To The Lighthouse(Illustrated) E-Book

Virginia Woolf

• Herausgeber: Swish
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

• Illustrated edition with 20 original illustrations inspired by the novel’s key moments
• Includes a detailed summary of the novel
• Character list to guide readers through the complex cast
• Biography of Virginia Woolf for deeper insight into the author’s life

Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse is a timeless exploration of family dynamics, human consciousness, and the elusive nature of time. Set against the backdrop of the Ramsay family’s summer home on the Isle of Skye, the novel masterfully delves into the inner lives of its characters, capturing fleeting moments and emotional currents with lyrical precision. The novel centers on Mrs. Ramsay’s quiet influence over her family and guests, her nurturing presence contrasted by Mr. Ramsay’s intellectual rigor and emotional distance.
The narrative is divided into three parts, moving from the hopes and tensions of the present to the ravages of time, and ultimately to a bittersweet reunion with the long-awaited lighthouse. Through its stream-of-consciousness technique and symbolic depth, To the Lighthouse explores profound themes of memory, loss, and the search for meaning in an ever-changing world.
This illustrated edition brings the novel to life with 20 captivating illustrations that reflect the mood and atmosphere of Woolf’s prose. In addition to the novel itself, this edition includes a summary, character list, and a biography of Virginia Woolf, offering readers a comprehensive and enriching experience. Whether you are discovering Woolf for the first time or returning to this modernist classic, this edition provides a new way to engage with one of the greatest literary works of the 20th century.

 

Leseprobe

To The Lighthouse                                                                                  by                                                                                                                      Virginia Woolf

ABOUT WOOLF

Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) was a pioneering British modernist writer, best known for her novels, essays, and stream-of-consciousness narrative techniques that transformed 20th-century literature. Born Adeline Virginia Stephen in London to a prominent intellectual family, Woolf grew up surrounded by a rich literary and cultural environment. Her father, Sir Leslie Stephen, was a respected scholar and editor, and her mother, Julia Stephen, was a model for Pre-Raphaelite painters. This intellectual upbringing influenced Woolf's early love for reading and writing.

Woolf’s career as a writer began in earnest after the founding of the Bloomsbury Group, an influential collective of writers, artists, and thinkers, including her husband Leonard Woolf, philosopher Bertrand Russell, and economist John Maynard Keynes. Through this circle, she developed her distinctive style, which focused on capturing the inner lives and psychological depths of her characters. Woolf’s most famous works, Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), and Orlando (1928), explore themes of time, memory, gender, and the fluidity of identity. Her essay A Room of One's Own (1929) remains a seminal text in feminist literature, advocating for women's independence and creative freedom.

Throughout her life, Woolf struggled with mental illness, likely bipolar disorder, which heavily influenced her writing. Her bouts of depression and instability are documented in her personal diaries and letters, revealing a woman deeply introspective and sensitive to the human condition. Despite her personal challenges, Woolf was a literary force, contributing to the transformation of the novel as a form and influencing generations of writers with her experimentation in narrative structure and language.

In 1941, Virginia Woolf tragically ended her life, leaving behind a legacy of works that continue to be studied and admired for their innovation, emotional depth, and literary significance. Today, she is regarded as one of the most important literary figures of the 20th century and a foundational voice in modernist fiction and feminist thought.

SUMMARY

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf is a masterful exploration of time, memory, and the fleeting nature of human experience, set against the backdrop of a family's journey to a distant lighthouse. The novel, published in 1927, intricately weaves together the inner thoughts and emotions of its characters, particularly focusing on the Ramsay family and their guests during a summer vacation on the Isle of Skye.

At the heart of the story is Mrs. Ramsay, a nurturing yet enigmatic figure, whose influence binds the family together, and her husband, Mr. Ramsay, a philosopher grappling with his intellectual legacy. The novel’s structure is unique, divided into three parts: the first centered on the family’s life before World War I, the second a haunting depiction of time passing over a decade, and the third their return to the lighthouse years later.

Woolf's use of stream-of-consciousness allows readers to dive deep into the characters' psyches, revealing their desires, insecurities, and unspoken connections. The lighthouse itself becomes a powerful symbol—of unattainable goals, distant desires, and the passage of time that erodes both personal aspirations and relationships.

Through its poetic language and introspective depth, To the Lighthouse explores profound themes of life’s impermanence, the complexity of human relationships, and the search for meaning in a constantly shifting world. This modernist classic remains one of Woolf’s most celebrated works, offering a poignant reflection on the nature of existence and art.

