Chapter 43 Chapter Thirteen

"He must have arrived," said Lily Briscoe aloud, suddenly weary.For the lighthouse had become almost invisible, a blue mist, and she tried to concentrate on gazing at the lighthouse, on imagining him landing there, and the two seemed to be one, This eager anticipation made her body and nerves extremely tense.Ah, but she was relieved.What she wanted to give him when he left that morning, she finally gave him now. "He's here," she cried, "and you're done." Then Mr. Carmichael slumped to his feet, panting softly, and stood behind her, looking like an old pagan god, His shaggy hair is covered in seaweed, and he holds Neptune's trident (it's nothing more than a French novel).He stood side by side with her on the edge of the lawn, his huge body swayed slightly, he stretched out a hand to cover his eyes and said, "They've landed." She felt that she had thought right just now.They don't need to talk.They both thought exactly the same, and she didn't ask anything, and he answered the question in her mind.He stood there as if with outstretched hands over all human frailty and suffering; she thought he was surveying their final destination with leniency and compassion.Now he has pronounced the momentous scene well-closed, she thought; and as his hand came down slowly, she seemed to see him let a garland of violets and ivy fall from a height, and it floated slowly. , and finally fell to the ground.

As if suddenly remembering something over there, she turned swiftly to her canvas.It was there—her painting.Yes, including all those green and blue colors, criss-crossing lines, and connotations that try to express a certain idea.She thought: it will hang in the attic; it will be destroyed and obliterated.Yet she asked herself: what does it matter?She picked up the brush again.She looked at the stone steps in front of the window, but there was no one; she looked at the canvas in front of her, which was blurred.With a sudden and violent impulse, as if for a split second she saw what was in front of her, she added a stroke to the center of the canvas.The painting is done; you're done.Yes, she thought, putting down her paintbrush in extreme fatigue: I have finally painted the vision that has haunted my mind for years.