Jacob's Room
by
Virginia Woolf




CHAPTER ONE


"So of course," wrote Betty Flanders, pressing her heels rather deeper
in the sand, "there was nothing for it but to leave."

Slowly welling from the point of her gold nib, pale blue ink dissolved
the full stop; for there her pen stuck; her eyes fixed, and tears slowly
filled them. The entire bay quivered; the lighthouse wobbled; and she
had the illusion that the mast of Mr. Connor's little yacht was bending
like a wax candle in the sun. She winked quickly. Accidents were awful
things. She winked again. The mast was straight; the waves were regular;
the lighthouse was upright; but the blot had spread.

"...nothing for it but to leave," she read.

"Well, if Jacob doesn't want to play" (the shadow of Archer, her eldest
son, fell across the notepaper and looked blue on the sand, and she felt
chilly--it was the third of September already), "if Jacob doesn't want
to play"--what a horrid blot! It must be getting late.

"Where IS that tiresome little boy?" she said. "I don't see him. Run and
find him. Tell him to come at once." "...but mercifully," she scribbled,
ignoring the full stop, "everything seems satisfactorily arranged,
packed though we are like herrings in a barrel, and forced to stand the
perambulator which the landlady quite naturally won't allow...."

Such were Betty Flanders's letters to Captain Barfoot--many-paged, tear-
stained. Scarborough is seven hundred miles from Cornwall: Captain
Barfoot is in Scarborough: Seabrook is dead. Tears made all the dahlias
in her garden undulate in red waves and flashed the glass house in her
eyes, and spangled the kitchen with bright knives, and made Mrs. Jarvis,
the rector's wife, think at church, while the hymn-tune played and Mrs.
Flanders bent low over her little boys' heads, that marriage is a
fortress and widows stray solitary in the open fields, picking up
stones, gleaning a few golden straws, lonely, unprotected, poor
creatures. Mrs. Flanders had been a widow for these two years.

"Ja--cob! Ja--cob!" Archer shouted.

"Scarborough," Mrs. Flanders wrote on the envelope, and dashed a bold
line beneath; it was her native town; the hub of the universe. But a
stamp? She ferreted in her bag; then held it up mouth downwards; then
fumbled in her lap, all so vigorously that Charles Steele in the Panama
hat suspended his paint-brush.

Like the antennae of some irritable insect it positively trembled. Here
was that woman moving--actually going to get up--confound her! He struck
the canvas a hasty violet-black dab. For the landscape needed it. It was
too pale--greys flowing into lavenders, and one star or a white gull
suspended just so--too pale as usual. The critics would say it was too
pale, for he was an unknown man exhibiting obscurely, a favourite with
his landladies' children, wearing a cross on his watch chain, and much
gratified if his landladies liked his pictures--which they often did.

"Ja--cob! Ja--cob!" Archer shouted.

Exasperated by the noise, yet loving children, Steele picked nervously
at the dark little coils on his palette.

"I saw your brother--I saw your brother," he said, nodding his head, as
Archer lagged past him, trailing his spade, and scowling at the old
gentleman in spectacles.

"Over there--by the rock," Steele muttered, with his brush between his
teeth, squeezing out raw sienna, and keeping his eyes fixed on Betty
Flanders's back.

"Ja--cob! Ja--cob!" shouted Archer, lagging on after a second.

The voice had an extraordinary sadness. Pure from all body, pure from
all passion, going out into the world, solitary, unanswered, breaking
against rocks--so it sounded.

Steele frowned; but was pleased by the effect of the black--it was just
THAT note which brought the rest together. "Ah, one may learn to paint
at fifty! There's Titian..." and so, having found the right tint, up he
looked and saw to his horror a cloud over the bay.

Mrs. Flanders rose, slapped her coat this side and that to get the sand
off, and picked up her black parasol.

The rock was one of those tremendously solid brown, or rather black,
rocks which emerge from the sand like something primitive. Rough with
crinkled limpet shells and sparsely strewn with locks of dry seaweed, a
small boy has to stretch his legs far apart, and indeed to feel rather
heroic, before he gets to the top.

But there, on the very top, is a hollow full of water, with a sandy
bottom; with a blob of jelly stuck to the side, and some mussels. A fish
darts across. The fringe of yellow-brown seaweed flutters, and out
pushes an opal-shelled crab--

"Oh, a huge crab," Jacob murmured--and begins his journey on weakly legs
on the sandy bottom. Now! Jacob plunged his hand. The crab was cool and
very light. But the water was thick with sand, and so, scrambling down,
Jacob was about to jump, holding his bucket in front of him, when he
saw, stretched entirely rigid, side by side, their faces very red, an
enormous man and woman.

An enormous man and woman (it was early-closing day) were stretched
motionless, with their heads on pocket-handkerchiefs, side by side,
within a few feet of the sea, while two or three gulls gracefully
skirted the incoming waves, and settled near their boots.

The large red faces lying on the bandanna handkerchiefs stared up at
Jacob. Jacob stared down at them. Holding his bucket very carefully,
Jacob then jumped deliberately and trotted away very nonchalantly at
first, but faster and faster as the waves came creaming up to him and he
had to swerve to avoid them, and the gulls rose in front of him and
floated out and settled again a little farther on. A large black woman
was sitting on the sand. He ran towards her.

"Nanny! Nanny!" he cried, sobbing the words out on the crest of each
gasping breath.

The waves came round her. She was a rock. She was covered with the
seaweed which pops when it is pressed. He was lost.

There he stood. His face composed itself. He was about to roar when,
lying among the black sticks and straw under the cliff, he saw a whole
skull--perhaps a cow's skull, a skull, perhaps, with the teeth in it.
Sobbing, but absent-mindedly, he ran farther and farther away until he
held the skull in his arms.

"There he is!" cried Mrs. Flanders, coming round the rock and covering
the whole space of the beach in a few seconds. "What has he got hold of?
Put it down, Jacob! Drop it this moment! Something horrid, I know. Why
didn't you stay with us? Naughty little boy! Now put it down. Now come
along both of you," and she swept round, holding Archer by one hand and
fumbling for Jacob's arm with the other. But he ducked down and picked
up the sheep's jaw, which was loose.

Swinging her bag, clutching her parasol, holding Archer's hand, and
telling the story of the gunpowder explosion in which poor Mr. Curnow
had lost his eye, Mrs. Flanders hurried up the steep lane, aware all the
time in the depths of her mind of some buried discomfort.

There on the sand not far from the lovers lay the old sheep's skull
without its jaw. Clean, white, wind-swept, sand-rubbed, a more
unpolluted piece of bone existed nowhere on the coast of Cornwall. The
sea holly would grow through the eye-sockets; it would turn to powder,
or some golfer, hitting his ball one fine day, would disperse a little
dust--No, but not in lodgings, thought Mrs. Flanders. It's a great
experiment coming so far with young children. There's no man to help
with the perambulator. And Jacob is such a handful; so obstinate
already.

"Throw it away, dear, do," she said, as they got into the road; but
Jacob squirmed away from her; and the wind rising, she took out her
bonnet-pin, looked at the sea, and stuck it in afresh. The wind was
rising. The waves showed that uneasiness, like something alive, restive,
expecting the whip, of waves before a storm. The fishing-boats were
leaning to the water's brim. A pale yellow light shot across the purple
sea; and shut. The lighthouse was lit. "Come along," said Betty
Flanders. The sun blazed in their faces and gilded the great
blackberries trembling out from the hedge which Archer tried to strip as
they passed.

"Don't lag, boys. You've got nothing to change into," said Betty,
pulling them along, and looking with uneasy emotion at the earth
displayed so luridly, with sudden sparks of light from greenhouses in
gardens, with a sort of yellow and black mutability, against this
blazing sunset, this astonishing agitation and vitality of colour, which
stirred Betty Flanders and made her think of responsibility and danger.
She gripped Archer's hand. On she plodded up the hill.

"What did I ask you to remember?" she said.

"I don't know," said Archer.

"Well, I don't know either," said Betty, humorously and simply, and who
shall deny that this blankness of mind, when combined with profusion,
mother wit, old wives' tales, haphazard ways, moments of astonishing
daring, humour, and sentimentality--who shall deny that in these
respects every woman is nicer than any man?

Well, Betty Flanders, to begin with.

She had her hand upon the garden gate.

"The meat!" she exclaimed, striking the latch down.

She had forgotten the meat.

There was Rebecca at the window.

The bareness of Mrs. Pearce's front room was fully displayed at ten
o'clock at night when a powerful oil lamp stood on the middle of the
table. The harsh light fell on the garden; cut straight across the lawn;
lit up a child's bucket and a purple aster and reached the hedge. Mrs.
Flanders had left her sewing on the table. There were her large reels of
white cotton and her steel spectacles; her needle-case; her brown wool
wound round an old postcard. There were the bulrushes and the Strand
magazines; and the linoleum sandy from the boys' boots. A daddy-long-
legs shot from corner to corner and hit the lamp globe. The wind blew
straight dashes of rain across the window, which flashed silver as they
passed through the light. A single leaf tapped hurriedly, persistently,
upon the glass. There was a hurricane out at sea.

Archer could not sleep.

Mrs. Flanders stooped over him. "Think of the fairies," said Betty
Flanders. "Think of the lovely, lovely birds settling down on their
nests. Now shut your eyes and see the old mother bird with a worm in her
beak. Now turn and shut your eyes," she murmured, "and shut your eyes."

The lodging-house seemed full of gurgling and rushing; the cistern
overflowing; water bubbling and squeaking and running along the pipes
and streaming down the windows.

"What's all that water rushing in?" murmured Archer.

"It's only the bath water running away," said Mrs. Flanders.

Something snapped out of doors.

"I say, won't that steamer sink?" said Archer, opening his eyes.

"Of course it won't," said Mrs. Flanders. "The Captain's in bed long
ago. Shut your eyes, and think of the fairies, fast asleep, under the
flowers."

"I thought he'd never get off--such a hurricane," she whispered to
Rebecca, who was bending over a spirit-lamp in the small room next door.
The wind rushed outside, but the small flame of the spirit-lamp burnt
quietly, shaded from the cot by a book stood on edge.

"Did he take his bottle well?" Mrs. Flanders whispered, and Rebecca
nodded and went to the cot and turned down the quilt, and Mrs. Flanders
bent over and looked anxiously at the baby, asleep, but frowning. The
window shook, and Rebecca stole like a cat and wedged it.

The two women murmured over the spirit-lamp, plotting the eternal
conspiracy of hush and clean bottles while the wind raged and gave a
sudden wrench at the cheap fastenings.

Both looked round at the cot. Their lips were pursed. Mrs. Flanders
crossed over to the cot.

"Asleep?" whispered Rebecca, looking at the cot.

Mrs. Flanders nodded.

"Good-night, Rebecca," Mrs. Flanders murmured, and Rebecca called her
ma'm, though they were conspirators plotting the eternal conspiracy of
hush and clean bottles.

Mrs. Flanders had left the lamp burning in the front room. There were
her spectacles, her sewing; and a letter with the Scarborough postmark.
She had not drawn the curtains either.

The light blazed out across the patch of grass; fell on the child's
green bucket with the gold line round it, and upon the aster which
trembled violently beside it. For the wind was tearing across the coast,
hurling itself at the hills, and leaping, in sudden gusts, on top of its
own back. How it spread over the town in the hollow! How the lights
seemed to wink and quiver in its fury, lights in the harbour, lights in
bedroom windows high up! And rolling dark waves before it, it raced over
the Atlantic, jerking the stars above the ships this way and that.

There was a click in the front sitting-room. Mr. Pearce had extinguished
the lamp. The garden went out. It was but a dark patch. Every inch was
rained upon. Every blade of grass was bent by rain. Eyelids would have
been fastened down by the rain. Lying on one's back one would have seen
nothing but muddle and confusion--clouds turning and turning, and
something yellow-tinted and sulphurous in the darkness.

The little boys in the front bedroom had thrown off their blankets and
lay under the sheets. It was hot; rather sticky and steamy. Archer lay
spread out, with one arm striking across the pillow. He was flushed; and
when the heavy curtain blew out a little he turned and half-opened his
eyes. The wind actually stirred the cloth on the chest of drawers, and
let in a little light, so that the sharp edge of the chest of drawers
was visible, running straight up, until a white shape bulged out; and a
silver streak showed in the looking-glass.

In the other bed by the door Jacob lay asleep, fast asleep, profoundly
unconscious. The sheep's jaw with the big yellow teeth in it lay at his
feet. He had kicked it against the iron bed-rail.

Outside the rain poured down more directly and powerfully as the wind
fell in the early hours of the morning. The aster was beaten to the
earth. The child's bucket was half-full of rainwater; and the opal-
shelled crab slowly circled round the bottom, trying with its weakly
legs to climb the steep side; trying again and falling back, and trying
again and again.




CHAPTER TWO


"MRS. FLANDERS"--"Poor Betty Flanders"--"Dear Betty"--"She's very
attractive still"--"Odd she don't marry again!" "There's Captain Barfoot
to be sure--calls every Wednesday as regular as clockwork, and never
brings his wife."

