Now cast your cares behind you.
Night passes: here is Day.
Digging and delving, the villagers sang passing in single file in and out between the trees, for the earth is always the same, summer and winter and spring; and spring and winter again; ploughing and sowing, eating and growing; time passes. . . .
The wind blew the words away.
The dance stopped. The nymphs and swains withdrew. Reason held the centre of the stage alone. Her arms extended, her robes flowing, holding orb and sceptre, Mabel Hopkins stood sublimely looking over the heads of the audience. The audience gazed at her. She ignored the audience. Then while she gazed, helpers from the bushes arranged round her what appeared to be the three sides of a room. In the middle they stood a table. On the table they placed a china tea service. Reason surveyed this domestic scene from her lofty eminence unmoved. There was a pause.
“Another scene from another play, I suppose,” said Mrs. Elmhurst, referring to her programme. She read out for the benefit of her husband, who was deaf: “Where there’s a Will there’s a Way. That’s the name of the play. And the characters. . . .” She read out: “Lady Harpy Harraden, in love with Sir Spaniel Lilyliver. Deb, her maid. Flavinda, her niece, in love with Valentine. Sir Spaniel Lilyliver, in love with Flavinda. Sir Smirking Peace-be-with-you-all, a clergyman. Lord and Lady Fribble. Valentine, in love with Flavinda. What names for real people! But look — here they come!”
Out they came from the bushes — men in flowered waistcoats, white waistcoats and buckled shoes; women wearing brocades tucked up, hooped and draped; glass stars, blue ribands and imitation pearls made them look the very image of Lords and Ladies.
“The first scene,” Mrs. Elmhurst whispered into her husband’s ear, “is Lady Harraden’s dressing-room. . . . That’s her. . . .” She pointed. “Mrs. Otter, I think, from the End House; but she’s wonderfully made up. And that’s Deb her maid. Who she is, I don’t know.”
“Hush, hush, hush,” someone protested.
Mrs. Elmhurst dropped her programme. The play had begun.
Lady Harpy Harraden entered her dressing-room, followed by Deb her maid.
LADY H. H. . . . Give me the pounce-box. Then the patch. Hand me the mirror, girl. So. Now my wig. . . . A pox on the girl — she’s dreaming!
DEB . . . I was thinking, my lady, what the gentleman said when he saw you in the Park.
LADY H. H. (gazing in the glass) So, so — what was it? Some silly trash! Cupid’s dart — hah, hah! lighting his taper — tush — at my eyes. . . . pooh! That was in milord’s time, twenty years since. . . . But now — what’ll he say of me now? (She looks in the mirror) Sir Spaniel Lilyliver, I mean . . . (a rap at the door) Hark! That’s his chaise at the door. Run child. Don’t stand gaping.
DEB . . . (going to the door) Say? He’ll rattle his tongue as a gambler rattles dice in a box. He’ll find no words to fit you. He’ll stand like a pig in a poke. . . . Your servant, Sir Spaniel.
Enter Sir Spaniel.
SIR S. L. . . . Hail, my fair Saint! What, out o’ bed so early? Methought, as I came along the Mall the air was something brighter than usual. Here’s the reason. . . . Venus, Aphrodite, upon my word a very galaxy, a constellation! As I’m a sinner, a very Aurora Borealis!
(He sweeps his hat off.)
LADY H. H. Oh flatterer, flatterer! I know your ways. But come. Sit down. . . . A glass of Aqua Vitae. Take this seat, Sir Spaniel. I’ve something very private and particular to say to you. . . . You had my letter, Sir?
SIR S. L. . . . Pinned to my heart!
(He strikes his breast.)
LADY H. H. . . . I have a favour to ask of you, Sir.
SIR S. L. . . . (singing) What favour could fair Chloe ask that Damon would not get her? . . . A done with rhymes. Rhymes are still-a-bed. Let’s speak prose. What can Asphodilla ask of her plain servant Lilyliver? Speak out, Madam. An ape with a ring in his nose, or a strong young jackanapes to tell tales of us when we’re no longer here to tell truth about ourselves?
LADY H. H. (flirting her fan) Fie, fie, Sir Spaniel. You make me blush — you do indeed. But come closer. (She shifts her seat nearer to him) We don’t want the whole world to hear us.
SIR S. L. (aside) Come closer? A pox on my life! The old hag stinks like a red herring that’s been stood over head in a tar barrel! (Aloud) Your meaning, Madam? You were saying?
LADY H. H. I have a niece, Sir Spaniel, Flavinda by name.
