Chapter 20 Chapter Nineteen

Of course, she said to herself as she entered the room, she had to come here and get something she needed.First, she was to sit in a certain chair under a certain lamp.But she wants something more, although she doesn't know, and doesn't want to know, what exactly she wants.She glanced at her husband (she picked up the sock and began knitting), and she could see that he did not want to be disturbed—that was obvious.He is reading a book that has moved him very much.He had a half-smile, which made her understand that he was controlling her feelings.He was turning the pages of the book.He's playing—maybe he's presenting himself as a character in a book.She didn't know what book it was.Oh, she saw it, it was a book by Sir Scott.She adjusted the shade so that the light fell directly on the socks she was knitting.Because Charles Tansley kept saying (she looked up as if she expected a pile of books to fall on the floor), he kept saying people didn't read Scott any more.So her husband thought, "That's what people are going to say about me." That's why he came here and picked up one of these novels.If he concluded that Charles Tansley was "right," then he accepted the assertion about Scott. (She could see that he was weighing, considering, comparing as he read.) But he didn't take it as a conclusion for himself.He was always apprehensive about his accomplishments.This troubled her very much.He was always worried about his books—would they have readers?Are they excellent works?Why can't they be written better?What do people say about me?She did not like to think that he was so worried; she wondered if they had guessed why he had suddenly become so agitated at dinner, when they had talked about the fame of the writer and the immortality of his work; Laughing at his attitude.She straightened the socks suddenly, and on her lips and forehead, those beautiful lines that seemed to be carved with steel knives were revealed. She was still like a tree, which was still trembling in the wind just now. Swaying, now that the wind has subsided, the leaves are stilling one by one.

It didn't matter that they saw his excitement, or that the children laughed at him, she thought.A great man, a great book, and immortal fame—who can tell?She doesn't know anything about it.But it was the way he thought, and it was what he really thought—for example, at dinner she had instinctively thought if only he could talk!She has full confidence in him.Now she puts all these thoughts aside, like a diver, now encountering a clump of water plants, now a straw, now a bubble, and she dives deeper in the water, and she feels again. That feeling she used to have when other people were talking in the restaurant: I need something - I'm here to get it, and she feels like she's diving deeper and deeper, but she doesn't know what she wants What the hell, she closed her eyes.After waiting for a while, she was thinking in her heart while knotting the yarn. "The rose flowers are in full bloom, and the bees are buzzing among the flowers," the lines they chanted in the dining room slowly and rhythmically echoed back and forth in her mind as they flowed through her mind. At that time, each word was like a small lamp with a shade, red, blue, and yellow, shining in her dark mind, and it seemed that even their light poles were left on it, criss-crossing, going back and forth. Flying, or being chanted aloud and echoed; so she turned and found a book on the table beside her.

She chanted in a low voice while inserting the steel needle into the sock.She opened the book, and began to pick a passage here and a passage there to read casually. When she was reading, she felt that she was stepping backwards and climbing up, pushing away the fluctuating petals above her head with her hands, and making a way forward. She only knew that this petal was white, or that petal was red.At first she did not grasp the meaning of those lines. As she read, she turned the pages of the book, shaking her body, zigzagging from left to right, jumping from one line of poetry to another, like climbing from one branch to another, from one branch to another. One red and white flower turned to the other, until a soft noise woke her up—her husband slapped his thigh.Their eyes met for a moment, but they didn't want to talk.They have nothing to say.Still, something seemed to pass from him to her.She knew in her heart: it was the life of the book, its strength, its astonishing humor that made him slap his thigh.He seemed to be saying: Don't bother me; don't say anything; just sit there.He read on.His lips quivered slightly.It satisfies him.It cheers him up.He completely forgot all the friction and irritation of that evening: the inexpressible annoyance he felt sitting quietly watching the endless eating and drinking of others; How it annoyed him that they didn't say a word about his books at the time, as if they didn't exist at all.Now, however, he feels that it doesn't matter who gets to Z (if the progression of ideas is like the alphabet from A to Z).There's always going to be someone at that level - if not him, then someone else.Scott's strength and wit, his feeling for the straightforward and simple, the fishermen in the book, the poor mad old man in Merkel Beckett's hut, all lifted his spirits and relieved him of some The psychological load was such that there was a sense of awakening and victory, which made him burst into tears.He held the book up a little, hid his face, let the tears trickle down, and shook his head, completely forgetting himself (but a thought or two crossed his mind, and he reflected Moral questions and English and French novels, he thought that Scott's hands were bound, but his views might be as true as others), poor Stane's drowning and Merkel Beckett's misery (Scott's genius), and the astonishing pleasure and intensity of the book, made him completely forget his own troubles and failures.

