TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwere drawn out there—it was a still day, hazy; theLighthouse looked this morning at an immense dis-tance; the other had fixed itself doggedly, solidly,here on the lawn. She saw her canvas as if it hadfloated up and placed itself white and uncompromis-ing directly before her. It seemed to rebuke her withits cold stare for all this hurry and agitation; thisfolly and waste of emotion; it drastically recalledher and spread through her mind first a peace, as herdisorderly sensations (he had gone and she had beenso sorry for him and she had said nothing) troopedoff the field; and then, emptiness. She lookedblankly at the canvas, with its uncompromisingwhite stare; from the canvas to the garden. Therewas something (she stood screwing up her littleChinese eyes in her small puckered face), somethingshe remembered in the relations of those lines cut-ting across, slicing down, and in the mass of thehedge with its green cave of blues and browns, whichhad stayed in her mind; which had tied a knot inher mind so that at odds and ends of time, involun-tarily, as she walked along the Brompton Road,as she brushed her hair, she found herself paintingthat picture, passing her eye over it, and untyingthe knot in imagination. But there was all the dif-ference in the world between this planning airily234
Resize Images  

Select Pane

Berg Materials

View Pane