But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs Ramsay, taking herplace at the head of the table, and looking at all the plates making whitecircles on it. "William, sit by me," she said. "Lily," she said, wearily, "overthere." They had that—Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle—she, only this—aninfinitely long table and plates and knives. At the far end was her husband,sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She did not know.

　　She did not mind. She could not understand how she had ever felt anyemotion or affection for him. She had a sense of being past everything,through everything, out of everything, as she helped the soup, as if therewas an eddy—there— and one could be in it, or one could be out of it,and she was out of it. It's all come to an end, she thought, while theycame in one after another, Charles Tansley—"Sit there, please," shesaid—Augustus Carmichael—and sat down. And meanwhile shewaited, passively, for some one to answer her, for something to happen.

　　But this is not a thing, she thought, ladling out soup, that one says.

　　Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy—that was what she wasthinking, this was what she was doing—ladling out soup—she felt, moreand more strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shade had fallen, and,robbed of colour, she saw things truly. The room (she looked round it)was very shabby. There was no beauty anywhere. She forebore to look atMr Tansley. Nothing seemed to have merged. They all sat separate. Andthe whole of the effort of merging and flowing and creating rested onher. Again she felt, as a fact without hostility, the sterility of men, for ifshe did not do it nobody would do it, and so, giving herself a little shakethat one gives a watch that has stopped, the old familiar pulse beganbeating, as the watch begins ticking—one, two, three, one, two, three.

　　And so on and so on, she repeated, listening to it, sheltering and fosteringthe still feeble pulse as one might guard a weak flame with a newspaper.

　　And so then, she concluded, addressing herself by bending silentlyin his direction to William Bankes—poor man! who had no wife,and no children and dined alone in lodgings except for tonight; and inpity for him, life being now strong enough to bear her on again, shebegan all this business, as a sailor not without weariness sees the windfill his sail and yet hardly wants to be off again and thinks how, had theship sunk, he would have whirled round and round and found rest onthe floor of the sea.

　　"Did you find your letters? I told them to put them in the hall for you,"she said to William Bankes.

　　Lily Briscoe watched her drifting into that strange no-man's landwhere to follow people is impossible and yet their going inflicts such achill on those who watch them that they always try at least to followthem with their eyes as one follows a fading ship until the sails havesunk beneath the horizon.

　　How old she looks, how worn she looks, Lily thought, and how remote.

　　Then when she turned to William Bankes, smiling, it was as if theship had turned and the sun had struck its sails again, and Lily thoughtwith some amusement because she was relieved, Why does she pityhim? For that was the impression she gave, when she told him that hisletters were in the hall. Poor William Bankes, she seemed to be saying, asif her own weariness had been partly pitying people, and the life in her,her resolve to live again, had been stirred by pity. And it was not true,Lily thought; it was one of those misjudgments of hers that seemed to beinstinctive and to arise from some need of her own rather than of otherpeople's. He is not in the least pitiable. He has his work, Lily said to herself.

　　She remembered, all of a sudden as if she had found a treasure, thatshe had her work. In a flash she saw her picture, and thought, Yes, I shallput the tree further in the middle; then I shall avoid that awkward space.

　　That's what I shall do. That's what has been puzzling me. She took upthe salt cellar and put it down again on a flower pattern in the tablecloth,so as to remind herself to move the tree.

　　"It's odd that one scarcely gets anything worth having by post, yet onealways wants one's letters," said Mr Bankes.

　　What damned rot they talk, thought Charles Tansley, laying down hisspoon precisely in the middle of his plate, which he had swept clean, asif, Lily thought (he sat opposite to her with his back to the window preciselyin the middle of view), he were determined to make sure of hismeals. Everything about him had that meagre fixity, that bare unloveliness.

　　But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them. She liked his eyes; they were blue, deep set,frightening.

　　"Do you write many letters, Mr Tansley?" asked Mrs Ramsay, pityinghim too, Lily supposed; for that was true of Mrs Ramsay—she pitiedmen always as if they lacked something—women never, as if they hadsomething. He wrote to his mother; otherwise he did not suppose hewrote one letter a month, said Mr Tansley, shortly.

　　For he was not going to talk the sort of rot these condescended to bythese silly women. He had been reading in his room, and now he camedown and it all seemed to him silly, superficial, flimsy. Why did theydress? He had come down in his ordinary clothes. He had not got anydress clothes. "One never gets anything worth having by post"—that wasthe sort of thing they were always saying. They made men say that sortof thing. Yes, it was pretty well true, he thought. They never got anythingworth having from one year's end to another. They did nothing buttalk, talk, talk, eat, eat, eat. It was the women's fault. Women made civilisationimpossible with all their "charm," all their silliness.

