Jacob's Room by Virginia Woolf (best novels to read for students .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Virginia Woolf
- Performer: 0140185704
Book online «Jacob's Room by Virginia Woolf (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📖». Author Virginia Woolf
Stone lies solid over the British Museum, as bone lies cool over the
visions and heat of the brain. Only here the brain is Plato’s brain and
Shakespeare’s; the brain has made pots and statues, great bulls and
little jewels, and crossed the river of death this way and that
incessantly, seeking some landing, now wrapping the body well for its
long sleep; now laying a penny piece on the eyes; now turning the toes
scrupulously to the East. Meanwhile, Plato continues his dialogue; in
spite of the rain; in spite of the cab whistles; in spite of the woman
in the mews behind Great Ormond Street who has come home drunk and cries
all night long, “Let me in! Let me in!”
In the street below Jacob’s room voices were raised.
But he read on. For after all Plato continues imperturbably. And Hamlet
utters his soliloquy. And there the Elgin Marbles lie, all night long,
old Jones’s lantern sometimes recalling Ulysses, or a horse’s head; or
sometimes a flash of gold, or a mummy’s sunk yellow cheek. Plato and
Shakespeare continue; and Jacob, who was reading the Phaedrus, heard
people vociferating round the lamp-post, and the woman battering at the
door and crying, “Let me in!” as if a coal had dropped from the fire, or
a fly, falling from the ceiling, had lain on its back, too weak to turn
over.
The Phaedrus is very difficult. And so, when at length one reads
straight ahead, falling into step, marching on, becoming (so it seems)
momentarily part of this rolling, imperturbable energy, which has driven
darkness before it since Plato walked the Acropolis, it is impossible to
see to the fire.
The dialogue draws to its close. Plato’s argument is done. Plato’s
argument is stowed away in Jacob’s mind, and for five minutes Jacob’s
mind continues alone, onwards, into the darkness. Then, getting up, he
parted the curtains, and saw, with astonishing clearness, how the
Springetts opposite had gone to bed; how it rained; how the Jews and the
foreign woman, at the end of the street, stood by the pillar-box,
arguing.
Every time the door opened and fresh people came in, those already in
the room shifted slightly; those who were standing looked over their
shoulders; those who were sitting stopped in the middle of sentences.
What with the light, the wine, the strumming of a guitar, something
exciting happened each time the door opened. Who was coming in?
“That’s Gibson.”
“The painter?”
“But go on with what you were saying.”
They were saying something that was far, far too intimate to be said
outright. But the noise of the voices served like a clapper in little
Mrs. Withers’s mind, scaring into the air blocks of small birds, and
then they’d settle, and then she’d feel afraid, put one hand to her
hair, bind both round her knees, and look up at Oliver Skelton
nervously, and say:
“Promise, PROMISE, you’ll tell no one.” … so considerate he was, so
tender. It was her husband’s character that she discussed. He was cold,
she said.
Down upon them came the splendid Magdalen, brown, warm, voluminous,
scarcely brushing the grass with her sandalled feet. Her hair flew; pins
seemed scarcely to attach the flying silks. An actress of course, a line
of light perpetually beneath her. It was only “My dear” that she said,
but her voice went jodelling between Alpine passes. And down she tumbled
on the floor, and sang, since there was nothing to be said, round ah’s
and oh’s. Mangin, the poet, coming up to her, stood looking down at her,
drawing at his pipe. The dancing began.
Grey-haired Mrs. Keymer asked Dick Graves to tell her who Mangin was,
and said that she had seen too much of this sort of thing in Paris
(Magdalen had got upon his knees; now his pipe was in her mouth) to be
shocked. “Who is that?” she said, staying her glasses when they came to
Jacob, for indeed he looked quiet, not indifferent, but like some one on
a beach, watching.
“Oh, my dear, let me lean on you,” gasped Helen Askew, hopping on one
foot, for the silver cord round her ankle had worked loose. Mrs. Keymer
turned and looked at the picture on the wall.
“Look at Jacob,” said Helen (they were binding his eyes for some game).
And Dick Graves, being a little drunk, very faithful, and very simple-minded, told her that he thought Jacob the greatest man he had ever
known. And down they sat cross-legged upon cushions and talked about
Jacob, and Helen’s voice trembled, for they both seemed heroes to her,
and the friendship between them so much more beautiful than women’s
friendships. Anthony Pollett now asked her to dance, and as she danced
she looked at them, over her shoulder, standing at the table, drinking
together.
The magnificent world—the live, sane, vigorous world …. These words
refer to the stretch of wood pavement between Hammersmith and Holborn in
January between two and three in the morning. That was the ground
beneath Jacob’s feet. It was healthy and magnificent because one room,
above a mews, somewhere near the river, contained fifty excited,
talkative, friendly people. And then to stride over the pavement (there
was scarcely a cab or policeman in sight) is of itself exhilarating. The
long loop of Piccadilly, diamond-stitched, shows to best advantage when
it is empty. A young man has nothing to fear. On the contrary, though he
may not have said anything brilliant, he feels pretty confident he can
hold his own. He was pleased to have met Mangin; he admired the young
woman on the floor; he liked them all; he liked that sort of thing. In
short, all the drums and trumpets were sounding. The street scavengers
were the only people about at the moment. It is scarcely necessary to
say how well-disposed Jacob felt towards them; how it pleased him to let
himself in with his latch-key at his own door; how he seemed to bring
back with him into the empty room ten or eleven people whom he had not
known when he set out; how he looked about for something to read, and
found it, and never read it, and fell asleep.