CHARACTERS LIST

Mrs. Ramsay

The central figure of the novel, Mrs. Ramsay is a warm, nurturing, and compassionate woman who strives to bring people together. She is a devoted mother and wife, but also a deeply introspective and complex character, embodying the emotional core of the story.

Mr. Ramsay

Mrs. Ramsay's husband, Mr. Ramsay is a stern, intellectual philosopher who seeks validation for his work. He often struggles with feelings of inadequacy and a fear that his academic legacy will be forgotten, creating tension within his family, especially with his wife.

James Ramsay

The youngest son of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay, James is deeply attached to his mother and harbors resentment towards his father for his demanding nature. His strong desire to visit the lighthouse serves as one of the novel's central motifs.

Lily Briscoe

A close friend of the Ramsays and an aspiring painter, Lily represents the artistic and independent woman in the novel. Throughout the story, she grapples with societal expectations, her artistic ambitions, and her complex feelings toward the Ramsays, particularly Mrs. Ramsay.

Charles Tansley

A student of Mr. Ramsay, Charles Tansley is an arrogant and insecure man, often disparaging others to boost his own ego. He dismisses women’s intellectual abilities and has a particularly antagonistic relationship with Lily Briscoe.

Cam Ramsay

One of the Ramsay children, Cam is a lively and imaginative girl who grows into a reflective young woman over the course of the novel. She later accompanies her father on the journey to the lighthouse.

Andrew Ramsay

One of the older Ramsay children, Andrew is intelligent and poised to have a bright future in the academic world. His life takes a tragic turn during the course of the story.

Paul Rayley

A family friend of the Ramsays, Paul is encouraged by Mrs. Ramsay to propose to Minta Doyle. Though he complies, his relationship with Minta becomes strained over time, revealing the complexity of romantic expectations.

Minta Doyle

A young woman who visits the Ramsays and becomes engaged to Paul Rayley. Her carefree nature contrasts with the more introspective and serious characters, but her relationship with Paul ultimately faces challenges.

Prue Ramsay

One of the older Ramsay daughters, Prue is beautiful and graceful, admired by many. She follows the traditional path set by her mother, but her life also ends in tragedy.

Augustus Carmichael

A poet and guest of the Ramsays, Carmichael is a quiet, introspective figure who later achieves literary success. His character serves as a contrast to Mr. Ramsay’s anxieties about intellectual recognition.

These characters each play a significant role in To the Lighthouse, with their inner thoughts and relationships forming the emotional and philosophical landscape of the novel.

Contents

The Window

Time Passes

The Lighthouse

The Window

1

"Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “But you’ll have to be up with the lark,” she added.

To her son these words conveyed an extraordinary joy, as if it were settled, the expedition were bound to take place, and the wonder to which he had looked forward, for years and years it seemed, was, after a night’s darkness and a day’s sail, within touch. Since he belonged, even at the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling separate from that, but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows, cloud what is actually at hand, since to such people even in earliest childhood any turn in the wheel of sensation has the power to crystallise and transfix the moment upon which its gloom or radiance rests, James Ramsay, sitting on the floor cutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogue of the Army and Navy stores, endowed the picture of a refrigerator, as his mother spoke, with heavenly bliss. It was fringed with joy. The wheelbarrow, the lawnmower, the sound of poplar trees, leaves whitening before rain, rooks cawing, brooms knocking, dresses rustling — all these were so coloured and distinguished in his mind that he had already his private code, his secret language, though he appeared the image of stark and uncompromising severity, with his high forehead and his fierce blue eyes, impeccably candid and pure, frowning slightly at the sight of human frailty, so that his mother, watching him guide his scissors neatly round the refrigerator, imagined him all red and ermine on the Bench or directing a stern and momentous enterprise in some crisis of public affairs.

“But,” said his father, stopping in front of the drawing-room window, “it won’t be fine.”

Had there been an axe handy, a poker, or any weapon that would have gashed a hole in his father’s breast and killed him, there and then, James would have seized it. Such were the extremes of emotion that Mr. Ramsay excited in his children’s breasts by his mere presence; standing, as now, lean as a knife, narrow as the blade of one, grinning sarcastically, not only with the pleasure of disillusioning his son and casting ridicule upon his wife, who was ten thousand times better in every way than he was (James thought), but also with some secret conceit at his own accuracy of judgement. What he said was true. It was always true. He was incapable of untruth; never tampered with a fact; never altered a disagreeable word to suit the pleasure or convenience of any mortal being, least of all of his own children, who, sprung from his loins, should be aware from childhood that life is difficult; facts uncompromising; and the passage to that fabled land where our brightest hopes are extinguished, our frail barks founder in darkness (here Mr. Ramsay would straighten his back and narrow his little blue eyes upon the horizon), one that needs, above all, courage, truth, and the power to endure.

