Jacob's Room by Virginia Woolf (best novels to read for students .TXT) đ
- Author: Virginia Woolf
- Performer: 0140185704
Book online «Jacob's Room by Virginia Woolf (best novels to read for students .TXT) đ». Author Virginia Woolf
uprooting the stability of the afternoonâdressmakers, that is to say,
and confectionersâ shops. Six yards of silk will cover one body; but if
you have to devise six hundred shapes for it, and twice as many
colours?âin the middle of which there is the urgent question of the
pudding with tufts of green cream and battlements of almond paste. It
has not arrived.
The flamingo hours fluttered softly through the sky. But regularly they
dipped their wings in pitch black; Notting Hill, for instance, or the
purlieus of Clerkenwell. No wonder that Italian remained a hidden art,
and the piano always played the same sonata. In order to buy one pair of
elastic stockings for Mrs. Page, widow, aged sixty-three, in receipt of
five shillings out-door relief, and help from her only son employed in
Messrs. Mackieâs dye-works, suffering in winter with his chest, letters
must be written, columns filled up in the same round, simple hand that
wrote in Mr. Lettsâs diary how the weather was fine, the children
demons, and Jacob Flanders unworldly. Clara Durrant procured the
stockings, played the sonata, filled the vases, fetched the pudding,
left the cards, and when the great invention of paper flowers to swim in
finger-bowls was discovered, was one of those who most marvelled at
their brief lives.
Nor were there wanting poets to celebrate the theme. Edwin Mallett, for
example, wrote his verses ending:
And read their doom in Chloeâs eyes,
which caused Clara to blush at the first reading, and to laugh at the
second, saying that it was just like him to call her Chloe when her name
was Clara. Ridiculous young man! But when, between ten and eleven on a
rainy morning, Edwin Mallett laid his life at her feet she ran out of
the room and hid herself in her bedroom, and Timothy below could not get
on with his work all that morning on account of her sobs.
âWhich is the result of enjoying yourself,â said Mrs. Durrant severely,
surveying the dance programme all scored with the same initials, or
rather they were different ones this timeâR.B. instead of E.M.; Richard
Bonamy it was now, the young man with the Wellington nose.
âBut I could never marry a man with a nose like that,â said Clara.
âNonsense,â said Mrs. Durrant.
âBut I am too severe,â she thought to herself. For Clara, losing all
vivacity, tore up her dance programme and threw it in the fender.
Such were the very serious consequences of the invention of paper
flowers to swim in bowls.
âPlease,â said Julia Eliot, taking up her position by the curtain almost
opposite the door, âdonât introduce me. I like to look on. The amusing
thing,â she went on, addressing Mr. Salvin, who, owing to his lameness,
was accommodated with a chair, âthe amusing thing about a party is to
watch the peopleâcoming and going, coming and going.â
âLast time we met,â said Mr. Salvin, âwas at the Farquhars. Poor lady!
She has much to put up with.â
âDoesnât she look charming?â exclaimed Miss Eliot, as Clara Durrant
passed them.
âAnd which of them âŠ?â asked Mr. Salvin, dropping his voice and
speaking in quizzical tones.
âThere are so many âŠâ Miss Eliot replied. Three young men stood at the
doorway looking about for their hostess.
âYou donât remember Elizabeth as I do,â said Mr. Salvin, âdancing
Highland reels at Banchorie. Clara lacks her motherâs spirit. Clara is a
little pale.â
âWhat different people one sees here!â said Miss Eliot.
âHappily we are not governed by the evening papers,â said Mr. Salvin.
âI never read them,â said Miss Eliot. âI know nothing about politics,â
she added.
âThe piano is in tune,â said Clara, passing them, âbut we may have to
ask some one to move it for us.â
âAre they going to dance?â asked Mr. Salvin.
âNobody shall disturb you,â said Mrs. Durrant peremptorily as she
passed.
âJulia Eliot. It IS Julia Eliot!â said old Lady Hibbert, holding out
both her hands. âAnd Mr. Salvin. What is going to happen to us, Mr.
Salvin? With all my experience of English politicsâMy dear, I was
thinking of your father last nightâone of my oldest friends, Mr.
Salvin. Never tell me that girls often are incapable of love! I had all
Shakespeare by heart before I was in my teens, Mr. Salvin!â
âYou donât say so,â said Mr. Salvin.
âBut I do,â said Lady Hibbert.
âOh, Mr. Salvin, Iâm so sorry. âŠâ
âI will remove myself if youâll kindly lend me a hand,â said Mr. Salvin.
âYou shall sit by my mother,â said Clara. âEverybody seems to come in
here. ⊠Mr. Calthorp, let me introduce you to Miss Edwards.â
âAre you going away for Christmas?â said Mr. Calthorp.
âIf my brother gets his leave,â said Miss Edwards.
âWhat regiment is he in?â said Mr. Calthorp.
âThe Twentieth Hussars,â said Miss Edwards.
âPerhaps he knows my brother?â said Mr. Calthorp.
âI am afraid I did not catch your name,â said Miss Edwards.
âCalthorp,â said Mr. Calthorp.
âBut what proof was there that the marriage service was actually
performed?â said Mr. Crosby.
âThere is no reason to doubt that Charles James Fox âŠâ Mr. Burley
began; but here Mrs. Stretton told him that she knew his sister well;
had stayed with her not six weeks ago; and thought the house charming,
but bleak in winter.
âGoing about as girls do nowadaysââ said Mrs. Forster.
