Part 1 The Window Chapter 1
      "Yes, of course, if it's fine tomorrow," said Mrs Ramsay. "But you'll haveto be up with the lark," she added.
　　To her son these words conveyed an extraordinary joy, as if it weresettled, the expedition were bound to take place, and the wonder towhich he had looked forward, for years and years it seemed, was, after anight's darkness and a day's sail, within touch. Since he belonged, evenat the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling separatefrom that, but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows,cloud what is actually at hand, since to such people even in earliestchildhood any turn in the wheel of sensation has the power to crystalliseand transfix the moment upon which its gloom or radiance rests, JamesRamsay, sitting on the floor cutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogueof the Army and Navy stores, endowed the picture of a refrigerator,as his mother spoke, with heavenly bliss. It was fringed with joy. Thewheelbarrow, the lawnmower, the sound of poplar trees, leaves whiteningbefore rain, rooks cawing, brooms knocking, dresses rustling—allthese were so coloured and distinguished in his mind that he hadalready his private code, his secret language, though he appeared the imageof stark and uncompromising severity, with his high forehead andhis fierce blue eyes, impeccably candid and pure, frowning slightly at thesight of human frailty, so that his mother, watching him guide his scissorsneatly round the refrigerator, imagined him all red and ermine onthe Bench or directing a stern and momentous enterprise in some crisisof public affairs.
　　"But," said his father, stopping in front of the drawing-room window,"it won't be fine."Had there been an axe handy, a poker, or any weapon that wouldhave gashed a hole in his father's breast and killed him, there and then,James would have seized it. Such were the extremes of emotion that MrRamsay excited in his children's breasts by his mere presence; standing,as now, lean as a knife, narrow as the blade of one, grinning sarcastically,not only with the pleasure of disillusioning his son and casting ridiculeupon his wife, who was ten thousand times better in every way than hewas (James thought), but also with some secret conceit at his own accuracyof judgement. What he said was true. It was always true. He was incapableof untruth; never tampered with a fact; never altered a disagreeableword to suit the pleasure or convenience of any mortal being, leastof all of his own children, who, sprung from his loins, should be awarefrom childhood that life is difficult; facts uncompromising; and the passageto that fabled land where our brightest hopes are extinguished, ourfrail barks founder in darkness (here Mr Ramsay would straighten hisback and narrow his little blue eyes upon the horizon), one that needs,above all, courage, truth, and the power to endure.
　　"But it may be fine—I expect it will be fine," said Mrs Ramsay, makingsome little twist of the reddish brown stocking she was knitting, impatiently.
　　If she finished it tonight, if they did go to the Lighthouse after all,it was to be given to the Lighthouse keeper for his little boy, who wasthreatened with a tuberculous hip; together with a pile of old magazines,and some tobacco, indeed, whatever she could find lying about, notreally wanted, but only littering the room, to give those poor fellows,who must be bored to death sitting all day with nothing to do but polishthe lamp and trim the wick and rake about on their scrap of garden,something to amuse them. For how would you like to be shut up for awhole month at a time, and possibly more in stormy weather, upon arock the size of a tennis lawn? she would ask; and to have no letters ornewspapers, and to see nobody; if you were married, not to see yourwife, not to know how your children were,—if they were ill, if they hadfallen down and broken their legs or arms; to see the same dreary wavesbreaking week after week, and then a dreadful storm coming, and thewindows covered with spray, and birds dashed against the lamp, andthe whole place rocking, and not be able to put your nose out of doorsfor fear of being swept into the sea? How would you like that? she asked,addressing herself particularly to her daughters. So she added, ratherdifferently, one must take them whatever comforts one can.
　　"It's due west," said the atheist Tansley, holding his bony fingersspread so that the wind blew through them, for he was sharing MrRamsay's evening walk up and down, up and down the terrace. That isto say, the wind blew from the worst possible direction for landing at theLighthouse. Yes, he did say disagreeable things, Mrs Ramsay admitted; itwas odious of him to rub this in, and make James still more disappointed;but at the same time, she would not let them laugh at him. "Theatheist," they called him; "the little atheist." Rose mocked him; Pruemocked him; Andrew, Jasper, Roger mocked him; even old Badgerwithout a tooth in his head had bit him, for being (as Nancy put it) thehundred and tenth young man to chase them all the way up to theHebrides when it was ever so much nicer to be alone.
　　"Nonsense," said Mrs Ramsay, with great severity. Apart from thehabit of exaggeration which they had from her, and from the implication(which was true) that she asked too many people to stay, and had tolodge some in the town, she could not bear incivility to her guests, toyoung men in particular, who were poor as churchmice, "exceptionallyable," her husband said, his great admirers, and come there for a holiday.
　　Indeed, she had the whole of the other sex under her protection; for reasonsshe could not explain, for their chivalry and valour, for the fact thatthey negotiated treaties, ruled India, controlled finance; finally for an attitudetowards herself which no woman could fail to feel or to findagreeable, something trustful, childlike, reverential; which an old womancould take from a young man without loss of dignity, and woebetide the girl—pray Heaven it was none of her daughters!—who didnot feel the worth of it, and all that it implied, to the marrow of herbones!
　　She turned with severity upon Nancy. He had not chased them, shesaid. He had been asked.
　　They must find a way out of it all. There might be some simpler way,some less laborious way, she sighed. When she looked in the glass andsaw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty, she thought, possibly shemight have managed things better—her husband; money; his books. Butfor her own part she would never for a single second regret her decision,evade difficulties, or slur over duties. She was now formidable to behold,and it was only in silence, looking up from their plates, after she hadspoken so severely about Charles Tansley, that her daughters, Prue,Nancy, Rose—could sport with infidel ideas which they had brewed forthemselves of a life different from hers; in Paris, perhaps; a wilder life;not always taking care of some man or other; for there was in all theirminds a mute questioning of deference and chivalry, of the Bank of Englandand the Indian Empire, of ringed fingers and lace, though to themall there was something in this of the essence of beauty, which called outthe manliness in their girlish hearts, and made them, as they sat at tablebeneath their mother's eyes, honour her strange severity, her extremecourtesy, like a queen's raising from the mud to wash a beggar's dirtyfoot, when she admonished them so very severely about that wretchedatheist who had chased them—or, speaking accurately, been invited tostay with them—in the Isle of Skye.
　　"There'll be no landing at the Lighthouse tomorrow," said CharlesTansley, clapping his hands together as he stood at the window with herhusband. Surely, he had said enough. She wished they would both leaveher and James alone and go on talking. She looked at him. He was such amiserable specimen, the children said, all humps and hollows. Hecouldn't play cricket; he poked; he shuffled. He was a sarcastic brute,Andrew said. They knew what he liked best—to be for ever walking upand down, up and down, with Mr Ramsay, and saying who had wonthis, who had won that, who was a "first rate man" at Latin verses, whowas "brilliant but I think fundamentally unsound," who was undoubtedlythe "ablest fellow in Balliol," who had buried his light temporarilyat Bristol or Bedford, but was bound to be heard of later when hisProlegomena, of which Mr Tansley had the first pages in proof with himif Mr Ramsay would like to see them, to some branch of mathematics orphilosophy saw the light of day. That was what they talked about.
　　She could not help laughing herself sometimes. She said, the otherday, something about "waves mountains high." Yes, said Charles Tans-ley, it was a little rough. "Aren't you drenched to the skin?" she had said.
　　"Damp, not wet through," said Mr Tansley, pinching his sleeve, feelinghis socks.
　　But it was not that they minded, the children said. It was not his face;it was not his manners. It was him—his point of view. When they talkedabout something interesting, people, music, history, anything, even saidit was a fine evening so why not sit out of doors, then what they complainedof about Charles Tansley was that until he had turned the wholething round and made it somehow reflect himself and disparagethem—he was not satisfied. And he would go to picture galleries theysaid, and he would ask one, did one like his tie? God knows, said Rose,one did not.
　　Disappearing as stealthily as stags from the dinner-table directly themeal was over, the eight sons and daughters of Mr and Mrs Ramsaysought their bedrooms, their fastness in a house where there was no otherprivacy to debate anything, everything; Tansley's tie; the passing ofthe Reform Bill; sea birds and butterflies; people; while the sun pouredinto those attics, which a plank alone separated from each other so thatevery footstep could be plainly heard and the Swiss girl sobbing for herfather who was dying of cancer in a valley of the Grisons, and lit up bats,flannels, straw hats, ink-pots, paint-pots, beetles, and the skulls of smallbirds, while it drew from the long frilled strips of seaweed pinned to thewall a smell of salt and weeds, which was in the towels too, gritty withsand from bathing.
　　Strife, divisions, difference of opinion, prejudices twisted into the veryfibre of being, oh, that they should begin so early, Mrs Ramsay deplored.
　　They were so critical, her children. They talked such nonsense. She wentfrom the dining-room, holding James by the hand, since he would not gowith the others. It seemed to her such nonsense—inventing differences,when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that. Thereal differences, she thought, standing by the drawing-room window,are enough, quite enough. She had in mind at the moment, rich andpoor, high and low; the great in birth receiving from her, half grudging,some respect, for had she not in her veins the blood of that very noble, ifslightly mythical, Italian house, whose daughters, scattered aboutEnglish drawing-rooms in the nineteenth century, had lisped so charmingly,had stormed so wildly, and all her wit and her bearing and hertemper came from them, and not from the sluggish English, or the coldScotch; but more profoundly, she ruminated the other problem, of richand poor, and the things she saw with her own eyes, weekly, daily, hereor in London, when she visited this widow, or that struggling wife inperson with a bag on her arm, and a note-book and pencil with whichshe wrote down in columns carefully ruled for the purpose wages andspendings, employment and unemployment, in the hope that thus shewould cease to be a private woman whose charity was half a sop to herown indignation, half a relief to her own curiosity, and become whatwith her untrained mind she greatly admired, an investigator, elucidatingthe social problem.
　　Insoluble questions they were, it seemed to her, standing there, holdingJames by the hand. He had followed her into the drawing-room, thatyoung man they laughed at; he was standing by the table, fidgeting withsomething, awkwardly, feeling himself out of things, as she knewwithout looking round. They had all gone—the children; Minta Doyleand Paul Rayley; Augustus Carmichael; her husband—they had all gone.
　　So she turned with a sigh and said, "Would it bore you to come with me,Mr Tansley?"She had a dull errand in the town; she had a letter or two to write; shewould be ten minutes perhaps; she would put on her hat. And, with herbasket and her parasol, there she was again, ten minutes later, giving outa sense of being ready, of being equipped for a jaunt, which, however,she must interrupt for a moment, as they passed the tennis lawn, to askMr Carmichael, who was basking with his yellow cat's eyes ajar, so thatlike a cat's they seemed to reflect the branches moving or the cloudspassing, but to give no inkling of any inner thoughts or emotion whatsoever,if he wanted anything.
　　For they were making the great expedition, she said, laughing. Theywere going to the town. "Stamps, writing-paper, tobacco?" she suggested,stopping by his side. But no, he wanted nothing. His hands claspedthemselves over his capacious paunch, his eyes blinked, as if he wouldhave liked to reply kindly to these blandishments (she was seductive buta little nervous) but could not, sunk as he was in a grey-green somnolencewhich embraced them all, without need of words, in a vast and benevolentlethargy of well-wishing; all the house; all the world; all thepeople in it, for he had slipped into his glass at lunch a few drops ofsomething, which accounted, the children thought, for the vivid streak ofcanary-yellow in moustache and beard that were otherwise milk white.
　　No, nothing, he murmured.
　　He should have been a great philosopher, said Mrs Ramsay, as theywent down the road to the fishing village, but he had made an unfortunatemarriage. Holding her black parasol very erect, and moving with anindescribable air of expectation, as if she were going to meet some oneround the corner, she told the story; an affair at Oxford with some girl;an early marriage; poverty; going to India; translating a little poetry"very beautifully, I believe," being willing to teach the boys Persian orHindustanee, but what really was the use of that?—and then lying, asthey saw him, on the lawn.
　　It flattered him; snubbed as he had been, it soothed him that Mrs Ram-say should tell him this. Charles Tansley revived. Insinuating, too, as shedid the greatness of man's intellect, even in its decay, the subjection of allwives—not that she blamed the girl, and the marriage had been happyenough, she believed—to their husband's labours, she made him feel betterpleased with himself than he had done yet, and he would have liked,had they taken a cab, for example, to have paid the fare. As for her littlebag, might he not carry that? No, no, she said, she always carried THATherself. She did too. Yes, he felt that in her. He felt many things,something in particular that excited him and disturbed him for reasonswhich he could not give. He would like her to see him, gowned andhooded, walking in a procession. A fellowship, a professorship, he feltcapable of anything and saw himself—but what was she looking at? At aman pasting a bill. The vast flapping sheet flattened itself out, and eachshove of the brush revealed fresh legs, hoops, horses, glistening reds andblues, beautifully smooth, until half the wall was covered with the advertisementof a circus; a hundred horsemen, twenty performing seals,lions, tigers… Craning forwards, for she was short-sighted, she read itout… "will visit this town," she read. It was terribly dangerous work fora one-armed man, she exclaimed, to stand on top of a ladder likethat—his left arm had been cut off in a reaping machine two years ago.
　　"Let us all go!" she cried, moving on, as if all those riders and horseshad filled her with childlike exultation and made her forget her pity.
　　"Let's go," he said, repeating her words, clicking them out, however,with a self-consciousness that made her wince. "Let us all go to the circus."No. He could not say it right. He could not feel it right. But whynot? she wondered. What was wrong with him then? She liked himwarmly, at the moment. Had they not been taken, she asked, to circuseswhen they were children? Never, he answered, as if she asked the verything he wanted; had been longing all these days to say, how they didnot go to circuses. It was a large family, nine brothers and sisters, and hisfather was a working man. "My father is a chemist, Mrs Ramsay. Hekeeps a shop." He himself had paid his own way since he was thirteen.
　　Often he went without a greatcoat in winter. He could never "return hospitality"(those were his parched stiff words) at college. He had to makethings last twice the time other people did; he smoked the cheapest tobacco;shag; the same the old men did in the quays. He workedhard—seven hours a day; his subject was now the influence ofsomething upon somebody—they were walking on and Mrs Ramsay didnot quite catch the meaning, only the words, here and there… dissertation…fellowship… readership… lectureship. She could not follow theugly academic jargon, that rattled itself off so glibly, but said to herselfthat she saw now why going to the circus had knocked him off his perch,poor little man, and why he came out, instantly, with all that about hisfather and mother and brothers and sisters, and she would see to it thatthey didn't laugh at him any more; she would tell Prue about it. What hewould have liked, she supposed, would have been to say how he hadgone not to the circus but to Ibsen with the Ramsays. He was an awfulprig—oh yes, an insufferable bore. For, though they had reached thetown now and were in the main street, with carts grinding past on thecobbles, still he went on talking, about settlements, and teaching, andworking men, and helping our own class, and lectures, till she gatheredthat he had got back entire self-confidence, had recovered from the circus,and was about (and now again she liked him warmly) to tellher—but here, the houses falling away on both sides, they came out onthe quay, and the whole bay spread before them and Mrs Ramsay couldnot help exclaiming, "Oh, how beautiful!" For the great plateful of bluewater was before her; the hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in themidst; and on the right, as far as the eye could see, fading and falling, insoft low pleats, the green sand dunes with the wild flowing grasses onthem, which always seemed to be running away into some moon country,uninhabited of men.
　　That was the view, she said, stopping, growing greyer-eyed, that herhusband loved.
　　She paused a moment. But now, she said, artists had come here. Thereindeed, only a few paces off, stood one of them, in Panama hat and yellowboots, seriously, softly, absorbedly, for all that he was watched byten little boys, with an air of profound contentment on his round red facegazing, and then, when he had gazed, dipping; imbuing the tip of hisbrush in some soft mound of green or pink. Since Mr Paunceforte hadbeen there, three years before, all the pictures were like that, she said,green and grey, with lemon-coloured sailing-boats, and pink women onthe beach.
　　But her grandmother's friends, she said, glancing discreetly as theypassed, took the greatest pains; first they mixed their own colours, andthen they ground them, and then they put damp cloths to keep themmoist.
　　So Mr Tansley supposed she meant him to see that that man's picturewas skimpy, was that what one said? The colours weren't solid? Wasthat what one said? Under the influence of that extraordinary emotionwhich had been growing all the walk, had begun in the garden when hehad wanted to take her bag, had increased in the town when he hadwanted to tell her everything about himself, he was coming to see himself,and everything he had ever known gone crooked a little. It was awfullystrange.
　　There he stood in the parlour of the poky little house where she hadtaken him, waiting for her, while she went upstairs a moment to see awoman. He heard her quick step above; heard her voice cheerful, thenlow; looked at the mats, tea-caddies, glass shades; waited quite impatiently;looked forward eagerly to the walk home; determined to carryher bag; then heard her come out; shut a door; say they must keep thewindows open and the doors shut, ask at the house for anything theywanted (she must be talking to a child) when, suddenly, in she came,stood for a moment silent (as if she had been pretending up there, andfor a moment let herself be now), stood quite motionless for a momentagainst a picture of Queen Victoria wearing the blue ribbon of the Garter;when all at once he realised that it was this: it was this:—she was themost beautiful person he had ever seen.
　　With stars in her eyes and veils in her hair, with cyclamen and wild violets—what nonsense was he thinking? She was fifty at least; she hadeight children. Stepping through fields of flowers and taking to herbreast buds that had broken and lambs that had fallen; with the stars inher eyes and the wind in her hair—He had hold of her bag.
　　"Good-bye, Elsie," she said, and they walked up the street, she holdingher parasol erect and walking as if she expected to meet some one roundthe corner, while for the first time in his life Charles Tansley felt an extraordinarypride; a man digging in a drain stopped digging and lookedat her, let his arm fall down and looked at her; for the first time in his lifeCharles Tansley felt an extraordinary pride; felt the wind and the cyclamenand the violets for he was walking with a beautiful woman. He hadhold of her bag.
Part 1 Chapter 2
    "No going to the Lighthouse, James," he said, as trying in deference toMrs Ramsay to soften his voice into some semblance of geniality at least.
　　Odious little man, thought Mrs Ramsay, why go on saying that?
Part 1 Chapter 3
    "Perhaps you will wake up and find the sun shining and the birdssinging," she said compassionately, smoothing the little boy's hair, forher husband, with his caustic saying that it would not be fine, haddashed his spirits she could see. This going to the Lighthouse was a passionof his, she saw, and then, as if her husband had not said enough,with his caustic saying that it would not be fine tomorrow, this odiouslittle man went and rubbed it in all over again.
　　"Perhaps it will be fine tomorrow," she said, smoothing his hair.
　　All she could do now was to admire the refrigerator, and turn thepages of the Stores list in the hope that she might come upon somethinglike a rake, or a mowing-machine, which, with its prongs and its handles,would need the greatest skill and care in cutting out. All these youngmen parodied her husband, she reflected; he said it would rain; they saidit would be a positive tornado.
　　But here, as she turned the page, suddenly her search for the picture ofa rake or a mowing-machine was interrupted. The gruff murmur, irregularlybroken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes whichhad kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (asshe sat in the window which opened on the terrace), that the men werehappily talking; this sound, which had lasted now half an hour and hadtaken its place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her,such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then,"How's that? How's that?" of the children playing cricket, had ceased; sothat the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the mostpart beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemedconsolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children thewords of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, "I am guardingyou—I am your support," but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly,especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually inhand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselesslybeat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction ofthe island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day hadslipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephermal asa rainbow—this sound which had been obscured and concealed underthe other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made herlook up with an impulse of terror.
　　They had ceased to talk; that was the explanation. Falling in onesecond from the tension which had gripped her to the other extremewhich, as if to recoup her for her unnecessary expense of emotion, wascool, amused, and even faintly malicious, she concluded that poorCharles Tansley had been shed. That was of little account to her. If herhusband required sacrifices (and indeed he did) she cheerfully offeredup to him Charles Tansley, who had snubbed her little boy.
　　One moment more, with her head raised, she listened, as if she waitedfor some habitual sound, some regular mechanical sound; and then,hearing something rhythmical, half said, half chanted, beginning in thegarden, as her husband beat up and down the terrace, somethingbetween a croak and a song, she was soothed once more, assured againthat all was well, and looking down at the book on her knee found thepicture of a pocket knife with six blades which could only be cut out ifJames was very careful.
　　Suddenly a loud cry, as of a sleep-walker, half roused, somethingaboutStormed at with shot and shellsung out with the utmost intensity in her ear, made her turn apprehensivelyto see if anyone had heard him. Only Lily Briscoe, she wasglad to find; and that did not matter. But the sight of the girl standing onthe edge of the lawn painting reminded her; she was supposed to bekeeping her head as much in the same position as possible for Lily's picture.
　　Lily's picture! Mrs Ramsay smiled. With her little Chinese eyes andher puckered-up face, she would never marry; one could not take herpainting very seriously; she was an independent little creature, and MrsRamsay liked her for it; so, remembering her promise, she bent her head.
Part 1 Chapter 4
    Indeed, he almost knocked her easel over, coming down upon her withhis hands waving shouting out, "Boldly we rode and well," but, mercifully,he turned sharp, and rode off, to die gloriously she supposed uponthe heights of Balaclava. Never was anybody at once so ridiculous and soalarming. But so long as he kept like that, waving, shouting, she wassafe; he would not stand still and look at her picture. And that was whatLily Briscoe could not have endured. Even while she looked at the mass,at the line, at the colour, at Mrs Ramsay sitting in the window withJames, she kept a feeler on her surroundings lest some one should creepup, and suddenly she should find her picture looked at. But now, withall her senses quickened as they were, looking, straining, till the colour ofthe wall and the jacmanna beyond burnt into her eyes, she was aware ofsomeone coming out of the house, coming towards her; but somehow divined,from the footfall, William Bankes, so that though her brushquivered, she did not, as she would have done had it been Mr Tansley,Paul Rayley, Minta Doyle, or practically anybody else, turn her canvasupon the grass, but let it stand. William Bankes stood beside her.
　　They had rooms in the village, and so, walking in, walking out, partinglate on door-mats, had said little things about the soup, about thechildren, about one thing and another which made them allies; so thatwhen he stood beside her now in his judicial way (he was old enough tobe her father too, a botanist, a widower, smelling of soap, very scrupulousand clean) she just stood there. He just stood there. Her shoes wereexcellent, he observed. They allowed the toes their natural expansion.
　　Lodging in the same house with her, he had noticed too, how orderly shewas, up before breakfast and off to paint, he believed, alone: poor, presumably,and without the complexion or the allurement of Miss Doylecertainly, but with a good sense which made her in his eyes superior tothat young lady. Now, for instance, when Ramsay bore down on them,shouting, gesticulating, Miss Briscoe, he felt certain, understood.
　　Some one had blundered.
　　Mr Ramsay glared at them. He glared at them without seeming to seethem. That did make them both vaguely uncomfortable. Together theyhad seen a thing they had not been meant to see. They had encroachedupon a privacy. So, Lily thought, it was probably an excuse of his formoving, for getting out of earshot, that made Mr Bankes almost immediatelysay something about its being chilly and suggested taking a stroll.
　　She would come, yes. But it was with difficulty that she took her eyes offher picture.
　　The jacmanna was bright violet; the wall staring white. She would nothave considered it honest to tamper with the bright violet and the staringwhite, since she saw them like that, fashionable though it was, since MrPaunceforte's visit, to see everything pale, elegant, semitransparent.
　　Then beneath the colour there was the shape. She could see it all soclearly, so commandingly, when she looked: it was when she took herbrush in hand that the whole thing changed. It was in that moment'sflight between the picture and her canvas that the demons set on herwho often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage fromconception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child.
　　Such she often felt herself—struggling against terrific odds to maintainher courage; to say: "But this is what I see; this is what I see," and so toclasp some miserable remnant of her vision to her breast, which a thousandforces did their best to pluck from her. And it was then too, in thatchill and windy way, as she began to paint, that there forced themselvesupon her other things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance, keepinghouse for her father off the Brompton Road, and had much ado to controlher impulse to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always resistedso far) at Mrs Ramsay's knee and say to her—but what could one say toher? "I'm in love with you?" No, that was not true. "I'm in love with thisall," waving her hand at the hedge, at the house, at the children. It wasabsurd, it was impossible. So now she laid her brushes neatly in the box,side by side, and said to William Bankes:
　　"It suddenly gets cold. The sun seems to give less heat," she said, lookingabout her, for it was bright enough, the grass still a soft deep green,the house starred in its greenery with purple passion flowers, and rooksdropping cool cries from the high blue. But something moved, flashed,turned a silver wing in the air. It was September after all, the middle ofSeptember, and past six in the evening. So off they strolled down thegarden in the usual direction, past the tennis lawn, past the pampasgrass, to that break in the thick hedge, guarded by red hot pokers likebrasiers of clear burning coal, between which the blue waters of the baylooked bluer than ever.
　　They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It wasas if the water floated off and set sailing thoughts which had grown stagnanton dry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort of physical relief.
　　First, the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue, and the heart expandedwith it and the body swam, only the next instant to be checkedand chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled waves. Then, up behindthe great black rock, almost every evening spurted irregularly, sothat one had to watch for it and it was a delight when it came, a fountainof white water; and then, while one waited for that, one watched, on thepale semicircular beach, wave after wave shedding again and againsmoothly, a film of mother of pearl.
　　They both smiled, standing there. They both felt a common hilarity,excited by the moving waves; and then by the swift cutting race of a sailingboat, which, having sliced a curve in the bay, stopped; shivered; letits sails drop down; and then, with a natural instinct to complete the picture,after this swift movement, both of them looked at the dunes faraway, and instead of merriment felt come over them some sadness—because the thing was completed partly, and partly because distantviews seem to outlast by a million years (Lily thought) the gazer andto be communing already with a sky which beholds an earth entirely atrest.
　　Looking at the far sand hills, William Bankes thought of Ramsay:
　　thought of a road in Westmorland, thought of Ramsay striding along aroad by himself hung round with that solitude which seemed to be hisnatural air. But this was suddenly interrupted, William Bankes remembered(and this must refer to some actual incident), by a hen, straddlingher wings out in protection of a covey of little chicks, upon whichRamsay, stopping, pointed his stick and said "Pretty—pretty," an odd illuminationin to his heart, Bankes had thought it, which showed his simplicity,his sympathy with humble things; but it seemed to him as if theirfriendship had ceased, there, on that stretch of road. After that, Ramsayhad married. After that, what with one thing and another, the pulp hadgone out of their friendship. Whose fault it was he could not say, only,after a time, repetition had taken the place of newness. It was to repeatthat they met. But in this dumb colloquy with the sand dunes he maintainedthat his affection for Ramsay had in no way diminished; but there,like the body of a young man laid up in peat for a century, with the redfresh on his lips, was his friendship, in its acuteness and reality, laid upacross the bay among the sandhills.
　　He was anxious for the sake of this friendship and perhaps too in orderto clear himself in his own mind from the imputation of having driedand shrunk—for Ramsay lived in a welter of children, whereas Bankeswas childless and a widower—he was anxious that Lily Briscoe shouldnot disparage Ramsay (a great man in his own way) yet should understandhow things stood between them. Begun long years ago, theirfriendship had petered out on a Westmorland road, where the henspread her wings before her chicks; after which Ramsay had married,and their paths lying different ways, there had been, certainly for noone's fault, some tendency, when they met, to repeat.
　　Yes. That was it. He finished. He turned from the view. And, turningto walk back the other way, up the drive, Mr Bankes was alive to thingswhich would not have struck him had not those sandhills revealed tohim the body of his friendship lying with the red on its lips laid up inpeat—for instance, Cam, the little girl, Ramsay's youngest daughter. Shewas picking Sweet Alice on the bank. She was wild and fierce. Shewould not "give a flower to the gentleman" as the nursemaid told her.
　　No! no! no! she would not! She clenched her fist. She stamped. And MrBankes felt aged and saddened and somehow put into the wrong by herabout his friendship. He must have dried and shrunk.
　　The Ramsays were not rich, and it was a wonder how they managed tocontrive it all. Eight children! To feed eight children on philosophy! Herewas another of them, Jasper this time, strolling past, to have a shot at abird, he said, nonchalantly, swinging Lily's hand like a pump-handle ashe passed, which caused Mr Bankes to say, bitterly, how SHE was a favourite.
　　There was education now to be considered (true, Mrs Ramsayhad something of her own perhaps) let alone the daily wear and tear ofshoes and stockings which those "great fellows," all well grown, angular,ruthless youngsters, must require. As for being sure which was which, orin what order they came, that was beyond him. He called them privatelyafter the Kings and Queens of England; Cam the Wicked, James theRuthless, Andrew the Just, Prue the Fair—for Prue would have beauty,he thought, how could she help it?—and Andrew brains. While hewalked up the drive and Lily Briscoe said yes and no and capped hiscomments (for she was in love with them all, in love with this world) heweighed Ramsay's case, commiserated him, envied him, as if he had seenhim divest himself of all those glories of isolation and austerity whichcrowned him in youth to cumber himself definitely with fluttering wingsand clucking domesticities. They gave him something—William Bankesacknowledged that; it would have been pleasant if Cam had stuck aflower in his coat or clambered over his shoulder, as over her father's, tolook at a picture of Vesuviusin eruption; but they had also, his oldfriends could not but feel, destroyed something. What would a strangerthink now? What did this Lily Briscoe think? Could one help noticingthat habits grew on him? eccentricities, weaknesses perhaps? It was astonishingthat a man of his intellect could stoop so low as he did—butthat was too harsh a phrase—could depend so much as he did uponpeople's praise.
　　"Oh, but," said Lily, "think of his work!"Whenever she "thought of his work" she always saw clearly before hera large kitchen table. It was Andrew's doing. She asked him what hisfather's books were about. "Subject and object and the nature of reality,"Andrew had said. And when she said Heavens, she had no notion whatthat meant. "Think of a kitchen table then," he told her, "when you're notthere."So now she always saw, when she thought of Mr Ramsay's work, ascrubbed kitchen table. It lodged now in the fork of a pear tree, for theyhad reached the orchard. And with a painful effort of concentration, shefocused her mind, not upon the silver-bossed bark of the tree, or upon itsfish-shaped leaves, but upon a phantom kitchen table, one of thosescrubbed board tables, grained and knotted, whose virtue seems to havebeen laid bare by years of muscular integrity, which stuck there, its fourlegs in air. Naturally, if one's days were passed in this seeing of angularessences, this reducing of lovely evenings, with all their flamingo cloudsand blue and silver to a white deal four-legged table (and it was a markof the finest minds to do so), naturally one could not be judged like anordinary person.
　　Mr Bankes liked her for bidding him "think of his work." He hadthought of it, often and often. Times without number, he had said,"Ramsay is one of those men who do their best work before they areforty." He had made a definite contribution to philosophy in one littlebook when he was only five and twenty; what came after was more orless amplification, repetition. But the number of men who make a definitecontribution to anything whatsoever is very small, he said, pausingby the pear tree, well brushed, scrupulously exact, exquisitely judicial.
　　Suddenly, as if the movement of his hand had released it, the load of heraccumulated impressions of him tilted up, and down poured in aponderous avalanche all she felt about him. That was one sensation.
　　Then up rose in a fume the essence of his being. That was another. Shefelt herself transfixed by the intensity of her perception; it was his severity;his goodness. I respect you (she addressed silently him in person) inevery atom; you are not vain; you are entirely impersonal; you are finerthan Mr Ramsay; you are the finest human being that I know; you haveneither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling, she longed to cherishthat loneliness), you live for science (involuntarily, sections of potatoesrose before her eyes); praise would be an insult to you; generous, pure-hearted, heroic man! But simultaneously, she remembered how he hadbrought a valet all the way up here; objected to dogs on chairs; wouldprose for hours (until Mr Ramsay slammed out of the room) about salt invegetables and the iniquity of English cooks.
　　How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think ofthem? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it was likingone felt or disliking? And to those words, what meaning attached, afterall? Standing now, apparently transfixed, by the pear tree, impressionspoured in upon her of those two men, and to follow her thought was likefollowing a voice which speaks too quickly to be taken down by one'spencil, and the voice was her own voice saying without prompting undeniable,everlasting, contradictory things, so that even the fissures andhumps on the bark of the pear tree were irrevocably fixed there for eternity.
　　You have greatness, she continued, but Mr Ramsay has none of it. Heis petty, selfish, vain, egotistical; he is spoilt; he is a tyrant; he wears MrsRamsay to death; but he has what you (she addressed Mr Bankes) havenot; a fiery unworldliness; he knows nothing about trifles; he loves dogsand his children. He has eight. Mr Bankes has none. Did he not comedown in two coats the other night and let Mrs Ramsay trim his hair intoa pudding basin? All of this danced up and down, like a company ofgnats, each separate but all marvellously controlled in an invisible elasticnet—danced up and down in Lily's mind, in and about the branches ofthe pear tree, where still hung in effigy the scrubbed kitchen table, symbolof her profound respect for Mr Ramsay's mind, until her thoughtwhich had spun quicker and quicker exploded of its own intensity; shefelt released; a shot went off close at hand, and there came, flying fromits fragments, frightened, effusive, tumultuous, a flock of starlings.
　　"Jasper!" said Mr Bankes. They turned the way the starlings flew, overthe terrace. Following the scatter of swift-flying birds in the sky theystepped through the gap in the high hedge straight into Mr Ramsay, whoboomed tragically at them, "Some one had blundered!"His eyes, glazed with emotion, defiant with tragic intensity, met theirsfor a second, and trembled on the verge of recognition; but then, raisinghis hand, half-way to his face as if to avert, to brush off, in an agony ofpeevish shame, their normal gaze, as if he begged them to withhold for amoment what he knew to be inevitable, as if he impressed upon them hisown child-like resentment of interruption, yet even in the moment of discoverywas not to be routed utterly, but was determined to hold fast tosomething of this delicious emotion, this impure rhapsody of which hewas ashamed, but in which he revelled—he turned abruptly, slammedhis private door on them; and, Lily Briscoe and Mr Bankes, looking uneasilyup into the sky, observed that the flock of starlings which Jasperhad routed with his gun had settled on the tops of the elm trees.
Part 1 Chapter 5
    "And even if it isn't fine tomorrow," said Mrs Ramsay, raising her eyes toglance at William Bankes and Lily Briscoe as they passed, "it will be anotherday. And now," she said, thinking that Lily's charm was herChinese eyes, aslant in her white, puckered little face, but it would take aclever man to see it, "and now stand up, and let me measure your leg,"for they might go to the Lighthouse after all, and she must see if thestocking did not need to be an inch or two longer in the leg.
　　Smiling, for it was an admirable idea, that had flashed upon her thisvery second—William and Lily should marry—she took the heather-mixture stocking, with its criss-cross of steel needles at the mouth of it,and measured it against James's leg.
　　"My dear, stand still," she said, for in his jealousy, not liking to serve asmeasuring block for the Lighthouse keeper's little boy, James fidgetedpurposely; and if he did that, how could she see, was it too long, was ittoo short? she asked.
　　She looked up—what demon possessed him, her youngest, her cherished?—and saw the room, saw the chairs, thought them fearfullyshabby. Their entrails, as Andrew said the other day, were all over thefloor; but then what was the point, she asked, of buying good chairs tolet them spoil up here all through the winter when the house, with onlyone old woman to see to it, positively dripped with wet? Never mind,the rent was precisely twopence half-penny; the children loved it; it didher husband good to be three thousand, or if she must be accurate, threehundred miles from his libraries and his lectures and his disciples; andthere was room for visitors. Mats, camp beds, crazy ghosts of chairs andtables whose London life of service was done—they did well enoughhere; and a photograph or two, and books. Books, she thought, grew ofthemselves. She never had time to read them. Alas! even the books thathad been given her and inscribed by the hand of the poet himself: "Forher whose wishes must be obeyed"… "The happier Helen of our days"…disgraceful to say, she had never read them. And Croom on the Mindand Bates on the Savage Customs of Polynesia ("My dear, stand still," shesaid)—neither of those could one send to the Lighthouse. At a certainmoment, she supposed, the house would become so shabby thatsomething must be done. If they could be taught to wipe their feet andnot bring the beach in with them—that would be something. Crabs, shehad to allow, if Andrew really wished to dissect them, or if Jasper believedthat one could make soup from seaweed, one could not prevent it;or Rose's objects—shells, reeds, stones; for they were gifted, her children,but all in quite different ways. And the result of it was, she sighed, takingin the whole room from floor to ceiling, as she held the stockingagainst James's leg, that things got shabbier and got shabbier summerafter summer. The mat was fading; the wall-paper was flapping. Youcouldn't tell any more that those were roses on it. Still, if every door in ahouse is left perpetually open, and no lockmaker in the whole of Scotlandcan mend a bolt, things must spoil. What was the use of flinging agreen Cashemere shawl over the edge of a picture frame? In two weeks itwould be the colour of pea soup. But it was the doors that annoyed her;every door was left open. She listened. The drawing-room door wasopen; the hall door was open; it sounded as if the bedroom doors wereopen; and certainly the window on the landing was open, for that shehad opened herself. That windows should be open, and doorsshut—simple as it was, could none of them remember it? She would gointo the maids' bedrooms at night and find them sealed like ovens, exceptfor Marie's, the Swiss girl, who would rather go without a bath thanwithout fresh air, but then at home, she had said, "the mountains are sobeautiful." She had said that last night looking out of the window withtears in her eyes. "The mountains are so beautiful." Her father was dyingthere, Mrs Ramsay knew. He was leaving them fatherless. Scolding anddemonstrating (how to make a bed, how to open a window, with handsthat shut and spread like a Frenchwoman's) all had folded itself quietlyabout her, when the girl spoke, as, after a flight through the sunshine thewings of a bird fold themselves quietly and the blue of its plumagechanges from bright steel to soft purple. She had stood there silent forthere was nothing to be said. He had cancer of the throat. At the recolection—how she had stood there, how the girl had said, "At home themountains are so beautiful," and there was no hope, no hope whatever,she had a spasm of irritation, and speaking sharply, said to James:
　　"Stand still. Don't be tiresome," so that he knew instantly that herseverity was real, and straightened his leg and she measured it.