　　"No going to the Lighthouse tomorrow, Mrs Ramsay," he said, assertinghimself. He liked her; he admired her; he still thought of the man inthe drain-pipe looking up at her; but he felt it necessary to assert himself.

　　He was really, Lily Briscoe thought, in spite of his eyes, but then lookat his nose, look at his hands, the most uncharming human being shehad ever met. Then why did she mind what he said? Women can't write,women can't paint—what did that matter coming from him, since clearlyit was not true to him but for some reason helpful to him, and that waswhy he said it? Why did her whole being bow, like corn under a wind,and erect itself again from this abasement only with a great and ratherpainful effort? She must make it once more. There's the sprig on thetable-cloth; there's my painting; I must move the tree to the middle; thatmatters—nothing else. Could she not hold fast to that, she asked herself,and not lose her temper, and not argue; and if she wanted revenge take itby laughing at him?

　　"Oh, Mr Tansley," she said, "do take me to the Lighthouse with you. Ishould so love it."She was telling lies he could see. She was saying what she did notmean to annoy him, for some reason. She was laughing at him. He wasin his old flannel trousers. He had no others. He felt very rough and isolatedand lonely. He knew that she was trying to tease him for some reason;she didn't want to go to the Lighthouse with him; she despised him:

　　so did Prue Ramsay; so did they all. But he was not going to be made afool of by women, so he turned deliberately in his chair and looked outof the window and said, all in a jerk, very rudely, it would be too roughfor her tomorrow. She would be sick.

　　It annoyed him that she should have made him speak like that, withMrs Ramsay listening. If only he could be alone in his room working, hethought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease. And hehad never run a penny into debt; he had never cost his father a pennysince he was fifteen; he had helped them at home out of his savings; hewas educating his sister. Still, he wished he had known how to answerMiss Briscoe properly; he wished it had not come out all in a jerk likethat. "You'd be sick." He wished he could think of something to say toMrs Ramsay, something which would show her that he was not just adry prig. That was what they all thought him. He turned to her. But MrsRamsay was talking about people he had never heard of to WilliamBankes.

　　"Yes, take it away," she said briefly, interrupting what she was sayingto William Bankes to speak to the maid. "It must have been fifteen— no,twenty years ago—that I last saw her," she was saying, turning back tohim again as if she could not lose a moment of their talk, for she was absorbedby what they were saying. So he had actually heard from her thisevening! And was Carrie still living at Marlow, and was everything stillthe same? Oh, she could remember it as if it were yesterday—on theriver, feeling it as if it were yesterday—going on the river, feeling verycold. But if the Mannings made a plan they stuck to it. Never should sheforget Herbert killing a wasp with a teaspoon on the bank! And it wasstill going on, Mrs Ramsay mused, gliding like a ghost among the chairsand tables of that drawing-room on the banks of the Thames where shehad been so very, very cold twenty years ago; but now she went amongthem like a ghost; and it fascinated her, as if, while she had changed, thatparticular day, now become very still and beautiful, had remained there,all these years. Had Carrie written to him herself? she asked.

　　"Yes. She says they're building a new billiard room," he said. No! No!

　　That was out of the question! Building a new billiard room! It seemed toher impossible.

　　Mr Bankes could not see that there was anything very odd about it.

　　They were very well off now. Should he give her love to Carrie?

　　"Oh," said Mrs Ramsay with a little start, "No," she added, reflectingthat she did not know this Carrie who built a new billiard room. But howstrange, she repeated, to Mr Bankes's amusement, that they should begoing on there still. For it was extraordinary to think that they had beencapable of going on living all these years when she had not thought ofthem more than once all that time. How eventful her own life had been,during those same years. Yet perhaps Carrie Manning had not thoughtabout her, either. The thought was strange and distasteful.

　　"People soon drift apart," said Mr Bankes, feeling, however, some satisfactionwhen he thought that after all he knew both the Mannings andthe Ramsays. He had not drifted apart he thought, laying down hisspoon and wiping his clean-shaven lips punctiliously. But perhaps hewas rather unusual, he thought, in this; he never let himself get into agroove. He had friends in all circles… Mrs Ramsay had to break off hereto tell the maid something about keeping food hot. That was why he preferreddining alone. All those interruptions annoyed him. Well, thoughtWilliam Bankes, preserving a demeanour of exquisite courtesy andmerely spreading the fingers of his left hand on the table-cloth as amechanic examines a tool beautifully polished and ready for use in an intervalof leisure, such are the sacrifices one's friends ask of one. It wouldhave hurt her if he had refused to come. But it was not worth it for him.

