HouseA Haunted House
The Mark on the
WHATEVER HOUR you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room
they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure? a
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!"
"It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered.
"Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it;
they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or
two. "Now they've found it, " one would be certain, stopping the pencil
on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for
oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood
pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine
sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want
to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples
were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the
book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever
see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the
leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the
apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door
was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from
the ceiling? what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed
the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its
bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly.
"The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was
that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But
the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare,
coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind
the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the
woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the
windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North,
went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house,
found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of
the house beat gladly. "The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and
that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of
the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and
still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not
to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number."
"Waking in the morning?" "Silver between the trees?" "Upstairs?" "In
the garden?" "When summer came?" "In winter snowtime?" "The doors go
shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain
slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside
us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the
lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and
deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops
slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and,
meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that
search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long
years?" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping;
in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we
left our treasure?" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes.
"Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry
"Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."
THIS IS HOW it all came about. Six or seven of us were sitting one
day after tea. Some were gazing across the street into the windows of a
milliner's shop where the light still shone brightly upon scarlet
feathers and golden slippers. Others were idly occupied in building
little towers of sugar upon the edge of the tea tray. After a time, so
far as I can remember, we drew round the fire and began as usual to
praise men? how strong, how noble, how brilliant, how courageous, how
beautiful they were? how we envied those who by hook or by crook
managed to get attached to one for life? when Poll, who had said
nothing, burst into tears. Poll, I must tell you, has always been
queer. For one thing her father was a strange man. He left her a
fortune in his will, but on condition that she read all the books in
the London Library. We comforted her as best we could; but we knew in
our hearts how vain it was. For though we like her, Poll is no beauty;
leaves her shoe laces untied; and must have been thinking, while we
praised men, that not one of them would ever wish to marry her. At last
she dried her tears. For some time we could make nothing of what she
said. Strange enough it was in all conscience. She told us that, as we
knew, she spent most of her time in the London Library, reading. She
had begun, she said, with English literature on the top floor; and was
steadily working her way down to the Times on the bottom. And now half,
or perhaps only a quarter, way through a terrible thing had happened.
She could read no more. Books were not what we thought them. "Books,"
she cried, rising to her feet and speaking with an intensity of
desolation which I shall never forget, "are for the most part
Of course we cried out that Shakespeare wrote books, and Milton and
"Oh, yes," she interrupted us. "You've been well taught, I can see.
But you are not members of the London Library." Here her sobs broke
forth anew. At length, recovering a little, she opened one of the pile
of books which she always carried about with her?"From a Window" or "In
a Garden," or some such name as that it was called, and it was written
by a man called Benton or Henson, or something of that kind. She read
the first few pages. We listened in silence. "But that's not a book,"
someone said. So she chose another. This time it was a history, but I
have forgotten the writer's name. Our trepidation increased as she went
on. Not a word of it seemed to be true, and the style in which it was
written was execrable.
"Poetry! Poetry!" we cried, impatiently. "Read us poetry!" I cannot
describe the desolation which fell upon us as she opened a little
volume and mouthed out the verbose, sentimental foolery which it
"It must have been written by a woman," one of us urged. But no.
She told us that it was written by a young man, one of the most famous
poets of the day. I leave you to imagine what the shock of the
discovery was. Though we all cried and begged her to read no more, she
persisted and read us extracts from the Lives of the Lord Chancellors.
When she had finished, Jane, the eldest and wisest of us, rose to her
feet and said that she for one was not convinced.
"Why," she asked, "if men write such rubbish as this, should our
mothers have wasted their youth in bringing them into the world?"
We were all silent; and, in the silence, poor Poll could be heard
sobbing out, "Why, why did my father teach me to read?"
Clorinda was the first to come to her senses. "It's all our fault,"
she said. "Every one of us knows how to read. But no one, save Poll,
has ever taken the trouble to do it. I, for one, have taken it for
granted that it was a woman's duty to spend her youth in bearing
children. I venerated my mother for bearing ten; still more my
grandmother for bearing fifteen; it was, I confess, my own ambition to
bear twenty. We have gone on all these ages supposing that men were
equally industrious, and that their works were of equal merit. While we
have borne the children, they, we supposed, have borne the books and
the pictures. We have populated the world. They have civilized it. But
now that we can read, what prevents us from judging the results?
Before we bring another child into the world we must swear that we
will find out what the world is like."
So we made ourselves into a society for asking questions. One of us
was to visit a man-of-war; another was to hide herself in a scholar's
study; another was to attend a meeting of business men; while all were
to read books, look at pictures, go to concerts, keep our eyes open in
the streets, and ask questions perpetually. We were very young. You can
judge of our simplicity when I tell you that before parting that night
we agreed that the objects of life were to produce good people and good
books. Our questions were to be directed to finding out how far these
objects were now attained by men. We vowed solemnly that we would not
bear a single child until we were satisfied.
Off we went then, some to the British Museum; others to the King's
Navy; some to Oxford; others to Cambridge; we visited the Royal Academy
and the Tate; heard modern music in concert rooms, went to the Law
courts, and saw new plays. No one dined out without asking her partner
certain questions and carefully noting his replies. At intervals we met
together and compared our observations. Oh, those were merry meetings!
Never have I laughed so much as I did when Rose read her notes upon
"Honour" and described how she had dressed herself as an ®thiopian
Prince and gone aboad one of His Majesty's ships. Discovering the hoax,
the Captain visited her (now disguised as a private gentleman) and
demanded that honour should be satisfied. "But how?" she asked. "How?"
he bellowed. "With the cane of course!" Seeing that he was beside
himself with rage and expecting that her last moment had come, she bent
over and received, to her amazement, six light taps upon the behind.
"The honour of the British Navy is avenged!" he cried, and, raising
herself, she saw him with the sweat pouring down his face holding out a
trembling right hand. "Away!" she exclaimed, striking an attitude and
imitating the ferocity of his own expression, "My hounour has still to
be satisfied!" "Spoken like a gentleman!" he returned, and fell into
profound thought. "If six strokes avenge the honour of the King's Navy,
" he mused, "how many avenge the honour of a private gentleman?" He
said he would prefer to lay the case before his brother officers. She
replied haughtily that she could not wait. He praised her sensibility.
"Let me see," he cried suddenly, "did your father keep a carriage?"
"No," she said. "Or a riding horse?" "We had a donkey," she bethought
her, "which drew the mowing machine." At this his face lighted. "My
mother's name?" she added. "For God's sake, man, don't mention your
mother's name!" he shrieked, trembling like an aspen and flushing to
the roots of his hair, and it was ten minutes at least before she could
induce him to proceed. At length he decreed that if she gave him four
strokes and a half in the small of the back at a spot indicated by
himself (the half conceded, he said, in recognition of the fact that
her great grandmother's uncle was killed at Trafalgar) it was his
opinion that her honour would be as good as new. This was done; they
retired to a restaurant; drank two bottles of wine for which he
insisted upon paying; and parted with protestations of eternal
Then we had Fanny's account of her visit to the Law Courts. At her
first visit she had come to the conclusion that the Judges were either
made of wood or were impersonated by large animals resembling man who
had been trained to move with extreme dignity, mumble and nod their
heads. To test her theory she had liberated a handkerchief of
bluebottles at the critical moment of a trial, but was unable to judge
whether the creatures gave signs of humanity for the buzzing of the
flies induced so sound a sleep that she only woke in time to see the
prisoners led into the cells below. But from the evidence she brought
we voted that it is unfair to suppose that the Judges are men.
Helen went to the Royal Academy, but when asked to deliver her
report upon the pictures she began to recite from a pale blue volume,
"O! for the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is
still. Home is the hunter, home from the hill. He gave his bridle reins
a shake. Love is sweet, love is brief. Spring, the fair spring, is the
year's pleasant King. O! to be in England now that April's there. Men
must work and women must weep. The path of duty is the way to glory?"
We could listen to no more of this gibberish.
"We want no more poetry!" we cried.
"Daughters of England!" she began, but here we pulled her down, a
vase of water getting spilt over her in the scuffle.
"Thank God!" she exclaimed, shaking herself like a dog. "Now I'll
roll on the carpet and see if I can't brush off what remains of the
Union Jack. Then perhaps?" here she rolled energetically. Getting up
she began to explain to us what modern pictures are like when Castalia
"What is the average size of a picture?" she asked. "Perhaps two
feet by two and a half," she said. Castalia made notes while Helen
spoke, and when she had done, and we were trying not to meet each
other's eyes, rose and said, "At your wish I spent last week at
Oxbridge, disguised as a charwoman. I thus had access to the rooms of
several Professors and will now attempt to give you some idea? only,"
she broke off, "I can't think how to do it. It's all so queer. These
Professors," she went on, "live in large houses built round grass plots
each in a kind of cell by himself. Yet they have every convenience and
comfort. You have only to press a button or light a little lamp. Their
papers are beautifully filed. Books abound. There are no children or
animals, save half a dozen stray cats and one aged bullfinch? a cock. I
remember," she broke off, "an Aunt of mine who lived at Dulwich and
keep cactuses. You reached the conservatory through the double
drawing-room, and there, on the hot pipes, were dozens of them, ugly,
squat, bristly little plants each in a separate pot. Once in a hundred
years the Aloe flowered, so my Aunt said. But she died before that
happened?" We told her to keep to the point. "Well," she resumed, "when
Professor Hobkin was out, I examined his life work, an edition of
Sappho. It's a queer looking book, six or seven inches thick, not all
by Sappho. Oh, no. Most of it is a defence of Sappho's chastity, which
some German had denied, and I can assure you the passion with which
these two gentlemen argued, the learning they displayed, the prodigious
ingenuity with which they disputed the use of some implement which
looked to me for all the world like a hairpin astounded me; especially
when the door opened and Professor Hobkin himself appeared. A very
nice, mild, old gentleman, but what could he know about chastity?" We
"No, no," she protested, "he's the soul of honour I'm sure? not
that he resembles Rose's sea captain in the least. I was thinking
rather of my aunt's cactuses. What could they know about chastity?"