　　The stocking was too short by half an inch at least, making allowancefor the fact that Sorley's little boy would be less well grown than James.
　　"It's too short," she said, "ever so much too short."Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, half-way down, inthe darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhapsa tear formed; a tear fell; the waters swayed this way and that, receivedit, and were at rest. Never did anybody look so sad.
　　But was it nothing but looks, people said? What was there behindit—her beauty and splendour? Had he blown his brains out, they asked,had he died the week before they were married—some other, earlier lover,of whom rumours reached one? Or was there nothing? nothing but anincomparable beauty which she lived behind, and could do nothing todisturb? For easily though she might have said at some moment of intimacywhen stories of great passion, of love foiled, of ambition thwartedcame her way how she too had known or felt or been through it herself,she never spoke. She was silent always. She knew then—she knewwithout having learnt. Her simplicity fathomed what clever people falsified.
　　Her singleness of mind made her drop plumb like a stone, alight exactas a bird, gave her, naturally, this swoop and fall of the spirit upontruth which delighted, eased, sustained—falsely perhaps.
　　("Nature has but little clay," said Mr Bankes once, much moved by hervoice on the telephone, though she was only telling him a fact about atrain, "like that of which she moulded you." He saw her at the end of theline, Greek, blue-eyed, straight-nosed. How incongruous it seemed to betelephoning to a woman like that. The Graces assembling seemed tohave joined hands in meadows of asphodel to compose that face. Yes, hewould catch the 10:30 at Euston.
　　"But she's no more aware of her beauty than a child," said Mr Bankes,replacing the receiver and crossing the room to see what progress theworkmen were making with an hotel which they were building at theback of his house. And he thought of Mrs Ramsay as he looked at thatstir among the unfinished walls. For always, he thought, there wassomething incongruous to be worked into the harmony of her face. Sheclapped a deer-stalker's hat on her head; she ran across the lawn ingaloshes to snatch a child from mischief. So that if it was her beautymerely that one thought of, one must remember the quivering thing, theliving thing (they were carrying bricks up a little plank as he watchedthem), and work it into the picture; or if one thought of her simply as awoman, one must endow her with some freak of idiosyncrasy—she didnot like admiration—or suppose some latent desire to doff her royalty ofform as if her beauty bored her and all that men say of beauty, and shewanted only to be like other people, insignificant. He did not know. Hedid not know. He must go to his work.)Knitting her reddish-brown hairy stocking, with her head outlined absurdlyby the gilt frame, the green shawl which she had tossed over theedge of the frame, and the authenticated masterpiece by Michael Angelo,Mrs Ramsay smoothed out what had been harsh in her manner a momentbefore, raised his head, and kissed her little boy on the forehead.
　　"Let us find another picture to cut out," she said.
Part 1 Chapter 6
    But what had happened?
　　Some one had blundered.
　　Starting from her musing she gave meaning to words which she hadheld meaningless in her mind for a long stretch of time. "Some one hadblundered"—Fixing her short-sighted eyes upon her husband, who wasnow bearing down upon her, she gazed steadily until his closeness revealedto her (the jingle mated itself in her head) that something hadhappened, some one had blundered. But she could not for the life of herthink what.
　　He shivered; he quivered. All his vanity, all his satisfaction in his ownsplendour, riding fell as a thunderbolt, fierce as a hawk at the head of hismen through the valley of death, had been shattered, destroyed. Stormedat by shot and shell, boldly we rode and well, flashed through the valleyof death, volleyed and thundered—straight into Lily Briscoe and WilliamBankes. He quivered; he shivered.
　　Not for the world would she have spoken to him, realising, from thefamiliar signs, his eyes averted, and some curious gathering together ofhis person, as if he wrapped himself about and needed privacy intowhich to regain his equilibrium, that he was outraged and anguished.
　　She stroked James's head; she transferred to him what she felt for herhusband, and, as she watched him chalk yellow the white dress shirt of agentleman in the Army and Navy Stores catalogue, thought what a delightit would be to her should he turn out a great artist; and why shouldhe not? He had a splendid forehead. Then, looking up, as her husbandpassed her once more, she was relieved to find that the ruin was veiled;domesticity triumphed; custom crooned its soothing rhythm, so thatwhen stopping deliberately, as his turn came round again, at the windowhe bent quizzically and whimsically to tickle James's bare calf witha sprig of something, she twitted him for having dispatched "that pooryoung man," Charles Tansley. Tansley had had to go in and write hisdissertation, he said.
　　"James will have to write HIS dissertation one of these days," he addedironically, flicking his sprig.
　　Hating his father, James brushed away the tickling spray with whichin a manner peculiar to him, compound of severity and humour, heteased his youngest son's bare leg.
　　She was trying to get these tiresome stockings finished to send toSorley's little boy tomorrow, said Mrs Ramsay.
　　There wasn't the slightest possible chance that they could go to theLighthouse tomorrow, Mr Ramsay snapped out irascibly.
　　How did he know? she asked. The wind often changed.
　　The extraordinary irrationality of her remark, the folly of women'sminds enraged him. He had ridden through the valley of death, beenshattered and shivered; and now, she flew in the face of facts, made hischildren hope what was utterly out of the question, in effect, told lies. Hestamped his foot on the stone step. "Damn you," he said. But what hadshe said? Simply that it might be fine tomorrow. So it might.
　　Not with the barometer falling and the wind due west.
　　To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of consideration for otherpeople's feelings, to rendthe thin veils of civilization so wantonly, so brutally,was to her so horrible an outrage of human decency that, withoutreplying, dazed and blinded, she bent her head as if to let the pelt ofjagged hail, the drench of dirty water, bespatter her unrebuked. Therewas nothing to be said.
　　He stood by her in silence. Very humbly, at length, he said that hewould step over and ask the Coastguards if she liked.
　　There was nobody whom she reverenced as she reverenced him.
　　She was quite ready to take his word for it, she said. Only then theyneed not cut sandwiches—that was all. They came to her, naturally, sinceshe was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, anotherthat; the children were growing up; she often felt she was nothingbut a sponge sopped full of human emotions. Then he said, Damn you.
　　He said, It must rain. He said, It won't rain; and instantly a Heaven of securityopened before her. There was nobody she reverenced more. Shewas not good enough to tie his shoe strings, she felt.
　　Already ashamed of that petulance, of that gesticulation of the handswhen charging at the head of his troops, Mr Ramsay rather sheepishlyprodded his son's bare legs once more, and then, as if he had her leavefor it, with a movement which oddly reminded his wife of the great sealion at the Zoo tumbling backwards after swallowing his fish and wallopingoff so that the water in the tank washes from side to side, hedived into the evening air which, already thinner, was taking the substancefrom leaves and hedges but, as if in return, restoring to roses andpinks a lustre which they had not had by day.
　　"Some one had blundered," he said again, striding off, up and downthe terrace.
　　But how extraordinarily his note had changed! It was like the cuckoo;"in June he gets out of tune"; as if he were trying over, tentatively seeking,some phrase for a new mood, and having only this at hand, used it,cracked though it was. But it sounded ridiculous—"Some one hadblundered"—said like that, almost as a question, without any conviction,melodiously. Mrs Ramsay could not help smiling, and soon, sureenough, walking up and down, he hummed it, dropped it, fell silent.
　　He was safe, he was restored to his privacy. He stopped to light hispipe, looked once at his wife and son in the window, and as one raisesone's eyes from a page in an express train and sees a farm, a tree, acluster of cottages as an illustration, a confirmation of something on theprinted page to which one returns, fortified, and satisfied, so without hisdistinguishing either his son or his wife, the sight of them fortified himand satisfied him and consecrated his effort to arrive at a perfectly clearunderstanding of the problem which now engaged the energies of hissplendid mind.
　　It was a splendid mind. For if thought is like the keyboard of a piano,divided into so many notes, or like the alphabet is ranged in twenty-sixletters all in order, then his splendid mind had no sort of difficulty inrunning over those letters one by one, firmly and accurately, until it hadreached, say, the letter Q. He reached Q. Very few people in the whole ofEngland ever reach Q. Here, stopping for one moment by the stone urnwhich held the geraniums, he saw, but now far, far away, like childrenpicking up shells, divinely innocent and occupied with little trifles attheir feet and somehow entirely defenceless against a doom which heperceived, his wife and son, together, in the window. They needed hisprotection; he gave it them. But after Q? What comes next? After Q thereare a number of letters the last of which is scarcely visible to mortal eyes,but glimmers red in the distance. Z is only reached once by one man in ageneration. Still, if he could reach R it would be something. Here at leastwas Q. He dug his heels in at Q. Q he was sure of. Q he could demonstrate.
　　If Q then is Q—R—. Here he knocked his pipe out, with two orthree resonant taps on the handle of the urn, and proceeded. "Then R… "He braced himself. He clenched himself.
　　Qualities that would have saved a ship's company exposed on a broilingsea with six biscuits and a flask of water—endurance and justice,foresight, devotion, skill, came to his help. R is then—what is R?
　　A shutter, like the leathern eyelid of a lizard, flickered over the intensityof his gaze and obscured the letter R. In that flash of darkness heheard people saying—he was a failure—that R was beyond him. Hewould never reach R. On to R, once more. R—Qualities that in a desolate expedition across the icy solitudes of thePolar region would have made him the leader, the guide, the counsellor,whose temper, neither sanguine nor despondent, surveys with equanimitywhat is to be and faces it, came to his help again. R—The lizard's eye flickered once more. The veins on his forehead bulged.
　　The geranium in the urn became startlingly visible and, displayedamong its leaves, he could see, without wishing it, that old, that obviousdistinction between the two classes of men; on the one hand the steadygoers of superhuman strength who, plodding and persevering, repeatthe whole alphabet in order, twenty-six letters in all, from start to finish;on the other the gifted, the inspired who, miraculously, lump all the letterstogether in one flash—the way of genius. He had not genius; he laidno claim to that: but he had, or might have had, the power to repeatevery letter of the alphabet from A to Z accurately in order. Meanwhile,he stuck at Q. On, then, on to R.
　　Feelings that would not have disgraced a leader who, now that thesnow has begun to fall and the mountain top is covered in mist, knowsthat he must lay himself down and die before morning comes, stole uponhim, paling the colour of his eyes, giving him, even in the two minutes ofhis turn on the terrace, the bleached look of withered old age. Yet hewould not die lying down; he would find some crag of rock, and there,his eyes fixed on the storm, trying to the end to pierce the darkness, hewould die standing. He would never reach R.
　　He stood stock-still, by the urn, with the geranium flowing over it.
　　How many men in a thousand million, he asked himself, reach Z afterall? Surely the leader of a forlorn hope may ask himself that, and answer,without treachery to the expedition behind him, "One perhaps." One in ageneration. Is he to be blamed then if he is not that one? provided he hastoiled honestly, given to the best of his power, and till he has no moreleft to give? And his fame lasts how long? It is permissible even for a dyinghero to think before he dies how men will speak of him hereafter. Hisfame lasts perhaps two thousand years. And what are two thousandyears? (asked Mr Ramsay ironically, staring at the hedge). What, indeed,if you look from a mountain top down the long wastes of the ages? Thevery stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare. His ownlittle light would shine, not very brightly, for a year or two, and wouldthen be merged in some bigger light, and that in a bigger still. (Helooked into the hedge, into the intricacy of the twigs.) Who then couldblame the leader of that forlorn party which after all has climbed highenough to see the waste of the years and the perishing of the stars, if beforedeath stiffens his limbs beyond the power of movement he does alittle consciously raise his numbed fingers to his brow, and square hisshoulders, so that when the search party comes they will find him deadat his post, the fine figure of a soldier? Mr Ramsay squared his shouldersand stood very upright by the urn.
　　Who shall blame him, if, so standing for a moment he dwells uponfame, upon search parties, upon cairns raised by grateful followers overhis bones? Finally, who shall blame the leader of the doomed expedition,if, having adventured to the uttermost, and used his strength wholly tothe last ounce and fallen asleep not much caring if he wakes or not, henow perceives by some pricking in his toes that he lives, and does not onthe whole object to live, but requires sympathy, and whisky, and someone to tell the story of his suffering to at once? Who shall blame him?
　　Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, andhalts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant atfirst, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head areclearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensityof his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, andfinally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent headbefore her—who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of theworld?
Part 1 Chapter 7
    But his son hated him. He hated him for coming up to them, for stoppingand looking down on them; he hated him for interrupting them; he hatedhim for the exaltation and sublimity of his gestures; for the magnificenceof his head; for his exactingness and egotism (for there he stood, commandingthem to attend to him) but most of all he hated the twang andtwitter of his father's emotion which, vibrating round them, disturbedthe perfect simplicity and good sense of his relations with his mother. Bylooking fixedly at the page, he hoped to make him move on; by pointinghis finger at a word, he hoped to recall his mother's attention, which, heknew angrily, wavered instantly his father stopped. But, no. Nothingwould make Mr Ramsay move on. There he stood, demandingsympathy.
　　Mrs Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely, folding her son in her arm,braced herself, and, half turning, seemed to raise herself with an effort,and at once to pour erect into the air a rain of energy, a column of spray,looking at the same time animated and alive as if all her energies werebeing fused into force, burning and illuminating (quietly though she sat,taking up her stocking again), and into this delicious fecundity, thisfountain and spray of life, the fatal sterility of the male plunged itself,like a beak of brass, barren and bare. He wanted sympathy. He was afailure, he said. Mrs Ramsay flashed her needles. Mr Ramsay repeated,never taking his eyes from her face, that he was a failure. She blew thewords back at him. "Charles Tansley… " she said. But he must have morethan that. It was sympathy he wanted, to be assured of his genius, first ofall, and then to be taken within the circle of life, warmed and soothed, tohave his senses restored to him, his barrenness made furtile, and all therooms of the house made full of life—the drawing-room; behind thedrawing-room the kitchen; above the kitchen the bedrooms; and beyondthem the nurseries; they must be furnished, they must be filled with life.
　　Charles Tansley thought him the greatest metaphysician of the time,she said. But he must have more than that. He must have sympathy. Hemust be assured that he too lived in the heart of life; was needed; notonly here, but all over the world. Flashing her needles, confident, upright,she created drawing-room and kitchen, set them all aglow; badehim take his ease there, go in and out, enjoy himself. She laughed, sheknitted. Standing between her knees, very stiff, James felt all her strengthflaring up to be drunk and quenched by the beak of brass, the arid scimitarof the male, which smote mercilessly, again and again, demandingsympathy.
　　He was a failure, he repeated. Well, look then, feel then. Flashing herneedles, glancing round about her, out of the window, into the room, atJames himself, she assured him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, by herlaugh, her poise, her competence (as a nurse carrying a light across adark room assures a fractious child), that it was real; the house was full;the garden blowing. If he put implicit faith in her, nothing should hurthim; however deep he buried himself or climed high, not for a secondshould he find himself without her. So boasting of her capacity to surroundand protect, there was scarcely a shell of herself left for her toknow herself by; all was so lavished and spent; and James, as he stoodstiff between her knees, felt her rise in a rosy-flowered fruit tree laid withleaves and dancing boughs into which the beak of brass, the arid scimitarof his father, the egotistical man, plunged and smote, demandingsympathy.
　　Filled with her words, like a child who drops off satisfied, he said, atlast, looking at her with humble gratitude, restored, renewed, that hewould take a turn; he would watch the children playing cricket. Hewent.
　　Immediately, Mrs Ramsey seemed to fold herself together, one petalclosed in another, and the whole fabric fell in exhaustion upon itself, sothat she had only strength enough to move her finger, in exquisite abandonmentto exhaustion, across the page of Grimm's fairy story, whilethere throbbed through her, like a pulse in a spring which has expandedto its full width and now gently ceases to beat, the rapture of successfulcreation.
　　Every throb of this pulse seemed, as he walked away, to enclose herand her husband, and to give to each that solace which two differentnotes, one high, one low, struck together, seem to give each other as theycombine. Yet as the resonance died, and she turned to the Fairy Taleagain, Mrs Ramsey felt not only exhausted in body (afterwards, not atthe time, she always felt this) but also there tinged her physical fatiguesome faintly disagreeable sensation with another origin. Not that, as sheread aloud the story of the Fisherman's Wife, she knew precisely what itcame from; nor did she let herself put into words her dissatisfactionwhen she realized, at the turn of the page when she stopped and hearddully, ominously, a wave fall, how it came from this: she did not like,even for a second, to feel finer than her husband; and further, could notbear not being entirely sure, when she spoke to him, of the truth of whatshe said. Universities and people wanting him, lectures and books andtheir being of the highest importance—all that she did not doubt for amoment; but it was their relation, and his coming to her like that, openly,so that any one could see, that discomposed her; for then people said hedepended on her, when they must know that of the two he was infinitelythe more important, and what she gave the world, in comparison withwhat he gave, negligable. But then again, it was the other thing too—notbeing able to tell him the truth, being afraid, for instance, about thegreenhouse roof and the expense it would be, fifty pounds perhaps tomend it; and then about his books, to be afraid that he might guess, whatshe a little suspected, that his last book was not quite his best book (shegathered that from William Bankes); and then to hide small daily things,and the children seeing it, and the burden it laid on them—all this diminishedthe entire joy, the pure joy, of the two notes sounding together, andlet the sound die on her ear now with a dismal flatness.
　　A shadow was on the page; she looked up. It was Augustus Carmichaelshuffling past, precisely now, at the very moment when it waspainful to be reminded of the inadequacy of human relationships, thatthe most perfect was flawed, and could not bear the examination which,loving her husband, with her instinct for truth, she turned upon it; whenit was painful to feel herself convicted of unworthiness, and impeded inher proper function by these lies, these exaggerations,—it was at this momentwhen she was fretted thus ignobly in the wake of her exaltation,that Mr Carmichael shuffled past, in his yellow slippers, and some demonin her made it necessary for her to call out, as he passed,"Going indoors Mr Carmichael?"
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    He said nothing. He took opium. The children said he had stained hisbeard yellow with it. Perhaps. What was obvious to her was that thepoor man was unhappy, came to them every year as an escape; and yetevery year she felt the same thing; he did not trust her. She said, "I amgoing to the town. Shall I get you stamps, paper, tobacco?" and she felthim wince. He did not trust her. It was his wife's doing. She rememberedthat iniquity of his wife's towards him, which had made her turn to steeland adamant there, in the horrible little room in St John's Wood, whenwith her own eyes she had seen that odious woman turn him out of thehouse. He was unkempt; he dropped things on his coat; he had the tiresomenessof an old man with nothing in the world to do; and she turnedhim out of the room. She said, in her odious way, "Now, Mrs Ramsayand I want to have a little talk together," and Mrs Ramsay could see, as ifbefore her eyes, the innumerable miseries of his life. Had he moneyenough to buy tobacco? Did he have to ask her for it? half a crown?
　　eighteenpence? Oh, she could not bear to think of the little indignitiesshe made him suffer. And always now (why, she could not guess, exceptthat it came probably from that woman somehow) he shrank from her.
　　He never told her anything. But what more could she have done? Therewas a sunny room given up to him. The children were good to him.
　　Never did she show a sign of not wanting him. She went out of her wayindeed to be friendly. Do you want stamps, do you want tobacco? Here'sa book you might like and so on. And after all—after all (here insensiblyshe drew herself together, physically, the sense of her own beauty becoming,as it did so seldom, present to her) after all, she had not generallyany difficulty in making people like her; for instance, George Manning;Mr Wallace; famous as they were, they would come to her of anevening, quietly, and talk alone over her fire. She bore about with her,she could not help knowing it, the torch of her beauty; she carried it erectinto any room that she entered; and after all, veil it as she might, andshrink from the monotony of bearing that it imposed on her, her beautywas apparent. She had been admired. She had been loved. She hadentered rooms where mourners sat. Tears had flown in her presence.
　　Men, and women too, letting go to the multiplicity of things, had allowedthemselves with her the relief of simplicity. It injured her that heshould shrink. It hurt her. And yet not cleanly, not rightly. That waswhat she minded, coming as it did on top of her discontent with her husband;the sense she had now when Mr Carmichael shuffled past, justnodding to her question, with a book beneath his arm, in his yellow slippers,that she was suspected; and that all this desire of hers to give, tohelp, was vanity. For her own self-satisfaction was it that she wished soinstinctively to help, to give, that people might say of her, "O Mrs Ram-say! dear Mrs Ramsay… Mrs Ramsay, of course!" and need her and sendfor her and admire her? Was it not secretly this that she wanted, andtherefore when Mr Carmichael shrank away from her, as he did at thismoment, making off to some corner where he did acrostics endlessly, shedid not feel merely snubbed back in her instinct, but made aware of thepettiness of some part of her, and of human relations, how flawed theyare, how despicable, how self-seeking, at their best. Shabby and wornout, and not presumably (her cheeks were hollow, her hair was white)any longer a sight that filled the eyes with joy, she had better devote hermind to the story of the Fisherman and his Wife and so pacify thatbundle of sensitiveness (none of her children was as sensitive as he was),her son James.
　　"The man's heart grew heavy," she read aloud, "and he would not go.
　　He said to himself, 'It is not right,' and yet he went. And when he cameto the sea the water was quite purple and dark blue, and grey and thick,and no longer so green and yellow, but it was still quiet. And he stoodthere and said—"Mrs Ramsay could have wished that her husband had not chosen thatmoment to stop. Why had he not gone as he said to watch the childrenplaying cricket? But he did not speak; he looked; he nodded; he approved;he went on. He slipped, seeing before him that hedge which hadover and over again rounded some pause, signified some conclusion,seeing his wife and child, seeing again the urns with the trailing of redgeraniums which had so often decorated processes of thought, and bore,written up among their leaves, as if they were scraps of paper on whichone scribbles notes in the rush of reading—he slipped, seeing all this,smoothly into speculation suggested by an article in THE TIMES aboutthe number of Americans who visit Shakespeare's house every year. IfShakespeare had never existed, he asked, would the world have differedmuch from what it is today? Does the progress of civilization dependupon great men? Is the lot of the average human being better now thanin the time of the Pharaohs? Is the lot of the average human being,however, he asked himself, the criterion by which we judge the measureof civilization? Possibly not. Possibly the greatest good requires the existenceof a slave class. The liftman in the Tube is an eternal necessity. Thethought was distasteful to him. He tossed his head. To avoid it, he wouldfind some way of snubbing the predominance of the arts. He would arguethat the world exists for the average human being; that the arts aremerely a decoration imposed on the top of human life; they do not expressit. Nor is Shakespeare necessary to it. Not knowing precisely whyit was that he wanted to disparage Shakespeare and come to the rescueof the man who stands eternally in the door of the lift, he picked a leafsharply from the hedge. All this would have to be dished up for theyoung men at Cardiff next month, he thought; here, on his terrace, hewas merely foraging and picnicking (he threw away the leaf that he hadpicked so peevishly) like a man who reaches from his horse to pick abunch of roses, or stuffs his pockets with nuts as he ambles at his easethrough the lanes and fields of a country known to him from boyhood. Itwas all familiar; this turning, that stile, that cut across the fields. Hourshe would spend thus, with his pipe, of an evening, thinking up anddown and in and out of the old familiar lanes and commons, which wereall stuck about with the history of that campaign there, the life of thisstatesman here, with poems and with anecdotes, with figures too, thisthinker, that soldier; all very brisk and clear; but at length the lane, thefield, the common, the fruitful nut-tree and the flowering hedge led himon to that further turn of the road where he dismounted always, tied hishorse to a tree, and proceeded on foot alone. He reached the edge of thelawn and looked out on the bay beneath.
　　It was his fate, his peculiarity, whether he wished it or not, to come outthus on a spit of land which the sea is slowly eating away, and there tostand, like a desolate sea-bird, alone. It was his power, his gift, suddenlyto shed all superfluities, to shrink and diminish so that he looked barerand felt sparer, even physically, yet lost none of his intensity of mind,and so to stand on his little ledge facing the dark of human ignorance,how we know nothing and the sea eats away the ground we standon—that was his fate, his gift. But having thrown away, when he dismounted,all gestures and fripperies, all trophies of nuts and roses, andshrunk so that not only fame but even his own name was forgotten byhim, kept even in that desolation a vigilance which spared no phantomand luxuriated in no vision, and it was in this guise that he inspired inWilliam Bankes (intermittently) and in Charles Tansley(obsequiously)and in his wife now, when she looked up and saw himstanding at the edge of the lawn, profoundly, reverence, and pity, andgratitude too, as a stake driven into the bed of a channel upon which thegulls perch and the waves beat inspires in merry boat-loads a feeling ofgratitude for the duty it is taking upon itself of marking the channel outthere in the floods alone.
　　"But the father of eight children has no choice." Muttering half aloud,so he broke off, turned, sighed, raised his eyes, sought the figure of hiswife reading stories to his little boy, filled his pipe. He turned from thesight of human ignorance and human fate and the sea eating the groundwe stand on, which, had he been able to contemplate it fixedly mighthave led to something; and found consolation in trifles so slight comparedwith the august theme just now before him that he was disposedto slur that comfort over, to deprecate it, as if to be caught happy in aworld of misery was for an honest man the most despicable of crimes. Itwas true; he was for the most part happy; he had his wife; he had hischildren; he had promised in six weeks' time to talk "some nonsense" tothe young men of Cardiff about Locke, Hume, Berkeley, and the causesof the French Revolution. But this and his pleasure in it, his glory in thephrases he made, in the ardour of youth, in his wife's beauty, in the tributesthat reached him from Swansea, Cardiff, Exeter, Southampton, Kidderminster,Oxford, Cambridge—all had to be deprecated and concealedunder the phrase "talking nonsense," because, in effect, he had not donethe thing he might have done. It was a disguise; it was the refuge of aman afraid to own his own feelings, who could not say, This is what Ilike—this is what I am; and rather pitiable and distasteful to WilliamBankes and Lily Briscoe, who wondered why such concealments shouldbe necessary; why he needed always praise; why so brave a man inthought should be so timid in life; how strangely he was venerable andlaughable at one and the same time.
　　Teaching and preaching is beyond human power, Lily suspected. (Shewas putting away her things.) If you are exalted you must somehowcome a cropper. Mrs Ramsay gave him what he asked too easily. Thenthe change must be so upsetting, Lily said. He comes in from his booksand finds us all playing games and talking nonsense. Imagine what achange from the things he thinks about, she said.
　　He was bearing down upon them. Now he stopped dead and stoodlooking in silence at the sea. Now he had turned away again.
Part 1 Chapter 9
    Yes, Mr Bankes said, watching him go. It was a thousand pities. (Lily hadsaid something about his frightening her—he changed from one mood toanother so suddenly.) Yes, said Mr Bankes, it was a thousand pities thatRamsay could not behave a little more like other people. (For he likedLily Briscoe; he could discuss Ramsay with her quite openly.) It was forthat reason, he said, that the young don't read Carlyle. A crusty oldgrumbler who lost his temper if the porridge was cold, why should hepreach to us? was what Mr Bankes understood that young people saidnowadays. It was a thousand pities if you thought, as he did, that Carlylewas one of the great teachers of mankind. Lily was ashamed to say thatshe had not read Carlyle since she was at school. But in her opinion oneliked Mr Ramsay all the better for thinking that if his little finger achedthe whole world must come to an end. It was not THAT she minded. Forwho could be deceived by him? He asked you quite openly to flatterhim, to admire him, his little dodges deceived nobody. What she dislikedwas his narrowness, his blindness, she said, looking after him.
　　"A bit of a hypocrite?" Mr Bankes suggested, looking too at MrRamsay's back, for was he not thinking of his friendship, and of Cam refusingto give him a flower, and of all those boys and girls, and his ownhouse, full of comfort, but, since his wife's death, quiet rather? Of course,he had his work… All the same, he rather wished Lily to agree that Ram-say was, as he said, "a bit of a hypocrite."Lily Briscoe went on putting away her brushes, looking up, lookingdown. Looking up, there he was—Mr Ramsay—advancing towardsthem, swinging, careless, oblivious, remote. A bit of a hypocrite? she repeated.
　　Oh, no—the most sincere of men, the truest (here he was), thebest; but, looking down, she thought, he is absorbed in himself, he is tyrannical,he is unjust; and kept looking down, purposely, for only socould she keep steady, staying with the Ramsays. Directly one looked upand saw them, what she called "being in love" flooded them. They becamepart of that unreal but penetrating and exciting universe which isthe world seen through the eyes of love. The sky stuck to them; the birdssang through them. And, what was even more exciting, she felt, too, asshe saw Mr Ramsay bearing down and retreating, and Mrs Ramsay sittingwith James in the window and the cloud moving and the tree bending,how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which onelived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore oneup and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
　　Mr Bankes expected her to answer. And she was about to saysomething criticizing Mrs Ramsay, how she was alarming, too, in herway, high-handed, or words to that effect, when Mr Bankes made it entirelyunnecessary for her to speak by his rapture. For such it was consideringhis age, turned sixty, and his cleanliness and his impersonality, andthe white scientific coat which seemed to clothe him. For him to gaze asLily saw him gazing at Mrs Ramsay was a rapture, equivalent, Lily felt,to the loves of dozens of young men (and perhaps Mrs Ramsay had neverexcited the loves of dozens of young men). It was love, she thought,pretending to move her canvas, distilled and filtered; love that never attemptedto clutch its object; but, like the love which mathematicians beartheir symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over theworld and become part of the human gain. So it was indeed. The worldby all means should have shared it, could Mr Bankes have said why thatwoman pleased him so; why the sight of her reading a fairy tale to herboy had upon him precisely the same effect as the solution of a scientificproblem, so that he rested in contemplation of it, and felt, as he felt whenhe had proved something absolute about the digestive system of plants,that barbarity was tamed, the reign of chaos subdued.
　　Such a rapture—for by what other name could one call it?—made LilyBriscoe forget entirely what she had been about to say. It was nothing ofimportance; something about Mrs Ramsay. It paled beside this "rapture,"this silent stare, for which she felt intense gratitude; for nothing sosolaced her, eased her of the perplexity of life, and miraculously raisedits burdens, as this sublime power, this heavenly gift, and one would nomore disturb it, while it lasted, than break up the shaft of sunlight, lyinglevel across the floor.
　　That people should love like this, that Mr Bankes should feel this forMrs Ramsey (she glanced at him musing) was helpful, was exalting. Shewiped one brush after another upon a piece of old rag, menially, on purpose.
　　She took shelter from the reverence which covered all women; shefelt herself praised. Let him gaze; she would steal a look at her picture.
　　She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad! Shecould have done it differently of course; the colour could have beenthinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; that was how Pauncefortewould have seen it. But then she did not see it like that. She saw the col-our burning on a framework of steel; the light of a butterfly's wing lyingupon the arches of a cathedral. Of all that only a few random marksscrawled upon the canvas remained. And it would never be seen; neverbe hung even, and there was Mr Tansley whispering in her ear, "Womencan't paint, women can't write… "She now remembered what she had been going to say about Mrs Ram-say. She did not know how she would have put it; but it would havebeen something critical. She had been annoyed the other night by somehighhandedness. Looking along the level of Mr Bankes's glance at her,she thought that no woman could worship another woman in the way heworshipped; they could only seek shelter under the shade which MrBankes extended over them both. Looking along his beam she added toit her different ray, thinking that she was unquestionably the loveliest ofpeople (bowed over her book); the best perhaps; but also, different toofrom the perfect shape which one saw there. But why different, and howdifferent? she asked herself, scraping her palette of all those mounds ofblue and green which seemed to her like clods with no life in them now,yet she vowed, she would inspire them, force them to move, flow, do herbidding tomorrow. How did she differ? What was the spirit in her, theessential thing, by which, had you found a crumpled glove in the cornerof a sofa, you would have known it, from its twisted finger, hers indisputably?
　　She was like a bird for speed, an arrow for directness. She waswillful; she was commanding (of course, Lily reminded herself, I amthinking of her relations with women, and I am much younger, an insignificantperson, living off the Brompton Road). She opened bedroomwindows. She shut doors. (So she tried to start the tune of Mrs Ramsayin her head.) Arriving late at night, with a light tap on one's bedroomdoor, wrapped in an old fur coat (for the setting of her beauty was alwaysthat—hasty, but apt), she would enact again whatever it mightbe—Charles Tansley losing his umbrella; Mr Carmichael snuffling andsniffing; Mr Bankes saying, "The vegetable salts are lost." All this shewould adroitly shape; even maliciously twist; and, moving over to thewindow, in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, she could see thesun rising,—half turn back, more intimately, but still always laughing,insist that she must, Minta must, they all must marry, since in the wholeworld whatever laurels might be tossed to her (but Mrs Ramsay carednot a fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her (probably Mrs Ram-say had had her share of those), and here she saddened, darkened, andcame back to her chair, there could be no disputing this: an unmarriedwoman (she lightly took her hand for a moment), an unmarried womanhas missed the best of life. The house seemed full of children sleepingand Mrs Ramsay listening; shaded lights and regular breathing.
　　Oh, but, Lily would say, there was her father; her home; even, had shedared to say it, her painting. But all this seemed so little, so virginal,against the other. Yet, as the night wore on, and white lights parted thecurtains, and even now and then some bird chirped in the garden, gatheringa desperate courage she would urge her own exemption from theuniversal law; plead for it; she liked to be alone; she liked to be herself;she was not made for that; and so have to meet a serious stare from eyesof unparalleled depth, and confront Mrs Ramsay's simple certainty (andshe was childlike now) that her dear Lily, her little Brisk, was a fool.
　　Then, she remembered, she had laid her head on Mrs Ramsay's lap andlaughed and laughed and laughed, laughed almost hysterically at thethought of Mrs Ramsay presiding with immutable calm over destinieswhich she completely failed to understand. There she sat, simple, serious.
　　She had recovered her sense of her now—this was the glove's twistedfinger. But into what sanctuary had one penetrated? Lily Briscoe hadlooked up at last, and there was Mrs Ramsay, unwitting entirely whathad caused her laughter, still presiding, but now with every trace of wilfulnessabolished, and in its stead, something clear as the space whichthe clouds at last uncover—the little space of sky which sleeps beside themoon.
　　Was it wisdom? Was it knowledge? Was it, once more, the deceptivenessof beauty, so that all one's perceptions, half way to truth, weretangled in a golden mesh? or did she lock up within her some secretwhich certainly Lily Briscoe believed people must have for the world togo on at all? Every one could not be as helter skelter, hand to mouth asshe was. But if they knew, could they tell one what they knew? Sitting onthe floor with her arms round Mrs Ramsay's knees, close as she couldget, smiling to think that Mrs Ramsay would never know the reason ofthat pressure, she imagined how in the chambers of the mind and heartof the woman who was, physically, touching her, were stood, like thetreasures in the tombs of kings, tablets bearing sacred inscriptions, whichif one could spell them out, would teach one everything, but they wouldnever be offered openly, never made public. What art was there, knownto love or cunning, by which one pressed through into those secretchambers? What device for becoming, like waters poured into one jar, inextricablythe same, one with the object one adored? Could the bodyachieve, or the mind, subtly mingling in the intricate passages of thebrain? or the heart? Could loving, as people called it, make her and MrsRamsay one? for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptionson tablets, nothing that could be written in any languageknown to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought,leaning her head on Mrs Ramsay's knee.
　　Nothing happened. Nothing! Nothing! as she leant her head againstMrs Ramsay's knee. And yet, she knew knowledge and wisdom werestored up in Mrs Ramsay's heart. How, then, she had asked herself, didone know one thing or another thing about people, sealed as they were?
　　Only like a bee, drawn by some sweetness or sharpness in the air intangibleto touch or taste, one haunted the dome-shaped hive, ranged thewastes of the air over the countries of the world alone, and then hauntedthe hives with their murmurs and their stirrings; the hives, which werepeople. Mrs Ramsay rose. Lily rose. Mrs Ramsay went. For days therehung about her, as after a dream some subtle change is felt in the personone has dreamt of, more vividly than anything she said, the sound ofmurmuring and, as she sat in the wicker arm-chair in the drawing-roomwindow she wore, to Lily's eyes, an august shape; the shape of a dome.
　　This ray passed level with Mr Bankes's ray straight to Mrs Ramsay sittingreading there with James at her knee. But now while she still looked,Mr Bankes had done. He had put on his spectacles. He had stepped back.
　　He had raised his hand. He had slightly narrowed his clear blue eyes,when Lily, rousing herself, saw what he was at, and winced like a dogwho sees a hand raised to strike it. She would have snatched her pictureoff the easel, but she said to herself, One must. She braced herself tostand the awful trial of some one looking at her picture. One must, shesaid, one must. And if it must be seen, Mr Bankes was less alarming thananother. But that any other eyes should see the residue of her thirty-threeyears, the deposit of each day's living mixed with something more secretthan she had ever spoken or shown in the course of all those days was anagony. At the same time it was immensely exciting.
　　Nothing could be cooler and quieter. Taking out a pen-knife, MrBankes tapped the canvas with the bone handle. What did she wish toindicate by the triangular purple shape, "just there"? he asked.
　　It was Mrs Ramsay reading to James, she said. She knew his objection—that no one could tell it for a human shape. But she had made noattempt at likeness, she said. For what reason had she introduced themthen? he asked. Why indeed?—except that if there, in that corner, it wasbright, here, in this, she felt the need of darkness. Simple, obvious, commonplace,as it was, Mr Bankes was interested. Mother and childthen—objects of universal veneration, and in this case the mother wasfamous for her beauty—might be reduced, he pondered, to a purpleshadow without irreverence.
　　But the picture was not of them, she said. Or, not in his sense. Therewere other senses too in which one might reverence them. By a shadowhere and a light there, for instance. Her tribute took that form if, as shevaguely supposed, a picture must be a tribute. A mother and child mightbe reduced to a shadow without irreverence. A light here required ashadow there. He considered. He was interested. He took it scientificallyin complete good faith. The truth was that all his prejudices were on theother side, he explained. The largest picture in his drawing-room, whichpainters had praised, and valued at a higher price than he had given forit, was of the cherry trees in blossom on the banks of the Kennet. He hadspent his honeymoon on the banks of the Kennet, he said. Lily mustcome and see that picture, he said. But now—he turned, with his glassesraised to the scientific examination of her canvas. The question being oneof the relations of masses, of lights and shadows, which, to be honest, hehad never considered before, he would like to have it explained—whatthen did she wish to make of it? And he indicated the scene before them.