"But that's Ellen Barfoot's fault," the ladies of Scarborough said. "She
don't put herself out for no one."

"A man likes to have a son--that we know."

"Some tumours have to be cut; but the sort my mother had you bear with
for years and years, and never even have a cup of tea brought up to you
in bed."

(Mrs. Barfoot was an invalid.)

Elizabeth Flanders, of whom this and much more than this had been said
and would be said, was, of course, a widow in her prime. She was half-
way between forty and fifty. Years and sorrow between them; the death of
Seabrook, her husband; three boys; poverty; a house on the outskirts of
Scarborough; her brother, poor Morty's, downfall and possible demise--
for where was he? what was he? Shading her eyes, she looked along the
road for Captain Barfoot--yes, there he was, punctual as ever; the
attentions of the Captain--all ripened Betty Flanders, enlarged her
figure, tinged her face with jollity, and flooded her eyes for no reason
that any one could see perhaps three times a day.

True, there's no harm in crying for one's husband, and the tombstone,
though plain, was a solid piece of work, and on summer's days when the
widow brought her boys to stand there one felt kindly towards her. Hats
were raised higher than usual; wives tugged their husbands' arms.
Seabrook lay six foot beneath, dead these many years; enclosed in three
shells; the crevices sealed with lead, so that, had earth and wood been
glass, doubtless his very face lay visible beneath, the face of a young
man whiskered, shapely, who had gone out duck-shooting and refused to
change his boots.

"Merchant of this city," the tombstone said; though why Betty Flanders
had chosen so to call him when, as many still remembered, he had only
sat behind an office window for three months, and before that had broken
horses, ridden to hounds, farmed a few fields, and run a little wild--
well, she had to call him something. An example for the boys.

Had he, then, been nothing? An unanswerable question, since even if it
weren't the habit of the undertaker to close the eyes, the light so soon
goes out of them. At first, part of herself; now one of a company, he
had merged in the grass, the sloping hillside, the thousand white
stones, some slanting, others upright, the decayed wreaths, the crosses
of green tin, the narrow yellow paths, and the lilacs that drooped in
April, with a scent like that of an invalid's bedroom, over the
churchyard wall. Seabrook was now all that; and when, with her skirt
hitched up, feeding the chickens, she heard the bell for service or
funeral, that was Seabrook's voice--the voice of the dead.

The rooster had been known to fly on her shoulder and peck her neck, so
that now she carried a stick or took one of the children with her when
she went to feed the fowls.

"Wouldn't you like my knife, mother?" said Archer.

Sounding at the same moment as the bell, her son's voice mixed life and
death inextricably, exhilaratingly.

"What a big knife for a small boy!" she said. She took it to please him.
Then the rooster flew out of the hen-house, and, shouting to Archer to
shut the door into the kitchen garden, Mrs. Flanders set her meal down,
clucked for the hens, went bustling about the orchard, and was seen from
over the way by Mrs. Cranch, who, beating her mat against the wall, held
it for a moment suspended while she observed to Mrs. Page next door that
Mrs. Flanders was in the orchard with the chickens.

Mrs. Page, Mrs. Cranch, and Mrs. Garfit could see Mrs. Flanders in the
orchard because the orchard was a piece of Dods Hill enclosed; and Dods
Hill dominated the village. No words can exaggerate the importance of
Dods Hill. It was the earth; the world against the sky; the horizon of
how many glances can best be computed by those who have lived all their
lives in the same village, only leaving it once to fight in the Crimea,
like old George Garfit, leaning over his garden gate smoking his pipe.
The progress of the sun was measured by it; the tint of the day laid
against it to be judged.

"Now she's going up the hill with little John," said Mrs. Cranch to Mrs.
Garfit, shaking her mat for the last time, and bustling indoors. Opening
the orchard gate, Mrs. Flanders walked to the top of Dods Hill, holding
John by the hand. Archer and Jacob ran in front or lagged behind; but
they were in the Roman fortress when she came there, and shouting out
what ships were to be seen in the bay. For there was a magnificent view
--moors behind, sea in front, and the whole of Scarborough from one end
to the other laid out flat like a puzzle. Mrs. Flanders, who was growing
stout, sat down in the fortress and looked about her.

The entire gamut of the view's changes should have been known to her;
its winter aspect, spring, summer and autumn; how storms came up from
the sea; how the moors shuddered and brightened as the clouds went over;
she should have noted the red spot where the villas were building; and
the criss-cross of lines where the allotments were cut; and the diamond
flash of little glass houses in the sun. Or, if details like these
escaped her, she might have let her fancy play upon the gold tint of the
sea at sunset, and thought how it lapped in coins of gold upon the
shingle. Little pleasure boats shoved out into it; the black arm of the
pier hoarded it up. The whole city was pink and gold; domed; mist-
wreathed; resonant; strident. Banjoes strummed; the parade smelt of tar
which stuck to the heels; goats suddenly cantered their carriages
through crowds. It was observed how well the Corporation had laid out
the flower-beds. Sometimes a straw hat was blown away. Tulips burnt in
the sun. Numbers of sponge-bag trousers were stretched in rows. Purple
bonnets fringed soft, pink, querulous faces on pillows in bath chairs.
Triangular hoardings were wheeled along by men in white coats. Captain
George Boase had caught a monster shark. One side of the triangular
hoarding said so in red, blue, and yellow letters; and each line ended
with three differently coloured notes of exclamation.

So that was a reason for going down into the Aquarium, where the sallow
blinds, the stale smell of spirits of salt, the bamboo chairs, the
tables with ash-trays, the revolving fish, the attendant knitting behind
six or seven chocolate boxes (often she was quite alone with the fish
for hours at a time) remained in the mind as part of the monster shark,
he himself being only a flabby yellow receptacle, like an empty
Gladstone bag in a tank. No one had ever been cheered by the Aquarium;
but the faces of those emerging quickly lost their dim, chilled
expression when they perceived that it was only by standing in a queue
that one could be admitted to the pier. Once through the turnstiles,
every one walked for a yard or two very briskly; some flagged at this
stall; others at that.

But it was the band that drew them all to it finally; even the fishermen
on the lower pier taking up their pitch within its range.

The band played in the Moorish kiosk. Number nine went up on the board.
It was a waltz tune. The pale girls, the old widow lady, the three Jews
lodging in the same boarding-house, the dandy, the major, the horse-
dealer, and the gentleman of independent means, all wore the same
blurred, drugged expression, and through the chinks in the planks at
their feet they could see the green summer waves, peacefully, amiably,
swaying round the iron pillars of the pier.

But there was a time when none of this had any existence (thought the
young man leaning against the railings). Fix your eyes upon the lady's
skirt; the grey one will do--above the pink silk stockings. It changes;
drapes her ankles--the nineties; then it amplifies--the seventies; now
it's burnished red and stretched above a crinoline--the sixties; a tiny
black foot wearing a white cotton stocking peeps out. Still sitting
there? Yes--she's still on the pier. The silk now is sprigged with
roses, but somehow one no longer sees so clearly. There's no pier
beneath us. The heavy chariot may swing along the turnpike road, but
there's no pier for it to stop at, and how grey and turbulent the sea is
in the seventeenth century! Let's to the museum. Cannon-balls; arrow-
heads; Roman glass and a forceps green with verdigris. The Rev. Jaspar
Floyd dug them up at his own expense early in the forties in the Roman
camp on Dods Hill--see the little ticket with the faded writing on it.

And now, what's the next thing to see in Scarborough?

 Mrs. Flanders sat on the raised circle of the Roman camp, patching
Jacob's breeches; only looking up as she sucked the end of her cotton,
or when some insect dashed at her, boomed in her ear, and was gone.

John kept trotting up and slapping down in her lap grass or dead leaves
which he called "tea," and she arranged them methodically but absent-
mindedly, laying the flowery heads of the grasses together, thinking how
Archer had been awake again last night; the church clock was ten or
thirteen minutes fast; she wished she could buy Garfit's acre.

 "That's an orchid leaf, Johnny. Look at the little brown spots. Come,
my dear. We must go home. Ar-cher! Ja-cob!"

"Ar-cher! Ja-cob!" Johnny piped after her, pivoting round on his heel,
and strewing the grass and leaves in his hands as if he were sowing
seed. Archer and Jacob jumped up from behind the mound where they had
been crouching with the intention of springing upon their mother
unexpectedly, and they all began to walk slowly home.

"Who is that?" said Mrs. Flanders, shading her eyes.

"That old man in the road?" said Archer, looking below.

"He's not an old man," said Mrs. Flanders. "He's--no, he's not--I
thought it was the Captain, but it's Mr. Floyd. Come along, boys."

"Oh, bother Mr. Floyd!" said Jacob, switching off a thistle's head, for
he knew already that Mr. Floyd was going to teach them Latin, as indeed
he did for three years in his spare time, out of kindness, for there was
no other gentleman in the neighbourhood whom Mrs. Flanders could have
asked to do such a thing, and the elder boys were getting beyond her,
and must be got ready for school, and it was more than most clergymen
would have done, coming round after tea, or having them in his own room
--as he could fit it in--for the parish was a very large one, and Mr.
Floyd, like his father before him, visited cottages miles away on the
moors, and, like old Mr. Floyd, was a great scholar, which made it so
unlikely--she had never dreamt of such a thing. Ought she to have
guessed? But let alone being a scholar he was eight years younger than
she was. She knew his mother--old Mrs. Floyd. She had tea there. And it
was that very evening when she came back from having tea with old Mrs.
Floyd that she found the note in the hall and took it into the kitchen
with her when she went to give Rebecca the fish, thinking it must be
something about the boys.

"Mr. Floyd brought it himself, did he?--I think the cheese must be in
the parcel in the hall--oh, in the hall--" for she was reading. No, it
was not about the boys.

"Yes, enough for fish-cakes to-morrow certainly--Perhaps Captain
Barfoot--" she had come to the word "love." She went into the garden and
read, leaning against the walnut tree to steady herself. Up and down
went her breast. Seabrook came so vividly before her. She shook her head
and was looking through her tears at the little shifting leaves against
the yellow sky when three geese, half-running, half-flying, scuttled
across the lawn with Johnny behind them, brandishing a stick.

Mrs. Flanders flushed with anger.

"How many times have I told you?" she cried, and seized him and snatched
his stick away from him.

"But they'd escaped!" he cried, struggling to get free.

"You're a very naughty boy. If I've told you once, I've told you a
thousand times. I won't have you chasing the geese!" she said, and
crumpling Mr. Floyd's letter in her hand, she held Johnny fast and
herded the geese back into the orchard.

"How could I think of marriage!" she said to herself bitterly, as she
fastened the gate with a piece of wire. She had always disliked red hair
in men, she thought, thinking of Mr. Floyd's appearance, that night when
the boys had gone to bed. And pushing her work-box away, she drew the
blotting-paper towards her, and read Mr. Floyd's letter again, and her
breast went up and down when she came to the word "love," but not so
fast this time, for she saw Johnny chasing the geese, and knew that it
was impossible for her to marry any one--let alone Mr. Floyd, who was so
much younger than she was, but what a nice man--and such a scholar too.

"Dear Mr. Floyd," she wrote.--"Did I forget about the cheese?" she
wondered, laying down her pen. No, she had told Rebecca that the cheese
was in the hall. "I am much surprised..." she wrote.

But the letter which Mr. Floyd found on the table when he got up early
next morning did not begin "I am much surprised," and it was such a
motherly, respectful, inconsequent, regretful letter that he kept it for
many years; long after his marriage with Miss Wimbush, of Andover; long
after he had left the village. For he asked for a parish in Sheffield,
which was given him; and, sending for Archer, Jacob, and John to say
good-bye, he told them to choose whatever they liked in his study to
remember him by. Archer chose a paper-knife, because he did not like to
choose anything too good; Jacob chose the works of Byron in one volume;
John, who was still too young to make a proper choice, chose Mr. Floyd's
kitten, which his brothers thought an absurd choice, but Mr. Floyd
upheld him when he said: "It has fur like you." Then Mr. Floyd spoke
about the King's Navy (to which Archer was going); and about Rugby (to
which Jacob was going); and next day he received a silver salver and
went--first to Sheffield, where he met Miss Wimbush, who was on a visit
to her uncle, then to Hackney--then to Maresfield House, of which he
became the principal, and finally, becoming editor of a well-known
series of Ecclesiastical Biographies, he retired to Hampstead with his
wife and daughter, and is often to be seen feeding the ducks on Leg of
Mutton Pond. As for Mrs. Flanders's letter--when he looked for it the
other day he could not find it, and did not like to ask his wife whether
she had put it away. Meeting Jacob in Piccadilly lately, he recognized
him after three seconds. But Jacob had grown such a fine young man that
Mr. Floyd did not like to stop him in the street.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Flanders, when she read in the Scarborough and
Harrogate Courier that the Rev. Andrew Floyd, etc., etc., had been made
Principal of Maresfield House, "that must be our Mr. Floyd."

A slight gloom fell upon the table. Jacob was helping himself to jam;
the postman was talking to Rebecca in the kitchen; there was a bee
humming at the yellow flower which nodded at the open window. They were
all alive, that is to say, while poor Mr. Floyd was becoming Principal
of Maresfield House.

