Jacob's Room, Virginia Woolf [non fiction books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Virginia Woolf
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leaf turns on its edge. Mrs. Jarvis, who is fifty years of age, reposes
in the camp in the hazy moonlight.
“… and,” said Mrs. Flanders, straightening her back, “I never cared
for Mr. Parker.”
“Neither did I,” said Mrs. Jarvis. They began to walk home.
But their voices floated for a little above the camp. The moonlight
destroyed nothing. The moor accepted everything. Tom Gage cries aloud so
long as his tombstone endures. The Roman skeletons are in safe keeping.
Betty Flanders’s darning needles are safe too and her garnet brooch. And
sometimes at midday, in the sunshine, the moor seems to hoard these
little treasures, like a nurse. But at midnight when no one speaks or
gallops, and the thorn tree is perfectly still, it would be foolish to
vex the moor with questions—what? and why?
The church clock, however, strikes twelve.
The water fell off a ledge like lead—like a chain with thick white
links. The train ran out into a steep green meadow, and Jacob saw
striped tulips growing and heard a bird singing, in Italy.
A motor car full of Italian officers ran along the flat road and kept up
with the train, raising dust behind it. There were trees laced together
with vines—as Virgil said. Here was a station; and a tremendous leave-taking going on, with women in high yellow boots and odd pale boys in
ringed socks. Virgil’s bees had gone about the plains of Lombardy. It
was the custom of the ancients to train vines between elms. Then at
Milan there were sharp-winged hawks, of a bright brown, cutting figures
over the roofs.
These Italian carriages get damnably hot with the afternoon sun on them,
and the chances are that before the engine has pulled to the top of the
gorge the clanking chain will have broken. Up, up, up, it goes, like a
train on a scenic railway. Every peak is covered with sharp trees, and
amazing white villages are crowded on ledges. There is always a white
tower on the very summit, flat red-frilled roofs, and a sheer drop
beneath. It is not a country in which one walks after tea. For one thing
there is no grass. A whole hillside will be ruled with olive trees.
Already in April the earth is clotted into dry dust between them. And
there are neither stiles nor footpaths, nor lanes chequered with the
shadows of leaves nor eighteenth-century inns with bow-windows, where
one eats ham and eggs. Oh no, Italy is all fierceness, bareness,
exposure, and black priests shuffling along the roads. It is strange,
too, how you never get away from villas.
Still, to be travelling on one’s own with a hundred pounds to spend is a
fine affair. And if his money gave out, as it probably would, he would
go on foot. He could live on bread and wine—the wine in straw bottles—
for after doing Greece he was going to knock off Rome. The Roman
civilization was a very inferior affair, no doubt. But Bonamy talked a
lot of rot, all the same. “You ought to have been in Athens,” he would
say to Bonamy when he got back. “Standing on the Parthenon,” he would
say, or “The ruins of the Coliseum suggest some fairly sublime
reflections,” which he would write out at length in letters. It might
turn to an essay upon civilization. A comparison between the ancients
and moderns, with some pretty sharp hits at Mr. Asquith—something in
the style of Gibbon.
A stout gentleman laboriously hauled himself in, dusty, baggy, slung
with gold chains, and Jacob, regretting that he did not come of the
Latin race, looked out of the window.
It is a strange reflection that by travelling two days and nights you
are in the heart of Italy. Accidental villas among olive trees appear;
and men-servants watering the cactuses. Black victorias drive in between
pompous pillars with plaster shields stuck to them. It is at once
momentary and astonishingly intimate—to be displayed before the eyes of
a foreigner. And there is a lonely hill-top where no one ever comes, and
yet it is seen by me who was lately driving down Piccadilly on an
omnibus. And what I should like would be to get out among the fields,
sit down and hear the grasshoppers, and take up a handful of earth—
Italian earth, as this is Italian dust upon my shoes.
Jacob heard them crying strange names at railway stations through the
night. The train stopped and he heard frogs croaking close by, and he
wrinkled back the blind cautiously and saw a vast strange marsh all
white in the moonlight. The carriage was thick with cigar smoke, which
floated round the globe with the green shade on it. The Italian
gentleman lay snoring with his boots off and his waistcoat unbuttoned.
… And all this business of going to Greece seemed to Jacob an
intolerable weariness—sitting in hotels by oneself and looking at
monuments—he’d have done better to go to Cornwall with Timmy Durrant.
… “O—h,” Jacob protested, as the darkness began breaking in front of
him and the light showed through, but the man was reaching across him to
get something—the fat Italian man in his dicky, unshaven, crumpled,
obese, was opening the door and going off to have a wash.
So Jacob sat up, and saw a lean Italian sportsman with a gun walking
down the road in the early morning light, and the whole idea of the
Parthenon came upon him in a clap.
“By Jove!” he thought, “we must be nearly there!” and he stuck his head
out of the window and got the air full in his face.
