An Unwritten Novel by Virginia Woolf Audiobook + PDF

An Unwritten Novel
by Virginia Woolf Such an expression of unhappiness was enough
by itself to make one’s eyes slide above the paper’s edge to the poor woman’s face–insignificant
without that look, almost a symbol of human destiny with it. Life’s what you see in people’s
eyes; life’s what they learn, and, having learnt it, never, though they seek to hide
it, cease to be aware of–what? That life’s like that, it seems. Five faces opposite–five
mature faces–and the knowledge in each face. Strange, though, how people want to conceal
it! Marks of reticence are on all those faces: lips shut, eyes shaded, each one of the five
doing something to hide or stultify his knowledge. One smokes; another reads; a third checks
entries in a pocket book; a fourth stares at the map of the line framed opposite; and
the fifth–the terrible thing about the fifth is that she does nothing at all. She looks
at life. Ah, but my poor, unfortunate woman, do play the game–do, for all our sakes, conceal
it! As if she heard me, she looked up, shifted
slightly in her seat and sighed. She seemed to apologise and at the same time to say to
me, “If only you knew!” Then she looked at life again. “But I do know,” I answered silently,
glancing at the Times for manners’ sake. “I know the whole business. ‘Peace between Germany
and the Allied Powers was yesterday officially ushered in at Paris–Signor Nitti, the Italian
Prime Minister–a passenger train at Doncaster was in collision with a goods train…’ We
all know–the Times knows–but we pretend we don’t.” My eyes had once more crept over
the paper’s rim. She shuddered, twitched her arm queerly to the middle of her back and
shook her head. Again I dipped into my great reservoir of life. “Take what you like,” I
continued, “births, death, marriages, Court Circular, the habits of birds, Leonardo da
Vinci, the Sandhills murder, high wages and the cost of living–oh, take what you like,”
I repeated, “it’s all in the Times!” Again with infinite weariness she moved her head
from side to side until, like a top exhausted with spinning, it settled on her neck.
The Times was no protection against such sorrow as hers. But other human beings forbade intercourse.
The best thing to do against life was to fold the paper so that it made a perfect square,
crisp, thick, impervious even to life. This done, I glanced up quickly, armed with a shield
of my own. She pierced through my shield; she gazed into my eyes as if searching any
sediment of courage at the depths of them and damping it to clay. Her twitch alone denied
all hope, discounted all illusion. So we rattled through Surrey and across the
border into Sussex. But with my eyes upon life I did not see that the other travellers
had left, one by one, till, save for the man who read, we were alone together. Here was
Three Bridges station. We drew slowly down the platform and stopped. Was he going to
leave us? I prayed both ways–I prayed last that he might stay. At that instant he roused
himself, crumpled his paper contemptuously, like a thing done with, burst open the door,
and left us alone. The unhappy woman, leaning a little forward,
palely and colourlessly addressed me–talked of stations and holidays, of brothers at Eastbourne,
and the time of the year, which was, I forget now, early or late. But at last looking from
the window and seeing, I knew, only life, she breathed, “Staying away–that’s the drawback
of it–” Ah, now we approached the catastrophe, “My sister-in-law”–the bitterness of her
tone was like lemon on cold steel, and speaking, not to me, but to herself, she muttered, “nonsense,
she would say–that’s what they all say,” and while she spoke she fidgeted as though
the skin on her back were as a plucked fowl’s in a poulterer’s shop-window.
“Oh, that cow!” she broke off nervously, as though the great wooden cow in the meadow
had shocked her and saved her from some indiscretion. Then she shuddered, and then she made the
awkward, angular movement that I had seen before, as if, after the spasm, some spot
between the shoulders burnt or itched. Then again she looked the most unhappy woman in
the world, and I once more reproached her, though not with the same conviction, for if
there were a reason, and if I knew the reason, the stigma was removed from life.