　　Looking at his hand he thought that if he had been alone dinner wouldhave been almost over now; he would have been free to work. Yes, hethought, it is a terrible waste of time. The children were dropping in still.

　　"I wish one of you would run up to Roger's room," Mrs Ramsay was saying.

　　How trifling it all is, how boring it all is, he thought, compared withthe other thing— work. Here he sat drumming his fingers on the tableclothwhen he might have been—he took a flashing bird's-eye view of hiswork. What a waste of time it all was to be sure! Yet, he thought, she isone of my oldest friends. I am by way of being devoted to her. Yet now,at this moment her presence meant absolutely nothing to him: her beautymeant nothing to him; her sitting with her little boy at the window—nothing, nothing. He wished only to be alone and to take up that book.

　　He felt uncomfortable; he felt treacherous, that he could sit by her sideand feel nothing for her. The truth was that he did not enjoy family life.

　　It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself, What does one live for?

　　Why, one asked oneself, does one take all these pains for the human raceto go on? Is it so very desirable? Are we attractive as a species? Not sovery, he thought, looking at those rather untidy boys. His favourite,Cam, was in bed, he supposed. Foolish questions, vain questions, questionsone never asked if one was occupied. Is human life this? Is humanlife that? One never had time to think about it. But here he was askinghimself that sort of question, because Mrs Ramsay was giving orders toservants, and also because it had struck him, thinking how surprisedMrs Ramsay was that Carrie Manning should still exist, that friendships,even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart. He reproachedhimself again. He was sitting beside Mrs Ramsay and he had nothing inthe world to say to her.

　　"I'm so sorry," said Mrs Ramsy, turning to him at last. He felt rigid andbarren, like a pair of boots that have been soaked and gone dry so thatyou can hardly force your feet into them. Yet he must force his feet intothem. He must make himself talk. Unless he were very careful, shewould find out this treachery of his; that he did not care a straw for her,and that would not be at all pleasant, he thought. So he bent his headcourteously in her direction.

　　"How you must detest dining in this bear garden," she said, makinguse, as she did when she was distracted, of her social manner. So, whenthere is a strife of tongues, at some meeting, the chairman, to obtainunity, suggests that every one shall speak in French. Perhaps it is badFrench; French may not contain the words that express the speaker'sthoughts; nevertheless speaking French imposes some order, some uniformity.

　　Replying to her in the same language, Mr Bankes said, "No, notat all," and Mr Tansley, who had no knowledge of this language, evenspoke thus in words of one syllable, at once suspected its insincerity.

　　They did talk nonsense, he thought, the Ramsays; and he pounced onthis fresh instance with joy, making a note which, one of these days, hewould read aloud, to one or two friends. There, in a society where onecould say what one liked he would sarcastically describe "staying withthe Ramsays" and what nonsense they talked. It was worth while doingit once, he would say; but not again. The women bored one so, he wouldsay. Of course Ramsay had dished himself by marrying a beautiful womanand having eight children. It would shape itself something like that,but now, at this moment, sitting stuck there with an empty seat besidehim, nothing had shaped itself at all. It was all in scraps and fragments.

　　He felt extremely, even physically, uncomfortable. He wanted somebodyto give him a chance of asserting himself. He wanted it so urgently thathe fidgeted in his chair, looked at this person, then at that person, triedto break into their talk, opened his mouth and shut it again. They weretalking about the fishing industry. Why did no one ask him his opinion?

　　What did they know about the fishing industry?

　　Lily Briscoe knew all that. Sitting opposite him, could she not see, as inan X-ray photograph, the ribs and thigh bones of the young man's desireto impress himself, lying dark in the mist of his flesh—that thin mistwhich convention had laid over his burning desire to break into theconversation? But, she thought, screwing up her Chinese eyes, and rememberinghow he sneered at women, "can't paint, can't write," whyshould I help him to relieve himself?

　　There is a code of behaviour, she knew, whose seventh article (it maybe) says that on occasions of this sort it behoves the woman, whateverher own occupation might be, to go to the help of the young man oppositeso that he may expose and relieve the thigh bones, the ribs, of his vanity,of his urgent desire to assert himself; as indeed it is their duty, she reflected,in her old maidenly fairness, to help us, suppose the Tube wereto burst into flames. Then, she thought, I should certainly expect MrTansley to get me out. But how would it be, she thought, if neither of usdid either of these things? So she sat there smiling.

　　"You're not planning to go to the Lighthouse, are you, Lily," said MrsRamsay. "Remember poor Mr Langley; he had been round the worlddozens of times, but he told me he never suffered as he did when myhusband took him there. Are you a good sailor, Mr Tansley?" she asked.