Mrs. Flanders got up and went over to the fender and stroked Topaz on
the neck behind the ears.

"Poor Topaz," she said (for Mr. Floyd's kitten was now a very old cat, a
little mangy behind the ears, and one of these days would have to be
killed).

"Poor old Topaz," said Mrs. Flanders, as he stretched himself out in the
sun, and she smiled, thinking how she had had him gelded, and how she
did not like red hair in men. Smiling, she went into the kitchen.

Jacob drew rather a dirty pocket-handkerchief across his face. He went
upstairs to his room.

The stag-beetle dies slowly (it was John who collected the beetles).
Even on the second day its legs were supple. But the butterflies were
dead. A whiff of rotten eggs had vanquished the pale clouded yellows
which came pelting across the orchard and up Dods Hill and away on to
the moor, now lost behind a furze bush, then off again helter-skelter in
a broiling sun. A fritillary basked on a white stone in the Roman camp.
From the valley came the sound of church bells. They were all eating
roast beef in Scarborough; for it was Sunday when Jacob caught the pale
clouded yellows in the clover field, eight miles from home.

Rebecca had caught the death's-head moth in the kitchen.

A strong smell of camphor came from the butterfly boxes.

Mixed with the smell of camphor was the unmistakable smell of seaweed.
Tawny ribbons hung on the door. The sun beat straight upon them.

The upper wings of the moth which Jacob held were undoubtedly marked
with kidney-shaped spots of a fulvous hue. But there was no crescent
upon the underwing. The tree had fallen the night he caught it. There
had been a volley of pistol-shots suddenly in the depths of the wood.
And his mother had taken him for a burglar when he came home late. The
only one of her sons who never obeyed her, she said.

Morris called it "an extremely local insect found in damp or marshy
places." But Morris is sometimes wrong. Sometimes Jacob, choosing a very
fine pen, made a correction in the margin.

The tree had fallen, though it was a windless night, and the lantern,
stood upon the ground, had lit up the still green leaves and the dead
beech leaves. It was a dry place. A toad was there. And the red
underwing had circled round the light and flashed and gone. The red
underwing had never come back, though Jacob had waited. It was after
twelve when he crossed the lawn and saw his mother in the bright room,
playing patience, sitting up.

"How you frightened me!" she had cried. She thought something dreadful
had happened. And he woke Rebecca, who had to be up so early.

There he stood pale, come out of the depths of darkness, in the hot
room, blinking at the light.

No, it could not be a straw-bordered underwing.

The mowing-machine always wanted oiling. Barnet turned it under Jacob's
window, and it creaked--creaked, and rattled across the lawn and creaked
again.

Now it was clouding over.

Back came the sun, dazzlingly.

It fell like an eye upon the stirrups, and then suddenly and yet very
gently rested upon the bed, upon the alarum clock, and upon the
butterfly box stood open. The pale clouded yellows had pelted over the
moor; they had zigzagged across the purple clover. The fritillaries
flaunted along the hedgerows. The blues settled on little bones lying on
the turf with the sun beating on them, and the painted ladies and the
peacocks feasted upon bloody entrails dropped by a hawk. Miles away from
home, in a hollow among teasles beneath a ruin, he had found the commas.
He had seen a white admiral circling higher and higher round an oak
tree, but he had never caught it. An old cottage woman living alone,
high up, had told him of a purple butterfly which came every summer to
her garden. The fox cubs played in the gorse in the early morning, she
told him. And if you looked out at dawn you could always see two
badgers. Sometimes they knocked each other over like two boys fighting,
she said.

"You won't go far this afternoon, Jacob," said his mother, popping her
head in at the door, "for the Captain's coming to say good-bye." It was
the last day of the Easter holidays.

Wednesday was Captain Barfoot's day. He dressed himself very neatly in
blue serge, took his rubber-shod stick--for he was lame and wanted two
fingers on the left hand, having served his country--and set out from
the house with the flagstaff precisely at four o'clock in the afternoon.

At three Mr. Dickens, the bath-chair man, had called for Mrs. Barfoot.

"Move me," she would say to Mr. Dickens, after sitting on the esplanade
for fifteen minutes. And again, "That'll do, thank you, Mr. Dickens." At
the first command he would seek the sun; at the second he would stay the
chair there in the bright strip.

An old inhabitant himself, he had much in common with Mrs. Barfoot--
James Coppard's daughter. The drinking-fountain, where West Street joins
Broad Street, is the gift of James Coppard, who was mayor at the time of
Queen Victoria's jubilee, and Coppard is painted upon municipal
watering-carts and over shop windows, and upon the zinc blinds of
solicitors' consulting-room windows. But Ellen Barfoot never visited the
Aquarium (though she had known Captain Boase who had caught the shark
quite well), and when the men came by with the posters she eyed them
superciliously, for she knew that she would never see the Pierrots, or
the brothers Zeno, or Daisy Budd and her troupe of performing seals. For
Ellen Barfoot in her bath-chair on the esplanade was a prisoner--
civilization's prisoner--all the bars of her cage falling across the
esplanade on sunny days when the town hall, the drapery stores, the
swimming-bath, and the memorial hall striped the ground with shadow.

An old inhabitant himself, Mr. Dickens would stand a little behind her,
smoking his pipe. She would ask him questions--who people were--who now
kept Mr. Jones's shop--then about the season--and had Mrs. Dickens
tried, whatever it might be--the words issuing from her lips like crumbs
of dry biscuit.

She closed her eyes. Mr. Dickens took a turn. The feelings of a man had
not altogether deserted him, though as you saw him coming towards you,
you noticed how one knobbed black boot swung tremulously in front of the
other; how there was a shadow between his waistcoat and his trousers;
how he leant forward unsteadily, like an old horse who finds himself
suddenly out of the shafts drawing no cart. But as Mr. Dickens sucked in
the smoke and puffed it out again, the feelings of a man were
perceptible in his eyes. He was thinking how Captain Barfoot was now on
his way to Mount Pleasant; Captain Barfoot, his master. For at home in
the little sitting-room above the mews, with the canary in the window,
and the girls at the sewing-machine, and Mrs. Dickens huddled up with
the rheumatics--at home where he was made little of, the thought of
being in the employ of Captain Barfoot supported him. He liked to think
that while he chatted with Mrs. Barfoot on the front, he helped the
Captain on his way to Mrs. Flanders. He, a man, was in charge of Mrs.
Barfoot, a woman.

Turning, he saw that she was chatting with Mrs. Rogers. Turning again,
he saw that Mrs. Rogers had moved on. So he came back to the bath-chair,
and Mrs. Barfoot asked him the time, and he took out his great silver
watch and told her the time very obligingly, as if he knew a great deal
more about the time and everything than she did. But Mrs. Barfoot knew
that Captain Barfoot was on his way to Mrs. Flanders.

Indeed he was well on his way there, having left the tram, and seeing
Dods Hill to the south-east, green against a blue sky that was suffused
with dust colour on the horizon. He was marching up the hill. In spite
of his lameness there was something military in his approach. Mrs.
Jarvis, as she came out of the Rectory gate, saw him coming, and her
Newfoundland dog, Nero, slowly swept his tail from side to side.

"Oh, Captain Barfoot!" Mrs. Jarvis exclaimed.

"Good-day, Mrs. Jarvis," said the Captain.

They walked on together, and when they reached Mrs. Flanders's gate
Captain Barfoot took off his tweed cap, and said, bowing very
courteously:

"Good-day to you, Mrs. Jarvis."

And Mrs. Jarvis walked on alone.

She was going to walk on the moor. Had she again been pacing her lawn
late at night? Had she again tapped on the study window and cried: "Look
at the moon, look at the moon, Herbert!"

And Herbert looked at the moon.

Mrs. Jarvis walked on the moor when she was unhappy, going as far as a
certain saucer-shaped hollow, though she always meant to go to a more
distant ridge; and there she sat down, and took out the little book
hidden beneath her cloak and read a few lines of poetry, and looked
about her. She was not very unhappy, and, seeing that she was forty-
five, never perhaps would be very unhappy, desperately unhappy that is,
and leave her husband, and ruin a good man's career, as she sometimes
threatened.

Still there is no need to say what risks a clergyman's wife runs when
she walks on the moor. Short, dark, with kindling eyes, a pheasant's
feather in her hat, Mrs. Jarvis was just the sort of woman to lose her
faith upon the moors--to confound her God with the universal that is--
but she did not lose her faith, did not leave her husband, never read
her poem through, and went on walking the moors, looking at the moon
behind the elm trees, and feeling as she sat on the grass high above
Scarborough... Yes, yes, when the lark soars; when the sheep, moving a
step or two onwards, crop the turf, and at the same time set their bells
tinkling; when the breeze first blows, then dies down, leaving the cheek
kissed; when the ships on the sea below seem to cross each other and
pass on as if drawn by an invisible hand; when there are distant
concussions in the air and phantom horsemen galloping, ceasing; when the
horizon swims blue, green, emotional--then Mrs. Jarvis, heaving a sigh,
thinks to herself, "If only some one could give me... if I could give
some one...." But she does not know what she wants to give, nor who
could give it her.

"Mrs. Flanders stepped out only five minutes ago, Captain," said
Rebecca. Captain Barfoot sat him down in the arm-chair to wait. Resting
his elbows on the arms, putting one hand over the other, sticking his
lame leg straight out, and placing the stick with the rubber ferrule
beside it, he sat perfectly still. There was something rigid about him.
Did he think? Probably the same thoughts again and again. But were they
"nice" thoughts, interesting thoughts? He was a man with a temper;
tenacious, faithful. Women would have felt, "Here is law. Here is order.
Therefore we must cherish this man. He is on the Bridge at night," and,
handing him his cup, or whatever it might be, would run on to visions of
shipwreck and disaster, in which all the passengers come tumbling from
their cabins, and there is the captain, buttoned in his pea-jacket,
matched with the storm, vanquished by it but by none other. "Yet I have
a soul," Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her, as Captain Barfoot suddenly blew
his nose in a great red bandanna handkerchief, "and it's the man's
stupidity that's the cause of this, and the storm's my storm as well as
his"... so Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her when the Captain dropped in to
see them and found Herbert out, and spent two or three hours, almost
silent, sitting in the arm-chair. But Betty Flanders thought nothing of
the kind.

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

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

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

"Well," he said at length, "I've heard from Mr. Polegate."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER THREE


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

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

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

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

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

"Who..." said the lady, meeting her son; but as there was a great crowd
on the platform and Jacob had already gone, she did not finish her
sentence. As this was Cambridge, as she was staying there for the week-
end, as she saw nothing but young men all day long, in streets and round
tables, this sight of her fellow-traveller was completely lost in her
mind, as the crooked pin dropped by a child into the wishing-well twirls
in the water and disappears for ever.

They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked,
exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought, and no doubt if you
are of a mystical tendency, consolation, and even explanation, shower
down from the unbroken surface. But above Cambridge--anyhow above the
roof of King's College Chapel--there is a difference. Out at sea a great
city will cast a brightness into the night. Is it fanciful to suppose
the sky, washed into the crevices of King's College Chapel, lighter,
thinner, more sparkling than the sky elsewhere? Does Cambridge burn not
only into the night, but into the day?

Look, as they pass into service, how airily the gowns blow out, as
though nothing dense and corporeal were within. What sculptured faces,
what certainty, authority controlled by piety, although great boots
march under the gowns. In what orderly procession they advance. Thick
wax candles stand upright; young men rise in white gowns; while the
subservient eagle bears up for inspection the great white book.

An inclined plane of light comes accurately through each window, purple
and yellow even in its most diffused dust, while, where it breaks upon
stone, that stone is softly chalked red, yellow, and purple. Neither
snow nor greenery, winter nor summer, has power over the old stained
glass. As the sides of a lantern protect the flame so that it burns
steady even in the wildest night--burns steady and gravely illumines the
tree-trunks--so inside the Chapel all was orderly. Gravely sounded the
voices; wisely the organ replied, as if buttressing human faith with the
assent of the elements. The white-robed figures crossed from side to
side; now mounted steps, now descended, all very orderly.

... If you stand a lantern under a tree every insect in the forest
creeps up to it--a curious assembly, since though they scramble and
swing and knock their heads against the glass, they seem to have no
purpose--something senseless inspires them. One gets tired of watching
them, as they amble round the lantern and blindly tap as if for
admittance, one large toad being the most besotted of any and
shouldering his way through the rest. Ah, but what's that? A terrifying
volley of pistol-shots rings out--cracks sharply; ripples spread--
silence laps smooth over sound. A tree--a tree has fallen, a sort of
death in the forest. After that, the wind in the trees sounds
melancholy.

