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So
she
said
nothing
,
but
looked
doggedly
and
sadly
at
the
shore
,
wrapped
in
its
mantle
of
peace
;
as
if
the
people
there
had
fallen
asleep
,
she
thought
;
were
free
like
smoke
,
were
free
to
come
and
go
like
ghosts
.
They
have
no
suffering
there
,
she
thought
.
Yes
,
that
is
their
boat
,
Lily
Briscoe
decided
,
standing
on
the
edge
of
the
lawn
.
It
was
the
boat
with
greyish-brown
sails
,
which
she
saw
now
flatten
itself
upon
the
water
and
shoot
off
across
the
bay
.
There
he
sits
,
she
thought
,
and
the
children
are
quite
silent
still
.
And
she
could
not
reach
him
either
.
The
sympathy
she
had
not
given
him
weighed
her
down
.
It
made
it
difficult
for
her
to
paint
.
She
had
always
found
him
difficult
.
She
never
had
been
able
to
praise
him
to
his
face
,
she
remembered
.
And
that
reduced
their
relationship
to
something
neutral
,
without
that
element
of
sex
in
it
which
made
his
manner
to
Minta
so
gallant
,
almost
gay
.
He
would
pick
a
flower
for
her
,
lend
her
his
books
.
But
could
he
believe
that
Minta
read
them
?
She
dragged
them
about
the
garden
,
sticking
in
leaves
to
mark
the
place
.
"
D'you
remember
,
Mr.
Carmichael
?
"
she
was
inclined
to
ask
,
looking
at
the
old
man
.
But
he
had
pulled
his
hat
half
over
his
forehead
;
he
was
asleep
,
or
he
was
dreaming
,
or
he
was
lying
there
catching
words
,
she
supposed
.
"
D'you
remember
?
"
she
felt
inclined
to
ask
him
as
she
passed
him
,
thinking
again
of
Mrs.
Ramsay
on
the
beach
;
the
cask
bobbing
up
and
down
;
and
the
pages
flying
.
Why
,
after
all
these
years
had
that
survived
,
ringed
round
,
lit
up
,
visible
to
the
last
detail
,
with
all
before
it
blank
and
all
after
it
blank
,
for
miles
and
miles
?
"
Is
it
a
boat
?
Is
it
a
cork
?
"
she
would
say
,
Lily
repeated
,
turning
back
,
reluctantly
again
,
to
her
canvas
.
Heaven
be
praised
for
it
,
the
problem
of
space
remained
,
she
thought
,
taking
up
her
brush
again
.
It
glared
at
her
.
The
whole
mass
of
the
picture
was
poised
upon
that
weight
.
Beautiful
and
bright
it
should
be
on
the
surface
,
feathery
and
evanescent
,
one
colour
melting
into
another
like
the
colours
on
a
butterfly
's
wing
;
but
beneath
the
fabric
must
be
clamped
together
with
bolts
of
iron
.
It
was
to
be
a
thing
you
could
ruffle
with
your
breath
;
and
a
thing
you
could
not
dislodge
with
a
team
of
horses
.
And
she
began
to
lay
on
a
red
,
a
grey
,
and
she
began
to
model
her
way
into
the
hollow
there
.
At
the
same
time
,
she
seemed
to
be
sitting
beside
Mrs.
Ramsay
on
the
beach
.
"
Is
it
a
boat
?
Is
it
a
cask
?
"
Mrs.
Ramsay
said
.
And
she
began
hunting
round
for
her
spectacles
.
And
she
sat
,
having
found
them
,
silent
,
looking
out
to
sea
.
And
Lily
,
painting
steadily
,
felt
as
if
a
door
had
opened
,
and
one
went
in
and
stood
gazing
silently
about
in
a
high
cathedral-like
place
,
very
dark
,
very
solemn
.
Shouts
came
from
a
world
far
away
.
Steamers
vanished
in
stalks
of
smoke
on
the
horizon
.
Charles
threw
stones
and
sent
them
skipping
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
sat
silent
.
She
was
glad
,
Lily
thought
,
to
rest
in
silence
,
uncommunicative
;
to
rest
in
the
extreme
obscurity
of
human
relationships
.
Who
knows
what
we
are
,
what
we
feel
?
Who
knows
even
at
the
moment
of
intimacy
,
This
is
knowledge
?
Are
n't
things
spoilt
then
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
may
have
asked
(
it
seemed
to
have
happened
so
often
,
this
silence
by
her
side
)
by
saying
them
?
Are
n't
we
more
expressive
thus
?
The
moment
at
least
seemed
extraordinarily
fertile
.
She
rammed
a
little
hole
in
the
sand
and
covered
it
up
,
by
way
of
burying
in
it
the
perfection
of
the
moment
.
It
was
like
a
drop
of
silver
in
which
one
dipped
and
illumined
the
darkness
of
the
past
.