　　Mr Tansley raised a hammer: swung it high in air; but realising, as itdescended, that he could not smite that butterfly with such an instrumentas this, said only that he had never been sick in his life. But in thatone sentence lay compact, like gunpowder, that his grandfather was afisherman; his father a chemist; that he had worked his way up entirelyhimself; that he was proud of it; that he was Charles Tansley—a fact thatnobody there seemed to realise; but one of these days every single personwould know it. He scowled ahead of him. He could almost pitythese mild cultivated people, who would be blown sky high, like bales ofwool and barrels of apples, one of these days by the gunpowder that wasin him.

　　"Will you take me, Mr Tansley?" said Lily, quickly, kindly, for, ofcourse, if Mrs Ramsay said to her, as in effect she did, "I am drowning,my dear, in seas of fire. Unless you apply some balm to the anguish ofthis hour and say something nice to that young man there, life will runupon the rocks—indeed I hear the grating and the growling at thisminute. My nerves are taut as fiddle strings. Another touch and they willsnap"—when Mrs Ramsay said all this, as the glance in her eyes said it,of course for the hundred and fiftieth time Lily Briscoe had to renouncethe experiment—what happens if one is not nice to that young manthere—and be nice.

　　Judging the turn in her mood correctly—that she was friendly to himnow—he was relieved of his egotism, and told her how he had beenthrown out of a boat when he was a baby; how his father used to fishhim out with a boat-hook; that was how he had learnt to swim. One ofhis uncles kept the light on some rock or other off the Scottish coast, hesaid. He had been there with him in a storm. This was said loudly in apause. They had to listen to him when he said that he had been with hisuncle in a lighthouse in a storm. Ah, thought Lily Briscoe, as the conversationtook this auspicious turn, and she felt Mrs Ramsay's gratitude (forMrs Ramsay was free now to talk for a moment herself), ah, she thought,but what haven't I paid to get it for you? She had not been sincere.

　　She had done the usual trick—been nice. She would never know him.

　　He would never know her. Human relations were all like that, shethought, and the worst (if it had not been for Mr Bankes) were betweenmen and women. Inevitably these were extremely insincere she thought.

　　Then her eye caught the salt cellar, which she had placed there to remindher, and she remembered that next morning she would move the treefurther towards the middle, and her spirits rose so high at the thought ofpainting tomorrow that she laughed out loud at what Mr Tansley wassaying. Let him talk all night if he liked it.

　　"But how long do they leave men on a Lighthouse?" she asked. He toldher. He was amazingly well informed. And as he was grateful, and as heliked her, and as he was beginning to enjoy himself, so now, Mrs Ramsaythought, she could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinatingplace, the Mannings' drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago; whereone moved about without haste or anxiety, for there was no future toworry about. She knew what had happened to them, what to her. It waslike reading a good book again, for she knew the end of that story, sinceit had happened twenty years ago, and life, which shot down even fromthis dining-room table in cascades, heaven knows where, was sealed upthere, and lay, like a lake, placidly between its banks. He said they hadbuilt a billiard room—was it possible? Would William go on talkingabout the Mannings? She wanted him to. But, no—for some reason hewas no longer in the mood. She tried. He did not respond. She could notforce him. She was disappointed.

　　"The children are disgraceful," she said, sighing. He said somethingabout punctuality being one of the minor virtues which we do not acquireuntil later in life.

　　"If at all," said Mrs Ramsay merely to fill up space, thinking what anold maid William was becoming. Conscious of his treachery, consciousof her wish to talk about something more intimate, yet out of mood for itat present, he felt come over him the disagreeableness of life, sittingthere, waiting. Perhaps the others were saying something interesting?

　　What were they saying?

　　That the fishing season was bad; that the men were emigrating. Theywere talking about wages and unemployment. The young man was abusingthe government. William Bankes, thinking what a relief it was tocatch on to something of this sort when private life was disagreeable,heard him say something about "one of the most scandalous acts of thepresent government." Lily was listening; Mrs Ramsay was listening; theywere all listening. But already bored, Lily felt that something was lacking;Mr Bankes felt that something was lacking. Pulling her shawl roundher Mrs Ramsay felt that something was lacking. All of them bendingthemselves to listen thought, "Pray heaven that the inside of my mindmay not be exposed," for each thought, "The others are feeling this. Theyare outraged and indignant with the government about the fishermen.

