‘Is it a boat? Is it a cask?’ Mrs. Ramsay said. Andshe began hunting round for her spectacles. And shesat, having found them, silent, looking out to sea. AndLily, painting steadily, felt as if a door had opened,and one went in and stood gazing silently about ina high cathedral-like place, very dark, very solemn.Shouts came from a world far away. Steamers vanishedin stalks of smoke on the horizon. Charles threw stonesand sent them skipping.

Mrs. Ramsay sat silent. She was glad, Lily thought,to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to rest in theextreme obscurity of human relationships. Who knowswhat we are, what we feel? Who knows even at themoment of intimacy, This is knowledge? Aren’t thingsspoilt then, Mrs. Ramsay may have asked (it seemedto have happened so often, this silence by her side)by saying them? Aren’t we more expressive thus? Themoment at least seemed extraordinarily fertile. Sherammed a little hole in the sand and covered it up,by way of burying in it the perfection of the moment.It was like a drop of silver in which one dipped andillumined the darkness of the past.

Lily stepped back to get her canvas — so — intoperspective. It was an odd road to be walking, this ofpainting. Out and out one went, further and further,199