　　She looked. She could not show him what she wished to make of it,could not see it even herself, without a brush in her hand. She took uponce more her old painting position with the dim eyes and the absentmindedmanner, subduing all her impressions as a woman to somethingmuch more general; becoming once more under the power of that visionwhich she had seen clearly once and must now grope for among hedgesand houses and mothers and children—her picture. It was a question,she remembered, how to connect this mass on the right hand with thaton the left. She might do it by bringing the line of the branch across so; orbreak the vacancy in the foreground by an object (James perhaps) so. Butthe danger was that by doing that the unity of the whole might bebroken. She stopped; she did not want to bore him; she took the canvaslightly off the easel.
　　But it had been seen; it had been taken from her. This man had sharedwith her something profoundly intimate. And, thanking Mr Ramsay forit and Mrs Ramsay for it and the hour and the place, crediting the worldwith a power which she had not suspected—that one could walk awaydown that long gallery not alone any more but arm in arm with somebody—the strangest feeling in the world, and the most exhilarating—shenicked the catch of her paint-box to, more firmly than was necessary, andthe nick seemed to surround in a circle forever the paint-box, the lawn,Mr Bankes, and that wild villain, Cam, dashing past.
Part 1 Chapter 10
    For Cam grazed the easel by an inch; she would not stop for Mr Bankesand Lily Briscoe; though Mr Bankes, who would have liked a daughterof his own, held out his hand; she would not stop for her father, whomshe grazed also by an inch; nor for her mother, who called "Cam! I wantyou a moment!" as she dashed past. She was off like a bird, bullet, or arrow,impelled by what desire, shot by whom, at what directed, whocould say? What, what? Mrs Ramsay pondered, watching her. It mightbe a vision—of a shell, of a wheelbarrow, of a fairy kingdom on the farside of the hedge; or it might be the glory of speed; no one knew. Butwhen Mrs Ramsay called "Cam!" a second time, the projectile dropped inmid career, and Cam came lagging back, pulling a leaf by the way, to hermother.
　　What was she dreaming about, Mrs Ramsay wondered, seeing her engrossed,as she stood there, with some thought of her own, so that shehad to repeat the message twice—ask Mildred if Andrew, Miss Doyle,and Mr Rayley have come back?—The words seemed to be dropped intoa well, where, if the waters were clear, they were also so extraordinarilydistorting that, even as they descended, one saw them twisting about tomake Heaven knows what pattern on the floor of the child's mind. Whatmessage would Cam give the cook? Mrs Ramsay wondered. And indeedit was only by waiting patiently, and hearing that there was an old womanin the kitchen with very red cheeks, drinking soup out of a basin,that Mrs Ramsay at last prompted that parrot-like instinct which hadpicked up Mildred's words quite accurately and could now producethem, if one waited, in a colourless singsong. Shifting from foot to foot,Cam repeated the words, "No, they haven't, and I've told Ellen to clearaway tea."Minta Doyle and Paul Rayley had not come back then. That could onlymean, Mrs Ramsay thought, one thing. She must accept him, or she mustrefuse him. This going off after luncheon for a walk, even thoughAndrew was with them—what could it mean? except that she haddecided, rightly, Mrs Ramsay thought (and she was very, very fond ofMinta), to accept that good fellow, who might not be brilliant, but then,thought Mrs Ramsay, realising that James was tugging at her, to makeher go on reading aloud the Fisherman and his Wife, she did in her ownheart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations;Charles Tansley, for instance. Anyhow it must have happened, one wayor the other, by now.
　　But she read, "Next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak,and from her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her.
　　Her husband was still stretching himself… "But how could Minta say now that she would not have him? Not if sheagreed to spend whole afternoons trapesing about the countryalone—for Andrew would be off after his crabs—but possibly Nancywas with them. She tried to recall the sight of them standing at the halldoor after lunch. There they stood, looking at the sky, wondering aboutthe weather, and she had said, thinking partly to cover their shyness,partly to encourage them to be off (for her sympathies were with Paul),"There isn't a cloud anywhere within miles," at which she could feellittle Charles Tansley, who had followed them out, snigger. But she did iton purpose. Whether Nancy was there or not, she could not be certain,looking from one to the other in her mind's eye.
　　She read on: "Ah, wife," said the man, "why should we be King? I donot want to be King." "Well," said the wife, "if you won't be King, I will;go to the Flounder, for I will be King.""Come in or go out, Cam," she said, knowing that Cam was attractedonly by the word "Flounder" and that in a moment she would fidget andfight with James as usual. Cam shot off. Mrs Ramsay went on reading,relieved, for she and James shared the same tastes and were comfortabletogether.
　　"And when he came to the sea, it was quite dark grey, and the waterheaved up from below, and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by itand said,'Flounder, flounder, in the sea,Come, I pray thee, here to me;For my wife, good Ilsabil,Wills not as I'd have her will.'
　　'Well, what does she want then?' said the Flounder." And where werethey now? Mrs Ramsay wondered, reading and thinking, quite easily,both at the same time; for the story of the Fisherman and his Wife waslike the bass gently accompanying a tune, which now and then ran upunexpectedly into the melody. And when should she be told? If nothinghappened, she would have to speak seriously to Minta. For she could notgo trapesing about all over the country, even if Nancy were with them(she tried again, unsuccessfully, to visualize their backs going down thepath, and to count them). She was responsible to Minta's parents—theOwl and the Poker. Her nicknames for them shot into her mind as sheread. The Owl and the Poker—yes, they would be annoyed if theyheard—and they were certain to hear—that Minta, staying with theRamsays, had been seen etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. "He wore a wig in theHouse of Commons and she ably assisted him at the head of the stairs,"she repeated, fishing them up out of her mind by a phrase which, comingback from some party, she had made to amuse her husband. Dear,dear, Mrs Ramsay said to herself, how did they produce this incongruousdaughter? this tomboy Minta, with a hole in her stocking? How didshe exist in that portentous atmosphere where the maid was always removingin a dust-pan the sand that the parrot had scattered, and conversationwas almost entirely reduced to the exploits—interesting perhaps,but limited after all—of that bird? Naturally, one had asked her to lunch,tea, dinner, finally to stay with them up at Finlay, which had resulted insome friction with the Owl, her mother, and more calling, and more conversation,and more sand, and really at the end of it, she had told enoughlies about parrots to last her a lifetime (so she had said to her husbandthat night, coming back from the party). However, Minta came… Yes,she came, Mrs Ramsay thought, suspecting some thorn in the tangle ofthis thought; and disengaging it found it to be this: a woman had onceaccused her of "robbing her of her daughter's affections"; something MrsDoyle had said made her remember that charge again. Wishing to dominate,wishing to interfere, making people do what she wished—that wasthe charge against her, and she thought it most unjust. How could shehelp being "like that" to look at? No one could accuse her of taking painsto impress. She was often ashamed of her own shabbiness. Nor was shedomineering, nor was she tyrannical. It was more true about hospitalsand drains and the dairy. About things like that she did feel passionately,and would, if she had the chance, have liked to take people by thescruff of their necks and make them see. No hospital on the whole island.
　　It was a disgrace. Milk delivered at your door in London positivelybrown with dirt. It should be made illegal. A model dairy and a hospitalup here—those two things she would have liked to do, herself. But how?
　　With all these children? When they were older, then perhaps she wouldhave time; when they were all at school.
　　Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older! or Cam either.
　　These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as they were,demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up intolong-legged monsters. Nothing made up up for the loss. When she readjust now to James, "and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrumsand trumpets," and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should theygrow up and lose all that? He was the most gifted, the most sensitive ofher children. But all, she thought, were full of promise. Prue, a perfectangel with the others, and sometimes now, at night especially, she tookone's breath away with her beauty. Andrew—even her husband admittedthat his gift for mathematics was extraordinary. And Nancy and Roger,they were both wild creatures now, scampering about over thecountry all day long. As for Rose, her mouth was too big, but she had awonderful gift with her hands. If they had charades, Rose made thedresses; made everything; liked best arranging tables, flowers, anything.
　　She did not like it that Jasper should shoot birds; but it was only a stage;they all went through stages. Why, she asked, pressing her chin onJames's head, should they grow up so fast? Why should they go toschool? She would have liked always to have had a baby. She was happiestcarrying one in her arms. Then people might say she was tyrannical,domineering, masterful, if they chose; she did not mind. And, touchinghis hair with her lips, she thought, he will never be so happy again, butstopped herself, remembering how it angered her husband that sheshould say that. Still, it was true. They were happier now than theywould ever be again. A tenpenny tea set made Cam happy for days. Sheheard them stamping and crowing on the floor above her head the momentthey awoke. They came bustling along the passage. Then the doorsprang open and in they came, fresh as roses, staring, wide awake, as ifthis coming into the dining-room after breakfast, which they did everyday of their lives, was a positive event to them, and so on, with one thingafter another, all day long, until she went up to say good-night to them,and found them netted in their cots like birds among cherries and raspberries,still making up stories about some little bit of rubbish—something they had heard, something they had picked up in thegarden. They all had their little treasures… And so she went down andsaid to her husband, Why must they grow up and lose it all? Never willthey be so happy again. And he was angry. Why take such a gloomyview of life? he said. It is not sensible. For it was odd; and she believed itto be true; that with all his gloom and desperation he was happier, morehopeful on the whole, than she was. Less exposed to human worries—perhaps that was it. He had always his work to fall back on. Notthat she herself was "pessimistic," as he accused her of being. Only shethought life—and a little strip of time presented itself to her eyes—herfifty years. There it was before her—life. Life, she thought—but she didnot finish her thought. She took a look at life, for she had a clear sense ofit there, something real, something private, which she shared neitherwith her children nor with her husband. A sort of transaction went onbetween them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another,and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; andsometimes they parleyed (when she sat alone); there were, she remembered,great reconciliation scenes; but for the most part, oddlyenough, she must admit that she felt this thing that she called life terrible,hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance. Therewere eternal problems: suffering; death; the poor. There was always awoman dying of cancer even here. And yet she had said to all these children,You shall go through it all. To eight people she had said relentlesslythat (and the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds). Forthat reason, knowing what was before them—love and ambition and beingwretched alone in dreary places—she had often the feeling, Whymust they grow up and lose it all? And then she said to herself, brandishingher sword at life, Nonsense. They will be perfectly happy. Andhere she was, she reflected, feeling life rather sinister again, makingMinta marry Paul Rayley; because whatever she might feel about herown transaction, she had had experiences which need not happen toevery one (she did not name them to herself); she was driven on, tooquickly she knew, almost as if it were an escape for her too, to say thatpeople must marry; people must have children.
　　Was she wrong in this, she asked herself, reviewing her conduct forthe past week or two, and wondering if she had indeed put any pressureupon Minta, who was only twenty-four, to make up her mind. She wasuneasy. Had she not laughed about it? Was she not forgetting again howstrongly she influenced people? Marriage needed—oh, all sorts of qualities(the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds); one—she neednot name it—that was essential; the thing she had with her husband.
　　Had they that?
　　"Then he put on his trousers and ran away like a madman," she read.
　　"But outside a great storm was raging and blowing so hard that he couldscarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the mountainstrembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch black, and itthundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black waves as highas church towers and mountains, and all with white foam at the top."She turned the page; there were only a few lines more, so that shewould finish the story, though it was past bed-time. It was getting late.
　　The light in the garden told her that; and the whitening of the flowersand something grey in the leaves conspired together, to rouse in her afeeling of anxiety. What it was about she could not think at first. Thenshe remembered; Paul and Minta and Andrew had not come back. Shesummoned before her again the little group on the terrace in front of thehall door, standing looking up into the sky. Andrew had his net and basket.
　　That meant he was going to catch crabs and things. That meant hewould climb out on to a rock; he would be cut off. Or coming back singlefile on one of those little paths above the cliff one of them might slip. Hewould roll and then crash. It was growing quite dark.
　　But she did not let her voice change in the least as she finished thestory, and added, shutting the book, and speaking the last words as ifshe had made them up herself, looking into James's eyes: "And therethey are living still at this very time.""And that's the end," she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interestof the story died away in them, something else take its place; somethingwondering, pale, like the reflection of a light, which at once made himgaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across the bay, and there, sureenough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes andthen one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had beenlit.
　　In a moment he would ask her, "Are we going to the Lighthouse?"And she would have to say, "No: not tomorrow; your father says not."Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them, and the bustle distracted them.
　　But he kept looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried him out,and she was certain that he was thinking, we are not going to the Lighthousetomorrow; and she thought, he will remember that all his life.
Part 1 Chapter 11
    No, she thought, putting together some of the pictures he had cut out— arefrigerator, a mowing machine, a gentleman in evening dress— childrennever forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, andwhat one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed. For now sheneed not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And thatwas what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even tothink. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive,glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity,to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisibleto others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thusthat she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free forthe strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the rangeof experience seemed limitless. And to everybody there was always thissense of unlimited resources, she supposed; one after another, she, Lily,Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions, the things you knowus by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it isunfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that iswhat you see us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There were allthe places she had not seen; the Indian plains; she felt herself pushingaside the thick leather curtain of a church in Rome. This core of darknesscould go anywhere, for no one saw it. They could not stop it, shethought, exulting. There was freedom, there was peace, there was, mostwelcome of all, a summoning together, a resting on a platform of stability.
　　Not as oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accomplishedhere something dexterous with her needles) but as a wedge ofdarkness. Losing personality, one lost the fret, the hurry, the stir; andthere rose to her lips always some exclamation of triumph over life whenthings came together in this peace, this rest, this eternity; and pausingthere she looked out to meet that stroke of the Lighthouse, the longsteady stroke, the last of the three, which was her stroke, for watchingthem in this mood always at this hour one could not help attachingoneself to one thing especially of the things one saw; and this thing, thelong steady stroke, was her stroke. Often she found herself sitting andlooking, sitting and looking, with her work in her hands until she becamethe thing she looked at—that light, for example. And it would liftup on it some little phrase or other which had been lying in her mind likethat—"Children don't forget, children don't forget"—which she wouldrepeat and begin adding to it, It will end, it will end, she said. It willcome, it will come, when suddenly she added, We are in the hands of theLord.
　　But instantly she was annoyed with herself for saying that. Who hadsaid it? Not she; she had been trapped into saying something she did notmean. She looked up over her knitting and met the third stroke and itseemed to her like her own eyes meeting her own eyes, searching as shealone could search into her mind and her heart, purifying out of existencethat lie, any lie. She praised herself in praising the light, withoutvanity, for she was stern, she was searching, she was beautiful like thatlight. It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimatethings; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they becameone; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tendernessthus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself. Thererose, and she looked and looked with her needles suspended, therecurled up off the floor of the mind, rose from the lake of one's being, amist, a bride to meet her lover.
　　What brought her to say that: "We are in the hands of the Lord?" shewondered. The insincerity slipping in among the truths roused her, annoyedher. She returned to her knitting again. How could any Lord havemade this world? she asked. With her mind she had always seized thefact that there is no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor.
　　There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that.
　　No happiness lasted; she knew that. She knitted with firm composure,slightly pursing her lips and, without being aware of it, so stiffened andcomposed the lines of her face in a habit of sternness that when her husbandpassed, though he was chuckling at the thought that Hume, thephilosopher, grown enormously fat, had stuck in a bog, he could nothelp noting, as he passed, the sternness at the heart of her beauty. Itsaddened him, and her remoteness pained him, and he felt, as he passed,that he could not protect her, and, when he reached the hedge, he wassad. He could do nothing to help her. He must stand by and watch her.
　　Indeed, the infernal truth was, he made things worse for her. He wasirritable—he was touchy. He had lost his temper over the Lighthouse. Helooked into the hedge, into its intricacy, its darkness.
　　Always, Mrs Ramsay felt, one helped oneself out of solitude reluctantlyby laying hold of some little odd or end, some sound, some sight.
　　She listened, but it was all very still; cricket was over; the children werein their baths; there was only the sound of the sea. She stopped knitting;she held the long reddish-brown stocking dangling in her hands a moment.
　　She saw the light again. With some irony in her interrogation, forwhen one woke at all, one's relations changed, she looked at the steadylight, the pitiless, the remorseless, which was so much her, yet so littleher, which had her at its beck and call (she woke in the night and saw itbent across their bed, stroking the floor), but for all that she thought,watching it with fascination, hypnotised, as if it were stroking with itssilver fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose bursting wouldflood her with delight, she had known happiness, exquisite happiness,intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly,as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in wavesof pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach andthe ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over thefloor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
　　He turned and saw her. Ah! She was lovely, lovelier now than ever hethought. But he could not speak to her. He could not interrupt her. Hewanted urgently to speak to her now that James was gone and she wasalone at last. But he resolved, no; he would not interrupt her. She wasaloof from him now in her beauty, in her sadness. He would let her be,and he passed her without a word, though it hurt him that she shouldlook so distant, and he could not reach her, he could do nothing to helpher. And again he would have passed her without a word had she not, atthat very moment, given him of her own free will what she knew hewould never ask, and called to him and taken the green shawl off thepicture frame, and gone to him. For he wished, she knew, to protect her.
Part 1 Chapter 12
    She folded the green shawl about her shoulders. She took his arm. Hisbeauty was so great, she said, beginning to speak of Kennedy thegardener, at once he was so awfully handsome, that she couldn't dismisshim. There was a ladder against the greenhouse, and little lumps ofputty stuck about, for they were beginning to mend the greenhouse. Yes,but as she strolled along with her husband, she felt that that particularsource of worry had been placed. She had it on the tip of her tongue tosay, as they strolled, "It'll cost fifty pounds," but instead, for her heartfailed her about money, she talked about Jasper shooting birds, and hesaid, at once, soothing her instantly, that it was natural in a boy, and hetrusted he would find better ways of amusing himself before long. Herhusband was so sensible, so just. And so she said, "Yes; all children gothrough stages," and began considering the dahlias in the big bed, andwondering what about next year's flowers, and had he heard thechildren's nickname for Charles Tansley, she asked. The atheist, theycalled him, the little atheist. "He's not a polished specimen," said MrRamsay. "Far from it," said Mrs Ramsay.
　　She supposed it was all right leaving him to his own devices, MrsRamsay said, wondering whether it was any use sending down bulbs;did they plant them? "Oh, he has his dissertation to write," said Mr Ram-say. She knew all about THAT, said Mrs Ramsay. He talked of nothingelse. It was about the influence of somebody upon something. "Well, it'sall he has to count on," said Mr Ramsay. "Pray Heaven he won't fall inlove with Prue," said Mrs Ramsay. He'd disinherit her if she marriedhim, said Mr Ramsay. He did not look at the flowers, which his wife wasconsidering, but at a spot about a foot or so above them. There was noharm in him, he added, and was just about to say that anyhow he wasthe only young man in England who admired his—when he choked itback. He would not bother her again about his books. These flowersseemed creditable, Mr Ramsay said, lowering his gaze and noticingsomething red, something brown. Yes, but then these she had put inwith her own hands, said Mrs Ramsay. The question was, whathappened if she sent bulbs down; did Kennedy plant them? It was his incurablelaziness; she added, moving on. If she stood over him all daylong with a spade in her hand, he did sometimes do a stroke of work. Sothey strolled along, towards the red-hot pokers. "You're teaching yourdaughters to exaggerate," said Mr Ramsay, reproving her. Her Aunt Camillawas far worse than she was, Mrs Ramsay remarked. "Nobody everheld up your Aunt Camilla as a model of virtue that I'm aware of," saidMr Ramsay. "She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw," said MrsRamsay. "Somebody else was that," said Mr Ramsay. Prue was going tobe far more beautiful than she was, said Mrs Ramsay. He saw no trace ofit, said Mr Ramsay. "Well, then, look tonight," said Mrs Ramsay. Theypaused. He wished Andrew could be induced to work harder. He wouldlose every chance of a scholarship if he didn't. "Oh, scholarships!" shesaid. Mr Ramsay thought her foolish for saying that, about a seriousthing, like a scholarship. He should be very proud of Andrew if he got ascholarship, he said. She would be just as proud of him if he didn't, sheanswered. They disagreed always about this, but it did not matter. Sheliked him to believe in scholarships, and he liked her to be proud ofAndrew whatever he did. Suddenly she remembered those little pathson the edge of the cliffs.
　　Wasn't it late? she asked. They hadn't come home yet. He flicked hiswatch carelessly open. But it was only just past seven. He held his watchopen for a moment, deciding that he would tell her what he had felt onthe terrace. To begin with, it was not reasonable to be so nervous.
　　Andrew could look after himself. Then, he wanted to tell her that whenhe was walking on the terrace just now—here he became uncomfortable,as if he were breaking into that solitude, that aloofness, that remotenessof hers. But she pressed him. What had he wanted to tell her, she asked,thinking it was about going to the Lighthouse; that he was sorry he hadsaid "Damn you." But no. He did not like to see her look so sad, he said.
　　Only wool gathering, she protested, flushing a little. They both felt uncomfortable,as if they did not know whether to go on or go back. Shehad been reading fairy tales to James, she said. No, they could not sharethat; they could not say that.
　　They had reached the gap between the two clumps of red-hot pokers,and there was the Lighthouse again, but she would not let herself look atit. Had she known that he was looking at her, she thought, she wouldnot have let herself sit there, thinking. She disliked anything that remindedher that she had been seen sitting thinking. So she looked overher shoulder, at the town. The lights were rippling and running as if theywere drops of silver water held firm in a wind. And all the poverty, allthe suffering had turned to that, Mrs Ramsay thought. The lights of thetown and of the harbour and of the boats seemed like a phantom netfloating there to mark something which had sunk. Well, if he could notshare her thoughts, Mr Ramsay said to himself, he would be off, then, onhis own. He wanted to go on thinking, telling himself the story howHume was stuck in a bog; he wanted to laugh. But first it was nonsenseto be anxious about Andrew. When he was Andrew's age he used towalk about the country all day long, with nothing but a biscuit in hispocket and nobody bothered about him, or thought that he had fallenover a cliff. He said aloud he thought he would be off for a day's walk ifthe weather held. He had had about enough of Bankes and of Carmichael.
　　He would like a little solitude. Yes, she said. It annoyed him thatshe did not protest. She knew that he would never do it. He was too oldnow to walk all day long with a biscuit in his pocket. She worried aboutthe boys, but not about him. Years ago, before he had married, hethought, looking across the bay, as they stood between the clumps ofred-hot pokers, he had walked all day. He had made a meal off breadand cheese in a public house. He had worked ten hours at a stretch; anold woman just popped her head in now and again and saw to the fire.
　　That was the country he liked best, over there; those sandhills dwindlingaway into darkness. One could walk all day without meeting a soul.
　　There was not a house scarcely, not a single village for miles on end. Onecould worry things out alone. There were little sandy beaches where noone had been since the beginning of time. The seals sat up and looked atyou. It sometimes seemed to him that in a little house out there,alone—he broke off, sighing. He had no right. The father of eight children—he reminded himself. And he would have been a beast and a curto wish a single thing altered. Andrew would be a better man than hehad been. Prue would be a beauty, her mother said. They would stemthe flood a bit. That was a good bit of work on the whole—his eight children.
　　They showed he did not damn the poor little universe entirely, foron an evening like this, he thought, looking at the land dwindling away,the little island seemed pathetically small, half swallowed up in the sea.
　　"Poor little place," he murmured with a sigh.
　　She heard him. He said the most melancholy things, but she noticedthat directly he had said them he always seemed more cheerful than usual.
　　All this phrase-making was a game, she thought, for if she had saidhalf what he said, she would have blown her brains out by now.
　　It annoyed her, this phrase-making, and she said to him, in a matterof-fact way, that it was a perfectly lovely evening. And what was hegroaning about, she asked, half laughing, half complaining, for sheguessed what he was thinking—he would have written better books if hehad not married.
　　He was not complaining, he said. She knew that he did not complain.
　　She knew that he had nothing whatever to complain of. And he seizedher hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it with an intensity thatbrought the tears to her eyes, and quickly he dropped it.
　　They turned away from the view and began to walk up the path wherethe silver-green spear-like plants grew, arm in arm. His arm was almostlike a young man's arm, Mrs Ramsay thought, thin and hard, and shethought with delight how strong he still was, though he was over sixty,and how untamed and optimistic, and how strange it was that beingconvinced, as he was, of all sorts of horrors, seemed not to depress him,but to cheer him. Was it not odd, she reflected? Indeed he seemed to hersometimes made differently from other people, born blind, deaf, anddumb, to the ordinary things, but to the extraordinary things, with aneye like an eagle's. His understanding often astonished her. But did henotice the flowers? No. Did he notice the view? No. Did he even noticehis own daughter's beauty, or whether there was pudding on his plate orroast beef? He would sit at table with them like a person in a dream. Andhis habit of talking aloud, or saying poetry aloud, was growing on him,she was afraid; for sometimes it was awkward—Best and brightest come away!
　　poor Miss Giddings, when he shouted that at her, almost jumped outof her skin. But then, Mrs Ramsay, though instantly taking his sideagainst all the silly Giddingses in the world, then, she thought, intimatingby a little pressure on his arm that he walked up hill too fast for her,and she must stop for a moment to see whether those were fresh molehillson the bank, then, she thought, stooping down to look, a great mindlike his must be different in every way from ours. All the great men shehad ever known, she thought, deciding that a rabbit must have got in,were like that, and it was good for young men (though the atmosphereof lecture-rooms was stuffy and depressing to her beyond endurance almost)simply to hear him, simply to look at him. But without shootingrabbits, how was one to keep them down? she wondered. It might be arabbit; it might be a mole. Some creature anyhow was ruining her EveningPrimroses. And looking up, she saw above the thin trees the firstpulse of the full-throbbing star, and wanted to make her husband look atit; for the sight gave her such keen pleasure. But she stopped herself. Henever looked at things. If he did, all he would say would be, Poor littleworld, with one of his sighs.
　　At that moment, he said, "Very fine," to please her, and pretended toadmire the flowers. But she knew quite well that he did not admirethem, or even realise that they were there. It was only to please her. Ah,but was that not Lily Briscoe strolling along with William Bankes? Shefocussed her short-sighted eyes upon the backs of a retreating couple.
　　Yes, indeed it was. Did that not mean that they would marry? Yes, itmust! What an admirable idea! They must marry!
Part 1 Chapter 13
    He had been to Amsterdam, Mr Bankes was saying as he strolled acrossthe lawn with Lily Briscoe. He had seen the Rembrandts. He had been toMadrid. Unfortunately, it was Good Friday and the Prado was shut. Hehad been to Rome. Had Miss Briscoe never been to Rome? Oh, sheshould—It would be a wonderful experience for her—the Sistine Chapel;Michael Angelo; and Padua, with its Giottos. His wife had been in badhealth for many years, so that their sight-seeing had been on a modestscale.
　　She had been to Brussels; she had been to Paris but only for a flyingvisit to see an aunt who was ill. She had been to Dresden; there weremasses of pictures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe reflected, perhapsit was better not to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly discontentedwith one's own work. Mr Bankes thought one could carry thatpoint of view too far. We can't all be Titians and we can't all be Darwins,he said; at the same time he doubted whether you could have your Darwinand your Titian if it weren't for humble people like ourselves. Lilywould have liked to pay him a compliment; you're not humble, MrBankes, she would have liked to have said. But he did not want compliments(most men do, she thought), and she was a little ashamed of herimpulse and said nothing while he remarked that perhaps what he wassaying did not apply to pictures. Anyhow, said Lily, tossing off her littleinsincerity, she would always go on painting, because it interested her.
　　Yes, said Mr Bankes, he was sure she would, and, as they reached theend of the lawn he was asking her whether she had difficulty in findingsubjects in London when they turned and saw the Ramsays. So that ismarriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing aball. That is what Mrs Ramsay tried to tell me the other night, shethought. For she was wearing a green shawl, and they were standingclose together watching Prue and Jasper throwing catches. And suddenlythe meaning which, for no reason at all, as perhaps they are steppingout of the Tube or ringing a doorbell, descends on people, makingthem symbolical, making them representative, came upon them, andmade them in the dusk standing, looking, the symbols of marriage, husbandand wife. Then, after an instant, the symbolical outline which transcendedthe real figures sank down again, and they became, as they metthem, Mr and Mrs Ramsay watching the children throwing catches. Butstill for a moment, though Mrs Ramsay greeted them with her usualsmile (oh, she's thinking we're going to get married, Lily thought) andsaid, "I have triumphed tonight," meaning that for once Mr Bankes hadagreed to dine with them and not run off to his own lodging where hisman cooked vegetables properly; still, for one moment, there was a senseof things having been blown apart, of space, of irresponsibility as the ballsoared high, and they followed it and lost it and saw the one star and thedraped branches. In the failing light they all looked sharp-edged and etherealand divided by great distances. Then, darting backwards over thevast space (for it seemed as if solidity had vanished altogether), Prue ranfull tilt into them and caught the ball brilliantly high up in her left hand,and her mother said, "Haven't they come back yet?" whereupon the spellwas broken. Mr Ramsay felt free now to laugh out loud at the thoughtthat Hume had stuck in a bog and an old woman rescued him on conditionhe said the Lord's Prayer, and chuckling to himself he strolled off tohis study. Mrs Ramsay, bringing Prue back into throwing catches again,from which she had escaped, asked,"Did Nancy go with them?"
Part 1 Chapter 14 
    (Certainly, Nancy had gone with them, since Minta Doyle had asked itwith her dumb look, holding out her hand, as Nancy made off, afterlunch, to her attic, to escape the horror of family life. She supposed shemust go then. She did not want to go. She did not want to be drawn intoit all. For as they walked along the road to the cliff Minta kept on takingher hand. Then she would let it go. Then she would take it again. Whatwas it she wanted? Nancy asked herself. There was something, of course,that people wanted; for when Minta took her hand and held it, Nancy,reluctantly, saw the whole world spread out beneath her, as if it wereConstantinople seen through a mist, and then, however heavy-eyed onemight be, one must needs ask, "Is that Santa Sofia?" "Is that the GoldenHorn?" So Nancy asked, when Minta took her hand. "What is it that shewants? Is it that?" And what was that? Here and there emerged from themist (as Nancy looked down upon life spread beneath her) a pinnacle, adome; prominent things, without names. But when Minta dropped herhand, as she did when they ran down the hillside, all that, the dome, thepinnacle, whatever it was that had protruded through the mist, sankdown into it and disappeared. Minta, Andrew observed, was rather agood walker. She wore more sensible clothes that most women. Shewore very short skirts and black knickerbockers. She would jumpstraight into a stream and flounder across. He liked her rashness, but hesaw that it would not do—she would kill herself in some idiotic way oneof these days. She seemed to be afraid of nothing—except bulls. At themere sight of a bull in a field she would throw up her arms and flyscreaming, which was the very thing to enrage a bull of course. But shedid not mind owning up to it in the least; one must admit that. She knewshe was an awful coward about bulls, she said. She thought she musthave been tossed in her perambulator when she was a baby. She didn'tseem to mind what she said or did. Suddenly now she pitched down onthe edge of the cliff and began to sing some song aboutDamn your eyes, damn your eyes.
　　They all had to join in and sing the chorus, and shout out together:
　　Damn your eyes, damn your eyes,but it would be fatal to let the tide come in and cover up all the goodhunting-grounds before they got on to the beach.
　　"Fatal," Paul agreed, springing up, and as they went slithering down,he kept quoting the guide-book about "these islands being justly celebratedfor their park-like prospects and the extent and variety of theirmarine curiosities." But it would not do altogether, this shouting anddamning your eyes, Andrew felt, picking his way down the cliff, thisclapping him on the back, and calling him "old fellow" and all that; itwould not altogether do. It was the worst of taking women on walks.
　　Once on the beach they separated, he going out on to the Pope's Nose,taking his shoes off, and rolling his socks in them and letting that couplelook after themselves; Nancy waded out to her own rocks and searchedher own pools and let that couple look after themselves. She crouchedlow down and touched the smooth rubber-like sea anemones, who werestuck like lumps of jelly to the side of the rock. Brooding, she changedthe pool into the sea, and made the minnows into sharks and whales,and cast vast clouds over this tiny world by holding her hand against thesun, and so brought darkness and desolation, like God himself, to millionsof ignorant and innocent creatures, and then took her hand awaysuddenly and let the sun stream down. Out on the pale criss-crossedsand, high-stepping, fringed, gauntleted, stalked some fantastic leviathan(she was still enlarging the pool), and slipped into the vast fissures ofthe mountain side. And then, letting her eyes slide imperceptibly abovethe pool and rest on that wavering line of sea and sky, on the tree trunkswhich the smoke of steamers made waver on the horizon, she becamewith all that power sweeping savagely in and inevitably withdrawing,hypnotised, and the two senses of that vastness and this tininess (thepool had diminished again) flowering within it made her feel that shewas bound hand and foot and unable to move by the intensity of feelingswhich reduced her own body, her own life, and the lives of all the peoplein the world, for ever, to nothingness. So listening to the waves, crouchingover the pool, she brooded.
　　And Andrew shouted that the sea was coming in, so she leapt splashingthrough the shallow waves on to the shore and ran up the beach andwas carried by her own impetuosity and her desire for rapid movementright behind a rock and there—oh, heavens! in each other's arms, werePaul and Minta kissing probably. She was outraged, indignant. She andAndrew put on their shoes and stockings in dead silence without sayinga thing about it. Indeed they were rather sharp with each other. Shemight have called him when she saw the crayfish or whatever it was,Andrew grumbled. However, they both felt, it's not our fault. They hadnot wanted this horrid nuisance to happen. All the same it irritatedAndrew that Nancy should be a woman, and Nancy that Andrew shouldbe a man, and they tied their shoes very neatly and drew the bows rathertight.
　　It was not until they had climbed right up on to the top of the cliffagain that Minta cried out that she had lost her grandmother's brooch—her grandmother's brooch, the sole ornament she possessed—a weepingwillow, it was (they must remember it) set in pearls. They must haveseen it, she said, with the tears running down her cheeks, the broochwhich her grandmother had fastened her cap with till the last day of herlife. Now she had lost it. She would rather have lost anything than that!
　　She would go back and look for it. They all went back. They poked andpeered and looked. They kept their heads very low, and said thingsshortly and gruffly. Paul Rayley searched like a madman all about therock where they had been sitting. All this pother about a brooch reallydidn't do at all, Andrew thought, as Paul told him to make a "thoroughsearch between this point and that." The tide was coming in fast. The seawould cover the place where they had sat in a minute. There was not aghost of a chance of their finding it now. "We shall be cut off!" Mintashrieked, suddenly terrified. As if there were any danger of that! It wasthe same as the bulls all over again—she had no control over her emotions,Andrew thought. Women hadn't. The wretched Paul had to pacifyher. The men (Andrew and Paul at once became manly, and differentfrom usual) took counsel briefly and decided that they would plantRayley's stick where they had sat and come back at low tide again. Therewas nothing more that could be done now. If the brooch was there, itwould still be there in the morning, they assured her, but Minta stillsobbed, all the way up to the top of the cliff. It was her grandmother'sbrooch; she would rather have lost anything but that, and yet Nancy felt,it might be true that she minded losing her brooch, but she wasn't cryingonly for that. She was crying for something else. We might all sit downand cry, she felt. But she did not know what for.
　　They drew ahead together, Paul and Minta, and he comforted her, andsaid how famous he was for finding things. Once when he was a littleboy he had found a gold watch. He would get up at daybreak and hewas positive he would find it. It seemed to him that it would be almostdark, and he would be alone on the beach, and somehow it would berather dangerous. He began telling her, however, that he would certainlyfind it, and she said that she would not hear of his getting up at dawn: itwas lost: she knew that: she had had a presentiment when she put it onthat afternoon. And secretly he resolved that he would not tell her, buthe would slip out of the house at dawn when they were all asleep and ifhe could not find it he would go to Edinburgh and buy her another, justlike it but more beautiful. He would prove what he could do. And asthey came out on the hill and saw the lights of the town beneath them,the lights coming out suddenly one by one seemed like things that weregoing to happen to him—his marriage, his children, his house; and againhe thought, as they came out on to the high road, which was shadedwith high bushes, how they would retreat into solitude together, andwalk on and on, he always leading her, and she pressing close to his side(as she did now). As they turned by the cross roads he thought what anappalling experience he had been through, and he must tell someone—Mrs Ramsay of course, for it took his breath away to think what hehad been and done. It had been far and away the worst moment of hislife when he asked Minta to marry him. He would go straight to MrsRamsay, because he felt somehow that she was the person who hadmade him do it. She had made him think he could do anything. Nobodyelse took him seriously. But she made him believe that he could dowhatever he wanted. He had felt her eyes on him all day today, followinghim about (though she never said a word) as if she were saying, "Yes,you can do it. I believe in you. I expect it of you." She had made him feelall that, and directly they got back (he looked for the lights of the houseabove the bay) he would go to her and say, "I've done it, Mrs Ramsay;thanks to you." And so turning into the lane that led to the house hecould see lights moving about in the upper windows. They must be awfullylate then. People were getting ready for dinner. The house was alllit up, and the lights after the darkness made his eyes feel full, and hesaid to himself, childishly, as he walked up the drive, Lights, lights,lights, and repeated in a dazed way, Lights, lights, lights, as they cameinto the house staring about him with his face quite stiff. But, good heavens,he said to himself, putting his hand to his tie, I must not make a foolof myself.)
Part 1 Chapter 15
     "Yes," said Prue, in her considering way, answering her mother's question,"I think Nancy did go with them."
Part 1 Chapter 16
    Well then, Nancy had gone with them, Mrs Ramsay supposed, wondering,as she put down a brush, took up a comb, and said "Come in" to atap at the door (Jasper and Rose came in), whether the fact that Nancywas with them made it less likely or more likely that anything wouldhappen; it made it less likely, somehow, Mrs Ramsay felt, very irrationally,except that after all holocaust on such a scale was not probable.
　　They could not all be drowned. And again she felt alone in the presenceof her old antagonist, life.
　　Jasper and Rose said that Mildred wanted to know whether sheshould wait dinner.