Well, he thought as he finished the chapter, let them improve it.He felt as if he was arguing with someone and had the upper hand.Whatever they said, they couldn't have changed it any better; and so his own position became more secure.He went over everything in his head, and he thought that writing about those couples was boring.It was a dull flop; it was a first-rate masterpiece; he weighed it in his mind, comparing the various parts of the book with each other.But he had to read it again.He couldn't recall the full shape of that story.He had to refrain from judging for the time being.So he went back and thought about that other thing—if young people didn't like this kind of book, they wouldn't like his work either.He shouldn't have complained, thought Mr Ramsay.He strove to restrain his desire to complain to his wife that the young man did not admire him.He had made up his mind that he didn't want to bother her any more.He watched her read a book.She looked very peaceful and absorbed in her reading.He was glad to think that everyone had left and only the two of them were left together.The whole meaning of life, he thought, was not in bedfellows; and his thoughts went back to Scott and Balzac, to English and French novels.

Mrs. Ramsay lifted her head like a sleepy-eyed person; she seemed to say that if he wanted her to wake she would wake, she would, otherwise she would sleep, she Just a little more sleep, at least for a little while, okay?She was climbing the branches, climbing left and right, reaching out to one flower and then another. "Praise not the crimson rose either," she murmured, bowing her head, feeling that as she chanted she was climbing toward the top of the tree, the summit.How satisfying!How peaceful and serene!All the chaotic scenes of the day were attracted by this magnet; she felt that her mind had been cleaned and purified.And here she suddenly has it all in her hands, beautiful and sensible, lucid and complete, it's the distilled essence of life, and she's got it all here—the sonnet.

However, she gradually became aware that her husband was watching her.He was smiling curiously at her, as if he were gently laughing at her daydreams, but at the same time he was thinking: read on.You look carefree now, he thought.He didn't know what she was reading, and he exaggerated her simple ignorance, because he liked to think that she was not bright or well-versed in book knowledge.He was not sure if she understood what she was reading.Maybe not understanding, he thought.She is amazingly beautiful.It seemed to him that her beauty (if that was possible) was ever-increasing. She has finished reading.

"Huh?" she said, taking her eyes off the book, and looking up at him, she answered his smile dreamily. She chanted in a low voice and put the book on the table. She picked up the woolen socks, wondering: what had happened since the last time she saw him sitting here?She thought of dressing before dinner; looking up at the moon through the window; Andrew lifting the plate too high at mealtimes; fell asleep; Charles Tansley's book fell and woke them - oh no, that was her imagination; Paul had a soft leather fob.Which one should she choose to tell him? "They're engaged," she said as she began knitting, "Paul and Minta."

"I guessed it too," he said.There's nothing to say about that.Her mind was still drifting up and down with the poem; he still felt refreshed and open-minded after reading the chapter on Stani's funeral.So the two of them sat in silence.Then she remembered that she had expected him to say something. Whatever, whatever, she thought, knotting the yarn.Say anything. "It would be wonderful to marry a man with a leather fob," she said.Because that's the kind of joke they both appreciate. He scoffed.He felt about the engagement the way he always felt about any engagement: the boy was far from being good enough for the girl.Slowly a question arose in her mind: why, then, does anyone always want people to marry?What is its meaning and value? (Every word they said was sincere now.) Say something, she thought, she longed to hear his voice.Because, she felt, the shadow, the shadow that had hung over them, was beginning to appear again, closing around her again.Say something, she begged him, her eyes fixed on him as if asking him for help.

He was silent, swinging the compass on his watch chain back and forth, thinking about the novels of Scott and Balzac.They moved involuntarily together, shoulder to shoulder, very close, and through the vague wall between them, she could feel his thoughts like an upraised hand, covering the her own thoughts; and since her thoughts were now turning in what he loathed, what he called "pessimism," he began to feel restless, though he said nothing but put his hands to his forehead and twirled He picked up a lock of hair and let it down again. He pointed to the socks and said, "You won't finish knitting tonight." That was all she needed—that harsh, harsh voice that was scolding her.If he thought pessimism was wrong, then it probably was, she thought.It will always prove to be a good combination for that pair.

"Yes," she said, flattening the sock on her lap, "I can't finish." So what?She felt that he was still looking at her, but his expression had changed.He wanted something—something she had so often struggled to give him, something she could tell him: She loved him.No, she can't do it.He is more eloquent than she is.He could talk—she never could.So, naturally, it was always he who was talking; for some reason he suddenly resented it and accused her.He called her a heartless woman; she never told him she loved him.But that's not the case -- it's not.It's just that she never expresses her feelings.All she would say was: Didn't his coat get crumbs?Is there anything she can do for him?She stood up, holding reddish-brown socks in her hand, and stood in front of the window, partly because she wanted to turn around to avoid him, and partly because she remembered how beautiful the night view of the sea was.But she knew that when she turned, he turned too; he was looking at her.She knew he was thinking: You have never been so beautiful.So she felt very beautiful.Can't you tell me you love me?He must be thinking about this, because he was thinking about Mintae and his book just now, and now that he is awake, this day, and their argument about going to the lighthouse, will be over.But she couldn't do it; she couldn't say it.She knew he was looking at her, but she didn't say anything, just turned around, holding the socks, and looked at him.She looked at him and began to smile, and though she didn't say a word, he knew, of course he knew, that she loved him.He couldn't deny it.She stared out of the window, smiling, and said (thought to herself, there is no happiness in the world to compare with this)—

"Yes, you are right. It will rain tomorrow. You can't go." She looked at him and smiled.Because she has won again.Even though she didn't say anything, he understood.