“Sisters-in-law,” I said– Her lips pursed as if to spit venom at the
word; pursed they remained. All she did was to take her glove and rub hard at a spot on
the window-pane. She rubbed as if she would rub something out for ever–some stain, some
indelible contamination. Indeed, the spot remained for all her rubbing, and back she
sank with the shudder and the clutch of the arm I had come to expect. Something impelled
me to take my glove and rub my window. There, too, was a little speck on the glass. For
all my rubbing, it remained. And then the spasm went through me; I crooked my arm and
plucked at the middle of my back. My skin, too, felt like the damp chicken’s skin in
the poulterer’s shop-window; one spot between the shoulders itched and irritated, felt clammy,
felt raw. Could I reach it? Surreptitiously I tried. She saw me. A smile of infinite irony,
infinite sorrow, flitted and faded from her face. But she had communicated, shared her
secret, passed her poison; she would speak no more. Leaning back in my corner, shielding
my eyes from her eyes, seeing only the slopes and hollows, greys and purples, of the winter’s
landscape, I read her message, deciphered her secret, reading it beneath her gaze.
Hilda’s the sister-in-law. Hilda? Hilda? Hilda Marsh–Hilda the blooming, the full bosomed,
the matronly. Hilda stands at the door as the cab draws up, holding a coin. “Poor Minnie,
more of a grasshopper than ever–old cloak she had last year. Well, well, with two children
these days one can’t do more. No, Minnie, I’ve got it; here you are, cabby–none of
your ways with me. Come in, Minnie. Oh, I could carry you, let alone your basket!” So
they go into the dining-room. “Aunt Minnie, children.”
Slowly the knives and forks sink from the upright. Down they get (Bob and Barbara),
hold out hands stiffly; back again to their chairs, staring between the resumed mouthfuls.
[But this we’ll skip; ornaments, curtains, trefoil china plate, yellow oblongs of cheese,
white squares of biscuit–skip–oh, but wait! Half-way through luncheon one of those shivers;
Bob stares at her, spoon in mouth. “Get on with your pudding, Bob;” but Hilda disapproves.
“Why should she twitch?” Skip, skip, till we reach the landing on the upper floor; stairs
brass-bound; linoleum worn; oh, yes! little bedroom looking out over the roofs of Eastbourne–zigzagging
roofs like the spines of caterpillars, this way, that way, striped red and yellow, with
blue-black slating]. Now, Minnie, the door’s shut; Hilda heavily descends to the basement;
you unstrap the straps of your basket, lay on the bed a meagre nightgown, stand side
by side furred felt slippers. The looking-glass–no, you avoid the looking-glass. Some methodical
disposition of hat-pins. Perhaps the shell box has something in it? You shake it; it’s
the pearl stud there was last year–that’s all. And then the sniff, the sigh, the sitting
by the window. Three o’clock on a December afternoon; the rain drizzling; one light low
in the skylight of a drapery emporium; another high in a servant’s bedroom–this one goes
out. That gives her nothing to look at. A moment’s blankness–then, what are you thinking?
(Let me peep across at her opposite; she’s asleep or pretending it; so what would she
think about sitting at the window at three o’clock in the afternoon? Health, money, hills,
her God?) Yes, sitting on the very edge of the chair looking over the roofs of Eastbourne,
Minnie Marsh prays to God. That’s all very well; and she may rub the pane too, as though
to see God better; but what God does she see? Who’s the God of Minnie Marsh, the God of
the back streets of Eastbourne, the God of three o’clock in the afternoon? I, too, see
roofs, I see sky; but, oh, dear–this seeing of Gods! More like President Kruger than Prince
Albert–that’s the best I can do for him; and I see him on a chair, in a black frock-coat,
not so very high up either; I can manage a cloud or two for him to sit on; and then his
hand trailing in the clouds holds a rod, a truncheon is it?–black, thick, horned–a
brutal old bully–Minnie’s God! Did he send the itch and the patch and the twitch? Is
that why she prays? What she rubs on the window is the stain of sin. Oh, she committed some
crime! I have my choice of crimes. The woods flit
and fly–in summer there are bluebells; in the opening there, when Spring comes, primroses.
A parting, was it, twenty years ago? Vows broken? Not Minnie’s!…She was faithful.
How she nursed her mother! All her savings on the tombstone–wreaths under glass–daffodils
in jars. But I’m off the track. A crime…They would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed
her secret–her sex, they’d say–the scientific people. But what flummery to saddle her with
sex! No–more like this. Passing down the streets of Croyden twenty years ago, the violet
loops of ribbon in the draper’s window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. She lingers–past
six. Still by running she can reach home. She pushes through the glass swing door. It’s
sale-time. Shallow trays brim with ribbons. She pauses, pulls this, fingers that with
the raised roses on it–no need to choose, no need to buy, and each tray with its surprises.
