Chapter 32 Chapter two

She seems to have lost weight a little, he thought.She looked a little shriveled and haggard, but not without charm.He likes her.There were rumors that she was going to marry William Banks, but that never happened.His wife liked her very much.At breakfast today, he was a little grumpy.And yet, yet—an irrepressible need (he does not realize what it is) presently drives him to any woman; What is needed: sympathy. Is there someone to take care of her?he asked.Does she have everything she needs? "Oh, thanks, it's all there," Lily said awkwardly.No, she can't do it.She should have gone at once with the flow, with the flow, and sympathized with Mr. Ramsay; she was too much mentally strained.But she remained indifferent.There was a terrible silence.They both stared at the sea.Why, thought Mr Ramsay, was she gazing at the sea when I was in front of her eyes?She said she hoped for calm waters so they could reach the lighthouse.lighthouse!lighthouse!What's the deal with lighthouses? !he thought impatiently.From some primal impulse (for he could not help it any longer), he uttered at once such a mournful lament that any woman in the world would have done or said something to comfort him. —but I'm an exception, Lily thought.I'm not a woman, she said bitterly to herself, I'm just a irascible dry spinster.

Mr Ramsay gave a long sigh.He is waiting for her reaction.Isn't she going to say something?Didn't she see what he wanted from her?Then he said that there was a special reason why he wanted to go to the lighthouse.When his wife was alive, she often sent things to the lighthouse keepers.Among them was a boy with bone tuberculosis in the hip, the son of the lighthouse keeper.He sighed deeply.His sigh was meaningful.The only hope in Lily's heart was this great torrent of sadness, this voracious thirst for sympathy, this demand for her complete subservience (even if he had infinite sorrows enough to make her always give him sympathy) ) don't hang around her all the time, it's better that the flood is directed elsewhere before it washes her over (she kept looking around the room, hoping someone would interfere with the situation).

"This kind of travel," said Mr. Ramsay, scratching the ground with his toe, "is very unpleasant." Still she was silent. (She is, he thought, a clay figure with a heart of stone.) "Sailing is tiring," he said, looking at his own beautiful hands with a melancholy expression that made her sick (she thought he was acting, this Great men can really be artificial).This is horrible and despicable.Why aren't the kids out yet?she asked.Because she could no longer bear the burden of grief, could no longer bear the weight of melancholy (he assumed a terribly decrepit stance, and even stood a little unsteadily on his feet).

Still she could say nothing; looking all over the place she could not seem to find anything to talk about; she could only feel with wonder that, as Mr. Ramsay stood there, his melancholy The lawn was overshadowed, too, and the image of Mr. Carmichael, rosy, drowsy and contented, reclining in a canvas chair reading a French novel, was veiled with a funeral veil, as if in such a troubled world. The presence of a man who boasts of his success is sufficient to call forth the most melancholy thoughts.Look at me, he seemed to say, look at me; indeed, he was always in the mood: think of me, think of my situation.Oh, how she wished the heavy sadness would blow away from them; wished she had put the easel a little closer to Mr. Carmichael; if only a man, any man, could hold back the incessant torrent. , to suppress this unrestrained sorrow.As a woman, she had stirred up this dreadful wave of emotion; as a woman, she should have known how to deal with it.Standing there speechless, as a woman, is very disgraceful.What should a woman say—say what? —Oh, Mr. Ramsay!Dear Mr Ramsay!A sketchy old lady like Mrs. Beckwith would say a few words like that right off the bat.But no, she couldn't tell.The two of them faced each other in silence, cut off from the rest of the world.His self-pity, his longing for sympathy, poured like a torrent at her feet, forming pools of water, and her only action, the poor sinner, was to lift her skirts lest get wet.She held the brush tightly and stood silently.

Thank goodness!She finally heard voices in the room.James and Cam must be coming out soon.But Mr. Ramsay also seems to know that his time is running out. He gathers his old age, his loneliness, and all his sufferings, and exerts great mental pressure on the lonely Lily, hoping to impress her. chords; he felt vexed—what woman could resist his request? — throwing his head back impatiently, he suddenly noticed that his shoelaces were unraveled.Really fine shoes, thought Lily; she looked down at them: as fine as a sculptural work of art, like everything Mr Ramsay wore, from his loose tie to his half-buttoned shirt. Vest, indisputably expresses his personal style.She could almost imagine that the shoes would go to his room of their own accord, and that they would express his pathos, his surlyness, his irascibility, his manners, even in Mr. Ramsay's absence.