　　"Not for the Queen of England," said Mrs Ramsay emphatically.
　　"Not for the Empress of Mexico," she added, laughing at Jasper; for heshared his mother's vice: he, too, exaggerated.
　　And if Rose liked, she said, while Jasper took the message, she mightchoose which jewels she was to wear. When there are fifteen people sittingdown to dinner, one cannot keep things waiting for ever. She wasnow beginning to feel annoyed with them for being so late; it was inconsiderateof them, and it annoyed her on top of her anxiety about them,that they should choose this very night to be out late, when, in fact, shewished the dinner to be particularly nice, since William Bankes had atlast consented to dine with them; and they were having Mildred's masterpiece—BOEUF EN DAUBE. Everything depended upon things beingserved up to the precise moment they were ready. The beef, the bayleaf,and the wine—all must be done to a turn. To keep it waiting was out ofthe question. Yet of course tonight, of all nights, out they went, and theycame in late, and things had to be sent out, things had to be kept hot; theBOEUF EN DAUBE would be entirely spoilt.
　　Jasper offered her an opal necklace; Rose a gold necklace. Whichlooked best against her black dress? Which did indeed, said Mrs Ramsayabsent-mindedly, looking at her neck and shoulders (but avoiding herface) in the glass. And then, while the children rummaged among herthings, she looked out of the window at a sight which always amusedher—the rooks trying to decide which tree to settle on. Every time, theyseemed to change their minds and rose up into the air again, because,she thought, the old rook, the father rook, old Joseph was her name forhim, was a bird of a very trying and difficult disposition. He was a disreputableold bird, with half his wing feathers missing. He was like someseedy old gentleman in a top hat she had seen playing the horn in frontof a public house.
　　"Look!" she said, laughing. They were actually fighting. Joseph andMary were fighting. Anyhow they all went up again, and the air wasshoved aside by their black wings and cut into exquisite scimitar shapes.
　　The movements of the wings beating out, out, out—she could never describeit accurately enough to please herself—was one of the loveliest ofall to her. Look at that, she said to Rose, hoping that Rose would see itmore clearly than she could. For one's children so often gave one's ownperceptions a little thrust forwards.
　　But which was it to be? They had all the trays of her jewel-case open.
　　The gold necklace, which was Italian, or the opal necklace, which UncleJames had brought her from India; or should she wear her amethysts?
　　"Choose, dearests, choose," she said, hoping that they would makehaste.
　　But she let them take their time to choose: she let Rose, particularly,take up this and then that, and hold her jewels against the black dress,for this little ceremony of choosing jewels, which was gone throughevery night, was what Rose liked best, she knew. She had some hiddenreason of her own for attaching great importance to this choosing whather mother was to wear. What was the reason, Mrs Ramsay wondered,standing still to let her clasp the necklace she had chosen, divining,through her own past, some deep, some buried, some quite speechlessfeeling that one had for one's mother at Rose's age. Like all feelings feltfor oneself, Mrs Ramsay thought, it made one sad. It was so inadequate,what one could give in return; and what Rose felt was quite out of proportionto anything she actually was. And Rose would grow up; andRose would suffer, she supposed, with these deep feelings, and she saidshe was ready now, and they would go down, and Jasper, because hewas the gentleman, should give her his arm, and Rose, as she was thelady, should carry her handkerchief (she gave her the handkerchief), andwhat else? oh, yes, it might be cold: a shawl. Choose me a shawl, shesaid, for that would please Rose, who was bound to suffer so. "There,"she said, stopping by the window on the landing, "there they are again."Joseph had settled on another tree-top. "Don't you think they mind," shesaid to Jasper, "having their wings broken?" Why did he want to shootpoor old Joseph and Mary? He shuffled a little on the stairs, and felt rebuked,but not seriously, for she did not understand the fun of shootingbirds; and they did not feel; and being his mother she lived away in anotherdivision of the world, but he rather liked her stories about Maryand Joseph. She made him laugh. But how did she know that those wereMary and Joseph? Did she think the same birds came to the same treesevery night? he asked. But here, suddenly, like all grown-up people, sheceased to pay him the least attention. She was listening to a clatter in thehall.
　　"They've come back!" she exclaimed, and at once she felt much moreannoyed with them than relieved. Then she wondered, had it happened?
　　She would go down and they would tell her—but no. They could not tellher anything, with all these people about. So she must go down and begindinner and wait. And, like some queen who, finding her peoplegathered in the hall, looks down upon them, and descends among them,and acknowledges their tributes silently, and accepts their devotion andtheir prostration before her (Paul did not move a muscle but lookedstraight before him as she passed) she went down, and crossed the halland bowed her head very slightly, as if she accepted what they could notsay: their tribute to her beauty.
　　But she stopped. There was a smell of burning. Could they have let theBOEUF EN DAUBE overboil? she wondered, pray heaven not! when thegreat clangour of the gong announced solemnly, authoritatively, that allthose scattered about, in attics, in bedrooms, on little perches of theirown, reading, writing, putting the last smooth to their hair, or fasteningdresses, must leave all that, and the little odds and ends on theirwashing-tables and dressing tables, and the novels on the bed-tables,and the diaries which were so private, and assemble in the dining-roomfor dinner.
Part 1 Chapter 17
    But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs Ramsay, taking herplace at the head of the table, and looking at all the plates making whitecircles on it. "William, sit by me," she said. "Lily," she said, wearily, "overthere." They had that—Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle—she, only this—aninfinitely long table and plates and knives. At the far end was her husband,sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She did not know.
　　She did not mind. She could not understand how she had ever felt anyemotion or affection for him. She had a sense of being past everything,through everything, out of everything, as she helped the soup, as if therewas an eddy—there— and one could be in it, or one could be out of it,and she was out of it. It's all come to an end, she thought, while theycame in one after another, Charles Tansley—"Sit there, please," shesaid—Augustus Carmichael—and sat down. And meanwhile shewaited, passively, for some one to answer her, for something to happen.
　　But this is not a thing, she thought, ladling out soup, that one says.
　　Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy—that was what she wasthinking, this was what she was doing—ladling out soup—she felt, moreand more strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shade had fallen, and,robbed of colour, she saw things truly. The room (she looked round it)was very shabby. There was no beauty anywhere. She forebore to look atMr Tansley. Nothing seemed to have merged. They all sat separate. Andthe whole of the effort of merging and flowing and creating rested onher. Again she felt, as a fact without hostility, the sterility of men, for ifshe did not do it nobody would do it, and so, giving herself a little shakethat one gives a watch that has stopped, the old familiar pulse beganbeating, as the watch begins ticking—one, two, three, one, two, three.
　　And so on and so on, she repeated, listening to it, sheltering and fosteringthe still feeble pulse as one might guard a weak flame with a newspaper.
　　And so then, she concluded, addressing herself by bending silentlyin his direction to William Bankes—poor man! who had no wife,and no children and dined alone in lodgings except for tonight; and inpity for him, life being now strong enough to bear her on again, shebegan all this business, as a sailor not without weariness sees the windfill his sail and yet hardly wants to be off again and thinks how, had theship sunk, he would have whirled round and round and found rest onthe floor of the sea.
　　"Did you find your letters? I told them to put them in the hall for you,"she said to William Bankes.
　　Lily Briscoe watched her drifting into that strange no-man's landwhere to follow people is impossible and yet their going inflicts such achill on those who watch them that they always try at least to followthem with their eyes as one follows a fading ship until the sails havesunk beneath the horizon.
　　How old she looks, how worn she looks, Lily thought, and how remote.
　　Then when she turned to William Bankes, smiling, it was as if theship had turned and the sun had struck its sails again, and Lily thoughtwith some amusement because she was relieved, Why does she pityhim? For that was the impression she gave, when she told him that hisletters were in the hall. Poor William Bankes, she seemed to be saying, asif her own weariness had been partly pitying people, and the life in her,her resolve to live again, had been stirred by pity. And it was not true,Lily thought; it was one of those misjudgments of hers that seemed to beinstinctive and to arise from some need of her own rather than of otherpeople's. He is not in the least pitiable. He has his work, Lily said to herself.
　　She remembered, all of a sudden as if she had found a treasure, thatshe had her work. In a flash she saw her picture, and thought, Yes, I shallput the tree further in the middle; then I shall avoid that awkward space.
　　That's what I shall do. That's what has been puzzling me. She took upthe salt cellar and put it down again on a flower pattern in the tablecloth,so as to remind herself to move the tree.
　　"It's odd that one scarcely gets anything worth having by post, yet onealways wants one's letters," said Mr Bankes.
　　What damned rot they talk, thought Charles Tansley, laying down hisspoon precisely in the middle of his plate, which he had swept clean, asif, Lily thought (he sat opposite to her with his back to the window preciselyin the middle of view), he were determined to make sure of hismeals. Everything about him had that meagre fixity, that bare unloveliness.
　　But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them. She liked his eyes; they were blue, deep set,frightening.
　　"Do you write many letters, Mr Tansley?" asked Mrs Ramsay, pityinghim too, Lily supposed; for that was true of Mrs Ramsay—she pitiedmen always as if they lacked something—women never, as if they hadsomething. He wrote to his mother; otherwise he did not suppose hewrote one letter a month, said Mr Tansley, shortly.
　　For he was not going to talk the sort of rot these condescended to bythese silly women. He had been reading in his room, and now he camedown and it all seemed to him silly, superficial, flimsy. Why did theydress? He had come down in his ordinary clothes. He had not got anydress clothes. "One never gets anything worth having by post"—that wasthe sort of thing they were always saying. They made men say that sortof thing. Yes, it was pretty well true, he thought. They never got anythingworth having from one year's end to another. They did nothing buttalk, talk, talk, eat, eat, eat. It was the women's fault. Women made civilisationimpossible with all their "charm," all their silliness.
　　"No going to the Lighthouse tomorrow, Mrs Ramsay," he said, assertinghimself. He liked her; he admired her; he still thought of the man inthe drain-pipe looking up at her; but he felt it necessary to assert himself.
　　He was really, Lily Briscoe thought, in spite of his eyes, but then lookat his nose, look at his hands, the most uncharming human being shehad ever met. Then why did she mind what he said? Women can't write,women can't paint—what did that matter coming from him, since clearlyit was not true to him but for some reason helpful to him, and that waswhy he said it? Why did her whole being bow, like corn under a wind,and erect itself again from this abasement only with a great and ratherpainful effort? She must make it once more. There's the sprig on thetable-cloth; there's my painting; I must move the tree to the middle; thatmatters—nothing else. Could she not hold fast to that, she asked herself,and not lose her temper, and not argue; and if she wanted revenge take itby laughing at him?
　　"Oh, Mr Tansley," she said, "do take me to the Lighthouse with you. Ishould so love it."She was telling lies he could see. She was saying what she did notmean to annoy him, for some reason. She was laughing at him. He wasin his old flannel trousers. He had no others. He felt very rough and isolatedand lonely. He knew that she was trying to tease him for some reason;she didn't want to go to the Lighthouse with him; she despised him:
　　so did Prue Ramsay; so did they all. But he was not going to be made afool of by women, so he turned deliberately in his chair and looked outof the window and said, all in a jerk, very rudely, it would be too roughfor her tomorrow. She would be sick.
　　It annoyed him that she should have made him speak like that, withMrs Ramsay listening. If only he could be alone in his room working, hethought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease. And hehad never run a penny into debt; he had never cost his father a pennysince he was fifteen; he had helped them at home out of his savings; hewas educating his sister. Still, he wished he had known how to answerMiss Briscoe properly; he wished it had not come out all in a jerk likethat. "You'd be sick." He wished he could think of something to say toMrs Ramsay, something which would show her that he was not just adry prig. That was what they all thought him. He turned to her. But MrsRamsay was talking about people he had never heard of to WilliamBankes.
　　"Yes, take it away," she said briefly, interrupting what she was sayingto William Bankes to speak to the maid. "It must have been fifteen— no,twenty years ago—that I last saw her," she was saying, turning back tohim again as if she could not lose a moment of their talk, for she was absorbedby what they were saying. So he had actually heard from her thisevening! And was Carrie still living at Marlow, and was everything stillthe same? Oh, she could remember it as if it were yesterday—on theriver, feeling it as if it were yesterday—going on the river, feeling verycold. But if the Mannings made a plan they stuck to it. Never should sheforget Herbert killing a wasp with a teaspoon on the bank! And it wasstill going on, Mrs Ramsay mused, gliding like a ghost among the chairsand tables of that drawing-room on the banks of the Thames where shehad been so very, very cold twenty years ago; but now she went amongthem like a ghost; and it fascinated her, as if, while she had changed, thatparticular day, now become very still and beautiful, had remained there,all these years. Had Carrie written to him herself? she asked.
　　"Yes. She says they're building a new billiard room," he said. No! No!
　　That was out of the question! Building a new billiard room! It seemed toher impossible.
　　Mr Bankes could not see that there was anything very odd about it.
　　They were very well off now. Should he give her love to Carrie?
　　"Oh," said Mrs Ramsay with a little start, "No," she added, reflectingthat she did not know this Carrie who built a new billiard room. But howstrange, she repeated, to Mr Bankes's amusement, that they should begoing on there still. For it was extraordinary to think that they had beencapable of going on living all these years when she had not thought ofthem more than once all that time. How eventful her own life had been,during those same years. Yet perhaps Carrie Manning had not thoughtabout her, either. The thought was strange and distasteful.
　　"People soon drift apart," said Mr Bankes, feeling, however, some satisfactionwhen he thought that after all he knew both the Mannings andthe Ramsays. He had not drifted apart he thought, laying down hisspoon and wiping his clean-shaven lips punctiliously. But perhaps hewas rather unusual, he thought, in this; he never let himself get into agroove. He had friends in all circles… Mrs Ramsay had to break off hereto tell the maid something about keeping food hot. That was why he preferreddining alone. All those interruptions annoyed him. Well, thoughtWilliam Bankes, preserving a demeanour of exquisite courtesy andmerely spreading the fingers of his left hand on the table-cloth as amechanic examines a tool beautifully polished and ready for use in an intervalof leisure, such are the sacrifices one's friends ask of one. It wouldhave hurt her if he had refused to come. But it was not worth it for him.
　　Looking at his hand he thought that if he had been alone dinner wouldhave been almost over now; he would have been free to work. Yes, hethought, it is a terrible waste of time. The children were dropping in still.
　　"I wish one of you would run up to Roger's room," Mrs Ramsay was saying.
　　How trifling it all is, how boring it all is, he thought, compared withthe other thing— work. Here he sat drumming his fingers on the tableclothwhen he might have been—he took a flashing bird's-eye view of hiswork. What a waste of time it all was to be sure! Yet, he thought, she isone of my oldest friends. I am by way of being devoted to her. Yet now,at this moment her presence meant absolutely nothing to him: her beautymeant nothing to him; her sitting with her little boy at the window—nothing, nothing. He wished only to be alone and to take up that book.
　　He felt uncomfortable; he felt treacherous, that he could sit by her sideand feel nothing for her. The truth was that he did not enjoy family life.
　　It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself, What does one live for?
　　Why, one asked oneself, does one take all these pains for the human raceto go on? Is it so very desirable? Are we attractive as a species? Not sovery, he thought, looking at those rather untidy boys. His favourite,Cam, was in bed, he supposed. Foolish questions, vain questions, questionsone never asked if one was occupied. Is human life this? Is humanlife that? One never had time to think about it. But here he was askinghimself that sort of question, because Mrs Ramsay was giving orders toservants, and also because it had struck him, thinking how surprisedMrs Ramsay was that Carrie Manning should still exist, that friendships,even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart. He reproachedhimself again. He was sitting beside Mrs Ramsay and he had nothing inthe world to say to her.
　　"I'm so sorry," said Mrs Ramsy, turning to him at last. He felt rigid andbarren, like a pair of boots that have been soaked and gone dry so thatyou can hardly force your feet into them. Yet he must force his feet intothem. He must make himself talk. Unless he were very careful, shewould find out this treachery of his; that he did not care a straw for her,and that would not be at all pleasant, he thought. So he bent his headcourteously in her direction.
　　"How you must detest dining in this bear garden," she said, makinguse, as she did when she was distracted, of her social manner. So, whenthere is a strife of tongues, at some meeting, the chairman, to obtainunity, suggests that every one shall speak in French. Perhaps it is badFrench; French may not contain the words that express the speaker'sthoughts; nevertheless speaking French imposes some order, some uniformity.
　　Replying to her in the same language, Mr Bankes said, "No, notat all," and Mr Tansley, who had no knowledge of this language, evenspoke thus in words of one syllable, at once suspected its insincerity.
　　They did talk nonsense, he thought, the Ramsays; and he pounced onthis fresh instance with joy, making a note which, one of these days, hewould read aloud, to one or two friends. There, in a society where onecould say what one liked he would sarcastically describe "staying withthe Ramsays" and what nonsense they talked. It was worth while doingit once, he would say; but not again. The women bored one so, he wouldsay. Of course Ramsay had dished himself by marrying a beautiful womanand having eight children. It would shape itself something like that,but now, at this moment, sitting stuck there with an empty seat besidehim, nothing had shaped itself at all. It was all in scraps and fragments.
　　He felt extremely, even physically, uncomfortable. He wanted somebodyto give him a chance of asserting himself. He wanted it so urgently thathe fidgeted in his chair, looked at this person, then at that person, triedto break into their talk, opened his mouth and shut it again. They weretalking about the fishing industry. Why did no one ask him his opinion?
　　What did they know about the fishing industry?
　　Lily Briscoe knew all that. Sitting opposite him, could she not see, as inan X-ray photograph, the ribs and thigh bones of the young man's desireto impress himself, lying dark in the mist of his flesh—that thin mistwhich convention had laid over his burning desire to break into theconversation? But, she thought, screwing up her Chinese eyes, and rememberinghow he sneered at women, "can't paint, can't write," whyshould I help him to relieve himself?
　　There is a code of behaviour, she knew, whose seventh article (it maybe) says that on occasions of this sort it behoves the woman, whateverher own occupation might be, to go to the help of the young man oppositeso that he may expose and relieve the thigh bones, the ribs, of his vanity,of his urgent desire to assert himself; as indeed it is their duty, she reflected,in her old maidenly fairness, to help us, suppose the Tube wereto burst into flames. Then, she thought, I should certainly expect MrTansley to get me out. But how would it be, she thought, if neither of usdid either of these things? So she sat there smiling.
　　"You're not planning to go to the Lighthouse, are you, Lily," said MrsRamsay. "Remember poor Mr Langley; he had been round the worlddozens of times, but he told me he never suffered as he did when myhusband took him there. Are you a good sailor, Mr Tansley?" she asked.
　　Mr Tansley raised a hammer: swung it high in air; but realising, as itdescended, that he could not smite that butterfly with such an instrumentas this, said only that he had never been sick in his life. But in thatone sentence lay compact, like gunpowder, that his grandfather was afisherman; his father a chemist; that he had worked his way up entirelyhimself; that he was proud of it; that he was Charles Tansley—a fact thatnobody there seemed to realise; but one of these days every single personwould know it. He scowled ahead of him. He could almost pitythese mild cultivated people, who would be blown sky high, like bales ofwool and barrels of apples, one of these days by the gunpowder that wasin him.
　　"Will you take me, Mr Tansley?" said Lily, quickly, kindly, for, ofcourse, if Mrs Ramsay said to her, as in effect she did, "I am drowning,my dear, in seas of fire. Unless you apply some balm to the anguish ofthis hour and say something nice to that young man there, life will runupon the rocks—indeed I hear the grating and the growling at thisminute. My nerves are taut as fiddle strings. Another touch and they willsnap"—when Mrs Ramsay said all this, as the glance in her eyes said it,of course for the hundred and fiftieth time Lily Briscoe had to renouncethe experiment—what happens if one is not nice to that young manthere—and be nice.
　　Judging the turn in her mood correctly—that she was friendly to himnow—he was relieved of his egotism, and told her how he had beenthrown out of a boat when he was a baby; how his father used to fishhim out with a boat-hook; that was how he had learnt to swim. One ofhis uncles kept the light on some rock or other off the Scottish coast, hesaid. He had been there with him in a storm. This was said loudly in apause. They had to listen to him when he said that he had been with hisuncle in a lighthouse in a storm. Ah, thought Lily Briscoe, as the conversationtook this auspicious turn, and she felt Mrs Ramsay's gratitude (forMrs Ramsay was free now to talk for a moment herself), ah, she thought,but what haven't I paid to get it for you? She had not been sincere.
　　She had done the usual trick—been nice. She would never know him.
　　He would never know her. Human relations were all like that, shethought, and the worst (if it had not been for Mr Bankes) were betweenmen and women. Inevitably these were extremely insincere she thought.
　　Then her eye caught the salt cellar, which she had placed there to remindher, and she remembered that next morning she would move the treefurther towards the middle, and her spirits rose so high at the thought ofpainting tomorrow that she laughed out loud at what Mr Tansley wassaying. Let him talk all night if he liked it.
　　"But how long do they leave men on a Lighthouse?" she asked. He toldher. He was amazingly well informed. And as he was grateful, and as heliked her, and as he was beginning to enjoy himself, so now, Mrs Ramsaythought, she could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinatingplace, the Mannings' drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago; whereone moved about without haste or anxiety, for there was no future toworry about. She knew what had happened to them, what to her. It waslike reading a good book again, for she knew the end of that story, sinceit had happened twenty years ago, and life, which shot down even fromthis dining-room table in cascades, heaven knows where, was sealed upthere, and lay, like a lake, placidly between its banks. He said they hadbuilt a billiard room—was it possible? Would William go on talkingabout the Mannings? She wanted him to. But, no—for some reason hewas no longer in the mood. She tried. He did not respond. She could notforce him. She was disappointed.
　　"The children are disgraceful," she said, sighing. He said somethingabout punctuality being one of the minor virtues which we do not acquireuntil later in life.
　　"If at all," said Mrs Ramsay merely to fill up space, thinking what anold maid William was becoming. Conscious of his treachery, consciousof her wish to talk about something more intimate, yet out of mood for itat present, he felt come over him the disagreeableness of life, sittingthere, waiting. Perhaps the others were saying something interesting?
　　What were they saying?
　　That the fishing season was bad; that the men were emigrating. Theywere talking about wages and unemployment. The young man was abusingthe government. William Bankes, thinking what a relief it was tocatch on to something of this sort when private life was disagreeable,heard him say something about "one of the most scandalous acts of thepresent government." Lily was listening; Mrs Ramsay was listening; theywere all listening. But already bored, Lily felt that something was lacking;Mr Bankes felt that something was lacking. Pulling her shawl roundher Mrs Ramsay felt that something was lacking. All of them bendingthemselves to listen thought, "Pray heaven that the inside of my mindmay not be exposed," for each thought, "The others are feeling this. Theyare outraged and indignant with the government about the fishermen.
　　Whereas, I feel nothing at all." But perhaps, thought Mr Bankes, as helooked at Mr Tansley, here is the man. One was always waiting for theman. There was always a chance. At any moment the leader might arise;the man of genius, in politics as in anything else. Probably he will be extremelydisagreeable to us old fogies, thought Mr Bankes, doing his bestto make allowances, for he knew by some curious physical sensation, asof nerves erect in his spine, that he was jealous, for himself partly, partlymore probably for his work, for his point of view, for his science; andtherefore he was not entirely open-minded or altogether fair, for MrTansley seemed to be saying, You have wasted your lives. You are all ofyou wrong. Poor old fogies, you're hopelessly behind the times. Heseemed to be rather cocksure, this young man; and his manners werebad. But Mr Bankes bade himself observe, he had courage; he had ability;he was extremely well up in the facts. Probably, Mr Bankes thought,as Tansley abused the government, there is a good deal in what he says.
　　"Tell me now… " he said. So they argued about politics, and Lilylooked at the leaf on the table-cloth; and Mrs Ramsay, leaving the argumententirely in the hands of the two men, wondered why she was sobored by this talk, and wished, looking at her husband at the other endof the table, that he would say something. One word, she said to herself.
　　For if he said a thing, it would make all the difference. He went to theheart of things. He cared about fishermen and their wages. He could notsleep for thinking of them. It was altogether different when he spoke;one did not feel then, pray heaven you don't see how little I care, becauseone did care. Then, realising that it was because she admired him somuch that she was waiting for him to speak, she felt as if somebody hadbeen praising her husband to her and their marriage, and she glowed allover withiut realising that it was she herself who had praised him. Shelooked at him thinking to find this in his face; he would be looking magnificent…But not in the least! He was screwing his face up, he wasscowling and frowning, and flushing with anger. What on earth was itabout? she wondered. What could be the matter? Only that poor oldAugustus had asked for another plate of soup—that was all. It was unthinkable,it was detestable (so he signalled to her across the table) thatAugustus should be beginning his soup over again. He loathed peopleeating when he had finished. She saw his anger fly like a pack of houndsinto his eyes, his brow, and she knew that in a moment something violentwould explode, and then—thank goodness! she saw him clutch himselfand clap a brake on the wheel, and the whole of his body seemed toemit sparks but not words. He sat there scowling. He had said nothing,he would have her observe. Let her give him the credit for that! But whyafter all should poor Augustus not ask for another plate of soup? He hadmerely touched Ellen's arm and said:
　　"Ellen, please, another plate of soup," and then Mr Ramsay scowledlike that.
　　And why not? Mrs Ramsay demanded. Surely they could let Augustushave his soup if he wanted it. He hated people wallowing in food, MrRamsay frowned at her. He hated everything dragging on for hours likethis. But he had controlled himself, Mr Ramsay would have her observe,disgusting though the sight was. But why show it so plainly, Mrs Ram-say demanded (they looked at each other down the long table sendingthese questions and answers across, each knowing exactly what the otherfelt). Everybody could see, Mrs Ramsay thought. There was Rose gazingat her father, there was Roger gazing at his father; both would be off inspasms of laughter in another second, she knew, and so she saidpromptly (indeed it was time):
　　"Light the candles," and they jumped up instantly and went andfumbled at the sideboard.
　　Why could he never conceal his feelings? Mrs Ramsay wondered, andshe wondered if Augustus Carmichael had noticed. Perhaps he had; perhapshe had not. She could not help respecting the composure withwhich he sat there, drinking his soup. If he wanted soup, he asked forsoup. Whether people laughed at him or were angry with him he wasthe same. He did not like her, she knew that; but partly for that veryreason she respected him, and looking at him, drinking soup, very largeand calm in the failing light, and monumental, and contemplative, shewondered what he did feel then, and why he was always content anddignified; and she thought how devoted he was to Andrew, and wouldcall him into his room, and Andrew said, "show him things." And therehe would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry,till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, and then he clappedhis paws together when he had found the word, and her husband said,"Poor old Augustus—he's a true poet," which was high praise from herhusband.
　　Now eight candles were stood down the table, and after the first stoopthe flames stood upright and drew with them into visibility the longtable entire, and in the middle a yellow and purple dish of fruit. Whathad she done with it, Mrs Ramsay wondered, for Rose's arrangement ofthe grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of the bananas, madeher think of a trophy fetched from the bottom of the sea, of Neptune'sbanquet, of the bunch that hangs with vine leaves over the shoulder ofBacchus (in some picture), among the leopard skins and the torches lollopingred and gold… Thus brought up suddenly into the light it seemedpossessed of great size and depth, was like a world in which one couldtake one's staff and climb hills, she thought, and go down into valleys,and to her pleasure (for it brought them into sympathy momentarily) shesaw that Augustus too feasted his eyes on the same plate of fruit,plunged in, broke off a bloom there, a tassel here, and returned, afterfeasting, to his hive. That was his way of looking, different from hers.
　　But looking together united them.
　　Now all the candles were lit up, and the faces on both sides of the tablewere brought nearer by the candle light, and composed, as they had notbeen in the twilight, into a party round a table, for the night was nowshut off by panes of glass, which, far from giving any accurate view ofthe outside world, rippled it so strangely that here, inside the room,seemed to be order and dry land; there, outside, a reflection in whichthings waved and vanished, waterily.
　　Some change at once went through them all, as if this had reallyhappened, and they were all conscious of making a party together in ahollow, on an island; had their common cause against that fluidity outthere. Mrs Ramsay, who had been uneasy, waiting for Paul and Minta tocome in, and unable, she felt, to settle to things, now felt her uneasinesschanged to expectation. For now they must come, and Lily Briscoe, tryingto analyse the cause of the sudden exhilaration, compared it withthat moment on the tennis lawn, when solidity suddenly vanished, andsuch vast spaces lay between them; and now the same effect was got bythe many candles in the sparely furnished room, and the uncurtainedwindows, and the bright mask-like look of faces seen by candlelight.
　　Some weight was taken off them; anything might happen, she felt. Theymust come now, Mrs Ramsay thought, looking at the door, and at thatinstant, Minta Doyle, Paul Rayley, and a maid carrying a great dish inher hands came in together. They were awfully late; they were horriblylate, Minta said, as they found their way to different ends of the table.
　　"I lost my brooch—my grandmother's brooch," said Minta with asound of lamentation in her voice, and a suffusion in her large browneyes, looking down, looking up, as she sat by Mr Ramsay, which rousedhis chivalry so that he bantered her.
　　How could she be such a goose, he asked, as to scramble about therocks in jewels?
　　She was by way of being terrified of him—he was so fearfully clever,and the first night when she had sat by him, and he talked about GeorgeEliot, she had been really frightened, for she had left the third volume ofMIDDLEMARCH in the train and she never knew what happened in theend; but afterwards she got on perfectly, and made herself out evenmore ignorant than she was, because he liked telling her she was a fool.
　　And so tonight, directly he laughed at her, she was not frightened.
　　Besides, she knew, directly she came into the room that the miracle hadhappened; she wore her golden haze. Sometimes she had it; sometimesnot. She never knew why it came or why it went, or if she had it until shecame into the room and then she knew instantly by the way some manlooked at her. Yes, tonight she had it, tremendously; she knew that bythe way Mr Ramsay told her not to be a fool. She sat beside him, smiling.
　　It must have happened then, thought Mrs Ramsay; they are engaged.
　　And for a moment she felt what she had never expected to feel again—jealousy. For he, her husband, felt it too—Minta's glow; he liked thesegirls, these golden-reddish girls, with something flying, something alittle wild and harum-scarum about them, who didn't "scrape their hairoff," weren't, as he said about poor Lily Briscoe, "skimpy". There wassome quality which she herself had not, some lustre, some richness,which attracted him, amused him, led him to make favourites of girlslike Minta. They might cut his hair from him, plait him watch-chains, orinterrupt him at his work, hailing him (she heard them), "Come along,Mr Ramsay; it's our turn to beat them now," and out he came to playtennis.
　　But indeed she was not jealous, only, now and then, when she madeherself look in her glass, a little resentful that she had grown old, perhaps,by her own fault. (The bill for the greenhouse and all the rest of it.)She was grateful to them for laughing at him. ("How many pipes haveyou smoked today, Mr Ramsay?" and so on), till he seemed a youngman; a man very attractive to women, not burdened, not weighed downwith the greatness of his labours and the sorrows of the world and hisfame or his failure, but again as she had first known him, gaunt but gallant;helping her out of a boat, she remembered; with delightful ways,like that (she looked at him, and he looked astonishingly young, teasingMinta). For herself—"Put it down there," she said, helping the Swiss girlto place gently before her the huge brown pot in which was the BOEUFEN DAUBE—for her own part, she liked her boobies. Paul must sit byher. She had kept a place for him. Really, she sometimes thought sheliked the boobies best. They did not bother one with their dissertations.
　　How much they missed, after all, these very clever men! How dried upthey did become, to be sure. There was something, she thought as he satdown, very charming about Paul. His manners were delightful to her,and his sharp cut nose and his bright blue eyes. He was so considerate.
　　Would he tell her—now that they were all talking again—what hadhappened?
　　"We went back to look for Minta's brooch," he said, sitting down byher. "We"—that was enough. She knew from the effort, the rise in hisvoice to surmount a difficult word that it was the first time he had said"we." "We did this, we did that." They'll say that all their lives, shethought, and an exquisite scent of olives and oil and juice rose from thegreat brown dish as Marthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off. Thecook had spent three days over that dish. And she must take great care,Mrs Ramsay thought, diving into the soft mass, to choose a speciallytender piece for William Bankes. And she peered into the dish, with itsshiny walls and its confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats and itsbay leaves and its wine, and thought, This will celebrate the occasion—acurious sense rising in her, at once freakish and tender, of celebrating afestival, as if two emotions were called up in her, one profound—forwhat could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what morecommanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death;at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glitteringeyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
　　"It is a triumph," said Mr Bankes, laying his knife down for a moment.
　　He had eaten attentively. It was rich; it was tender. It was perfectlycooked. How did she manage these things in the depths of the country?
　　he asked her. She was a wonderful woman. All his love, all his reverence,had returned; and she knew it.
　　"It is a French recipe of my grandmother's," said Mrs Ramsay, speakingwith a ring of great pleasure in her voice. Of course it was French.
　　What passes for cookery in England is an abomination (they agreed). It isputting cabbages in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather. It iscutting off the delicious skins of vegetables. "In which," said Mr Bankes,"all the virtue of the vegetable is contained." And the waste, said MrsRamsay. A whole French family could live on what an English cookthrows away. Spurred on by her sense that William's affection had comeback to her, and that everything was all right again, and that her suspensewas over, and that now she was free both to triumph and to mock,she laughed, she gesticulated, till Lily thought, How childlike, how absurdshe was, sitting up there with all her beauty opened again in her,talking about the skins of vegetables. There was something frighteningabout her. She was irresistible. Always she got her own way in the end,Lily thought. Now she had brought this off—Paul and Minta, one mightsuppose, were engaged. Mr Bankes was dining here. She put a spell onthem all, by wishing, so simply, so directly, and Lily contrasted thatabundance with her own poverty of spirit, and supposed that it waspartly that belief (for her face was all lit up—without looking young, shelooked radiant) in this strange, this terrifying thing, which made PaulRayley, sitting at her side, all of a tremor, yet abstract, absorbed, silent.
　　Mrs Ramsay, Lily felt, as she talked about the skins of vegetables, exaltedthat, worshipped that; held her hands over it to warm them, to protect it,and yet, having brought it all about, somehow laughed, led her victims,Lily felt, to the altar. It came over her too now—the emotion, the vibration,of love. How inconspicuous she felt herself by Paul's side! He,glowing, burning; she, aloof, satirical; he, bound for adventure; she,moored to the shore; he, launched, incautious; she solitary, left out—and,ready to implore a share, if it were a disaster, in his disaster, she saidshyly:
　　"When did Minta lose her brooch?"He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged bydreams. He shook his head. "On the beach," he said.
　　"I'm going to find it," he said, "I'm getting up early." This being keptsecret from Minta, he lowered his voice, and turned his eyes to whereshe sat, laughing, beside Mr Ramsay.
　　Lily wanted to protest violently and outrageously her desire to helphim, envisaging how in the dawn on the beach she would be the one topounce on the brooch half-hidden by some stone, and thus herself be includedamong the sailors and adventurers. But what did he reply to heroffer? She actually said with an emotion that she seldom let appear, "Letme come with you," and he laughed. He meant yes or no— either perhaps.
　　But it was not his meaning—it was the odd chuckle he gave, as ifhe had said, Throw yourself over the cliff if you like, I don't care. Heturned on her cheek the heat of love, its horror, its cruelty, its unscrupulosity.
　　It scorched her, and Lily, looking at Minta, being charming to MrRamsay at the other end of the table, flinched for her exposed to thesefangs, and was thankful. For at any rate, she said to herself, catchingsight of the salt cellar on the pattern, she need not marry, thank Heaven:
　　she need not undergo that degradation. She was saved from that dilution.
　　She would move the tree rather more to the middle.
　　Such was the complexity of things. For what happened to her, especiallystaying with the Ramsays, was to be made to feel violently two oppositethings at the same time; that's what you feel, was one; that's what Ifeel, was the other, and then they fought together in her mind, as now. Itis so beautiful, so exciting, this love, that I tremble on the verge of it, andoffer, quite out of my own habit, to look for a brooch on a beach; also it isthe stupidest, the most barbaric of human passions, and turns a niceyoung man with a profile like a gem's (Paul's was exquisite) into a bullywith a crowbar (he was swaggering, he was insolent) in the Mile EndRoad. Yet, she said to herself, from the dawn of time odes have beensung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; and if you asked nine peopleout of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this—love; while thewomen, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling,This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile, and inhumanethan this; yet it is also beautiful and necessary. Well then, wellthen? she asked, somehow expecting the others to go on with the argument,as if in an argument like this one threw one's own little bolt whichfell short obviously and left the others to carry it on. So she listenedagain to what they were saying in case they should throw any light uponthe question of love.
　　"Then," said Mr Bankes, "there is that liquid the English call coffee.""Oh, coffee!" said Mrs Ramsay. But it was much rather a question (shewas thoroughly roused, Lily could see, and talked very emphatically) ofreal butter and clean milk. Speaking with warmth and eloquence, she describedthe iniquity of the English dairy system, and in what state milkwas delivered at the door, and was about to prove her charges, for shehad gone into the matter, when all round the table, beginning withAndrew in the middle, like a fire leaping from tuft to tuft of furze, herchildren laughed; her husband laughed; she was laughed at, fire-encircled,and forced to veil her crest, dismount her batteries, and only retaliateby displaying the raillery and ridicule of the table to Mr Bankes asan example of what one suffered if one attacked the prejudices of theBritish Public.