Again we told her not to wander from the point,? did the Oxbridge
professors help to produce good people and good books? ? the objects of
"There!" she exclaimed. "It never struck me to ask. It never
occurred to me that they could possibly produce anything."
"I believe," said Sue, "that you made some mistake. Probably
Professor Hobkin was a gyn¾cologist. A scholar is overflowing with
humour and invention? perhaps addicted to wine, but what of that? ? a
delightful companion, generous, subtle, imaginative? as stands to
reason. For he spends his life in company with the finest human beings
that have ever existed."
"Hum," said Castalia. "Perhaps I'd better go back and try again."
Some three months later it happened that I was sitting alone when
Castalia entered. I don't know what it was in the look of her that so
moved me; but I could not restrain myself, and, dashing across the
room, I clasped her in my arms. Not only was she very beautiful; she
seemed also in the highest spirits. "How happy you look!" I exclaimed,
as she sat down.
"I've been at Oxbridge," she said.
"Answering them," she replied.
"You have not broken our vow?" I said anxiously, noticing something
about her figure.
"Oh, the vow," she said casually. "I'm going to have a baby, if
that's what you mean. You can't imagine," she burst out, "how exciting,
how beautiful, how satisfying?"
"What is?" I asked.
"To? to? answer questions," she replied in some confusion.
Whereupon she told me the whole of her story. But in the middle of an
account which interested and excited me more than anything I had ever
heard, she gave the strangest cry, half whoop, half holloa?
"Chastity! Chastity! Where's my chastity!" she cried. "Help Ho! The
There was nothing in the room but a cruet contained mustard, which
I was about to administer when she recovered her composure.
"You should have thought of that three months ago," I said
"True," she replied. "There's not much good in thinking of it now.
It was unfortunate, by the way, that my mother had me called Castalia."
"Oh, Castalia, your mother?" I was beginning when she reached for
the mustard pot.
"No, no, no," she said, shaking her head. "If you'd been a chaste
woman yourself you would have screamed at the sight of me? instead of
which you rushed across the room and took me in your arms. No,
Cassandra. We are neither of us chaste." So we went on talking.
Meanwhile the room was filling up, for it was the day appointed to
discuss the results of our observations. Everyone, I thought, felt as I
did about Castalia. They kissed her and said how glad they were to see
her again. At length, when we were all assembled, Jane rose and said
that it was time to begin. She began by saying that we had now asked
questions for over five years, and that though the results were bound
to be inconclusive? here Castalia nudged me and whispered that she was
not so sure about that. Then she got up, and interrupting Jane in the
middle of a sentence, said:
"Before you say any more, I want to know? am I to stay in the room?
Because," she added, "I have to confess that I am an impure woman."
Everyone looked at her in astonishment.
"You are going to have a baby?" asked Jane.
She nodded her head.
It was extraordinary to see the different expressions on their
faces. A sort of hum went through the room in which I could catch the
words "impure," and "baby," "Castalia," and so on. Jane, who was
herself considerably moved, put it to us:
"Shall she go? Is she impure?"
Such a roar filled the room as might have been heard in the street
"No! No! No! Let her stay! Impure? Fiddlesticks!" Yet I fancied
that some of the youngest, girls of nineteen or twenty, held back as if
overcome with shyness. Then we all came about her and began asking
questions, and at last I saw one of the youngest, who had kept in the
background, approach shyly and say to her:
"What is chastity then? I mean is it good, or is it bad, or is it
nothing at all?" She replied so low that I could not catch what she
"You know I was shocked," said another, "for at least ten minutes."
"In my opinion," said Poll, who was growing crusty from always
reading in the London Library, "chastity is nothing but ignorance? a
most discreditable state of mind. We should admit only the unchaste to
our society. I vote that Castalia shall be our President."
This was violently disputed.
"It is as unfair to brand women with chastity as with unchastity,"
said Poll. "Some of us haven't the opportunity either. Moreover, I
don't believe Cassy herself maintains that she acted as she did from a
pure love of knowledge."
"He is only twenty-one and divinely beautiful," said Cassy, with a
"I move," said Helen, "that no one be allowed to talk of chastity
or unchastity save those who are in love."
"Oh, bother," said Judith, who had been enquiring into scientific
matters, "I'm not in love and I'm longing to explain my measures for
dispensing with prostitutes and fertilizing virgins by Act of
She went on to tell us of an invention of hers to be erected at
Tube stations and other public resorts, which, upon payment of a small
fee, would safeguard the nation's health, accommodate its sons, and
relieve its daughters. Then she had contrived a method of preserving in
sealed tubes the germs of future Lord Chancellors "or poets or painters
or musicians," she went on, "supposing, that is to say, that these
breeds are not extinct, and that women still wish to bear children?"
"Of course we wish to bear children!" cried Castalia, impatiently.
Jane rapped the table.
"That is the very point we are met to consider," she said. "For
five years we have been trying to find out whether we are justified in
continuing the human race. Castalia has anticipated our decision. But
it remains for the rest of us to make up our minds."
Here one after another of our messengers rose and delivered their
reports. The marvels of civilisation far exceeded our expectations,
and, as we learnt for the first time how man flies in the air, talks
across space, penetrates to the heart of an atom, and embraces the
universe in his speculations, a murmur of admiration burst from our
"We are proud," we cried, "that our mothers sacrificed their youth
in such a cause as this!" Castalia, who had been listening intently,
looked prouder than all the rest. Then Jane reminded us that we had
still much to learn, and Castalia begged us to make haste. On we went
through a vast tangle of statistics. We learnt that England has a
population of so many millions, and that such and such a proportion of
them is constantly hungry and in prison; that the average size of a
working man's family is such, and that so great a percentage of women
die from maladies incident to childbirth. Reports were read of visits
to factories, shops, slums, and dockyards. Descriptions were given of
the Stock Exchange, of a gigantic house of business in the City, and of
a Government Office. The British Colonies were now discussed, and some
account was given to our rule in India, Africa and Ireland. I was
sitting by Castalia and I noticed her uneasiness.
"We shall never come by any conclusion at all at this rate," she
said. "As it appears that civilisation is so much more complex than we
had any notion, would it not be better to confine ourselves to our
original enquiry? We agreed that it was the object of life to produce
good people and good books. All this time we have been talking of
aeroplanes, factories, and money. Let us talk about men themselves and
their arts, for that is the heart of the matter."
So the diners out stepped forward with long slips of paper
containing answers to their questions. These had been framed after much
consideration. A good man, we had agreed, must at any rate be honest,
passionate, and unworldly. But whether or not a particular man
possessed those qualities could only be discovered by asking questions,
often beginning at a remote distance from the centre. Is Kensington a
nice place to live in? Where is your son being educated? and your
daughter? Now please tell me, what do you pay for your cigars? By the
way, is Sir Joseph a baronet or only a knight? Often it seemed that we
learnt more from trivial questions of this kind than from more direct
ones. "I accepted my peerage," said Lord Bunkum, "because my wife
wished it." I forget how many titles were accepted for the same reason.
"Working fifteen hours out of the twenty-four, as I do?" ten thousand
professional men began.
"No, no, of course you can neither read nor write. But why do you
work so hard?" "My dear lady, with a growing family?" "But why does
your family grow?" Their wives wished that too, or perhaps it was the
British Empire. But more significant than the answers were the refusals
to answer. Very few would reply at all to questions about morality and
religion, and such answers as were given were not serious. Questions as
to the value of money and power were almost invariably brushed aside,
or pressed at extreme risk to the asker. "I'm sure," said Jill, "that
if Sir Harley Tightboots hadn't been carving the mutton when I asked
him about the capitalist system he would have cut my throat. The only
reason why we escaped with our lives over and over again is that men
are at once so hungry and so chivalrous. They despise us too much to
mind what we say."
"Of course they despise us," said Eleanor. "As the same time how do
you account for this? I made enquiries among the artists. Now, no woman
has ever been an artist, has she, Poll?"
"Jane-Austen-Charlotte-Bront‘-George-Eliot," cried Poll, like a man
crying muffins in a back street.
"Damn the woman!" someone exclaimed. "What a bore she is!"
