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[
The
sea
without
a
stain
on
it
,
thought
Lily
Briscoe
,
still
standing
and
looking
out
over
the
bay
.
The
sea
stretched
like
silk
across
the
bay
.
Distance
had
an
extraordinary
power
;
they
had
been
swallowed
up
in
it
,
she
felt
,
they
were
gone
for
ever
,
they
had
become
part
of
the
nature
of
things
.
It
was
so
calm
;
it
was
so
quiet
.
The
steamer
itself
had
vanished
,
but
the
great
scroll
of
smoke
still
hung
in
the
air
and
drooped
like
a
flag
mournfully
in
valediction
.
]
It
was
like
that
then
,
the
island
,
thought
Cam
,
once
more
drawing
her
fingers
through
the
waves
.
She
had
never
seen
it
from
out
at
sea
before
.
It
lay
like
that
on
the
sea
,
did
it
,
with
a
dent
in
the
middle
and
two
sharp
crags
,
and
the
sea
swept
in
there
,
and
spread
away
for
miles
and
miles
on
either
side
of
the
island
.
It
was
very
small
;
shaped
something
like
a
leaf
stood
on
end
.
So
we
took
a
little
boat
,
she
thought
,
beginning
to
tell
herself
a
story
of
adventure
about
escaping
from
a
sinking
ship
.
But
with
the
sea
streaming
through
her
fingers
,
a
spray
of
seaweed
vanishing
behind
them
,
she
did
not
want
to
tell
herself
seriously
a
story
;
it
was
the
sense
of
adventure
and
escape
that
she
wanted
,
for
she
was
thinking
,
as
the
boat
sailed
on
,
how
her
father
's
anger
about
the
points
of
the
compass
,
James
's
obstinacy
about
the
compact
,
and
her
own
anguish
,
all
had
slipped
,
all
had
passed
,
all
had
streamed
away
.
What
then
came
next
?
Where
were
they
going
?
From
her
hand
,
ice
cold
,
held
deep
in
the
sea
,
there
spurted
up
a
fountain
of
joy
at
the
change
,
at
the
escape
,
at
the
adventure
(
that
she
should
be
alive
,
that
she
should
be
there
)
.
And
the
drops
falling
from
this
sudden
and
unthinking
fountain
of
joy
fell
here
and
there
on
the
dark
,
the
slumbrous
shapes
in
her
mind
;
shapes
of
a
world
not
realised
but
turning
in
their
darkness
,
catching
here
and
there
,
a
spark
of
light
;
Greece
,
Rome
,
Constantinople
.
Small
as
it
was
,
and
shaped
something
like
a
leaf
stood
on
its
end
with
the
gold-sprinkled
waters
flowing
in
and
about
it
,
it
had
,
she
supposed
,
a
place
in
the
universe
--
even
that
little
island
?
The
old
gentlemen
in
the
study
she
thought
could
have
told
her
.
Sometimes
she
strayed
in
from
the
garden
purposely
to
catch
them
at
it
.
There
they
were
(
it
might
be
Mr.
Carmichael
or
Mr.
Bankes
who
was
sitting
with
her
father
)
sitting
opposite
each
other
in
their
low
arm-chairs
.
They
were
crackling
in
front
of
them
the
pages
of
THE
TIMES
,
when
she
came
in
from
the
garden
,
all
in
a
muddle
,
about
something
some
one
had
said
about
Christ
,
or
hearing
that
a
mammoth
had
been
dug
up
in
a
London
street
,
or
wondering
what
Napoleon
was
like
.
Then
they
took
all
this
with
their
clean
hands
(
they
wore
grey-coloured
clothes
;
they
smelt
of
heather
)
and
they
brushed
the
scraps
together
,
turning
the
paper
,
crossing
their
knees
,
and
said
something
now
and
then
very
brief
.
Just
to
please
herself
she
would
take
a
book
from
the
shelf
and
stand
there
,
watching
her
father
write
,
so
equally
,
so
neatly
from
one
side
of
the
page
to
another
,
with
a
little
cough
now
and
then
,
or
something
said
briefly
to
the
other
old
gentleman
opposite
.
