Chapter 5 Chapter Four

Really, he nearly knocked her easel over.He yelled "Majestic, let's go," and waving his hands, he charged straight at her, but, thank God, he turned his horse suddenly, and away from her, she guessed, he was going to be in Barak. He died heroically in the Battle of Laval.Nobody has ever been so hilarious and scary.But as long as he continued dancing and chanting like this, she was safe; he wouldn't stop to look at her paintings.That was a thing Lily Briscoe couldn't stand.Even as she gazed at the patches, the lines, the colors on the canvas, at Mrs Ramsay and James seated in the window, her nervous tentacles were alert to her surroundings lest someone should tiptoe Walking over, I suddenly stared at her painting.All her senses were sharpened now, and she looked intently, intensely, until the color of the wall and the Gaumana flowers yonder came into her eyes deeply.She noticed someone coming out of the house and coming towards her; but it was William Banks, as she could tell from the manner of walking, so that, though her brush was quivering, she did not (if it was Mr. Paul Reilly, Mintay Doyle or whoever actually, she would) turn her painting upside down on the grass, and she still leaves it standing.William Banks stood beside her.

They both slept in the village, walked in and out together, and when they parted at night on the doormat, they made little comments about the soup, and the children, and whatnot, which made them build up A relationship of mutual understanding.So when he stands beside her now with his judging air (he was old enough to be her father, a botanist, a widower, always smelling of soap, cautious , very clean), she just stood there.He was standing there too, and her shoes were wonderful, he noticed.That shoe allows the toes to stretch naturally.Living in the same house with her, he had noticed how regular her life was, she was always out painting before breakfast, he thought, she was alone, probably poor, certainly not Miss Doyle's Beauty or charm, but she was reasonable and well-informed, and so she was superior to the young lady in his eyes.For example, when Mr. Ramsay turned angry at them, gesticulating and yelling at them, he was sure that Miss Briscoe understood:

"Someone got into trouble again." Mr Ramsay stared at them.He stared at them, but didn't seem to see them.That made them both feel a little embarrassed.The two of them inadvertently saw things they didn't expect to see.They invade other people's privacy.So, Lily thought, Mr. Banks was probably trying to find an excuse to get out of the way of Mr. Ramsay's poetry, so he said almost at once that it was a bit chilly and suggested a walk. .Yes, she would like to go for a walk.However, she cast another longing glance at her painting. The Gaumana flowers were bright purple; the walls were white and dazzling.Now that she saw them as they were, she would have been ashamed if she had not painted them livid and white, though since the painter Mr. Paunceford had come to see everything as pale and tasteful and Translucent has become a fashion.Beneath the color, however, is the form.She could see it all so clearly, so sure, as she gazed; and the moment she held the pen in hand, the whole scene changed.In the instants she was about to transplant the picture in her mind onto the canvas, the demons stalked her, often almost bringing tears to her eyes, and made the process of turning an idea into a work a journey like a child's. The dark alleys are just as scary.This is how she often feels—she has to fight the terrible gap between concept and reality, to keep her courage, and say, "This is what I see; this is what I see," Thereby grasping some poor remnant of her visual impressions and carrying it to her breast, and a thousand forces strive to wrest that little remnant from her too.At this very moment, in the cool autumn wind, as she was about to begin to paint, other thoughts came flooding in: her own inadequacy, how small she was, her father's housekeeping in Brompton Road, her And try to hold back my strong urge not to fall at Mrs Ramsay's feet (thank God, she's held back so far), and say to her—but what could be said to her? "I'm in love with you?" No, that's not true. "I'm in love with it all," she said, waving her hand toward the fence, the house and the kids.How ridiculous, how impossible.It is impossible for a person to express his true thoughts.So now she put her brushes neatly one by one in the box, and said to William Bankes: "The weather has suddenly grown cooler, and the heat from the sun seems to have abated," she said While looking around.Because there was still enough light, the lawn remained a soft dark green, the house stood out against a greenery dotted with purple flowers in full bloom, and the rooks wailed under the blue sky.However, something was flowing, spreading silver wings in the air and flashing past.After all, it was already September, the middle of September, and it was dusk after six o'clock.So they wandered along their customary route through the garden, across the tennis court, and over the pampas grass, to the gap in the thick hedge guarded by a flaming iron grating, red as a brazier with burning coals. .Between the gaps in the fence the corner of the bay could be seen, and the blue water looked bluer than ever.

Out of some need, they always go there every evening.It seems that the thoughts that have become rigid on land will sail away with the drift of the sea, and bring a certain sense of relaxation to their bodies.At first, the rhythmic blue tide poured into the bay, dyeing it a blue, so refreshing, as if even the body was swimming with the current, only the next moment, it was dazzled by the roaring waves. Covered by black ripples, it is uninteresting.Then, behind that huge rocky reef, almost every evening, a white spring spews out at irregular intervals, so you have to keep your eyes open and wait for it, and when it finally appears and while you wait, you will see, on the pale, semi-circular beach, the incoming waves shed layers of pearls peacefully again and again. mother film.

