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But
what
a
face
,
she
thought
,
immediately
finding
the
sympathy
which
she
had
not
been
asked
to
give
troubling
her
for
expression
.
What
had
made
it
like
that
?
Thinking
,
night
after
night
,
she
supposed
--
about
the
reality
of
kitchen
tables
,
she
added
,
remembering
the
symbol
which
in
her
vagueness
as
to
what
Mr.
Ramsay
did
think
about
Andrew
had
given
her
.
(
He
had
been
killed
by
the
splinter
of
a
shell
instantly
,
she
bethought
her
.
)
The
kitchen
table
was
something
visionary
,
austere
;
something
bare
,
hard
,
not
ornamental
.
There
was
no
colour
to
it
;
it
was
all
edges
and
angles
;
it
was
uncompromisingly
plain
.
But
Mr.
Ramsay
kept
always
his
eyes
fixed
upon
it
,
never
allowed
himself
to
be
distracted
or
deluded
,
until
his
face
became
worn
too
and
ascetic
and
partook
of
this
unornamented
beauty
which
so
deeply
impressed
her
.
Then
,
she
recalled
(
standing
where
he
had
left
her
,
holding
her
brush
)
,
worries
had
fretted
it
--
not
so
nobly
.
He
must
have
had
his
doubts
about
that
table
,
she
supposed
;
whether
the
table
was
a
real
table
;
whether
it
was
worth
the
time
he
gave
to
it
;
whether
he
was
able
after
all
to
find
it
.
He
had
had
doubts
,
she
felt
,
or
he
would
have
asked
less
of
people
.
That
was
what
they
talked
about
late
at
night
sometimes
,
she
suspected
;
and
then
next
day
Mrs.
Ramsay
looked
tired
,
and
Lily
flew
into
a
rage
with
him
over
some
absurd
little
thing
.
But
now
he
had
nobody
to
talk
to
about
that
table
,
or
his
boots
,
or
his
knots
;
and
he
was
like
a
lion
seeking
whom
he
could
devour
,
and
his
face
had
that
touch
of
desperation
,
of
exaggeration
in
it
which
alarmed
her
,
and
made
her
pull
her
skirts
about
her
And
then
,
she
recalled
,
there
was
that
sudden
revivification
,
that
sudden
flare
(
when
she
praised
his
boots
)
,
that
sudden
recovery
of
vitality
and
interest
in
ordinary
human
things
,
which
too
passed
and
changed
(
for
he
was
always
changing
,
and
hid
nothing
)
into
that
other
final
phase
which
was
new
to
her
and
had
,
she
owned
,
made
herself
ashamed
of
her
own
irritability
,
when
it
seemed
as
if
he
had
shed
worries
and
ambitions
,
and
the
hope
of
sympathy
and
the
desire
for
praise
,
had
entered
some
other
region
,
was
drawn
on
,
as
if
by
curiosity
,
in
dumb
colloquy
,
whether
with
himself
or
another
,
at
the
head
of
that
little
procession
out
of
one
's
range
.
An
extraordinary
face
!
The
gate
banged
.
So
they
're
gone
,
she
thought
,
sighing
with
relief
and
disappointment
.
Her
sympathy
seemed
to
be
cast
back
on
her
,
like
a
bramble
sprung
across
her
face
.
She
felt
curiously
divided
,
as
if
one
part
of
her
were
drawn
out
there
--
it
was
a
still
day
,
hazy
;
the
Lighthouse
looked
this
morning
at
an
immense
distance
;
the
other
had
fixed
itself
doggedly
,
solidly
,
here
on
the
lawn
.
She
saw
her
canvas
as
if
it
had
floated
up
and
placed
itself
white
and
uncompromising
directly
before
her
.
It
seemed
to
rebuke
her
with
its
cold
stare
for
all
this
hurry
and
agitation
;
this
folly
and
waste
of
emotion
;
it
drastically
recalled
her
and
spread
through
her
mind
first
a
peace
,
as
her
disorderly
sensations
(
he
had
gone
and
she
had
been
so
sorry
for
him
and
she
had
said
nothing
)
trooped
off
the
field
;
and
then
,
emptiness
.
She
looked
blankly
at
the
canvas
,
with
its
uncompromising
white
stare
;
from
the
canvas
to
the
garden
.
There
was
something
(
she
stood
screwing
up
her
little
Chinese
eyes
in
her
small
puckered
face
)
,
something
she
remembered
in
the
relations
of
those
lines
cutting
across
,
slicing
down
,
and
in
the
mass
of
the
hedge
with
its
green
cave
of
blues
and
browns
,
which
had
stayed
in
her
mind
;
which
had
tied
a
knot
in
her
mind
so
that
at
odds
and
ends
of
time
,
involuntarily
,
as
she
walked
along
the
Brompton
Road
,
as
she
brushed
her
hair
,
she
found
herself
painting
that
picture
,
passing
her
eye
over
it
,
and
untying
the
knot
in
imagination
.
But
there
was
all
the
difference
in
the
world
between
this
planning
airily
away
from
the
canvas
and
actually
taking
her
brush
and
making
the
first
mark
.
She
had
taken
the
wrong
brush
in
her
agitation
at
Mr.
