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- Стр. 18/72
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She
now
remembered
what
she
had
been
going
to
say
about
Mrs.
Ramsay
.
She
did
not
know
how
she
would
have
put
it
;
but
it
would
have
been
something
critical
.
She
had
been
annoyed
the
other
night
by
some
highhandedness
.
Looking
along
the
level
of
Mr.
Bankes
's
glance
at
her
,
she
thought
that
no
woman
could
worship
another
woman
in
the
way
he
worshipped
;
they
could
only
seek
shelter
under
the
shade
which
Mr.
Bankes
extended
over
them
both
.
Looking
along
his
beam
she
added
to
it
her
different
ray
,
thinking
that
she
was
unquestionably
the
loveliest
of
people
(
bowed
over
her
book
)
;
the
best
perhaps
;
but
also
,
different
too
from
the
perfect
shape
which
one
saw
there
.
But
why
different
,
and
how
different
?
she
asked
herself
,
scraping
her
palette
of
all
those
mounds
of
blue
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
her
bidding
tomorrow
.
How
did
she
differ
?
What
was
the
spirit
in
her
,
the
essential
thing
,
by
which
,
had
you
found
a
crumpled
glove
in
the
corner
of
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
was
willful
;
she
was
commanding
(
of
course
,
Lily
reminded
herself
,
I
am
thinking
of
her
relations
with
women
,
and
I
am
much
younger
,
an
insignificant
person
,
living
off
the
Brompton
Road
)
.
She
opened
bedroom
windows
.
She
shut
doors
.
(
So
she
tried
to
start
the
tune
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
in
her
head
.
)
Arriving
late
at
night
,
with
a
light
tap
on
one
's
bedroom
door
,
wrapped
in
an
old
fur
coat
(
for
the
setting
of
her
beauty
was
always
that
--
hasty
,
but
apt
)
,
she
would
enact
again
whatever
it
might
be
--
Charles
Tansley
losing
his
umbrella
;
Mr.
Carmichael
snuffling
and
sniffing
;
Mr.
Bankes
saying
,
"
The
vegetable
salts
are
lost
.
"
All
this
she
would
adroitly
shape
;
even
maliciously
twist
;
and
,
moving
over
to
the
window
,
in
pretence
that
she
must
go
--
it
was
dawn
,
she
could
see
the
sun
rising
--
half
turn
back
,
more
intimately
,
but
still
always
laughing
,
insist
that
she
must
,
Minta
must
,
they
all
must
marry
,
since
in
the
whole
world
whatever
laurels
might
be
tossed
to
her
(
but
Mrs.
Ramsay
cared
not
a
fig
for
her
painting
)
,
or
triumphs
won
by
her
(
probably
Mrs.
Ramsay
had
had
her
share
of
those
)
,
and
here
she
saddened
,
darkened
,
and
came
back
to
her
chair
,
there
could
be
no
disputing
this
:
an
unmarried
woman
(
she
lightly
took
her
hand
for
a
moment
)
,
an
unmarried
woman
has
missed
the
best
of
life
.
The
house
seemed
full
of
children
sleeping
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
listening
;
shaded
lights
and
regular
breathing
.
Oh
,
but
,
Lily
would
say
,
there
was
her
father
;
her
home
;
even
,
had
she
dared
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
the
curtains
,
and
even
now
and
then
some
bird
chirped
in
the
garden
,
gathering
a
desperate
courage
she
would
urge
her
own
exemption
from
the
universal
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
eyes
of
unparalleled
depth
,
and
confront
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
simple
certainty
(
and
she
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
and
laughed
and
laughed
and
laughed
,
laughed
almost
hysterically
at
the
thought
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
presiding
with
immutable
calm
over
destinies
which
she
completely
failed
to
understand
.
There
she
sat
,
simple
,
serious
.
She
had
recovered
her
sense
of
her
now
--
this
was
the
glove
's
twisted
finger
.
