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To The Lighthouse

Page 12

by Virginia Woolf

Minta, being charming to Mr Ramsay at the other end of the table,

  flinched for her exposed to these fangs, and was thankful. For at any

  rate, she said to herself, catching sight 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,

  especially staying with the Ramsays, was to be made to feel violently

  two opposite things at the same time; that's what you feel, was one;

  that's what I feel, was the other, and then they fought together in her

  mind, as now. It is so beautiful, so exciting, this love, that I

  tremble on the verge of it, and offer, quite out of my own habit, to

  look for a brooch on a beach; also it is the stupidest, the most

  barbaric of human passions, and turns a nice young man with a profile

  like a gem's (Paul's was exquisite) into a bully with a crowbar (he

  was swaggering, he was insolent) in the Mile End Road. Yet, she said to

  herself, from the dawn of time odes have been sung to love; wreaths

  heaped and roses; and if you asked nine people out of ten they would

  say they wanted nothing but this--love; while the women, judging from

  her own experience, would all the time be feeling, This is not what we

  want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile, and inhumane than this;

  yet it is also beautiful and necessary. Well then, well then? 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 which fell

  short obviously and left the others to carry it on. So she listened

  again to what they were saying in case they should throw any light upon

  the 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 (she

  was thoroughly roused, Lily could see, and talked very emphatically) of

  real butter and clean milk. Speaking with warmth and eloquence, she

  described the iniquity of the English dairy system, and in what state

  milk was delivered at the door, and was about to prove her charges, for

  she had gone into the matter, when all round the table, beginning with

  Andrew in the middle, like a fire leaping from tuft to tuft of furze,

  her children laughed; her husband laughed; she was laughed at, fire-

  encircled, and forced to veil her crest, dismount her batteries, and

  only retaliate by displaying the as an example of what one suffered if

  one attacked the prejudices of the British Public.

  Purposely, however, for she had it on her mind that Lily, who had

  helped her with Mr Tansley, was out of things, she exempted her from

  the rest; said "Lily anyhow agrees with me," and so drew her in, a

  little fluttered, a little startled. (For she was thinking about

  love.) They were both out of things, Mrs Ramsay had been thinking,

  both Lily and Charles Tansley. 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 Paul Rayley in the room. Poor fellow!

  Still, he had his dissertation, the influence of somebody upon

  something: he could take care of himself. With Lily it was different.

  She faded, under Minta's glow; became more inconspicuous than ever, in

  her little grey dress with her little puckered face and 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 than her

  husband did about his boots--he would talk by the hour about his boots)

  of the two, Lily at forty will be the better. There was in Lily a

  thread of something; a flare of something; something of her own which

  Mrs Ramsay liked very much indeed, but no man would, she feared.

  Obviously, not, unless it were a much older man, like William Bankes.

  But then he cared, well, Mrs Ramsay sometimes thought that he cared,

  since his wife's death, perhaps for her. He was not "in love" of

  course; it was one of those unclassified affections of which there are

  so many. Oh, but nonsense, she thought; William must marry Lily. They

  have so many things in common. Lily is so fond of flowers. She must

  arrange for them to take a long walk together.

  Foolishly, she had set them opposite each other. That could be remedied

  tomorrow. If it were fine, they should go for a picnic. Everything

  seemed possible. Everything seemed right. Just now (but this cannot

  last, she thought, dissociating herself from the moment while they were

  all talking about boots) just now she had reached security; she hovered

  like a hawk suspended; like a flag floated in an element of joy which

  filled every nerve of her body fully and sweetly, not noisily, solemnly

  rather, for it arose, she thought, looking at them all eating there,

  from husband and children and friends; all of which rising in this

  profound stillness (she was helping William Bankes to one very small

  piece more, and peered into the depths of the earthenware pot) seemed

  now for no special reason to stay there like a smoke, like a fume

  rising upwards, holding them safe together. Nothing need be said;

  nothing could be said. There it was, all round them. It partook, she

  felt, carefully helping Mr Bankes to a specially tender piece, of

  eternity; as she had already felt about something different once before

  that afternoon; there is a coherence in things, a stability; something,

  she meant, is immune from change, and shines out (she glanced at the

  window with its ripple of reflected lights) in the face of the flowing,

  the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; 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 is made that endures.

  "Yes," she assured William Bankes, "there is plenty for everybody."

  "Andrew," she said, "hold your plate lower, or I shall spill it." (The

  BOEUF EN DAUBE was a perfect triumph.) Here, she felt, putting the

  spoon down, where one could move or rest; could wait now (they were all

  helped) listening; could then, like a hawk which lapses suddenly from

  its high station, flaunt and sink on laughter easily, resting her whole

  weight upon what at the other end of the table her husband was saying

  about the square root of one thousand two hundred and fifty-three.

  That was 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 square

  roots; that was what they were talking about now; on Voltaire and

  Madame de Stael; on the character of Napoleon; on the French system of

  land tenure; on Lord Rosebery; on Creevey's Memoirs: she let it uphold

  her and sustain her, this admirable fabric of the masculine

  intelligence, which ran up and down, crossed this way and that, like

  iron girders spanning the swaying fabric, upholding the world, so that

  she could trust 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. William Bankes was praising the Waverly novels.

