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
To The Lighthouse Page 12