Chapter 7 Chapter Six

What happened? Who's in trouble again. She awoke suddenly from her contemplation, and the words that had been meaningless in her mind for a long time now had a concrete meaning. "Who's in trouble again—" Her nearsighted eyes fixed on her husband, who was now heading straight for her.She fixed her eyes on him firmly, until he came close to her eyes, she didn't understand (the simple rhyme of the poem automatically matched in her mind): what happened, and who made trouble again.But she would never in her life guess what was going on. He shivered, he trembled.All his vanity, all his pride in his brilliance, his majesty like lightning and thunder, his valor as he led his troops like a vulture through the valley of death , has been shattered, destroyed.Under the hail of bullets, with pomp and awe, we galloped through the valley of death, the volleys and the roar of the cannon—and suddenly he and Lily Briscoe and William Banks came face to face.He shivered, he trembled.

She would not be talking to him at this moment anyway.From his averted eyes, from some of his personal eccentricities, from these familiar signs, it seemed that he wanted to hide himself, hide himself in a corner of inviolability, so that he could be in the middle of nowhere. The psychological balance was restored there; she knew in her heart that he was irritated, irritated.She patted James on the head, passing on her feelings for her husband to her children.When she saw him chalk yellow the white shirt of a gentleman in the Army and Navy store brochure, she thought how glad she would be if he were to be a great painter.Why can't he be a painter?His forehead is very well-grown.Later, when her husband passed her again, she looked up and found that the expression of nervous breakdown had been covered up; the warm atmosphere of the family prevailed; Cadence, therefore, stopped deliberately when he reappeared, bent over the window, and suddenly whimsically scratched James's bare calf mockingly with a twig.She chided him for sending "that poor young man" Mr. Tansley away.Tansley had to go indoors to work on his dissertation, he said.

"One day, James will have to write his dissertation," he added sarcastically, flicking the boy's leg with a branch in his hand. Hatred of his father, James waved away the branch.Ramsay, in his characteristic way, stern and humorous at the same time, teased the bare legs of his youngest son with the twig. She wants to finish knitting the lousy pair of socks to give to Sollet's child tomorrow, said Mrs Ramsay. It was quite impossible for them to go to the Lighthouse tomorrow, Mr. Ramsay interrupted roughly. How does he know?she asked rhetorically.Wind direction is often changing.

What she said was terribly unreasonable, and the foolishness of a woman made him fly into a rage.He had just leaped through the valley of death, but his dream was shattered, and he trembled with anger; but now, she despises the facts, making his children pin their hopes on things that are completely impossible. Just lying.He stamped his foot on the stone steps angrily. "Damn it!" he said.But what did she say?But it might be sunny tomorrow.Maybe tomorrow will be sunny. The temperature was dropping and the wind was back to the west, making that impossible. Such an astonishing disregard for the feelings of others in pursuit of truth, such capricious and brutal tearing down of the thin veil of civilization, seemed to her a terrible outrage on human decorum.Therefore, she stared blankly in bewilderment, she bowed her head in silence, as if letting the angular hailstones pouring down, and the sewage soaking her dress, all splashed on her body without resistance.She has nothing to say.

He stood beside her silently.He finally said very humbly that he would ask the Coast Guard weather post if she wanted to. There was no one whom she respected more than him. She was ready to take his opinion, she said.They don't have to prepare sandwiches -- that's all.Since she is a woman, naturally they come to her all day: one wants this, another wants that; the children are growing; Just a sponge of emotion.Just now he said, damn it.He said it was sure to rain.But now he also said that it will not rain tomorrow; so the gate of a safe heaven opened in front of her immediately.He is the person she respects the most.She didn't think she deserved to tie his shoelaces.

Already ashamed of the fit of temper, the way (in the poetic imagination) of leading his party into charge, Mr. Ramsay poked again sheepishly at his son's bare leg. , and now, as if he had obtained her permission to retire, his behavior reminded his wife curiously of a zoo sea lion, which, after devouring its fish, does a somersault backwards. In the water, he swam away clumsily, causing the water in the pool to surge to both sides.Mr Ramsay slipped into the twilight.The evening air, already thinner, was stealthily engulfing the shapes of leaves and hedges, and, as if in compensation, returned to the roses and carnations a color and a fragrance that were absent during the day.

"Who's in trouble again?" he said again, and he strode away, pacing up and down the terrace. And yet, how wonderfully the tone had changed!The tone was like a cuckoo's cry; "in June, his voice was out of tune;" as if he was trying the tune again, he was making a temporary test, trying to find a sentence to express a new mood. Emotion, and that was all he had, and he used it, even though it was a bit off-putting.It sounded a little comical though—"Who's in trouble again"—in that tone, almost like a question, with a beautiful rhyme and no certainty.Mrs Ramsay could not help smiling.He still hummed it as he paced up and down, and after a while, no doubt, he gradually forgot about it, and at last he fell silent.

He was safe, he was back to his solitude and undisturbed state.He stopped to light his pipe, and glanced at his wife and children through the window, like someone reading a book in an express train. When he looked up, he saw a farm, a tree, and a row of huts outside the window. is an illustration.His eyes returned to the page, and the illustration confirmed exactly what was in the book.His confidence is strengthened, and his mood is fulfilled.Thus, Ramsay's gaze did not distinguish whether it was his son or his wife he was looking at, and the sight of them both encouraged him, sated him, and focused his thoughts on what his brilliant mind was struggling with. The problem of thinking goes up, and a completely clear and penetrating understanding is obtained.

