Chapter 33 third chapter
They're gone at last, she thought.She sighed in relief, but at the same time felt that something was missing.Her sympathy seemed to be hurled back, like a prickly blackberry, into her face.She had a strange feeling of being divided, as if part of her was drawn away—it was a calm day, the sea was hazy, the lighthouse seemed infinitely far away this morning—and another part of her, still stubborn and Nailed firmly to this grass.She seemed to see her canvases floating up, pale and unrelentingly approaching her eyes.It stared at her icily, as if to accuse her of all this haste, turmoil, stupidity, and waste of affection; Confession) left the site, the painting brought her back to calm, at first a sense of peace and tranquility spread in her heart;She stared blankly at the canvas, which was staring blankly at her, and then her eyes turned to the garden.Something (she stood there, the little Chinese eyes rolled up in her dry little face), she remembered, in the interrelationships of those criss-crossing lines, in this green, Something in the blue and brown mottled fence had stayed in her mind, tied a knot there, made her walk along Bromton Road, comb her hair, At various sporadic moments she could not help finding herself painting the picture in her mind, moving her eyes across it, and untying the imaginary knot.However, leaving the canvas to plan out of imagination, and actually holding the pen and applying the first color in hand, these are completely different things.
In her flustered presence in Mr. Ramsay's presence she had picked up the wrong paintbrush, and because of nervous nerves she had thrust the foot of the easel into the ground at the wrong angle.Now she straightened her easel, thus repressing the inappropriate, irrelevant thoughts that distracted her and reminded her of such and such a figure she was, of such and such a relation to people, She raised her hand and picked up the paintbrush.In a trance of pain and excitement, her hand trembled in the air for a moment.Where to start?At what point on the canvas is the first color applied?This is a problem.One line smeared on the canvas means that she has taken countless risks and made many irreversible decisions.All things that seem simple in imagination become complicated in practice; when the waves roll in from the top of the cliff in a symmetrical shape, for the people swimming in the waves, they are deeply moved. Divided by whirlpools and foaming crests.Still, the risk had to be taken; at last the first coats of color were applied to the canvas.
With a strange physical agitation, as if she was driven by some force, and at the same time she had to restrain herself, she quickly drew the decisive first stroke.The paintbrush fell.It floats a tinge of brown onto the canvas, leaving a flowing streak.She drew a second stroke—a third stroke.In this way, she stayed for a while, added another stroke, stopped and painted, painted and stopped, the rising and falling of the brush formed a rhythmic dance movement, it seemed that those pauses formed part of this rhythm, and those strokes constituted another part of it, and it's all interconnected; and so softly, swiftly, she paints and stops, smearing the canvas with brown, fluid, nervous lines that, as soon as they fall On the canvas, a space was enclosed (she felt it looming dimly in front of her).In the trough of one wave, she saw a second wave surging higher and higher above her.Is there anything more important than this piece of space?Here she is again, she thought, here she is again looking at it, she is drawn out of the circle of life, of gossip, of society, drawn to this formidable enemy of hers—this other realm, this The truth, this reality, which seized her suddenly, lay bare behind all appearances, dominated her attention.She was half unwilling, half disgusted.Why are you always tricked out and dragged away by force?Why not stay and chat peacefully with Mr. Carmichael on the lawn?Regardless, it's an appropriate form of exchange of ideas.All other respectable objects are contented with worship; men, women, Gods are prostrated at their feet; but this form of communication, which is but the shadow of a lamp cast by a white shade on a wicker table, It engages you in endless polemics, fighting a battle you are doomed to lose.As is always the case (whether it is her nature or her sex, she does not know), there is always a moment when she feels naked and naked before she transforms her fluid life into a concentrated image, It was as if she were an unborn soul, a disembodied soul, hesitating on an airy spire, exposed unshielded to gusts of doubt.Why, then, did she still paint?She looked at the canvas, which had been daubed with many flowing lines.It will be hung in the servant's bedroom.It will be rolled up and tucked under the couch.What is the use of drawing it then?She heard some voice saying that she could not paint, she could not create, as if she had been caught up in a vortex of habits in which, after a certain time, certain experiences were formed in her mind, As a result she repeated words without ever realizing who said them first.
Unable to draw, unable to write, she muttered mechanically, anxiously considering what her plan of attack should be.For the fence loomed before her; it stood out; she felt it looming.Then, as if some kind of lubricating fluid necessary for the development of her talent was spurted out, she began to hesitantly dip in the blue and ocher paints, flicking her brush here and there, but, this brush It seemed even heavier and sluggish now, as if it had become in tune with a certain rhythm that the landscape she saw (she kept looking at the fence and at the canvas) conveyed to her, so that when her hands carried Life trembled, and the rhythm was strong enough to support her, to carry her along with its waves.There is no doubt that she is losing her awareness of external things.And while she was unconscious of external things, of her name, of her personality, of her appearance, of Mr. Carmichael's presence, sights, names, words, memories, and concepts continued to emerge from the depths of her mind. , as if, as she molded the image on the canvas in green and blue, a spring from within filled the horribly intractable, pale space that stared at her.