"Since Sappho there has been no female of first rate?" Eleanor
began, quoting from a weekly newspaper.
"It's now well known that Sappho was the somewhat lewd invention of
Professor Hobkin," Ruth interrupted.
"Anyhow, there is no reason to suppose that any woman ever has been
able to write or ever will be able to write," Eleanor continued. "And
yet, whenever I go among authors they never cease to talk to me about
their books. Masterly! I say, or Shakespeare himself! (for one must say
something) and I assure you, they believe me."
"That proves nothing," said Jane. "They all do it. Only," she
signed, "it doesn't seem to help us much. Perhaps we had better examine
modern literature next. Liz, it's your turn."
Elizabeth rose and said that in order to prosecute her enquiry she
had dressed as a man and been taken for a reviewer.
"I have read new books pretty steadily for the past five years,"
said she. "Mr. Wells is the most popular living writer; then comes Mr.
Arnold Bennett; then Mr. Compton Mackenzie; Mr. McKenna and Mr. Walpole
may be bracketed together." She sat down.
"But you've told us nothing!" we expostulated. "Or do you mean that
these gentlemen have greatly surpassed Jane-Eliot and that English
fiction is? where's that review of yours? Oh, yes, 'safe in their
"Safe, quite safe," she said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
"And I'm sure that they give away even more than they receive."
We were all sure of that. "But," we pressed her, "do they write
"Good books?" she said, looking at the ceiling. "You must
remember," she began, speaking with extreme rapidity, "that fiction is
the mirror of life. And you can't deny that education is of the highest
importance, and that it would be extremely annoying, if you found
yourself alone at Brighton late at night, not to know which was the
best boarding house to stay at, and suppose it was a dripping Sunday
evening? wouldn't it be nice to go to the Movies?"
"But what has that got to do with it?" we asked.
"Nothing? nothing? nothing whatever," she replied.
"Well, tell us the truth," we bade her.
"The truth? But isn't it wonderful," she broke off?"Mr. Chitter
has written a weekly article for the past thirty years upon love or hot
buttered toast and has sent all his sons to Eton?"
"The truth!" we demanded.
"Oh, the truth," she stammered, "the truth has nothing to do with
literature," and sitting down she refused to say another word.
It all seemed to us very inconclusive.
"Ladies, we must try to sum up the results," Jane was beginning,
when a hum, which had been heard for some time through the open window,
drowned her voice.
"War! War! War! Declaration of War!" men were shouting in the
We looked at each other in horror.
"What war?" we cried. "What war?" We remembered, too late, that we
had never thought of sending anyone to the House of Commons. We had
forgotten all about it. We turned to Poll, who had reached the history
shelves in the London Library, and asked her to enlighten us.
"Why," we cried, "do men go to war?"
"Sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another," she replied
calmly. "In 1760, for example?" The shouts outside drowned her words.
"Again in 1797? in 1804? It was the Austrians in 1866? 1870 was the
Franco-Prussian? In 1900 on the other hand?"
"But it's now 1914!" we cut her short.
"Ah, I don't know what they're going to war for now," she admitted.
* * * * *
The war was over and peace was in process of being signed, when I
once more found myself with Castalia in the room where our meetings
used to be held. We began idly turning over the pages of our old minute
books. "Queer," I mused, "to see what we were thinking five years ago."
"We are agreed," Castalia quoted, reading over my shoulder, "that it is
the object of life to produce good people and good books." We made no
comment upon that. "A good man is at any rate honest, passionate and
unworldly." "What a woman's language!" I observed. "Oh, dear," cried
Castalia, pushing the book away from her, "what fools we were! It was
all Poll's father's fault," she went on. "I believe he did it on
purpose? that ridiculous will, I mean, forcing Poll to read all the
books in the London Library. If we hadn't learnt to read," she said
bitterly, "we might still have been bearing children in ignorance and
that I believe was the happiest life after all. I know what you're
going to say about war," she checked me, "and the horror of bearing
children to see them killed, but our mothers did it, and their mothers,
and their mothers before them. And they didn't complain. They couldn't
read. I've done my best," she sighed, "to prevent my little girl from
learning to read, but what's the use? I caught Ann only yesterday with
a newspaper in her hand and she was beginning to ask me if it was
'true.' Next she'll ask me whether Mr. Lloyd George is a good man, then
whether Mr. Arnold Bennett is a good novelist, and finally whether I
believe in God. How can I bring my daughter up to believe in nothing?"
"Surely you could teach her to believe that a man's intellect is,
and always will be, fundamentally superior to a woman's?" I suggested.
She brightened at this and began to turn over our old minutes again.
"Yes," she said, "think of their discoveries, their mathematics, their
science, their philosophy, their scholarship?" and then she began to
laugh, "I shall never forget old Hobkin and the hairpin," she said, and
went on reading and laughing and I thought she was quite happy, when
suddenly she drew the book from her and burst out, "Oh, Cassandra, why
do you torment me? Don't you know that our belief in man's intellect
is the greatest fallacy of them all?" "What?" I exclaimed. "Ask any
journalist, schoolmaster, politician or public house keeper in the land
and they will all tell you that men are much cleverer than women." "As
if I doubted it," she said scornfully. "How could they help it?
Haven't we bred them and fed and kept them in comfort since the
beginning of time so that they may be clever even if they're nothing
else? It's all our doing!" she cried. "We insisted upon having
intellect and now we've got it. And it's intellect," she continued,
"that's at the bottom of it. What could be more charming than a boy
before he has begun to cultivate his intellect? He is beautiful to
look at; he gives himself no airs; he understand the meaning of art and
literature instinctively; he goes about enjoying his life and making
other people enjoy theirs. Then they teach him to cultivate his
intellect. He becomes a barrister, a civil servant, a general, an
author, a professor. Every day he goes to an office. Every year he
produces a book. He maintains a whole family by the products of his
brain? poor devil! Soon he cannot come into a room without making us
all feel uncomfortable; he condescends to every woman he meets, and
dares not tell the truth even to his own wife; instead of rejoicing our
eyes we have to shut them if we are to take him in our arms. True, they
console themselves with stars of all shapes, ribbons of all shades, and
incomes of all sizes? but what is to console us? That we shall be able
in ten years' time to spend a week-end at Lahore? Or that the least
insect in Japan has a name twice the length of its body? Oh,
Cassandra, for Heaven's sake let us devise a method by which men may
bear children! It is our only chance. For unless we provide them with
some innocent occupation we shall get neither good people nor good
books; we shall perish beneath the fruits of their unbridled activity;
and not a human being will survive to know that there once was
"It is too late," I replied. "We cannot provide even for the
children that we have."
"And then you ask me to believe in intellect," she said.
While we spoke, men were crying hoarsely and wearily in the street,
and, listening, we heard that the Treaty of Peace had just been signed.
The voices died away. The rain was falling and interfered no doubt with
the proper explosion of the fireworks.
"My cook will have bought the Evening News," said Castalia, "and
Ann will be spelling it out over her tea. I must go home."
"It's no good? not a bit of good," I said. "Once she knows how to
read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in? and that
"Well, that would be a change," sighed Castalia.
So we swept up the papers of our Society, and, though Ann was
playing with her doll very happily, we solemnly made her a present of
the lot and told her we had chosen her to be President of the Society
of the future? upon which she burst into tears, poor little girl.
Monday or Tuesday
LAZY AND INDIFFERENT, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing
his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and
distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers,
moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh,
perfect? the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or
white feathers, for ever and ever?
Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words,
for ever desiring? (a cry starts to the left, another to the right.
Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses conglomerate in conflict)? for
ever desiring? (the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that
it is mid-day; light sheds gold scales; children swarm)? for ever
desiring truth. Red is the dome; coins hang on the trees; smoke trails
from the chimneys; bark, shout, cry "Iron for sale"? and truth?
Radiating to a point men's feet and women's feet, black or
gold-encrusted? (This foggy weather? Sugar? No, thank you? The
commonwealth of the future)? the firelight darting and making the room
red, save for the black figures and their bright eyes, while outside a
van discharges, Miss Thingummy drinks tea at her desk, and plate-glass
preserves fur coats?
Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels,
silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in
separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled? and truth?
Now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble.
From ivory depths words rising shed their blackness, blossom and
penetrate. Fallen the book; in the flame, in the smoke, in the
momentary sparks? or now voyaging, the marble square pendant, minarets
beneath and the Indian seas, while space rushes blue and stars glint?
truth? or now, content with closeness?
Lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars;
then bares them.
An Unwritten Novel
SUCH AN EXPRESSION of unhappiness was enough by itself to make
one's eyes slide above the paper's edge to the poor woman's face?
insignificant without that look, almost a symbol of human destiny with
it. Life's what you see in people's eyes; life's what they learn, and,
having learnt it, never, though they seek to hide it, cease to be aware
of? what? That life's like that, it seems. Five faces opposite? five
mature faces? and the knowledge in each face. Strange, though, how
people want to conceal it! Marks of reticence are on all those faces:
lips shut, eyes shaded, each one of the five doing something to hide or
stultify his knowledge. One smokes; another reads; a third checks
entries in a pocket book; a fourth stares at the map of the line framed
opposite; and the fifth? the terrible thing about the fifth is that she
does nothing at all. She looks at life. Ah, but my poor, unfortunate
woman, do play the game? do, for all our sakes, conceal it!
