Jacob's Room - Virginia Woolf (polar express read aloud txt) 📗
- Author: Virginia Woolf
- Performer: 0140185704
Book online «Jacob's Room - Virginia Woolf (polar express read aloud txt) 📗». Author Virginia Woolf
and out steal on tiptoe thoughts of rest, sweet melodies. … Old
Spicer, jute merchant, thought nothing of the kind though. Strangely
enough he’d never been in St. Paul’s these fifty years, though his
office windows looked on the churchyard. “So that’s all? Well, a gloomy
old place. … Where’s Nelson’s tomb? No time now—come again—a coin to
leave in the box. … Rain or fine is it? Well, if it would only make up
its mind!” Idly the children stray in—the verger dissuades them—and
another and another … man, woman, man, woman, boy … casting their
eyes up, pursing their lips, the same shadow brushing the same faces;
the leathern curtain of the heart flaps wide.
Nothing could appear more certain from the steps of St. Paul’s than that
each person is miraculously provided with coat, skirt, and boots; an
income; an object. Only Jacob, carrying in his hand Finlay’s Byzantine
Empire, which he had bought in Ludgate Hill, looked a little different;
for in his hand he carried a book, which book he would at nine-thirty
precisely, by his own fireside, open and study, as no one else of all
these multitudes would do. They have no houses. The streets belong to
them; the shops; the churches; theirs the innumerable desks; the
stretched office lights; the vans are theirs, and the railway slung high
above the street. If you look closer you will see that three elderly men
at a little distance from each other run spiders along the pavement as
if the street were their parlour, and here, against the wall, a woman
stares at nothing, boot-laces extended, which she does not ask you to
buy. The posters are theirs too; and the news on them. A town destroyed;
a race won. A homeless people, circling beneath the sky whose blue or
white is held off by a ceiling cloth of steel filings and horse dung
shredded to dust.
There, under the green shade, with his head bent over white paper, Mr.
Sibley transferred figures to folios, and upon each desk you observe,
like provender, a bunch of papers, the day’s nutriment, slowly consumed
by the industrious pen. Innumerable overcoats of the quality prescribed
hung empty all day in the corridors, but as the clock struck six each
was exactly filled, and the little figures, split apart into trousers or
moulded into a single thickness, jerked rapidly with angular forward
motion along the pavement; then dropped into darkness. Beneath the
pavement, sunk in the earth, hollow drains lined with yellow light for
ever conveyed them this way and that, and large letters upon enamel
plates represented in the underworld the parks, squares, and circuses of
the upper. “Marble Arch—Shepherd’s Bush”—to the majority the Arch and
the Bush are eternally white letters upon a blue ground. Only at one
point—it may be Acton, Holloway, Kensal Rise, Caledonian Road—does the
name mean shops where you buy things, and houses, in one of which, down
to the right, where the pollard trees grow out of the paving stones,
there is a square curtained window, and a bedroom.
Long past sunset an old blind woman sat on a camp-stool with her back to
the stone wall of the Union of London and Smith’s Bank, clasping a brown
mongrel tight in her arms and singing out loud, not for coppers, no,
from the depths of her gay wild heart—her sinful, tanned heart—for the
child who fetches her is the fruit of sin, and should have been in bed,
curtained, asleep, instead of hearing in the lamplight her mother’s wild
song, where she sits against the Bank, singing not for coppers, with her
dog against her breast.
Home they went. The grey church spires received them; the hoary city,
old, sinful, and majestic. One behind another, round or pointed,
piercing the sky or massing themselves, like sailing ships, like granite
cliffs, spires and offices, wharves and factories crowd the bank;
eternally the pilgrims trudge; barges rest in mid stream heavy laden; as
some believe, the city loves her prostitutes.
But few, it seems, are admitted to that degree. Of all the carriages
that leave the arch of the Opera House, not one turns eastward, and when
the little thief is caught in the empty market-place no one in black-and-white or rose-coloured evening dress blocks the way by pausing with
a hand upon the carriage door to help or condemn—though Lady Charles,
to do her justice, sighs sadly as she ascends her staircase, takes down
Thomas a Kempis, and does not sleep till her mind has lost itself
tunnelling into the complexity of things. “Why? Why? Why?” she sighs. On
the whole it’s best to walk back from the Opera House. Fatigue is the
safest sleeping draught.
The autumn season was in full swing. Tristan was twitching his rug up
under his armpits twice a week; Isolde waved her scarf in miraculous
sympathy with the conductor’s baton. In all parts of the house were to
be found pink faces and glittering breasts. When a Royal hand attached
to an invisible body slipped out and withdrew the red and white bouquet
reposing on the scarlet ledge, the Queen of England seemed a name worth
dying for. Beauty, in its hothouse variety (which is none of the worst),
flowered in box after box; and though nothing was said of profound
importance, and though it is generally agreed that wit deserted
beautiful lips about the time that Walpole died—at any rate when
Victoria in her nightgown descended to meet her ministers, the lips
(through an opera glass) remained red, adorable. Bald distinguished men
with gold-headed canes strolled down the crimson avenues between the
stalls, and only broke from intercourse with the boxes when the lights
went down, and the conductor, first bowing to the Queen, next to the
bald-headed men, swept round on his feet and raised his wand.
