TO THE LIGHTHOUSEtruth was that he did not enjoy family life. It was inthis sort of state that one asked oneself, What does onelive for? Why, one asked oneself, does one take all thesepains for the human race to go on? Is it so very desir-able? Are we attractive as a species? Not so very, hethought, looking at those rather untidy boys. His fav-ourite, Cam, was in bed, he supposed. Foolish ques-tions, vain questions, questions one never asked if onewas occupied. Is human life this? Is human life that?One never had time to think about it. But here hewas asking himself that sort of question, because Mrs.Ramsay was giving orders to servants, and also be-cause it had struck him, thinking how surprised Mrs.Ramsay was that Carrie Manning should still exist,that friendships, even the best of them, are frailthings. One drifts apart. He reproached himself again.He was sitting beside Mrs. Ramsay and he had nothingin the world to say to her.‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs. Ramsay, turning to him atlast. He felt rigid and barren, like a pair of boots thathas been soaked and gone dry so that you can hardlyforce your feet into them. Yet he must force his feetinto them. He must make himself talk. Unless he werevery careful, she would find out this treachery of his;that he did not care a straw for her, and that wouldnot be at all pleasant, he thought. So he bent his headcourteously in her direction.‘How you must detest dining in this bear garden,’she said, making use, as she did when she was dis-tracted, of her social manner. So, when there is astrife of tongues at some meeting, the chairman, toobtain unity, suggests that every one shall speak inFrench. Perhaps it is bad French; French may not106