It is highly exasperating that twenty-five people of your acquaintance
should be able to say straight off something very much to the point
about being in Greece, while for yourself there is a stopper upon all
emotions whatsoever. For after washing at the hotel at Patras, Jacob had
followed the tram lines a mile or so out; and followed them a mile or so
back; he had met several droves of turkeys; several strings of donkeys;
had got lost in back streets; had read advertisements of corsets and of
Maggi’s consomme; children had trodden on his toes; the place smelt of
bad cheese; and he was glad to find himself suddenly come out opposite
his hotel. There was an old copy of the Daily Mail lying among coffee-cups; which he read. But what could he do after dinner?
No doubt we should be, on the whole, much worse off than we are without
our astonishing gift for illusion. At the age of twelve or so, having
given up dolls and broken our steam engines, France, but much more
probably Italy, and India almost for a certainty, draws the superfluous
imagination. One’s aunts have been to Rome; and every one has an uncle
who was last heard of—poor man—in Rangoon. He will never come back any
more. But it is the governesses who start the Greek myth. Look at that
for a head (they say)—nose, you see, straight as a dart, curls,
eyebrows—everything appropriate to manly beauty; while his legs and
arms have lines on them which indicate a perfect degree of development—
the Greeks caring for the body as much as for the face. And the Greeks
could paint fruit so that birds pecked at it. First you read Xenophon;
then Euripides. One day—that was an occasion, by God—what people have
said appears to have sense in it; “the Greek spirit”; the Greek this,
that, and the other; though it is absurd, by the way, to say that any
Greek comes near Shakespeare. The point is, however, that we have been
brought up in an illusion.
Jacob, no doubt, thought something in this fashion, the Daily Mail
crumpled in his hand; his legs extended; the very picture of boredom.
“But it’s the way we’re brought up,” he went on.
And it all seemed to him very distasteful. Something ought to be done
about it. And from being moderately depressed he became like a man about
to be executed. Clara Durrant had left him at a party to talk to an
American called Pilchard. And he had come all the way to Greece and left
her. They wore evening-dresses, and talked nonsense—what damned
nonsense—and he put out his hand for the Globe Trotter, an
international magazine which is supplied free of charge to the
proprietors of hotels.
In spite of its ramshackle condition modern Greece is highly advanced in
the electric tramway system, so that while Jacob sat in the hotel
sitting-room the trams clanked, chimed, rang, rang, rang imperiously to
get the donkeys out of the way, and one old woman who refused to budge,
beneath the windows. The whole of civilization was being condemned.
The waiter was quite indifferent to that too. Aristotle, a dirty man,
carnivorously interested in the body of the only guest now occupying the
only arm-chair, came into the room ostentatiously, put something down,
put something straight, and saw that Jacob was still there.
“I shall want to be called early to-morrow,” said Jacob, over his
shoulder. “I am going to Olympia.”
This gloom, this surrender to the dark waters which lap us about, is a
modern invention. Perhaps, as Cruttendon said, we do not believe enough.
Our fathers at any rate had something to demolish. So have we for the
matter of that, thought Jacob, crumpling the Daily Mail in his hand. He
would go into Parliament and make fine speeches—but what use are fine
speeches and Parliament, once you surrender an inch to the black waters?
Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our
veins—of happiness and unhappiness. That respectability and evening
parties where one has to dress, and wretched slums at the back of Gray’s
Inn—something solid, immovable, and grotesque—is at the back of it,
Jacob thought probable. But then there was the British Empire which was
beginning to puzzle him; nor was he altogether in favour of giving Home
Rule to Ireland. What did the Daily Mail say about that?
For he had grown to be a man, and was about to be immersed in things—as
indeed the chambermaid, emptying his basin upstairs, fingering keys,
studs, pencils, and bottles of tabloids strewn on the dressing-table,
was aware.
That he had grown to be a man was a fact that Florinda knew, as she knew
everything, by instinct.
And Betty Flanders even now suspected it, as she read his letter, posted
at Milan, “Telling me,” she complained to Mrs. Jarvis, “really nothing
that I want to know”; but she brooded over it.
Fanny Elmer felt it to desperation. For he would take his stick and his
hat and would walk to the window, and look perfectly absent-minded and
very stern too, she thought.
“I am going,” he would say, “to cadge a meal of Bonamy.”
“Anyhow, I can drown myself in the Thames,” Fanny cried, as she hurried
past the Foundling Hospital.
“But the Daily Mail isn’t to be trusted,” Jacob said to himself, looking
about for something else to read. And he sighed again, being indeed so
profoundly gloomy that gloom must have been lodged in him to cloud him
at any moment, which was odd in a man who enjoyed things so, was not
much given to analysis, but was horribly romantic, of course, Bonamy
thought, in his rooms in Lincoln’s Inn.
“He will fall in love,” thought Bonamy. “Some Greek woman with a
straight nose.”
It was to Bonamy that Jacob wrote from Patras—to Bonamy who couldn’t
love a woman and never read a foolish book.
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