That is a remarkable head.If thought is like the keyboard of a piano, which can be divided into several keys, or like the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet arranged in sequence, then his excellent mind can recognize these letters one by one with steady and precise speed without With little effort, until, say, the letter Q.He has reached Q.In the whole of the UK, almost no one has ever achieved a Q.He paused for a moment before the stone urn with the geraniums.He saw his wife and children sitting together in the window, but now they seemed very far away, like children collecting shells, innocently concentrating on the insignificant things at their feet, and not knowing what he saw. Doom, they were off guard.They needed his protection, and he came to protect them.But what about the future of Q?What's next?After the Q there is a series of letters, the last letter, which is almost invisible to the mortal eye, but which glows red in the distance.In an entire generation, only one person makes it to Z at one point.Still, it would be nice if he could reach an R himself.Here at least Q.His heels are firmly planted on the Q.For Q, he is sure. Q, is all he can elucidate.If Q was Q—and R after that—here he thought, tapping his pipe loudly two or three times on the stem of the stone urn to knock off the ashes, and continued his thinking. "Then R..." He pulled himself together.He perseveres.

The good qualities—perseverance, justice, foresight, loyalty, and skill—that would save a boatload of fellow shipwrecks adrift on rough seas with six biscuits and a jug of fresh water, will come to his aid.The next step is R—and what is R? A shutter, like a lizard's eyelid, flickered over his intensely watching eyes, blinding him to the letter R.In that eyelid-closed, dark moment, he heard people say—he was a failure—that R was beyond his reach.He will never reach R.Dash to R, do it again. R—— He has qualities that would make him leader, guide and advisor on a solitary expedition across thousands of miles of ice and silence in the Arctic.This kind of character is neither blindly optimistic nor pessimistic, and can observe the future calmly and face reality squarely.These qualities will come to his aid once again. R——

The lizard's eyelids flickered open and close again.Veins protruded from his forehead.The geranium in the urn became surprisingly clear, and unexpectedly he was able to see, among its leaves, revealing the ancient, stark difference between the two types of figures; People with strength and steady progress, they work hard step by step, persevere, and rewrite all the twenty-six letters in sequence from beginning to end; on the other hand, there are talented and inspired people, they miraculously He conquered all the letters in one go in an instant--that's the way of genius.He wasn't a genius; he didn't have that gift; but he had, or should have, the ability to copy every letter from A to Z in exact sequence.Currently he is stuck at Q.March, and then march to R. The snowflakes began to drift, and the clouds and mists covered the mountaintops, and all the emotions that he knew he would die before dawn, and would never disgrace the captaincy of the expedition, crept into his heart and dimmed his eyes as he walked on the platform. Within two minutes of one lap, it even made him look old and aged.But he would not lie there and die; he would find a precipice where he would stand, staring into the storm until his last hour, his eyes still trying to pierce the vast darkness, and he would die standing.He will never reach R. He stood transfixed by a stone urn full of geraniums.He asked himself: Among a billion people, how many people can reach Z?Of course, a captain with little hope may ask himself, and without betraying his previous journey, answer frankly: "Maybe there is only one." In a generation, there is only one.If he's not that guy, is he to blame?If he has put his head down and worked hard, and has done his best without reservation, will he still be criticized?How long can his reputation last?Is it permissible for a dying hero to think, before he dies, how people will judge him afterwards?His fame may last for two thousand years.And what does two thousand years mean? (Mr. Ramsay asks sarcastically, staring at the fence.) What on earth does it mean, if you look at those long wasted years from the top of the hill?That pebble you kick will outlive Shakespeare.His own weak light would shine brightly for a year or two, and then it would merge into some greater light, and that light would again merge into an even greater light. (He looks between the fence, between the tangle of twigs.) If, before death had stiffened his limbs and incapacitated him, he had indeed lifted his numb fingers to his eyebrows with some consciousness, and raised them If he raised his chest to meet death, then, when the search party came, they would find that he had died in his post in the fine posture of a soldier, and that the expedition he led had after all climbed to a certain point. From the height of the sky, you can see the wasted years and the falling of the planet. Who can blame the leader of the lonely and helpless expedition team?Mr. Ramsay stood tall beside the urn, his chest puffed out. And who could blame him if, standing thus for a moment, he thought of his own reputation, of search parties, of the memorial stones his grateful followers had erected over his remains?Lastly, if he's done his best, he's done his best, he's drifted off to sleep and he doesn't care if he comes back to life (he's feeling a little tingling in his toes now that he's alive, and basically has no objection to living), but he needs sympathy, Needing whiskey, needing to confide his ordeal immediately, who could blame the doomed expedition leader?When the hero took off his armor, stood in front of the window, and stared at his wife and children, who could not be secretly grateful?At first she was far away, and gradually she came closer, until lips, book, and head came into view clearly, and though he felt terribly alone, and thought of the wasted years and the fallen planet, he felt She is still charming and lovely, novelty and moving.At last he put his pipe in his pocket, and bowed his handsome head before her—and who could blame him if he paid homage to this incomparable beauty?