　　Purposely, however, for she had it on her mind that Lily, who hadhelped her with Mr Tansley, was out of things, she exempted her fromthe rest; said "Lily anyhow agrees with me," and so drew her in, a littlefluttered, a little startled. (For she was thinking about love.) They wereboth out of things, Mrs Ramsay had been thinking, both Lily and CharlesTansley. Both suffered from the glow of the other two. He, it was clear,felt himself utterly in the cold; no woman would look at him with PaulRayley in the room. Poor fellow! Still, he had his dissertation, the influenceof somebody upon something: he could take care of himself. WithLily it was different. She faded, under Minta's glow; became more inconspicuousthan ever, in her little grey dress with her little puckered faceand her little Chinese eyes. Everything about her was so small. Yet,thought Mrs Ramsay, comparing her with Minta, as she claimed her help(for Lily should bear her out she talked no more about her dairies thanher husband did about his boots—he would talk by the hour about hisboots) of the two, Lily at forty will be the better. There was in Lily athread of something; a flare of something; something of her own whichMrs Ramsay liked very much indeed, but no man would, she feared. Obviously,not, unless it were a much older man, like William Bankes. Butthen he cared, well, Mrs Ramsay sometimes thought that he cared, sincehis wife's death, perhaps for her. He was not "in love" of course; it wasone of those unclassified affections of which there are so many. Oh, butnonsense, she thought; William must marry Lily. They have so manythings in common. Lily is so fond of flowers. They are both cold andaloof and rather self-sufficing. She must arrange for them to take a longwalk together.
　　Foolishly, she had set them opposite each other. That could beremedied tomorrow. If it were fine, they should go for a picnic.
　　Everything seemed possible. Everything seemed right. Just now (but thiscannot last, she thought, dissociating herself from the moment whilethey were all talking about boots) just now she had reached security; shehovered like a hawk suspended; like a flag floated in an element of joywhich filled every nerve of her body fully and sweetly, not noisily, solemnlyrather, for it arose, she thought, looking at them all eating there,from husband and children and friends; all of which rising in this profoundstillness (she was helping William Bankes to one very small piecemore, and peered into the depths of the earthenware pot) seemed nowfor no special reason to stay there like a smoke, like a fume rising upwards,holding them safe together. Nothing need be said; nothing couldbe said. There it was, all round them. It partook, she felt, carefully helpingMr Bankes to a specially tender piece, of eternity; as she had alreadyfelt about something different once before that afternoon; there is a coherencein things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune fromchange, and shines out (she glanced at the window with its ripple of reflectedlights) in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like aruby; so that again tonight she had the feeling she had had once today,already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments, she thought, the thing ismade that endures.
　　"Yes," she assured William Bankes, "there is plenty for everybody.""Andrew," she said, "hold your plate lower, or I shall spill it." (TheBOEUF EN DAUBE was a perfect triumph.) Here, she felt, putting thespoon down, where one could move or rest; could wait now (they wereall helped) listening; could then, like a hawk which lapses suddenly fromits high station, flaunt and sink on laughter easily, resting her wholeweight upon what at the other end of the table her husband was sayingabout the square root of one thousand two hundred and fifty-three. Thatwas the number, it seemed, on his watch.
　　What did it all mean? To this day she had no notion. A square root?
　　What was that? Her sons knew. She leant on them; on cubes and squareroots; that was what they were talking about now; on Voltaire and Madamede Stael; on the character of Napoleon; on the French system ofland tenure; on Lord Rosebery; on Creevey's Memoirs: she let it upholdher and sustain her, this admirable fabric of the masculine intelligence,which ran up and down, crossed this way and that, like iron girdersspanning the swaying fabric, upholding the world, so that she couldtrust herself to it utterly, even shut her eyes, or flicker them for a moment,as a child staring up from its pillow winks at the myriad layers ofthe leaves of a tree. Then she woke up. It was still being fabricated. WilliamBankes was praising the Waverly novels.
　　He read one of them every six months, he said. And why should thatmake Charles Tansley angry? He rushed in (all, thought Mrs Ramsay,because Prue will not be nice to him) and denounced the Waverly novelswhen he knew nothing about it, nothing about it whatsoever, Mrs Ram-say thought, observing him rather than listening to what he said. Shecould see how it was from his manner—he wanted to assert himself, andso it would always be with him till he got his Professorship or marriedhis wife, and so need not be always saying, "I—I—I." For that was whathis criticism of poor Sir Walter, or perhaps it was Jane Austen, amountedto. "I—I—I." He was thinking of himself and the impression he was making,as she could tell by the sound of his voice, and his emphasis and hisuneasiness. Success would be good for him. At any rate they were offagain. Now she need not listen. It could not last, she knew, but at themoment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to go round the tableunveiling each of these people, and their thoughts and their feelings,without effort like a light stealing under water so that its ripples and thereeds in it and the minnows balancing themselves, and the sudden silenttrout are all lit up hanging, trembling. So she saw them; she heard them;but whatever they said had also this quality, as if what they said was likethe movement of a trout when, at the same time, one can see the rippleand the gravel, something to the right, something to the left; and thewhole is held together; for whereas in active life she would be nettingand separating one thing from another; she would be saying she likedthe Waverly novels or had not read them; she would be urging herselfforward; now she said nothing. For the moment, she hung suspended.
　　"Ah, but how long do you think it'll last?" said somebody. It was as ifshe had antennae trembling out from her, which, intercepting certainsentences, forced them upon her attention. This was one of them. Shescented danger for her husband. A question like that would lead, almostcertainly, to something being said which reminded him of his own failure.
　　How long would he be read—he would think at once. WilliamBankes (who was entirely free from all such vanity) laughed, and said heattached no importance to changes in fashion. Who could tell what wasgoing to last—in literature or indeed in anything else?
　　"Let us enjoy what we do enjoy," he said. His integrity seemed to MrsRamsay quite admirable. He never seemed for a moment to think, Buthow does this affect me? But then if you had the other temperament,which must have praise, which must have encouragement, naturally youbegan (and she knew that Mr Ramsay was beginning) to be uneasy; towant somebody to say, Oh, but your work will last, Mr Ramsay, orsomething like that. He showed his uneasiness quite clearly now by saying,with some irritation, that, anyhow, Scott (or was it Shakespeare ?)would last him his lifetime. He said it irritably. Everybody, she thought,felt a little uncomfortable, without knowing why. Then Minta Doyle,whose instinct was fine, said bluffly, absurdly, that she did not believethat any one really enjoyed reading Shakespeare. Mr Ramsay said grimly(but his mind was turned away again) that very few people liked it asmuch as they said they did. But, he added, there is considerable merit insome of the plays nevertheless, and Mrs Ramsay saw that it would be allright for the moment anyhow; he would laugh at Minta, and she, MrsRamsay saw, realising his extreme anxiety about himself, would, in herown way, see that he was taken care of, and praise him, somehow or other.
　　But she wished it was not necessary: perhaps it was her fault that itwas necessary. Anyhow, she was free now to listen to what Paul Rayleywas trying to say about books one had read as a boy. They lasted, hesaid. He had read some of Tolstoi at school. There was one he always remembered,but he had forgotten the name. Russian names were impossible,said Mrs Ramsay. "Vronsky," said Paul. He remembered thatbecause he always thought it such a good name for a villain. "Vronsky,"said Mrs Ramsay; "Oh, ANNA KARENINA," but that did not take themvery far; books were not in their line. No, Charles Tansley would putthem both right in a second about books, but it was all so mixed up with,Am I saying the right thing? Am I making a good impression? that, afterall, one knew more about him than about Tolstoi, whereas, what Paulsaid was about the thing, simply, not himself, nothing else. Like all stupidpeople, he had a kind of modesty too, a consideration for what youwere feeling, which, once in a way at least, she found attractive. Now hewas thinking, not about himself, or about Tolstoi, but whether she wascold, whether she felt a draught, whether she would like a pear.
　　No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeed she had been keepingguard over the dish of fruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping thatnobody would touch it. Her eyes had been going in and out among thecurves and shadows of the fruit, among the rich purples of the lowlandgrapes, then over the horny ridge of the shell, putting a yellow against apurple, a curved shape against a round shape, without knowing why shedid it, or why, every time she did it, she felt more and more serene; until,oh, what a pity that they should do it—a hand reached out, took a pear,and spoilt the whole thing. In sympathy she looked at Rose. She lookedat Rose sitting between Jasper and Prue. How odd that one's childshould do that!
　　How odd to see them sitting there, in a row, her children, Jasper, Rose,Prue, Andrew, almost silent, but with some joke of their own going on,she guessed, from the twitching at their lips. It was something quiteapart from everything else, something they were hoarding up to laughover in their own room. It was not about their father, she hoped. No, shethought not. What was it, she wondered, sadly rather, for it seemed toher that they would laugh when she was not there. There was all thathoarded behind those rather set, still, mask-like faces, for they did notjoin in easily; they were like watchers, surveyors, a little raised or setapart from the grown-up people. But when she looked at Prue tonight,she saw that this was not now quite true of her. She was just beginning,just moving, just descending. The faintest light was on her face, as if theglow of Minta opposite, some excitement, some anticipation of happinesswas reflected in her, as if the sun of the love of men and womenrose over the rim of the table-cloth, and without knowing what it wasshe bent towards it and greeted it. She kept looking at Minta, shyly, yetcuriously, so that Mrs Ramsay looked from one to the other and said,speaking to Prue in her own mind, You will be as happy as she is one ofthese days. You will be much happier, she added, because you are mydaughter, she meant; her own daughter must be happier than otherpeople's daughters. But dinner was over. It was time to go. They wereonly playing with things on their plates. She would wait until they haddone laughing at some story her husband was telling. He was having ajoke with Minta about a bet. Then she would get up.
　　She liked Charles Tansley, she thought, suddenly; she liked his laugh.
　　She liked him for being so angry with Paul and Minta. She liked his awkwardness.
　　There was a lot in that young man after all. And Lily, shethought, putting her napkin beside her plate, she always has some jokeof her own. One need never bother about Lily. She waited. She tuckedher napkin under the edge of her plate. Well, were they done now? No.
　　That story had led to another story. Her husband was in great spirits tonight,and wishing, she supposed, to make it all right with old Augustusafter that scene about the soup, had drawn him in— they were tellingstories about some one they had both known at college. She looked at thewindow in which the candle flames burnt brighter now that the paneswere black, and looking at that outside the voices came to her verystrangely, as if they were voices at a service in a cathedral, for she didnot listen to the words. The sudden bursts of laughter and then one voice(Minta's) speaking alone, reminded her of men and boys crying out theLatin words of a service in some Roman Catholic cathedral. She waited.
　　Her husband spoke. He was repeating something, and she knew it waspoetry from the rhythm and the ring of exultation, and melancholy in hisvoice:
　　Come out and climb the garden path, Luriana Lurilee. The China roseis all abloom and buzzing with the yellow bee.
　　The words (she was looking at the window) sounded as if they werefloating like flowers on water out there, cut off from them all, as if no onehad said them, but they had come into existence of themselves.
　　And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be Are full of treesand changing leaves.
　　She did not know what they meant, but, like music, the words seemedto be spoken by her own voice, outside her self, saying quite easily andnaturally what had been in her mind the whole evening while she saiddifferent things. She knew, without looking round, that every one at thetable was listening to the voice saying:
　　I wonder if it seems to you, Luriana, Lurileewith the same sort of relief and pleasure that she had, as if this were, atlast, the natural thing to say, this were their own voice speaking.
　　But the voice had stopped. She looked round. She made herself get up.
　　Augustus Carmichael had risen and, holding his table napkin so that itlooked like a long white robe he stood chanting:
　　To see the Kings go riding by Over lawn and daisy lea With their palmleaves and cedar Luriana, Lurilee,and as she passed him, he turned slightly towards her repeating thelast words:
　　Luriana, Lurileeand bowed to her as if he did her homage. Without knowing why, shefelt that he liked her better than he ever had done before; and with a feelingof relief and gratitude she returned his bow and passed through thedoor which he held open for her.
　　It was necessary now to carry everything a step further. With her footon the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishingeven as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's armand left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become,she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
Part 1 Chapter 18
    As usual, Lily thought. There was always something that had to be doneat that precise moment, something that Mrs Ramsay had decided forreasons of her own to do instantly, it might be with every one standingabout making jokes, as now, not being able to decide whether they weregoing into the smoking-room, into the drawing-room, up to the attics.
　　Then one saw Mrs Ramsay in the midst of this hubbub standing therewith Minta's arm in hers, bethink her, "Yes, it is time for that now," andso make off at once with an air of secrecy to do something alone. Anddirectly she went a sort of disintegration set in; they wavered about,went different ways, Mr Bankes took Charles Tansley by the arm andwent off to finish on the terrace the discussion they had begun at dinnerabout politics, thus giving a turn to the whole poise of the evening, makingthe weight fall in a different direction, as if, Lily thought, seeing themgo, and hearing a word or two about the policy of the Labour Party, theyhad gone up on to the bridge of the ship and were taking their bearings;the change from poetry to politics struck her like that; so Mr Bankes andCharles Mrs Ramsay going upstairs in the lamplight alone. Where, Lilywondered, was she going so quickly?
　　Not that she did in fact run or hurry; she went indeed rather slowly.
　　She felt rather inclined just for a moment to stand still after all that chatter,and pick out one particular thing; the thing that mattered; to detachit; separate it off; clean it of all the emotions and odds and ends of things,and so hold it before her, and bring it to the tribunal where, rangedabout in conclave, sat the judges she had set up to decide these things. Isit good, is it bad, is it right or wrong? Where are we all going to? and soon. So she righted herself after the shock of the event, and quite unconsciouslyand incongruously, used the branches of the elm trees outside tohelp her to stabilise her position. Her world was changing: they werestill. The event had given her a sense of movement. All must be in order.
　　She must get that right and that right, she thought, insensibly approvingof the dignity of the trees' stillness, and now again of the superb upwardrise (like the beak of a ship up a wave) of the elm branches as the windraised them. For it was windy (she stood a moment to look out). It waswindy, so that the leaves now and then brushed open a star, and thestars themselves seemed to be shaking and darting light and trying toflash out between the edges of the leaves. Yes, that was done then, accomplished;and as with all things done, became solemn. Now onethought of it, cleared of chatter and emotion, it seemed always to havebeen, only was shown now and so being shown, struck everything intostability. They would, she thought, going on again, however long theylived, come back to this night; this moon; this wind; this house: and toher too. It flattered her, where she was most susceptible of flattery, tothink how, wound about in their hearts, however long they lived shewould be woven; and this, and this, and this, she thought, going upstairs,laughing, but affectionately, at the sofa on the landing (hermother's); at the rocking-chair (her father's); at the map of the Hebrides.
　　All that would be revived again in the lives of Paul and Minta; "the Rayleys"—she tried the new name over; and she felt, with her hand on thenursery door, that community of feeling with other people which emotiongives as if the walls of partition had become so thin that practically(the feeling was one of relief and happiness) it was all one stream, andchairs, tables, maps, were hers, were theirs, it did not matter whose, andPaul and Minta would carry it on when she was dead.
　　She turned the handle, firmly, lest it should squeak, and went in, pursingher lips slightly, as if to remind herself that she must not speakaloud. But directly she came in she saw, with annoyance, that the precautionwas not needed. The children were not asleep. It was most annoying.
　　Mildred should be more careful. There was James wide awakeand Cam sitting bolt upright, and Mildred out of bed in her bare feet,and it was almost eleven and they were all talking. What was the matter?
　　It was that horrid skull again. She had told Mildred to move it, but Mildred,of course, had forgotten, and now there was Cam wide awake, andJames wide awake quarreling when they ought to have been asleephours ago. What had possessed Edward to send them this horrid skull?
　　She had been so foolish as to let them nail it up there. It was nailed fast,Mildred said, and Cam couldn't go to sleep with it in the room, andJames screamed if she touched it.
　　Then Cam must go to sleep (it had great horns said Cam)—must go tosleep and dream of lovely palaces, said Mrs Ramsay, sitting down on thebed by her side. She could see the horns, Cam said, all over the room. Itwas true. Wherever they put the light (and James could not sleepwithout a light) there was always a shadow somewhere.
　　"But think, Cam, it's only an old pig," said Mrs Ramsay, "a nice blackpig like the pigs at the farm." But Cam thought it was a horrid thing,branching at her all over the room.
　　"Well then," said Mrs Ramsay, "we will cover it up," and they allwatched her go to the chest of drawers, and open the little drawersquickly one after another, and not seeing anything that would do, shequickly took her own shawl off and wound it round the skull, round andround and round, and then she came back to Cam and laid her head almostflat on the pillow beside Cam's and said how lovely it looked now;how the fairies would love it; it was like a bird's nest; it was like a beautifulmountain such as she had seen abroad, with valleys and flowers andbells ringing and birds singing and little goats and antelopes and… Shecould see the words echoing as she spoke them rhythmically in Cam'smind, and Cam was repeating after her how it was like a mountain, abird's nest, a garden, and there were little antelopes, and her eyes wereopening and shutting, and Mrs Ramsay went on speaking still moremonotonously, and more rhythmically and more nonsensically, how shemust shut her eyes and go to sleep and dream of mountains and valleysand stars falling and parrots and antelopes and gardens, and everythinglovely, she said, raising her head very slowly and speaking more andmore mechanically, until she sat upright and saw that Cam was asleep.
　　Now, she whispered, crossing over to his bed, James must go to sleeptoo, for see, she said, the boar's skull was still there; they had not touchedit; they had done just what he wanted; it was there quite unhurt. Hemade sure that the skull was still there under the shawl. But he wantedto ask her something more. Would they go to the Lighthouse tomorrow?
　　No, not tomorrow, she said, but soon, she promised him; the next fineday. He was very good. He lay down. She covered him up. But he wouldnever forget, she knew, and she felt angry with Charles Tansley, with herhusband, and with herself, for she had raised his hopes. Then feeling forher shawl and remembering that she had wrapped it round the boar'sskull, she got up, and pulled the window down another inch or two, andheard the wind, and got a breath of the perfectly indifferent chill nightair and murmured good night to Mildred and left the room and let thetongue of the door slowly lengthen in the lock and went out.
　　She hoped he would not bang his books on the floor above their heads,she thought, still thinking how annoying Charles Tansley was. Forneither of them slept well; they were excitable children, and since he saidthings like that about the Lighthouse, it seemed to her likely that hewould knock a pile of books over, just as they were going to sleep, clumsilysweeping them off the table with his elbow. For she supposed thathe had gone upstairs to work. Yet he looked so desolate; yet she wouldfeel relieved when he went; yet she would see that he was better treatedtomorrow; yet he was admirable with her husband; yet his manners certainlywanted improving; yet she liked his laugh—thinking this, as shecame downstairs, she noticed that she could now see the moon itselfthrough the staircase window—the yellow harvest moon— and turned,and they saw her, standing above them on the stairs.
　　"That's my mother," thought Prue. Yes; Minta should look at her; PaulRayley should look at her. That is the thing itself, she felt, as if there wereonly one person like that in the world; her mother. And, from havingbeen quite grown up, a moment before, talking with the others, she becamea child again, and what they had been doing was a game, andwould her mother sanction their game, or condemn it, she wondered.
　　And thinking what a chance it was for Minta and Paul and Lily to seeher, and feeling what an extraordinary stroke of fortune it was for her, tohave her, and how she would never grow up and never leave home, shesaid, like a child, "We thought of going down to the beach to watch thewaves."Instantly, for no reason at all, Mrs Ramsay became like a girl oftwenty, full of gaiety. A mood of revelry suddenly took possession ofher. Of course they must go; of course they must go, she cried, laughing;and running down the last three or four steps quickly, she began turningfrom one to the other and laughing and drawing Minta's wrap round herand saying she only wished she could come too, and would they be verylate, and had any of them got a watch?
　　"Yes, Paul has," said Minta. Paul slipped a beautiful gold watch out ofa little wash-leather case to show her. And as he held it in the palm of hishand before her, he felt, "She knows all about it. I need not say anything."He was saying to her as he showed her the watch, "I've done it,Mrs Ramsay. I owe it all to you." And seeing the gold watch lying in hishand, Mrs Ramsay felt, How extraordinarily lucky Minta is! She is marryinga man who has a gold watch in a wash- leather bag!
　　"How I wish I could come with you!" she cried. But she was withheldby something so strong that she never even thought of asking herselfwhat it was. Of course it was impossible for her to go with them. But shewould have liked to go, had it not been for the other thing, and tickledby the absurdity of her thought (how lucky to marry a man with a wash-leather bag for his watch) she went with a smile on her lips into the otherroom, where her husband sat reading.
Part 1 Chapter 19
    Of course, she said to herself, coming into the room, she had to comehere to get something she wanted. First she wanted to sit down in a particularchair under a particular lamp. But she wanted something more,though she did not know, could not think what it was that she wanted.
　　She looked at her husband (taking up her stocking and beginning toknit), and saw that he did not want to be interrupted— that was clear.
　　He was reading something that moved him very much. He was halfsmiling and then she knew he was controlling his emotion. He was tossingthe pages over. He was acting it—perhaps he was thinking himselfthe person in the book. She wondered what book it was. Oh, it was oneof old Sir Walter's she saw, adjusting the shade of her lamp so that thelight fell on her knitting. For Charles Tansley had been saying (shelooked up as if she expected to hear the crash of books on the floorabove), had been saying that people don't read Scott any more. Then herhusband thought, "That's what they'll say of me;" so he went and got oneof those books. And if he came to the conclusion "That's true" whatCharles Tansley said, he would accept it about Scott. (She could see thathe was weighing, considering, putting this with that as he read.) But notabout himself. He was always uneasy about himself. That troubled her.
　　He would always be worrying about his own books—will they be read,are they good, why aren't they better, what do people think of me? Notliking to think of him so, and wondering if they had guessed at dinnerwhy he suddenly became irritable when they talked about fame andbooks lasting, wondering if the children were laughing at that, shetwitched the stockings out, and all the fine gravings came drawn withsteel instruments about her lips and forehead, and she grew still like atree which has been tossing and quivering and now, when the breezefalls, settles, leaf by leaf, into quiet.
　　It didn't matter, any of it, she thought. A great man, a great book,fame—who could tell? She knew nothing about it. But it was his waywith him, his truthfulness—for instance at dinner she had been thinkingquite instinctively, If only he would speak! She had complete trust inhim. And dismissing all this, as one passes in diving now a weed, now astraw, now a bubble, she felt again, sinking deeper, as she had felt in thehall when the others were talking, There is somethingwant—something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeperwithout knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed. And shewaited a little, knitting, wondering, and slowly rose those words theyhad said at dinner, "the China rose is all abloom and buzzing with thehoney bee," began washing from side to side of her mind rhythmically,and as they washed, words, like little shaded lights, one red, one blue,one yellow, lit up in the dark of her mind, and seemed leaving theirperches up there to fly across and across, or to cry out and to be echoed;so she turned and felt on the table beside her for a book.
　　And all the lives we ever livedAnd all the lives to be,Are full of trees and changing leaves,she murmured, sticking her needles into the stocking. And she openedthe book and began reading here and there at random, and as she did so,she felt that she was climbing backwards, upwards, shoving her way upunder petals that curved over her, so that she only knew this is white, orthis is red. She did not know at first what the words meant at all.
　　Steer, hither steer your winged pines, all beaten Marinersshe read and turned the page, swinging herself, zigzagging this wayand that, from one line to another as from one branch to another, fromone red and white flower to another, until a little sound roused her—herhusband slapping his thighs. Their eyes met for a second; but they didnot want to speak to each other. They had nothing to say, but somethingseemed, nevertheless, to go from him to her. It was the life, it was thepower of it, it was the tremendous humour, she knew, that made himslap his thighs. Don't interrupt me, he seemed to be saying, don't sayanything; just sit there. And he went on reading. His lips twitched. Itfilled him. It fortified him. He clean forgot all the little rubs and digs ofthe evening, and how it bored him unutterably to sit still while peopleate and drank interminably, and his being so irritable with his wife andso touchy and minding when they passed his books over as if they didn'texist at all. But now, he felt, it didn't matter a damn who reached Z (ifthought ran like an alphabet from A to Z). Somebody would reach it—ifnot he, then another. This man's strength and sanity, his feeling forstraight forward simple things, these fishermen, the poor old crazedcreature in Mucklebackit's cottage made him feel so vigorous, so relievedof something that he felt roused and triumphant and could not chokeback his tears. Raising the book a little to hide his face, he let them falland shook his head from side to side and forgot himself completely (butnot one or two reflections about morality and French novels and Englishnovels and Scott's hands being tied but his view perhaps being as true asthe other view), forgot his own bothers and failures completely in poorSteenie's drowning and Mucklebackit's sorrow (that was Scott at his best)and the astonishing delight and feeling of vigour that it gave him.
　　Well, let them improve upon that, he thought as he finished thechapter. He felt that he had been arguing with somebody, and had gotthe better of him. They could not improve upon that, whatever theymight say; and his own position became more secure. The lovers werefiddlesticks, he thought, collecting it all in his mind again. That's fiddlesticks,that's first-rate, he thought, putting one thing beside another. Buthe must read it again. He could not remember the whole shape of thething. He had to keep his judgement in suspense. So he returned to theother thought—if young men did not care for this, naturally they did notcare for him either. One ought not to complain, thought Mr Ramsay, tryingto stifle his desire to complain to his wife that young men did not admirehim. But he was determined; he would not bother her again. Herehe looked at her reading. She looked very peaceful, reading. He liked tothink that every one had taken themselves off and that he and she werealone. The whole of life did not consist in going to bed with a woman, hethought, returning to Scott and Balzac, to the English novel and theFrench novel.
　　Mrs Ramsay raised her head and like a person in a light sleep seemedto say that if he wanted her to wake she would, she really would, butotherwise, might she go on sleeping, just a little longer, just a littlelonger? She was climbing up those branches, this way and that, layinghands on one flower and then another.
　　Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,she read, and so reading she was ascending, she felt, on to the top, onto the summit. How satisfying! How restful! All the odds and ends of theday stuck to this magnet; her mind felt swept, felt clean. And then thereit was, suddenly entire; she held it in her hands, beautiful and reasonable,clear and complete, here—the sonnet.
　　But she was becoming conscious of her husband looking at her. Hewas smiling at her, quizzically, as if he were ridiculing her gently forbeing asleep in broad daylight, but at the same time he was thinking, Goon reading. You don't look sad now, he thought. And he wondered whatshe was reading, and exaggerated her ignorance, her simplicity, for heliked to think that she was not clever, not book-learned at all. Hewondered if she understood what she was reading. Probably not, hethought. She was astonishingly beautiful. Her beauty seemed to him, ifthat were possible, to increaseYet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play,she finished.
　　"Well?" she said, echoing his smile dreamily, looking up from herbook.
　　As with your shadow I with these did play,she murmured, putting the book on the table.
　　What had happened, she wondered, as she took up her knitting, sinceshe had seen him alone? She remembered dressing, and seeing themoon; Andrew holding his plate too high at dinner; being depressed bysomething William had said; the birds in the trees; the sofa on the landing;the children being awake; Charles Tansley waking them with hisbooks falling—oh, no, that she had invented; and Paul having a wash-leather case for his watch. Which should she tell him about?
　　"They're engaged," she said, beginning to knit, "Paul and Minta.""So I guessed," he said. There was nothing very much to be said aboutit. Her mind was still going up and down, up and down with the poetry;he was still feeling very vigorous, very forthright, after reading aboutSteenie's funeral. So they sat silent. Then she became aware that shewanted him to say something.
　　Anything, anything, she thought, going on with her knitting. Anythingwill do.
　　"How nice it would be to marry a man with a wash-leather bag for hiswatch," she said, for that was the sort of joke they had together.
　　He snorted. He felt about this engagement as he always felt about anyengagement; the girl is much too good for that young man. Slowly itcame into her head, why is it then that one wants people to marry? Whatwas the value, the meaning of things? (Every word they said now wouldbe true.) Do say something, she thought, wishing only to hear his voice.
　　For the shadow, the thing folding them in was beginning, she felt, toclose round her again. Say anything, she begged, looking at him, as if forhelp.
　　He was silent, swinging the compass on his watch-chain to and fro,and thinking of Scott's novels and Balzac's novels. But through thecrepuscular walls of their intimacy, for they were drawing together, involuntarily,coming side by side, quite close, she could feel his mind likea raised hand shadowing her mind; and he was beginning, now that herthoughts took a turn he disliked—towards this "pessimism" as he calledit—to fidget, though he said nothing, raising his hand to his forehead,twisting a lock of hair, letting it fall again.
　　"You won't finish that stocking tonight," he said, pointing to her stocking.
　　That was what she wanted—the asperity in his voice reproving her.
　　If he says it's wrong to be pessimistic probably it is wrong, she thought;the marriage will turn out all right.
　　"No," she said, flattening the stocking out upon her knee, "I shan't finishit."And what then? For she felt that he was still looking at her, but that hislook had changed. He wanted something—wanted the thing she alwaysfound it so difficult to give him; wanted her to tell him that she lovedhim. And that, no, she could not do. He found talking so much easierthan she did. He could say things—she never could. So naturally it wasalways he that said the things, and then for some reason he would mindthis suddenly, and would reproach her. A heartless woman he calledher; she never told him that she loved him. But it was not so—it was notso. It was only that she never could say what she felt. Was there nocrumb on his coat? Nothing she could do for him? Getting up, she stoodat the window with the reddish-brown stocking in her hands, partly toturn away from him, partly because she remembered how beautiful it oftenis—the sea at night. But she knew that he had turned his head as sheturned; he was watching her. She knew that he was thinking, You aremore beautiful than ever. And she felt herself very beautiful. Will younot tell me just for once that you love me? He was thinking that, for hewas roused, what with Minta and his book, and its being the end of theday and their having quarrelled about going to the Lighthouse. But shecould not do it; she could not say it. Then, knowing that he was watchingher, instead of saying anything she turned, holding her stocking, andlooked at him. And as she looked at him she began to smile, for thoughshe had not said a word, he knew, of course he knew, that she loved him.
　　He could not deny it. And smiling she looked out of the window andsaid (thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can equal this happiness)—"Yes, you were right. It's going to be wet tomorrow. You won't be ableto go." And she looked at him smiling. For she had triumphed again. Shehad not said it: yet he knew.
Part 2 Time Passes Chapter 1
    "Well, we must wait for the future to show," said Mr Bankes, coming infrom the terrace.
　　"It's almost too dark to see," said Andrew, coming up from the beach.
　　"One can hardly tell which is the sea and which is the land," said Prue.
　　"Do we leave that light burning?" said Lily as they took their coats offindoors.
　　"No," said Prue, "not if every one's in.""Andrew," she called back, "just put out the light in the hall."One by one the lamps were all extinguished, except that Mr Carmichael,who liked to lie awake a little reading Virgil, kept his candle burningrather longer than the rest.
Part 2 Chapter 2
    So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk, and a thin rain drummingon the roof a downpouring of immense darkness began. Nothing, itseemed, could survive the flood, the profusion of darkness which, creepingin at keyholes and crevices, stole round window blinds, came intobedrooms, swallowed up here a jug and basin, there a bowl of red andyellow dahlias, there the sharp edges and firm bulk of a chest of drawers.
　　Not only was furniture confounded; there was scarcely anything left ofbody or mind by which one could say, "This is he" or "This is she." Sometimesa hand was raised as if to clutch something or ward off something,or somebody groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as if sharing a jokewith nothingness.
　　Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in the dining-room or on thestaircase. Only through the rusty hinges and swollen sea-moistenedwoodwork certain airs, detached from the body of the wind (the housewas ramshackle after all) crept round corners and ventured indoors. Almostone might imagine them, as they entered the drawing-room questioningand wondering, toying with the flap of hanging wall-paper, asking,would it hang much longer, when would it fall? Then smoothlybrushing the walls, they passed on musingly as if asking the red and yellowroses on the wall-paper whether they would fade, and questioning(gently, for there was time at their disposal) the torn letters in thewastepaper basket, the flowers, the books, all of which were now open tothem and asking, Were they allies? Were they enemies? How long wouldthey endure?
　　So some random light directing them with its pale footfall upon stairand mat, from some uncovered star, or wandering ship, or the Lighthouseeven, with its pale footfall upon stair and mat, the little airs mountedthe staircase and nosed round bedroom doors. But here surely, theymust cease. Whatever else may perish and disappear, what lies here issteadfast. Here one might say to those sliding lights, those fumbling airsthat breathe and bend over the bed itself, here you can neither touch nordestroy. Upon which, wearily, ghostlily, as if they had feather-light fingersand the light persistency of feathers, they would look, once, on theshut eyes, and the loosely clasping fingers, and fold their garments wearilyand disappear. And so, nosing, rubbing, they went to the window onthe staircase, to the servants' bedrooms, to the boxes in the attics; descending,blanched the apples on the dining-room table, fumbled thepetals of roses, tried the picture on the easel, brushed the mat and blew alittle sand along the floor. At length, desisting, all ceased together,gathered together, all sighed together; all together gave off an aimlessgust of lamentation to which some door in the kitchen replied; swungwide; admitted nothing; and slammed to.
　　[Here Mr Carmichael, who was reading Virgil, blew out his candle. Itwas past midnight.]
Part 2 Chapter 3
    But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darknessdims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faintgreen quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night,however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store anddeals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen;they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness.
　　The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flagskindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters onmarble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn faraway in Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight,in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour,and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to theshore.
　　It seemed now as if, touched by human penitence and all its toil, divinegoodness had parted the curtain and displayed behind it, single,distinct, the hare erect; the wave falling; the boat rocking; which, did wedeserve them, should be ours always. But alas, divine goodness, twitchingthe cord, draws the curtain; it does not please him; he covers histreasures in a drench of hail, and so breaks them, so confuses them that itseems impossible that their calm should ever return or that we shouldever compose from their fragments a perfect whole or read in the litteredpieces the clear words of truth. For our penitence deserves a glimpseonly; our toil respite only.
　　The nights now are full of wind and destruction; the trees plunge andbend and their leaves fly helter skelter until the lawn is plastered withthem and they lie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes and scatterdamp paths. Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself, and should anysleeper fancying that he might find on the beach an answer to his doubts,a sharer of his solitude, throw off his bedclothes and go down by himselfto walk on the sand, no image with semblance of serving and divinepromptitude comes readily to hand bringing the night to order andmaking the world reflect the compass of the soul. The hand dwindles inhis hand; the voice bellows in his ear. Almost it would appear that it isuseless in such confusion to ask the night those questions as to what, andwhy, and wherefore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek ananswer.
　　[Mr Ramsay, stumbling along a passage one dark morning, stretchedhis arms out, but Mrs Ramsay having died rather suddenly the night before,his arms, though stretched out, remained empty.]]
Part 2 Chapter 4
    So with the house empty and the doors locked and the mattresses rolledround, those stray airs, advance guards of great armies, blustered in,brushed bare boards, nibbled and fanned, met nothing in bedroom ordrawing-room that wholly resisted them but only hangings that flapped,wood that creaked, the bare legs of tables, saucepans and china alreadyfurred, tarnished, cracked. What people had shed and left—a pair ofshoes, a shooting cap, some faded skirts and coats in wardrobes—thosealone kept the human shape and in the emptiness indicated how oncethey were filled and animated; how once hands were busy with hooksand buttons; how once the looking-glass had held a face; had held aworld hollowed out in which a figure turned, a hand flashed, the dooropened, in came children rushing and tumbling; and went out again.
　　Now, day after day, light turned, like a flower reflected in water, itssharp image on the wall opposite. Only the shadows of the trees, flourishingin the wind, made obeisance on the wall, and for a momentdarkened the pool in which light reflected itself; or birds, flying, made asoft spot flutter slowly across the bedroom floor.
　　So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together made the shape ofloveliness itself, a form from which life had parted; solitary like a pool atevening, far distant, seen from a train window, vanishing so quickly thatthe pool, pale in the evening, is scarcely robbed of its solitude, thoughonce seen. Loveliness and stillness clasped hands in the bedroom, andamong the shrouded jugs and sheeted chairs even the prying of thewind, and the soft nose of the clammy sea airs, rubbing, snuffling, iterating,and reiterating their questions—"Will you fade? Will you perish?"—scarcely disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of pure integrity,as if the question they asked scarcely needed that they should answer:
　　we remain.
　　Nothing it seemed could break that image, corrupt that innocence, ordisturb the swaying mantle of silence which, week after week, in theempty room, wove into itself the falling cries of birds, ships hooting, thedrone and hum of the fields, a dog's bark, a man's shout, and foldedthem round the house in silence. Once only a board sprang on the landing;once in the middle of the night with a roar, with a rupture, as aftercenturies of quiescence, a rock rends itself from the mountain andhurtles crashing into the valley, one fold of the shawl loosened andswung to and fro. Then again peace descended; and the shadowwavered; light bent to its own image in adoration on the bedroom wall;and Mrs McNab, tearing the veil of silence with hands that had stood inthe wash-tub, grinding it with boots that had crunched the shingle, cameas directed to open all windows, and dust the bedrooms.
Part 2 Chapter 5
    As she lurched (for she rolled like a ship at sea) and leered (for her eyesfell on nothing directly, but with a sidelong glance that deprecated thescorn and anger of the world—she was witless, she knew it), as sheclutched the banisters and hauled herself upstairs and rolled from roomto room, she sang. Rubbing the glass of the long looking-glass and leeringsideways at her swinging figure a sound issued from herlips—something that had been gay twenty years before on the stage perhaps,had been hummed and danced to, but now, coming from thetoothless, bonneted, care-taking woman, was robbed of meaning, waslike the voice of witlessness, humour, persistency itself, trodden downbut springing up again, so that as she lurched, dusting, wiping, sheseemed to say how it was one long sorrow and trouble, how it was gettingup and going to bed again, and bringing things out and puttingthem away again. It was not easy or snug this world she had known forclose on seventy years. Bowed down she was with weariness. How long,she asked, creaking and groaning on her knees under the bed, dustingthe boards, how long shall it endure? but hobbled to her feet again,pulled herself up, and again with her sidelong leer which slipped andturned aside even from her own face, and her own sorrows, stood andgaped in the glass, aimlessly smiling, and began again the old amble andhobble, taking up mats, putting down china, looking sideways in theglass, as if, after all, she had her consolations, as if indeed there twinedabout her dirge some incorrigible hope. Visions of joy there must havebeen at the wash-tub, say with her children (yet two had been base-bornand one had deserted her), at the public-house, drinking; turning overscraps in her drawers. Some cleavage of the dark there must have been,some channel in the depths of obscurity through which light enough issuedto twist her face grinning in the glass and make her, turning to herjob again, mumble out the old music hall song. The mystic, the visionary,walking the beach on a fine night, stirring a puddle, looking at a stone,asking themselves "What am I," "What is this?" had suddenly an answervouchsafed them: (they could not say what it was) so that they werewarm in the frost and had comfort in the desert. But Mrs McNab continuedto drink and gossip as before.