SIR S. L. (aside) Why that’s the girl I love, to be sure! (Aloud) You have a niece, madam? I seem to remember hearing so. An only child, left by your brother, so I’ve heard, in your Ladyship’s charge — him that perished at sea.
LADY H. H. The very same Sir. She’s of age now and marriageable. I’ve kept her close as a weevil, Sir Spaniel, wrapped in the sere cloths of her virginity. Only maids about her, never a man to my knowledge, save Clout the serving man, who has a wart on his nose and a face like a nutgrater. Yet some fool has caught her fancy. Some gilded fly — some Harry, Dick; call him what you will.
SIR S. L. (aside) That’s young Valentine, I warrant. I caught ’em at the play together. (Aloud) Say you so, Madam?
LADY H. H. She’s not so ill favoured, Sir Spaniel — there’s beauty in our line — but that a gentleman of taste and breeding like yourself now might take pity on her.
SIR S. L. Saving your presence, Madam. Eyes that have seen the sun are not so easily dazzled by the lesser lights — the Cassiopeias, Aldebarans, Great Bears and so on — A fig for them when the sun’s up!
LADY H. H. (ogling him) You praise my hair-dresser, Sir, or my ear-rings (she shakes her head).
SIR S. L. (aside) She jingles like a she-ass at a fair! She’s rigged like a barber’s pole of a May Day. (Aloud) Your commands, Madam?
LADY H. H. Well Sir, t’was this way Sir. Brother Bob, for my father was a plain country gentleman and would have none of the fancy names the foreigners brought with ’em — Asphodilla I call myself, but my Christian name’s plain Sue — Brother Bob, as I was telling you, ran away to sea; and, so they say, became Emperor of the Indies; where the very stones are emeralds and the sheep-crop rubies. Which, for a tenderer-hearted man never lived, he would have brought back with him, Sir, to mend the family fortunes, Sir. But the brig, frigate or what they call it, for I’ve no head for sea terms, never crossed a ditch without saying the Lord’s Prayer backwards, struck a rock. The Whale had him. But the cradle was by the bounty of Heaven washed ashore. With the girl in it; Flavinda here. What’s more to the point, with the Will in it; safe and sound; wrapped in parchment. Brother Bob’s Will. Deb there! Deb I say! Deb!
(She hollas for Deb)
SIR S. L. (aside) Ah hah! I smell a rat! A will, quotha! Where there’s a Will there’s a Way.
LADY H. H. (bawling) The Will, Deb! The Will! In the ebony box by the right hand of the escritoire opposite the window. . . . A pox on the girl! She’s dreaming. It’s these romances, Sir Spaniel — these romances. Can’t see a candle gutter but its her heart that’s melting, or snuff a wick without reciting all the names in Cupid’s Calendar . . .
(Enter Deb carrying a parchment)
LADY H. H. So . . . Give it here. The Will. Brother Bob’s Will (she mumbles over the Will).
LADY H. H. To cut the matter short, Sir, for these lawyers even at the Antipodes are a long-winded race —
SIR S. L. To match their ears, Ma’am —
LADY H. H. Very true, very true. To cut the matter short, Sir, my brother Bob left all he died possessed of to his only child Flavinda; with this proviso, mark ye. That she marry to her Aunt’s liking. Her Aunt; that’s me. Otherwise, mark ye, all — to wit ten bushels of diamonds; item of rubies; item two hundred square miles of fertile territory bounding the River Amazon to the Nor-Nor-East; item his snuff box; item his flageolet — he was always one to love a tune, sir, Brother Bob; item six Macaws and as many Concubines as he had with him at the time of his decease — all this with other trifles needless to specify he left, mark ye, sho
uld she fail to marry to her Aunt’s liking — that’s me — to found a Chapel, Sir Spaniel, where six poor Virgins should sing hymns in perpetuity for the repose of his soul — which, to speak the truth, Sir Spaniel, poor Brother Bob stands in need of, perambulating the Gulf Stream as he is and consorting with Syrens. But take it; read the Will yourself, Sir.
SIR S. L. (reading) “Must marry to her Aunt’s liking.” That’s plain enough.
LADY H. H. Her Aunt, Sir. That’s me. That’s plain enough.
SIR S. L. (aside) She speaks the truth there! (Aloud) You would have me understand, Madam. . . .?
LADY H. H. Hist! Come closer. Let me whisper in your ear . . . You and I have long entertained a high opinion of one another, Sir Spaniel. Played at ball together. Bound our wrists with daisy chains together. If I mind aright, you called me little bride— ’tis fifty years since. We might have made a match of it, Sir Spaniel, had fortune favoured. . . . You take my meaning, Sir?