But this service in King's College Chapel--why allow women to take part
in it? Surely, if the mind wanders (and Jacob looked extraordinarily
vacant, his head thrown back, his hymn-book open at the wrong place), if
the mind wanders it is because several hat shops and cupboards upon
cupboards of coloured dresses are displayed upon rush-bottomed chairs.
Though heads and bodies may be devout enough, one has a sense of
individuals--some like blue, others brown; some feathers, others pansies
and forget-me-nots. No one would think of bringing a dog into church.
For though a dog is all very well on a gravel path, and shows no
disrespect to flowers, the way he wanders down an aisle, looking,
lifting a paw, and approaching a pillar with a purpose that makes the
blood run cold with horror (should you be one of a congregation--alone,
shyness is out of the question), a dog destroys the service completely.
So do these women--though separately devout, distinguished, and vouched
for by the theology, mathematics, Latin, and Greek of their husbands.
Heaven knows why it is. For one thing, thought Jacob, they're as ugly as
sin.

Now there was a scraping and murmuring. He caught Timmy Durrant's eye;
looked very sternly at him; and then, very solemnly, winked.

"Waverley," the villa on the road to Girton was called, not that Mr.
Plumer admired Scott or would have chosen any name at all, but names are
useful when you have to entertain undergraduates, and as they sat
waiting for the fourth undergraduate, on Sunday at lunch-time, there was
talk of names upon gates.

"How tiresome," Mrs. Plumer interrupted impulsively. "Does anybody know
Mr. Flanders?"

Mr. Durrant knew him; and therefore blushed slightly, and said,
awkwardly, something about being sure--looking at Mr. Plumer and
hitching the right leg of his trouser as he spoke. Mr. Plumer got up and
stood in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Plumer laughed like a
straightforward friendly fellow. In short, anything more horrible than
the scene, the setting, the prospect, even the May garden being
afflicted with chill sterility and a cloud choosing that moment to cross
the sun, cannot be imagined. There was the garden, of course. Every one
at the same moment looked at it. Owing to the cloud, the leaves ruffled
grey, and the sparrows--there were two sparrows.

"I think," said Mrs. Plumer, taking advantage of the momentary respite,
while the young men stared at the garden, to look at her husband, and
he, not accepting full responsibility for the act, nevertheless touched
the bell.

There can be no excuse for this outrage upon one hour of human life,
save the reflection which occurred to Mr. Plumer as he carved the
mutton, that if no don ever gave a luncheon party, if Sunday after
Sunday passed, if men went down, became lawyers, doctors, members of
Parliament, business men--if no don ever gave a luncheon party--

"Now, does lamb make the mint sauce, or mint sauce make the lamb?" he
asked the young man next him, to break a silence which had already
lasted five minutes and a half.

"I don't know, sir," said the young man, blushing very vividly.

At this moment in came Mr. Flanders. He had mistaken the time.

Now, though they had finished their meat, Mrs. Plumer took a second
helping of cabbage. Jacob determined, of course, that he would eat his
meat in the time it took her to finish her cabbage, looking once or
twice to measure his speed--only he was infernally hungry. Seeing this,
Mrs. Plumer said that she was sure Mr. Flanders would not mind--and the
tart was brought in. Nodding in a peculiar way, she directed the maid to
give Mr. Flanders a second helping of mutton. She glanced at the mutton.
Not much of the leg would be left for luncheon.

It was none of her fault--since how could she control her father
begetting her forty years ago in the suburbs of Manchester? and once
begotten, how could she do other than grow up cheese-paring, ambitious,
with an instinctively accurate notion of the rungs of the ladder and an
ant-like assiduity in pushing George Plumer ahead of her to the top of
the ladder? What was at the top of the ladder? A sense that all the
rungs were beneath one apparently; since by the time that George Plumer
became Professor of Physics, or whatever it might be, Mrs. Plumer could
only be in a condition to cling tight to her eminence, peer down at the
ground, and goad her two plain daughters to climb the rungs of the
ladder.

"I was down at the races yesterday," she said, "with my two little
girls."

It was none of THEIR fault either. In they came to the drawing-room, in
white frocks and blue sashes. They handed the cigarettes. Rhoda had
inherited her father's cold grey eyes. Cold grey eyes George Plumer had,
but in them was an abstract light. He could talk about Persia and the
Trade winds, the Reform Bill and the cycle of the harvests. Books were
on his shelves by Wells and Shaw; on the table serious six-penny
weeklies written by pale men in muddy boots--the weekly creak and
screech of brains rinsed in cold water and wrung dry--melancholy papers.

"I don't feel that I know the truth about anything till I've read them
both!" said Mrs. Plumer brightly, tapping the table of contents with her
bare red hand, upon which the ring looked so incongruous.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God!" exclaimed Jacob, as the four undergraduates
left the house. "Oh, my God!"

"Bloody beastly!" he said, scanning the street for lilac or bicycle--
anything to restore his sense of freedom.

"Bloody beastly," he said to Timmy Durrant, summing up his discomfort at
the world shown him at lunch-time, a world capable of existing--there
was no doubt about that--but so unnecessary, such a thing to believe in--
Shaw and Wells and the serious sixpenny weeklies! What were they after,
scrubbing and demolishing, these elderly people? Had they never read
Homer, Shakespeare, the Elizabethans? He saw it clearly outlined against
the feelings he drew from youth and natural inclination. The poor devils
had rigged up this meagre object. Yet something of pity was in him.
Those wretched little girls--

The extent to which he was disturbed proves that he was already agog.
Insolent he was and inexperienced, but sure enough the cities which the
elderly of the race have built upon the skyline showed like brick
suburbs, barracks, and places of discipline against a red and yellow
flame. He was impressionable; but the word is contradicted by the
composure with which he hollowed his hand to screen a match. He was a
young man of substance.

Anyhow, whether undergraduate or shop boy, man or woman, it must come as
a shock about the age of twenty--the world of the elderly--thrown up in
such black outline upon what we are; upon the reality; the moors and
Byron; the sea and the lighthouse; the sheep's jaw with the yellow teeth
in it; upon the obstinate irrepressible conviction which makes youth so
intolerably disagreeable--"I am what I am, and intend to be it," for
which there will be no form in the world unless Jacob makes one for
himself. The Plumers will try to prevent him from making it. Wells and
Shaw and the serious sixpenny weeklies will sit on its head. Every time
he lunches out on Sunday--at dinner parties and tea parties--there will
be this same shock--horror--discomfort--then pleasure, for he draws into
him at every step as he walks by the river such steady certainty, such
reassurance from all sides, the trees bowing, the grey spires soft in
the blue, voices blowing and seeming suspended in the air, the springy
air of May, the elastic air with its particles--chestnut bloom, pollen,
whatever it is that gives the May air its potency, blurring the trees,
gumming the buds, daubing the green. And the river too runs past, not at
flood, nor swiftly, but cloying the oar that dips in it and drops white
drops from the blade, swimming green and deep over the bowed rushes, as
if lavishly caressing them.

Where they moored their boat the trees showered down, so that their
topmost leaves trailed in the ripples and the green wedge that lay in
the water being made of leaves shifted in leaf-breadths as the real
leaves shifted. Now there was a shiver of wind--instantly an edge of
sky; and as Durrant ate cherries he dropped the stunted yellow cherries
through the green wedge of leaves, their stalks twinkling as they
wriggled in and out, and sometimes one half-bitten cherry would go down
red into the green. The meadow was on a level with Jacob's eyes as he
lay back; gilt with buttercups, but the grass did not run like the thin
green water of the graveyard grass about to overflow the tombstones, but
stood juicy and thick. Looking up, backwards, he saw the legs of
children deep in the grass, and the legs of cows. Munch, munch, he
heard; then a short step through the grass; then again munch, munch,
munch, as they tore the grass short at the roots. In front of him two
white butterflies circled higher and higher round the elm tree.

"Jacob's off," thought Durrant looking up from his novel. He kept
reading a few pages and then looking up in a curiously methodical
manner, and each time he looked up he took a few cherries out of the bag
and ate them abstractedly. Other boats passed them, crossing the
backwater from side to side to avoid each other, for many were now
moored, and there were now white dresses and a flaw in the column of air
between two trees, round which curled a thread of blue--Lady Miller's
picnic party. Still more boats kept coming, and Durrant, without getting
up, shoved their boat closer to the bank.

"Oh-h-h-h," groaned Jacob, as the boat rocked, and the trees rocked, and
the white dresses and the white flannel trousers drew out long and
wavering up the bank.

"Oh-h-h-h!" He sat up, and felt as if a piece of elastic had snapped in
his face.

"They're friends of my mother's," said Durrant. "So old Bow took no end
of trouble about the boat."

And this boat had gone from Falmouth to St. Ives Bay, all round the
coast. A larger boat, a ten-ton yacht, about the twentieth of June,
properly fitted out, Durrant said...

"There's the cash difficulty," said Jacob.

"My people'll see to that," said Durrant (the son of a banker,
deceased).

"I intend to preserve my economic independence," said Jacob stiffly. (He
was getting excited.)

"My mother said something about going to Harrogate," he said with a
little annoyance, feeling the pocket where he kept his letters.

"Was that true about your uncle becoming a Mohammedan?" asked Timmy
Durrant.

Jacob had told the story of his Uncle Morty in Durrant's room the night
before.

"I expect he's feeding the sharks, if the truth were known," said Jacob.
"I say, Durrant, there's none left!" he exclaimed, crumpling the bag
which had held the cherries, and throwing it into the river. He saw Lady
Miller's picnic party on the island as he threw the bag into the river.

A sort of awkwardness, grumpiness, gloom came into his eyes.

"Shall we move on... this beastly crowd..." he said.

So up they went, past the island.

The feathery white moon never let the sky grow dark; all night the
chestnut blossoms were white in the green; dim was the cow-parsley in
the meadows.

The waiters at Trinity must have been shuffling china plates like cards,
from the clatter that could be heard in the Great Court. Jacob's rooms,
however, were in Neville's Court; at the top; so that reaching his door
one went in a little out of breath; but he wasn't there. Dining in Hall,
presumably. It will be quite dark in Neville's Court long before
midnight, only the pillars opposite will always be white, and the
fountains. A curious effect the gate has, like lace upon pale green.
Even in the window you hear the plates; a hum of talk, too, from the
diners; the Hall lit up, and the swing-doors opening and shutting with a
soft thud. Some are late.

Jacob's room had a round table and two low chairs. There were yellow
flags in a jar on the mantelpiece; a photograph of his mother; cards
from societies with little raised crescents, coats of arms, and
initials; notes and pipes; on the table lay paper ruled with a red
margin--an essay, no doubt--"Does History consist of the Biographies of
Great Men?" There were books enough; very few French books; but then any
one who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes
him, with extravagant enthusiasm. Lives of the Duke of Wellington, for
example; Spinoza; the works of Dickens; the Faery Queen; a Greek
dictionary with the petals of poppies pressed to silk between the pages;
all the Elizabethans. His slippers were incredibly shabby, like boats
burnt to the water's rim. Then there were photographs from the Greeks,
and a mezzotint from Sir Joshua--all very English. The works of Jane
Austen, too, in deference, perhaps, to some one else's standard. Carlyle
was a prize. There were books upon the Italian painters of the
Renaissance, a Manual of the Diseases of the Horse, and all the usual
text-books. Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the
curtain; the flowers in the jar shift. One fibre in the wicker arm-chair
creaks, though no one sits there.

Coming down the steps a little sideways [Jacob sat on the window-seat
talking to Durrant; he smoked, and Durrant looked at the map], the old
man, with his hands locked behind him, his gown floating black, lurched,
unsteadily, near the wall; then, upstairs he went into his room. Then
another, who raised his hand and praised the columns, the gate, the sky;
another, tripping and smug. Each went up a staircase; three lights were
lit in the dark windows.

If any light burns above Cambridge, it must be from three such rooms;
Greek burns here; science there; philosophy on the ground floor. Poor
old Huxtable can't walk straight;--Sopwith, too, has praised the sky any
night these twenty years; and Cowan still chuckles at the same stories.
It is not simple, or pure, or wholly splendid, the lamp of learning,
since if you see them there under its light (whether Rossetti's on the
wall, or Van Gogh reproduced, whether there are lilacs in the bowl or
rusty pipes), how priestly they look! How like a suburb where you go to
see a view and eat a special cake! "We are the sole purveyors of this
cake." Back you go to London; for the treat is over.

Old Professor Huxtable, performing with the method of a clock his change
of dress, let himself down into his chair; filled his pipe; chose his
paper; crossed his feet; and extracted his glasses. The whole flesh of
his face then fell into folds as if props were removed. Yet strip a
whole seat of an underground railway carriage of its heads and old
Huxtable's head will hold them all. Now, as his eye goes down the print,
what a procession tramps through the corridors of his brain, orderly,
quick-stepping, and reinforced, as the march goes on, by fresh runnels,
till the whole hall, dome, whatever one calls it, is populous with
ideas. Such a muster takes place in no other brain. Yet sometimes there
he'll sit for hours together, gripping the arm of the chair, like a man
holding fast because stranded, and then, just because his corn twinges,
or it may be the gout, what execrations, and, dear me, to hear him talk
of money, taking out his leather purse and grudging even the smallest
silver coin, secretive and suspicious as an old peasant woman with all
her lies. Strange paralysis and constriction--marvellous illumination.
Serene over it all rides the great full brow, and sometimes asleep or in
the quiet spaces of the night you might fancy that on a pillow of stone
he lay triumphant.