“But it may be fine — I expect it will be fine,” said Mrs. Ramsay, making some little twist of the reddish brown stocking she was knitting, impatiently. If she finished it tonight, if they did go to the Lighthouse after all, it was to be given to the Lighthouse keeper for his little boy, who was threatened with a tuberculous hip; together with a pile of old magazines, and some tobacco, indeed, whatever she could find lying about, not really wanted, but only littering the room, to give those poor fellows, who must be bored to death sitting all day with nothing to do but polish the lamp and trim the wick and rake about on their scrap of garden, something to amuse them. For how would you like to be shut up for a whole month at a time, and possibly more in stormy weather, upon a rock the size of a tennis lawn? she would ask; and to have no letters or newspapers, and to see nobody; if you were married, not to see your wife, not to know how your children were — if they were ill, if they had fallen down and broken their legs or arms; to see the same dreary waves breaking week after week, and then a dreadful storm coming, and the windows covered with spray, and birds dashed against the lamp, and the whole place rocking, and not be able to put your nose out of doors for fear of being swept into the sea? How would you like that? she asked, addressing herself particularly to her daughters. So she added, rather differently, one must take them whatever comforts one can.

“It’s due west,” said the atheist Tansley, holding his bony fingers spread so that the wind blew through them, for he was sharing Mr. Ramsay’s evening walk up and down, up and down the terrace. That is to say, the wind blew from the worst possible direction for landing at the Lighthouse. Yes, he did say disagreeable things, Mrs. Ramsay admitted; it was odious of him to rub this in, and make James still more disappointed; but at the same time, she would not let them laugh at him. “The atheist,” they called him; “the little atheist.” Rose mocked him; Prue mocked him; Andrew, Jasper, Roger mocked him; even old Badger without a tooth in his head had bit him, for being (as Nancy put it) the hundred and tenth young man to chase them all the way up to the Hebrides when it was ever so much nicer to be alone.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Ramsay, with great severity. Apart from the habit of exaggeration which they had from her, and from the implication (which was true) that she asked too many people to stay, and had to lodge some in the town, she could not bear incivility to her guests, to young men in particular, who were poor as churchmice, “exceptionally able,” her husband said, his great admirers, and come there for a holiday. Indeed, she had the whole of the other sex under her protection; for reasons she could not explain, for their chivalry and valour, for the fact that they negotiated treaties, ruled India, controlled finance; finally for an attitude towards herself which no woman could fail to feel or to find agreeable, something trustful, childlike, reverential; which an old woman could take from a young man without loss of dignity, and woe betide the girl — pray Heaven it was none of her daughters! — who did not feel the worth of it, and all that it implied, to the marrow of her bones!

She turned with severity upon Nancy. He had not chased them, she said. He had been asked.

They must find a way out of it all. There might be some simpler way, some less laborious way, she sighed. When she looked in the glass and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty, she thought, possibly she might have managed things better — her husband; money; his books. But for her own part she would never for a single second regret her decision, evade difficulties, or slur over duties. She was now formidable to behold, and it was only in silence, looking up from their plates, after she had spoken so severely about Charles Tansley, that her daughters, Prue, Nancy, Rose — could sport with infidel ideas which they had brewed for themselves of a life different from hers; in Paris, perhaps; a wilder life; not always taking care of some man or other; for there was in all their minds a mute questioning of deference and chivalry, of the Bank of England and the Indian Empire, of ringed fingers and lace, though to them all there was something in this of the essence of beauty, which called out the manliness in their girlish hearts, and made them, as they sat at table beneath their mother’s eyes, honour her strange severity, her extreme courtesy, like a queen’s raising from the mud to wash a beggar’s dirty foot, when she admonished them so very severely about that wretched atheist who had chased them — or, speaking accurately, been invited to stay with them — in the Isle of Skye.