As if she heard me, she looked up, shifted slightly in her seat and
sighed. She seemed to apologise and at the same time to say to me, "If
only you knew!" Then she looked at life again. "But I do know," I
answered silently, glancing at the Times for manners' sake. "I know the
whole business. 'Peace between Germany and the Allied Powers was
yesterday officially ushered in at Paris? Signor Nitti, the Italian
Prime Minister? a passenger train at Doncaster was in collision with a
goods train...' We all know? the Times knows? but we pretend we don't."
My eyes had once more crept over the paper's rim. She shuddered,
twitched her arm queerly to the middle of her back and shook her head.
Again I dipped into my great reservoir of life. "Take what you like," I
continued, "births, death, marriages, Court Circular, the habits of
birds, Leonardo da Vinci, the Sandhills murder, high wages and the cost
of living? oh, take what you like," I repeated, "it's all in the
Times!" Again with infinite weariness she moved her head from side to
side until, like a top exhausted with spinning, it settled on her neck.
The Times was no protection against such sorrow as hers. But other
human beings forbade intercourse. The best thing to do against life was
to fold the paper so that it made a perfect square, crisp, thick,
impervious even to life. This done, I glanced up quickly, armed with a
shield of my own. She pierced through my shield; she gazed into my eyes
as if searching any sediment of courage at the depths of them and
damping it to clay. Her twitch alone denied all hope, discounted all
So we rattled through Surrey and across the border into Sussex. But
with my eyes upon life I did not see that the other travellers had
left, one by one, till, save for the man who read, we were alone
together. Here was Three Bridges station. We drew slowly down the
platform and stopped. Was he going to leave us? I prayed both ways? I
prayed last that he might stay. At that instant he roused himself,
crumpled his paper contemptuously, like a thing done with, burst open
the door, and left us alone.
The unhappy woman, leaning a little forward, palely and
colourlessly addressed me? talked of stations and holidays, of brothers
at Eastbourne, and the time of the year, which was, I forget now, early
or late. But at last looking from the window and seeing, I knew, only
life, she breathed, "Staying away? that's the drawback of it?" Ah, now
we approached the catastrophe, "My sister-in-law"? the bitterness of
her tone was like lemon on cold steel, and speaking, not to me, but to
herself, she muttered, "nonsense, she would say? that's what they all
say," and while she spoke she fidgeted as though the skin on her back
were as a plucked fowl's in a poulterer's shop-window.
"Oh, that cow!" she broke off nervously, as though the great wooden
cow in the meadow had shocked her and saved her from some indiscretion.
Then she shuddered, and then she made the awkward, angular movement
that I had seen before, as if, after the spasm, some spot between the
shoulders burnt or itched. Then again she looked the most unhappy woman
in the world, and I once more reproached her, though not with the same
conviction, for if there were a reason, and if I knew the reason, the
stigma was removed from life.
"Sisters-in-law," I said?
Her lips pursed as if to spit venom at the word; pursed they
remained. All she did was to take her glove and rub hard at a spot on
the window-pane. She rubbed as if she would rub something out for ever?
some stain, some indelible contamination. Indeed, the spot remained for
all her rubbing, and back she sank with the shudder and the clutch of
the arm I had come to expect. Something impelled me to take my glove
and rub my window. There, too, was a little speck on the glass. For all
my rubbing, it remained. And then the spasm went through me; I crooked
my arm and plucked at the middle of my back. My skin, too, felt like
the damp chicken's skin in the poulterer's shop-window; one spot
between the shoulders itched and irritated, felt clammy, felt raw.
Could I reach it? Surreptitiously I tried. She saw me. A smile of
infinite irony, infinite sorrow, flitted and faded from her face. But
she had communicated, shared her secret, passed her poison; she would
speak no more. Leaning back in my corner, shielding my eyes from her
eyes, seeing only the slopes and hollows, greys and purples, of the
winter's landscape, I read her message, deciphered her secret, reading
it beneath her gaze.
Hilda's the sister-in-law. Hilda? Hilda? Hilda Marsh? Hilda the
blooming, the full bosomed, the matronly. Hilda stands at the door as
the cab draws up, holding a coin. "Poor Minnie, more of a grasshopper
than ever? old cloak she had last year. Well, well, with two children
these days one can't do more. No, Minnie, I've got it; here you are,
cabby? none of your ways with me. Come in, Minnie. Oh, I could carry
you, let alone your basket!" So they go into the dining-room. "Aunt
Slowly the knives and forks sink from the upright. Down they get
(Bob and Barbara), hold out hands stiffly; back again to their chairs,
staring between the resumed mouthfuls. [But this we'll skip; ornaments,
curtains, trefoil china plate, yellow oblongs of cheese, white squares
of biscuit? skip? oh, but wait! Half-way through luncheon one of those
shivers; Bob stares at her, spoon in mouth. "Get on with your pudding,
Bob;" but Hilda disapproves. "Why should she twitch?" Skip, skip, till
we reach the landing on the upper floor; stairs brass-bound; linoleum
worn; oh, yes! little bedroom looking out over the roofs of Eastbourne?
zigzagging roofs like the spines of caterpillars, this way, that way,
striped red and yellow, with blue-black slating]. Now, Minnie, the
door's shut; Hilda heavily descends to the basement; you unstrap the
straps of your basket, lay on the bed a meagre nightgown, stand side by
side furred felt slippers. The looking-glass? no, you avoid the
looking-glass. Some methodical disposition of hat-pins. Perhaps the
shell box has something in it? You shake it; it's the pearl stud there
was last year? that's all. And then the sniff, the sigh, the sitting by
the window. Three o'clock on a December afternoon; the rain drizzling;
one light low in the skylight of a drapery emporium; another high in a
servant's bedroom? this one goes out. That gives her nothing to look
at. A moment's blankness? then, what are you thinking? (Let me peep
across at her opposite; she's asleep or pretending it; so what would
she think about sitting at the window at three o'clock in the
afternoon? Health, money, hills, her God? ) Yes, sitting on the very
edge of the chair looking over the roofs of Eastbourne, Minnie Marsh
prays to God. That's all very well; and she may rub the pane too, as
though to see God better; but what God does she see? Who's the God of
Minnie Marsh, the God of the back streets of Eastbourne, the God of
three o'clock in the afternoon? I, too, see roofs, I see sky; but, oh,
dear? this seeing of Gods! More like President Kruger than Prince
Albert? that's the best I can do for him; and I see him on a chair, in
a black frock-coat, not so very high up either; I can manage a cloud or
two for him to sit on; and then his hand trailing in the clouds holds a
rod, a truncheon is it? ? black, thick, horned? a brutal old bully?
Minnie's God! Did he send the itch and the patch and the twitch? Is
that why she prays? What she rubs on the window is the stain of sin.
Oh, she committed some crime!
I have my choice of crimes. The woods flit and fly? in summer there
are bluebells; in the opening there, when Spring comes, primroses. A
parting, was it, twenty years ago? Vows broken? Not Minnie's!...She
was faithful. How she nursed her mother! All her savings on the
tombstone? wreaths under glass? daffodils in jars. But I'm off the
track. A crime...They would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed her
secret? her sex, they'd say? the scientific people. But what flummery
to saddle her with sex! No? more like this. Passing down the streets of
Croyden twenty years ago, the violet loops of ribbon in the draper's
window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. She lingers? past
six. Still by running she can reach home. She pushes through the glass
swing door. It's sale-time. Shallow trays brim with ribbons. She
pauses, pulls this, fingers that with the raised roses on it? no need
to choose, no need to buy, and each tray with its surprises. "We don't
shut till seven," and then it is seven. She runs, she rushes, home she
reaches, but too late. Neighbours? the doctor? baby brother? the
kettle? scalded? hospital? dead? or only the shock of it, the blame?
Ah, but the detail matters nothing! It's what she carries with her;
the spot, the crime, the thing to expiate, always there between her
shoulders. "Yes," she seems to nod to me, "it's the thing I did."
Whether you did, or what you did, I don't mind; it's not the thing
I want. The draper's window looped with violet? that'll do; a little
cheap perhaps, a little commonplace? since one has a choice of crimes,
but then so many (let me peep across again? still sleeping, or
pretending to sleep! white, worn, the mouth closed? a touch of
obstinacy, more than one would think? no hint of sex)? so many crimes
aren't your crime; your crime was cheap; only the retribution solemn;
for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her; on the
brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here
she's at it) prays. All her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. The spot
receives them. It's raised, it's red, it's burning. Next she twitches.
Small boys point. "Bob at lunch to-day"? But elderly women are the
Indeed now you can't sit praying any longer. Kruger's sunk beneath
the clouds? washed over as with a painter's brush of liquid grey, to
which he adds a tinge of black? even the tip of the truncheon gone now.
That's what always happens! Just as you've seen him, felt him, someone
interrupts. It's Hilda now.