They both stood there smiling.They were aroused, first by the rushing waves, and then by a galleon galloping through them, to a common feeling of joy.The sailboat cut a curving rip in the bay, stopped, quivering, letting its sails drop; and then, with a natural instinct to complete the picture, watched the After a quick movement, the two of them looked at the sand dunes in the distance. The joy they had felt just now was gone, and a sad mood came up-because the picture was still insufficient, because the distant scenery seemed to be more important than the distant scenery. A million years longer for the viewer (thought Lily), long before the view had spoken to the sky above the sleeping earth.

Looking at the dunes in the distance, William Banks thought of Ramsay: of a path in Westmoreland, of Ramsay, with that solitude that seemed to be his nature, alone One walks along that road.His walk was suddenly interrupted, William Bankes recalled (and it must have been by some accident that actually happened), by an old hen stretching out her wings to protect a brood of chicks.Ramsay stopped, and pointing to the old hen with his cane, said "Pretty--pretty," and a strange light shone into the pit of his heart.That, Banks thought, showed his simplicity and his sympathy for the weak, but it seemed to him that it was at that fork, and there, that their friendship broke off.After that, Ramsay got married.Then for some reason, the core of their friendship disappeared.He couldn't tell whose fault it was, but, after a while, new friendships replaced new ones.It was for reminiscing about the old days that they met again.Yet, in this silent conversation between himself and Dune, he insisted that his friendship for Ramsay had not diminished in the slightest; A century after lying in the bed, his lips are still red, and this is his friendship, sharp and real, lying in the sand dunes on the other side of the bay.

He was anxious about the friendship, anxious perhaps to get rid of that haggard feeling in himself--for Ramsay lived among lively children and Banks was a childless widower-- He was anxious that Lily Briscoe would not belittle Ramsay (who was a great figure in his own right) and at the same time understand their relationship.Their friendship, long begun, dried up on a fork in Westmoreland, when the hen was nursing her chicks; after which Ramsay married, and they went their separate ways. Of course, no one is at fault, it's just that there is a certain tendency, and when they meet again, there is still this tendency of seeming close.

Yes.That's all.He's done.He turned away from the view.He turned and walked back the way back, onto the driveway.Had the dunes not revealed to him the remains of red-lipped friendships buried in the mud, he would never have noticed things he hadn't noticed—Cam, the little girl, Ramsay, for example. The youngest daughter, she is picking sweet Alice flowers on the beach.She is terribly headstrong.She would not listen to the nurse's words, "Give the gentleman a flower." No!No!No!She just won't give it!She clenched her fists.She stomped.Banksy felt old and forlorn.His friendship was somehow misunderstood by her.He must have looked emaciated.

The Ramsays were not rich.It's a wonder how they managed to maintain it all.Eight children!Feeding eight children by studying philosophy!Here's another one of the kids.This time it was Jasper, he said, sauntering past to shoot some birds.He shook Lily's hand casually as he passed, as if he were holding the handle of a pump, and Mr. Bankes said sourly that she was everyone's favorite.Now there's education to think about (yes, maybe Mrs Ramsay has some things of her own to think about), not to mention that the "great fellows" are all tall, bony, ruthless young men who usually How many shoes and socks to consume.As for finding out their names and the order of seniority, he really couldn't do it.He privately called them by the names of the Kings and Queens of England—Cam the Wayward, James the Cruel, Andrew the Just, Prue the Fair—Prue would have a pretty face, he thought, and she couldn't grow Not beautiful, but Andrew will have a smart head.As he hit the driveway and Lily added a yes-or-no conclusion to his various comments (she loved them all, she loved the world), he weighed Ramsay's situation, pity He, envious of him, as if he had seen Ramsay's reputation of being reclusive and serious in his youth, and now he was indeed dragged down like a clucking hen by his children, and throwing away all his past honors .They did give him some pleasure, William Banks admitted; if Cam had stuck a flower in his suit, or climbed over his shoulder to see a picture of Vesuvius erupting, it would have been Very pleasant; but, his old friends could not fail to feel that they had destroyed something, too.What would a stranger think now?What would this Lily Briscoe think?Who could fail to notice the bad habits that had grown up in him?Perhaps a quirk, a weakness?It is astonishing that a man of so much talent should be in such a low state of mind--but that is too harsh a word--and that he should be so dependent on people's admiration.