Sopwith, meanwhile, advancing with a curious trip from the fire-place,
cut the chocolate cake into segments. Until midnight or later there
would be undergraduates in his room, sometimes as many as twelve,
sometimes three or four; but nobody got up when they went or when they
came; Sopwith went on talking. Talking, talking, talking--as if
everything could be talked--the soul itself slipped through the lips in
thin silver disks which dissolve in young men's minds like silver, like
moonlight. Oh, far away they'd remember it, and deep in dulness gaze
back on it, and come to refresh themselves again.

"Well, I never. That's old Chucky. My dear boy, how's the world treating
you?" And in came poor little Chucky, the unsuccessful provincial,
Stenhouse his real name, but of course Sopwith brought back by using the
other everything, everything, "all I could never be"--yes, though next
day, buying his newspaper and catching the early train, it all seemed to
him childish, absurd; the chocolate cake, the young men; Sopwith summing
things up; no, not all; he would send his son there. He would save every
penny to send his son there.

Sopwith went on talking; twining stiff fibres of awkward speech--things
young men blurted out--plaiting them round his own smooth garland,
making the bright side show, the vivid greens, the sharp thorns,
manliness. He loved it. Indeed to Sopwith a man could say anything,
until perhaps he'd grown old, or gone under, gone deep, when the silver
disks would tinkle hollow, and the inscription read a little too simple,
and the old stamp look too pure, and the impress always the same--a
Greek boy's head. But he would respect still. A woman, divining the
priest, would, involuntarily, despise.

Cowan, Erasmus Cowan, sipped his port alone, or with one rosy little
man, whose memory held precisely the same span of time; sipped his port,
and told his stories, and without book before him intoned Latin, Virgil
and Catullus, as if language were wine upon his lips. Only--sometimes it
will come over one--what if the poet strode in? "THIS my image?" he
might ask, pointing to the chubby man, whose brain is, after all,
Virgil's representative among us, though the body gluttonize, and as for
arms, bees, or even the plough, Cowan takes his trips abroad with a
French novel in his pocket, a rug about his knees, and is thankful to be
home again in his place, in his line, holding up in his snug little
mirror the image of Virgil, all rayed round with good stories of the
dons of Trinity and red beams of port. But language is wine upon his
lips. Nowhere else would Virgil hear the like. And though, as she goes
sauntering along the Backs, old Miss Umphelby sings him melodiously
enough, accurately too, she is always brought up by this question as she
reaches Clare Bridge: "But if I met him, what should I wear?"--and then,
taking her way up the avenue towards Newnham, she lets her fancy play
upon other details of men's meeting with women which have never got into
print. Her lectures, therefore, are not half so well attended as those
of Cowan, and the thing she might have said in elucidation of the text
for ever left out. In short, face a teacher with the image of the taught
and the mirror breaks. But Cowan sipped his port, his exaltation over,
no longer the representative of Virgil. No, the builder, assessor,
surveyor, rather; ruling lines between names, hanging lists above doors.
Such is the fabric through which the light must shine, if shine it can--
the light of all these languages, Chinese and Russian, Persian and
Arabic, of symbols and figures, of history, of things that are known and
things that are about to be known. So that if at night, far out at sea
over the tumbling waves, one saw a haze on the waters, a city
illuminated, a whiteness even in the sky, such as that now over the Hall
of Trinity where they're still dining, or washing up plates, that would
be the light burning there--the light of Cambridge.

"Let's go round to Simeon's room," said Jacob, and they rolled up the
map, having got the whole thing settled.

All the lights were coming out round the court, and falling on the
cobbles, picking out dark patches of grass and single daisies. The young
men were now back in their rooms. Heaven knows what they were doing.
What was it that could DROP like that? And leaning down over a foaming
window-box, one stopped another hurrying past, and upstairs they went
and down they went, until a sort of fulness settled on the court, the
hive full of bees, the bees home thick with gold, drowsy, humming,
suddenly vocal; the Moonlight Sonata answered by a waltz.

The Moonlight Sonata tinkled away; the waltz crashed. Although young men
still went in and out, they walked as if keeping engagements. Now and
then there was a thud, as if some heavy piece of furniture had fallen,
unexpectedly, of its own accord, not in the general stir of life after
dinner. One supposed that young men raised their eyes from their books
as the furniture fell. Were they reading? Certainly there was a sense of
concentration in the air. Behind the grey walls sat so many young men,
some undoubtedly reading, magazines, shilling shockers, no doubt; legs,
perhaps, over the arms of chairs; smoking; sprawling over tables, and
writing while their heads went round in a circle as the pen moved--
simple young men, these, who would--but there is no need to think of
them grown old; others eating sweets; here they boxed; and, well, Mr.
Hawkins must have been mad suddenly to throw up his window and bawl:
"Jo--seph! Jo--seph!" and then he ran as hard as ever he could across
the court, while an elderly man, in a green apron, carrying an immense
pile of tin covers, hesitated, balanced, and then went on. But this was
a diversion. There were young men who read, lying in shallow arm-chairs,
holding their books as if they had hold in their hands of something that
would see them through; they being all in a torment, coming from midland
towns, clergymen's sons. Others read Keats. And those long histories in
many volumes--surely some one was now beginning at the beginning in
order to understand the Holy Roman Empire, as one must. That was part of
the concentration, though it would be dangerous on a hot spring night--
dangerous, perhaps, to concentrate too much upon single books, actual
chapters, when at any moment the door opened and Jacob appeared; or
Richard Bonamy, reading Keats no longer, began making long pink spills
from an old newspaper, bending forward, and looking eager and contented
no more, but almost fierce. Why? Only perhaps that Keats died young--one
wants to write poetry too and to love--oh, the brutes! It's damnably
difficult. But, after all, not so difficult if on the next staircase, in
the large room, there are two, three, five young men all convinced of
this--of brutality, that is, and the clear division between right and
wrong. There was a sofa, chairs, a square table, and the window being
open, one could see how they sat--legs issuing here, one there crumpled
in a corner of the sofa; and, presumably, for you could not see him,
somebody stood by the fender, talking. Anyhow, Jacob, who sat astride a
chair and ate dates from a long box, burst out laughing. The answer came
from the sofa corner; for his pipe was held in the air, then replaced.
Jacob wheeled round. He had something to say to THAT, though the sturdy
red-haired boy at the table seemed to deny it, wagging his head slowly
from side to side; and then, taking out his penknife, he dug the point
of it again and again into a knot in the table, as if affirming that the
voice from the fender spoke the truth--which Jacob could not deny.
Possibly, when he had done arranging the date-stones, he might find
something to say to it--indeed his lips opened--only then there broke
out a roar of laughter.

The laughter died in the air. The sound of it could scarcely have
reached any one standing by the Chapel, which stretched along the
opposite side of the court. The laughter died out, and only gestures of
arms, movements of bodies, could be seen shaping something in the room.
Was it an argument? A bet on the boat races? Was it nothing of the sort?
What was shaped by the arms and bodies moving in the twilight room?

A step or two beyond the window there was nothing at all, except the
enclosing buildings--chimneys upright, roofs horizontal; too much brick
and building for a May night, perhaps. And then before one's eyes would
come the bare hills of Turkey--sharp lines, dry earth, coloured flowers,
and colour on the shoulders of the women, standing naked-legged in the
stream to beat linen on the stones. The stream made loops of water round
their ankles. But none of that could show clearly through the swaddlings
and blanketings of the Cambridge night. The stroke of the clock even was
muffled; as if intoned by somebody reverent from a pulpit; as if
generations of learned men heard the last hour go rolling through their
ranks and issued it, already smooth and time-worn, with their blessing,
for the use of the living.

Was it to receive this gift from the past that the young man came to the
window and stood there, looking out across the court? It was Jacob. He
stood smoking his pipe while the last stroke of the clock purred softly
round him. Perhaps there had been an argument. He looked satisfied;
indeed masterly; which expression changed slightly as he stood there,
the sound of the clock conveying to him (it may be) a sense of old
buildings and time; and himself the inheritor; and then to-morrow; and
friends; at the thought of whom, in sheer confidence and pleasure, it
seemed, he yawned and stretched himself.

Meanwhile behind him the shape they had made, whether by argument or
not, the spiritual shape, hard yet ephemeral, as of glass compared with
the dark stone of the Chapel, was dashed to splinters, young men rising
from chairs and sofa corners, buzzing and barging about the room, one
driving another against the bedroom door, which giving way, in they
fell. Then Jacob was left there, in the shallow arm-chair, alone with
Masham? Anderson? Simeon? Oh, it was Simeon. The others had all gone.

"... Julian the Apostate...." Which of them said that and the other
words murmured round it? But about midnight there sometimes rises, like
a veiled figure suddenly woken, a heavy wind; and this now flapping
through Trinity lifted unseen leaves and blurred everything. "Julian the
Apostate"--and then the wind. Up go the elm branches, out blow the
sails, the old schooners rear and plunge, the grey waves in the hot
Indian Ocean tumble sultrily, and then all falls flat again.

So, if the veiled lady stepped through the Courts of Trinity, she now
drowsed once more, all her draperies about her, her head against a
pillar.

"Somehow it seems to matter."

The low voice was Simeon's.

The voice was even lower that answered him. The sharp tap of a pipe on
the mantelpiece cancelled the words. And perhaps Jacob only said "hum,"
or said nothing at all. True, the words were inaudible. It was the
intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind
indelibly.

"Well, you seem to have studied the subject," said Jacob, rising and
standing over Simeon's chair. He balanced himself; he swayed a little.
He appeared extraordinarily happy, as if his pleasure would brim and
spill down the sides if Simeon spoke.

Simeon said nothing. Jacob remained standing. But intimacy--the room was
full of it, still, deep, like a pool. Without need of movement or speech
it rose softly and washed over everything, mollifying, kindling, and
coating the mind with the lustre of pearl, so that if you talk of a
light, of Cambridge burning, it's not languages only. It's Julian the
Apostate.

But Jacob moved. He murmured good-night. He went out into the court. He
buttoned his jacket across his chest. He went back to his rooms, and
being the only man who walked at that moment back to his rooms, his
footsteps rang out, his figure loomed large. Back from the Chapel, back
from the Hall, back from the Library, came the sound of his footsteps,
as if the old stone echoed with magisterial authority: "The young man--
the young man--the young man-back to his rooms."




CHAPTER FOUR


What's the use of trying to read Shakespeare, especially in one of those
little thin paper editions whose pages get ruffled, or stuck together
with sea-water? Although the plays of Shakespeare had frequently been
praised, even quoted, and placed higher than the Greek, never since they
started had Jacob managed to read one through. Yet what an opportunity!

For the Scilly Isles had been sighted by Timmy Durrant lying like
mountain-tops almost a-wash in precisely the right place. His
calculations had worked perfectly, and really the sight of him sitting
there, with his hand on the tiller, rosy gilled, with a sprout of beard,
looking sternly at the stars, then at a compass, spelling out quite
correctly his page of the eternal lesson-book, would have moved a woman.
Jacob, of course, was not a woman. The sight of Timmy Durrant was no
sight for him, nothing to set against the sky and worship; far from it.
They had quarrelled. Why the right way to open a tin of beef, with
Shakespeare on board, under conditions of such splendour, should have
turned them to sulky schoolboys, none can tell. Tinned beef is cold
eating, though; and salt water spoils biscuits; and the waves tumble and
lollop much the same hour after hour--tumble and lollop all across the
horizon. Now a spray of seaweed floats past-now a log of wood. Ships
have been wrecked here. One or two go past, keeping their own side of
the road. Timmy knew where they were bound, what their cargoes were,
and, by looking through his glass, could tell the name of the line, and
even guess what dividends it paid its shareholders. Yet that was no
reason for Jacob to turn sulky.

The Scilly Isles had the look of mountain-tops almost a-wash....
Unfortunately, Jacob broke the pin of the Primus stove.

The Scilly Isles might well be obliterated by a roller sweeping straight
across.

But one must give young men the credit of admitting that, though
breakfast eaten under these circumstances is grim, it is sincere enough.
No need to make conversation. They got out their pipes.

Timmy wrote up some scientific observations; and--what was the question
that broke the silence--the exact time or the day of the month? anyhow,
it was spoken without the least awkwardness; in the most matter-of-fact
way in the world; and then Jacob began to unbutton his clothes and sat
naked, save for his shirt, intending, apparently, to bathe.

The Scilly Isles were turning bluish; and suddenly blue, purple, and
green flushed the sea; left it grey; struck a stripe which vanished; but
when Jacob had got his shirt over his head the whole floor of the waves
was blue and white, rippling and crisp, though now and again a broad
purple mark appeared, like a bruise; or there floated an entire emerald
tinged with yellow. He plunged. He gulped in water, spat it out, struck
with his right arm, struck with his left, was towed by a rope, gasped,
splashed, and was hauled on board.

The seat in the boat was positively hot, and the sun warmed his back as
he sat naked with a towel in his hand, looking at the Scilly Isles
which--confound it! the sail flapped. Shakespeare was knocked overboard.
There you could see him floating merrily away, with all his pages
ruffling innumerably; and then he went under.