How you hate her! She'll even lock the bathroom door overnight,
too, though it's only cold water you want, and sometimes when the
night's been bad it seems as if washing helped. And John at breakfast?
the children? meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends? ferns
don't altogether hide 'em? they guess, too; so out you go along the
front, where the waves are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass
shelters green and draughty, and the chairs cost tuppence? too much?
for there must be preachers along the sands. Ah, that's a nigger?
that's a funny man? that's a man with parakeets? poor little creatures!
Is there no one here who thinks of God? ? just up there, over the pier,
with his rod? but no? there's nothing but grey in the sky or if it's
blue the white clouds hide him, and the music? it's military music? and
what are they fishing for? Do they catch them? How the children
stare! Well, then home a back way?"Home a back way!" The words have
meaning; might have been spoken by the old man with whiskers? no, no,
he didn't really speak; but everything has meaning? placards leaning
against doorways? names above shop-windows? red fruit in baskets?
women's heads in the hairdresser's? all say "Minnie Marsh!" But here's
a jerk. "Eggs are cheaper!" That's what always happens! I was heading
her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of
dream sheep, she turns t'other way and runs between my fingers. Eggs
are cheaper. Tethered to the shores of the world, none of the crimes,
sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor Minnie Marsh; never late
for luncheon; never caught in a storm without a mackintosh; never
utterly unconscious of the cheapness of eggs. So she reaches home?
scrapes her boots.
Have I read you right? But the human face? the human face at the
top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more. Now, eyes
open, she looks out; and in the human eye? how d'you define it? ?
there's a break? a division? so that when you've grasped the stem the
butterfly's off? the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow
flower? move, raise your hand, off, high, away. I won't raise my hand.
Hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of
Minnie Marsh? I, too, on my flower? the hawk over the down? alone, or
what were the worth of life? To rise; hang still in the evening, in
the midday; hang still over the down. The flicker of a hand? off, up!
then poised again. Alone, unseen; seeing all so still down there, all
so lovely. None seeing, none caring. The eyes of others our prisons;
their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and
immortality...Oh, but I drop to the turf! Are you down too, you in the
corner, what's your name? woman? Minnie Marsh; some such name as that?
There she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand-bag, from which
she takes a hollow shell? an egg? who was saying that eggs were
cheaper? You or I? Oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you
remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly opening his umbrella? or
sneezing was it? Anyhow, Kruger went, and you came "home a back way,"
and scraped your boots. Yes. And now you lay across your knees a
pocket-handkerchief into which drop little angular fragments of
eggshell? fragments of a map? a puzzle. I wish I could piece them
together! If you would only sit still. She's moved her knees? the map's
in bits again. Down the slopes of the Andes the white blocks of marble
go bounding and hurtling, crushing to death a whole troop of Spanish
muleteers, with their convoy? Drake's booty, gold and silver. But to
To what, to where? She opened the door, and, putting her umbrella
in the stand? that goes without saying; so, too, the whiff of beef from
the basement; dot, dot, dot. But what I cannot thus eliminate, what I
must, head down, eyes shut, with the courage of a battalion and the
blindness of a bull, charge and disperse are, indubitably, the figures
behind the ferns, commercial travellers. There I've hidden them all
this time in the hope that somehow they'd disappear, or better still
emerge, as indeed they must, if the story's to go on gathering richness
and rotundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories should, rolling along
with it two, if not three, commercial travellers and a whole grove of
aspidistra. "The fronds of the aspidistra only partly concealed the
commercial traveller?" Rhododendrons would conceal him utterly, and
into the bargain give me my fling of red and white, for which I starve
and strive; but rhododendrons in Eastbourne? in December? on the
Marshes' table? no, no, I dare not; it's all a matter of crusts and
cruets, frills and ferns. Perhaps there'll be a moment later by the
sea. Moreover, I feel, pleasantly pricking through the green fretwork
and over the glacis of cut glass, a desire to peer and peep at the man
opposite? one's as much as I can manage. James Moggridge is it, whom
the Marshes call Jimmy? [Minnie, you must promise not to twitch till
I've got this straight]. James Moggridge travels in? shall we say
buttons? ? but the time's not come for bringing them in? the big and
the little on the long cards, some peacock-eyed, others dull gold;
cairngorms some, and others coral sprays? but I say the time's not
come. He travels, and on Thursdays, his Eastbourne day, takes his meals
with the Marshes. His red face, his little steady eyes? by no means
altogether commonplace? his enormous appetite (that's safe; he won't
look at Minnie till the bread's swamped the gravy dry), napkin tucked
diamond-wise? but this is primitive, and whatever it may do the reader,
don't take me in. Let's dodge to the Moggridge household, set that in
motion. Well, the family boots are mended on Sundays by James himself.
He reads Truth. But his passion? Roses? and his wife a retired
hospital nurse? interesting? for God's sake let me have one woman with
a name I like! But no; she's of the unborn children of the mind,
illicit, none the less loved, like my rhododendrons. How many die in
every novel that's written? the best, the dearest, while Moggridge
lives. It's life's fault. Here's Minnie eating her egg at the moment
opposite and at t'other end of the line? are we past Lewes? ? there
must be Jimmy? or what's her twitch for?
There must be Moggridge? life's fault. Life imposes her laws; life
blocks the way; life's behind the fern; life's the tyrant; oh, but not
the bully! No, for I assure you I come willingly; I come wooed by
Heaven knows what compulsion across ferns and cruets, tables splashed
and bottles smeared. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on
the firm flesh, in the robust spine, wherever I can penetrate or find
foothold on the person, in the soul, of Moggridge the man. The enormous
stability of the fabric; the spine tough as whalebone, straight as
oak-tree; the ribs radiating branches; the flesh taut tarpaulin; the
red hollows; the suck and regurgitation of the heart; while from above
meat falls in brown cubes and beer gushes to be churned to blood again?
and so we reach the eyes. Behind the aspidistra they see something;
black, white, dismal; now the plate again; behind the aspidistra they
see elderly woman; "Marsh's sister, Hilda's more my sort;" the
tablecloth now. "Marsh would know what's wrong with Morrises..." talk
that over; cheese has come; the plate again; turn it round? the
enormous fingers; now the woman opposite. "Marsh's sister? not a bit
like Marsh; wretched, elderly female....You should feed your
hens....God's truth, what's set her twitching? Not what I said? Dear,
dear, dear! These elderly women. Dear, dear!"
1Yes, Minnie; I know you've twitched, but one moment? James
"Dear, dear, dear!" How beautiful the sound is! like the knock of a
mallet on seasoned timber, like the throb of the heart of an ancient
whaler when the seas press thick and the green is clouded. "Dear,
dear!" what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them
and solace them, lap them in linen, saying, "So long. Good luck to
you!" and then, "What's your pleasure?" for though Moggridge would
pluck his rose for her, that's done, that's over. Now what's the next
thing? "Madam, you'll miss your train," for they don't linger.
That's the man's way; that's the sound that reverberates; that's
St. Paul's and the motor-omnibuses. But we're brushing the crumbs off.
Oh, Moggridge, you won't stay? You must be off? Are you driving
through Eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages?
Are you the man who's walled up in green cardboard boxes, and
sometimes has the blinds down, and sometimes sits so solemn staring
like a sphinx, and always there's a look of the sepulchral, something
of the undertaker, the coffin, and the dusk about horse and driver? Do
tell me? but the doors slammed. We shall never meet again. Moggridge,
Yes, yes, I'm coming. Right up to the top of the house. One moment
I'll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind? what a swirl these
monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here,
black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms
reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and again through the eyes one
sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the
departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people
one never meets again.
James Moggridge is dead now, gone for ever. Well, Minnie?"I can
face it no longer." If she said that? (Let me look at her. She is
brushing the eggshell into deep declivities). She said it certainly,
leaning against the wall of the bedroom, and plucking at the little
balls which edge the claret-coloured curtain. But when the self speaks
to the self, who is speaking? ? the entombed soul, the spirit driven
in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and
left the world? a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits
with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors. "I can bear
it no longer," her spirit says. "That man at lunch? Hilda? the
children." Oh, heavens, her sob! It's the spirit wailing its destiny,
the spirit driven hither, thither, lodging on the diminishing carpets?
meagre footholds? shrunken shreds of all the vanishing universe? love,
life, faith, husband, children, I know not what splendours and
pageantries glimpsed in girlhood. "Not for me? not for me."
But then? the muffins, the bald elderly dog? Bead mats I should
fancy and the consolation of underlinen. If Minnie Marsh were run over
and taken to hospital, nurses and doctors themselves would
exclaim....There's the vista and the vision? there's the distance? the
blue blot at the end of the avenue, while, after all, the tea is rich,
the muffin hot, and the dog?"Benny, to your basket, sir, and see what
mother's brought you!" So, taking the glove with the worn thumb,
defying once more the encroaching demon of what's called going in
holes, you renew the fortifications, threading the grey wool, running
it in and out.
Running it in and out, across and over, spinning a web through
which God himself? hush, don't think of God! How firm the stitches are!