Then two thousand hearts in the semi-darkness remembered, anticipated,
travelled dark labyrinths; and Clara Durrant said farewell to Jacob
Flanders, and tasted the sweetness of death in effigy; and Mrs. Durrant,
sitting behind her in the dark of the box, sighed her sharp sigh; and
Mr. Wortley, shifting his position behind the Italian Ambassador’s wife,
thought that Brangaena was a trifle hoarse; and suspended in the gallery
many feet above their heads, Edward Whittaker surreptitiously held a
torch to his miniature score; and … and …
In short, the observer is choked with observations. Only to prevent us
from being submerged by chaos, nature and society between them have
arranged a system of classification which is simplicity itself; stalls,
boxes, amphitheatre, gallery. The moulds are filled nightly. There is no
need to distinguish details. But the difficulty remains—one has to
choose. For though I have no wish to be Queen of England or only for a
moment—I would willingly sit beside her; I would hear the Prime
Minister’s gossip; the countess whisper, and share her memories of halls
and gardens; the massive fronts of the respectable conceal after all
their secret code; or why so impermeable? And then, doffing one’s own
headpiece, how strange to assume for a moment some one’s—any one’s—to
be a man of valour who has ruled the Empire; to refer while Brangaena
sings to the fragments of Sophocles, or see in a flash, as the shepherd
pipes his tune, bridges and aqueducts. But no—we must choose. Never was
there a harsher necessity! or one which entails greater pain, more
certain disaster; for wherever I seat myself, I die in exile: Whittaker
in his lodging-house; Lady Charles at the Manor.
A young man with a Wellington nose, who had occupied a seven-and-sixpenny seat, made his way down the stone stairs when the opera ended,
as if he were still set a little apart from his fellows by the influence
of the music.
At midnight Jacob Flanders heard a rap on his door.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You’re the very man I want!” and without more
ado they discovered the lines which he had been seeking all day; only
they come not in Virgil, but in Lucretius.
“Yes; that should make him sit up,” said Bonamy, as Jacob stopped
reading. Jacob was excited. It was the first time he had read his essay
aloud.
“Damned swine!” he said, rather too extravagantly; but the praise had
gone to his head. Professor Bulteel, of Leeds, had issued an edition of
Wycherley without stating that he had left out, disembowelled, or
indicated only by asterisks, several indecent words and some indecent
phrases. An outrage, Jacob said; a breach of faith; sheer prudery; token
of a lewd mind and a disgusting nature. Aristophanes and Shakespeare
were cited. Modern life was repudiated. Great play was made with the
professional title, and Leeds as a seat of learning was laughed to
scorn. And the extraordinary thing was that these young men were
perfectly right—extraordinary, because, even as Jacob copied his pages,
he knew that no one would ever print them; and sure enough back they
came from the Fortnightly, the Contemporary, the Nineteenth Century—
when Jacob threw them into the black wooden box where he kept his
mother’s letters, his old flannel trousers, and a note or two with the
Cornish postmark. The lid shut upon the truth.
This black wooden box, upon which his name was still legible in white
paint, stood between the long windows of the sitting-room. The street
ran beneath. No doubt the bedroom was behind. The furniture—three
wicker chairs and a gate-legged table—came from Cambridge. These houses
(Mrs. Garfit’s daughter, Mrs. Whitehorn, was the landlady of this one)
were built, say, a hundred and fifty years ago. The rooms are shapely,
the ceilings high; over the doorway a rose, or a ram’s skull, is carved
in the wood. The eighteenth century has its distinction. Even the
panels, painted in raspberry-coloured paint, have their distinction. …
“Distinction”—Mrs. Durrant said that Jacob Flanders was “distinguished-looking.” “Extremely awkward,” she said, “but so distinguished-looking.”
Seeing him for the first time that no doubt is the word for him. Lying
back in his chair, taking his pipe from his lips, and saying to Bonamy:
“About this opera now” (for they had done with indecency). “This fellow
Wagner” … distinction was one of the words to use naturally, though,
from looking at him, one would have found it difficult to say which seat
in the opera house was his, stalls, gallery, or dress circle. A writer?
He lacked self-consciousness. A painter? There was something in the
shape of his hands (he was descended on his mother’s side from a family
of the greatest antiquity and deepest obscurity) which indicated taste.
Then his mouth—but surely, of all futile occupations this of
cataloguing features is the worst. One word is sufficient. But if one
cannot find it?
“I like Jacob Flanders,” wrote Clara Durrant in her diary. “He is so
unworldly. He gives himself no airs, and one can say what one likes to
him, though he’s frightening because …” But Mr. Letts allows little
space in his shilling diaries. Clara was not the one to encroach upon
Wednesday. Humblest, most candid of women! “No, no, no,” she sighed,
standing at the greenhouse door, “don’t break—don’t spoil”—what?
Something infinitely wonderful.
But then, this is only a young woman’s language, one, too, who loves, or
refrains from loving. She wished the moment to continue for ever
precisely as it was that July morning. And moments don’t. Now, for
instance, Jacob was telling a story about some walking tour he’d taken,
and the inn was called “The Foaming Pot,” which, considering the
landlady’s name … They shouted with laughter. The joke was indecent.
Then Julia Eliot said “the silent young man,” and as she dined with
Prime Ministers, no doubt she meant: “If he is going to
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