She remembered Charles Tansley always saying that women couldn't paint, they couldn't write.She was painting at the same place back then, and he came from behind and stood close to her. She hated others like this the most. "I smoke cheap tobacco," he said, "fivepence an ounce." He showed her his poverty, his principles. (But the war had plucked her feminine sting. Poor fellows, she thought, of men and women.) He always carried a book under his arm—a book with a purple cover.He is "working".She remembered him sitting down to work in a patch of sunlight.He always sat in the center of her field of vision at dinner.But, she recalled, after all, there was still the scene on the beach.She should remember that scene.It was very windy that morning.They all came to the beach.Mrs Ramsay sat down by a rock to write a letter.She wrote and wrote. "Oh," she said, looking up at something floating in the sea, "is it a lobster pot? Is it an overturned boat?" Her eyes were so short-sighted that she saw nothing Not sure.Charles Tansley explained it to her as patiently and thoughtfully as he could.He started beating water with flakes of stone.They choose small black flat stones and throw them so that they float on the water.From time to time Mrs. Ramsay would stop writing and look up at them from above her spectacles, teasing them.She could not remember what they had said, except that she and Charles were throwing stones together, feeling suddenly quite comfortable with each other, and Mrs Ramsay watching them.She was very aware of that.She took a step back, rolled her eyes upwards, and thought: Mrs Ramsay. (If she and James had sat on that stone step it would have made a difference, there would have been a shadow there.) When she thought of herself swimming with Charles, and the whole scene on the beach, It seemed in a sense that it was all due to Mrs Ramsay sitting under a rock writing a letter with a legal pad on her lap. (She wrote many letters, and sometimes the wind blew them away. She and Charles just caught a page before it was blown into the sea.) But what a great power lies in the human heart what!She thought: The woman sitting under the rock and writing letters transformed everything from contradiction and complexity into simplicity and harmony; out of the follies and dislikes (she and Charles were constantly arguing, being stupid, hating each other) to distill something—such as this scene on the beach, this moment of friendship and affection—it went through Years and months are still completely preserved, and she only needs to immerse herself in this scenery for a little while to refresh her memory of Tasley.
"Like a work of art," she murmured, looking at the canvas, then at the stone steps in the living room, then back at her canvas.She must rest for a while.And when she was resting, looking vaguely from one thing to another, that old question that was always lingering in the firmament of her mind, that grand problem that always had to explain itself in detail at such moments , a common problem, when she relaxed the senses that had been in a tense state just now, it stayed above her, covering her in darkness.What is the meaning of life?That's the whole problem -- a simple problem; a problem that inevitably looms over you as the years go by.That great revelation about the meaning of life never came.Perhaps this great revelation will never come.In its place, in everyday life, there are little miracles and brilliance, like a match struck suddenly and unexpectedly in the dark, to give you a momentary impression of the truth of life; one example.This, that, and other factors; herself, Charles Tansley, and the splashing spray; Mrs Ramsay held them all together; Mrs Ramsay said: "Life stands still here ;” Mrs. Ramsay casts this moment into something permanent (as in another realm Lily herself tries to make this moment into something permanent)—that has a certain life The nature of revelation.In the midst of chaos there was form; the eternity of time passing (she watched the clouds pass by and the leaves sway in the wind) cast into something fixed.Life stands still here, Mrs Ramsay had said. "Mrs. Ramsay! Mrs. Ramsay!" she cried repeatedly.All this she owes to Mrs Ramsay.
Everything was silent.It seemed that no one had moved in that house.She watched it sleep in the morning sun, the blue and green leaves reflected in its windows.Her vague thoughts of Mrs. Ramsay seemed to be in harmony with this silent house, with this wisp of smoke, with the fresh air of this bright morning.Vague and ethereal, it's surprisingly pure and moving.She hoped that no one would open the windows or come out of the house, leaving her alone to meditate and paint.She turns to her canvas.But, impelled by some curiosity, impelled by her unspoken sympathy, she took a few steps to the end of the lawn to see if she could see the little procession set sail.On the sea, among the little boats that were floating--some with their sails still furled, and some going slowly and very steadily--one boat was quite a distance from the others.Its sails are being hoisted.She decided that, in that remote, utterly silent boat, Mr. Ramsay was sitting with Cam and James.Now they had hoisted the sails; the sails, after a moment's hesitation, drooping limply, were now filled with the wind, filled in deep silence, and she watched the ship deliberately choose its Channel, passed other ships, and sailed towards the sea with wind and waves.