Chapter 12 Chapter Eleven

Yes, she thought, children never forget.She collected the pictures he had cut out—a refrigerator, a lawn mower, a gentleman in evening dress.Just because children have a good memory, your words and deeds are very important. You must not be careless. You will not be able to breathe a sigh of relief until they all go to bed.Now she doesn't have to worry about anyone anymore.She was able to regain her self, independent of others.It was at times like this that she often felt the need—to think; well, not even to think, but to be silent; to be alone.All that outward, glittering, cacophony of being and activity had evaporated; now, with a sense of seriousness, she withdrew back into her self—a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something that others unseen things.Though she sat and knit, it was in this state that she felt her own self; and this unfettered self was free for the strangest adventures.When life sinks deep into the soul, the field of experience seems to be vast and boundless.There was always, she guessed, this infinitely rich inner feeling for everyone; everyone, herself, Lily, Augustus, Carmichael, must all feel: our phantoms , the appearance by which you know us is simply childish and ridiculous.Beneath this exterior there is a darkness, stretching and unfathomable; but we often rise to the surface, and it is through that exterior that you see us.Her inner realm seemed vast and boundless.There were places she had never seen; among them were the plains of India; and it seemed to her that she was raising the thick leather curtain of a church in Rome.This dark core can go anywhere, she thought happily, because it is invisible, no one can see it, no one can stop it.In personal solitude, there is freedom, there is peace, and that most welcome sense of bringing together the parts of the self to rest on a solid altar.One does not often find rest, and according to her experience (when she knits some dainty patterns with steel needles), rest is found only in the self as a person, as a wedge-shaped core.Throw away the individuality of appearance, and you throw away the cares, the haste, the commotion; and when all is gathered into this peace, tranquility, and eternity, then some triumphant cry over life rises to her heart. lips; her thoughts stopped there, and her gaze, looking out of the window, met the beam of the lighthouse, that long, steady beam, the last of those three flashes, and that was her flash, for , always at this moment, in this mood, watching the gleam of this lighthouse, she can't help connecting herself to something, especially what she sees; Something, this steady, long beam of light, is her beam of light.Often she found herself sitting and watching, sitting and watching, working with her hands, until she became one with what she was looking at—the light, for example.And, she would lift up to that beam of light some words buried in her heart—"the children will not forget, the children will not forget"—she would repeat them over and over, and add Previous sentence: It will end, it will end, she said.That day will come, it will come, she went on suddenly, and we will be in God's hands.

But immediately she was angry with herself for saying that.Who said it?It wasn't her; she was deluded to say such things against her own will.Her eyes left the sock she was knitting, and she looked up to see the third flash of the lighthouse, and it seemed to her that her own eyes met her own, the light, as only she could do. As I had come to, digging deep into her mind and heart, distilling the essence out of it, removing that lie, all lies.By praising the light, she praises herself without vanity, for she is as austere, so probing, and beautiful as the light.It's strange, she thought, how one leans toward inanimate things if one is alone: ​​trees, streams, flowers; to feel that they express one's heart; to feel that they knew this man, and in a sense became one with him; to feel a tenderness so restless (as she gazed at the long, steady beam of light) that it was as if she were pitying herself.There arose—she stopped the steel needle in her hand to stare—a puff of smoke rolled up in her heart, and on the surface of the lake of her life, a layer of mist floated, turning into a bride, to meet her lover.

What made her say something like that: "We're going to be in God's hands!"?She felt strange.The insincere words seeped through the sincerity, and it alarmed her and annoyed her.She went back to knitting socks.How could there be some god to create this world?she asked.Through her thoughts she has always held fast to the fact that there is no reason, order, justice; only pain, death, poverty.She knew that in this world, no matter what base and shameless act of treachery, will happen.She also understands that there is no lasting happiness in the world.She knits stockings with a determined air, she purses her lips slightly, unconsciously, in a habitual stern air, the lines of her face are stiff and still, and when her husband passes by, though He chuckled at the thought of Hume, the philosopher, who was staggeringly fat in the mud, and he couldn't help noticing an inherent austerity in her beauty.It made him sad, and her distant and indifferent expression hurt him, and he felt powerless to protect her as he passed, and he felt morose when he came to the hedge.There was nothing he could do to help.He can only stand by and watch.Really, it was a damning fact that he would only do more to help her and make things worse for her.He was restless—his rage was on the verge of firing.Speaking of the lighthouse just now had made him very angry.His eyes were on the hedge, on its tangle of leaves, on its darkness.

Mrs. Ramsay often felt that a man had to cling to some trivial thing, some sound, some sight, in order to free himself from solitude.She listened, and there was silence now, the cricket game was over, the children were in their bath, and the only sound was the sound of the sea.She stopped knitting; she held up the red-brown stocking and let it dangle in her hand for a moment to examine it carefully.She saw the light again.There is a certain irony in her scrutiny, for when a man wakes from a deep sleep his relationship to his surroundings changes.She gazed at that steady light, that relentless light, so like her and yet so different, it would have made her bow down were it not for all her thoughts (she woke up in the middle of the night and saw the beam zigzag across their bed, shining onto the floor), she gazed at it fascinated, hypnotized, as if it were about to touch with its silvery fingers some sealed container in her mind which, when opened, would Filled her with joy, she had experienced happiness, wonderful happiness, intense happiness, and the light of the lighthouse made the rough waves covered with silver, making them look a little brighter, when the afterglow of the setting sun faded, the sea also Losing its blue, the pure lemon-colored sea rolled in, heaved and heaved, lapped the shore, splashed; ecstatic ecstasy flashed in her eyes, waves of pure joy poured into her heart, And she felt: this is enough!Enough already!

He turned and saw her.what!She was beautiful, more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.But he can't talk to her.He couldn't disturb her.Now that James was gone and she sat alone at last at the window, he longed to talk to her.But he resolutely decided: No, he will never bother her.Now she is peerless in appearance, sad and contemplative, and spiritually far away from him.He didn't want to wake her up, and he was silent as he passed her.She looked so distant and indifferent, although it hurt his heart, but she was elusive, and there was nothing he could do for her.And he would have passed her silently once more, had it not been for that instant, of her own free will, to give him that happiness which she knew he would never have asked for--she summoned him, and from the He took off the green scarf from the frame and walked to his side.Because she knew, he hoped he could protect her.