Indeed, drums and trumpets is no phrase. Indeed, Piccadilly and Holborn,
and the empty sitting-room and the sitting-room with fifty people in it
are liable at any moment to blow music into the air. Women perhaps are
more excitable than men. It is seldom that any one says anything about
it, and to see the hordes crossing Waterloo Bridge to catch the non-stop
to Surbiton one might think that reason impelled them. No, no. It is the
drums and trumpets. Only, should you turn aside into one of those little
bays on Waterloo Bridge to think the matter over, it will probably seem
to you all a muddle—all a mystery.
They cross the Bridge incessantly. Sometimes in the midst of carts and
omnibuses a lorry will appear with great forest trees chained to it.
Then, perhaps, a mason’s van with newly lettered tombstones recording
how some one loved some one who is buried at Putney. Then the motor car
in front jerks forward, and the tombstones pass too quick for you to
read more. All the time the stream of people never ceases passing from
the Surrey side to the Strand; from the Strand to the Surrey side. It
seems as if the poor had gone raiding the town, and now trapesed back to
their own quarters, like beetles scurrying to their holes, for that old
woman fairly hobbles towards Waterloo, grasping a shiny bag, as if she
had been out into the light and now made off with some scraped chicken
bones to her hovel underground. On the other hand, though the wind is
rough and blowing in their faces, those girls there, striding hand in
hand, shouting out a song, seem to feel neither cold nor shame. They are
hatless. They triumph.
The wind has blown up the waves. The river races beneath us, and the men
standing on the barges have to lean all their weight on the tiller. A
black tarpaulin is tied down over a swelling load of gold. Avalanches of
coal glitter blackly. As usual, painters are slung on planks across the
great riverside hotels, and the hotel windows have already points of
light in them. On the other side the city is white as if with age; St.
Paul’s swells white above the fretted, pointed, or oblong buildings
beside it. The cross alone shines rosy-gilt. But what century have we
reached? Has this procession from the Surrey side to the Strand gone on
for ever? That old man has been crossing the Bridge these six hundred
years, with the rabble of little boys at his heels, for he is drunk, or
blind with misery, and tied round with old clouts of clothing such as
pilgrims might have worn. He shuffles on. No one stands still. It seems
as if we marched to the sound of music; perhaps the wind and the river;
perhaps these same drums and trumpets—the ecstasy and hubbub of the
soul. Why, even the unhappy laugh, and the policeman, far from judging
the drunk man, surveys him humorously, and the little boys scamper back
again, and the clerk from Somerset House has nothing but tolerance for
him, and the man who is reading half a page of Lothair at the bookstall
muses charitably, with his eyes off the print, and the girl hesitates at
the crossing and turns on him the bright yet vague glance of the young.
Bright yet vague. She is perhaps twenty-two. She is shabby. She crosses
the road and looks at the daffodils and the red tulips in the florist’s
window. She hesitates, and makes off in the direction of Temple Bar. She
walks fast, and yet anything distracts her. Now she seems to see, and
now to notice nothing.
Through the disused graveyard in the parish of St. Pancras, Fanny Elmer
strayed between the white tombs which lean against the wall, crossing
the grass to read a name, hurrying on when the grave-keeper approached,
hurrying into the street, pausing now by a window with blue china, now
quickly making up for lost time, abruptly entering a baker’s shop,
buying rolls, adding cakes, going on again so that any one wishing to
follow must fairly trot. She was not drably shabby, though. She wore
silk stockings, and silver-buckled shoes, only the red feather in her
hat drooped, and the clasp of her bag was weak, for out fell a copy of
Madame Tussaud’s programme as she walked. She had the ankles of a stag.
Her face was hidden. Of course, in this dusk, rapid movements, quick
glances, and soaring hopes come naturally enough. She passed right
beneath Jacob’s window.
The house was flat, dark, and silent. Jacob was at home engaged upon a
chess problem, the board being on a stool between his knees. One hand
was fingering the hair at the back of his head. He slowly brought it
forward and raised the white queen from her square; then put her down
again on the same spot. He filled his pipe; ruminated; moved two pawns;
advanced the white knight; then ruminated with one finger upon the
bishop. Now Fanny Elmer passed beneath the window.
She was on her way to sit to Nick Bramham the painter.
She sat in a flowered Spanish shawl, holding in her hand a yellow novel.
“A little lower, a little looser, so—better, that’s right,” Bramham
mumbled, who was drawing her, and smoking at the same time, and was
naturally speechless. His head might have been the work of
Comments (0)