Part 2 Chapter 6
    The Spring without a leaf to toss, bare and bright like a virgin fierce inher chastity, scornful in her purity, was laid out on fields wide-eyed andwatchful and entirely careless of what was done or thought by the beholders.
　　[Prue Ramsay, leaning on her father's arm, was given in marriage.
　　What, people said, could have been more fitting? And, they added,how beautiful she looked!]
　　As summer neared, as the evenings lengthened, there came to thewakeful, the hopeful, walking the beach, stirring the pool, imaginationsof the strangest kind—of flesh turned to atoms which drove before thewind, of stars flashing in their hearts, of cliff, sea, cloud, and sky broughtpurposely together to assemble outwardly the scattered parts of the visionwithin. In those mirrors, the minds of men, in those pools of uneasywater, in which clouds for ever turn and shadows form, dreams persisted,and it was impossible to resist the strange intimation which everygull, flower, tree, man and woman, and the white earth itself seemed todeclare (but if questioned at once to withdraw) that good triumphs, happinessprevails, order rules; or to resist the extraordinary stimulus torange hither and thither in search of some absolute good, some crystal ofintensity, remote from the known pleasures and familiar virtues,something alien to the processes of domestic life, single, hard, bright, likea diamond in the sand, which would render the possessor secure.
　　Moreover, softened and acquiescent, the spring with her bees hummingand gnats dancing threw her cloak about her, veiled her eyes, avertedher head, and among passing shadows and flights of small rain seemedto have taken upon her a knowledge of the sorrows of mankind.
　　[Prue Ramsay died that summer in some illness connected with childbirth,which was indeed a tragedy, people said, everything, they said,had promised so well.]
　　And now in the heat of summer the wind sent its spies about thehouse again. Flies wove a web in the sunny rooms; weeds that hadgrown close to the glass in the night tapped methodically at the windowpane. When darkness fell, the stroke of the Lighthouse, which had laid itselfwith such authority upon the carpet in the darkness, tracing its pattern,came now in the softer light of spring mixed with moonlight glidinggently as if it laid its caress and lingered steathily and looked andcame lovingly again. But in the very lull of this loving caress, as the longstroke leant upon the bed, the rock was rent asunder; another fold of theshawl loosened; there it hung, and swayed. Through the short summernights and the long summer days, when the empty rooms seemed tomurmur with the echoes of the fields and the hum of flies, the longstreamer waved gently, swayed aimlessly; while the sun so striped andbarred the rooms and filled them with yellow haze that Mrs McNab,when she broke in and lurched about, dusting, sweeping, looked like atropical fish oaring its way through sun-lanced waters.
　　But slumber and sleep though it might there came later in the summerominous sounds like the measured blows of hammers dulled on felt,which, with their repeated shocks still further loosened the shawl andcracked the tea-cups. Now and again some glass tinkled in the cupboardas if a giant voice had shrieked so loud in its agony that tumblers stoodinside a cupboard vibrated too. Then again silence fell; and then, nightafter night, and sometimes in plain mid-day when the roses were brightand light turned on the wall its shape clearly there seemed to drop intothis silence, this indifference, this integrity, the thud of something falling.
　　[A shell exploded. Twenty or thirty young men were blown up inFrance, among them Andrew Ramsay, whose death, mercifully, wasinstantaneous.]
　　At that season those who had gone down to pace the beach and ask ofthe sea and sky what message they reported or what vision they affirmedhad to consider among the usual tokens of divine bounty—thesunset on the sea, the pallor of dawn, the moon rising, fishing-boatsagainst the moon, and children making mud pies or pelting each otherwith handfuls of grass, something out of harmony with this jocundityand this serenity. There was the silent apparition of an ashen-colouredship for instance, come, gone; there was a purplish stain upon the blandsurface of the sea as if something had boiled and bled, invisibly, beneath.
　　This intrusion into a scene calculated to stir the most sublime reflectionsand lead to the most comfortable conclusions stayed their pacing. It wasdifficult blandly to overlook them; to abolish their significance in thelandscape; to continue, as one walked by the sea, to marvel how beautyoutside mirrored beauty within.
　　Did Nature supplement what man advanced? Did she complete whathe began? With equal complacence she saw his misery, his meanness,and his torture. That dream, of sharing, completing, of finding insolitude on the beach an answer, was then but a reflection in a mirror,and the mirror itself was but the surface glassiness which forms in quiescencewhen the nobler powers sleep beneath? Impatient, despairing yetloth to go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations), to pace thebeach was impossible; contemplation was unendurable; the mirror wasbroken.
　　[Mr Carmichael brought out a volume of poems that spring, whichhad an unexpected success. The war, people said, had revived their interestin poetry.]
Part 2 Chapter 7
    Night after night, summer and winter, the torment of storms, the arrow-like stillness of fine (had there been any one to listen) from the upperrooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightningcould have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and wavesdisported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whosebrows are pierced by no light of reason, and mounted one on top of another,and lunged and plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for nightand day, month and year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games, untilit seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusionand wanton lust aimlessly by itself.
　　In spring the garden urns, casually filled with wind-blown plants,were gay as ever. Violets came and daffodils. But the stillness and thebrightness of the day were as strange as the chaos and tumult of night,with the trees standing there, and the flowers standing there, looking beforethem, looking up, yet beholding nothing, eyeless, and so terrible.
Part 2 Chapter 8
    Thinking no harm, for the family would not come, never again, somesaid, and the house would be sold at Michaelmas perhaps, Mrs McNabstooped and picked a bunch of flowers to take home with her. She laidthem on the table while she dusted. She was fond of flowers. It was apity to let them waste. Suppose the house were sold (she stood armsakimbo in front of the looking-glass) it would want seeing to—it would.
　　There it had stood all these years without a soul in it. The books andthings were mouldy, for, what with the war and help being hard to get,the house had not been cleaned as she could have wished. It was beyondone person's strength to get it straight now. She was too old. Her legspained her. All those books needed to be laid out on the grass in the sun;there was plaster fallen in the hall; the rain-pipe had blocked over thestudy window and let the water in; the carpet was ruined quite. Butpeople should come themselves; they should have sent somebody downto see. For there were clothes in the cupboards; they had left clothes in allthe bedrooms. What was she to do with them? They had the moth inthem—Mrs Ramsay's things. Poor lady! She would never want THEMagain. She was dead, they said; years ago, in London. There was the oldgrey cloak she wore gardening (Mrs McNab fingered it). She could seeher, as she came up the drive with the washing, stooping over herflowers (the garden was a pitiful sight now, all run to riot, and rabbitsscuttling at you out of the beds)—she could see her with one of the childrenby her in that grey cloak. There were boots and shoes; and a brushand comb left on the dressing-table, for all the world as if she expected tocome back tomorrow. (She had died very sudden at the end, they said.)And once they had been coming, but had put off coming, what with thewar, and travel being so difficult these days; they had never come allthese years; just sent her money; but never wrote, never came, and expectedto find things as they had left them, ah, dear! Why the dressing-table drawers were full of things (she pulled them open), handkerchiefs,bits of ribbon. Yes, she could see Mrs Ramsay as she came up the drivewith the washing.
　　"Good-evening, Mrs McNab," she would say.
　　She had a pleasant way with her. The girls all liked her. But, dear,many things had changed since then (she shut the drawer); many familieshad lost their dearest. So she was dead; and Mr Andrew killed; andMiss Prue dead too, they said, with her first baby; but everyone had lostsome one these years. Prices had gone up shamefully, and didn't comedown again neither. She could well remember her in her grey cloak.
　　"Good-evening, Mrs McNab," she said, and told cook to keep a plate ofmilk soup for her—quite thought she wanted it, carrying that heavy basketall the way up from town. She could see her now, stooping over herflowers; and faint and flickering, like a yellow beam or the circle at theend of a telescope, a lady in a grey cloak, stooping over her flowers, wentwandering over the bedroom wall, up the dressing-table, across thewash-stand, as Mrs McNab hobbled and ambled, dusting, straightening.
　　And cook's name now? Mildred? Marian?—some name like that. Ah, shehad forgotten—she did forget things. Fiery, like all red-haired women.
　　Many a laugh they had had. She was always welcome in the kitchen. Shemade them laugh, she did. Things were better then than now.
　　She sighed; there was too much work for one woman. She wagged herhead this side and that. This had been the nursery. Why, it was all dampin here; the plaster was falling. Whatever did they want to hang a beast'sskull there? gone mouldy too. And rats in all the attics. The rain came in.
　　But they never sent; never came. Some of the locks had gone, so thedoors banged. She didn't like to be up here at dusk alone neither. It wastoo much for one woman, too much, too much. She creaked, shemoaned. She banged the door. She turned the key in the lock, and left thehouse alone, shut up, locked.
Part 2 Chapter 9
    The house was left; the house was deserted. It was left like a shell on asandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left it. The long nightseemed to have set in; the trifling airs, nibbling, the clammy breaths,fumbling, seemed to have triumphed. The saucepan had rusted and themat decayed. Toads had nosed their way in. Idly, aimlessly, the swayingshawl swung to and fro. A thistle thrust itself between the tiles in the larder.
　　The swallows nested in the drawing-roon; the floor was strewnwith straw; the plaster fell in shovelfuls; rafters were laid bare; rats carriedoff this and that to gnaw behind the wainscots. Tortoise-shell butterfliesburst from the chrysalis and pattered their life out on the windowpane.
　　Poppies sowed themselves among the dahlias; the lawn wavedwith long grass; giant artichokes towered among roses; a fringed carnationflowered among the cabbages; while the gentle tapping of a weed atthe window had become, on winters' nights, a drumming from sturdytrees and thorned briars which made the whole room green in summer.
　　What power could now prevent the fertility, the insensibility ofnature? Mrs McNab's dream of a lady, of a child, of a plate of milk soup?
　　It had wavered over the walls like a spot of sunlight and vanished. Shehad locked the door; she had gone. It was beyond the strength of onewoman, she said. They never sent. They never wrote. There were thingsup there rotting in the drawers—it was a shame to leave them so, shesaid. The place was gone to rack and ruin. Only the Lighthouse beamentered the rooms for a moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wallin the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity at the thistle and theswallow, the rat and the straw. Nothing now withstood them; nothingsaid no to them. Let the wind blow; let the poppy seed itself and thecarnation mate with the cabbage. Let the swallow build in the drawing-room, and the thistle thrust aside the tiles, and the butterfly sun itself onthe faded chintz of the arm-chairs. Let the broken glass and the china lieout on the lawn and be tangled over with grass and wild berries.
　　For now had come that moment, that hesitation when dawn tremblesand night pauses, when if a feather alight in the scale it will be weigheddown. One feather, and the house, sinking, falling, would have turnedand pitched downwards to the depths of darkness. In the ruined room,picnickers would have lit their kettles; lovers sought shelter there, lyingon the bare boards; and the shepherd stored his dinner on the bricks, andthe tramp slept with his coat round him to ward off the cold. Then theroof would have fallen; briars and hemlocks would have blotted outpath, step and window; would have grown, unequally but lustily overthe mound, until some trespasser, losing his way, could have told onlyby a red-hot poker among the nettles, or a scrap of china in the hemlock,that here once some one had lived; there had been a house.
　　If the feather had fallen, if it had tipped the scale downwards, thewhole house would have plunged to the depths to lie upon the sands ofoblivion. But there was a force working; something not highly conscious;something that leered, something that lurched; something not inspired togo about its work with dignified ritual or solemn chanting. Mrs McNabgroaned; Mrs Bast creaked. They were old; they were stiff; their legsached. They came with their brooms and pails at last; they got to work.
　　All of a sudden, would Mrs McNab see that the house was ready, one ofthe young ladies wrote: would she get this done; would she get thatdone; all in a hurry. They might be coming for the summer; had lefteverything to the last; expected to find things as they had left them.
　　Slowly and painfully, with broom and pail, mopping, scouring, MrsMcNab, Mrs Bast, stayed the corruption and the rot; rescued from thepool of Time that was fast closing over them now a basin, now a cupboard;fetched up from oblivion all the Waverley novels and a tea-setone morning; in the afternoon restored to sun and air a brass fender anda set of steel fire-irons. George, Mrs Bast's son, caught the rats, and cutthe grass. They had the builders. Attended with the creaking of hingesand the screeching of bolts, the slamming and banging of damp-swollenwoodwork, some rusty laborious birth seemed to be taking place, as thewomen, stooping, rising, groaning, singing, slapped and slammed, upstairsnow, now down in the cellars. Oh, they said, the work!
　　They drank their tea in the bedroom sometimes, or in the study; breakingoff work at mid-day with the smudge on their faces, and their oldhands clasped and cramped with the broom handles. Flopped on chairs,they contemplated now the magnificent conquest over taps and bath;now the more arduous, more partial triumph over long rows of books,black as ravens once, now white-stained, breeding pale mushrooms andsecreting furtive spiders. Once more, as she felt the tea warm in her, thetelescope fitted itself to Mrs McNab's eyes, and in a ring of light she sawthe old gentleman, lean as a rake, wagging his head, as she came up withthe washing, talking to himself, she supposed, on the lawn. He never noticedher. Some said he was dead; some said she was dead. Which wasit? Mrs Bast didn't know for certain either. The young gentleman wasdead. That she was sure. She had read his name in the papers.
　　There was the cook now, Mildred, Marian, some such name as that—ared-headed woman, quick-tempered like all her sort, but kind, too, ifyou knew the way with her. Many a laugh they had had together. Shesaved a plate of soup for Maggie; a bite of ham, sometimes; whateverwas over. They lived well in those days. They had everything theywanted (glibly, jovially, with the tea hot in her, she unwound her ball ofmemories, sitting in the wicker arm-chair by the nursery fender). Therewas always plenty doing, people in the house, twenty staying sometimes,and washing up till long past midnight.
　　Mrs Bast (she had never known them; had lived in Glasgow at thattime) wondered, putting her cup down, whatever they hung that beast'sskull there for? Shot in foreign parts no doubt.
　　It might well be, said Mrs McNab, wantoning on with her memories;they had friends in eastern countries; gentlemen staying there, ladies inevening dress; she had seen them once through the dining-room door allsitting at dinner. Twenty she dared say all in their jewellery, and sheasked to stay help wash up, might be till after midnight.
　　Ah, said Mrs Bast, they'd find it changed. She leant out of the window.
　　She watched her son George scything the grass. They might well ask,what had been done to it? seeing how old Kennedy was supposed tohave charge of it, and then his leg got so bad after he fell from the cart;and perhaps then no one for a year, or the better part of one; and thenDavie Macdonald, and seeds might be sent, but who should say if theywere ever planted? They'd find it changed.
　　She watched her son scything. He was a great one for work—one ofthose quiet ones. Well they must be getting along with the cupboards,she supposed. They hauled themselves up.
　　At last, after days of labour within, of cutting and digging without,dusters were flicked from the windows, the windows were shut to, keyswere turned all over the house; the front door was banged; it wasfinished.
　　And now as if the cleaning and the scrubbing and the scything and themowing had drowned it there rose that half-heard melody, that intermittentmusic which the ear half catches but lets fall; a bark, a bleat; irregular,intermittent, yet somehow related; the hum of an insect, the tremorof cut grass, disevered yet somehow belonging; the jar of a dorbeetle, thesqueak of a wheel, loud, low, but mysteriously related; which the earstrains to bring together and is always on the verge of harmonising, butthey are never quite heard, never fully harmonised, and at last, in theevening, one after another the sounds die out, and the harmony falters,and silence falls. With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising,quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely the world shook itselfdown to sleep, darkly here without a light to it, save what came greensuffused through leaves, or pale on the white flowers in the bed by thewindow.
　　[Lily Briscoe had her bag carried up to the house late one evening inSeptember. Mr Carmichael came by the same train.]
Part 2 Chapter 10
    Then indeed peace had come. Messages of peace breathed from the seato the shore. Never to break its sleep any more, to lull it rather moredeeply to rest, and whatever the dreamers dreamt holily, dreamt wisely,to confirm—what else was it murmuring—as Lily Briscoe laid her headon the pillow in the clean still room and heard the sea. Through the openwindow the voice of the beauty of the world came murmuring, too softlyto hear exactly what it said—but what mattered if the meaning wereplain? entreating the sleepers (the house was full again; Mrs Beckwithwas staying there, also Mr Carmichael), if they would not actually comedown to the beach itself at least to lift the blind and look out. Theywould see then night flowing down in purple; his head crowned; hissceptre jewelled; and how in his eyes a child might look. And if they stillfaltered (Lily was tired out with travelling and slept almost at once; butMr Carmichael read a book by candlelight), if they still said no, that itwas vapour, this splendour of his, and the dew had more power than he,and they preferred sleeping; gently then without complaint, or argument,the voice would sing its song. Gently the waves would break (Lilyheard them in her sleep); tenderly the light fell (it seemed to comethrough her eyelids). And it all looked, Mr Carmichael thought, shuttinghis book, falling asleep, much as it used to look.
　　Indeed the voice might resume, as the curtains of dark wrapped themselvesover the house, over Mrs Beckwith, Mr Carmichael, and LilyBriscoe so that they lay with several folds of blackness on their eyes, whynot accept this, be content with this, acquiesce and resign? The sigh of allthe seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the nightwrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning andthe dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness, a cart grinding, adog somewhere barking, the sun lifted the curtains, broke the veil ontheir eyes, and Lily Briscoe stirring in her sleep. She clutched at herblankets as a faller clutches at the turf on the edge of a cliff. Her eyesopened wide. Here she was again, she thought, sitting bold upright inbed. Awake.
Part 3 The Lighthouse Chapter 1
    What does it mean then, what can it all mean? Lily Briscoe asked herself,wondering whether, since she had been left alone, it behoved her to go tothe kitchen to fetch another cup of coffee or wait here. What does itmean?—a catchword that was, caught up from some book, fitting herthought loosely, for she could not, this first morning with the Ramsays,contract her feelings, could only make a phrase resound to cover theblankness of her mind until these vapours had shrunk. For really, whatdid she feel, come back after all these years and Mrs Ramsay dead?
　　Nothing, nothing—nothing that she could express at all.
　　She had come late last night when it was all mysterious, dark. Nowshe was awake, at her old place at the breakfast table, but alone. It wasvery early too, not yet eight. There was this expedition—they were goingto the Lighthouse, Mr Ramsay, Cam, and James. They should have gonealready—they had to catch the tide or something. And Cam was notready and James was not ready and Nancy had forgotten to order thesandwiches and Mr Ramsay had lost his temper and banged out of theroom.
　　"What's the use of going now?" he had stormed.
　　Nancy had vanished. There he was, marching up and down the terracein a rage. One seemed to hear doors slamming and voices calling all overthe house. Now Nancy burst in, and asked, looking round the room, in aqueer half dazed, half desperate way, "What does one send to the Lighthouse?"as if she were forcing herself to do what she despaired of everbeing able to do.
　　What does one send to the Lighthouse indeed! At any other time Lilycould have suggested reasonably tea, tobacco, newspapers. But thismorning everything seemed so extraordinarily queer that a question likeNancy's—What does one send to the Lighthouse?—opened doors inone's mind that went banging and swinging to and fro and made onekeep asking, in a stupefied gape, What does one send? What does onedo? Why is one sitting here, after all?
　　Sitting alone (for Nancy went out again) among the clean cups at thelong table, she felt cut off from other people, and able only to go onwatching, asking, wondering. The house, the place, the morning, allseemed strangers to her. She had no attachment here, she felt, no relationswith it, anything might happen, and whatever did happen, a stepoutside, a voice calling ("It's not in the cupboard; it's on the landing,"some one cried), was a question, as if the link that usually bound thingstogether had been cut, and they floated up here, down there, off, anyhow.
　　How aimless it was,, how chaotic, how unreal it was, she thought,looking at her empty coffee cup. Mrs Ramsay dead; Andrew killed; Pruedead too—repeat it as she might, it roused no feeling in her. And we allget together in a house like this on a morning like this, she said, lookingout of the window. It was a beautiful still day.
Part 3 Chapter 2
    Suddenly Mr Ramsay raised his head as he passed and looked straight ather, with his distraught wild gaze which was yet so penetrating, as if hesaw you, for one second, for the first time, for ever; and she pretended todrink out of her empty coffee cup so as to escape him—to escape his demandon her, to put aside a moment longer that imperious need. And heshook his head at her, and strode on ("Alone" she heard him say,"Perished" she heard him say) and like everything else this strangemorning the words became symbols, wrote themselves all over the grey-green walls. If only she could put them together, she felt, write them outin some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things. Old MrCarmichael came padding softly in, fetched his coffee, took his cup andmade off to sit in the sun. The extraordinary unreality was frightening;but it was also exciting. Going to the Lighthouse. But what does one sendto the Lighthouse? Perished. Alone. The grey-green light on the wall opposite.
　　The empty places. Such were some of the parts, but how bringthem together? she asked. As if any interruption would break the frailshape she was building on the table she turned her back to the windowlest Mr Ramsay should see her. She must escape somewhere, be alonesomewhere. Suddenly she remembered. When she had sat there last tenyears ago there had been a little sprig or leaf pattern on the table-cloth,which she had looked at in a moment of revelation. There had been aproblem about a foreground of a picture. Move the tree to the middle,she had said. She had never finished that picture. She would paint thatpicture now. It had been knocking about in her mind all these years.
　　Where were her paints, she wondered? Her paints, yes. She had left themin the hall last night. She would start at once. She got up quickly, beforeMr Ramsay turned.
　　She fetched herself a chair. She pitched her easel with her precise oldmaidishmovements on the edge of the lawn, not too close to Mr Carmichael,but close enough for his protection. Yes, it must have been preciselyhere that she had stood ten years ago. There was the wall; thehedge; the tree. The question was of some relation between those masses.
　　She had borne it in her mind all these years. It seemed as if the solutionhad come to her: she knew now what she wanted to do.
　　But with Mr Ramsay bearing down on her, she could do nothing.
　　Every time he approached—he was walking up and down the terrace—ruin approached, chaos approached. She could not paint. Shestooped, she turned; she took up this rag; she squeezed that tube. But allshe did was to ward him off a moment. He made it impossible for her todo anything. For if she gave him the least chance, if he saw her disengageda moment, looking his way a moment, he would be on her, saying,as he had said last night, "You find us much changed." Last night he hadgot up and stopped before her, and said that. Dumb and staring thoughthey had all sat, the six children whom they used to call after the Kingsand Queens of England—the Red, the Fair, the Wicked, the Ruthless—she felt how they raged under it. Kind old Mrs Beckwith saidsomething sensible. But it was a house full of unrelated passions—shehad felt that all the evening. And on top of this chaos Mr Ramsay got up,pressed her hand, and said: "You will find us much changed" and noneof them had moved or had spoken; but had sat there as if they wereforced to let him say it. Only James (certainly the Sullen) scowled at thelamp; and Cam screwed her handkerchief round her finger. Then he remindedthem that they were going to the Lighthouse tomorrow. Theymust be ready, in the hall, on the stroke of half-past seven. Then, with hishand on the door, he stopped; he turned upon them. Did they not wantto go? he demanded. Had they dared say No (he had some reason forwanting it) he would have flung himself tragically backwards into thebitter waters of depair. Such a gift he had for gesture. He looked like aking in exile. Doggedly James said yes. Cam stumbled more wretchedly.
　　Yes, oh, yes, they'd both be ready, they said. And it struck her, this wastragedy—not palls, dust, and the shroud; but children coerced, their spiritssubdued. James was sixteen, Cam, seventeen, perhaps. She hadlooked round for some one who was not there, for Mrs Ramsay, presumably.
　　But there was only kind Mrs Beckwith turning over her sketchesunder the lamp. Then, being tired, her mind still rising and falling withthe sea, the taste and smell that places have after long absence possessingher, the candles wavering in her eyes, she had lost herself and gone under.
　　It was a wonderful night, starlit; the waves sounded as they wentupstairs; the moon surprised them, enormous, pale, as they passed thestaircase window. She had slept at once.
　　She set her clean canvas firmly upon the easel, as a barrier, frail, butshe hoped sufficiently substantial to ward off Mr Ramsay and his exactingness.
　　She did her best to look, when his back was turned, at her picture;that line there, that mass there. But it was out of the question. Lethim be fifty feet away, let him not even speak to you, let him not evensee you, he permeated, he prevailed, he imposed himself. He changedeverything. She could not see the colour; she could not see the lines; evenwith his back turned to her, she could only think, But he'll be down onme in a moment, demanding—something she felt she could not givehim. She rejected one brush; she chose another. When would those childrencome? When would they all be off? she fidgeted. That man, shethought, her anger rising in her, never gave; that man took. She, on theother hand, would be forced to give. Mrs Ramsay had given. Giving, giving,giving, she had died—and had left all this. Really, she was angrywith Mrs Ramsay. With the brush slightly trembling in her fingers shelooked at the hedge, the step, the wall. It was all Mrs Ramsay's doing.
　　She was dead. Here was Lily, at forty-four, wasting her time, unable todo a thing, standing there, playing at painting, playing at the one thingone did not play at, and it was all Mrs Ramsay's fault. She was dead. Thestep where she used to sit was empty. She was dead.
　　But why repeat this over and over again? Why be always trying tobring up some feeling she had not got? There was a kind of blasphemy init. It was all dry: all withered: all spent. They ought not to have askedher; she ought not to have come. One can't waste one's time at forty-four, she thought. She hated playing at painting. A brush, the one dependablething in a world of strife, ruin, chaos—that one should not playwith, knowingly even: she detested it. But he made her. You shan't touchyour canvas, he seemed to say, bearing down on her, till you've given mewhat I want of you. Here he was, close upon her again, greedy, distraught.
　　Well, thought Lily in despair, letting her right hand fall at herside, it would be simpler then to have it over. Surely, she could imitatefrom recollection the glow, the rhapsody, the self-surrender, she hadseen on so many women's faces (on Mrs Ramsay's, for instance) when onsome occasion like this they blazed up—she could remember the look onMrs Ramsay's face—into a rapture of sympathy, of delight in the rewardthey had, which, though the reason of it escaped her, evidently conferredon them the most supreme bliss of which human nature was capable.
　　Here he was, stopped by her side. She would give him what she could.
Part 3 Chapter 3
    She seemed to have shrivelled slightly, he thought. She looked a littleskimpy, wispy; but not unattractive. He liked her. There had been sometalk of her marrying William Bankes once, but nothing had come of it.
　　His wife had been fond of her. He had been a little out of temper too atbreakfast. And then, and then—this was one of those moments when anenormous need urged him, without being conscious what it was, to approachany woman, to force them, he did not care how, his need was sogreat, to give him what he wanted: sympathy.
　　Was anybody looking after her? he said. Had she everything shewanted?
　　"Oh, thanks, everything," said Lily Briscoe nervously. No; she couldnot do it. She ought to have floated off instantly upon some wave ofsympathetic expansion: the pressure on her was tremendous. But she remainedstuck. There was an awful pause. They both looked at the sea.
　　Why, thought Mr Ramsay, should she look at the sea when I am here?
　　She hoped it would be calm enough for them to land at the Lighthouse,she said. The Lighthouse! The Lighthouse! What's that got to do with it?
　　he thought impatiently. Instantly, with the force of some primeval gust(for really he could not restrain himself any longer), there issued fromhim such a groan that any other woman in the whole world would havedone something, said something—all except myself, thought Lily, girdingat herself bitterly, who am not a woman, but a peevish, ill-tempered,dried-up old maid, presumably.
　　[Mr Ramsay sighed to the full. He waited. Was she not going to sayanything? Did she not see what he wanted from her? Then he said hehad a particular reason for wanting to go to the Lighthouse. His wifeused to send the men things. There was a poor boy with a tuberculouship, the lightkeeper's son. He sighed profoundly. He sighed significantly.
　　All Lily wished was that this enormous flood of grief, this insatiable hungerfor sympathy, this demand that she should surrender herself up tohim entirely, and even so he had sorrows enough to keep her suppliedfor ever, should leave her, should be diverted (she kept looking at thehouse, hoping for an interruption) before it swept her down in its flow.
　　"Such expeditions," said Mr Ramsay, scraping the ground with his toe,"are very painful." Still Lily said nothing. (She is a stock, she is a stone, hesaid to himself.) "They are very exhausting," he said, looking, with asickly look that nauseated her (he was acting, she felt, this great man wasdramatising himself), at his beautiful hands. It was horrible, it was indecent.
　　Would they never come, she asked, for she could not sustain thisenormous weight of sorrow, support these heavy draperies of grief (hehad assumed a pose of extreme decreptitude; he even tottered a little ashe stood there) a moment longer.
　　Still she could say nothing; the whole horizon seemed swept bare ofobjects to talk about; could only feel, amazedly, as Mr Ramsay stoodthere, how his gaze seemed to fall dolefully over the sunny grass anddiscolour it, and cast over the rubicund, drowsy, entirely contented figureof Mr Carmichael, reading a French novel on a deck-chair, a veil ofcrape, as if such an existence, flaunting its prosperity in a world of woe,were enough to provoke the most dismal thoughts of all. Look at him, heseemed to be saying, look at me; and indeed, all the time he was feeling,Think of me, think of me. Ah, could that bulk only be wafted alongsideof them, Lily wished; had she only pitched her easel a yard or two closerto him; a man, any man, would staunch this effusion, would stop theselamentations. A woman, she had provoked this horror; a woman, sheshould have known how to deal with it. It was immensely to her discredit,sexually, to stand there dumb. One said—what did one say?—Oh, MrRamsay! Dear Mr Ramsay! That was what that kind old lady whosketched, Mrs Beckwith, would have said instantly, and rightly. But, no.
　　They stood there, isolated from the rest of the world. His immense self-pity, his demand for sympathy poured and spread itself in pools at therfeet, and all she did, miserable sinner that she was, was to draw herskirts a little closer round her ankles, lest she should get wet. In completesilence she stood there, grasping her paint brush.
　　Heaven could never be sufficiently praised! She heard sounds in thehouse. James and Cam must be coming. But Mr Ramsay, as if he knewthat his time ran short, exerted upon her solitary figure the immensepressure of his concentrated woe; his age; his frailty: his desolation;when suddenly, tossing his head impatiently, in his annoyance—for afterall, what woman could resist him?—he noticed that his boot-laces wereuntied. Remarkable boots they were too, Lily thought, looking down atthem: sculptured; colossal; like everything that Mr Ramsay wore, fromhis frayed tie to his half-buttoned waistcoat, his own indisputably. Shecould see them walking to his room of their own accord, expressive inhis absence of pathos, surliness, ill-temper, charm.
　　"What beautiful boots!" she exclaimed. She was ashamed of herself. Topraise his boots when he asked her to solace his soul; when he hadshown her his bleeding hands, his lacerated heart, and asked her to pitythem, then to say, cheerfully, "Ah, but what beautiful boots you wear!"deserved, she knew, and she looked up expecting to get it in one of hissudden roars of ill-temper complete annihilation.
　　Instead, Mr Ramsay smiled. His pall, his draperies, his infirmities fellfrom him. Ah, yes, he said, holding his foot up for her to look at, theywere first-rate boots. There was only one man in England who couldmake boots like that. Boots are among the chief curses of mankind, hesaid. "Bootmakers make it their business," he exclaimed, "to cripple andtorture the human foot." They are also the most obstinate and perverse ofmankind. It had taken him the best part of his youth to get boots made asthey should be made. He would have her observe (he lifted his right footand then his left) that she had never seen boots made quite that shapebefore. They were made of the finest leather in the world, also. Mostleather was mere brown paper and cardboard. He looked complacentlyat his foot, still held in the air. They had reached, she felt, a sunny islandwhere peace dwelt, sanity reigned and the sun for ever shone, theblessed island of good boots. Her heart warmed to him. "Now let me seeif you can tie a knot," he said. He poohpoohed her feeble system. Heshowed her his own invention. Once you tied it, it never came undone.
　　Three times he knotted her shoe; three times he unknotted it.
　　Why, at this completely inappropriate moment, when he was stoopingover her shoe, should she be so tormented with sympathy for him that,as she stooped too, the blood rushed to her face, and, thinking of her callousness(she had called him a play-actor) she felt her eyes swell andtingle with tears? Thus occupied he seemed to her a figure of infinitepathos. He tied knots. He bought boots. There was no helping Mr Ram-say on the journey he was going. But now just as she wished to saysomething, could have said something, perhaps, here they were—Camand James. They appeared on the terrace. They came, lagging, side byside, a serious, melancholy couple.
　　But why was it like THAT that they came? She could not help feelingannoyed with them; they might have come more cheerfully; they mighthave given him what, now that they were off, she would not have thechance of giving him. For she felt a sudden emptiness; a frustration. Herfeeling had come too late; there it was ready; but he no longer needed it.
　　He had become a very distinguished, elderly man, who had no need ofher whatsoever. She felt snubbed. He slung a knapsack round hisshoulders. He shared out the parcels—there were a number of them, illtied in brown paper. He sent Cam for a cloak. He had all the appearanceof a leader making ready for an expedition. Then, wheeling about, he ledthe way with his firm military tread, in those wonderful boots, carryingbrown paper parcels, down the path, his children following him. Theylooked, she thought, as if fate had devoted them to some stern enterprise,and they went to it, still young enough to be drawn acquiescent intheir father's wake, obediently, but with a pallor in their eyes whichmade her feel that they suffered something beyond their years in silence.
　　So they passed the edge of the lawn, and it seemed to Lily that shewatched a procession go, drawn on by some stress of common feelingwhich made it, faltering and flagging as it was, a little company boundtogether and strangely impressive to her. Politely, but very distantly, MrRamsay raised his hand and saluted her as they passed.
　　But what a face, she thought, immediately finding the sympathywhich she had not been asked to give troubling her for expression. Whathad made it like that? Thinking, night after night, she supposed—aboutthe reality of kitchen tables, she added, remembering the symbol whichin her vagueness as to what Mr Ramsay did think about Andrew hadgiven her. (He had been killed by the splinter of a shell instantly, she bethoughther.) The kitchen table was something visionary, austere;something bare, hard, not ornamental. There was no colour to it; it wasall edges and angles; it was uncompromisingly plain. But Mr Ramsaykept always his eyes fixed upon it, never allowed himself to be distractedor deluded, until his face became worn too and ascetic and partook ofthis unornamented beauty which so deeply impressed her. Then, she recalled(standing where he had left her, holding her brush), worries hadfretted it—not so nobly. He must have had his doubts about that table,she supposed; whether the table was a real table; whether it was worththe time he gave to it; whether he was able after all to find it. He had haddoubts, she felt, or he would have asked less of people. That was whatthey talked about late at night sometimes, she suspected; and then nextday Mrs Ramsay looked tired, and Lily flew into a rage with him oversome absurd little thing. But now he had nobody to talk to about thattable, or his boots, or his knots; and he was like a lion seeking whom hecould devour, and his face had that touch of desperation, of exaggerationin it which alarmed her, and made her pull her skirts about her. Andthen, she recalled, there was that sudden revivification, that sudden flare(when she praised his boots), that sudden recovery of vitality and interestin ordinary human things, which too passed and changed (for hewas always changing, and hid nothing) into that other final phase whichwas new to her and had, she owned, made herself ashamed of her ownirritability, when it seemed as if he had shed worries and ambitions, andthe hope of sympathy and the desire for praise, had entered some otherregion, was drawn on, as if by curiosity, in dumb colloquy, whether withhimself or another, at the head of that little procession out of one's range.
　　An extraordinary face! The gate banged.
Part 3 Chapter 4
    So they're gone, she thought, sighing with relief and disappointment.
　　Her sympathy seemed to be cast back on her, like a bramble sprungacross her face. She felt curiously divided, as if one part of her weredrawn out there—it was a still day, hazy; the Lighthouse looked thismorning at an immense distance; the other had fixed itself doggedly,solidly, here on the lawn. She saw her canvas as if it had floated up andplaced itself white and uncompromising directly before her. It seemed torebuke her with its cold stare for all this hurry and agitation; this follyand waste of emotion; it drastically recalled her and spread through hermind first a peace, as her disorderly sensations (he had gone and she hadbeen so sorry for him and she had said nothing) trooped off the field;and then, emptiness. She looked blankly at the canvas, with its uncompromisingwhite stare; from the canvas to the garden. There wassomething (she stood screwing up her little Chinese eyes in her smallpuckered face), something she remembered in the relations of those linescutting across, slicing down, and in the mass of the hedge with its greencave of blues and browns, which had stayed in her mind; which had tieda knot in her mind so that at odds and ends of time, involuntarily, as shewalked along the Brompton Road, as she brushed her hair, she foundherself painting that picture, passing her eye over it, and untying theknot in imagination. But there was all the difference in the worldbetween this planning airily away from the canvas and actually takingher brush and making the first mark.
　　She had taken the wrong brush in her agitation at Mr Ramsay's presence,and her easel, rammed into the earth so nervously, was at thewrong angle. And now that she had ut that right, and in so doing hadsubdued the impertinences and irrelevances that plucked her attentionand made her remember how she was such and such a person, had suchand such relations to people, she took her hand and raised her brush. Fora moment it stayed trembling in a painful but exciting ecstasy in the air.
　　Where to begin?—that was the question at what point to make the firstmark? One line placed on the canvas committed her to innumerablerisks, to frequent and irrevocable decisions. All that in idea seemedsimple became in practice immediately complex; as the waves shapethemselves symmetrically from the cliff top, but to the swimmer amongthem are divided by steep gulfs, and foaming crests. Still the risk mustbe run; the mark made.
　　With a curious physical sensation, as if she were urged forward and atthe same time must hold herself back, she made her first quick decisivestroke. The brush descended. It flickered brown over the white canvas; itleft a running mark. A second time she did it—a third time. And sopausing and so flickering, she attained a dancing rhythmical movement,as if the pauses were one part of the rhythm and the strokes another, andall were related; and so, lightly and swiftly pausing, striking, she scoredher canvas with brown running nervous lines which had no soonersettled there than they enclosed ( she felt it looming out at her) a space.