But
into
what
sanctuary
had
one
penetrated
?
Lily
Briscoe
had
looked
up
at
last
,
and
there
was
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
unwitting
entirely
what
had
caused
her
laughter
,
still
presiding
,
but
now
with
every
trace
of
wilfulness
abolished
,
and
in
its
stead
,
something
clear
as
the
space
which
the
clouds
at
last
uncover
--
the
little
space
of
sky
which
sleeps
beside
the
moon
.
Was
it
wisdom
?
Was
it
knowledge
?
Was
it
,
once
more
,
the
deceptiveness
of
beauty
,
so
that
all
one
's
perceptions
,
half
way
to
truth
,
were
tangled
in
a
golden
mesh
?
or
did
she
lock
up
within
her
some
secret
which
certainly
Lily
Briscoe
believed
people
must
have
for
the
world
to
go
on
at
all
?
Every
one
could
not
be
as
helter
skelter
,
hand
to
mouth
as
she
was
.
But
if
they
knew
,
could
they
tell
one
what
they
knew
?
Sitting
on
the
floor
with
her
arms
round
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
knees
,
close
as
she
could
get
,
smiling
to
think
that
Mrs.
Ramsay
would
never
know
the
reason
of
that
pressure
,
she
imagined
how
in
the
chambers
of
the
mind
and
heart
of
the
woman
who
was
,
physically
,
touching
her
,
were
stood
,
like
the
treasures
in
the
tombs
of
kings
,
tablets
bearing
sacred
inscriptions
,
which
if
one
could
spell
them
out
,
would
teach
one
everything
,
but
they
would
never
be
offered
openly
,
never
made
public
.
What
art
was
there
,
known
to
love
or
cunning
,
by
which
one
pressed
through
into
those
secret
chambers
?
What
device
for
becoming
,
like
waters
poured
into
one
jar
,
inextricably
the
same
,
one
with
the
object
one
adored
?
Could
the
body
achieve
,
or
the
mind
,
subtly
mingling
in
the
intricate
passages
of
the
brain
?
or
the
heart
?
Could
loving
,
as
people
called
it
,
make
her
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
one
?
for
it
was
not
knowledge
but
unity
that
she
desired
,
not
inscriptions
on
tablets
,
nothing
that
could
be
written
in
any
language
known
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
against
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
knee
.
And
yet
,
she
knew
knowledge
and
wisdom
were
stored
up
in
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
heart
.
How
,
then
,
she
had
asked
herself
,
did
one
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
intangible
to
touch
or
taste
,
one
haunted
the
dome-shaped
hive
,
ranged
the
wastes
of
the
air
over
the
countries
of
the
world
alone
,
and
then
haunted
the
hives
with
their
murmurs
and
their
stirrings
;
the
hives
,
which
were
people
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
rose
.
Lily
rose
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
went
.
For
days
there
hung
about
her
,
as
after
a
dream
some
subtle
change
is
felt
in
the
person
one
has
dreamt
of
,
more
vividly
than
anything
she
said
,
the
sound
of
murmuring
and
,
as
she
sat
in
the
wicker
arm-chair
in
the
drawing-room
window
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
sitting
reading
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
dog
who
sees
a
hand
raised
to
strike
it
.
She
would
have
snatched
her
picture
off
the
easel
,
but
she
said
to
herself
,
One
must
.
She
braced
herself
to
stand
the
awful
trial
of
some
one
looking
at
her
picture
.
One
must
,
she
said
,
one
must
.
And
if
it
must
be
seen
,
Mr.
Bankes
was
less
alarming
than
another
.
But
that
any
other
eyes
should
see
the
residue
of
her
thirty-three
years
,
the
deposit
of
each
day
's
living
mixed
with
something
more
secret
than
she
had
ever
spoken
or
shown
in
the
course
of
all
those
days
was
an
agony
.
At
the
same
time
it
was
immensely
exciting
.