“We don’t shut till seven,” and then it is seven. She runs, she rushes, home she reaches,
but too late. Neighbours–the doctor–baby brother–the kettle–scalded–hospital–dead–or
only the shock of it, the blame? Ah, but the detail matters nothing! It’s what she carries
with her; the spot, the crime, the thing to expiate, always there between her shoulders.
“Yes,” she seems to nod to me, “it’s the thing I did.”
Whether you did, or what you did, I don’t mind; it’s not the thing I want. The draper’s
window looped with violet–that’ll do; a little cheap perhaps, a little commonplace–since
one has a choice of crimes, but then so many (let me peep across again–still sleeping,
or pretending to sleep! white, worn, the mouth closed–a touch of obstinacy, more than one
would think–no hint of sex)–so many crimes aren’t your crime; your crime was cheap; only
the retribution solemn; for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her;
on the brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she’s at
it) prays. All her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. The spot receives them. It’s raised,
it’s red, it’s burning. Next she twitches. Small boys point. “Bob at lunch to-day”–But
elderly women are the worst. Indeed now you can’t sit praying any longer.
Kruger’s sunk beneath the clouds–washed over as with a painter’s brush of liquid grey,
to which he adds a tinge of black–even the tip of the truncheon gone now. That’s what
always happens! Just as you’ve seen him, felt him, someone interrupts. It’s Hilda now.
How you hate her! She’ll even lock the bathroom door overnight, too, though it’s only cold
water you want, and sometimes when the night’s been bad it seems as if washing helped. And
John at breakfast–the children–meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends–ferns
don’t altogether hide ’em–they guess, too; so out you go along the front, where the waves
are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass shelters green and draughty, and the chairs
cost tuppence–too much–for there must be preachers along the sands. Ah, that’s a nigger–that’s
a funny man–that’s a man with parakeets–poor little creatures! Is there no one here who
thinks of God?–just up there, over the pier, with his rod–but no–there’s nothing but
grey in the sky or if it’s blue the white clouds hide him, and the music–it’s military
music–and what are they fishing for? Do they catch them? How the children stare! Well,
then home a back way–“Home a back way!” The words have meaning; might have been spoken
by the old man with whiskers–no, no, he didn’t really speak; but everything has meaning–placards
leaning against doorways–names above shop-windows–red fruit in baskets–women’s heads in the hairdresser’s–all
say “Minnie Marsh!” But here’s a jerk. “Eggs are cheaper!” That’s what always happens!
I was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep,
she turns t’other way and runs between my fingers. Eggs are cheaper. Tethered to the
shores of the world, none of the crimes, sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor Minnie
Marsh; never late for luncheon; never caught in a storm without a mackintosh; never utterly
unconscious of the cheapness of eggs. So she reaches home–scrapes her boots.
Have I read you right? But the human face–the human face at the top of the fullest sheet
of print holds more, withholds more. Now, eyes open, she looks out; and in the human
eye–how d’you define it?–there’s a break–a division–so that when you’ve grasped the
stem the butterfly’s off–the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow flower–move,
raise your hand, off, high, away. I won’t raise my hand. Hang still, then, quiver, life,
soul, spirit, whatever you are of Minnie Marsh–I, too, on my flower–the hawk over the down–alone,
or what were the worth of life? To rise; hang still in the evening, in the midday; hang
still over the down. The flicker of a hand–off, up! then poised again. Alone, unseen; seeing
all so still down there, all so lovely. None seeing, none caring. The eyes of others our
prisons; their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and immortality…Oh,
but I drop to the turf! Are you down too, you in the corner, what’s your name–woman–Minnie
Marsh; some such name as that? There she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand-bag,
from which she takes a hollow shell–an egg–who was saying that eggs were cheaper? You or
I? Oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly
opening his umbrella–or sneezing was it? Anyhow, Kruger went, and you came “home a
back way,” and scraped your boots. Yes. And now you lay across your knees a pocket-handkerchief
into which drop little angular fragments of eggshell–fragments of a map–a puzzle. I
