TO THE LIGHTHOUSEa rapture, equivalent, Lily felt, to the loves of dozensof young men (and perhaps Mrs. Ramsay had neverexcited the loves of dozens of young men). It was love,she thought, pretending to move her canvas, distilledand filtered; love that never attempted to clutch itsobject; but, like the love which mathematicians beartheir symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant tobe spread over the world and become part of thehuman gain. So it was indeed. The world by all meansshould have shared it, could Mr. Bankes have saidwhy that woman pleased him so; why the sight ofher reading a fairy tale to her boy had upon himprecisely the same effect as the solution of a scientificproblem, so that he rested in contemplation of it,and felt, as he felt when he had proved somethingabsolute about the digestive system of plants, thatbarbarity was tamed, the reign of chaos subdued.

Such a rapture — for by what other name couldone call it? — made Lily Briscoe forget entirely whatshe had been about to say. It was nothing of import-ance; something about Mrs. Ramsay. It paled be-side this ‘rapture’, this silent stare, for which she feltintense gratitude; for nothing so solaced her, easedher of the perplexity of life, and miraculously raisedits burdens, as this sublime power, this heavenly gift,and one would no more disturb it, while it lasted,than break up the shaft of sunlight lying level acrossthe floor.

That people should love like this, that Mr. Bankesshould feel this for Mrs. Ramsay (she glanced athim musing) was helpful, was exalting. She wipedone brush after another upon a piece of old rag,menially, on purpose. She took shelter from the rev-58
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