“There’ll be no landing at the Lighthouse tomorrow,” said Charles Tansley, clapping his hands together as he stood at the window with her husband. Surely, he had said enough. She wished they would both leave her and James alone and go on talking. She looked at him. He was such a miserable specimen, the children said, all humps and hollows. He couldn’t play cricket; he poked; he shuffled. He was a sarcastic brute, Andrew said. They knew what he liked best — to be for ever walking up and down, up and down, with Mr. Ramsay, and saying who had won this, who had won that, who was a “first rate man” at Latin verses, who was “brilliant but I think fundamentally unsound,” who was undoubtedly the “ablest fellow in Balliol,” who had buried his light temporarily at Bristol or Bedford, but was bound to be heard of later when his Prolegomena, of which Mr. Tansley had the first pages in proof with him if Mr. Ramsay would like to see them, to some branch of mathematics or philosophy saw the light of day. That was what they talked about.

She could not help laughing herself sometimes. She said, the other day, something about “waves mountains high.” Yes, said Charles Tansley, it was a little rough. “Aren’t you drenched to the skin?” she had said. “Damp, not wet through,” said Mr. Tansley, pinching his sleeve, feeling his socks.

But it was not that they minded, the children said. It was not his face; it was not his manners. It was him — his point of view. When they talked about something interesting, people, music, history, anything, even said it was a fine evening so why not sit out of doors, then what they complained of about Charles Tansley was that until he had turned the whole thing round and made it somehow reflect himself and disparage them — he was not satisfied. And he would go to picture galleries they said, and he would ask one, did one like his tie? God knows, said Rose, one did not.

Disappearing as stealthily as stags from the dinner-table directly the meal was over, the eight sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay sought their bedrooms, their fastness in a house where there was no other privacy to debate anything, everything; Tansley’s tie; the passing of the Reform Bill; sea birds and butterflies; people; while the sun poured into those attics, which a plank alone separated from each other so that every footstep could be plainly heard and the Swiss girl sobbing for her father who was dying of cancer in a valley of the Grisons, and lit up bats, flannels, straw hats, ink-pots, paint-pots, beetles, and the skulls of small birds, while it drew from the long frilled strips of seaweed pinned to the wall a smell of salt and weeds, which was in the towels too, gritty with sand from bathing.

Strife, divisions, difference of opinion, prejudices twisted into the very fibre of being, oh, that they should begin so early, Mrs. Ramsay deplored. They were so critical, her children. They talked such nonsense. She went from the dining-room, holding James by the hand, since he would not go with the others. It seemed to her such nonsense — inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that. The real differences, she thought, standing by the drawing-room window, are enough, quite enough. She had in mind at the moment, rich and poor, high and low; the great in birth receiving from her, half grudging, some respect, for had she not in her veins the blood of that very noble, if slightly mythical, Italian house, whose daughters, scattered about English drawing-rooms in the nineteenth century, had lisped so charmingly, had stormed so wildly, and all her wit and her bearing and her temper came from them, and not from the sluggish English, or the cold Scotch; but more profoundly, she ruminated the other problem, of rich and poor, and the things she saw with her own eyes, weekly, daily, here or in London, when she visited this widow, or that struggling wife in person with a bag on her arm, and a note-book and pencil with which she wrote down in columns carefully ruled for the purpose wages and spendings, employment and unemployment, in the hope that thus she would cease to be a private woman whose charity was half a sop to her own indignation, half a relief to her own curiosity, and become what with her untrained mind she greatly admired, an investigator, elucidating the social problem.

Insoluble questions they were, it seemed to her, standing there, holding James by the hand. He had followed her into the drawing-room, that young man they laughed at; he was standing by the table, fidgeting with something, awkwardly, feeling himself out of things, as she knew without looking round. They had all gone — the children; Minta Doyle and Paul Rayley; Augustus Carmichael; her husband — they had all gone. So she turned with a sigh and said, “Would it bore you to come with me, Mr. Tansley?”

She had a dull errand in the town; she had a letter or two to write; she would be ten minutes perhaps; she would put on her hat. And, with her basket and her parasol, there she was again, ten minutes later, giving out a sense of being ready, of being equipped for a jaunt, which, however, she must interrupt for a moment, as they passed the tennis lawn, to ask Mr. Carmichael, who was basking with his yellow cat’s eyes ajar, so that like a cat’s they seemed to reflect the branches moving or the clouds passing, but to give no inkling of any inner thoughts or emotion whatsoever, if he wanted anything.

