She folded the green shawl about her shoulders. She took his arm. His
beauty was so great, she said, beginning to speak of Kennedy the
gardener, at once he was so awfully handsome, that she couldn't dismiss
him. There was a ladder against the greenhouse, and little lumps of
putty stuck about, for they were beginning to mend the greenhouse. Yes,
but as she strolled along with her husband, she felt that that particular
source of worry had been placed. She had it on the tip of her tongue to
say, as they strolled, "It'll cost fifty pounds," but instead, for her heart
failed her about money, she talked about Jasper shooting birds, and he
said, at once, soothing her instantly, that it was natural in a boy, and he
trusted he would find better ways of amusing himself before long. Her
husband was so sensible, so just. And so she said, "Yes; all children go
through stages," and began considering the dahlias in the big bed, and
wondering what about next year's flowers, and had he heard the
children's nickname for Charles Tansley, she asked. The atheist, they
called him, the little atheist. "He's not a polished specimen," said Mr
Ramsay. "Far from it," said Mrs Ramsay.
She supposed it was all right leaving him to his own devices, Mrs
Ramsay said, wondering whether it was any use sending down bulbs;
did they plant them? "Oh, he has his dissertation to write," said Mr Ramsay.
She knew all about THAT, said Mrs Ramsay. He talked of nothing
else. It was about the influence of somebody upon something. "Well, it's
all he has to count on," said Mr Ramsay. "Pray Heaven he won't fall in
love with Prue," said Mrs Ramsay. He'd disinherit her if she married
him, said Mr Ramsay. He did not look at the flowers, which his wife was
considering, but at a spot about a foot or so above them. There was no
harm in him, he added, and was just about to say that anyhow he was
the only young man in England who admired his—when he choked it
back. He would not bother her again about his books. These flowers
seemed creditable, Mr Ramsay said, lowering his gaze and noticing
something red, something brown. Yes, but then these she had put in
with her own hands, said Mrs Ramsay. The question was, what
55
happened if she sent bulbs down; did Kennedy plant them? It was his incurable
laziness; she added, moving on. If she stood over him all day
long with a spade in her hand, he did sometimes do a stroke of work. So
they strolled along, towards the red-hot pokers. "You're teaching your
daughters to exaggerate," said Mr Ramsay, reproving her. Her Aunt Camilla
was far worse than she was, Mrs Ramsay remarked. "Nobody ever
held up your Aunt Camilla as a model of virtue that I'm aware of," said
Mr Ramsay. "She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw," said Mrs
Ramsay. "Somebody else was that," said Mr Ramsay. Prue was going to
be far more beautiful than she was, said Mrs Ramsay. He saw no trace of
it, said Mr Ramsay. "Well, then, look tonight," said Mrs Ramsay. They
paused. He wished Andrew could be induced to work harder. He would
lose every chance of a scholarship if he didn't. "Oh, scholarships!" she
said. Mr Ramsay thought her foolish for saying that, about a serious
thing, like a scholarship. He should be very proud of Andrew if he got a
scholarship, he said. She would be just as proud of him if he didn't, she
answered. They disagreed always about this, but it did not matter. She
liked him to believe in scholarships, and he liked her to be proud of
Andrew whatever he did. Suddenly she remembered those little paths
on the edge of the cliffs.
Wasn't it late? she asked. They hadn't come home yet. He flicked his
watch carelessly open. But it was only just past seven. He held his watch
open for a moment, deciding that he would tell her what he had felt on
the terrace. To begin with, it was not reasonable to be so nervous.
Andrew could look after himself. Then, he wanted to tell her that when
he was walking on the terrace just now—here he became uncomfortable,
as if he were breaking into that solitude, that aloofness, that remoteness
of hers. But she pressed him. What had he wanted to tell her, she asked,
thinking it was about going to the Lighthouse; that he was sorry he had
said "Damn you." But no. He did not like to see her look so sad, he said.
Only wool gathering, she protested, flushing a little. They both felt uncomfortable,
as if they did not know whether to go on or go back. She
had been reading fairy tales to James, she said. No, they could not share
that; they could not say that.
