TO THE LIGHTHOUSEpierce the darkness, he would die standing. He wouldnever reach R.He stood stock still, by the urn, with the geraniumflowing over it. How many men in a thousand mil-lion, he asked himself, reach Z after all? Surely theleader of a forlorn hope may ask himself that, andanswer, without treachery to the expedition behindhim, ‘One perhaps’. One in a generation. Is he to beblamed then if he is not that one? provided he hastoiled honestly, given to the best of his power, till hehas no more left to give? And his fame lasts how long?It is permissible even for a dying hero to think beforehe dies how men will speak of him hereafter. His famelasts perhaps two thousand years. And what are twothousand years? (asked Mr. Ramsay ironically, staringat the hedge). What, indeed, if you look from a moun-tain-top down the long wastes of the ages? The verystone one kicks with one’s boot will outlast Shake-speare. His own little light would shine, not very bright-ly, for a year or two, and would then be merged insome bigger light, and that in a bigger still. (He lookedinto the darkness, into the intricacy of the twigs.)Who then could blame the leader of that forlorn partywhich after all has climbed high enough to see the wasteof the years and the perishing of stars, if before deathstiffens his limbs beyond the power of movement hedoes a little consciously raise his numbed fingers tohis brow, and square his shoulders, so that when thesearch party comes they will find him dead at his post,the fine figure of a soldier? Mr. Ramsay squared hisshoulders and stood very upright by the urn.Who shall blame him, if, so standing for a moment,he dwells upon fame, upon search parties, upon cairns44