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Did
Nature
supplement
what
man
advanced
?
Did
she
complete
what
he
began
?
With
equal
complacence
she
saw
his
misery
,
his
meanness
,
and
his
torture
.
That
dream
,
of
sharing
,
completing
,
of
finding
in
solitude
on
the
beach
an
answer
,
was
then
but
a
reflection
in
a
mirror
,
and
the
mirror
itself
was
but
the
surface
glassiness
which
forms
in
quiescence
when
the
nobler
powers
sleep
beneath
?
Impatient
,
despairing
yet
loth
to
go
(
for
beauty
offers
her
lures
,
has
her
consolations
)
,
to
pace
the
beach
was
impossible
;
contemplation
was
unendurable
;
the
mirror
was
broken
.
[
Mr.
Carmichael
brought
out
a
volume
of
poems
that
spring
,
which
had
an
unexpected
success
.
The
war
,
people
said
,
had
revived
their
interest
in
poetry
.
]
Night
after
night
,
summer
and
winter
,
the
torment
of
storms
,
the
arrow-like
stillness
of
fine
(
had
there
been
any
one
to
listen
)
from
the
upper
rooms
of
the
empty
house
only
gigantic
chaos
streaked
with
lightning
could
have
been
heard
tumbling
and
tossing
,
as
the
winds
and
waves
disported
themselves
like
the
amorphous
bulks
of
leviathans
whose
brows
are
pierced
by
no
light
of
reason
,
and
mounted
one
on
top
of
another
,
and
lunged
and
plunged
in
the
darkness
or
the
daylight
(
for
night
and
day
,
month
and
year
ran
shapelessly
together
)
in
idiot
games
,
until
it
seemed
as
if
the
universe
were
battling
and
tumbling
,
in
brute
confusion
and
wanton
lust
aimlessly
by
itself
.
In
spring
the
garden
urns
,
casually
filled
with
wind-blown
plants
,
were
gay
as
ever
.
Violets
came
and
daffodils
.
But
the
stillness
and
the
brightness
of
the
day
were
as
strange
as
the
chaos
and
tumult
of
night
,
with
the
trees
standing
there
,
and
the
flowers
standing
there
,
looking
before
them
,
looking
up
,
yet
beholding
nothing
,
eyeless
,
and
so
terrible
.
Thinking
no
harm
,
for
the
family
would
not
come
,
never
again
,
some
said
,
and
the
house
would
be
sold
at
Michaelmas
perhaps
,
Mrs.
McNab
stooped
and
picked
a
bunch
of
flowers
to
take
home
with
her
.
She
laid
them
on
the
table
while
she
dusted
.
She
was
fond
of
flowers
.
It
was
a
pity
to
let
them
waste
.
Suppose
the
house
were
sold
(
she
stood
arms
akimbo
in
front
of
the
looking-glass
)
it
would
want
seeing
to
--
it
would
.
There
it
had
stood
all
these
years
without
a
soul
in
it
.
The
books
and
things
were
mouldy
,
for
,
what
with
the
war
and
help
being
hard
to
get
,
the
house
had
not
been
cleaned
as
she
could
have
wished
.
It
was
beyond
one
person
's
strength
to
get
it
straight
now
.
She
was
too
old
.
Her
legs
pained
her
.
All
those
books
needed
to
be
laid
out
on
the
grass
in
the
sun
;
there
was
plaster
fallen
in
the
hall
;
the
rain-pipe
had
blocked
over
the
study
window
and
let
the
water
in
;
the
carpet
was
ruined
quite
.
But
people
should
come
themselves
;
they
should
have
sent
somebody
down
to
see
.
For
there
were
clothes
in
the
cupboards
;
they
had
left
clothes
in
all
the
bedrooms
.
What
was
she
to
do
with
them
?
They
had
the
moth
in
them
--
Mrs.
Ramsay
's
things
.
Poor
lady
!
She
would
never
want
THEM
again
.
She
was
dead
,
they
said
;
years
ago
,
in
London
.
There
was
the
old
grey
cloak
she
wore
gardening
(
Mrs.
McNab
fingered
it
)
.
She
could
see
her
,
as
she
came
up
the
drive
with
the
washing
,
stooping
over
her
flowers
(
the
garden
was
a
pitiful
sight
now
,
all
run
to
riot
,
and
rabbits
scuttling
at
you
out
of
the
beds
)
--
she
could
see
her
with
one
of
the
children
by
her
in
that
grey
cloak
.
There
were
boots
and
shoes
;
and
a
brush
and
comb
left
on
the
dressing-table
,
for
all
the
world
as
if
she
expected
to
come
back
tomorrow
.
(
She
had
died
very
sudden
at
the
end
,
they
said
.
)
And
once
they
had
been
coming
,
but
had
put
off
coming
,
what
with
the
war
,
and
travel
being
so
difficult
these
days
;
they
had
never
come
all
these
years
;
just
sent
her
money
;
but
never
wrote
,
never
came
,
and
expected
to
find
things
as
they
had
left
them
,
ah
,
dear
!
Why
the
dressing-table
drawers
were
full
of
things
(
she
pulled
them
open
)
,
handkerchiefs
,
bits
of
ribbon
.
Yes
,
she
could
see
Mrs.
Ramsay
as
she
came
up
the
drive
with
the
washing
.
"
Good-evening
,
Mrs.
McNab
,
"
she
would
say
.
She
had
a
pleasant
way
with
her
.
The
girls
all
liked
her
.
But
,
dear
,
many
things
had
changed
since
then
(
she
shut
the
drawer
)
;
many
families
had
lost
their
dearest
.
So
she
was
dead
;
and
Mr.
Andrew
killed
;
and
Miss
Prue
dead
too
,
they
said
,
with
her
first
baby
;
but
everyone
had
lost
some
one
these
years
.
Prices
had
gone
up
shamefully
,
and
did
n't
come
down
again
neither
.
She
could
well
remember
her
in
her
grey
cloak
.
"
Good-evening
,
Mrs.
McNab
,
"
she
said
,
and
told
cook
to
keep
a
plate
of
milk
soup
for
her
--
quite
thought
she
wanted
it
,
carrying
that
heavy
basket
all
the
way
up
from
town
.
She
could
see
her
now
,
stooping
over
her
flowers
;
and
faint
and
flickering
,
like
a
yellow
beam
or
the
circle
at
the
end
of
a
telescope
,
a
lady
in
a
grey
cloak
,
stooping
over
her
flowers
,
went
wandering
over
the
bedroom
wall
,
up
the
dressing-table
,
across
the
wash-stand
,
as
Mrs.
McNab
hobbled
and
ambled
,
dusting
,
straightening
.
And
cook
's
name
now
?
Mildred
?
Marian
?
--
some
name
like
that
.
Ah
,
she
had
forgotten
--
she
did
forget
things
.
Fiery
,
like
all
red-haired
women
.
Many
a
laugh
they
had
had
.
She
was
always
welcome
in
the
kitchen
.
She
made
them
laugh
,
she
did
.
Things
were
better
then
than
now
.
