TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

all those paths and the lawn, thick and knotted withthe lives they had lived there, were gone: were rubbedout; were past; were unreal, and now this was real;the boat and the sail with its patch; Macalister withhis earrings; the noise of the waves — all this was real.Thinking this, she was murmuring to herself ‘Weperished, each alone’, for her father’s words broke andbroke again in her mind, when her father, seeing hergazing so vaguely, began to tease her. Didn’t she knowthe points of the compass? he asked. Didn’t she knowthe North from the South? Did she really think theylived right out there? And he pointed again, andshowed her where their house was, there, by thosetrees. He wished she would try to be more accurate,he said: ‘Tell me — which is East, which is West?’ hesaid, half laughing at her, half scolding her, for hecould not understand the state of mind of any one,not absolutely imbecile, who did not know the pointsof the compass. Yet she did not know. And seeing hergazing, with her vague, now rather frightened, eyesfixed where no house was Mr. Ramsay forgot hisdream; how he walked up and down between theurns on the terrace; how the arms were stretched outto him. He thought, women are always like that; thevagueness of their minds is hopeless; it was a thing hehad never been able to understand; but so it was. Ithad been so with her — his wife. They could not keepanything clearly fixed in their minds. But he had beenwrong to be angry with her; moreover, did he notrather like this vagueness in women? It was part oftheir extraordinary charm. I will make her smile atme, he thought. She looks frightened. She was so si-lent. He clutched his fingers, and determined that his194
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