Strangely enough, you could smell violets, or if violets were impossible
in July, they must grow something very pungent on the mainland then. The
mainland, not so very far off--you could see clefts in the cliffs, white
cottages, smoke going up--wore an extraordinary look of calm, of sunny
peace, as if wisdom and piety had descended upon the dwellers there. Now
a cry sounded, as of a man calling pilchards in a main street. It wore
an extraordinary look of piety and peace, as if old men smoked by the
door, and girls stood, hands on hips, at the well, and horses stood; as
if the end of the world had come, and cabbage fields and stone walls,
and coast-guard stations, and, above all, the white sand bays with the
waves breaking unseen by any one, rose to heaven in a kind of ecstasy.

But imperceptibly the cottage smoke droops, has the look of a mourning
emblem, a flag floating its caress over a grave. The gulls, making their
broad flight and then riding at peace, seem to mark the grave.

No doubt if this were Italy, Greece, or even the shores of Spain,
sadness would be routed by strangeness and excitement and the nudge of a
classical education. But the Cornish hills have stark chimneys standing
on them; and, somehow or other, loveliness is infernally sad. Yes, the
chimneys and the coast-guard stations and the little bays with the waves
breaking unseen by any one make one remember the overpowering sorrow.
And what can this sorrow be?

It is brewed by the earth itself. It comes from the houses on the coast.
We start transparent, and then the cloud thickens. All history backs our
pane of glass. To escape is vain.

But whether this is the right interpretation of Jacob's gloom as he sat
naked, in the sun, looking at the Land's End, it is impossible to say;
for he never spoke a word. Timmy sometimes wondered (only for a second)
whether his people bothered him.... No matter. There are things that
can't be said. Let's shake it off. Let's dry ourselves, and take up the
first thing that comes handy.... Timmy Durrant's notebook of scientific
observations.

"Now..." said Jacob.

It is a tremendous argument.

Some people can follow every step of the way, and even take a little
one, six inches long, by themselves at the end; others remain observant
of the external signs.

The eyes fix themselves upon the poker; the right hand takes the poker
and lifts it; turns it slowly round, and then, very accurately, replaces
it. The left hand, which lies on the knee, plays some stately but
intermittent piece of march music. A deep breath is taken; but allowed
to evaporate unused. The cat marches across the hearth-rug. No one
observes her.

"That's about as near as I can get to it," Durrant wound up.

The next minute is quiet as the grave.

"It follows..." said Jacob.

Only half a sentence followed; but these half-sentences are like flags
set on tops of buildings to the observer of external sights down below.
What was the coast of Cornwall, with its violet scents, and mourning
emblems, and tranquil piety, but a screen happening to hang straight
behind as his mind marched up?

"It follows..." said Jacob.

"Yes," said Timmy, after reflection. "That is so."

Now Jacob began plunging about, half to stretch himself, half in a kind
of jollity, no doubt, for the strangest sound issued from his lips as he
furled the sail, rubbed the plates--gruff, tuneless--a sort of pasan,
for having grasped the argument, for being master of the situation,
sunburnt, unshaven, capable into the bargain of sailing round the world
in a ten-ton yacht, which, very likely, he would do one of these days
instead of settling down in a lawyer's office, and wearing spats.

"Our friend Masham," said Timmy Durrant, "would rather not be seen in
our company as we are now." His buttons had come off.

"D'you know Masham's aunt?" said Jacob.

"Never knew he had one," said Timmy.

"Masham has millions of aunts," said Jacob.

"Masham is mentioned in Domesday Book," said Timmy.

"So are his aunts," said Jacob.

"His sister," said Timmy, "is a very pretty girl."

"That's what'll happen to you, Timmy," said Jacob.

"It'll happen to you first," said Timmy.

"But this woman I was telling you about--Masham's aunt--"

"Oh, do get on," said Timmy, for Jacob was laughing so much that he
could not speak.

"Masham's aunt..."

Timmy laughed so much that he could not speak.

"Masham's aunt..."

"What is there about Masham that makes one laugh?" said Timmy.

"Hang it all--a man who swallows his tie-pin," said Jacob.

"Lord Chancellor before he's fifty," said Timmy.

"He's a gentleman," said Jacob.

"The Duke of Wellington was a gentleman," said Timmy.

"Keats wasn't."

"Lord Salisbury was."

"And what about God?" said Jacob.

The Scilly Isles now appeared as if directly pointed at by a golden
finger issuing from a cloud; and everybody knows how portentous that
sight is, and how these broad rays, whether they light upon the Scilly
Isles or upon the tombs of crusaders in cathedrals, always shake the
very foundations of scepticism and lead to jokes about God.

     "Abide with me:
      Fast falls the eventide;
      The shadows deepen;
      Lord, with me abide,"

sang Timmy Durrant.

"At my place we used to have a hymn which began

     Great God, what do I see and hear?"

said Jacob.

Gulls rode gently swaying in little companies of two or three quite near
the boat; the cormorant, as if following his long strained neck in
eternal pursuit, skimmed an inch above the water to the next rock; and
the drone of the tide in the caves came across the water, low,
monotonous, like the voice of some one talking to himself.

     "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
      Let me hide myself in thee,"

sang Jacob.

Like the blunt tooth of some monster, a rock broke the surface; brown;
overflown with perpetual waterfalls.

    "Rock of Ages,"

Jacob sang, lying on his back, looking up into the sky at midday, from
which every shred of cloud had been withdrawn, so that it was like
something permanently displayed with the cover off.

By six o'clock a breeze blew in off an icefield; and by seven the water
was more purple than blue; and by half-past seven there was a patch of
rough gold-beater's skin round the Scilly Isles, and Durrant's face, as
he sat steering, was of the colour of a red lacquer box polished for
generations. By nine all the fire and confusion had gone out of the sky,
leaving wedges of apple-green and plates of pale yellow; and by ten the
lanterns on the boat were making twisted colours upon the waves,
elongated or squat, as the waves stretched or humped themselves. The
beam from the lighthouse strode rapidly across the water. Infinite
millions of miles away powdered stars twinkled; but the waves slapped
the boat, and crashed, with regular and appalling solemnity, against the
rocks.

Although it would be possible to knock at the cottage door and ask for a
glass of milk, it is only thirst that would compel the intrusion. Yet
perhaps Mrs. Pascoe would welcome it. The summer's day may be wearing
heavy. Washing in her little scullery, she may hear the cheap clock on
the mantelpiece tick, tick, tick ... tick, tick, tick. She is alone in
the house. Her husband is out helping Farmer Hosken; her daughter
married and gone to America. Her elder son is married too, but she does
not agree with his wife. The Wesleyan minister came along and took the
younger boy. She is alone in the house. A steamer, probably bound for
Cardiff, now crosses the horizon, while near at hand one bell of a
foxglove swings to and fro with a bumble-bee for clapper. These white
Cornish cottages are built on the edge of the cliff; the garden grows
gorse more readily than cabbages; and for hedge, some primeval man has
piled granite boulders. In one of these, to hold, an historian
conjectures, the victim's blood, a basin has been hollowed, but in our
time it serves more tamely to seat those tourists who wish for an
uninterrupted view of the Gurnard's Head. Not that any one objects to a
blue print dress and a white apron in a cottage garden.

"Look--she has to draw her water from a well in the garden."

"Very lonely it must be in winter, with the wind sweeping over those
hills, and the waves dashing on the rocks."

Even on a summer's day you hear them murmuring.

Having drawn her water, Mrs. Pascoe went in. The tourists regretted that
they had brought no glasses, so that they might have read the name of
the tramp steamer. Indeed, it was such a fine day that there was no
saying what a pair of field-glasses might not have fetched into view.
Two fishing luggers, presumably from St. Ives Bay, were now sailing in
an opposite direction from the steamer, and the floor of the sea became
alternately clear and opaque. As for the bee, having sucked its fill of
honey, it visited the teasle and thence made a straight line to Mrs.
Pascoe's patch, once more directing the tourists' gaze to the old
woman's print dress and white apron, for she had come to the door of the
cottage and was standing there.

There she stood, shading her eyes and looking out to sea.

For the millionth time, perhaps, she looked at the sea. A peacock
butterfly now spread himself upon the teasle, fresh and newly emerged,
as the blue and chocolate down on his wings testified. Mrs. Pascoe went
indoors, fetched a cream pan, came out, and stood scouring it. Her face
was assuredly not soft, sensual, or lecherous, but hard, wise, wholesome
rather, signifying in a room full of sophisticated people the flesh and
blood of life. She would tell a lie, though, as soon as the truth.
Behind her on the wall hung a large dried skate. Shut up in the parlour
she prized mats, china mugs, and photographs, though the mouldy little
room was saved from the salt breeze only by the depth of a brick, and
between lace curtains you saw the gannet drop like a stone, and on
stormy days the gulls came shuddering through the air, and the steamers'
lights were now high, now deep. Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's
night.

The picture papers were delivered punctually on Sunday, and she pored
long over Lady Cynthia's wedding at the Abbey. She, too, would have
liked to ride in a carriage with springs. The soft, swift syllables of
educated speech often shamed her few rude ones. And then all night to
hear the grinding of the Atlantic upon the rocks instead of hansom cabs
and footmen whistling for motor cars. ... So she may have dreamed,
scouring her cream pan. But the talkative, nimble-witted people have
taken themselves to towns. Like a miser, she has hoarded her feelings
within her own breast. Not a penny piece has she changed all these
years, and, watching her enviously, it seems as if all within must be
pure gold.

The wise old woman, having fixed her eyes upon the sea, once more
withdrew. The tourists decided that it was time to move on to the
Gurnard's Head.

Three seconds later Mrs. Durrant rapped upon the door.

"Mrs. Pascoe?" she said.

Rather haughtily, she watched the tourists cross the field path. She
came of a Highland race, famous for its chieftains.

Mrs. Pascoe appeared.

"I envy you that bush, Mrs. Pascoe," said Mrs. Durrant, pointing the
parasol with which she had rapped on the door at the fine clump of St.
John's wort that grew beside it. Mrs. Pascoe looked at the bush
deprecatingly.

"I expect my son in a day or two," said Mrs. Durrant. "Sailing from
Falmouth with a friend in a little boat. ... Any news of Lizzie yet,
Mrs. Pascoe?"

Her long-tailed ponies stood twitching their ears on the road twenty
yards away. The boy, Curnow, flicked flies off them occasionally. He saw
his mistress go into the cottage; come out again; and pass, talking
energetically to judge by the movements of her hands, round the
vegetable plot in front of the cottage. Mrs. Pascoe was his aunt. Both
women surveyed a bush. Mrs. Durrant stooped and picked a sprig from it.
Next she pointed (her movements were peremptory; she held herself very
upright) at the potatoes. They had the blight. All potatoes that year
had the blight. Mrs. Durrant showed Mrs. Pascoe how bad the blight was
on her potatoes. Mrs. Durrant talked energetically; Mrs. Pascoe listened
submissively. The boy Curnow knew that Mrs. Durrant was saying that it
is perfectly simple; you mix the powder in a gallon of water; "I have
done it with my own hands in my own garden," Mrs. Durrant was saying.

"You won't have a potato left--you won't have a potato left," Mrs.
Durrant was saying in her emphatic voice as they reached the gate. The
boy Curnow became as immobile as stone.

Mrs. Durrant took the reins in her hands and settled herself on the
driver's seat.

"Take care of that leg, or I shall send the doctor to you," she called
back over her shoulder; touched the ponies; and the carriage started
forward. The boy Curnow had only just time to swing himself up by the
toe of his boot. The boy Curnow, sitting in the middle of the back seat,
looked at his aunt.

Mrs. Pascoe stood at the gate looking after them; stood at the gate till
the trap was round the corner; stood at the gate, looking now to the
right, now to the left; then went back to her cottage.

Soon the ponies attacked the swelling moor road with striving forelegs.
Mrs. Durrant let the reins fall slackly, and leant backwards. Her
vivacity had left her. Her hawk nose was thin as a bleached bone through
which you almost see the light. Her hands, lying on the reins in her
lap, were firm even in repose. The upper lip was cut so short that it
raised itself almost in a sneer from the front teeth. Her mind skimmed
leagues where Mrs. Pascoe's mind adhered to its solitary patch. Her mind
skimmed leagues as the ponies climbed the hill road. Forwards and
backwards she cast her mind, as if the roofless cottages, mounds of
slag, and cottage gardens overgrown with foxglove and bramble cast shade
upon her mind. Arrived at the summit, she stopped the carriage. The pale
hills were round her, each scattered with ancient stones; beneath was
the sea, variable as a southern sea; she herself sat there looking from
hill to sea, upright, aquiline, equally poised between gloom and
laughter. Suddenly she flicked the ponies so that the boy Curnow had to
swing himself up by the toe of his boot.