"Oh, but," said Lily, "think of his work!" Whenever she "remembers his work," she sees clearly in her imagination a large kitchen table in front of her.That's a good thing Andrew did.She asked him what his father's book was about. "Subject, object and the nature of reality," Andrew said.She said, God, she didn't know what that meant. "Imagine, then, that there is a table in the kitchen," he said to her, "and that you are not there." So now, whenever she thought of Mr. Ramsay's work, she saw a well-scrubbed kitchen table.Presently it was suspended over the fork of a pear tree, for they had come to the orchard.She struggled to focus, not on the silvery knotted bark, or the fish-shaped leaf, but on the vision of a kitchen table, one of those scrubbed boards The table, with its knotty wood grain, was intact and solid, which had shown its advantages over the years, and now it was hanging there on all fours.Of course, if the beautiful dusk, the fiery red sunset, the blue water and the silver bark are condensed into a white table with four legs, if a person always sees the raw nature of things in this way, if he spends time like this Time (and to do so is the hallmark of the best thinkers), such a character naturally cannot be measured by ordinary standards.

Mr Banks liked her because she told him to "think about his work".He had thought about it, he had thought about it often, over and over again.I don't know how many times he has said, "Mr. Ramsay is one of those men who reach the peak of their careers before they are forty." A definite contribution to philosophy was made in the book; what has been written since has been more or less an extension and repetition of the same theme.In any case, there are not many people who contribute to a certain cause, he stopped beside the pear tree as he spoke.It was a well-worded, uncannily precise, and fair statement.Suddenly, as if he released her feelings with a wave of his hand, she had accumulated a lot of impressions of him, and now all her feelings for him poured out like a heavy avalanche.It was an emotional emotion.Then, in a puff of smoke, rose the substance of his being.That's another feeling.She was stupefied with amazement at the intensity of her own feelings; feelings aroused by his severity, his kindness.I respect you (she said to him silently in her heart), respect you completely in every way; you are not vain; you are completely unselfish; you are better than Mr. Ramsay; You have no wife and children (she longs to soothe his lonely soul, but without any sensuality); you live for science (involuntarily, slices of potato slices emerge before her eyes); praise is to you An insult; what a magnanimous, pure-hearted, heroic man you are!Yet, at the same time, she remembered that he had come all the way here with a valet; Mr. Qi slams the door and walks away). How does this explain all of this?How do you judge other people, how do you see them?How do you put all the factors together and draw conclusions about your likes and dislikes about someone?What do those comments mean?Now she stands there, staring blankly at the pear tree.Impressions of these two men flooded my mind one after another.To follow her train of thought is like following an unrecordable voice speaking at breakneck speed, and it is her own voice that speaks, and she avoids immediate reactions to the undeniable, timeless, contradictory , even the cracks and knots on the bark of the pear tree remained there forever.You have greatness, she went on, but Mr Ramsay has no such greatness; he is petty, selfish, vain, individualistic; he is spoiled; he is a tyrant; he makes Mrs Ramsay Tortured to death; but he has what you (she said to Mr. Bankes) have not;He has eight children, Mr Banks has none.Didn't he put on two coats that night, have Mrs Ramsay cut his hair, and put his hair in a pudding-baking pan?These many thoughts came one after another, flying up and down like a swarm of mosquitoes.Separated but held together in an invisible, elastic web--they danced in Lily's mind, among the branches of the pear tree (the vision of the scrubbed kitchen table , a symbol of her deep admiration for Mr. Ramsay's intellect, still suspended there), she was relieved until her faster and faster thoughts broke apart with too much tension.A gunshot was heard nearby, and in the aftermath of the gunshot a flock of frightened, chirping, restless starlings flew up. "Jesper!" said Mr Banks.They turned and walked in the direction of the starlings' flight over the platform, and following the flock of flocks of frightened and frightened birds in the air, passed through the gap in the high fence until they came to Mr. Ramsay.He grunted sadly at them. "Who made trouble again!" Mr. Ramsay, who was reciting a poem, was completely absorbed in his narcissism, his eyes sparkling with excitement, his melancholy and nervous challenge, now suddenly met theirs, and for a moment they gazed at each other. The instant he recognized them, he trembled; then he tried to raise his hands to cover his face, but he stopped halfway, as if in an impetuous, shameful agony, he wanted to dodge, shake looked at them normally, as if he begged them to put off for a moment what he knew was inevitable, as if they were impressed by the childish resentment at the interruption of his reciting; The moment he bumped into it, he didn't completely collapse, but was determined to cling to this happy emotion, this kind of non-standard fanatical chant that both made him ashamed and intoxicated him—he turned around suddenly, He slammed the door of his den on them.Lily Briscoe and Mr. Banks looked up anxiously at the sky, and saw that the flock of starlings, which had been scattered by Jesper's gunshot, were perched on the tops of the elms.