  He read one of them every six months, he said. And why should that make

  Charles Tansley angry? He rushed in (all, thought Mrs Ramsay, because

  Prue will not be nice to him) and denounced the Waverly novels when he

  knew nothing about it, nothing about it whatsoever, Mrs Ramsay thought,

  observing him rather than listening to what he said. She could see how

  it was from his manner--he wanted to assert himself, and so it would

  always be with him till he got his Professorship or married his wife,

  and so need not be always saying, "I--I--I." For that was what his

  criticism of poor Sir Walter, or perhaps it was Jane Austen, amounted

  to. "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 his uneasiness. Success would be good for him. At any

  rate they were off again. Now she need not listen. It could not last,

  she knew, but at the moment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to

  go round the table unveiling each of these people, and their thoughts

  and their feelings, without effort like a light stealing under water so

  that its ripples and the reeds in it and the minnows balancing

  themselves, and the sudden silent trout 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 like the movement of a

  trout when, at the same time, one can see the ripple and the gravel,

  something to the right, something to the left; and the whole is held

  together; for whereas in active life she would be netting and

  separating one thing from another; she would be saying she liked the

  Waverly novels or had not read them; she would be urging herself

  forward; 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

  if she had antennae trembling out from her, which, intercepting certain

  sentences, forced them upon her attention. This was one of them. She

  scented danger for her husband. A question like that would lead,

  almost certainly, to something being said which reminded him of his own

  failure. How long would he be read--he would think at once. William

  Bankes (who was entirely free from all such vanity) laughed, and said

  he attached no importance to changes in fashion. Who could tell what

  was going to last--in literature or indeed in anything else?

  "Let us enjoy what we do enjoy," he said. His integrity seemed to Mrs

  Ramsay quite admirable. He never seemed for a moment to think, But how

  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; to want

  somebody to say, Oh, but your work will last, Mr Ramsay, or something

  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

  believe that any one really enjoyed reading Shakespeare. Mr Ramsay

  said grimly (but his mind was turned away again) that very few people

  liked it as much as they said they did. But, he added, there is

  considerable merit in some of the plays nevertheless, and Mrs Ramsay

  saw that it would be all right for the moment anyhow; he would laugh at

  Minta, and she, Mrs Ramsay saw, realising his extreme anxiety about

  himself, would, in her own 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 it was necessary. Anyhow, she was free

  now to listen to what Paul Rayley was trying to say about books one had

  read as a boy. They lasted, he said. 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 that because he always thought it such a good name

  for a villain. "Vronsky," said Mrs Ramsay; "Oh, ANNA KARENINA," but

  that did not take them very far; books were not in their line. No,

  Charles Tansley would put them 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, after all, one knew more about him than

  about Tolstoi, whereas, what Paul said was about the thing, simply, not

  himself, nothing else. Like all stupid people, he had a kind of

  modesty too, a consideration for what you were feeling, which, once in

  a way at least, she found attractive. Now he was thinking, not about

  himself, or about Tolstoi, but whether she was cold, whether she felt a

  draught, whether she would like a pear.

  No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeed she had been keeping

  guard over the dish of fruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping

  that nobody would touch it. Her eyes had been going in and out among

  the curves and shadows of the fruit, among the rich purples of the

  lowland grapes, then over the horny ridge of the shell, putting a

  yellow against a purple, a curved shape against a round shape, without

  knowing why she did 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 child should 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 quite apart from everything else, something they were

  hoarding up to laugh over in their own room. It was not about their

  father, she hoped. No, she thought not. What was it, she wondered,

  sadly rather, for it seemed to her that they would laugh when she was

  not there. There was all that hoarded behind those rather set, still,

  mask-like faces, for they did not join in easily; they were like 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 the

  glow of Minta opposite, some excitement, some anticipation of happiness

  was reflected in her, as if the sun of the love of men and women rose

  over the rim of the table-cloth, and without knowing what it was she

  bent towards it and greeted it. She kept looking at Minta, shyly, yet

  curiously, 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 s
he is one of

  these days. You will be much happier, she added, because you are my

  daughter, she meant; her own daughter must be happier than other

  people's daughters. But dinner was over. It was time to go. They

  were only playing with things on their plates. She would wait until

  they had done laughing at some story her husband was telling. He was

  having a joke 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,

  she thought, putting her napkin beside her plate, she always has some

  joke of her own. One need never bother about Lily. She waited. She

  tucked her 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 Augustus after that scene about the soup, had drawn him in--

  they were telling stories about some one they had both known at

  college. She looked at the window in which the candle flames burnt

  brighter now that the panes were black, and strangely, as if they were

  voices at a service in a cathedral, for she did not 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 the Latin words

  of a service in some Roman Catholic cathedral. She waited. Her

  husband spoke. He was repeating something, and she knew it was poetry

  from the rhythm and the ring of exultation, and melancholy in his

  voice:

  Come out and climb the garden path, Luriana Lurilee.

  The China rose is all abloom and buzzing with the yellow bee.

  The words (she was looking at the window) sounded as if they were

  floating like flowers on water out there, cut off from them all, as if

  no one had 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 trees and changing leaves.

  She did not know what they meant, but, like music, the words seemed to

  be spoken by her own voice, outside her self, saying quite easily and

  naturally what had been in her mind the whole evening while she said

  different things. She knew, without looking round, that every one at

  the table was listening to the voice saying:

  I wonder if it seems to you, Luriana, Lurilee

  with the same sort of relief and pleasure that she had, as if this

  were, at last, 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 it

  looked like a long white robe he stood chanting:

  To see the Kings go riding by

  Over lawn and daisy lea

  With their palm leaves and cedar

  Luriana, Lurilee,

  and as she passed him, he turned slightly towards her repeating the

  last words:

  Luriana, Lurilee

  and bowed to her as if he did her homage. Without knowing why, she

  felt that he liked her better than he ever had done before; and with a

  feeling of relief and gratitude she returned his bow and passed through

  the door which he held open for her.

  It was necessary now to carry everything a step further. With her foot

  on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was

  vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's

  arm and 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.

  18

  As usual, Lily thought. There was always something that had to be done

  at that precise moment, something that Mrs Ramsay had decided for

  reasons of her own to do instantly, it might be with every one standing

 

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