And
she
thought
,
standing
there
with
her
book
open
,
one
could
let
whatever
one
thought
expand
here
like
a
leaf
in
water
;
and
if
it
did
well
here
,
among
the
old
gentlemen
smoking
and
THE
TIMES
crackling
then
it
was
right
.
And
watching
her
father
as
he
wrote
in
his
study
,
she
thought
(
now
sitting
in
the
boat
)
he
was
not
vain
,
nor
a
tyrant
and
did
not
wish
to
make
you
pity
him
.
Indeed
,
if
he
saw
she
was
there
,
reading
a
book
,
he
would
ask
her
,
as
gently
as
any
one
could
,
Was
there
nothing
he
could
give
her
?
Lest
this
should
be
wrong
,
she
looked
at
him
reading
the
little
book
with
the
shiny
cover
mottled
like
a
plover
's
egg
.
No
;
it
was
right
.
Look
at
him
now
,
she
wanted
to
say
aloud
to
James
.
(
But
James
had
his
eye
on
the
sail
.
)
He
is
a
sarcastic
brute
,
James
would
say
.
He
brings
the
talk
round
to
himself
and
his
books
,
James
would
say
.
He
is
intolerably
egotistical
.
Worst
of
all
,
he
is
a
tyrant
.
But
look
!
she
said
,
looking
at
him
.
Look
at
him
now
.
She
looked
at
him
reading
the
little
book
with
his
legs
curled
;
the
little
book
whose
yellowish
pages
she
knew
,
without
knowing
what
was
written
on
them
.
It
was
small
;
it
was
closely
printed
;
on
the
fly-leaf
,
she
knew
,
he
had
written
that
he
had
spent
fifteen
francs
on
dinner
;
the
wine
had
been
so
much
;
he
had
given
so
much
to
the
waiter
;
all
was
added
up
neatly
at
the
bottom
of
the
page
.
But
what
might
be
written
in
the
book
which
had
rounded
its
edges
off
in
his
pocket
,
she
did
not
know
.
What
he
thought
they
none
of
them
knew
.
But
he
was
absorbed
in
it
,
so
that
when
he
looked
up
,
as
he
did
now
for
an
instant
,
it
was
not
to
see
anything
;
it
was
to
pin
down
some
thought
more
exactly
.
That
done
,
his
mind
flew
back
again
and
he
plunged
into
his
reading
He
read
,
she
thought
,
as
if
he
were
guiding
something
,
or
wheedling
a
large
flock
of
sheep
,
or
pushing
his
way
up
and
up
a
single
narrow
path
;
and
sometimes
he
went
fast
and
straight
,
and
broke
his
way
through
the
bramble
,
and
sometimes
it
seemed
a
branch
struck
at
him
,
a
bramble
blinded
him
,
but
he
was
not
going
to
let
himself
be
beaten
by
that
;
on
he
went
,
tossing
over
page
after
page
.
And
she
went
on
telling
herself
a
story
about
escaping
from
a
sinking
ship
,
for
she
was
safe
,
while
he
sat
there
;
safe
,
as
she
felt
herself
when
she
crept
in
from
the
garden
,
and
took
a
book
down
,
and
the
old
gentleman
,
lowering
the
paper
suddenly
,
said
something
very
brief
over
the
top
of
it
about
the
character
of
Napoleon
.
She
gazed
back
over
the
sea
,
at
the
island
.
But
the
leaf
was
losing
its
sharpness
.
It
was
very
small
;
it
was
very
distant
.
The
sea
was
more
important
now
than
the
shore
.
Waves
were
all
round
them
,
tossing
and
sinking
,
with
a
log
wallowing
down
one
wave
;
a
gull
riding
on
another
.
About
here
,
she
thought
,
dabbling
her
fingers
in
the
water
,
a
ship
had
sunk
,
and
she
murmured
,
dreamily
half
asleep
,
how
we
perished
,
each
alone
.
