TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

thing else this strange morning the words
became symbols, wrote themselves all over the
grey-green walls. If only she could put them
together, she felt, write them out in some sentence,
then she would have got at the truth of things,
Old Mr. Carmichael came padding softly in,
fetched his coffee, took his cup and made off to
sit in the sun. The extraordinary unreality was
frightening; but it was also exciting. Going to
the Lighthouse. But what does one send to the
Lighthouse? Perished. Alone. The grey-green
light on the wall opposite. The empty places.
Such were some of the parts, but how bring them
together? she asked. As if any interruption
would break the frail shape she was building on
the table she turned her back to the window lest
Mr. Ramsay should see her. She must escape
somehow, be alone somewhere. Suddenly she
remembered. When she had sat there last ten
years ago there had been a little sprig or leaf
pattern on the table-cloth, which she had looked
at In a moment of revelation. There had been a
problem about a foreground of a picture. Move
the tree to the middle, she had said. She had
never finished that picture. It had been knocking
about in her mind all these years. She would
paint that picture now* Where were her paints,
she wondered? Her paints, yes. She had left.'
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