Ramsay
's
presence
,
and
her
easel
,
rammed
into
the
earth
so
nervously
,
was
at
the
wrong
angle
.
And
now
that
she
had
put
that
right
,
and
in
so
doing
had
subdued
the
impertinences
and
irrelevances
that
plucked
her
attention
and
made
her
remember
how
she
was
such
and
such
a
person
,
had
such
and
such
relations
to
people
,
she
took
her
hand
and
raised
her
brush
.
For
a
moment
it
stayed
trembling
in
a
painful
but
exciting
ecstasy
in
the
air
.
Where
to
begin
?
--
that
was
the
question
at
what
point
to
make
the
first
mark
?
One
line
placed
on
the
canvas
committed
her
to
innumerable
risks
,
to
frequent
and
irrevocable
decisions
.
All
that
in
idea
seemed
simple
became
in
practice
immediately
complex
;
as
the
waves
shape
themselves
symmetrically
from
the
cliff
top
,
but
to
the
swimmer
among
them
are
divided
by
steep
gulfs
,
and
foaming
crests
.
Still
the
risk
must
be
run
;
the
mark
made
.
With
a
curious
physical
sensation
,
as
if
she
were
urged
forward
and
at
the
same
time
must
hold
herself
back
,
she
made
her
first
quick
decisive
stroke
.
The
brush
descended
.
It
flickered
brown
over
the
white
canvas
;
it
left
a
running
mark
.
A
second
time
she
did
it
--
a
third
time
.
And
so
pausing
and
so
flickering
,
she
attained
a
dancing
rhythmical
movement
,
as
if
the
pauses
were
one
part
of
the
rhythm
and
the
strokes
another
,
and
all
were
related
;
and
so
,
lightly
and
swiftly
pausing
,
striking
,
she
scored
her
canvas
with
brown
running
nervous
lines
which
had
no
sooner
settled
there
than
they
enclosed
(
she
felt
it
looming
out
at
her
)
a
space
.
Down
in
the
hollow
of
one
wave
she
saw
the
next
wave
towering
higher
and
higher
above
her
.
For
what
could
be
more
formidable
than
that
space
?
Here
she
was
again
,
she
thought
,
stepping
back
to
look
at
it
,
drawn
out
of
gossip
,
out
of
living
,
out
of
community
with
people
into
the
presence
of
this
formidable
ancient
enemy
of
hers
--
this
other
thing
,
this
truth
,
this
reality
,
which
suddenly
laid
hands
on
her
,
emerged
stark
at
the
back
of
appearances
and
commanded
her
attention
.
She
was
half
unwilling
,
half
reluctant
.
Why
always
be
drawn
out
and
haled
away
?
Why
not
left
in
peace
,
to
talk
to
Mr.
Carmichael
on
the
lawn
?
It
was
an
exacting
form
of
intercourse
anyhow
.
Other
worshipful
objects
were
content
with
worship
;
men
,
women
,
God
,
all
let
one
kneel
prostrate
;
but
this
form
,
were
it
only
the
shape
of
a
white
lamp-shade
looming
on
a
wicker
table
,
roused
one
to
perpetual
combat
,
challenged
one
to
a
fight
in
which
one
was
bound
to
be
worsted
.
Always
(
it
was
in
her
nature
,
or
in
her
sex
,
she
did
not
know
which
)
before
she
exchanged
the
fluidity
of
life
for
the
concentration
of
painting
she
had
a
few
moments
of
nakedness
when
she
seemed
like
an
unborn
soul
,
a
soul
reft
of
body
,
hesitating
on
some
windy
pinnacle
and
exposed
without
protection
to
all
the
blasts
of
doubt
.
Why
then
did
she
do
it
?
She
looked
at
the
canvas
,
lightly
scored
with
running
lines
.
It
would
be
hung
in
the
servants
'
bedrooms
.
It
would
be
rolled
up
and
stuffed
under
a
sofa
.
What
was
the
good
of
doing
it
then
,
and
she
heard
some
voice
saying
she
could
n't
paint
,
saying
she
could
n't
create
,
as
if
she
were
caught
up
in
one
of
those
habitual
currents
in
which
after
a
certain
time
experience
forms
in
the
mind
,
so
that
one
repeats
words
without
being
aware
any
longer
who
originally
spoke
them
.
Ca
n't
paint
,
ca
n't
write
,
she
murmured
monotonously
,
anxiously
considering
what
her
plan
of
attack
should
be
.
For
the
mass
loomed
before
her
;
it
protruded
;
she
felt
it
pressing
on
her
eyeballs
.
Then
,
as
if
some
juice
necessary
for
the
lubrication
of
her
faculties
were
spontaneously
squirted
,
she
began
precariously
dipping
among
the
blues
and
umbers
,
moving
her
brush
hither
and
thither
,
but
it
was
now
heavier
and
went
slower
,
as
if
it
had
fallen
in
with
some
rhythm
which
was
dictated
to
her
(
she
kept
looking
at
the
hedge
,
at
the
canvas
)
by
what
she
saw
,
so
that
while
her
hand
quivered
with
life
,
this
rhythm
was
strong
enough
to
bear
her
along
with
it
on
its
current
.
Certainly
she
was
losing
consciousness
of
outer
things
.
