На маяк. Уровень 3 / To the Lighthouse

“But,” said his father, “it won’t be fine.”

James was ready to gash a hole in his father’s breast and kill him. Mr. Ramsay annoyed his children very much by his mere presence. He liked to disillusion his son and cast ridicule upon his wife, who was ten thousand times better in every way than he was (James thought). What he said was true. It was always true. He was incapable of untruth.

“But it may be fine – I expect it will be fine,” said Mrs. Ramsay.

She was knitting the reddish brown stocking.

If she finishes it tonight, if they go to the Lighthouse after all, she will give the stockings to the Lighthouse keeper for his little boy. She will add a pile of old magazines, and some tobacco. Those poor fellows must be bored to death.

“It’s due west[2 - It’s due west. – Резко западный ветер.],” said the atheist Tansley.

That is to say, the wind blew from the worst possible direction for landing at the Lighthouse.

Tansley says disagreeable things, as usual.

None of her children liked him and still, Mrs. Ramsay invited him to stay with them in the Isle of Skye and protected him from their attacks.

There must be some simpler way, some less laborious way, she sighed. She looked in the glass and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty. In all probability, there were ways in which she could manage things better: for her husband and for her children. But for her own part[3 - for her own part – в отношении себя] she would never for a single second regret her decision.

“We’ll not land at the Lighthouse tomorrow,” said Charles Tansley.

He clapped his hands together as he stood at the window with her husband. Surely, he had said enough. She looked at him. He was miserable, the children said. He couldn’t play cricket; he poked; he shuffled. He was a sarcastic brute, Andrew said.

It was not his face; it was not his manners. It was him – his point of view. When they talked about something interesting, people, music, history, anything, Charles Tansley would always turn it into a talk about himself.

When the meal was over, the eight sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay went to their bedrooms. They were so critical, her children, Mrs. Ramsay thought. They talked such nonsense.

She went from the dining-room and ruminated the problem of rich and poor, and the things she saw with her own eyes, weekly, daily, here or in London. Social problems.