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Their
entrails
,
as
Andrew
said
the
other
day
,
were
all
over
the
floor
;
but
then
what
was
the
point
,
she
asked
,
of
buying
good
chairs
to
let
them
spoil
up
here
all
through
the
winter
when
the
house
,
with
only
one
old
woman
to
see
to
it
,
positively
dripped
with
wet
?
Never
mind
,
the
rent
was
precisely
twopence
half-penny
;
the
children
loved
it
;
it
did
her
husband
good
to
be
three
thousand
,
or
if
she
must
be
accurate
,
three
hundred
miles
from
his
libraries
and
his
lectures
and
his
disciples
;
and
there
was
room
for
visitors
.
Mats
,
camp
beds
,
crazy
ghosts
of
chairs
and
tables
whose
London
life
of
service
was
done
--
they
did
well
enough
here
;
and
a
photograph
or
two
,
and
books
.
Books
,
she
thought
,
grew
of
themselves
.
She
never
had
time
to
read
them
.
Alas
!
even
the
books
that
had
been
given
her
and
inscribed
by
the
hand
of
the
poet
himself
:
"
For
her
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
,
"
she
said
)
--
neither
of
those
could
one
send
to
the
Lighthouse
.
At
a
certain
moment
,
she
supposed
,
the
house
would
become
so
shabby
that
something
must
be
done
.
If
they
could
be
taught
to
wipe
their
feet
and
not
bring
the
beach
in
with
them
--
that
would
be
something
.
Crabs
,
she
had
to
allow
,
if
Andrew
really
wished
to
dissect
them
,
or
if
Jasper
believed
that
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
,
taking
in
the
whole
room
from
floor
to
ceiling
,
as
she
held
the
stocking
against
James
's
leg
,
that
things
got
shabbier
and
got
shabbier
summer
after
summer
.
The
mat
was
fading
;
the
wall-paper
was
flapping
.
You
could
n't
tell
any
more
that
those
were
roses
on
it
.
Still
,
if
every
door
in
a
house
is
left
perpetually
open
,
and
no
lockmaker
in
the
whole
of
Scotland
can
mend
a
bolt
,
things
must
spoil
.
What
was
the
use
of
flinging
a
green
Cashemere
shawl
over
the
edge
of
a
picture
frame
?
In
two
weeks
it
would
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
was
open
;
the
hall
door
was
open
;
it
sounded
as
if
the
bedroom
doors
were
open
;
and
certainly
the
window
on
the
landing
was
open
,
for
that
she
had
opened
herself
.
That
windows
should
be
open
,
and
doors
shut
--
simple
as
it
was
,
could
none
of
them
remember
it
?
She
would
go
into
the
maids
'
bedrooms
at
night
and
find
them
sealed
like
ovens
,
except
for
Marie
's
,
the
Swiss
girl
,
who
would
rather
go
without
a
bath
than
without
fresh
air
,
but
then
at
home
,
she
had
said
,
"
the
mountains
are
so
beautiful
.
"
She
had
said
that
last
night
looking
out
of
the
window
with
tears
in
her
eyes
.
"
The
mountains
are
so
beautiful
.
"
Her
father
was
dying
there
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
knew
.
He
was
leaving
them
fatherless
.
Scolding
and
demonstrating
(
how
to
make
a
bed
,
how
to
open
a
window
,
with
hands
that
shut
and
spread
like
a
Frenchwoman
's
)
all
had
folded
itself
quietly
about
her
,
when
the
girl
spoke
,
as
,
after
a
flight
through
the
sunshine
the
wings
of
a
bird
fold
themselves
quietly
and
the
blue
of
its
plumage
changes
from
bright
steel
to
soft
purple
.
She
had
stood
there
silent
for
there
was
nothing
to
be
said
.
He
had
cancer
of
the
throat
.
At
the
recollection
--
how
she
had
stood
there
,
how
the
girl
had
said
,
"
At
home
the
mountains
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
.
Do
n't
be
tiresome
,
"
so
that
he
knew
instantly
that
her
severity
was
real
,
and
straightened
his
leg
and
she
measured
it
.
The
stocking
was
too
short
by
half
an
inch
at
least
,
making
allowance
for
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
,
in
the
darkness
,
in
the
shaft
which
ran
from
the
sunlight
to
the
depths
,
perhaps
a
tear
formed
;
a
tear
fell
;
the
waters
swayed
this
way
and
that
,
received
it
,
and
were
at
rest
.
Never
did
anybody
look
so
sad
.
But
was
it
nothing
but
looks
,
people
said
?
What
was
there
behind
it
--
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
an
incomparable
beauty
which
she
lived
behind
,
and
could
do
nothing
to
disturb
?
For
easily
though
she
might
have
said
at
some
moment
of
intimacy
when
stories
of
great
passion
,
of
love
foiled
,
of
ambition
thwarted
came
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
knew
without
having
learnt
.
Her
simplicity
fathomed
what
clever
people
falsified
.
Her
singleness
of
mind
made
her
drop
plumb
like
a
stone
,
alight
exact
as
a
bird
,
gave
her
,
naturally
,
this
swoop
and
fall
of
the
spirit
upon
truth
which
delighted
,
eased
,
sustained
--
falsely
perhaps
.
(
"
Nature
has
but
little
clay
,
"
said
Mr.
Bankes
once
,
much
moved
by
her
voice
on
the
telephone
,
though
she
was
only
telling
him
a
fact
about
a
train
,
"
like
that
of
which
she
moulded
you
.
"
He
saw
her
at
the
end
of
the
line
,
Greek
,
blue-eyed
,
straight-nosed
.
How
incongruous
it
seemed
to
be
telephoning
to
a
woman
like
that
.
The
Graces
assembling
seemed
to
have
joined
hands
in
meadows
of
asphodel
to
compose
that
face
.
Yes
,
he
would
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
the
workmen
were
making
with
an
hotel
which
they
were
building
at
the
back
of
his
house
.
And
he
thought
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
as
he
looked
at
that
stir
among
the
unfinished
walls
.
For
always
,
he
thought
,
there
was
something
incongruous
to
be
worked
into
the
harmony
of
her
face
.
She
clapped
a
deer-stalker
's
hat
on
her
head
;
she
ran
across
the
lawn
in
galoshes
to
snatch
a
child
from
mischief
.
So
that
if
it
was
her
beauty
merely
that
one
thought
of
,
one
must
remember
the
quivering
thing
,
the
living
thing
(
they
were
carrying
bricks
up
a
little
plank
as
he
watched
them
)
,
and
work
it
into
the
picture
;
or
if
one
thought
of
her
simply
as
a
woman
,
one
must
endow
her
with
some
freak
of
idiosyncrasy
--
she
did
not
like
admiration
--
or
suppose
some
latent
desire
to
doff
her
royalty
of
form
as
if
her
beauty
bored
her
and
all
that
men
say
of
beauty
,
and
she
wanted
only
to
be
like
other
people
,
insignificant
.
He
did
not
know
.
He
did
not
know
.
He
must
go
to
his
work
.
)