Mr. Bowley looked round him, and catching sight of Rose Shaw moved
towards her, threw out his hands, and exclaimed: âWell!â
âNothing!â she replied. âNothing at allâthough I left them alone the
entire afternoon on purpose.â
âDear me, dear me,â said Mr. Bowley. âI will ask Jimmy to breakfast.â
âBut who could resist her?â cried Rose Shaw. âDearest ClaraâI know we
mustnât try to stop youâŠâ
âYou and Mr. Bowley are talking dreadful gossip, I know,â said Clara.
âLife is wickedâlife is detestable!â cried Rose Shaw.
âThereâs not much to be said for this sort of thing, is there?â said
Timothy Durrant to Jacob.
âWomen like it.â
âLike what?â said Charlotte Wilding, coming up to them.
âWhere have you come from?â said Timothy. âDining somewhere, I suppose.â
âI donât see why not,â said Charlotte.
âPeople must go downstairs,â said Clara, passing. âTake Charlotte,
Timothy. How dâyou do, Mr. Flanders.â
âHow dâyou do, Mr. Flanders,â said Julia Eliot, holding out her hand.
âWhatâs been happening to you?â
âWho is Silvia? what is she?
That all our swains commend her?â
sang Elsbeth Siddons.
Every one stood where they were, or sat down if a chair was empty.
âAh,â sighed Clara, who stood beside Jacob, half-way through.
âThen to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling.
To her let us garlands bring,â
sang Elsbeth Siddons.
âAh!â Clara exclaimed out loud, and clapped her gloved hands; and Jacob
clapped his bare ones; and then she moved forward and directed people to
come in from the doorway.
âYou are living in London?â asked Miss Julia Eliot.
âYes,â said Jacob.
âIn rooms?â
âYes.â
âThere is Mr. Clutterbuck. You always see Mr. Clutterbuck here. He is
not very happy at home, I am afraid. They say that Mrs. Clutterbuck âŠâ
she dropped her voice. âThatâs why he stays with the Durrants. Were you
there when they acted Mr. Wortleyâs play? Oh, no, of course notâat the
last moment, did you hearâyou had to go to join your mother, I
remember, at HarrogateâAt the last moment, as I was saying, just as
everything was ready, the clothes finished and everythingâNow Elsbeth
is going to sing again. Clara is playing her accompaniment or turning
over for Mr. Carter, I think. No, Mr. Carter is playing by himselfâThis
is BACH,â she whispered, as Mr. Carter played the first bars.
âAre you fond of music?â said Mr. Durrant.
âYes. I like hearing it,â said Jacob. âI know nothing about it.â
âVery few people do that,â said Mrs. Durrant. âI daresay you were never
taught. Why is that, Sir Jasper?âSir Jasper BighamâMr. Flanders. Why
is nobody taught anything that they ought to know, Sir Jasper?â She left
them standing against the wall.
Neither of the gentlemen said anything for three minutes, though Jacob
shifted perhaps five inches to the left, and then as many to the right.
Then Jacob grunted, and suddenly crossed the room.
âWill you come and have something to eat?â he said to Clara Durrant.
âYes, an ice. Quickly. Now,â she said.
Downstairs they went.
But half-way down they met Mr. and Mrs. Gresham, Herbert Turner, Sylvia
Rashleigh, and a friend, whom they had dared to bring, from America,
âknowing that Mrs. Durrantâwishing to show Mr. Pilcher.âMr. Pilcher
from New YorkâThis is Miss Durrant.â
âWhom I have heard so much of,â said Mr. Pilcher, bowing low.
So Clara left him.
About half-past nine Jacob left the house, his door slamming, other
doors slamming, buying his paper, mounting his omnibus, or, weather
permitting, walking his road as other people do. Head bent down, a desk,
a telephone, books bound in green leather, electric lightâŠ. âFresh
coals, sir?â ⊠âYour tea, sir.â⊠Talk about football, the Hotspurs,
the Harlequins; six-thirty Star brought in by the office boy; the rooks
of Grayâs Inn passing overhead; branches in the fog thin and brittle;
and through the roar of traffic now and again a voice shouting:
âVerdictâverdictâwinnerâwinner,â while letters accumulate in a
basket, Jacob signs them, and each evening finds him, as he takes his
coat down, with some muscle of the brain new stretched.
Then, sometimes a game of chess; or pictures in Bond Street, or a long
way home to take the air with Bonamy on his arm, meditatively marching,
head thrown back, the world a spectacle, the early moon above the
steeples coming in for praise, the sea-gulls flying high, Nelson on his
column surveying the horizon, and the world our ship.
Meanwhile, poor Betty Flandersâs letter, having caught the second post,
lay on the hall tableâpoor Betty Flanders writing her sonâs name, Jacob
Alan Flanders, Esq., as mothers do, and the ink pale, profuse,
suggesting how mothers down at Scarborough scribble over the fire with
their feet on the fender, when teaâs cleared away, and can never, never
say, whatever it may beâprobably thisâDonât go with bad women, do be a
good boy; wear your thick shirts; and come back, come back, come back to
me.
But she said nothing of the kind. âDo you remember old Miss Wargrave,
who used to be so kind when you had the whooping-cough?â she wrote;
âsheâs dead at last, poor thing. They would like it if you wrote. Ellen
came over and we spent a nice day shopping. Old Mouse gets very stiff,
and we have to walk him up the smallest hill. Rebecca, at last, after I
donât know how long, went into Mr. Adamsonâs. Three teeth, he says, must
come out. Such mild weather for the time of year, the little buds
actually on the pear trees. And Mrs. Jarvis tells meââMrs. Flanders
liked Mrs. Jarvis, always said of her that she was too good for such a
quiet place, and, though she never listened to her discontent and told
her at the end of it (looking up, sucking her thread, or taking off her
spectacles) that a little peat wrapped round the iris roots keeps them
from the frost, and Parrotâs great white sale is Tuesday next, âdo
remember,ââMrs.
Comments (0)