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

they “nice” thoughts, interesting thoughts? He was a man with a temper; tenacious, faithful. Women would have felt, “Here is law. Here is order. Therefore we must cherish this man. He is on the Bridge at night,” and, handing him his cup, or whatever it might be, would run on to visions of shipwreck and disaster, in which all the passengers come tumbling from their cabins, and there is the captain, buttoned in his pea-jacket, matched with the storm, vanquished by it but by none other. “Yet I have a soul,” Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her, as Captain Barfoot suddenly blew his nose in a great red bandanna handkerchief, “and it’s the man’s stupidity that’s the cause of this, and the storm’s my storm as well as his”⁠ ⁠… so Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her when the Captain dropped in to see them and found Herbert out, and spent two or three hours, almost silent, sitting in the armchair. But Betty Flanders thought nothing of the kind.

“Oh, Captain,” said Mrs. Flanders, bursting into the drawing-room, “I had to run after Barker’s man⁠ ⁠… I hope Rebecca⁠ ⁠… I hope Jacob⁠ ⁠…”

She was very much out of breath, yet not at all upset, and as she put down the hearth-brush which she had bought of the oilman, she said it was hot, flung the window further open, straightened a cover, picked up a book, as if she were very confident, very fond of the Captain, and a great many years younger than he was. Indeed, in her blue apron she did not look more than thirty-five. He was well over fifty.

She moved her hands about the table; the Captain moved his head from side to side, and made little sounds, as Betty went on chattering, completely at his ease⁠—after twenty years.

“Well,” he said at length, “I’ve heard from Mr. Polegate.”

He had heard from Mr. Polegate that he could advise nothing better than to send a boy to one of the universities.

“Mr. Floyd was at Cambridge⁠ ⁠… no, at Oxford⁠ ⁠… well, at one or the other,” said Mrs. Flanders.

She looked out of the window. Little windows, and the lilac and green of the garden were reflected in her eyes.

“Archer is doing very well,” she said. “I have a very nice report from Captain Maxwell.”

“I will leave you the letter to show Jacob,” said the Captain, putting it clumsily back in its envelope.

“Jacob is after his butterflies as usual,” said Mrs. Flanders irritably, but was surprised by a sudden afterthought, “Cricket begins this week, of course.”

“Edward Jenkinson has handed in his resignation,” said Captain Barfoot.

“Then you will stand for the Council?” Mrs. Flanders exclaimed, looking the Captain full in the face.

“Well, about that,” Captain Barfoot began, settling himself rather deeper in his chair.

Jacob Flanders, therefore, went up to Cambridge in October, 1906.

III

“This is not a smoking-carriage,” Mrs. Norman protested, nervously but very feebly, as the door swung open and a powerfully built young man jumped in. He seemed not to hear her. The train did not stop before it reached Cambridge, and here she was shut up alone, in a railway carriage, with a young man.

She touched the spring of her dressing-case, and ascertained that the scent-bottle and a novel from Mudie’s were both handy (the young man was standing up with his back to her, putting his bag in the rack). She would throw the scent-bottle with her right hand, she decided, and tug the communication cord with her left. She was fifty years of age, and had a son at college. Nevertheless, it is a fact that men are dangerous. She read half a column of her newspaper; then stealthily looked over the edge to decide the question of safety by the infallible test of appearance.⁠ ⁠… She would like to offer him her paper. But do young men read the Morning Post? She looked to see what he was reading⁠—the Daily Telegraph.

Taking note of socks (loose), of tie (shabby), she once more reached his face. She dwelt upon his mouth. The lips were shut. The eyes bent down, since he was reading. All was firm, yet youthful, indifferent, unconscious⁠—as for knocking one down! No, no, no! She looked out of the window, smiling slightly now, and then came back again, for he didn’t notice her. Grave, unconscious⁠ ⁠… now he looked up, past her⁠ ⁠… he seemed so out of place, somehow, alone with an elderly lady⁠ ⁠… then he fixed his eyes⁠—which were blue⁠—on the landscape. He had not realized her presence, she thought. Yet it was none of her fault that this was not a smoking-carriage⁠—if that was what he meant.

Nobody sees anyone as he is, let alone an elderly lady sitting opposite a strange young man in a railway carriage. They see a whole⁠—they see all sorts of things⁠—they see themselves.⁠ ⁠… Mrs. Norman now read three pages of one of Mr. Norris’s novels. Should she say to the young man (and after all he was just the same age as her own boy): “If you want to smoke, don’t mind me”? No: he seemed absolutely indifferent to her presence⁠ ⁠… she did not wish to interrupt.

But since, even at her age, she noted his indifference, presumably he was in some way or other⁠—to her at least⁠—nice, handsome, interesting, distinguished, well built, like her own boy? One must do the best one can with her report. Anyhow, this was Jacob Flanders, aged nineteen. It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done⁠—for instance, when the train drew into the station, Mr. Flanders burst open the door, and put the lady’s dressing-case out for her, saying, or rather mumbling: “Let me” very shyly; indeed he was rather clumsy about it.

“Who⁠ ⁠…” said the lady, meeting her son; but as there was a great crowd on the platform and Jacob had already gone, she did not finish her sentence. As this was Cambridge, as she was staying there for the weekend, as she saw nothing but young men all day long,