wish I could piece them together! If you would only sit still. She’s moved her knees–the
map’s in bits again. Down the slopes of the Andes the white blocks of marble go bounding
and hurtling, crushing to death a whole troop of Spanish muleteers, with their convoy–Drake’s
booty, gold and silver. But to return– To what, to where? She opened the door, and,
putting her umbrella in the stand–that goes without saying; so, too, the whiff of beef
from the basement; dot, dot, dot. But what I cannot thus eliminate, what I must, head
down, eyes shut, with the courage of a battalion and the blindness of a bull, charge and disperse
are, indubitably, the figures behind the ferns, commercial travellers. There I’ve hidden them
all this time in the hope that somehow they’d disappear, or better still emerge, as indeed
they must, if the story’s to go on gathering richness and rotundity, destiny and tragedy,
as stories should, rolling along with it two, if not three, commercial travellers and a
whole grove of aspidistra. “The fronds of the aspidistra only partly concealed the commercial
traveller–” Rhododendrons would conceal him utterly, and into the bargain give me my fling
of red and white, for which I starve and strive; but rhododendrons in Eastbourne–in December–on
the Marshes’ table–no, no, I dare not; it’s all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills
and ferns. Perhaps there’ll be a moment later by the sea. Moreover, I feel, pleasantly pricking
through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass, a desire to peer and peep at
the man opposite–one’s as much as I can manage. James Moggridge is it, whom the Marshes call
Jimmy? [Minnie, you must promise not to twitch till I’ve got this straight]. James Moggridge
travels in–shall we say buttons?–but the time’s not come for bringing them in–the
big and the little on the long cards, some peacock-eyed, others dull gold; cairngorms
some, and others coral sprays–but I say the time’s not come. He travels, and on Thursdays,
his Eastbourne day, takes his meals with the Marshes. His red face, his little steady eyes–by
no means altogether commonplace–his enormous appetite (that’s safe; he won’t look at Minnie
till the bread’s swamped the gravy dry), napkin tucked diamond-wise–but this is primitive,
and whatever it may do the reader, don’t take me in. Let’s dodge to the Moggridge household,
set that in motion. Well, the family boots are mended on Sundays by James himself. He
reads Truth. But his passion? Roses–and his wife a retired hospital nurse–interesting–for
God’s sake let me have one woman with a name I like! But no; she’s of the unborn children
of the mind, illicit, none the less loved, like my rhododendrons. How many die in every
novel that’s written–the best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. It’s life’s fault.
Here’s Minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at t’other end of the line–are
we past Lewes?–there must be Jimmy–or what’s her twitch for?
There must be Moggridge–life’s fault. Life imposes her laws; life blocks the way; life’s
behind the fern; life’s the tyrant; oh, but not the bully! No, for I assure you I come
willingly; I come wooed by Heaven knows what compulsion across ferns and cruets, tables
splashed and bottles smeared. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh,
in the robust spine, wherever I can penetrate or find foothold on the person, in the soul,
of Moggridge the man. The enormous stability of the fabric; the spine tough as whalebone,
straight as oak-tree; the ribs radiating branches; the flesh taut tarpaulin; the red hollows;
the suck and regurgitation of the heart; while from above meat falls in brown cubes and beer
gushes to be churned to blood again–and so we reach the eyes. Behind the aspidistra they
see something; black, white, dismal; now the plate again; behind the aspidistra they see
elderly woman; “Marsh’s sister, Hilda’s more my sort;” the tablecloth now. “Marsh would
know what’s wrong with Morrises…” talk that over; cheese has come; the plate again; turn
it round–the enormous fingers; now the woman opposite. “Marsh’s sister–not a bit like
Marsh; wretched, elderly female….You should feed your hens….God’s truth, what’s set
her twitching? Not what I said? Dear, dear, dear! These elderly women. Dear, dear!”
[Yes, Minnie; I know you’ve twitched, but one moment–James Moggridge].
“Dear, dear, dear!” How beautiful the sound is! like the knock of a mallet on seasoned
timber, like the throb of the heart of an ancient whaler when the seas press thick and
the green is clouded. “Dear, dear!” what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful
to soothe them and solace them, lap them in linen, saying, “So long. Good luck to you!”