　　Down in the hollow of one wave she saw the next wave towering higherand higher above her. For what could be more formidable than thatspace? Here she was again, she thought, stepping back to look at it,drawn out of gossip, out of living, out of community with people intothe presence of this formidable ancient enemy of hers—this other thing,this truth, this reality, which suddenly laid hands on her, emerged starkat the back of appearances and commanded her attention. She was halfunwilling, half reluctant. Why always be drawn out and haled away?
　　Why not left in peace, to talk to Mr Carmichael on the lawn? It was anexacting form of intercourse anyhow. Other worshipful objects were contentwith worship; men, women, God, all let one kneel prostrate; but thisform, were it only the shape of a white lamp-shade looming on a wickertable, roused one to perpetual combat, challenged one to a fight in whichone was bound to be worsted. Always (it was in her nature, or in her sex,she did not know which) before she exchanged the fluidity of life for theconcentration of painting she had a few moments of nakedness when sheseemed like an unborn soul, a soul reft of body, hesitating on somewindy pinnacle and exposed without protection to all the blasts ofdoubt. Why then did she do it? She looked at the canvas, lightly scoredwith running lines. It would be hung in the servants' bedrooms. It wouldbe rolled up and stuffed under a sofa. What was the good of doing itthen, and she heard some voice saying she couldn't paint, saying shecouldn't create, as if she were caught up in one of those habitual currentsin which after a certain time experience forms in the mind, so that one repeatswords without being aware any longer who originally spoke them.
　　Can't paint, can't write, she murmured monotonously, anxiously consideringwhat her plan of attack should be. For the mass loomed beforeher; it protruded; she felt it pressing on her eyeballs. Then, as if somejuice necessary for the lubrication of her faculties were spontaneouslysquirted, she began precariously dipping among the blues and umbers,moving her brush hither and thither, but it was now heavier and wentslower, as if it had fallen in with some rhythm which was dictated to her(she kept looking at the hedge, at the canvas) by what she rhythm wasstrong enough to bear her along with it on its current. Certainly she waslosing consciousness of outer things. And as she lost consciousness ofouter things, and her name and her personality and her appearance, andwhether Mr Carmichael was there or not, her mind kept throwing upfrom its depths, scenes, and names, and sayings, and memories andideas, like a fountain spurting over that glaring, hideously difficult whitespace, while she modelled it with greens and blues.
　　Charles Tansley used to say that, she remembered, women can't paint,can't write. Coming up behind her, he had stood close beside her, a thingshe hated, as she painted her on this very spot. "Shag tobacco," he said,"fivepence an ounce," parading his poverty, his principles. (But the warhad drawn the sting of her femininity. Poor devils, one thought, poordevils, of both sexes.) He was always carrying a book about under hisarm—a purple book. He "worked." He sat, she remembered, working ina blaze of sun. At dinner he would sit right in the middle of the view. Butafter all, she reflected, there was the scene on the beach. One must rememberthat. It was a windy morning. They had all gone down to thebeach. Mrs Ramsay sat down and wrote letters by a rock. She wrote andwrote. "Oh," she said, looking up at something floating in the sea, "is it alobster pot? Is it an upturned boat?" She was so short-sighted that shecould not see, and then Charles Tansley became as nice as he could possiblybe. He began playing ducks and drakes. They chose little flat blackstones and sent them skipping over the waves. Every now and then MrsRamsay looked up over her spectacles and laughed at them. What theysaid she could not remember, but only she and Charles throwing stonesand getting on very well all of a sudden and Mrs Ramsay watchingthem. She was highly conscious of that. Mrs Ramsay, she thought, steppingback and screwing up her eyes. (It must have altered the design agood deal when she was sitting on the step with James. There must havebeen a shadow.) When she thought of herself and Charles throwingducks and drakes and of the whole scene on the beach, it seemed to dependsomehow upon Mrs Ramsay sitting under the rock, with a pad onher knee, writing letters. (She wrote innumerable letters, and sometimesthe wind took them and she and Charles just saved a page from the sea.)But what a power was in the human soul! she thought. That woman sittingthere writing under the rock resolved everything into simplicity;made these angers, irritations fall off like old rags; she brought togetherthis and that and then this, and so made out of that miserable sillinessand spite (she and Charles squabbling, sparring, had been silly andspiteful) something—this scene on the beach for example, this momentof friendship and liking—which survived, after all these years complete,so that she dipped into it to re-fashion her memory of him, and there itstayed in the mind affecting one almost like a work of art.
　　"Like a work of art," she repeated, looking from her canvas to thedrawing-room steps and back again. She must rest for a moment. And,resting, looking from one to the other vaguely, the old question whichtraversed the sky of the soul perpetually, the vast, the general questionwhich was apt to particularise itself at such moments as these, when shereleased faculties that had been on the strain, stood over her, pausedover her, darkened over her. What is the meaning of life? That was all—asimple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The greatrevelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come.
　　Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedlyin the dark; here was one. This, that, and the other; herselfand Charles Tansley and the breaking wave; Mrs Ramsay bringing themtogether; Mrs Ramsay saying, "Life stand still here"; Mrs Ramsay makingof the moment something permanent (as in another sphere Lily herselftried to make of the moment something permanent)—this was of thenature of a revelation. In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternalpassing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking)was struck into stability. Life stand still here, Mrs Ramsay said. "MrsRamsay! Mrs Ramsay!" she repeated. She owed it all to her.
　　All was silence. Nobody seemed yet to be stirring in the house. Shelooked at it there sleeping in the early sunlight with its windows greenand blue with the reflected leaves. The faint thought she was thinking ofMrs Ramsay seemed in consonance with this quiet house; this smoke;this fine early morning air. Faint and unreal, it was amazingly pure andexciting. She hoped nobody would open the window or come out of thehouse, but that she might be left alone to go on thinking, to go on painting.
　　She turned to her canvas. But impelled by some curiosity, driven bythe discomfort of the sympathy which she held undischarged, shewalked a pace or so to the end of the lawn to see whether, down there onthe beach, she could see that little company setting sail. Down thereamong the little boats which floated, some with their sails furled, someslowly, for it was very calm moving away, there was one rather apartfrom the others. The sail was even now being hoisted. She decided thatthere in that very distant and entirely silent little boat Mr Ramsay wassitting with Cam and James. Now they had got the sail up; now after alittle flagging and silence, she watched the boat take its way with deliberationpast the other boats out to sea.
Part 3 Chapter 5
    The sails flapped over their heads. The water chuckled and slapped thesides of the boat, which drowsed motionless in the sun. Now and thenthe sails rippled with a little breeze in them, but the ripple ran over themand ceased. The boat made no motion at all. Mr Ramsay sat in themiddle of the boat. He would be impatient in a moment, James thought,and Cam thought, looking at her father, who sat in the middle of theboat between them (James steered; Cam sat alone in the bow) with hislegs tightly curled. He hated hanging about. Sure enough, after fidgetinga second or two, he said something sharp to Macalister's boy, who gotout his oars and began to row. But their father, they knew, would neverbe content until they were flying along. He would keep looking for abreeze, fidgeting, saying things under his breath, which Macalister andand Macalister's boy would overhear, and they would both be made horriblyuncomfortable. He had made them come. He had forced them tocome. In their anger they hoped that the breeze would never rise, that hemight be thwarted in every possible way, since he had forced them tocome against their wills.
　　All the way down to the beach they had lagged behind together,though he bade them "Walk up, walk up," without speaking. Their headswere bent down, their heads were pressed down by some remorselessgale. Speak to him they could not. They must come; they must follow.
　　They must walk behind him carrying brown paper parcels. But theyvowed, in silence, as they walked, to stand by each other and carry outthe great compact—to resist tyranny to the death. So there they wouldsit, one at one end of the boat, one at the other, in silence. They wouldsay nothing, only look at him now and then where he sat with his legstwisted, frowning and fidgeting, and pishing and pshawing and mutteringthings to himself, and waiting impatiently for a breeze. And theyhoped it would be calm. They hoped he would be thwarted. They hopedthe whole expedition would fail, and they would have to put back, withtheir parcels, to the beach.
　　But now, when Macalister's boy had rowed a little way out, the sailsslowly swung round, the boat quickened itself, flattened itself, and shotoff. Instantly, as if some great strain had been relieved, Mr Ramsay uncurledhis legs, took out his tobacco pouch, handed it with a little gruntto Macalister, and felt, they knew, for all they suffered, perfectly content.
　　Now they would sail on for hours like this, and Mr Ramsay would askold Macalister a question—about the great storm last winter probably—and old Macalister would answer it, and they would puff theirpipes together, and Macalister would take a tarry rope in his fingers, tyingor untying some knot, and the boy would fish, and never say a wordto any one. James would be forced to keep his eye all the time on the sail.
　　For if he forgot, then the sail puckered and shivered, and the boatslackened, and Mr Ramsay would say sharply, "Look out! Look out!" andold Macalister would turn slowly on his seat. So they heard Mr Ramsayasking some question about the great storm at Christmas. "She comesdriving round the point," old Macalister said, describing the great stormlast Christmas, when ten ships had been driven into the bay for shelter,and he had seen "one there, one there, one there" (he pointed slowlyround the bay. Mr Ramsay followed him, turning his head). He had seenfour men clinging to the mast. Then she was gone. "And at last weshoved her off," he went on (but in their anger and their silence they onlycaught a word here and there, sitting at opposite ends of the boat, unitedby their compact to fight tyranny to the death). At last they had shovedher off, they had launched the lifeboat, and they had got her out past thepoint—Macalister told the story; and though they only caught a wordhere and there, they were conscious all the time of their father—how heleant forward, how he brought his voice into tune with Macalister'svoice; how, puffing at his pipe, and looking there and there where Macalisterpointed, he relished the thought of the storm and the dark nightand the fishermen striving there. He liked that men should labour andsweat on the windy beach at night; pitting muscle and brain against thewaves and the wind; he liked men to work like that, and women to keephouse, and sit beside sleeping children indoors, while men weredrowned, out there in a storm. So James could tell, so Cam could tell(they looked at him, they looked at each other), from his toss and his vigilanceand the ring in his voice, and the little tinge of Scottish accentwhich came into his voice, making him seem like a peasant himself, as hequestioned Macalister about the eleven ships that had been driven intothe bay in a storm. Three had sunk.
　　He looked proudly where Macalister pointed; and Cam thought, feelingproud of him without knowing quite why, had he been there hewould have launched the lifeboat, he would have reached the wreck,Cam thought. He was so brave, he was so adventurous, Cam thought.
　　But she remembered. There was the compact; to resist tyranny to thedeath. Their grievance weighed them down. They had been forced; theyhad been bidden. He had borne them down once more with his gloomand his authority, making them do his bidding, on this fine morning,come, because he wished it, carrying these parcels, to the Lighthouse;take part in these rites he went through for his own pleasure in memoryof dead people, which they hated, so that they lagged after him, all thepleasure of the day was spoilt.
　　Yes, the breeze was freshening. The boat was leaning, the water wassliced sharply and fell away in green cascades, in bubbles, in cataracts.
　　Cam looked down into the foam, into the sea with all its treasure in it,and its speed hypnotised her, and the tie between her and James saggeda little. It slackened a little. She began to think, How fast it goes. Whereare we going? and the movement hypnotised her, while James, with hiseye fixed on the sail and on the horizon, steered grimly. But he began tothink as he steered that he might escape; he might be quit of it all. Theymight land somewhere; and be free then. Both of them, looking at eachother for a moment, had a sense of escape and exaltation, what with thespeed and the change. But the breeze bred in Mr Ramsay too the sameexcitement, and, as old Macalister turned to fling his line overboard, hecried out aloud,"We perished," and then again, "each alone." And then with his usualspasm of repentance or shyness, pulled himself up, and waved his handtowards the shore.
　　"See the little house," he said pointing, wishing Cam to look. Sheraised herself reluctantly and looked. But which was it? She could nolonger make out, there on the hillside, which was their house. All lookeddistant and peaceful and strange. The shore seemed refined, far away,unreal. Already the little distance they had sailed had put them far fromit and given it the changed look, the composed look, of something recedingin which one has no longer any part. Which was their house? Shecould not see it.
　　"But I beneath a rougher sea," Mr Ramsay murmured. He had foundthe house and so seeing it, he had also seen himself there; he had seenhimself walking on the terrace, alone. He was walking up and downbetween the urns; and he seemed to himself very old and bowed. Sittingin the boat, he bowed, he crouched himself, acting instantly his part—the part of a desolate man, widowed, bereft; and so called up before himin hosts people sympathising with him; staged for himself as he sat inthe boat, a little drama; which required of him decrepitude and exhaustionand sorrow (he raised his hands and looked at the thinness of them,to confirm his dream) and then there was given him in abundancewomen's sympathy, and he imagined how they would soothe him andsympathise with him, and so getting in his dream some reflection of theexquisite pleasure women's sympathy was to him, he sighed and saidgently and mournfully:
　　But I beneath a rougher seaWas whelmed in deeper gulfs than he,so that the mournful words were heard quite clearly by them all. Camhalf started on her seat. It shocked her—it outraged her. The movementroused her father; and he shuddered, and broke off, exclaiming: "Look!
　　Look!" so urgently that James also turned his head to look over hisshoulder at the island. They all looked. They looked at the island.
　　But Cam could see nothing. She was thinking how all those paths andthe lawn, thick and knotted with the lives they had lived there, weregone: were rubbed out; were past; were unreal, and now this was real;the boat and the sail with its patch; Macalister with his earrings; thenoise of the waves—all this was real. Thinking this, she was murmuringto herself, "We perished, each alone," for her father's words broke andbroke again in her mind, when her father, seeing her gazing so vaguely,began to tease her. Didn't she know the points of the compass? he asked.
　　Didn't she know the North from the South? Did she really think theylived right out there? And he pointed again, and showed her where theirhouse was, there, by those trees. He wished she would try to be more accurate,he said: "Tell me—which is East, which is West?" he said, halflaughing at her, half scolding her, for he could not understand the stateof mind of any one, not absolutely imbecile, who did not know thepoints of the compass. Yet she did not know. And seeing her gazing,with her vague, now rather frightened, eyes fixed where no house wasMr Ramsay forgot his dream; how he walked up and down between theurns on the terrace; how the arms were stretched out to him. He thought,women are always like that; the vagueness of their minds is hopeless; itwas a thing he had never been able to understand; but so it was. It hadbeen so with her—his wife. They could not keep anything clearly fixed intheir minds. But he had been wrong to be angry with her; moreover, didhe not rather like this vagueness in women? It was part of their extraordinarycharm. I will make her smile at me, he thought. She looksfrightened. She was so silent. He clutched his fingers, and determinedthat his voice and his face and all the quick expressive gestures whichhad been at his command making people pity him and praise him allthese years should subdue themselves. He would make her smile at him.
　　He would find some simple easy thing to say to her. But what? For,wrapped up in his work as he was, he forgot the sort of thing one said.
　　There was a puppy. They had a puppy. Who was looking after thepuppy today? he asked. Yes, thought James pitilessly, seeing his sister'shead against the sail, now she will give way. I shall be left to fight thetyrant alone. The compact would be left to him to carry out. Cam wouldnever resist tyranny to the death, he thought grimly, watching her face,sad, sulky, yielding. And as sometimes happens when a cloud falls on agreen hillside and gravity descends and there among all the surroundinghills is gloom and sorrow, and it seems as if the hills themselves mustponder the fate of the clouded, the darkened, either in pity, or maliciouslyrejoicing in her dismay: so Cam now felt herself overcast, as shesat there among calm, resolute people and wondered how to answer herfather about the puppy; how to resist his entreaty—forgive me, care forme; while James the lawgiver, with the tablets of eternal wisdom laidopen on his knee (his hand on the tiller had become symbolical to her),said, Resist him. Fight him. He said so rightly; justly. For they must fighttyranny to the death, she thought. Of all human qualities she reverencedjustice most. Her brother was most god-like, her father most suppliant.
　　And to which did she yield, she thought, sitting between them, gazing atthe shore whose points were all unknown to her, and thinking how thelawn and the terrace and the house were smoothed away now and peacedwelt there.
　　"Jasper," she said sullenly. He'd look after the puppy.
　　And what was she going to call him? her father persisted. He had hada dog when he was a little boy, called Frisk. She'll give way, Jamesthought, as he watched a look come upon her face, a look he remembered.
　　They look down he thought, at their knitting or something.
　　Then suddenly they look up. There was a flash of blue, he remembered,and then somebody sitting with him laughed, surrendered, and he wasvery angry. It must have been his mother, he thought, sitting on a lowchair, with his father standing over her. He began to search among theinfinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf,fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds;voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing, and brooms tapping;and the wash and hush of the sea, how a man had marched up anddown and stopped dead, upright, over them. Meanwhile, he noticed,Cam dabbled her fingers in the water, and stared at the shore and saidnothing. No, she won't give way, he thought; she's different, he thought.
　　Well, if Cam would not answer him, he would not bother her Mr Ram-say decided, feeling in his pocket for a book. But she would answer him;she wished, passionately, to move some obstacle that lay upon hertongue and to say, Oh, yes, Frisk. I'll call him Frisk. She wanted even tosay, Was that the dog that found its way over the moor alone? But try asshe might, she could think of nothing to say like that, fierce and loyal tothe compact, yet passing on to her father, unsuspected by James, aprivate token of the love she felt for him. For she thought, dabbling herhand (and now Macalister's boy had caught a mackerel, and it lay kickingon the floor, with blood on its gills) for she thought, looking at Jameswho kept his eyes dispassionately on the sail, or glanced now and thenfor a second at the horizon, you're not exposed to it, to this pressure anddivision of feeling, this extraordinary temptation. Her father was feelingin his pockets; in another second, he would have found his book. For noone attracted her more; his hands were beautiful, and his feet, and hisvoice, and his words, and his haste, and his temper, and his oddity, andhis passion, and his saying straight out before every one, we perish, eachalone, and his remoteness. (He had opened his book.) But what remainedintolerable, she thought, sitting upright, and watching Macalister's boytug the hook out of the gills of another fish, was that crass blindness andtyranny of his which had poisoned her childhood and raised bitterstorms, so that even now she woke in the night trembling with rage andremembered some command of his; some insolence: "Do this," "Do that,"his dominance: his "Submit to me."So she said nothing, but looked doggedly and sadly at the shore,wrapped in its mantle of peace; as if the people there had fallen asleep,she thought; were free like smoke, were free to come and go like ghosts.
　　They have no suffering there, she thought.
Part 3 Chapter 6
    Yes, that is their boat, Lily Briscoe decided, standing on the edge of thelawn. It was the boat with greyish-brown sails, which she saw now flattenitself upon the water and shoot off across the bay. There he sits, shethought, and the children are quite silent still. And she could not reachhim either. The sympathy she had not given him weighed her down. Itmade it difficult for her to paint.
　　She had always found him difficult. She never had been able to praisehim to his face, she remembered. And that reduced their relationship tosomething neutral, without that element of sex in it which made hismanner to Minta so gallant, almost gay. He would pick a flower for her,lend her his books. But could he believe that Minta read them? Shedragged them about the garden, sticking in leaves to mark the place.
　　"D'you remember, Mr Carmichael?" she was inclined to ask, looking atthe old man. But he had pulled his hat half over his forehead; he wasasleep, or he was dreaming, or he was lying there catching words, shesupposed.
　　"D'you remember?" she felt inclined to ask him as she passed him,thinking again of Mrs Ramsay on the beach; the cask bobbing up anddown; and the pages flying. Why, after all these years had that survived,ringed round, lit up, visible to the last detail, with all before it blank andall after it blank, for miles and miles?
　　"Is it a boat? Is it a cork?" she would say, Lily repeated, turning back,reluctantly again, to her canvas. Heaven be praised for it, the problem ofspace remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her.
　　The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautifuland bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one col-our melting into another like the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneaththe fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron. It was to bea thing you could ruffle with your breath; and a thing you could not dislodgewith a team of horses. And she began to lay on a red, a grey, andshe began to model her way into the hollow there. At the same time, sheseemed to be sitting beside Mrs Ramsay on the beach.
　　"Is it a boat? Is it a cask?" Mrs Ramsay said. And she began huntinground for her spectacles. And she sat, having found them, silent, lookingout to sea. And Lily, painting steadily, felt as if a door had opened, andone went in and stood gazing silently about in a high cathedral-likeplace, very dark, very solemn. Shouts came from a world far away.
　　Steamers vanished in stalks of smoke on the horizon. Charles threwstones and sent them skipping.
　　Mrs Ramsay sat silent. She was glad, Lily thought, to rest in silence,uncommunicative; to rest in the extreme obscurity of human relationships.
　　Who knows what we are, what we feel? Who knows even at themoment of intimacy, This is knowledge? Aren't things spoilt then, MrsRamsay may have asked (it seemed to have happened so often, this silenceby her side) by saying them? Aren't we more expressive thus? Themoment at least seemed extraordinarily fertile. She rammed a little holein the sand and covered it up, by way of burying in it the perfection ofthe moment. It was like a drop of silver in which one dipped and illuminedthe darkness of the past.
　　Lily stepped back to get her canvas—so—into perspective. It was anodd road to be walking, this of painting. Out and out one went, further,until at last one seemed to be on a narrow plank, perfectly alone, overthe sea. And as she dipped into the blue paint, she dipped too into thepast there. Now Mrs Ramsay got up, she remembered. It was time to goback to the house—time for luncheon. And they all walked up from thebeach together, she walking behind with William Bankes, and there wasMinta in front of them with a hole in her stocking. How that little roundhole of pink heel seemed to flaunt itself before them! How WilliamBankes deplored it, without, so far as she could remember, saying anythingabout it! It meant to him the annihilation of womanhood, and dirtand disorder, and servants leaving and beds not made at mid-day—allthe things he most abhorred. He had a way of shuddering and spreadinghis fingers out as if to cover an unsightly object which he didnow—holding his hand in front of him. And Minta walked on ahead,and presumably Paul met her and she went off with Paul in the garden.
　　The Rayleys, thought Lily Briscoe, squeezing her tube of green paint.
　　She collected her impressions of the Rayleys. Their lives appeared to herin a series of scenes; one, on the staircase at dawn. Paul had come in andgone to bed early; Minta was late. There was Minta, wreathed, tinted,garish on the stairs about three o'clock in the morning. Paul came out inhis pyjamas carrying a poker in case of burglars. Minta was eating asandwich, standing half-way up by a window, in the cadaverous earlymorning light, and the carpet had a hole in it. But what did they say?
　　Lily asked herself, as if by looking she could hear them. Minta went oneating her sandwich, annoyingly, while he spoke something violent, abusingher, in a mutter so as not to wake the children, the two little boys.
　　He was withered, drawn; she flamboyant, careless. For things hadworked loose after the first year or so; the marriage had turned outrather badly.
　　And this, Lily thought, taking the green paint on her brush, this makingup scenes about them, is what we call "knowing" people, "thinking"of them, "being fond" of them! Not a word of it was true; she had made itup; but it was what she knew them by all the same. She went on tunnellingher way into her picture, into the past.
　　Another time, Paul said he "played chess in coffee-houses." She hadbuilt up a whole structure of imagination on that saying too. She rememberedhow, as he said it, she thought how he rang up the servant,and she said, "Mrs Rayley's out, sir," and he decided that he would notcome home either. She saw him sitting in the corner of some lugubriousplace where the smoke attached itself to the red plush seats, and thewaitresses got to know you, and he played chess with a little man whowas in the tea trade and lived at Surbiton, but that was all Paul knewabout him. And then Minta was out when he came home and then therewas that scene on the stairs, when he got the poker in case of burglars(no doubt to frighten her too) and spoke so bitterly, saying she hadruined his life. At any rate when she went down to see them at a cottagenear Rickmansworth, things were horribly strained. Paul took her downthe garden to look at the Belgian hares which he bred, and Minta followedthem, singing, and put her bare arm on his shoulder, lest heshould tell her anything.
　　Minta was bored by hares, Lily thought. But Minta never gave herselfaway. She never said things like that about playing chess in coffeehouses.
　　She was far too conscious, far too wary. But to go on with theirstory—they had got through the dangerous stage by now. She had beenstaying with them last summer some time and the car broke down andMinta had to hand him his tools. He sat on the road mending the car,and it was the way she gave him the tools—business-like, straightforward,friendly—that proved it was all right now. They were "in love" nolonger; no, he had taken up with another woman, a serious woman, withher hair in a plait and a case in her hand (Minta had described her gratefully,almost admiringly), who went to meetings and shared Paul's views(they had got more and more pronounced) about the taxation of landvalues and a capital levy. Far from breaking up the marriage, that alliancehad righted it. They were excellent friends, obviously, as he sat onthe road and she handed him his tools.
　　So that was the story of the Rayleys, Lily thought. She imagined herselftelling it to Mrs Ramsay, who would be full of curiosity to knowwhat had become of the Rayleys. She would feel a little triumphant,telling Mrs Ramsay that the marriage had not been a success.
　　But the dead, thought Lily, encountering some obstacle in her designwhich made her pause and ponder, stepping back a foot or so, oh, thedead! she murmured, one pitied them, one brushed them aside, one hadeven a little contempt for them. They are at our mercy. Mrs Ramsay hasfaded and gone, she thought. We can over-ride her wishes, improveaway her limited, old-fashioned ideas. She recedes further and furtherfrom us. Mockingly she seemed to see her there at the end of the corridorof years saying, of all incongruous things, "Marry, marry!" (sitting veryupright early in the morning with the birds beginning to cheep in thegarden outside). And one would have to say to her, It has all goneagainst your wishes. They're happy like that; I'm happy like this. Life haschanged completely. At that all her being, even her beauty, became for amoment, dusty and out of date. For a moment Lily, standing there, withthe sun hot on her back, summing up the Rayleys, triumphed over MrsRamsay, who would never know how Paul went to coffee-houses andhad a mistress; how he sat on the ground and Minta handed him histools; how she stood here painting, had never married, not even WilliamBankes.
　　Mrs Ramsay had planned it. Perhaps, had she lived, she would havecompelled it. Already that summer he was "the kindest of men." He was"the first scientist of his age, my husband says." He was also "poor William—it makes me so unhappy, when I go to see him, to find nothing nicein his house—no one to arrange the flowers." So they were sent for walkstogether, and she was told, with that faint touch of irony that made MrsRamsay slip through one's fingers, that she had a scientific mind; sheliked flowers; she was so exact. What was this mania of hers for marriage?
　　Lily wondered, stepping to and fro from her easel.
　　(Suddenly, as suddenly as a star slides in the sky, a reddish lightseemed to burn in her mind, covering Paul Rayley, issuing from him. Itrose like a fire sent up in token of some celebration by savages on a distantbeach. She heard the roar and the crackle. The whole sea for milesround ran red and gold. Some winey smell mixed with it and intoxicatedher, for she felt again her own headlong desire to throw herself off thecliff and be drowned looking for a pearl brooch on a beach. And the roarand the crackle repelled her with fear and disgust, as if while she saw itssplendour and power she saw too how it fed on the treasure of thehouse, greedily, disgustingly, and she loathed it. But for a sight, for aglory it surpassed everything in her experience, and burnt year after yearlike a signal fire on a desert island at the edge of the sea, and one hadonly to say "in love" and instantly, as happened now, up rose Paul's fireagain. And it sank and she said to herself, laughing, "The Rayleys"; howPaul went to coffee-houses and played chess.)She had only escaped by the skin of her teeth though, she thought. Shehad been looking at the table-cloth, and it had flashed upon her that shewould move the tree to the middle, and need never marry anybody, andshe had felt an enormous exultation. She had felt, now she could standup to Mrs Ramsay—a tribute to the astonishing power that Mrs Ramsayhad over one. Do this, she said, and one did it. Even her shadow at thewindow with James was full of authority. She remembered how WilliamBankes had been shocked by her neglect of the significance of motherand son. Did she not admire their beauty? he said. But William, she remembered,had listened to her with his wise child's eyes when she explainedhow it was not irreverence: how a light there needed a shadowthere and so on. She did not intend to disparage a subject which, theyagreed, Raphael had treated divinely. She was not cynical. Quite the contrary.
　　Thanks to his scientific mind he understood—a proof of disinterestedintelligence which had pleased her and comforted her enormously.
　　One could talk of painting then seriously to a man. Indeed, his friendshiphad been one of the pleasures of her life. She loved William Bankes.
　　They went to Hampton Court and he always left her, like the perfectgentleman he was, plenty of time to wash her hands, while he strolled bythe river. That was typical of their relationship. Many things were leftunsaid. Then they strolled through the courtyards, and admired, summerafter summer, the proportions and the flowers, and he would tellher things, about perspective, about architecture, as they walked, and hewould stop to look at a tree, or the view over the lake, and admire achild—(it was his great grief—he had no daughter) in the vague aloofway that was natural to a man who spent spent so much time in laboratoriesthat the world when he came out seemed to dazzle him, so that hewalked slowly, lifted his hand to screen his eyes and paused, with hishead thrown back, merely to breathe the air. Then he would tell her howhis housekeeper was on her holiday; he must buy a new carpet for thestaircase. Perhaps she would go with him to buy a new carpet for thestaircase. And once something led him to talk about the Ramsays and hehad said how when he first saw her she had been wearing a grey hat; shewas not more than nineteen or twenty. She was astonishingly beautiful.
　　There he stood looking down the avenue at Hampton Court as if hecould see her there among the fountains.
　　She looked now at the drawing-room step. She saw, through William'seyes, the shape of a woman, peaceful and silent, with downcast eyes. Shesat musing, pondering (she was in grey that day, Lily thought). Her eyeswere bent. She would never lift them. Yes, thought Lily, looking intently,I must have seen her look like that, but not in grey; nor so still, nor soyoung, nor so peaceful. The figure came readily enough. She was astonishinglybeautiful, as William said. But beauty was not everything.
　　Beauty had this penalty—it came too readily, came too completely. Itstilled life—froze it. One forgot the little agitations; the flush, the pallor,some queer distortion, some light or shadow, which made the face unrecognisablefor a moment and yet added a quality one saw for ever after.
　　It was simpler to smooth that all out under the cover of beauty. But whatwas the look she had, Lily wondered, when she clapped her deerstalkers'shat on her head, or ran across the grass, or scolded Kennedy,the gardener? Who could tell her? Who could help her?
　　Against her will she had come to the surface, and found herself halfout of the picture, looking, little dazedly, as if at unreal things, at MrCarmichael. He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunchnot reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
　　His book had fallen on to the grass.
　　She wanted to go straight up to him and say, "Mr Carmichael!" Thenhe would look up benevolently as always, from his smoky vague greeneyes. But one only woke people if one knew what one wanted to say tothem. And she wanted to say not one thing, but everything. Little wordsthat broke up the thought and dismembered it said nothing. "About life,about death; about Mrs Ramsay"—no, she thought, one could say nothingto nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark.
　　Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then onegave it up; then the idea sunk back again; then one became like mostmiddle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles between the eyesand a look of perpetual apprehension. For how could one express inwords these emotions of the body? express that emptiness there? (Shewas looking at the drawing-room steps; they looked extraordinarilyempty.) It was one's body feeling, not one's mind. The physical sensationsthat went with the bare look of the steps had become suddenly extremelyunpleasant. To want and not to have, sent all up her body ahardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have—towant and want—how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again andagain! Oh, Mrs Ramsay! she called out silently, to that essence which satby the boat, that abstract one made of her, that woman in grey, as if toabuse her for having gone, and then having gone, come back again. Ithad seemed so safe, thinking of her. Ghost, air, nothingness, a thing youcould play with easily and safely at any time of day or night, she hadbeen that, and then suddenly she put her hand out and wrung the heartthus. Suddenly, the empty drawing-room steps, the frill of the chair inside,the puppy tumbling on the terrace, the whole wave and whisper ofthe garden became like curves and arabesques flourishing round a centreof complete emptiness.
　　"What does it mean? How do you explain it all?" she wanted to say,turning to Mr Carmichael again. For the whole world seemed to havedissolved in this early morning hour into a pool of thought, a deep basinof reality, and one could almost fancy that had Mr Carmichael spoken,for instance, a little tear would have rent the surface pool. And then? Somethingwould emerge. A hand would be shoved up, a blade would beflashed. It was nonsense of course.
　　A curious notion came to her that he did after all hear the things shecould not say. He was an inscrutable old man, with the yellow stain onhis beard, and his poetry, and his puzzles, sailing serenely through aworld which satisfied all his wants, so that she thought he had only toput down his hand where he lay on the lawn to fish up anything hewanted. She looked at her picture. That would have been his answer,presumably—how "you" and "I" and "she" pass and vanish; nothingstays; all changes; but not words, not paint. Yet it would be hung in theattics, she thought; it would be rolled up and flung under a sofa; yeteven so, even of a picture like that, it was true. One might say, even ofthis scrawl, not of that actual picture, perhaps, but of what it attempted,that it "remained for ever," she was going to say, or, for the wordsspoken sounded even to herself, too boastful, to hint, wordlessly; when,looking at the picture, she was surprised to find that she could not see it.
　　Her eyes were full of a hot liquid (she did not think of tears at first)which, without disturbing the firmness of her lips, made the air thick,rolled down her cheeks. She had perfect control of herself—Oh, yes!—inevery other way. Was she crying then for Mrs Ramsay, without beingaware of any unhappiness? She addressed old Mr Carmichael again.
　　What was it then? What did it mean? Could things thrust their hands upand grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp? Was there no safety? Nolearning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but allwas miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Couldit be, even for elderly people, that this was life?—startling, unexpected,unknown? For one moment she felt that if they both got up, here, nowon the lawn, and demanded an explanation, why was it so short, whywas it so inexplicable, said it with violence, as two fully equipped humanbeings from whom nothing should be hid might speak, then, beautywould roll itself up; the space would fill; those empty flourishes wouldform into shape; if they shouted loud enough Mrs Ramsay would return.
　　"Mrs Ramsay!" she said aloud, "Mrs Ramsay!" The tears ran down herface.
Part 3 Chapter 7
    [Macalister's boy took one of the fish and cut a square out of its side tobait his hook with. The mutilated body (it was alive still) was thrownback into the sea.]
Part 3 Chapter 8
    "Mrs Ramsay!" Lily cried, "Mrs Ramsay!" But nothing happened. Thepain increased. That anguish could reduce one to such a pitch of imbecility,she thought! Anyhow the old man had not heard her. He remainedbenignant, calm—if one chose to think it, sublime. Heaven be praised, noone had heard her cry that ignominious cry, stop pain, stop! She had notobviously taken leave of her senses. No one had seen her step off herstrip of board into the waters of annihilation. She remained a skimpy oldmaid, holding a paint-brush.
　　And now slowly the pain of the want, and the bitter anger (to be calledback, just as she thought she would never feel sorrow for Mrs Ramsayagain. Had she missed her among the coffee cups at breakfast? not in theleast) lessened; and of their anguish left, as antidote, a relief that wasbalm in itself, and also, but more mysteriously, a sense of some onethere, of Mrs Ramsay, relieved for a moment of the weight that the worldhad put on her, staying lightly by her side and then (for this was MrsRamsay in all her beauty) raising to her forehead a wreath of whiteflowers with which she went. Lily squeezed her tubes again. She attackedthat problem of the hedge. It was strange how clearly she sawher, stepping with her usual quickness across fields among whose folds,purplish and soft, among whose flowers, hyacinth or lilies, she vanished.
　　It was some trick of the painter's eye. For days after she had heard of herdeath she had seen her thus, putting her wreath to her forehead and goingunquestioningly with her companion, a shade across the fields. Thesight, the phrase, had its power to console. Wherever she happened tobe, painting, here, in the country or in London, the vision would come toher, and her eyes, half closing, sought something to base her vision on.
　　She looked down the railway carriage, the omnibus; took a line fromshoulder or cheek; looked at the windows opposite; at Piccadilly, lamp-strung in the evening. All had been part of the fields of death. But alwayssomething—it might be a face, a voice, a paper boy crying STANDARD,NEWS—thrust through, snubbed her, waked her, required and got in theend an effort of attention, so that the vision must be perpetually remade.
　　Now again, moved as she was by some instinctive need of distance andblue, she looked at the bay beneath her, making hillocks of the blue barsof the waves, and stony fields of the purpler spaces, again she wasroused as usual by something incongruous. There was a brown spot inthe middle of the bay. It was a boat. Yes, she realised that after a second.
　　But whose boat? Mr Ramsay's boat, she replied. Mr Ramsay; the manwho had marched past her, with his hand raised, aloof, at the head of aprocession, in his beautiful boots, asking her for sympathy, which shehad refused. The boat was now half way across the bay.
　　So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there thatthe sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in thesky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea. A steamer far out atsea had drawn in the air a great scroll of smoke which stayed therecurving and circling decoratively, as if the air were a fine gauze whichheld things and kept them softly in its mesh, only gently swaying themthis way and that. And as happens sometimes when the weather is veryfine, the cliffs looked as if they were conscious of the ships, and the shipslooked as if they were conscious of the cliffs, as if they signalled to eachother some message of their own. For sometimes quite close to the shore,the Lighthouse looked this morning in the haze an enormous distanceaway.
　　"Where are they now?" Lily thought, looking out to sea. Where was he,that very old man who had gone past her silently, holding a brown paperparcel under his arm? The boat was in the middle of the bay.
Part 3 Chapter 9
    They don't feel a thing there, Cam thought, looking at the shore, which,rising and falling, became steadily more distant and more peaceful. Herhand cut a trail in the sea, as her mind made the green swirls and streaksinto patterns and, numbed and shrouded, wandered in imagination inthat underworld of waters where the pearls stuck in clusters to whitesprays, where in the green light a change came over one's entire mindand one's body shone half transparent enveloped in a green cloak.
　　Then the eddy slackened round her hand. The rush of the waterceased; the world became full of little creaking and squeaking sounds.
　　One heard the waves breaking and flapping against the side of the boatas if they were anchored in harbour. Everything became very close toone. For the sail, upon which James had his eyes fixed until it had becometo him like a person whom he knew, sagged entirely; there theycame to a stop, flapping about waiting for a breeze, in the hot sun, milesfrom shore, miles from the Lighthouse. Everything in the whole worldseemed to stand still. The Lighthouse became immovable, and the line ofthe distant shore became fixed. The sun grew hotter and everybodyseemed to come very close together and to feel each other's presence,which they had almost forgotten. Macalister's fishing line went plumbdown into the sea. But Mr Ramsay went on reading with his legs curledunder him.