"What beautiful shoes!" she exclaimed.She felt ashamed.When he begged her to comfort his soul, she praised his shoes; when he showed his bleeding hands and pierced heart, and begged her for mercy, she said cheerfully, "Ah, But how beautiful your leather shoes are!" Knowing that she deserved what she deserved, she raised her eyes to look at him, preparing for him to suddenly lose her temper and scold her severely. Mr. Ramsay, however, smiled instead.His gloomy countenance, his melancholy mood, his weak manner all vanished.Ah, that's right, first-rate leather shoes, he said, lifting his feet up for her to see.In all England there is only one man who can make such fine shoes.Leather shoes are one of the greatest scourges encountered by humans, he said. "The good thing the shoemakers do," he cried, "is to break and torture people's feet." The shoemakers were also the most stubborn of men.He spent most of his teenage energy looking for authentic leather shoes.He wanted her to take a closer look (he raised his right foot first, then his left), she had never seen a shoe like this before.They are manufactured with the finest leather in the world.Most of the leather used by other shoemakers is as bad as brown cardboard.He gazed contentedly at his feet, still dangling in the air.It seemed to her that they had reached an island of sunshine and peace and tranquility, this God-blessed island of fine leather shoes, ruled by a sound and clear mind, always under the warm sun.Her heart felt warm, and she had a good impression of him.Now let me see if you're good at tying your shoes, he said.He didn't like the knots in her shoelaces that were loosely tied.He showed her a way of tying shoes which he had invented himself.Once tied, it never comes loose.Three times in a row, he unties her shoelace and retightens it, as a demonstration.

Why was her pity for him so tormenting at this utterly inappropriate moment, when he stooped to tie her shoelaces?She stooped too, and the blood rushed to her cheeks, and she felt tears roll in her eyes as she thought of her own hard heart (she had just called him a poser).So engrossed in tying his shoelaces that he seemed to her to be an image of infinite sorrow.He tied his own shoelaces.He buys the shoes himself.No one helped Mr. Ramsay in his journey of life.And yet, just when she was about to say something (perhaps she could have said something), they came—Cam and James.They appear on the platform.They walked side by side, and came slowly, with serious and melancholy expressions.

But why did they walk over with a sad face like that?She couldn't help but find them annoying.They should have come cheerfully; they should have given him what she had no chance (because they were going) to give him.She felt a sudden emptiness, a thwarted disappointment.Her affection came too late, her sympathy came at last, but he didn't need it any more.He had become a very noble elder and wanted nothing from her.She felt left out.He slung a backpack over his shoulders.He distributed the packets—several bundles of brown paper loosely tied together—with the two children.He told Cam to fetch a cloak.He looked exactly like a leader preparing for an expedition.So, with a brown paper bag and good leather shoes, he led the way up the path with a firm soldierly step.His two children followed him.The children, she thought, looked as if fate had given them some serious mission, and they were running towards it, young enough to follow their father in obedience and silence; but their dull eyes, But it made her feel that they were silently enduring something beyond their age.Thus they crossed the edge of the lawn, and Lily seemed to feel that she was watching a procession advancing, though its pace was uneven and demoralized, some powerful sense of commonality drew them together and bound them together as one. The small whole made a strange impression on her.As they crossed the lawn, Mr. Ramsay waved to her politely and distantly.

How old he looks, she thought.She saw at once that her sympathy, which no one was asking for now, bothered her and needed a chance to be expressed.What made his appearance so old?She guessed, probably from thinking about it day and night—thinking about the reality of the non-existent kitchen table—she remembered Andrew giving her that symbolic answer when she couldn't figure out what he was thinking. . (She remembered that Andrew had been killed by shrapnel from a shell.) The kitchen table was something fanciful and rustic;It's unpainted; it's sharp and angular; it has an uncompromisingly austere quality.But Mr. Ramsay kept his eyes on it, never allowing himself to be distracted, or deceived by illusions, till his features grew old, and shared this unpretentious beauty with the table, leaving her Impressed.Then she remembered (she was standing where she had parted from him, paintbrush still in hand) that there had been various anxious expressions on his face too--they were not so sublime.She guessed that he must have had doubts about that table too: doubted whether it was a real desk;He must have doubts himself, she felt, or he would not have consulted so often.She speculated that this was what the couple sometimes discussed late at night (whether his research was worthwhile), and that the next day Mrs Ramsay looked tired and Lily was very annoyed with him for trivial matters.But now no one came to talk to him about the table, or his shoes, or his shoelaces; so he was like a lion on the hunt, with that desperate, exaggerated look on his face. , which made her heart skip a beat, and she lifted the hem of her skirt to retreat.She remembered later that when she praised his shoes, the sudden lift of his spirits, the sudden sparkle in his eyes, the sudden recovery of his vigor and interest in the common and human, had all been explained. It was a flash, a change of mood (his moods were fleeting and revealing), into that last other state, a new state of mind she had not seen, she admitted, It made her ashamed of her nervousness, when, at the time, he seemed to abandon all worries and aspirations, abandon his desire for sympathy and admiration, and pass into another realm; In conversations (whether to herself or to others), she led that small team out of her field of vision.What an extraordinary appearance!The garden gate slammed shut.