SIR S. L. Had it been written in letters of gold, fifty feet high, visible from Paul’s Churchyard to the Goat and Compasses at Peckham, it could have been no plainer. . . . Hist, I’ll whisper it. I, Sir Spaniel Lilyliver, do hereby bind myself to take thee — what’s the name of the green girl that was cast up in a lobster pot covered with seaweed? Flavinda, eh? Flavinda, so — to be my wedded wife . . . O for a lawyer to have it all in writing!
LADY H. H. On condition, Sir Spaniel.
SIR S. L. On condition, Asphodilla.
(Both speak together)
That the money is shared between us.
LADY H. H. We want no lawyer to certify that! Your hand on it, Sir Spaniel!
SIR S. L. Your lips Madam!
(They embrace)
SIR S. L. Pah! She stinks!
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed the indigenous old lady in her bathchair.
“Reason, begad! Reason!” exclaimed old Bartholomew, and looked at his son as if exhorting him to give over these womanish vapours and be a man, Sir.
Giles sat straight as a dart, his feet tucked under him.
Mrs. Manresa had out her mirror and lipstick and attended to her lips and nose.
The gramophone, while the scene was removed, gently stated certain facts which everybody knows to be perfectly true. The tune said, more or less, how Eve, gathering her robes about her, stands reluctant still to let her dewy mantle fall. The herded flocks, the tune continued, in peace repose. The poor man to his cot returns, and, to the eager ears of wife and child, the simple story of his toil relates: what yield the furrow bears; and how the team the plover on the nest has spared; while Wat her courses ran; and speckled eggs in the warm hollow lay. Meanwhile the good wife on the table spreads her simple fare; and to the shepherd’s flute, from toil released, the nymphs and swains join hands and foot it on the green. Then Eve lets down her sombre tresses brown and spreads her lucent veil o’er hamlet, spire, and mead, etc., etc. And the tune repeated itself once more.
The view repeated in its own way what the tune was saying. The sun was sinking; the colours were merging; and the view was saying how after toil men rest from their labours; how coolness comes; reason prevails; and having unharnessed the team from the plough, neighbours dig in cottage gardens and lean over cottage gates.
The cows, making a step forward, then standing still, were saying the same thing to perfection.
Folded in this triple melody, the audience sat gazing; and beheld gently and approvingly without interrogation, for it seemed inevitable, a box tree in a green tub take the place of the ladies’ dressing-room; while on what seemed to be a wall, was hung a great clock face; the hands pointing to three minutes to the hour; which was seven.
Mrs. Elmhurst roused herself from her reverie; and looked at her programme.
“Scene Two. The Mall,” she read out. “Time; early morning. Enter Flavinda. Here she comes!”
Here came Millie Loder (shop assistant at Messrs. Hunt and Dicksons, drapery emporium), in sprigged satin, representing Flavinda.
FLAV. Seven he said, and there’s the clock’s word for it. But Valentine — where’s Valentine? La! How my heart beats! Yet it’s not the time o’ day, for I’m often afoot before the sun’s up in the meadows . . . See — the fine folk passing! All a-tiptoeing like peacocks with spread tails! And I in my petticoat that looked so fine by my Aunt’s cracked mirror. Why, here it’s a dish clout . . . And they heap their hair up like a birthday cake stuck about with candles. . . . That’s a diamond — that’s a ruby . . . Where’s Valentine? The Orange Tree in the Mall, he said. The tree — there. Valentine — nowhere. That’s a courtier, I’ll warrant, that old fox with his tail between his legs. That’s a serving wench out without her master’s knowledge. That’s a man with a broom to sweep paths for the fine ladies’ flounces . . . La! the red in their cheeks! They never got that in the fields, I warrant! O faithless, cruel, hard-hearted Valentine. Valentine! Valentine!
(She wrings her hands, turning from side to side.)