and then, “What’s your pleasure?” for though Moggridge would pluck his rose for her, that’s
done, that’s over. Now what’s the next thing? “Madam, you’ll miss your train,” for they
don’t linger. That’s the man’s way; that’s the sound that
reverberates; that’s St. Paul’s and the motor-omnibuses. But we’re brushing the crumbs off. Oh, Moggridge,
you won’t stay? You must be off? Are you driving through Eastbourne this afternoon in one of
those little carriages? Are you the man who’s walled up in green cardboard boxes, and sometimes
has the blinds down, and sometimes sits so solemn staring like a sphinx, and always there’s
a look of the sepulchral, something of the undertaker, the coffin, and the dusk about
horse and driver? Do tell me–but the doors slammed. We shall never meet again. Moggridge,
farewell! Yes, yes, I’m coming. Right up to the top
of the house. One moment I’ll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind–what a swirl
these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there,
striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself,
and again through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some
prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people
one never meets again. James Moggridge is dead now, gone for ever.
Well, Minnie–“I can face it no longer.” If she said that–(Let me look at her. She is
brushing the eggshell into deep declivities). She said it certainly, leaning against the
wall of the bedroom, and plucking at the little balls which edge the claret-coloured curtain.
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?–the entombed soul, the spirit
driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world–a
coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and
down the dark corridors. “I can bear it no longer,” her spirit says. “That man at lunch–Hilda–the
children.” Oh, heavens, her sob! It’s the spirit wailing its destiny, the spirit driven
hither, thither, lodging on the diminishing carpets–meagre footholds–shrunken shreds
of all the vanishing universe–love, life, faith, husband, children, I know not what
splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood. “Not for me–not for me.”
But then–the muffins, the bald elderly dog? Bead mats I should fancy and the consolation
of underlinen. If Minnie Marsh were run over and taken to hospital, nurses and doctors
themselves would exclaim….There’s the vista and the vision–there’s the distance–the
blue blot at the end of the avenue, while, after all, the tea is rich, the muffin hot,
and the dog–“Benny, to your basket, sir, and see what mother’s brought you!” So, taking
the glove with the worn thumb, defying once more the encroaching demon of what’s called
going in holes, you renew the fortifications, threading the grey wool, running it in and
out. Running it in and out, across and over, spinning
a web through which God himself–hush, don’t think of God! How firm the stitches are! You
must be proud of your darning. Let nothing disturb her. Let the light fall gently, and
the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leaf. Let the sparrow perch on the twig
and shake the raindrop hanging to the twig’s elbow…. Why look up? Was it a sound, a thought?
Oh, heavens! Back again to the thing you did, the plate glass with the violet loops? But
Hilda will come. Ignominies, humiliations, oh! Close the breach.
Having mended her glove, Minnie Marsh lays it in the drawer. She shuts the drawer with
decision. I catch sight of her face in the glass. Lips are pursed. Chin held high. Next
she laces her shoes. Then she touches her throat. What’s your brooch? Mistletoe or merry-thought?
And what is happening? Unless I’m much mistaken, the pulse’s quickened, the moment’s coming,
the threads are racing, Niagara’s ahead. Here’s the crisis! Heaven be with you! Down she goes.
Courage, courage! Face it, be it! For God’s sake don’t wait on the mat now! There’s the
door! I’m on your side. Speak! Confront her, confound her soul!
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, this is Eastbourne. I’ll reach it down for you. Let me try the
handle.” [But, Minnie, though we keep up pretences, I’ve read you right–I’m with you now].
“That’s all your luggage?” “Much obliged, I’m sure.”
(But why do you look about you? Hilda won’t come to the station, nor John; and Moggridge
is driving at the far side of Eastbourne). “I’ll wait by my bag, ma’am, that’s safest.
He said he’d meet me….Oh, there he is! That’s my son.”
So they walked off together. Well, but I’m confounded….Surely, Minnie,
you know better! A strange young man….Stop! I’ll tell him–Minnie!–Miss Marsh!–I don’t
know though. There’s something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but it’s untrue; it’s
indecent….Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. What’s
the joke? Off they go, down the road, side by side….Well, my world’s done for! What
do I stand on? What do I know? That’s not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am
I? Life’s bare as bone. And yet the last look of them–he stepping
from the kerb and she following him round the edge of the big building brims me with
wonder–floods me anew. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk
down the street? Where to-night will you sleep, and then, to-morrow? Oh, how it whirls and
surges–floats me afresh! I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white
light splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens.
Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you, turning the corner, mothers
and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the
landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go
through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you, unknown figures, you I adore; if I open
my arms, it’s you I embrace, you I draw to me–adorable world!

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