Jacob’s Room Virginia Woolf (best romance books of all time .txt) 📖

the same as men⁠—innocence such as this is marvellous enough, and perhaps not so foolish after all.

For when Florinda got home that night she first washed her head; then ate chocolate creams; then opened Shelley. True, she was horribly bored. What on earth was it about? She had to wager with herself that she would turn the page before she ate another. In fact she slept. But then her day had been a long one, Mother Stuart had thrown the tea-cosy;⁠—there are formidable sights in the streets, and though Florinda was ignorant as an owl, and would never learn to read even her love letters correctly, still she had her feelings, liked some men better than others, and was entirely at the beck and call of life. Whether or not she was a virgin seems a matter of no importance whatever. Unless, indeed, it is the only thing of any importance at all.

Jacob was restless when she left him.

All night men and women seethed up and down the well-known beats. Late home-comers could see shadows against the blinds even in the most respectable suburbs. Not a square in snow or fog lacked its amorous couple. All plays turned on the same subject. Bullets went through heads in hotel bedrooms almost nightly on that account. When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred. Little else was talked of in theatres and popular novels. Yet we say it is a matter of no importance at all.

What with Shakespeare and Adonais, Mozart and Bishop Berkeley⁠—choose whom you like⁠—the fact is concealed and the evenings for most of us pass reputably, or with only the sort of tremor that a snake makes sliding through the grass. But then concealment by itself distracts the mind from the print and the sound. If Florinda had had a mind, she might have read with clearer eyes than we can. She and her sort have solved the question by turning it to a trifle of washing the hands nightly before going to bed, the only difficulty being whether you prefer your water hot or cold, which being settled, the mind can go about its business unassailed.

But it did occur to Jacob, halfway through dinner, to wonder whether she had a mind.

They sat at a little table in the restaurant.

Florinda leant the points of her elbows on the table and held her chin in the cup of her hands. Her cloak had slipped behind her. Gold and white with bright beads on her she emerged, her face flowering from her body, innocent, scarcely tinted, the eyes gazing frankly about her, or slowly settling on Jacob and resting there. She talked:

“You know that big black box the Australian left in my room ever so long ago?⁠ ⁠… I do think furs make a woman look old.⁠ ⁠… That’s Bechstein come in now.⁠ ⁠… I was wondering what you looked like when you were a little boy, Jacob.” She nibbled her roll and looked at him.

“Jacob. You’re like one of those statues.⁠ ⁠… I think there are lovely things in the British Museum, don’t you? Lots of lovely things⁠ ⁠…” she spoke dreamily. The room was filling; the heat increasing. Talk in a restaurant is dazed sleepwalkers’ talk, so many things to look at⁠—so much noise⁠—other people talking. Can one overhear? Oh, but they mustn’t overhear us.

“That’s like Ellen Nagle⁠—that girl⁠ ⁠…” and so on.

“I’m awfully happy since I’ve known you, Jacob. You’re such a good man.”

The room got fuller and fuller; talk louder; knives more clattering.

“Well, you see what makes her say things like that is⁠ ⁠…”

She stopped. So did everyone.

“Tomorrow⁠ ⁠… Sunday⁠ ⁠… a beastly⁠ ⁠… you tell me⁠ ⁠… go then!” Crash! And out she swept.

It was at the table next them that the voice spun higher and higher. Suddenly the woman dashed the plates to the floor. The man was left there. Everybody stared. Then⁠—“Well, poor chap, we mustn’t sit staring. What a go! Did you hear what she said? By God, he looks a fool! Didn’t come up to the scratch, I suppose. All the mustard on the tablecloth. The waiters laughing.”

Jacob observed Florinda. In her face there seemed to him something horribly brainless⁠—as she sat staring.

Out she swept, the black woman with the dancing feather in her hat.

Yet she had to go somewhere. The night is not a tumultuous black ocean in which you sink or sail as a star. As a matter of fact it was a wet November night. The lamps of Soho made large greasy spots of light upon the pavement. The by-streets were dark enough to shelter man or woman leaning against the doorways. One detached herself as Jacob and Florinda approached.

“She’s dropped her glove,” said Florinda.

Jacob, pressing forward, gave it her.

Effusively she thanked him; retraced her steps; dropped her glove again. But why? For whom? Meanwhile, where had the other woman got to? And the man?

The street lamps do not carry far enough to tell us. The voices, angry, lustful, despairing, passionate, were scarcely more than the voices of caged beasts at night. Only they are not caged, nor beasts. Stop a man; ask him the way; he’ll tell it you; but one’s afraid to ask him the way. What does one fear?⁠—the human eye. At once the pavement narrows, the chasm deepens. There! They’ve melted into it⁠—both man and woman. Further on, blatantly advertising its meritorious solidity, a boardinghouse exhibits behind uncurtained windows its testimony to the soundness of London. There they sit, plainly illuminated, dressed like ladies and gentlemen, in bamboo chairs. The widows of business men prove laboriously that they are related to judges. The wives of coal merchants instantly retort that their fathers kept coachmen. A servant brings coffee, and the crochet basket has to be moved. And so on again into the dark, passing a girl here for sale, or there an old woman with only matches to offer, passing the crowd from the Tube station, the women with veiled hair, passing at length no one but shut doors, carved