So
much
depends
then
,
thought
Lily
Briscoe
,
looking
at
the
sea
which
had
scarcely
a
stain
on
it
,
which
was
so
soft
that
the
sails
and
the
clouds
seemed
set
in
its
blue
,
so
much
depends
,
she
thought
,
upon
distance
:
whether
people
are
near
us
or
far
from
us
;
for
her
feeling
for
Mr.
Ramsay
changed
as
he
sailed
further
and
further
across
the
bay
.
It
seemed
to
be
elongated
,
stretched
out
;
he
seemed
to
become
more
and
more
remote
.
He
and
his
children
seemed
to
be
swallowed
up
in
that
blue
,
that
distance
;
but
here
,
on
the
lawn
,
close
at
hand
,
Mr.
Carmichael
suddenly
grunted
.
She
laughed
.
He
clawed
his
book
up
from
the
grass
.
He
settled
into
his
chair
again
puffing
and
blowing
like
some
sea
monster
.
That
was
different
altogether
,
because
he
was
so
near
.
And
now
again
all
was
quiet
.
They
must
be
out
of
bed
by
this
time
,
she
supposed
,
looking
at
the
house
,
but
nothing
appeared
there
.
But
then
,
she
remembered
,
they
had
always
made
off
directly
a
meal
was
over
,
on
business
of
their
own
.
It
was
all
in
keeping
with
this
silence
,
this
emptiness
,
and
the
unreality
of
the
early
morning
hour
.
It
was
a
way
things
had
sometimes
,
she
thought
,
lingering
for
a
moment
and
looking
at
the
long
glittering
windows
and
the
plume
of
blue
smoke
:
they
became
illness
,
before
habits
had
spun
themselves
across
the
surface
,
one
felt
that
same
unreality
,
which
was
so
startling
;
felt
something
emerge
.
Life
was
most
vivid
then
.
One
could
be
at
one
's
ease
.
Mercifully
one
need
not
say
,
very
briskly
,
crossing
the
lawn
to
greet
old
Mrs.
Beckwith
,
who
would
be
coming
out
to
find
a
corner
to
sit
in
,
"
Oh
,
good-morning
,
Mrs.
Beckwith
!
What
a
lovely
day
!
Are
you
going
to
be
so
bold
as
to
sit
in
the
sun
?
Jasper
's
hidden
the
chairs
.
Do
let
me
find
you
one
!
"
and
all
the
rest
of
the
usual
chatter
.
One
need
not
speak
at
all
.
One
glided
,
one
shook
one
's
sails
(
there
was
a
good
deal
of
movement
in
the
bay
,
boats
were
starting
off
)
between
things
,
beyond
things
.
Empty
it
was
not
,
but
full
to
the
brim
.
She
seemed
to
be
standing
up
to
the
lips
in
some
substance
,
to
move
and
float
and
sink
in
it
,
yes
,
for
these
waters
were
unfathomably
deep
.
Into
them
had
spilled
so
many
lives
.
The
Ramsays
'
;
the
children
's
;
and
all
sorts
of
waifs
and
strays
of
things
besides
.
A
washer-woman
with
her
basket
;
a
rook
,
a
red-hot
poker
;
the
purples
and
grey-greens
of
flowers
:
some
common
feeling
which
held
the
whole
together
.
It
was
some
such
feeling
of
completeness
perhaps
which
,
ten
years
ago
,
standing
almost
where
she
stood
now
,
had
made
her
say
that
she
must
be
in
love
with
the
place
.
Love
had
a
thousand
shapes
.
There
might
be
lovers
whose
gift
it
was
to
choose
out
the
elements
of
things
and
place
them
together
and
so
,
giving
them
a
wholeness
not
theirs
in
life
,
make
of
some
scene
,
or
meeting
of
people
(
all
now
gone
and
separate
)
,
one
of
those
globed
compacted
things
over
which
thought
lingers
,
and
love
plays
.