Didn’t I leave my bed a-tiptoe and steal like a mouse in the wainscot for fear of waking Aunt? And lard my hair from her powder box? And scrub my cheeks to make ’em shine? And lie awake watching the stars climb the chimney pots? And give my gold guinea that Godfather hid behind the mistletoe last Twelfth Night to Deb so she shouldn’t tell on me? And grease the key in the lock so that Aunt shouldn’t wake and shriek Flavvy! Flavvy! Val, I say Val — That’s him coming. . . . No, I could tell him a mile off the way he strides the waves like what d’you call him in the picture book. . . . That’s not Val. . . . That’s a cit; that’s a fop; raising his glass, prithee, to have his fill of me . . . I’ll be home then . . . No, I won’t . . . That’s to play the green girl again and sew samplers . . . I’m of age, ain’t I, come Michaelmas? Only three turns of the moon and I inherit . . . Didn’t I read it in the Will the day the ball bounced on top of the old chest where Aunt keeps her furbelows, and the lid opened? . . .” All I die possessed of to my Daughter . . .” So far I’d read when the old lady came tapping down the passage like a blind man in an alley. . . . I’m no castaway, I’d have you know, Sir; no fishtailed mermaid with a robe of sea weed, at your mercy. I’m a match for any of ’em — the chits you dally with, and bid me meet you at the Orange Tree when you’re drowsing the night off spent in their arms. . . . Fie upon you, Sir, making sport with a poor girl so. . . . I’ll not cry, I swear I won’t. I’ll not brew a drop of the salt liquid for a man who’s served me so. . . . Yet to think on’t — how we hid in the dairy the day the cat jumped. And read romances under the holly tree. La! how I cried when the Duke left poor Polly. . . . And my Aunt found me with eyes like red jellies. “What stung, niece?” says she. And cried “Quick Deb, the blue bag.” I told ye . . . La, to think I read it all in a book and cried for another! . . . Hist, what’s there among the trees? It’s come — it’s gone. The breeze is it? In the shade now — in the sun now. . . . Valentine on my life! It’s he! Quick, I’ll hide. Let the tree conceal me!
(Flavinda hides behind the tree.)
He’s here . . . He turns . . . He casts about . . . He’s lost the scent . . . He gazes — this way, that way. . . . Let him feast his eyes on the fine faces — taste ‘em, sample ‘em, say: “That’s the fine lady I danced with . . . that I lay with . . . that I kissed under the mistletoe . . .” Ha! How he spews ’em out! Brave Valentine! How he casts his eyes upon the ground! How his frowns become him! “Where’s Flavinda?” he sighs. “She I love like the heart in my breast.” See him pull his watch out! “O faithless wretch!” he sighs. See how he stamps the earth! Now turns on his heel. . . . He sees me — no, the sun’s in his eyes. Tears fill ’em . . . Lord, how he fingers his sword! He’ll run it through his breast like the Duke in the story book! . . . Stop, Sir, stop!
(She reveals herself)
VALENTINE. . . . O Flavinda, O!
FLAVINDA. . . . O Valentine, O!
(They embrace)
The clock strikes nine.
“All that fuss about nothing!” a v
oice exclaimed. People laughed. The voice stopped. But the voice had seen; the voice had heard. For a moment Miss La Trobe behind her tree glowed with glory. The next, turning to the villagers who were passing in and out between the trees, she barked:
“Louder! Louder!”
For the stage was empty; the emotion must be continued; the only thing to continue the emotion was the song; and the words were inaudible.
“Louder! Louder!” She threatened them with her clenched fists.
Digging and delving (they sang), hedging and ditching, we pass. . . . Summer and winter, autumn and spring return . . . All passes but we, all changes . . . but we remain forever the same . . . (the breeze blew gaps between their words.)
“Louder, louder!” Miss La Trobe vociferated.
Palaces tumble down (they resumed), Babylon, Nineveh, Troy . . . And Caesar’s great house . . . all fallen they lie . . . Where the plover nests was the arch. . . . through which the Romans trod . . . Digging and delving we break with the share of the plough the clod . . . Where Clytemnestra watched for her Lord . . . saw the beacons blaze on the hills . . . we see only the clod . . . Digging and delving we pass. . . . and the Queen and the Watch Tower fall . . . for Agamemnon has ridden away. . . . Clytemnestra is nothing but. . . .
The words died away. Only a few great names — Babylon, Nineveh, Clytemnestra, Agamemnon, Troy — floated across the open space. Then the wind rose, and in the rustle of the leaves even the great words became inaudible; and the audience sat staring at the villagers, whose mouths opened, but no sound came.
And the stage was empty. Miss La Trobe leant against the tree, paralyzed. Her power had left her. Beads of perspiration broke on her forehead. Illusion had failed. “This is death,” she murmured, “death.”
Then suddenly, as the illusion petered out, the cows took up the burden. One had lost her calf. In the very nick of time she lifted her great moon-eyed head and bellowed. All the great moon-eyed heads laid themselves back. From cow after cow came the same yearning bellow. The whole world was filled with dumb yearning. It was the primeval voice sounding loud in the ear of the present moment. Then the whole herd caught the infection. Lashing their tails, blobbed like pokers, they tossed their heads high, plunged and bellowed, as if Eros had planted his dart in their flanks and goaded them to fury. The cows annihilated the gap; bridged the distance; filled the emptiness and continued the emotion.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 251