For they were making the great expedition, she said, laughing. They were going to the town. “Stamps, writing-paper, tobacco?” she suggested, stopping by his side. But no, he wanted nothing. His hands clasped themselves over his capacious paunch, his eyes blinked, as if he would have liked to reply kindly to these blandishments (she was seductive but a little nervous) but could not, sunk as he was in a grey-green somnolence which embraced them all, without need of words, in a vast and benevolent lethargy of well-wishing; all the house; all the world; all the people in it, for he had slipped into his glass at lunch a few drops of something, which accounted, the children thought, for the vivid streak of canary-yellow in moustache and beard that were otherwise milk white. No, nothing, he murmured.

He should have been a great philosopher, said Mrs. Ramsay, as they went down the road to the fishing village, but he had made an unfortunate marriage. Holding her black parasol very erect, and moving with an indescribable air of expectation, as if she were going to meet some one round the corner, she told the story; an affair at Oxford with some girl; an early marriage; poverty; going to India; translating a little poetry “very beautifully, I believe,” being willing to teach the boys Persian or Hindustanee, but what really was the use of that? — and then lying, as they saw him, on the lawn.

It flattered him; snubbed as he had been, it soothed him that Mrs. Ramsay should tell him this. Charles Tansley revived. Insinuating, too, as she did the greatness of man’s intellect, even in its decay, the subjection of all wives — not that she blamed the girl, and the marriage had been happy enough, she believed — to their husband’s labours, she made him feel better pleased with himself than he had done yet, and he would have liked, had they taken a cab, for example, to have paid the fare. As for her little bag, might he not carry that? No, no, she said, she always carried THAT herself. She did too. Yes, he felt that in her. He felt many things, something in particular that excited him and disturbed him for reasons which he could not give. He would like her to see him, gowned and hooded, walking in a procession. A fellowship, a professorship, he felt capable of anything and saw himself — but what was she looking at? At a man pasting a bill. The vast flapping sheet flattened itself out, and each shove of the brush revealed fresh legs, hoops, horses, glistening reds and blues, beautifully smooth, until half the wall was covered with the advertisement of a circus; a hundred horsemen, twenty performing seals, lions, tigers . . . Craning forwards, for she was short-sighted, she read it out . . . “will visit this town,” she read. It was terribly dangerous work for a one-armed man, she exclaimed, to stand on top of a ladder like that — his left arm had been cut off in a reaping machine two years ago.

“Let us all go!” she cried, moving on, as if all those riders and horses had filled her with childlike exultation and made her forget her pity.

“Let’s go,” he said, repeating her words, clicking them out, however, with a self-consciousness that made her wince. “Let us all go to the circus.” No. He could not say it right. He could not feel it right. But why not? she wondered. What was wrong with him then? She liked him warmly, at the moment. Had they not been taken, she asked, to circuses when they were children? Never, he answered, as if she asked the very thing he wanted; had been longing all these days to say, how they did not go to circuses. It was a large family, nine brothers and sisters, and his father was a working man. “My father is a chemist, Mrs. Ramsay. He keeps a shop.” He himself had paid his own way since he was thirteen. Often he went without a greatcoat in winter. He could never “return hospitality” (those were his parched stiff words) at college. He had to make things last twice the time other people did; he smoked the cheapest tobacco; shag; the same the old men did in the quays. He worked hard — seven hours a day; his subject was now the influence of something upon somebody — they were walking on and Mrs. Ramsay did not quite catch the meaning, only the words, here and there . . . dissertation . . . fellowship . . . readership . . . lectureship. She could not follow the ugly academic jargon, that rattled itself off so glibly, but said to herself that she saw now why going to the circus had knocked him off his perch, poor little man, and why he came out, instantly, with all that about his father and mother and brothers and sisters, and she would see to it that they didn’t laugh at him any more; she would tell Prue about it. What he would have liked, she supposed, would have been to say how he had gone not to the circus but to Ibsen with the Ramsays. He was an awful prig — oh yes, an insufferable bore. For, though they had reached the town now and were in the main street, with carts grinding past on the cobbles, still he went on talking, about settlements, and teaching, and working men, and helping our own class, and lectures, till she gathered that he had got back entire self-confidence, had recovered from the circus, and was about (and now again she liked him warmly) to tell her — but here, the houses falling away on both sides, they came out on the quay, and the whole bay spread before them and Mrs. Ramsay could not help exclaiming, “Oh, how beautiful!” For the great plateful of blue water was before her; the hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in the midst; and on the right, as far as the eye could see, fading and falling, in soft low pleats, the green sand dunes with the wild flowing grasses on them, which always seemed to be running away into some moon country, uninhabited of men.

That was the view, she said, stopping, growing greyer-eyed, that her husband loved.