You must be proud of your darning. Let nothing disturb her. Let the
light fall gently, and the clouds show an inner vest of the first green
leaf. Let the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop hanging
to the twig's elbow.... Why look up? Was it a sound, a thought? Oh,
heavens! Back again to the thing you did, the plate glass with the
violet loops? But Hilda will come. Ignominies, humiliations, oh! Close
Having mended her glove, Minnie Marsh lays it in the drawer. She
shuts the drawer with decision. I catch sight of her face in the glass.
Lips are pursed. Chin held high. Next she laces her shoes. Then she
touches her throat. What's your brooch? Mistletoe or merry-thought?
And what is happening? Unless I'm much mistaken, the pulse's
quickened, the moment's coming, the threads are racing, Niagara's
ahead. Here's the crisis! Heaven be with you! Down she goes. Courage,
courage! Face it, be it! For God's sake don't wait on the mat now!
There's the door! I'm on your side. Speak! Confront her, confound her
"Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, this is Eastbourne. I'll reach it down
for you. Let me try the handle." [But, Minnie, though we keep up
pretences, I've read you right? I'm with you now].
"That's all your luggage?"
"Much obliged, I'm sure."
(But why do you look about you? Hilda won't come to the station,
nor John; and Moggridge is driving at the far side of Eastbourne).
"I'll wait by my bag, ma'am, that's safest. He said he'd meet
me....Oh, there he is! That's my son."
So they walked off together.
Well, but I'm confounded....Surely, Minnie, you know better! A
strange young man....Stop! I'll tell him? Minnie!? Miss Marsh!? I don't
know though. There's something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but
it's untrue; it's indecent....Look how he bends as they reach the
gateway. She finds her ticket. What's the joke? Off they go, down the
road, side by side....Well, my world's done for! What do I stand on?
What do I know? That's not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am
I? Life's bare as bone.
And yet the last look of them? he stepping from the kerb and she
following him round the edge of the big building brims me with wonder?
floods me anew. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why
do you walk down the street? Where to-night will you sleep, and then,
to-morrow? Oh, how it whirls and surges? floats me afresh! I start
after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters
and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark
gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I
see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten,
I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the landscape; dim as
ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go
through the ritual, the ancient antics, it's you, unknown figures, you
I adore; if I open my arms, it's you I embrace, you I draw to me?
"The String Quartet." by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) From: Monday
or Tuesday. by Virginia Woolf. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company,
The String Quartet
WELL, HERE WE are, and if you cast your eye over the room you will
see that Tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a few,
even, I venture to believe, landaus with bays in them, have been busy
at it, weaving threads from one end of London to the other. Yet I begin
to have my doubts?
If indeed it's true, as they're saying, that Regent Street is up,
and the Treaty signed, and the weather not cold for the time of year,
and even at that rent not a flat to be had, and the worst of influenza
its after effects; if I bethink me of having forgotten to write about
the leak in the larder, and left my glove in the train; if the ties of
blood require me, leaning forward, to accept cordially the hand which
is perhaps offered hesitatingly?
"Seven years since we met!"
"The last time in Venice."
"And where are you living now?"
"Well, the late afternoon suits me the best, though, if it weren't
asking too much?"
"But I knew you at once!"
"Still, the war made a break?"
If the mind's shot through by such little arrows, and? for human
society compels it? no sooner is one launched than another presses
forward; if this engenders heat and in addition they've turned on the
electric light; if saying one thing does, in so many cases, leave
behind it a need to improve and revise, stirring besides regrets,
pleasures, vanities, and desires? if it's all the facts I mean, and the
hats, the fur boas, the gentlemen's swallow-tail coats, and pearl
tie-pins that come to the surface? what chance is there?
Of what? It becomes every minute more difficult to say why, in
spite of everything, I sit here believing I can't now say what, or even
remember the last time it happened.
"Did you see the procession?"
"The King looked cold."
"No, no, no. But what was it?"
"She's bought a house at Malmesbury."
"How lucky to find one!"
On the contrary, it seems to me pretty sure that she, whoever she
may be, is damned, since it's all a matter of flats and hats and sea
gulls, or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here well
dressed, walled in, furred, replete. Not that I can boast, since I too
sit passive on a gilt chair, only turning the earth above a buried
memory, as we all do, for there are signs, if I'm not mistaken, that
we're all recalling something, furtively seeking something. Why fidget?
Why so anxious about the sit of cloaks; and gloves? whether to button
or unbutton? Then watch that elderly face against the dark canvas, a
moment ago urbane and flushed; now taciturn and sad, as if in shadow.
Was it the sound of the second violin tuning in the ante-room? Here
they come; four black figures, carrying instruments, and seat
themselves facing the white squares under the downpour of light; rest
the tips of their bows on the music stand; with a simultaneous movement
lift them; lightly poise them, and, looking across at the player
opposite, the first violin counts one, two, three?
Flourish, spring, burgeon, burst! The pear tree on the top of the
mountain. Fountains jet; drops descend. But the waters of the Rhone
flow swift and deep, race under the arches, and sweep the trailing
water leaves, washing shadows over the silver fish, the spotted fish
rushed down by the swift waters, now swept into an eddy where? it's
difficult this? conglomeration of fish all in a pool; leaping,
splashing, scraping sharp fins; and such a boil of current that the
yellow pebbles are churned round and round, round and round? free now,
rushing downwards, or even somehow ascending in exquisite spirals into
the air; curled like thin shavings from under a plane, up and up....How
lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through
the world! Also in jolly old fishwives, squatted under arches, obscene
old women, how deeply they laugh and shake and rollick, when they walk,
from side to side, hum, hah!
"That's an early Mozart, of course?"
"But the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair? I mean hope.
What do I mean? That's the worst of music! I want to dance, laugh, eat
pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine. Or an indecent story,
now? I could relish that. The older one grows the more one likes
indecency. Hah, hah! I'm laughing. What at? You said nothing, nor did
the old gentleman opposite....But suppose? suppose? Hush!"
The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the
trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird
singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow,
sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight. Woven
together, inextricably commingled, bound in pain and strewn in sorrow?
The boat sinks. Rising, the figures ascend, but now leaf thin,
tapering to a dusky wraith, which, fiery tipped, draws its twofold
passion from my heart. For me it sings, unseals my sorrow, thaws
compassion, floods with love the sunless world, nor, ceasing, abates
its tenderness but deftly, subtly, weaves in and out until in this
pattern, this consummation, the cleft ones unify; soar, sob, sink to
rest, sorrow and joy.
Why then grieve? Ask what? Remain unsatisfied? I say all's been
settled; yes; laid to rest under a coverlet of rose leaves, falling.
Falling. Ah, but they cease. One rose leaf, falling from an enormous
height, like a little parachute dropped from an invisible balloon,
turns, flutters waveringly. It won't reach us.
"No, no. I noticed nothing. That's the worst of music? these silly
dreams. The second violin was late, you say?"
"There's old Mrs. Munro, feeling her way out? blinder each year,
poor woman? on this slippery floor."
Eyeless old age, grey-headed Sphinx....There she stands on the
pavement, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.
"How lovely! How well they play! How? how? how!"
The tongue is but a clapper. Simplicity itself. The feathers in the
hat next me are bright and pleasing as a child's rattle. The leaf on
the plane-tree flashes green through the chink in the curtain. Very
strange, very exciting.
"How? how? how!" Hush!
These are the lovers on the grass.
"If, madam, you will take my hand?"
"Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our
bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our
"Then these are the embraces of our souls." The lemons nod assent.
The swan pushes from the bank and floats dreaming into midstream.
"But to return. He followed me down the corridor, and, as we turned
the corner, trod on the lace of my petticoat. What could I do but cry
'Ah!' and stop to finger it? At which he drew his sword, made passes
as if he were stabbing something to death, and cried, 'Mad! Mad! Mad!'
Whereupon I screamed, and the Prince, who was writing in the large
vellum book in the oriel window, came out in his velvet skull-cap and
furred slippers, snatched a rapier from the wall? the King of Spain's
gift, you know? on which I escaped, flinging on this cloak to hide the
ravages to my skirt? to hide...But listen! The horns!"
The gentleman replies so fast to the lady, and she runs up the
scale with such witty exchange of compliment now culminating in a sob
of passion, that the words are indistinguishable though the meaning is
plain enough? love, laughter, flight, pursuit, celestial bliss? all
floated out on the gayest ripple of tender endearment? until the sound
of the silver horns, at first far distant, gradually sounds more and
more distinctly, as if seneschals were saluting the dawn or proclaiming
ominously the escape of the lovers....The green garden, moonlit pool,
lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across
which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions
there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars....Tramp and
trumpeting. Clang and clangour. Firm establishment. Fast foundations.
March of myriads. Confusion and chaos trod to earth. But this city to
which we travel has neither stone nor marble; hangs enduring; stands
unshakable; nor does a face, nor does a flag greet or welcome. Leave
then to perish your hope; droop in the desert my joy; naked advance.
