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[
Here
Mr.
Carmichael
,
who
was
reading
Virgil
,
blew
out
his
candle
.
It
was
past
midnight
.
]
But
what
after
all
is
one
night
?
A
short
space
,
especially
when
the
darkness
dims
so
soon
,
and
so
soon
a
bird
sings
,
a
cock
crows
,
or
a
faint
green
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
and
deals
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
flags
kindling
in
the
gloom
of
cool
cathedral
caves
where
gold
letters
on
marble
pages
describe
death
in
battle
and
how
bones
bleach
and
burn
far
away
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
the
shore
.
It
seemed
now
as
if
,
touched
by
human
penitence
and
all
its
toil
,
divine
goodness
had
parted
the
curtain
and
displayed
behind
it
,
single
,
distinct
,
the
hare
erect
;
the
wave
falling
;
the
boat
rocking
;
which
,
did
we
deserve
them
,
should
be
ours
always
.
But
alas
,
divine
goodness
,
twitching
the
cord
,
draws
the
curtain
;
it
does
not
please
him
;
he
covers
his
treasures
in
a
drench
of
hail
,
and
so
breaks
them
,
so
confuses
them
that
it
seems
impossible
that
their
calm
should
ever
return
or
that
we
should
ever
compose
from
their
fragments
a
perfect
whole
or
read
in
the
littered
pieces
the
clear
words
of
truth
.
For
our
penitence
deserves
a
glimpse
only
;
our
toil
respite
only
The
nights
now
are
full
of
wind
and
destruction
;
the
trees
plunge
and
bend
and
their
leaves
fly
helter
skelter
until
the
lawn
is
plastered
with
them
and
they
lie
packed
in
gutters
and
choke
rain
pipes
and
scatter
damp
paths
.
Also
the
sea
tosses
itself
and
breaks
itself
,
and
should
any
sleeper
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
himself
to
walk
on
the
sand
,
no
image
with
semblance
of
serving
and
divine
promptitude
comes
readily
to
hand
bringing
the
night
to
order
and
making
the
world
reflect
the
compass
of
the
soul
.
The
hand
dwindles
in
his
hand
;
the
voice
bellows
in
his
ear
.
Almost
it
would
appear
that
it
is
useless
in
such
confusion
to
ask
the
night
those
questions
as
to
what
,
and
why
,
and
wherefore
,
which
tempt
the
sleeper
from
his
bed
to
seek
an
answer
.
[
Mr.
Ramsay
,
stumbling
along
a
passage
one
dark
morning
,
stretched
his
arms
out
,
but
Mrs.
Ramsay
having
died
rather
suddenly
the
night
before
,
his
arms
,
though
stretched
out
,
remained
empty
.
]
]
So
with
the
house
empty
and
the
doors
locked
and
the
mattresses
rolled
round
,
those
stray
airs
,
advance
guards
of
great
armies
,
blustered
in
,
brushed
bare
boards
,
nibbled
and
fanned
,
met
nothing
in
bedroom
or
drawing-room
that
wholly
resisted
them
but
only
hangings
that
flapped
,
wood
that
creaked
,
the
bare
legs
of
tables
,
saucepans
and
china
already
furred
,
tarnished
,
cracked
.
What
people
had
shed
and
left
--
a
pair
of
shoes
,
a
shooting
cap
,
some
faded
skirts
and
coats
in
wardrobes
--
those
alone
kept
the
human
shape
and
in
the
emptiness
indicated
how
once
they
were
filled
and
animated
;
how
once
hands
were
busy
with
hooks
and
buttons
;
how
once
the
looking-glass
had
held
a
face
;
had
held
a
world
hollowed
out
in
which
a
figure
turned
,
a
hand
flashed
,
the
door
opened
,
in
came
children
rushing
and
tumbling
;
and
went
out
again
.
Now
,
day
after
day
,
light
turned
,
like
a
flower
reflected
in
water
,
its
sharp
image
on
the
wall
opposite
.
Only
the
shadows
of
the
trees
,
flourishing
in
the
wind
,
made
obeisance
on
the
wall
,
and
for
a
moment
darkened
the
pool
in
which
light
reflected
itself
;
or
birds
,
flying
,
made
a
soft
spot
flutter
slowly
across
the
bedroom
floor
.
So
loveliness
reigned
and
stillness
,
and
together
made
the
shape
of
loveliness
itself
,
a
form
from
which
life
had
parted
;
solitary
like
a
pool
at
evening
,
far
distant
,
seen
from
a
train
window
,
vanishing
so
quickly
that
the
pool
,
pale
in
the
evening
,
is
scarcely
robbed
of
its
solitude
,
though
once
seen
Loveliness
and
stillness
clasped
hands
in
the
bedroom
,
and
among
the
shrouded
jugs
and
sheeted
chairs
even
the
prying
of
the
wind
,
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
,
or
disturb
the
swaying
mantle
of
silence
which
,
week
after
week
,
in
the
empty
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
folded
them
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
after
centuries
of
quiescence
,
a
rock
rends
itself
from
the
mountain
and
hurtles
crashing
into
the
valley
,
one
fold
of
the
shawl
loosened
and
swung
to
and
fro
.
Then
again
peace
descended
;
and
the
shadow
wavered
;
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
in
the
wash-tub
,
grinding
it
with
boots
that
had
crunched
the
shingle
,
came
as
directed
to
open
all
windows
,
and
dust
the
bedrooms
.
As
she
lurched
(
for
she
rolled
like
a
ship
at
sea
)
and
leered
(
for
her
eyes
fell
on
nothing
directly
,
but
with
a
sidelong
glance
that
deprecated
the
scorn
and
anger
of
the
world
--
she
was
witless
,
she
knew
it
)
,
as
she
clutched
the
banisters
and
hauled
herself
upstairs
and
rolled
from
room
to
room
,
she
sang
.
Rubbing
the
glass
of
the
long
looking-glass
and
leering
sideways
at
her
swinging
figure
a
sound
issued
from
her
lips
--
something
that
had
been
gay
twenty
years
before
on
the
stage
perhaps
,
had
been
hummed
and
danced
to
,
but
now
,
coming
from
the
toothless
,
bonneted
,
care-taking
woman
,
was
robbed
of
meaning
,
was
like
the
voice
of
witlessness
,
humour
,
persistency
itself
,
trodden
down
but
springing
up
again
,
so
that
as
she
lurched
,
dusting
,
wiping
,
she
seemed
to
say
how
it
was
one
long
sorrow
and
trouble
,
how
it
was
getting
up
and
going
to
bed
again
,
and
bringing
things
out
and
putting
them
away
again
.
It
was
not
easy
or
snug
this
world
she
had
known
for
close
on
seventy
years
.
Bowed
down
she
was
with
weariness
.
How
long
,
she
asked
,
creaking
and
groaning
on
her
knees
under
the
bed
,
dusting
the
boards
,
how
long
shall
it
endure
?
but
hobbled
to
her
feet
again
,
pulled
herself
up
,
and
again
with
her
sidelong
leer
which
slipped
and
turned
aside
even
from
her
own
face
,
and
her
own
sorrows
,
stood
and
gaped
in
the
glass
,
aimlessly
smiling
,
and
began
again
the
old
amble
and
hobble
,
taking
up
mats
,
putting
down
china
,
looking
sideways
in
the
glass
,
as
if
,
after
all
,
she
had
her
consolations
,
as
if
indeed
there
twined
about
her
dirge
some
incorrigible
hope