　　Whereas, I feel nothing at all." But perhaps, thought Mr Bankes, as helooked at Mr Tansley, here is the man. One was always waiting for theman. There was always a chance. At any moment the leader might arise;the man of genius, in politics as in anything else. Probably he will be extremelydisagreeable to us old fogies, thought Mr Bankes, doing his bestto make allowances, for he knew by some curious physical sensation, asof nerves erect in his spine, that he was jealous, for himself partly, partlymore probably for his work, for his point of view, for his science; andtherefore he was not entirely open-minded or altogether fair, for MrTansley seemed to be saying, You have wasted your lives. You are all ofyou wrong. Poor old fogies, you're hopelessly behind the times. Heseemed to be rather cocksure, this young man; and his manners werebad. But Mr Bankes bade himself observe, he had courage; he had ability;he was extremely well up in the facts. Probably, Mr Bankes thought,as Tansley abused the government, there is a good deal in what he says.

　　"Tell me now… " he said. So they argued about politics, and Lilylooked at the leaf on the table-cloth; and Mrs Ramsay, leaving the argumententirely in the hands of the two men, wondered why she was sobored by this talk, and wished, looking at her husband at the other endof the table, that he would say something. One word, she said to herself.

　　For if he said a thing, it would make all the difference. He went to theheart of things. He cared about fishermen and their wages. He could notsleep for thinking of them. It was altogether different when he spoke;one did not feel then, pray heaven you don't see how little I care, becauseone did care. Then, realising that it was because she admired him somuch that she was waiting for him to speak, she felt as if somebody hadbeen praising her husband to her and their marriage, and she glowed allover withiut realising that it was she herself who had praised him. Shelooked at him thinking to find this in his face; he would be looking magnificent…But not in the least! He was screwing his face up, he wasscowling and frowning, and flushing with anger. What on earth was itabout? she wondered. What could be the matter? Only that poor oldAugustus had asked for another plate of soup—that was all. It was unthinkable,it was detestable (so he signalled to her across the table) thatAugustus should be beginning his soup over again. He loathed peopleeating when he had finished. She saw his anger fly like a pack of houndsinto his eyes, his brow, and she knew that in a moment something violentwould explode, and then—thank goodness! she saw him clutch himselfand clap a brake on the wheel, and the whole of his body seemed toemit sparks but not words. He sat there scowling. He had said nothing,he would have her observe. Let her give him the credit for that! But whyafter all should poor Augustus not ask for another plate of soup? He hadmerely touched Ellen's arm and said:

　　"Ellen, please, another plate of soup," and then Mr Ramsay scowledlike that.

　　And why not? Mrs Ramsay demanded. Surely they could let Augustushave his soup if he wanted it. He hated people wallowing in food, MrRamsay frowned at her. He hated everything dragging on for hours likethis. But he had controlled himself, Mr Ramsay would have her observe,disgusting though the sight was. But why show it so plainly, Mrs Ram-say demanded (they looked at each other down the long table sendingthese questions and answers across, each knowing exactly what the otherfelt). Everybody could see, Mrs Ramsay thought. There was Rose gazingat her father, there was Roger gazing at his father; both would be off inspasms of laughter in another second, she knew, and so she saidpromptly (indeed it was time):

　　"Light the candles," and they jumped up instantly and went andfumbled at the sideboard.

　　Why could he never conceal his feelings? Mrs Ramsay wondered, andshe wondered if Augustus Carmichael had noticed. Perhaps he had; perhapshe had not. She could not help respecting the composure withwhich he sat there, drinking his soup. If he wanted soup, he asked forsoup. Whether people laughed at him or were angry with him he wasthe same. He did not like her, she knew that; but partly for that veryreason she respected him, and looking at him, drinking soup, very largeand calm in the failing light, and monumental, and contemplative, shewondered what he did feel then, and why he was always content anddignified; and she thought how devoted he was to Andrew, and wouldcall him into his room, and Andrew said, "show him things." And therehe would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry,till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, and then he clappedhis paws together when he had found the word, and her husband said,"Poor old Augustus—he's a true poet," which was high praise from herhusband.

　　Now eight candles were stood down the table, and after the first stoopthe flames stood upright and drew with them into visibility the longtable entire, and in the middle a yellow and purple dish of fruit. Whathad she done with it, Mrs Ramsay wondered, for Rose's arrangement ofthe grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of the bananas, madeher think of a trophy fetched from the bottom of the sea, of Neptune'sbanquet, of the bunch that hangs with vine leaves over the shoulder ofBacchus (in some picture), among the leopard skins and the torches lollopingred and gold… Thus brought up suddenly into the light it seemedpossessed of great size and depth, was like a world in which one couldtake one's staff and climb hills, she thought, and go down into valleys,and to her pleasure (for it brought them............