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

Bonamy; and “common ground” and something else⁠—all very long words, she noted. “Book learning does it,” she thought to herself, and, as she thrust her arms into her jacket, heard something⁠—might be the little table by the fire⁠—fall; and then stamp, stamp, stamp⁠—as if they were having at each other⁠—round the room, making the plates dance.

“Tomorrow’s breakfast, sir,” she said, opening the door; and there were Sanders and Bonamy like two bulls of Bashan driving each other up and down, making such a racket, and all them chairs in the way. They never noticed her. She felt motherly towards them. “Your breakfast, sir,” she said, as they came near. And Bonamy, all his hair tousled and his tie flying, broke off, and pushed Sanders into the armchair, and said Mr. Sanders had smashed the coffeepot and he was teaching Mr. Sanders⁠—

Sure enough, the coffeepot lay broken on the hearthrug.

“Any day this week except Thursday,” wrote Miss Perry, and this was not the first invitation by any means. Were all Miss Perry’s weeks blank with the exception of Thursday, and was her only desire to see her old friend’s son? Time is issued to spinster ladies of wealth in long white ribbons. These they wind round and round, round and round, assisted by five female servants, a butler, a fine Mexican parrot, regular meals, Mudie’s library, and friends dropping in. A little hurt she was already that Jacob had not called.

“Your mother,” she said, “is one of my oldest friends.”

Miss Rosseter, who was sitting by the fire, holding the Spectator between her cheek and the blaze, refused to have a fire screen, but finally accepted one. The weather was then discussed, for in deference to Parkes, who was opening little tables, graver matters were postponed. Miss Rosseter drew Jacob’s attention to the beauty of the cabinet.

“So wonderfully clever in picking things up,” she said. Miss Perry had found it in Yorkshire. The North of England was discussed. When Jacob spoke they both listened. Miss Perry was bethinking her of something suitable and manly to say when the door opened and Mr. Benson was announced. Now there were four people sitting in that room. Miss Perry aged 66; Miss Rosseter 42; Mr. Benson 38; and Jacob 25.

“My old friend looks as well as ever,” said Mr. Benson, tapping the bars of the parrot’s cage; Miss Rosseter simultaneously praised the tea; Jacob handed the wrong plates; and Miss Perry signified her desire to approach more closely. “Your brothers,” she began vaguely.

“Archer and John,” Jacob supplied her. Then to her pleasure she recovered Rebecca’s name; and how one day “when you were all little boys, playing in the drawing-room⁠—”

“But Miss Perry has the kettle-holder,” said Miss Rosseter, and indeed Miss Perry was clasping it to her breast. (Had she, then, loved Jacob’s father?)

“So clever”⁠—“not so good as usual”⁠—“I thought it most unfair,” said Mr. Benson and Miss Rosseter, discussing the Saturday Westminster. Did they not compete regularly for prizes? Had not Mr. Benson three times won a guinea, and Miss Rosseter once ten and sixpence? Of course Everard Benson had a weak heart, but still, to win prizes, remember parrots, toady Miss Perry, despise Miss Rosseter, give tea-parties in his rooms (which were in the style of Whistler, with pretty books on tables), all this, so Jacob felt without knowing him, made him a contemptible ass. As for Miss Rosseter, she had nursed cancer, and now painted watercolours.

“Running away so soon?” said Miss Perry vaguely. “At home every afternoon, if you’ve nothing better to do⁠—except Thursdays.”

“I’ve never known you desert your old ladies once,” Miss Rosseter was saying, and Mr. Benson was stooping over the parrot’s cage, and Miss Perry was moving towards the bell.⁠ ⁠…

The fire burnt clear between two pillars of greenish marble, and on the mantelpiece there was a green clock guarded by Britannia leaning on her spear. As for pictures⁠—a maiden in a large hat offered roses over the garden gate to a gentleman in eighteenth-century costume. A mastiff lay extended against a battered door. The lower panes of the windows were of ground glass, and the curtains, accurately looped, were of plush and green too.

Laurette and Jacob sat with their toes in the fender side by side, in two large chairs covered in green plush. Laurette’s skirts were short, her legs long, thin, and transparently covered. Her fingers stroked her ankles.

“It’s not exactly that I don’t understand them,” she was saying thoughtfully. “I must go and try again.”

“What time will you be there?” said Jacob.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Tomorrow?”

No, not tomorrow.

“This weather makes me long for the country,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the back view of tall houses through the window.

“I wish you’d been with me on Saturday,” said Jacob.

“I used to ride,” she said. She got up gracefully, calmly. Jacob got up. She smiled at him. As she shut the door he put so many shillings on the mantelpiece.

Altogether a most reasonable conversation; a most respectable room; an intelligent girl. Only Madame herself seeing Jacob out had about her that leer, that lewdness, that quake of the surface (visible in the eyes chiefly), which threatens to spill the whole bag of ordure, with difficulty held together, over the pavement. In short, something was wrong.

Not so very long ago the workmen had gilt the final “y” in Lord Macaulay’s name, and the names stretched in unbroken file round the dome of the British Museum. At a considerable depth beneath, many hundreds of the living sat at the spokes of a cartwheel copying from printed books into manuscript books; now and then rising to consult the catalogue; regaining their places stealthily, while from time to time a silent man replenished their compartments.

There was a little catastrophe. Miss Marchmont’s pile overbalanced and fell into Jacob’s compartment. Such things happened to Miss Marchmont. What was she seeking through millions of pages, in her old plush dress, and her wig of claret-coloured hair, with her gems and her chilblains? Sometimes one thing, sometimes another, to confirm her philosophy