of a curiously childlike and humorous kind, so that it generally fell to her lot to listen and ask questions.

      He told her not only what had happened, but what he had thought and felt, and sketched for her portraits which fascinated her of what other men and women might be supposed to be thinking and feeling, so that she became very anxious to go back to England, which was full of people, where she could merely stand in the streets and look at them. According to him, too, there was an order, a pattern which made life reasonable, or if that word was foolish, made it of deep interest anyhow, for sometimes it seemed possible to understand why things happened as they did. Nor were people so solitary and uncommunicative as she believed. She should look for vanity—for vanity was a common quality—first in herself, and then in Helen, in Ridley, in St. John, they all had their share of it—and she would find it in ten people out of every twelve she met; and once linked together by one such tie she would find them not separate and formidable, but practically indistinguishable, and she would come to love them when she found that they were like herself.

      If she denied this, she must defend her belief that human beings were as various as the beasts at the Zoo, which had stripes and manes, and horns and humps; and so, wrestling over the entire list of their acquaintances, and diverging into anecdote and theory and speculation, they came to know each other. The hours passed quickly, and seemed to them full to leaking-point. After a night’s solitude they were always ready to begin again.

      The virtues which Mrs. Ambrose had once believed to exist in free talk between men and women did in truth exist for both of them, although not quite in the measure she prescribed. Far more than upon the nature of sex they dwelt upon the nature of poetry, but it was true that talk which had no boundaries deepened and enlarged the strangely small bright view of a girl. In return for what he could tell her she brought him such curiosity and sensitiveness of perception, that he was led to doubt whether any gift bestowed by much reading and living was quite the equal of that for pleasure and pain. What would experience give her after all, except a kind of ridiculous formal balance, like that СКАЧАТЬ