　　He was reading a little shiny book with covers mottled like a plover'segg. Now and again, as they hung about in that horrid calm, he turned apage. And James felt that each page was turned with a peculiar gestureaimed at him; now assertively, now commandingly; now with the intentionof making people pity him; and all the time, as his father read andturned one after another of those little pages, James kept dreading themoment when he would look up and speak sharply to him aboutsomething or other. Why were they lagging about here? he would demand,or something quite unreasonable like that. And if he does, Jamesthought, then I shall take a knife and strike him to the heart.
　　He had always kept this old symbol of taking a knife and striking hisfather to the heart. Only now, as he grew older, and sat staring at hisfather in an impotent rage, it was not him, that old man reading, whomhe wanted to kill, but it was the thing that descended on him—withouthis knowing it perhaps: that fierce sudden black-winged harpy, with itstalons and its beak all cold and hard, that struck and struck at you (hecould feel the beak on his bare legs, where it had struck when he was achild) and then made off, and there he was again, an old man, very sad,reading his book. That he would kill, that he would strike to the heart.
　　Whatever he did—(and he might do anything, he felt, looking at theLighthouse and the distant shore) whether he was in a business, in abank, a barrister, a man at the head of some enterprise, that he wouldfight, that he would track down and stamp out—tyranny, despotism, hecalled it—making people do what they did not want to do, cutting offtheir right to speak. How could any of them say, But I won't, when hesaid, Come to the Lighthouse. Do this. Fetch me that. The black wingsspread, and the hard beak tore. And then next moment, there he satreading his book; and he might look up—one never knew—quite reasonably.
　　He might talk to the Macalisters. He might be pressing a sovereigninto some frozen old woman's hand in the street, James thought, and hemight be shouting out at some fisherman's sports; he might be wavinghis arms in the air with excitement. Or he might sit at the head of thetable dead silent from one end of dinner to the other. Yes, thought James,while the boat slapped and dawdled there in the hot sun; there was awaste of snow and rock very lonely and austere; and there he had cometo feel, quite often lately, when his father said something or didsomething which surprised the others, there were two pairs of footprintsonly; his own and his father's. They alone knew each other. What thenwas this terror, this hatred? Turning back among the many leaves whichthe past had folded in him, peering into the heart of that forest wherelight and shade so chequer each other that all shape is distorted, and oneblunders, now with the sun in one's eyes, now with a dark shadow, hesought an image to cool and detach and round off his feeling in a concreteshape. Suppose then that as a child sitting helpless in a perambulator,or on some one's knee, he had seen a waggon crush ignorantly andinnocently, some one's foot? Suppose he had seen the foot first, in thegrass, smooth, and whole; then the wheel; and the same foot, purple,crushed. But the wheel was innocent. So now, when his father camestriding down the passage knocking them up early in the morning to goto the Lighthouse down it came over his foot, over Cam's foot, overanybody's foot. One sat and watched it.
　　But whose foot was he thinking of, and in what garden did all thishappen? For one had settings for these scenes; trees that grew there;flowers; a certain light; a few figures. Everything tended to set itself in agarden where there was none of this gloom. None of this throwing ofhands about; people spoke in an ordinary tone of voice. They went inand out all day long. There was an old woman gossiping in the kitchen;and the blinds were sucked in and out by the breeze; all was blowing, allwas growing; and over all those plates and bowls and tall brandishingred and yellow flowers a very thin yellow veil would be drawn, like avine leaf, at night. Things became stiller and darker at night. But the leaf-like veil was so fine, that lights lifted it, voices crinkled it; he could seethrough it a figure stooping, hear, coming close, going away, some dressrustling, some chain tinkling.
　　It was in this world that the wheel went over the person's foot. Something,he remembered, stayed flourished up in the air, something aridand sharp descended even there, like a blade, a scimitar, smiting throughthe leaves and flowers even of that happy world and making it shriveland fall.
　　"It will rain," he remembered his father saying. "You won't be able togo to the Lighthouse."The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yelloweye, that opened suddenly, and softly in the evening. Now—James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see the white-washed rocks;the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with blackand white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spreadon the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse, was it?
　　No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply onething. The other Lighthouse was true too. It was sometimes hardly to beseen across the bay. In the evening one looked up and saw the eye openingand shutting and the light seemed to reach them in that airy sunnygarden where they sat.
　　But he pulled himself up. Whenever he said "they" or "a person," andthen began hearing the rustle of some one coming, the tinkle of some onegoing, he became extremely sensitive to the presence of whoever mightbe in the room. It was his father now. The strain was acute. For in onemoment if there was no breeze, his father would slap the covers of hisbook together, and say: "What's happening now? What are we dawdlingabout here for, eh?" as, once before he had brought his blade downamong them on the terrace and she had gone stiff all over, and if therehad been an axe handy, a knife, or anything with a sharp point he wouldhave seized it and struck his father through the heart. She had gone stiffall over, and then, her arm slackening, so that he felt she listened to himno longer, she had risen somehow and gone away and left him there, impotent,ridiculous, sitting on the floor grasping a pair of scissors.
　　Not a breath of wind blew. The water chuckled and gurgled in the bottomof the boat where three or four mackerel beat their tails up anddown in a pool of water not deep enough to cover them. At any momentMr Ramsay (he scarcely dared look at him) might rouse himself, shut hisbook, and say something sharp; but for the moment he was reading, sothat James stealthily, as if he were stealing downstairs on bare feet,afraid of waking a watchdog by a creaking board, went on thinking whatwas she like, where did she go that day? He began following her fromroom to room and at last they came to a room where in a blue light, as ifthe reflection came from many china dishes, she talked to somebody; helistened to her talking. She talked to a servant, saying simply whatevercame into her head. She alone spoke the truth; to her alone could hespeak it. That was the source of her everlasting attraction for him, perhaps;she was a person to whom one could say what came into one'shead. But all the time he thought of her, he was conscious of his fatherfollowing his thought, surveying it, making it shiver and falter. At last heceased to think.
　　There he sat with his hand on the tiller in the sun, staring at the Lighthouse,powerless to move, powerless to flick off these grains of miserywhich settled on his mind one after another. A rope seemed to bind himthere, and his father had knotted it and he could only escape by taking aknife and plunging it… But at that moment the sail swung slowly round,filled slowly out, the boat seemed to shake herself, and then to move offhalf conscious in her sleep, and then she woke and shot through thewaves. The relief was extraordinary. They all seemed to fall away fromeach other again and to be at their ease, and the fishing-lines slanted tautacross the side of the boat. But his father did not rouse himself. He onlyraised his right hand mysteriously high in the air, and let it fall upon hisknee again as if he were conducting some secret symphony.
Part 3 Chapter 10
    [The sea without a stain on it, thought Lily Briscoe, still standing andlooking out over the bay. The sea stretched like silk across the bay.
　　Distance had an extraordinary power; they had been swallowed up in it,she felt, they were gone for ever, they had become part of the nature ofthings. It was so calm; it was so quiet. The steamer itself had vanished,but the great scroll of smoke still hung in the air and drooped like a flagmournfully in valediction.]
Part 3 Chapter 11
    It was like that then, the island, thought Cam, once more drawing herfingers through the waves. She had never seen it from out at sea before.
　　It lay like that on the sea, did it, with a dent in the middle and two sharpcrags, and the sea swept in there, and spread away for miles and mileson either side of the island. It was very small; shaped something like aleaf stood on end. So we took a little boat, she thought, beginning to tellherself a story of adventure about escaping from a sinking ship. But withthe sea streaming through her fingers, a spray of seaweed vanishing behindthem, she did not want to tell herself seriously a story; it was thesense of adventure and escape that she wanted, for she was thinking, asthe boat sailed on, how her father's anger about the points of the compass,James's obstinacy about the compact, and her own anguish, all hadslipped, all had passed, all had streamed away. What then came next?
　　Where were they going? From her hand, ice cold, held deep in the sea,there spurted up a fountain of joy at the change, at the escape, at the adventure(that she should be alive, that she should be there). And thedrops falling from this sudden and unthinking fountain of joy fell hereand there on the dark, the slumbrous shapes in her mind; shapes of aworld not realised but turning in their darkness, catching here and there,a spark of light; Greece, Rome, Constantinople. Small as it was, andshaped something like a leaf stood on its end with the gold-sprinkledwaters flowing in and about it, it had, she supposed, a place in the universe—even that little island? The old gentlemen in the study shethought could have told her. Sometimes she strayed in from the gardenpurposely to catch them at it. There they were (it might be Mr Carmichaelor Mr Bankes who was sitting with her father) sitting opposite eachother in their low arm-chairs. They were crackling in front of them thepages of THE TIMES, when she came in from the garden, all in amuddle, about something some one had said about Christ, or hearingthat a mammoth had been dug up in a London street, or wonderingwhat Napoleon was like. Then they took all this with their clean hands(they wore grey-coloured clothes; they smelt of heather) and theybrushed the scraps together, turning the paper, crossing their knees, andsaid something now and then very brief. Just to please herself she wouldtake a book from the shelf and stand there, watching her father write, soequally, so neatly from one side of the page to another, with a littlecough now and then, or something said briefly to the other old gentlemanopposite. And she thought, standing there with her book open, onecould let whatever one thought expand here like a leaf in water; and if itdid well here, among the old gentlemen smoking and THE TIMES cracklingthen it was right. And watching her father as he wrote in his study,she thought (now sitting in the boat) he was not vain, nor a tyrant anddid not wish to make you pity him. Indeed, if he saw she was there,reading a book, he would ask her, as gently as any one could, Was therenothing he could give her?
　　Lest this should be wrong, she looked at him reading the little bookwith the shiny cover mottled like a plover's egg. No; it was right. Look athim now, she wanted to say aloud to James. (But James had his eye onthe sail.) He is a sarcastic brute, James would say. He brings the talkround to himself and his books, James would say. He is intolerably egotistical.
　　Worst of all, he is a tyrant. But look! she said, looking at him.
　　Look at him now. She looked at him reading the little book with his legscurled; the little book whose yellowish pages she knew, without knowingwhat was written on them. It was small; it was closely printed; on thefly-leaf, she knew, he had written that he had spent fifteen francs on dinner;the wine had been so much; he had given so much to the waiter; allwas added up neatly at the bottom of the page. But what might be writtenin the book which had rounded its edges off in his pocket, she didnot know. What he thought they none of them knew. But he was absorbedin it, so that when he looked up, as he did now for an instant, itwas not to see anything; it was to pin down some thought more exactly.
　　That done, his mind flew back again and he plunged into his reading. Heread, she thought, as if he were guiding something, or wheedling a largeflock of sheep, or pushing his way up and up a single narrow path; andsometimes he went fast and straight, and broke his way through thebramble, and sometimes it seemed a branch struck at him, a brambleblinded him, but he was not going to let himself be beaten by that; on hewent, tossing over page after page. And she went on telling herself astory about escaping from a sinking ship, for she was safe, while he satthere; safe, as she felt herself when she crept in from the garden, andtook a book down, and the old gentleman, lowering the paper suddenly,said something very brief over the top of it about the character ofNapoleon.
　　She gazed back over the sea, at the island. But the leaf was losing itssharpness. It was very small; it was very distant. The sea was more importantnow than the shore. Waves were all round them, tossing andsinking, with a log wallowing down one wave; a gull riding on another.
　　About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship hadsunk, and she murmured, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, eachalone.
Part 3 Chapter 12
    So much depends then, thought Lily Briscoe, looking at the sea whichhad scarcely a stain on it, which was so soft that the sails and the cloudsseemed set in its blue, so much depends, she thought, upon distance:
　　whether people are near us or far from us; for her feeling for Mr Ramsaychanged as he sailed further and further across the bay. It seemed to beelongated, stretched out; he seemed to become more and more remote.
　　He and his children seemed to be swallowed up in that blue, that distance;but here, on the lawn, close at hand, Mr Carmichael suddenlygrunted. She laughed. He clawed his book up from the grass. He settledinto his chair again puffing and blowing like some sea monster. That wasdifferent altogether, because he was so near. And now again all wasquiet. They must be out of bed by this time, she supposed, looking at thehouse, but nothing appeared there. But then, she remembered, they hadalways made off directly a meal was over, on business of their own. Itwas all in keeping with this silence, this emptiness, and the unreality ofthe early morning hour. It was a way things had sometimes, she thought,lingering for a moment and looking at the long glittering windows andthe plume of blue smoke: they became illness, before habits had spunthemselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was sostartling; felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then. One could beat one's ease. Mercifully one need not say, very briskly, crossing the lawnto greet old Mrs Beckwith, who would be coming out to find a corner tosit in, "Oh, good-morning, Mrs Beckwith! What a lovely day! Are you goingto be so bold as to sit in the sun? Jasper's hidden the chairs. Do let mefind you one!" and all the rest of the usual chatter. One need not speak atall. One glided, one shook one's sails (there was a good deal of movementin the bay, boats were starting off) between things, beyond things.
　　Empty it was not, but full to the brim. She seemed to be standing up tothe lips in some substance, to move and float and sink in it, yes, for thesewaters were unfathomably deep. Into them had spilled so many lives.
　　The Ramsays'; the children's; and all sorts of waifs and strays of thingsbesides. A washer-woman with her basket; a rook, a red-hot poker; thepurples and grey-greens of flowers: some common feeling which heldthe whole together.
　　It was some such feeling of completeness perhaps which, ten yearsago, standing almost where she stood now, had made her say that shemust be in love with the place. Love had a thousand shapes. There mightbe lovers whose gift it was to choose out the elements of things and placethem together and so, giving them a wholeness not theirs in life, make ofsome scene, or meeting of people (all now gone and separate), one ofthose globed compacted things over which thought lingers, and loveplays.
　　Her eyes rested on the brown speck of Mr Ramsay's sailing boat. Theywould be at the Lighthouse by lunch time she supposed. But the windhad freshened, and, as the sky changed slightly and the sea changedslightly and the boats altered their positions, the view, which a momentbefore had seemed miraculously fixed, was now unsatisfactory. Thewind had blown the trail of smoke about; there was something displeasingabout the placing of the ships.
　　The disproportion there seemed to upset some harmony in her ownmind. She felt an obscure distress. It was confirmed when she turned toher picture. She had been wasting her morning. For whatever reason shecould not achieve that razor edge of balance between two oppositeforces; Mr Ramsay and the picture; which was necessary. There wassomething perhaps wrong with the design? Was it, she wondered, thatthe line of the wall wanted breaking, was it that the mass of the trees wastoo heavy? She smiled ironically; for had she not thought, when shebegan, that she had solved her problem?
　　What was the problem then? She must try to get hold of something thtevaded her. It evaded her when she thought of Mrs Ramsay; it evadedher now when she thought of her picture. Phrases came. Visions came.
　　Beautiful pictures. Beautiful phrases. But what she wished to get hold ofwas that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before it has been madeanything. Get that and start afresh; get that and start afresh; she said desperately,pitching herself firmly again before her easel. It was a miserablemachine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus forpainting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment;heroically, one must force it on. She stared, frowning. There was thehedge, sure enough. But one got nothing by soliciting urgently. One gotonly 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 itcome, she thought, if it will come. For there are moments when one canneither 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 examiningwith her brush a little colony of plantains. For the lawn wasvery rough. Here sitting on the world, she thought, for she could notshake herself free from the sense that everything this morning was happeningfor the first time, perhaps for the last time, as a traveller, eventhough he is half asleep, knows, looking out of the train window, that hemust look now, for he will never see that town, or that mule-cart, or thatwoman at work in the fields, again. The lawn was the world; they wereup here together, on this exalted station, she thought, looking at old MrCarmichael, who seemed (though they had not said a word all this time)to share her thoughts. And she would never see him again perhaps. Hewas growing old. Also, she remembered, smiling at the slipper thatdangled from his foot, he was growing famous. People said that his poetrywas "so beautiful." They went and published things he had writtenforty years ago. There was a famous man now called Carmichael, shesmiled, thinking how many shapes one person might wear, how he wasthat in the newspapers, but here the same as he had always been. Helooked the same—greyer, rather. Yes, he looked the same, but somebodyhad said, she recalled, that when he had heard of Andrew Ramsay'sdeath (he was killed in a second by a shell; he should have been a greatmathematician) Mr Carmichael had "lost all interest in life." What did itmean—that? she wondered. Had he marched through Trafalgar Squaregrasping a big stick? Had he turned pages over and over, without readingthem, sitting in his room in St. John's Wood alone? She did not knowwhat he had done, when he heard that Andrew was killed, but she felt itin him all the same. They only mumbled at each other on staircases; theylooked up at the sky and said it will be fine or it won't be fine. But thiswas one way of knowing people, she thought: to know the outline, notthe detail, to sit in one's garden and look at the slopes of a hill runningpurple down into the distant heather. She knew him in that way. Sheknew 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 thecamel. It was about the palm tree and the sunset. It was extremely impersonal;it said something about death; it said very little about love. Therewas an impersonality about him. He wanted very little of other people.
　　Had he not always lurched rather awkwardly past the drawing-roomwindow with some newspaper under his arm, trying to avoid Mrs Ram-say whom for some reason he did not much like? On that account, ofcourse, she would always try to make him stop. He would bow to her.
　　He would halt unwillingly and bow profoundly. Annoyed that he didnot want anything of her, Mrs Ramsay would ask him (Lily could hearher) wouldn'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 muchlike. It was perhaps her masterfulness, her positiveness, somethingmatter-of-fact in her. She was so direct.
　　(A noise drew her attention to the drawing-room window—the squeakof a hinge. The light breeze was toying with the window.)There must have been people who disliked her very much, Lilythought (Yes; she realised that the drawing-room step was empty, but ithad no effect on her whatever. She did not want Mrs Ramsaynow.)—People who thought her too sure, too drastic.
　　Also, her beauty offended people probably. How monotonous, theywould say, and the same always! They preferred another type—the dark,the vivacious. Then she was weak with her husband. She let him makethose scenes. Then she was reserved. Nobody knew exactly what hadhappened to her. And (to go back to Mr Carmichael and his dislike) onecould not imagine Mrs Ramsay standing painting, lying reading, a wholemorning on the lawn. It was unthinkable. Without saying a word, theonly token of her errand a basket on her arm, she went off to the town, tothe poor, to sit in some stuffy little bedroom. Often and often Lily hadseen her go silently in the midst of some game, some discussion, withher basket on her arm, very upright. She had noted her return. She hadthought, half laughing (she was so methodical with the tea cups), halfmoved (her beauty took one's breath away), eyes that are closing in painhave looked on you. You have been with them there.
　　And then Mrs Ramsay would be annoyed because somebody was late,or the butter not fresh, or the teapot chipped. And all the time she wassaying that the butter was not fresh one would be thinking of Greektemples, and how beauty had been with them there in that stuffy littleroom. She never talked of it—she went, punctually, directly. It was herinstinct to go, an instinct like the swallows for the south, the artichokesfor the sun, turning her infallibly to the human race, making her nest inits heart. And this, like all instincts, was a little distressing to people whodid not share it; to Mr Carmichael perhaps, to herself certainly. Somenotion was in both of them about the ineffectiveness of action, the supremacyof thought. Her going was a reproach to them, gave a differenttwist to the world, so that they were led to protest, seeing their own prepossessionsdisappear, and clutch at them vanishing. Charles Tansleydid that too: it was part of the reason why one disliked him. He upset theproportions of one's world. And what had happened to him, shewondered, idly stirring the platains with her brush. He had got his fellowship.
　　He had married; he lived at Golder's Green.
　　She had gone one day into a Hall and heard him speaking during thewar. He was denouncing something: he was condemning somebody. Hewas preaching brotherly love. And all she felt was how could he love hiskind who did not know one picture from another, who had stood behindher smoking shag ("fivepence an ounce, Miss Briscoe") and making it hisbusiness to tell her women can't write, women can't paint, not so muchthat he believed it, as that for some odd reason he wished it? There hewas lean and red and raucous, preaching love from a platform (therewere ants crawling about among the plantains which she disturbed withher brush—red, energetic, shiny ants, rather like Charles Tansley). Shehad looked at him ironically from her seat in the half-empty hall, pumpinglove into that chilly space, and suddenly, there was the old cask orwhatever it was bobbing up and down among the waves and Mrs Ram-say looking for her spectacle case among the pebbles. "Oh, dear! What anuisance! Lost again. Don't bother, Mr Tansley. I lose thousands everysummer," at which he pressed his chin back against his collar, as if afraidto sanction such exaggeration, but could stand it in her whom he liked,and smiled very charmingly. He must have confided in her on one ofthose long expeditions when people got separated and walked backalone. He was educating his little sister, Mrs Ramsay had told her. It wasimmensely to his credit. Her own idea of him was grotesque, Lily knewwell, stirring the plantains with her brush. Half one's notions of otherpeople were, after all, grotesque. They served private purposes of one'sown. He did for her instead of a whipping-boy. She found herself flagellatinghis lean flanks when she was out of temper. If she wanted to beserious about him she had to help herself to Mrs Ramsay's sayings, tolook at him through her eyes.
　　She raised a little mountain for the ants to climb over. She reducedthem to a frenzy of indecision by this interference in their cosmogony.
　　Some ran this way, others that.
　　One wanted fifty pairs of eyes to see with, she reflected. Fifty pairs ofeyes were not enough to get round that one woman with, she thought.
　　Among them, must be one that was stone blind to her beauty. Onewanted most some secret sense, fine as air, with which to steal throughkeyholes and surround her where she sat knitting, talking, sitting silentin the window alone; which took to itself and treasured up like the airwhich held the smoke of the steamer, her thoughts, her imaginations, herdesires. What did the hedge mean to her, what did the garden mean toher, what did it mean to her when a wave broke? (Lily looked up, as shehad seen Mrs Ramsay look up; she too heard a wave falling on thebeach.) And then what stirred and trembled in her mind when the childrencried, "How's that? How's that?" cricketing? She would stop knittingfor a second. She would look intent. Then she would lapse again,and suddenly Mr Ramsay stopped dead in his pacing in front of her andsome curious shock passed through her and seemed to rock her in profoundagitation on its breast when stopping there he stood over her andlooked down at her. Lily could see him.
　　He stretched out his hand and raised her from her chair. It seemedsomehow as if he had done it before; as if he had once bent in the sameway and raised her from a boat which, lying a few inches off some island,had required that the ladies should thus be helped on shore by thegentlemen. An old-fashioned scene that was, which required, verynearly, crinolines and peg-top trousers. Letting herself be helped by him,Mrs Ramsay had thought (Lily supposed) the time has come now. Yes,she would say it now. Yes, she would marry him. And she steppedslowly, quietly on shore. Probably she said one word only, letting herhand rest still in his. I will marry you, she might have said, with herhand in his; but no more. Time after time the same thrill had passedbetween them—obviously it had, Lily thought, smoothing a way for herants. She was not inventing; she was only trying to smooth outsomething she had been given years ago folded up; something she hadseen. For in the rough and tumble of daily life, with all those childrenabout, all those visitors, one had constantly a sense of repetition—of onething falling where another had fallen, and so setting up an echo whichchimed in the air and made it full of vibrations.
　　But it would be a mistake, she thought, thinking how they walked offtogether, arm in arm, past the greenhouse, to simplify their relationship.
　　It was no monotony of bliss—she with her impulses and quicknesses; hewith his shudders and glooms. Oh, no. The bedroom door would slamviolently early in the morning. He would start from the table in a temper.
　　He would whizz his plate through the window. Then all through thehouse there would be a sense of doors slamming and blinds fluttering, asif a gusty wind were blowing and people scudded about trying in ahasty way to fasten hatches and make things ship-shape. She had metPaul Rayley like that one day on the stairs. They had laughed andlaughed, like a couple of children, all because Mr Ramsay, finding anearwig in his milk at breakfast had sent the whole thing flying throughthe air on to the terrace outside. 'An earwig, Prue murmured, awestruck,'in his milk.' Other people might find centipedes. But he had built roundhim such a fence of sanctity, and occupied the space with such a demeanourof majesty that an earwig in his milk was a monster.
　　But it tired Mrs Ramsay, it cowed her a little—the plates whizzing andthe doors slamming. And there would fall between them sometimes longrigid silences, when, in a state of mind which annoyed Lily in her, halfplaintive, half resentful, she seemed unable to surmount the tempestcalmly, or to laugh as they laughed, but in her weariness perhaps concealedsomething. She brooded and sat silent. After a time he wouldhang stealthily about the places where she was—roaming under the windowwhere she sat writing letters or talking, for she would take care tobe busy when he passed, and evade him, and pretend not to see him.
　　Then he would turn smooth as silk, affable, urbane, and try to win herso. Still she would hold off, and now she would assert for a brief seasonsome of those prides and airs the due of her beauty which she was generallyutterly without; would turn her head; would look so, over hershoulder, always with some Minta, Paul, or William Bankes at her side.
　　At length, standing outside the group the very figure of a famished wolfhound(Lily got up off the grass and stood looking at the steps, at thewindow, where she had seen him), he would say her name, once only,for all the world like a wolf barking in the snow, but still she held back;and he would say it once more, and this time something in the tonewould rouse her, and she would go to him, leaving them all of a sudden,and they would walk off together among the pear trees, the cabbages,and the raspberry beds. They would have it out together. But with whatattitudes and with what words? Such a dignity was theirs in this relationshipthat, turning away, she and Paul and Minta would hide theircuriosity and their discomfort, and begin picking flowers, throwing balls,chattering, until it was time for dinner, and there they were, he at oneend of the table, she at the other, as usual.
　　"Why don't some of you take up botany?.. With all those legs and armswhy doesn't one of you… ?" So they would talk as usual, laughing,among the children. All would be as usual, save only for some quiver, asof a blade in the air, which came and went between them as if the usualsight of the children sitting round their soup plates had freshened itselfin their eyes after that hour among the pears and the cabbages. Especially,Lily thought, Mrs Ramsay would glance at Prue. She sat in themiddle between brothers and sisters, always occupied, it seemed, seeingthat nothing went wrong so that she scarcely spoke herself. How Pruemust have blamed herself for that earwig in the milk How white she hadgone when Mr Ramsay threw his plate through the window! How shedrooped under those long silences between them! Anyhow, her mothernow would seem to be making it up to her; assuring her that everythingwas well; promising her that one of these days that same happinesswould be hers. She had enjoyed it for less than a year, however.
　　She had let the flowers fall from her basket, Lily thought, screwing upher eyes and standing back as if to look at her picture, which she was nottouching, however, with all her faculties in a trance, frozen over superficiallybut moving underneath with extreme speed.
　　She let her flowers fall from her basket, scattered and tumbled them onto the grass and, reluctantly and hesitatingly, but without question orcomplaint—had she not the faculty of obedience to perfection?—wenttoo. Down fields, across valleys, white, flower-strewn—that was how shewould have painted it. The hills were austere. It was rocky; it was steep.
　　The waves sounded hoarse on the stones beneath. They went, the threeof them together, Mrs Ramsay walking rather fast in front, as if she expectedto meet some one round the corner.
　　Suddenly the window at which she was looking was whitened bysome light stuff behind it. At last then somebody had come into thedrawing-room; somebody was sitting in the chair. For Heaven's sake, sheprayed, let them sit still there and not come floundering out to talk toher. Mercifully, whoever it was stayed still inside; had settled by somestroke of luck so as to throw an odd-shaped triangular shadow over thestep. It altered the composition of the picture a little. It was interesting. Itmight be useful. Her mood was coming back to her. One must keep onlooking without for a second relaxing the intensity of emotion, the determinationnot to be put off, not to be bamboozled. One must hold thescene—so—in a vise and let nothing come in and spoil it. One wanted,she thought, dipping her brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordinaryexperience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at thesame time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy. The problem might be solvedafter all. Ah, but what had happened? Some wave of white went over thewindow pane. The air must have stirred some flounce in the room. Herheart leapt at her and seized her and tortured her.
　　"Mrs Ramsay! Mrs Ramsay!" she cried, feeling the old horror comeback—to want and want and not to have. Could she inflict that still? Andthen, quietly, as if she refrained, that too became part of ordinary experience,was on a level with the chair, with the table. Mrs Ramsay—it waspart of her perfect goodness—sat there quite simply, in the chair, flickedher needles to and fro, knitted her reddish-brown stocking, cast hershadow on the step. There she sat.
　　And as if she had something she must share, yet could hardly leaveher easel, so full her mind was of what she was thinking, of what shewas seeing, Lily went past Mr Carmichael holding her brush to the edgeof the lawn. Where was that boat now? And Mr Ramsay? She wantedhim.
Part 3 Chapter 13
    Mr Ramsay had almost done reading. One hand hovered over the pageas if to be in readiness to turn it the very instant he had finished it. He satthere bareheaded with the wind blowing his hair about, extraordinarilyexposed to everything. He looked very old. He looked, James thought,getting his head now against the Lighthouse, now against the waste ofwaters running away into the open, like some old stone lying on thesand; he looked as if he had become physically what was always at theback of both of their minds—that loneliness which was for both of themthe truth about things.
　　He was reading very quickly, as if he were eager to get to the end.
　　Indeed they were very close to the Lighthouse now. There it loomed up,stark and straight, glaring white and black, and one could see the wavesbreaking in white splinters like smashed glass upon the rocks. One couldsee lines and creases in the rocks. One could see the windows clearly; adab of white on one of them, and a little tuft of green on the rock. A manhad come out and looked at them through a glass and gone in again. Soit was like that, James thought, the Lighthouse one had seen across thebay all these years; it was a stark tower on a bare rock. It satisfied him. Itconfirmed some obscure feeling of his about his own character. The oldladies, he thought, thinking of the garden at home, went dragging theirchairs about on the lawn. Old Mrs Beckwith, for example, was alwayssaying how nice it was and how sweet it was and how they ought to beso proud and they ought to be so happy, but as a matter of fact, Jamesthought, looking at the Lighthouse stood there on its rock, it's like that.
　　He looked at his father reading fiercely with his legs curled tight. Theyshared that knowledge. "We are driving before a gale—we must sink," hebegan saying to himself, half aloud, exactly as his father said it.
　　Nobody seemed to have spoken for an age. Cam was tired of lookingat the sea. Little bits of black cork had floated past; the fish were dead inthe bottom of the boat. Still her father read, and James looked at him andshe looked at him, and they vowed that they would fight tyranny to thedeath, and he went on reading quite unconscious of what they thought.
　　It was thus that he escaped, she thought. Yes, with his great foreheadand his great nose, holding his little mottled book firmly in front of him,he escaped. You might try to lay hands on him, but then like a bird, hespread his wings, he floated off to settle out of your reach somewhere faraway on some desolate stump. She gazed at the immense expanse of thesea. The island had grown so small that it scarcely looked like a leaf anylonger. It looked like the top of a rock which some wave bigger than therest would cover. Yet in its frailty were all those paths, those terraces,those bedrooms— all those innumberable things. But as, just beforesleep, things simplify themselves so that only one of all the myriad detailshas power to assert itself, so, she felt, looking drowsily at the island,all those paths and terraces and bedrooms were fading and disappearing,and nothing was left but a pale blue censer swinging rhythmicallythis way and that across her mind. It was a hanging garden; it was a valley,full of birds, and flowers, and antelopes… She was falling asleep.
　　"Come now," said Mr Ramsay, suddenly shutting his book.
　　Come where? To what extraordinary adventure? She woke with astart. To land somewhere, to climb somewhere? Where was he leadingthem? For after his immense silence the words startled them. But it wasabsurd. He was hungry, he said. It was time for lunch. Besides, look, hesaid. "There's the Lighthouse. We're almost there.""He's doing very well," said Macalister, praising James. "He's keepingher very steady."But his father never praised him, James thought grimly.
　　Mr Ramsay opened the parcel and shared out the sandwiches amongthem. Now he was happy, eating bread and cheese with these fishermen.
　　He would have liked to live in a cottage and lounge about in the harbourspitting with the other old men, James thought, watching him slice hischeese into thin yellow sheets with his penknife.
　　This is right, this is it, Cam kept feeling, as she peeled her hard-boiledegg. Now she felt as she did in the study when the old men were readingTHE TIMES. Now I can go on thinking whatever I like, and I shan't fallover a precipice or be drowned, for there he is, keeping his eye on me,she thought.
　　At the same time they were sailing so fast along by the rocks that itwas very exciting—it seemed as if they were doing two things at once;they were eating their lunch here in the sun and they were also makingfor safety in a great storm after a shipwreck. Would the water last?
　　Would the provisions last? she asked herself, telling herself a story butknowing at the same time what was the truth.
　　They would soon be out of it, Mr Ramsay was saying to old Macalister;but their children would see some strange things. Macalister saidhe was seventy-five last March; Mr Ramsay was seventy-one. Macalistersaid he had never seen a doctor; he had never lost a tooth. And that's theway I'd like my children to live—Cam was sure that her father wasthinking that, for he stopped her throwing a sandwich into the sea andtold her, as if he were thinking of the fishermen and how they lived, thatif she did not want it she should put it back in the parcel. She should notwaste it. He said it so wisely, as if he knew so well all the things thathappened in the world that she put it back at once, and then he gave her,from his own parcel, a gingerbread nut, as if he were a great Spanishgentleman, she thought, handing a flower to a lady at a window (socourteous his manner was). He was shabby, and simple, eating breadand cheese; and yet he was leading them on a great expedition where,for all she knew, they would be drowned.
　　"That was where she sunk," said Macalister's boy suddenly.
　　Three men were drowned where we are now, the old man said. Hehad seen them clinging to the mast himself. And Mr Ramsay taking alook at the spot was about, James and Cam were afraid, to burst out:
　　But I beneath a rougher sea,and if he did, they could not bear it; they would shriek aloud; theycould not endure another explosion of the passion that boiled in him; butto their surprise all he said was "Ah" as if he thought to himself. But whymake a fuss about that? Naturally men are drowned in a storm, but it is aperfectly straightforward affair, and the depths of the sea (he sprinkledthe crumbs from his sandwich paper over them) are only water after all.
　　Then having lighted his pipe he took out his watch. He looked at it attentively;he made, perhaps, some mathematical calculation. At last hesaid, triumphantly:
　　"Well done!" James had steered them like a born sailor.
　　There! Cam thought, addressing herself silently to James. You've got itat last. For she knew that this was what James had been wanting, andshe knew that now he had got it he was so pleased that he would notlook at her or at his father or at any one. There he sat with his hand onthe tiller sitting bolt upright, looking rather sulky and frowning slightly.
　　He was so pleased that he was not going to let anybody share a grain ofhis pleasure. His father had praised him. They must think that he wasperfectly indifferent. But you've got it now, Cam thought.
　　They had tacked, and they were sailing swiftly, buoyantly on longrocking waves which handed them on from one to another with an extraordinarylilt and exhilaration beside the reef. On the left a row ofrocks showed brown through the water which thinned and becamegreener and on one, a higher rock, a wave incessantly broke and spurteda little column of drops which fell down in a shower. One could hear theslap of the water and the patter of falling drops and a kind of hushingand hissing sound from the waves rolling and gambolling and slappingthe rocks as if they were wild creatures who were perfectly free andtossed and tumbled and sported like this for ever.
　　Now they could see two men on the Lighthouse, watching them andmaking ready to meet them.
　　Mr Ramsay buttoned his coat, and turned up his trousers. He took thelarge, badly packed, brown paper parcel which Nancy had got ready andsat with it on his knee. Thus in complete readiness to land he sat lookingback at the island. With his long-sighted eyes perhaps he could see thedwindled leaf-like shape standing on end on a plate of gold quite clearly.
　　What could he see? Cam wondered. It was all a blur to her. What was hethinking now? she wondered. What was it he sought, so fixedly, so intently,so silently? They watched him, both of them, sitting bareheadedwith his parcel on his knee staring and staring at the frail blue shapewhich seemed like the vapour of something that had burnt itself away.
　　What do you want? they both wanted to ask. They both wanted to say,Ask us anything and we will give it you. But he did not ask them anything.
　　He sat and looked at the island and he might be thinking, We perished,each alone, or he might be thinking, I have reached it. I havefound it; but he said nothing.
　　Then he put on his hat.
　　"Bring those parcels," he said, nodding his head at the things Nancyhad done up for them to take to the Lighthouse. "The parcels for theLighthouse men," he said. He rose and stood in the bow of the boat, verystraight and tall, for all the world, James thought, as if he were saying,"There is no God," and Cam thought, as if he were leaping into space,and they both rose to follow him as he sprang, lightly like a young man,holding his parcel, on to the rock.
Part 3 Chapter 14
    "He must have reached it," said Lily Briscoe aloud, feeling suddenlycompletely tired out. For the Lighthouse had become almost invisible,had melted away into a blue haze, and the effort of looking at it and theeffort of thinking of him landing there, which both seemed to be one andthe same effort, had stretched her body and mind to the utmost. Ah, butshe was relieved. Whatever she had wanted to give him, when he left herthat morning, she had given him at last.
　　"He has landed," she said aloud. "It is finished." Then, surging up,puffing slightly, old Mr Carmichael stood beside her, looking like an oldpagan god, shaggy, with weeds in his hair and the trident (it was only aFrench novel) in his hand. He stood by her on the edge of the lawn,swaying a little in his bulk and said, shading his eyes with his hand:
　　"They will have landed," and she felt that she had been right. They hadnot needed to speak. They had been thinking the same things and he hadanswered her without her asking him anything. He stood there as if hewere spreading his hands over all the weakness and suffering of mankind;she thought he was surveying, tolerantly and compassionately,their final destiny. Now he has crowned the occasion, she thought, whenhis hand slowly fell, as if she had seen him let fall from his great height awreath of violets and asphodels which, fluttering slowly, lay at lengthupon the earth.
　　Quickly, as if she were recalled by something over there, she turned toher canvas. There it was—her picture. Yes, with all its greens and blues,its lines running up and across, its attempt at something. It would behung in the attics, she thought; it would be destroyed. But what did thatmatter? she asked herself, taking up her brush again. She looked at thesteps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With asudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there,in the centre. It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying downher brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.
The End