TO THE LIGHTHOUSEnothing by soliciting urgently. One got only a glarein the eye from looking at the line of the wall, orfrom thinking—she wore a grey hat. She was aston-ishingly beautiful. Let it come, she thought, if itwill come. For there are moments when one canneither think nor feel. And if one can neither thinknor feel, she thought, where is one?

Here on the grass, on the ground, she thought,sitting down, and examining with her brush a littlecolony of plantains. For the lawn was very rough.Here sitting on the world, she thought, for she couldnot shake herself free from the sense that every-thing this morning was happening for the first time,perhaps for the last time, as a traveller, even thoughhe is half asleep, knows, looking out of the trainwindow, that he must look now, for he will never seethat town, or that mule-cart, or that woman at workin the fields, again. The lawn was the world; theywere up here together, on this exalted station, shethought, looking at old Mr. Carmichael, who seemed(though they had not said a word all this time) toshare her thoughts. And she would never see himagain perhaps. He was growing old. Also, she re-membered, smiling at the slipper that dangled fromhis foot, he was growing famous. People said thathis poetry was "so beautiful." They went and pub-lished things he had written forty years ago. There288
Resize Images  

Select Pane

Berg Materials

View Pane