The rooks settled; the rooks rose. The trees which they touched so
capriciously seemed insufficient to lodge their numbers. The tree-tops
sang with the breeze in them; the branches creaked audibly and dropped
now and then, though the season was midsummer, husks or twigs. Up went
the rooks and down again, rising in lesser numbers each time as the
sager birds made ready to settle, for the evening was already spent
enough to make the air inside the wood almost dark. The moss was soft;
the tree-trunks spectral. Beyond them lay a silvery meadow. The pampas
grass raised its feathery spears from mounds of green at the end of the
meadow. A breadth of water gleamed. Already the convolvulus moth was
spinning over the flowers. Orange and purple, nasturtium and cherry pie,
were washed into the twilight, but the tobacco plant and the passion
flower, over which the great moth spun, were white as china. The rooks
creaked their wings together on the tree-tops, and were settling down
for sleep when, far off, a familiar sound shook and trembled--increased
--fairly dinned in their ears--scared sleepy wings into the air again--
the dinner bell at the house.

After six days of salt wind, rain, and sun, Jacob Flanders had put on a
dinner jacket. The discreet black object had made its appearance now and
then in the boat among tins, pickles, preserved meats, and as the voyage
went on had become more and more irrelevant, hardly to be believed in.
And now, the world being stable, lit by candle-light, the dinner jacket
alone preserved him. He could not be sufficiently thankful. Even so his
neck, wrists, and face were exposed without cover, and his whole person,
whether exposed or not, tingled and glowed so as to make even black
cloth an imperfect screen. He drew back the great red hand that lay on
the table-cloth. Surreptitiously it closed upon slim glasses and curved
silver forks. The bones of the cutlets were decorated with pink frills-
and yesterday he had gnawn ham from the bone! Opposite him were hazy,
semi-transparent shapes of yellow and blue. Behind them, again, was the
grey-green garden, and among the pear-shaped leaves of the escallonia
fishing-boats seemed caught and suspended. A sailing ship slowly drew
past the women's backs. Two or three figures crossed the terrace hastily
in the dusk. The door opened and shut. Nothing settled or stayed
unbroken. Like oars rowing now this side, now that, were the sentences
that came now here, now there, from either side of the table.

"Oh, Clara, Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Durrant, and Timothy Durrant adding,
"Clara, Clara," Jacob named the shape in yellow gauze Timothy's sister,
Clara. The girl sat smiling and flushed. With her brother's dark eyes,
she was vaguer and softer than he was. When the laugh died down she
said: "But, mother, it was true. He said so, didn't he? Miss Eliot
agreed with us. ..."

But Miss Eliot, tall, grey-headed, was making room beside her for the
old man who had come in from the terrace. The dinner would never end,
Jacob thought, and he did not wish it to end, though the ship had sailed
from one corner of the window-frame to the other, and a light marked the
end of the pier. He saw Mrs. Durrant gaze at the light. She turned to
him.

"Did you take command, or Timothy?" she said. "Forgive me if I call you
Jacob. I've heard so much of you." Then her eyes went back to the sea.
Her eyes glazed as she looked at the view.

"A little village once," she said, "and now grown. ..." She rose, taking
her napkin with her, and stood by the window.

"Did you quarrel with Timothy?" Clara asked shyly. "I should have."

Mrs. Durrant came back from the window.

"It gets later and later," she said, sitting upright, and looking down
the table. "You ought to be ashamed--all of you. Mr. Clutterbuck, you
ought to be ashamed." She raised her voice, for Mr. Clutterbuck was
deaf.

"We ARE ashamed," said a girl. But the old man with the beard went on
eating plum tart. Mrs. Durrant laughed and leant back in her chair, as
if indulging him.

"We put it to you, Mrs. Durrant," said a young man with thick spectacles
and a fiery moustache. "I say the conditions were fulfilled. She owes me
a sovereign."

"Not BEFORE the fish--with it, Mrs. Durrant," said Charlotte Wilding.

"That was the bet; with the fish," said Clara seriously. "Begonias,
mother. To eat them with his fish."

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Durrant.

"Charlotte won't pay you," said Timothy.

"How dare you ..." said Charlotte.

"That privilege will be mine," said the courtly Mr. Wortley, producing a
silver case primed with sovereigns and slipping one coin on to the
table. Then Mrs. Durrant got up and passed down the room, holding
herself very straight, and the girls in yellow and blue and silver gauze
followed her, and elderly Miss Eliot in her velvet; and a little rosy
woman, hesitating at the door, clean, scrupulous, probably a governess.
All passed out at the open door.

"When you are as old as I am, Charlotte," said Mrs. Durrant, drawing the
girl's arm within hers as they paced up and down the terrace.

"Why are you so sad?" Charlotte asked impulsively.

"Do I seem to you sad? I hope not," said Mrs. Durrant.

"Well, just now. You're NOT old."

"Old enough to be Timothy's mother." They stopped.

Miss Eliot was looking through Mr. Clutterbuck's telescope at the edge
of the terrace. The deaf old man stood beside her, fondling his beard,
and reciting the names of the constellations: "Andromeda, Bootes,
Sidonia, Cassiopeia. ..."

"Andromeda," murmured Miss Eliot, shifting the telescope slightly.

Mrs. Durrant and Charlotte looked along the barrel of the instrument
pointed at the skies.

"There are MILLIONS of stars," said Charlotte with conviction. Miss
Eliot turned away from the telescope. The young men laughed suddenly in
the dining-room.

"Let ME look," said Charlotte eagerly.

"The stars bore me," said Mrs. Durrant, walking down the terrace with
Julia Eliot. "I read a book once about the stars. ... What are they
saying?" She stopped in front of the dining-room window. "Timothy," she
noted.

"The silent young man," said Miss Eliot.

"Yes, Jacob Flanders," said Mrs. Durrant.

"Oh, mother! I didn't recognize you!" exclaimed Clara Durrant, coming
from the opposite direction with Elsbeth. "How delicious," she breathed,
crushing a verbena leaf.

Mrs. Durrant turned and walked away by herself.

"Clara!" she called. Clara went to her.

"How unlike they are!" said Miss Eliot.

Mr. Wortley passed them, smoking a cigar.

"Every day I live I find myself agreeing ..." he said as he passed them.

"It's so interesting to guess ..." murmured Julia Eliot.

"When first we came out we could see the flowers in that bed," said
Elsbeth.

"We see very little now," said Miss Eliot.

"She must have been so beautiful, and everybody loved her, of course,"
said Charlotte. "I suppose Mr. Wortley ..." she paused.

"Edward's death was a tragedy," said Miss Eliot decidedly.

Here Mr. Erskine joined them.

"There's no such thing as silence," he said positively. "I can hear
twenty different sounds on a night like this without counting your
voices."

"Make a bet of it?" said Charlotte.

"Done," said Mr. Erskine. "One, the sea; two, the wind; three, a dog;
four ..."

The others passed on.

"Poor Timothy," said Elsbeth.

"A very fine night," shouted Miss Eliot into Mr. Clutterbuck's ear.

"Like to look at the stars?" said the old man, turning the telescope
towards Elsbeth.

"Doesn't it make you melancholy--looking at the stars?" shouted Miss
Eliot.

"Dear me no, dear me no," Mr. Clutterbuck chuckled when he understood
her. "Why should it make me melancholy? Not for a moment--dear me no."

"Thank you, Timothy, but I'm coming in," said Miss Eliot. "Elsbeth,
here's a shawl."

"I'm coming in," Elsbeth murmured with her eye to the telescope.
"Cassiopeia," she murmured. "Where are you all?" she asked, taking her
eye away from the telescope. "How dark it is!"

Mrs. Durrant sat in the drawing-room by a lamp winding a ball of wool.
Mr. Clutterbuck read the Times. In the distance stood a second lamp, and
round it sat the young ladies, flashing scissors over silver-spangled
stuff for private theatricals. Mr. Wortley read a book.

"Yes; he is perfectly right," said Mrs. Durrant, drawing herself up and
ceasing to wind her wool. And while Mr. Clutterbuck read the rest of
Lord Lansdowne's speech she sat upright, without touching her ball.

"Ah, Mr. Flanders," she said, speaking proudly, as if to Lord Lansdowne
himself. Then she sighed and began to wind her wool again.

"Sit THERE," she said.

Jacob came out from the dark place by the window where he had hovered.
The light poured over him, illuminating every cranny of his skin; but
not a muscle of his face moved as he sat looking out into the garden.

"I want to hear about your voyage," said Mrs. Durrant.

"Yes," he said.

"Twenty years ago we did the same thing."

"Yes," he said. She looked at him sharply.

"He is extraordinarily awkward," she thought, noticing how he fingered
his socks. "Yet so distinguished-looking."

"In those days ..." she resumed, and told him how they had sailed ...
"my husband, who knew a good deal about sailing, for he kept a yacht
before we married" ... and then how rashly they had defied the
fishermen, "almost paid for it with our lives, but so proud of
ourselves!" She flung the hand out that held the ball of wool.

"Shall I hold your wool?" Jacob asked stiffly.

"You do that for your mother," said Mrs. Durrant, looking at him again
keenly, as she transferred the skein. "Yes, it goes much better."

He smiled; but said nothing.

Elsbeth Siddons hovered behind them with something silver on her arm.

"We want," she said. ... "I've come ..." she paused.

"Poor Jacob," said Mrs. Durrant, quietly, as if she had known him all
his life. "They're going to make you act in their play."

"How I love you!" said Elsbeth, kneeling beside Mrs. Durrant's chair.

"Give me the wool," said Mrs. Durrant.

"He's come--he's come!" cried Charlotte Wilding. "I've won my bet!"

"There's another bunch higher up," murmured Clara Durrant, mounting
another step of the ladder. Jacob held the ladder as she stretched out
to reach the grapes high up on the vine.

"There!" she said, cutting through the stalk. She looked semi-
transparent, pale, wonderfully beautiful up there among the vine leaves
and the yellow and purple bunches, the lights swimming over her in
coloured islands. Geraniums and begonias stood in pots along planks;
tomatoes climbed the walls.

"The leaves really want thinning," she considered, and one green one,
spread like the palm of a hand, circled down past Jacob's head.

"I have more than I can eat already," he said, looking up.

"It does seem absurd ..." Clara began, "going back to London. ..."

"Ridiculous," said Jacob, firmly.

"Then ..." said Clara, "you must come next year, properly," she said,
snipping another vine leaf, rather at random.

"If ... if ..."

A child ran past the greenhouse shouting. Clara slowly descended the
ladder with her basket of grapes.

"One bunch of white, and two of purple," she said, and she placed two
great leaves over them where they lay curled warm in the basket.

"I have enjoyed myself," said Jacob, looking down the greenhouse.

"Yes, it's been delightful," she said vaguely.

"Oh, Miss Durrant," he said, taking the basket of grapes; but she walked
past him towards the door of the greenhouse.

"You're too good--too good," she thought, thinking of Jacob, thinking
that he must not say that he loved her. No, no, no.

The children were whirling past the door, throwing things high into the
air.

"Little demons!" she cried. "What have they got?" she asked Jacob.

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

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

"Good-bye," said Jacob. "Good-bye," he repeated. "Good-bye," he said
once more. Charlotte Wilding flung up her bedroom window and cried out:
"Good-bye, Mr. Jacob!"

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

"Too late, Joseph," said Mrs. Durrant.

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




CHAPTER FIVE


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

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

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

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

Dim it is, haunted by ghosts of white marble, to whom the organ for ever
chaunts. If a boot creaks, it's awful; then the order; the discipline.
The verger with his rod has life ironed out beneath him. Sweet and holy
are the angelic choristers. And for ever round the marble shoulders, in
and out of the folded fingers, go the thin high sounds of voice and
organ. For ever requiem--repose. Tired with scrubbing the steps of the
Prudential Society's office, which she did year in year out, Mrs.
Lidgett took her seat beneath the great Duke's tomb, folded her hands,
and half closed her eyes. A magnificent place for an old woman to rest
in, by the very side of the great Duke's bones, whose victories mean
nothing to her, whose name she knows not, though she never fails to
greet the little angels opposite, as she passes out, wishing the like on
her own tomb, for the leathern curtain of the heart has flapped wide,
and out steal on tiptoe thoughts of rest, sweet melodies. ... Old
Spicer, jute merchant, thought nothing of the kind though. Strangely
enough he'd never been in St. Paul's these fifty years, though his
office windows looked on the churchyard. "So that's all? Well, a gloomy
old place. ... Where's Nelson's tomb? No time now--come again--a coin to
leave in the box. ... Rain or fine is it? Well, if it would only make up
its mind!" Idly the children stray in--the verger dissuades them--and
another and another ... man, woman, man, woman, boy ... casting their
eyes up, pursing their lips, the same shadow brushing the same faces;
the leathern curtain of the heart flaps wide.

Nothing could appear more certain from the steps of St. Paul's than that
each person is miraculously provided with coat, skirt, and boots; an
income; an object. Only Jacob, carrying in his hand Finlay's Byzantine
Empire, which he had bought in Ludgate Hill, looked a little different;
for in his hand he carried a book, which book he would at nine-thirty
precisely, by his own fireside, open and study, as no one else of all
these multitudes would do. They have no houses. The streets belong to
them; the shops; the churches; theirs the innumerable desks; the
stretched office lights; the vans are theirs, and the railway slung high
above the street. If you look closer you will see that three elderly men
at a little distance from each other run spiders along the pavement as
if the street were their parlour, and here, against the wall, a woman
stares at nothing, boot-laces extended, which she does not ask you to
buy. The posters are theirs too; and the news on them. A town destroyed;
a race won. A homeless people, circling beneath the sky whose blue or
white is held off by a ceiling cloth of steel filings and horse dung
shredded to dust.