Bare are the pillars; auspicious to none; casting no shade;
resplendent; severe. Back then I fall, eager no more, desiring only to
go, find the street, mark the buildings, greet the applewoman, say to
the maid who opens the door: A starry night.
"Good night, good night. You go this way?"
"Alas. I go that."
THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down
the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of
the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets? their
harsh cries? sharp blades of palm trees? green, too; green needles
glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the
pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the
pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and
there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set
there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the
mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless
waves sway beneath the empty sky. It's night; the needles drip blots of
blue. The green's out.
The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his
blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre,
spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black
tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he
sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the
polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt,
obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty
iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave
rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral's different, cold,
incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.
FROM THE OVAL-SHAPED flower-bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks
spreading into heart-shaped or tongue-shaped leaves half way up and
unfurling at the tip red or blue or yellow petals marked with spots of
colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue or yellow gloom
of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly
clubbed at the end. The petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by
the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue and yellow lights
passed one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath
with a spot of the most intricate colour. The light fell either upon
the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its
brown, circular veins, or falling into a raindrop, it expanded with
such intensity of red, blue and yellow the thin walls of water that one
expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a
second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh
of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneath the surface,
and again it moved on and spread its illumination in the vast green
spaces beneath the dome of the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves.
Then the breeze stirred rather more briskly overhead and the colour was
flashed into the air above, into the eyes of the men and women who walk
in Kew Gardens in July.
The figures of these men and women straggled past the flower-bed
with a curiously irregular movement not unlike that of the white and
blue butterflies who crossed the turf in zig-zag flights from bed to
bed. The man was about six inches in front of the woman, strolling
carelessly, while she bore on with greater purpose, only turning her
head now and then to see that the children were not too far behind. The
man kept this distance in front of the woman purposely, though perhaps
unconsciously, for he wished to go on with his thoughts.
"Fifteen years ago I came here with Lily," he thought. "We sat
somewhere over there by a lake and I begged her to marry me all through
the hot afternoon. How the dragonfly kept circling round us: how
clearly I see the dragonfly and her shoe with the square silver buckle
at the toe. All the time I spoke I saw her shoe and when it moved
impatiently I knew without looking up what she was going to say: the
whole of her seemed to be in her shoe. And my love, my desire, were in
the dragonfly; for some reason I thought that if it settled there, on
that leaf, the broad one with the red flower in the middle of it, if
the dragonfly settled on the leaf she would say 'Yes' at once. But the
dragonfly went round and round: it never settled anywhere? of course
not, happily not, or I shouldn't be walking here with Eleanor and the
children? Tell me, Eleanor. D'you ever think of the past?"
"Why do you ask, Simon?"
"Because I've been thinking of the past. I've been thinking of
Lily, the woman I might have married.... Well, why are you silent? Do
you mind my thinking of the past?"
"Why should I mind, Simon? Doesn't one always think of the past,
in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they
one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts
lying under the trees,... one's happiness, one's reality?"
"For me, a square silver shoe buckle and a dragonfly?"
"For me, a kiss. Imagine six little girls sitting before their
easels twenty years ago, down by the side of a lake, painting the
water-lilies, the first red water-lilies I'd ever seen. And suddenly a
kiss, there on the back of my neck. And my hand shook all the afternoon
so that I couldn't paint. I took out my watch and marked the hour when
I would allow myself to think of the kiss for five minutes only? it was
so precious? the kiss of an old grey-haired woman with a wart on her
nose, the mother of all my kisses all my life. Come, Caroline, come,
They walked on the past the flower-bed, now walking four abreast,
and soon diminished in size among the trees and looked half transparent
as the sunlight and shade swam over their backs in large trembling
In the oval flower bed the snail, whose shell had been stained red,
blue, and yellow for the space of two minutes or so, now appeared to be
moving very slightly in its shell, and next began to labour over the
crumbs of loose earth which broke away and rolled down as it passed
over them. It appeared to have a definite goal in front of it,
differing in this respect from the singular high stepping angular green
insect who attempted to cross in front of it, and waited for a second
with its antenn¾ trembling as if in deliberation, and then stepped off
as rapidly and strangely in the opposite direction. Brown cliffs with
deep green lakes in the hollows, flat, blade-like trees that waved from
root to tip, round boulders of grey stone, vast crumpled surfaces of a
thin crackling texture? all these objects lay across the snail's
progress between one stalk and another to his goal. Before he had
decided whether to circumvent the arched tent of a dead leaf or to
breast it there came past the bed the feet of other human beings.
This time they were both men. The younger of the two wore an
expression of perhaps unnatural calm; he raised his eyes and fixed them
very steadily in front of him while his companion spoke, and directly
his companion had done speaking he looked on the ground again and
sometimes opened his lips only after a long pause and sometimes did not
open them at all. The elder man had a curiously uneven and shaky method
of walking, jerking his hand forward and throwing up his head abruptly,
rather in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting
outside a house; but in the man these gestures were irresolute and
pointless. He talked almost incessantly; he smiled to himself and again
began to talk, as if the smile had been an answer. He was talking about
spirits? the spirits of the dead, who, according to him, were even now
telling him all sorts of odd things about their experiences in Heaven.
"Heaven was known to the ancients as Thessaly, William, and now,
with this war, the spirit matter is rolling between the hills like
thunder." He paused, seemed to listen, smiled, jerked his head and
"You have a small electric battery and a piece of rubber to
insulate the wire? isolate? ? insulate? ? well, we'll skip the details,
no good going into details that wouldn't be understood? and in short
the little machine stands in any convenient position by the head of the
bed, we will say, on a neat mahogany stand. All arrangements being
properly fixed by workmen under my direction, the widow applies her ear
and summons the spirit by sign as agreed. Women! Widows! Women in
Here he seemed to have caught sight of a woman's dress in the
distance, which in the shade looked a purple black. He took off his
hat, placed his hand upon his heart, and hurried towards her muttering
and gesticulating feverishly. But William caught him by the sleeve and
touched a flower with the tip of his walking-stick in order to divert
the old man's attention. After looking at it for a moment in some
confusion the old man bent his ear to it and seemed to answer a voice
speaking from it, for he began talking about the forests of Uruguay
which he had visited hundreds of years ago in company with the most
beautiful young woman in Europe. He could be heard murmuring about
forests of Uruguay blanketed with the wax petals of tropical roses,
nightingales, sea beaches, mermaids, and women drowned at sea, as he
suffered himself to be moved on by William, upon whose face the look of
stoical patience grew slowly deeper and deeper.
Following his steps so closely as to be slightly puzzled by his
gestures came two elderly women of the lower middle class, one stout
and ponderous, the other rosy cheeked and nimble. Like most people of
their station they were frankly fascinated by any signs of eccentricity
betokening a disordered brain, especially in the well-to-do; but they
were too far off to be certain whether the gestures were merely
eccentric or genuinely mad. After they had scrutinised the old man's
back in silence for a moment and given each other a queer, sly look,
they went on energetically piecing together their very complicated
"Nell, Bert, Lot, Cess, Phil, Pa, he says, I says, she says, I
says, I says, I says?"
"My Bert, Sis, Bill, Grandad, the old man, sugar,
Sugar, flour, kippers, greens, Sugar, sugar, sugar."
The ponderous woman looked through the pattern of falling words at
the flowers standing cool, firm, and upright in the earth, with a
curious expression. She saw them as a sleeper waking from a heavy sleep
sees a brass candlestick reflecting the light in an unfamiliar way, and
closes his eyes and opens them, and seeing the brass candlestick again,
finally starts broad awake and stares at the candlestick with all his
powers. So the heavy woman came to a standstill opposite the
oval-shaped flower bed, and ceased even to pretend to listen to what
the other woman was saying. She stood there letting the words fall over
her, swaying the top part of her body slowly backwards and forwards,
looking at the flowers. Then she suggested that they should find a seat
and have their tea.
The snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his
goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. Let alone
the effort needed for climbing a leaf, he was doubtful whether the thin
texture which vibrated with such an alarming crackle when touched even
by the tip of his horns would bear his weight; and this determined him
finally to creep beneath it, for there was a point where the leaf
curved high enough from the ground to admit him. He had just inserted
his head in the opening and was taking stock of the high brown roof and
was getting used to the cool brown light when two other people came
past outside on the turf. This time they were both young, a young man
and a young woman. They were both in the prime of youth, or even in
that season which precedes the prime of youth, the season before the
smooth pink folds of the flower have burst their gummy case, when the
wings of the butterfly, though fully grown, are motionless in the sun.
"Lucky it isn't Friday," he observed.
"Why? D'you believe in luck?"
"They make you pay sixpence on Friday."
"What's sixpence anyway? Isn't it worth sixpence?"
"What's 'it'? what do you mean by 'it'?"
"O, anything? I mean? you know what I mean."
