Jacob’s Room, Virginia Woolf [books like beach read .TXT] 📗

“Onions, I think,” said Jacob. He looked at them without moving.

“Next August, remember, Jacob,” said Mrs. Durrant, shaking hands with him on the terrace where the fuchsia hung, like a scarlet earring, behind her head. Mr. Wortley came out of the window in yellow slippers, trailing the Times and holding out his hand very cordially.

“Goodbye,” said Jacob. “Goodbye,” he repeated. “Goodbye,” he said once more. Charlotte Wilding flung up her bedroom window and cried out: “Goodbye, Mr. Jacob!”

“Mr. Flanders!” cried Mr. Clutterbuck, trying to extricate himself from his beehive chair. “Jacob Flanders!”

“Too late, Joseph,” said Mrs. Durrant.

“Not to sit for me,” said Miss Eliot, planting her tripod upon the lawn.

“I rather think,” said Jacob, taking his pipe from his mouth, “it’s in Virgil,” and pushing back his chair, he went to the window.

The rashest drivers in the world are, certainly, the drivers of post-office vans. Swinging down Lamb’s Conduit Street, the scarlet van rounded the corner by the pillar box in such a way as to graze the kerb and make the little girl who was standing on tiptoe to post a letter look up, half frightened, half curious. She paused with her hand in the mouth of the box; then dropped her letter and ran away. It is seldom only that we see a child on tiptoe with pity⁠—more often a dim discomfort, a grain of sand in the shoe which it’s scarcely worth while to remove⁠—that’s our feeling, and so⁠—Jacob turned to the bookcase.

Long ago great people lived here, and coming back from Court past midnight stood, huddling their satin skirts, under the carved doorposts while the footman roused himself from his mattress on the floor, hurriedly fastened the lower buttons of his waistcoat, and let them in. The bitter eighteenth-century rain rushed down the kennel. Southampton Row, however, is chiefly remarkable nowadays for the fact that you will always find a man there trying to sell a tortoise to a tailor. “Showing off the tweed, sir; what the gentry wants is something singular to catch the eye, sir⁠—and clean in their habits, sir!” So they display their tortoises.

At Mudie’s corner in Oxford Street all the red and blue beads had run together on the string. The motor omnibuses were locked. Mr. Spalding going to the city looked at Mr. Charles Budgeon bound for Shepherd’s Bush. The proximity of the omnibuses gave the outside passengers an opportunity to stare into each other’s faces. Yet few took advantage of it. Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title, James Spalding, or Charles Budgeon, and the passengers going the opposite way could read nothing at all⁠—save “a man with a red moustache,” “a young man in grey smoking a pipe.” The October sunlight rested upon all these men and women sitting immobile; and little Johnnie Sturgeon took the chance to swing down the staircase, carrying his large mysterious parcel, and so dodging a zigzag course between the wheels he reached the pavement, started to whistle a tune and was soon out of sight⁠—forever. The omnibuses jerked on, and every single person felt relief at being a little nearer to his journey’s end, though some cajoled themselves past the immediate engagement by promise of indulgence beyond⁠—steak and kidney pudding, drink or a game of dominoes in the smoky corner of a city restaurant. Oh yes, human life is very tolerable on the top of an omnibus in Holborn, when the policeman holds up his arm and the sun beats on your back, and if there is such a thing as a shell secreted by man to fit man himself here we find it, on the banks of the Thames, where the great streets join and St. Paul’s Cathedral, like the volute on the top of the snail shell, finishes it off. Jacob, getting off his omnibus, loitered up the steps, consulted his watch, and finally made up his mind to go in.⁠ ⁠… Does it need an effort? Yes. These changes of mood wear us out.

Dim it is, haunted by ghosts of white marble, to whom the organ forever chaunts. If a boot creaks, it’s awful; then the order; the discipline. The verger with his rod has life ironed out beneath him. Sweet and holy are the angelic choristers. And forever round the marble shoulders, in and out of the folded fingers, go the thin high sounds of voice and organ. Forever requiem⁠—repose. Tired with scrubbing the steps of the Prudential Society’s office, which she did year in year out, Mrs. Lidgett took her seat beneath the great Duke’s tomb, folded her hands, and half closed her eyes. A magnificent place for an old woman to rest in, by the very side of the great Duke’s bones, whose victories mean nothing to her, whose name she knows not, though she never fails to greet the little angels opposite, as she passes out, wishing the like on her own tomb, for the leathern curtain of the heart has flapped wide, 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