To the Lighthouse

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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE,VIRGINIA WOOLF
What does it mean then, what can it all mean? Lily Briscoe asked herself, wondering
whether, since she had been left alone, it behoved her to go to the kitchen to fetch another
cup of coffee or wait here. What does it mean? — a catchword that was, caught up from
some book, fitting her thought loosely, for she could not, this first morning with the
Ramsays, contract her feelings, could only make a phrase resound to cover the blankness
of her mind until these vapours had shrunk. or really, what did she feel, come back after
all these years and !rs Ramsay dead? "othing, nothing — nothing that she could e#press
at all.
$he had come late last night when it was all mysterious, dark. "ow she was awake, at
her old place at the breakfast table, but alone. %t was very early too, not yet eight. &here
was this e#pedition — they were going to the Lighthouse, !r Ramsay, 'am, and (ames.
&hey should have gone already — they had to catch the tide or something. )nd 'am was
not ready and (ames was not ready and "ancy had forgotten to order the sandwiches and
!r Ramsay had lost his temper and banged out of the room.
*What+s the use of going now?, he had stormed.
"ancy had vanished. &here he was, marching up and down the terrace in a rage. -ne
seemed to hear doors slamming and voices calling all over the house. "ow "ancy burst
in, and asked, looking round the room, in a .ueer half da/ed, half desperate way, *What
does one send to the Lighthouse?, as if she were forcing herself to do what she despaired
of ever being able to do.
What does one send to the Lighthouse indeed0 )t any other time Lily could have
suggested reasonably tea, tobacco, newspapers. But this morning everything seemed so
e#traordinarily .ueer that a .uestion like "ancy+s — What does one send to the
Lighthouse? — opened doors in one+s mind that went banging and swinging to and fro
and made one keep asking, in a stupefied gape, What does one send? What does one do?
Why is one sitting here, after all?
$itting alone 1for "ancy went out again2 among the clean cups at the long table, she
felt cut off from other people, and able only to go on watching, asking, wondering. &he
house, the place, the morning, all seemed strangers to her. $he had no attachment here,
she felt, no relations with it, anything might happen, and whatever did happen, a step
outside, a voice calling 1,%t+s not in the cupboard3 it+s on the landing,, some one cried2,
4
was a .uestion, as if the link that usually bound things together had been cut, and they
floated up here, down there, off, anyhow. 5ow aimless it was,, how chaotic, how unreal it
was, she thought, looking at her empty coffee cup. !rs Ramsay dead3 )ndrew killed3
6rue dead too — repeat it as she might, it roused no feeling in her. )nd we all get
together in a house like this on a morning like this, she said, looking out of the window. %t
was a beautiful still day.
$uddenly !r Ramsay raised his head as he passed and looked straight at her, with his
distraught wild ga/e which was yet so penetrating, as if he saw you, for one second, for
the first time, for ever3 and she pretended to drink out of her empty coffee cup so as to
escape him — to escape his demand on her, to put aside a moment longer that imperious
need. )nd he shook his head at her, and strode on 1,)lone, she heard him say, *6erished,
she heard him say2 and like everything else this strange morning the words became
symbols, wrote themselves all over the grey7green walls. %f only she could put them
together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of
things. -ld !r 'armichael came padding softly in, fetched his coffee, took his cup and
made off to sit in the sun. &he e#traordinary unreality was frightening3 but it was also
e#citing. 8oing to the Lighthouse. But what does one send to the Lighthouse? 6erished.
)lone. &he grey7green light on the wall opposite. &he empty places. $uch were some of
the parts, but how bring them together? she asked. )s if any interruption would break the
frail shape she was building on the table she turned her back to the window lest !r
Ramsay should see her. $he must escape somewhere, be alone somewhere. $uddenly she
remembered. When she had sat there last ten years ago there had been a little sprig or leaf
pattern on the table7cloth, which she had looked at in a moment of revelation. &here had
been a problem about a foreground of a picture. !ove the tree to the middle, she had
said. $he had never finished that picture. $he would paint that picture now. %t had been
knocking about in her mind all these years. Where were her paints, she wondered? 5er
paints, yes. $he had left them in the hall last night. $he would start at once. $he got up
.uickly, before !r Ramsay turned.
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