Long pauses came between each of these remarks; they were uttered
in toneless and monotonous voices. The couple stood still on the edge
of the flower bed, and together pressed the end of her parasol deep
down into the soft earth. The action and the fact that his hand rested
on the top of hers expressed their feelings in a strange way, as these
short insignificant words also expressed something, words with short
wings for their heavy body of meaning, inadequate to carry them far and
thus alighting awkwardly upon the very common objects that surrounded
them, and were to their inexperienced touch so massive; but who knows
(so they thought as they pressed the parasol into the earth) what
precipices aren't concealed in them, or what slopes of ice don't shine
in the sun on the other side? Who knows? Who has ever seen this
before? Even when she wondered what sort of tea they gave you at Kew,
he felt that something loomed up behind her words, and stood vast and
solid behind them; and the mist very slowly rose and uncovered? O,
Heavens, what were those shapes? ? little white tables, and waitresses
who looked first at her and then at him; and there was a bill that he
would pay with a real two shilling piece, and it was real, all real, he
assured himself, fingering the coin in his pocket, real to everyone
except to him and to her; even to him it began to seem real; and then?
but it was too exciting to stand and think any longer, and he pulled
the parasol out of the earth with a jerk and was impatient to find the
place where one had tea with other people, like other people.
"Come along, Trissie; it's time we had our tea."
"Wherever does one have one's tea?" she asked with the oddest
thrill of excitement in her voice, looking vaguely round and letting
herself be drawn on down the grass path, trailing her parasol, turning
her head this way and that way, forgetting her tea, wishing to go down
there and then down there, remembering orchids and cranes among wild
flowers, a Chinese pagoda and a crimson crested bird; but he bore her
Thus one couple after another with much the same irregular and
aimless movement passed the flower-bed and were enveloped in layer
after layer of green blue vapour, in which at first their bodies had
substance and a dash of colour, but later both substance and colour
dissolved in the green-blue atmosphere. How hot it was! So hot that
even the thrush chose to hop, like a mechanical bird, in the shadow of
the flowers, with long pauses between one movement and the next;
instead of rambling vaguely the white butterflies danced one above
another, making with their white shifting flakes the outline of a
shattered marble column above the tallest flowers; the glass roofs of
the palm house shone as if a whole market full of shiny green umbrellas
had opened in the sun; and in the drone of the aeroplane the voice of
the summer sky murmured its fierce soul. Yellow and black, pink and
snow white, shapes of all these colours, men, women, and children were
spotted for a second upon the horizon, and then, seeing the breadth of
yellow that lay upon the grass, they wavered and sought shade beneath
the trees, dissolving like drops of water in the yellow and green
atmosphere, staining it faintly with red and blue. It seemed as if all
gross and heavy bodies had sunk down in the heat motionless and lay
huddled upon the ground, but their voices went wavering from them as if
they were flames lolling from the thick waxen bodies of candles.
Voices. Yes, voices. Wordless voices, breaking the silence suddenly
with such depth of contentment, such passion of desire, or, in the
voices of children, such freshness of surprise; breaking the silence?
But there was no silence; all the time the motor omnibuses were
turning their wheels and changing their gear; like a vast nest of
Chinese boxes all of wrought steel turning ceaselessly one within
another the city murmured; on the top of which the voices cried aloud
and the petals of myriads of flowers flashed their colours into the
The Mark on the Wall
PERHAPS IT WAS the middle of January in the present year that I
first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it
is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the
steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three
chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must
have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I
remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the
mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of
my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and
that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came
into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up
the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark
interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made
as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the
white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a
little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then
leave it.... If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a
picture, it must have been for a miniature? the miniature of a lady
with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red
carnations. A fraud of course, for the people who had this house before
us would have chosen pictures in that way? an old picture for an old
room. That is the sort of people they were? very interesting people,
and I think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will
never see them again, never know what happened next. They wanted to
leave this house because they wanted to change their style of
furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his
opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as
one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man
about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa
as one rushes past in the train.
But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was
made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that. I might
get up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be
able to say for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows
how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; The inaccuracy of
thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of
our possessions we have? what an accidental affair this living is after
all our civilization? let me just count over a few of the things lost
in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious
of losses? what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble? three pale blue
canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the
iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the
bagatelle board, the hand organ? all gone, and jewels, too. Opals and
emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring
affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my
back, that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if
one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown
through the Tube at fifty miles an hour? landing at the other end
without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God
entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like
brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's
hair flying back like the tail of a race-horse. Yes, that seems to
express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so
casual, all so haphazard....
But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that
the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and
red light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born
here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at
the roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which
are trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such
things, that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so.
There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by
thick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, rose-shaped blots of an
indistinct colour? dim pinks and blues? which will, as time goes on,
become more definite, become? I don't know what....
And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be
caused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, left
over from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant housekeeper?
look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so
they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly
refusing annihilation, as one can believe.
The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane.... I want
to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to
have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another,
without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and
deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady
myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes....
Shakespeare.... Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat
himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so? A shower
of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his
mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through
the open door,? for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer's
evening? But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn't
interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of
thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those
are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of
modest mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike
to hear their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising
oneself; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:
"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said
how I'd seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old
house in Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reign
of Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the
First?" I asked? (but I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with
purple tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm
dressing up the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily,
not openly adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out,
and stretch my hand at once for a book in self-protection. Indeed, it
is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from
idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too
unlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very
curious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppose the
looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure
with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but
only that shell of a person which is seen by other people? what an
airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be
lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways
we are looking into the mirror; that accounts for the vagueness, the
gleam of glassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future will
realize more and more the importance of these reflections, for of
course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; those
are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they will pursue,
leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories,
taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did and Shakespeare
perhaps? but these generalizations are very worthless. The military
sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles, cabinet
ministers? a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought
the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, from which one
could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation.
Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon
walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead,
clothes, and habits? like the habit of sitting all together in one room
until a certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for
everything. The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that
they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked
upon them, such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the
corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were
not real tablecloths. How shocking, and yet how wonderful it was to
discover that these real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks,
country houses, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed
half phantoms, and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in them
was only a sense of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of
those things I wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, should
you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives,
which sets the standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of
Precedency, which has become, I suppose, since the war half a phantom
to many men and women, which soon, one may hope, will be laughed into
the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the
Landseer prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all
with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom? if freedom
In certain lights that mark on the wall seems actually to project
from the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it
seems to cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger
down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and
descend a small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the
South Downs which are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I
should prefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English
people, and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the
bones stretched beneath the turf.... There must be some book about it.
Some antiquary must have dug up those bones and given them a name....
What sort of a man is an antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the
most part, I daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to the top
here, examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into
correspondence with the neighbouring clergy, which, being opened at
breakfast time, gives them a feeling of importance, and the comparison
of arrow-heads necessitates cross-country journeys to the county towns,
an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives, who
wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason
for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual
suspension, while the Colonel himself feels agreeably philosophic in
accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he
does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being opposed,
indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting
of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and his last conscious
thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowhead
there, which is now in the case at the local museum, together with the
foot of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a great
many Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine-glass
that Nelson drank out of? proving I really don't know what.
No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get
up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is
really? what shall we say? ? the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in
two hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of
many generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of
paint, and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a
white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain? ? Knowledge? Matter
for further speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing
up. And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the
descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods
brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language
of the stars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle
and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases.... Yes, one
could imagine a very pleasant world. A quiet, spacious world, with the
flowers so red and blue in the open fields. A world without professors
or specialists or house-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world
which one could slice with one's thought as a fish slices the water
with his fin, grazing the stems of the water-lilies, hanging suspended
over nests of white sea eggs.... How peaceful it is down here, rooted
in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters, with
their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections? if it were not for
Whitaker's Almanack? if it were not for the Table of Precedency!
I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really
is? a nail, a rose-leaf, a crack in the wood?
Here is nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This
train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy,
even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a
finger against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of
Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High
Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows
somebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to
know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature
counsels, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can't be
comforted, if you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on
I understand Nature's game? her prompting to take action as a way
of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I
suppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action? men, we assume,
who don't think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's
disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.
Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I have
grasped a plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality which
at once turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the
shadows of shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus,
waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light
and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping
solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which
is a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to
be sure of.... Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a
tree; and trees grow, and we don't know how they grow. For years and
years they grow, without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in
forests, and by the side of rivers? all things one likes to think
about. The cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they
paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to see its
feathers all green when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish
balanced against the stream like flags blown out; and of water-beetles
slowly raising domes of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think
of the tree itself: first the close dry sensation of being wood; then
the grinding of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like
to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field
with all leaves close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron
bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling,
tumbling, all night long. The song of birds must sound very loud and
strange in June; and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it, as
they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark, or sun
themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves, and look straight
in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes.... One by one the fibres
snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last
storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the
ground again. Even so, life isn't done with; there are a million
patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in
bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women
sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts,
happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take each one separately?
but something is getting in the way.... Where was I? What has it all
been about? A tree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker's Almanack? The
fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's moving,
falling, slipping, vanishing.... There is a vast upheaval of matter.
Someone is standing over me and saying?
"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."
"Though it's no good buying newspapers.... Nothing ever happens.
Curse this war; God damn this war!... All the same, I don't see why we
should have a snail on our wall."
Ah, the mark on the wall! It was a snail.