There, under the green shade, with his head bent over white paper, Mr.
Sibley transferred figures to folios, and upon each desk you observe,
like provender, a bunch of papers, the day's nutriment, slowly consumed
by the industrious pen. Innumerable overcoats of the quality prescribed
hung empty all day in the corridors, but as the clock struck six each
was exactly filled, and the little figures, split apart into trousers or
moulded into a single thickness, jerked rapidly with angular forward
motion along the pavement; then dropped into darkness. Beneath the
pavement, sunk in the earth, hollow drains lined with yellow light for
ever conveyed them this way and that, and large letters upon enamel
plates represented in the underworld the parks, squares, and circuses of
the upper. "Marble Arch--Shepherd's Bush"--to the majority the Arch and
the Bush are eternally white letters upon a blue ground. Only at one
point--it may be Acton, Holloway, Kensal Rise, Caledonian Road--does the
name mean shops where you buy things, and houses, in one of which, down
to the right, where the pollard trees grow out of the paving stones,
there is a square curtained window, and a bedroom.

Long past sunset an old blind woman sat on a camp-stool with her back to
the stone wall of the Union of London and Smith's Bank, clasping a brown
mongrel tight in her arms and singing out loud, not for coppers, no,
from the depths of her gay wild heart--her sinful, tanned heart--for the
child who fetches her is the fruit of sin, and should have been in bed,
curtained, asleep, instead of hearing in the lamplight her mother's wild
song, where she sits against the Bank, singing not for coppers, with her
dog against her breast.

Home they went. The grey church spires received them; the hoary city,
old, sinful, and majestic. One behind another, round or pointed,
piercing the sky or massing themselves, like sailing ships, like granite
cliffs, spires and offices, wharves and factories crowd the bank;
eternally the pilgrims trudge; barges rest in mid stream heavy laden; as
some believe, the city loves her prostitutes.

But few, it seems, are admitted to that degree. Of all the carriages
that leave the arch of the Opera House, not one turns eastward, and when
the little thief is caught in the empty market-place no one in black-
and-white or rose-coloured evening dress blocks the way by pausing with
a hand upon the carriage door to help or condemn--though Lady Charles,
to do her justice, sighs sadly as she ascends her staircase, takes down
Thomas a Kempis, and does not sleep till her mind has lost itself
tunnelling into the complexity of things. "Why? Why? Why?" she sighs. On
the whole it's best to walk back from the Opera House. Fatigue is the
safest sleeping draught.

The autumn season was in full swing. Tristan was twitching his rug up
under his armpits twice a week; Isolde waved her scarf in miraculous
sympathy with the conductor's baton. In all parts of the house were to
be found pink faces and glittering breasts. When a Royal hand attached
to an invisible body slipped out and withdrew the red and white bouquet
reposing on the scarlet ledge, the Queen of England seemed a name worth
dying for. Beauty, in its hothouse variety (which is none of the worst),
flowered in box after box; and though nothing was said of profound
importance, and though it is generally agreed that wit deserted
beautiful lips about the time that Walpole died--at any rate when
Victoria in her nightgown descended to meet her ministers, the lips
(through an opera glass) remained red, adorable. Bald distinguished men
with gold-headed canes strolled down the crimson avenues between the
stalls, and only broke from intercourse with the boxes when the lights
went down, and the conductor, first bowing to the Queen, next to the
bald-headed men, swept round on his feet and raised his wand.

Then two thousand hearts in the semi-darkness remembered, anticipated,
travelled dark labyrinths; and Clara Durrant said farewell to Jacob
Flanders, and tasted the sweetness of death in effigy; and Mrs. Durrant,
sitting behind her in the dark of the box, sighed her sharp sigh; and
Mr. Wortley, shifting his position behind the Italian Ambassador's wife,
thought that Brangaena was a trifle hoarse; and suspended in the gallery
many feet above their heads, Edward Whittaker surreptitiously held a
torch to his miniature score; and ... and ...

In short, the observer is choked with observations. Only to prevent us
from being submerged by chaos, nature and society between them have
arranged a system of classification which is simplicity itself; stalls,
boxes, amphitheatre, gallery. The moulds are filled nightly. There is no
need to distinguish details. But the difficulty remains--one has to
choose. For though I have no wish to be Queen of England or only for a
moment--I would willingly sit beside her; I would hear the Prime
Minister's gossip; the countess whisper, and share her memories of halls
and gardens; the massive fronts of the respectable conceal after all
their secret code; or why so impermeable? And then, doffing one's own
headpiece, how strange to assume for a moment some one's--any one's--to
be a man of valour who has ruled the Empire; to refer while Brangaena
sings to the fragments of Sophocles, or see in a flash, as the shepherd
pipes his tune, bridges and aqueducts. But no--we must choose. Never was
there a harsher necessity! or one which entails greater pain, more
certain disaster; for wherever I seat myself, I die in exile: Whittaker
in his lodging-house; Lady Charles at the Manor.

A young man with a Wellington nose, who had occupied a seven-and-
sixpenny seat, made his way down the stone stairs when the opera ended,
as if he were still set a little apart from his fellows by the influence
of the music.

At midnight Jacob Flanders heard a rap on his door.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "You're the very man I want!" and without more
ado they discovered the lines which he had been seeking all day; only
they come not in Virgil, but in Lucretius.

"Yes; that should make him sit up," said Bonamy, as Jacob stopped
reading. Jacob was excited. It was the first time he had read his essay
aloud.

"Damned swine!" he said, rather too extravagantly; but the praise had
gone to his head. Professor Bulteel, of Leeds, had issued an edition of
Wycherley without stating that he had left out, disembowelled, or
indicated only by asterisks, several indecent words and some indecent
phrases. An outrage, Jacob said; a breach of faith; sheer prudery; token
of a lewd mind and a disgusting nature. Aristophanes and Shakespeare
were cited. Modern life was repudiated. Great play was made with the
professional title, and Leeds as a seat of learning was laughed to
scorn. And the extraordinary thing was that these young men were
perfectly right--extraordinary, because, even as Jacob copied his pages,
he knew that no one would ever print them; and sure enough back they
came from the Fortnightly, the Contemporary, the Nineteenth Century--
when Jacob threw them into the black wooden box where he kept his
mother's letters, his old flannel trousers, and a note or two with the
Cornish postmark. The lid shut upon the truth.

This black wooden box, upon which his name was still legible in white
paint, stood between the long windows of the sitting-room. The street
ran beneath. No doubt the bedroom was behind. The furniture--three
wicker chairs and a gate-legged table--came from Cambridge. These houses
(Mrs. Garfit's daughter, Mrs. Whitehorn, was the landlady of this one)
were built, say, a hundred and fifty years ago. The rooms are shapely,
the ceilings high; over the doorway a rose, or a ram's skull, is carved
in the wood. The eighteenth century has its distinction. Even the
panels, painted in raspberry-coloured paint, have their distinction. ...

"Distinction"--Mrs. Durrant said that Jacob Flanders was "distinguished-
looking." "Extremely awkward," she said, "but so distinguished-looking."
Seeing him for the first time that no doubt is the word for him. Lying
back in his chair, taking his pipe from his lips, and saying to Bonamy:
"About this opera now" (for they had done with indecency). "This fellow
Wagner" ... distinction was one of the words to use naturally, though,
from looking at him, one would have found it difficult to say which seat
in the opera house was his, stalls, gallery, or dress circle. A writer?
He lacked self-consciousness. A painter? There was something in the
shape of his hands (he was descended on his mother's side from a family
of the greatest antiquity and deepest obscurity) which indicated taste.
Then his mouth--but surely, of all futile occupations this of
cataloguing features is the worst. One word is sufficient. But if one
cannot find it?

"I like Jacob Flanders," wrote Clara Durrant in her diary. "He is so
unworldly. He gives himself no airs, and one can say what one likes to
him, though he's frightening because ..." But Mr. Letts allows little
space in his shilling diaries. Clara was not the one to encroach upon
Wednesday. Humblest, most candid of women! "No, no, no," she sighed,
standing at the greenhouse door, "don't break--don't spoil"--what?
Something infinitely wonderful.

But then, this is only a young woman's language, one, too, who loves, or
refrains from loving. She wished the moment to continue for ever
precisely as it was that July morning. And moments don't. Now, for
instance, Jacob was telling a story about some walking tour he'd taken,
and the inn was called "The Foaming Pot," which, considering the
landlady's name ... They shouted with laughter. The joke was indecent.

Then Julia Eliot said "the silent young man," and as she dined with
Prime Ministers, no doubt she meant: "If he is going to get on in the
world, he will have to find his tongue."

Timothy Durrant never made any comment at all.

The housemaid found herself very liberally rewarded.

Mr. Sopwith's opinion was as sentimental as Clara's, though far more
skilfully expressed.

Betty Flanders was romantic about Archer and tender about John; she was
unreasonably irritated by Jacob's clumsiness in the house.

Captain Barfoot liked him best of the boys; but as for saying why ...

It seems then that men and women are equally at fault. It seems that a
profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures
is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are
cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any
case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that
we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being
shadows. And why, if this--and much more than this is true, why are we
yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man
in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most
solid, the best known to us--why indeed? For the moment after we know
nothing about him.

Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love.

("I'm twenty-two. It's nearly the end of October. Life is thoroughly
pleasant, although unfortunately there are a great number of fools
about. One must apply oneself to something or other--God knows what.
Everything is really very jolly--except getting up in the morning and
wearing a tail coat.")

"I say, Bonamy, what about Beethoven?"

("Bonamy is an amazing fellow. He knows practically everything--not more
about English literature than I do--but then he's read all those
Frenchmen.")

"I rather suspect you're talking rot, Bonamy. In spite of what you say,
poor old Tennyson. ..."

("The truth is one ought to have been taught French. Now, I suppose, old
Barfoot is talking to my mother. That's an odd affair to be sure. But I
can't see Bonamy down there. Damn London!") for the market carts were
lumbering down the street.

"What about a walk on Saturday?"

("What's happening on Saturday?")

Then, taking out his pocket-book, he assured himself that the night of
the Durrants' party came next week.

But though all this may very well be true--so Jacob thought and spoke--
so he crossed his legs--filled his pipe--sipped his whisky, and once
looked at his pocket-book, rumpling his hair as he did so, there remains
over something which can never be conveyed to a second person save by
Jacob himself. Moreover, part of this is not Jacob but Richard Bonamy--
the room; the market carts; the hour; the very moment of history. Then
consider the effect of sex--how between man and woman it hangs wavy,
tremulous, so that here's a valley, there's a peak, when in truth,
perhaps, all's as flat as my hand. Even the exact words get the wrong
accent on them. But something is always impelling one to hum vibrating,
like the hawk moth, at the mouth of the cavern of mystery, endowing
Jacob Flanders with all sorts of qualities he had not at all--for
though, certainly, he sat talking to Bonamy, half of what he said was
too dull to repeat; much unintelligible (about unknown people and
Parliament); what remains is mostly a matter of guess work. Yet over him
we hang vibrating.

"Yes," said Captain Barfoot, knocking out his pipe on Betty Flanders's
hob, and buttoning his coat. "It doubles the work, but I don't mind
that."

He was now town councillor. They looked at the night, which was the same
as the London night, only a good deal more transparent. Church bells
down in the town were striking eleven o'clock. The wind was off the sea.
And all the bedroom windows were dark--the Pages were asleep; the
Garfits were asleep; the Cranches were asleep--whereas in London at this
hour they were burning Guy Fawkes on Parliament Hill.




CHAPTER SIX


The flames had fairly caught.

"There's St. Paul's!" some one cried.

As the wood caught the city of London was lit up for a second; on other
sides of the fire there were trees. Of the faces which came out fresh
and vivid as though painted in yellow and red, the most prominent was a
girl's face. By a trick of the firelight she seemed to have no body. The
oval of the face and hair hung beside the fire with a dark vacuum for
background. As if dazed by the glare, her green-blue eyes stared at the
flames. Every muscle of her face was taut. There was something tragic in
her thus staring--her age between twenty and twenty-five.

A hand descending from the chequered darkness thrust on her head the
conical white hat of a pierrot. Shaking her head, she still stared. A
whiskered face appeared above her. They dropped two legs of a table upon
the fire and a scattering of twigs and leaves. All this blazed up and
showed faces far back, round, pale, smooth, bearded, some with billycock
hats on; all intent; showed too St. Paul's floating on the uneven white
mist, and two or three narrow, paper-white, extinguisher-shaped spires.

The flames were struggling through the wood and roaring up when,
goodness knows where from, pails flung water in beautiful hollow shapes,
as of polished tortoiseshell; flung again and again; until the hiss was
like a swarm of bees; and all the faces went out.

"Oh Jacob," said the girl, as they pounded up the hill in the dark, "I'm
so fright