Complete Works of Virginia Woolf

by Virginia Woolf

  As long as the light serves it is my duty to read aloud — because I am the only one who can read though my mother can write, and spell words beyond the fashion of her time, and my father has sent me a manuscript from London; called The Palace of Glass, by Mr John Lydgate. It is a poem, written about Helen and the Siege of Troy.

  Last night I read of Helen, and her beauty and her suitors, and the fair town of Troy and they listened silently; for though we none of us know where those places are, we see very well what they must have been like; and we can weep for the sufferings of the soldiers, and picture to ourselves the stately woman herself, who must have been, I think, something like my mother. My mother beats with her foot and sees the whole processions pass I know, from the way her eyes gleam, and her head tosses. ‘It must have been in Cornwall,’ said Sir John, ‘where King Arthur lived with his knights. I remember stories I could tell you of all their doings, but my memory is dim.’

  ‘Ah but there are fine stories of the Northmen, too,’ broke in Anne; whose mother was from those parts; ‘but I have sung them often to my Mister, and to you too Miss Joan.’

  ‘Read on Joan, while there is light,’ commanded my mother. Indeed, of all I think she listened closest, and was most vexed when the Curfew tolled from the Church nearby. Yet she called herself an old fool for listening to stories, when the accounts had still to be made up for my father in London.

  When the light is out and I can no longer see to read, they begin talking of the state of the country; and telling dreadful stories of the plots and the battles and the bloody deeds that are going on all round us. But for all I can see, we are not worse now than we have always been; and we in Norfolk today are much the same as we were in the days of Helen, wherever she may have lived. Was not Jane Moryson carried off on the eve of her wedding only last year?

  But anyhow, the story of Helen is old; my mother says it happened long before her day; and these robbings and burnings are going on now. So the talk makes me, and Jeremy too, tremble and think that every rattle of the big door, is the battering ram of some wandering highwayman.

  It is far worse tho’, when the time for bed comes, and the fire sinks, and we have to feel our way up the great stairs, and along the passages, where the windows shine grey, and so into our cold bed rooms. The window in my room is broken, and stuffed with straw, but gusts come in and lift the tapestry on the wall, till I think that horses and men in armour are charging down upon me. My prayer last night was, that the great gates might hold fast, and all robbers and murderers might pass us by.

  (2)

  The dawn, even when it is cold and melancholy, never fails to shoot through my limbs as with arrows of sparkling piercing ice. I pull aside the thick curtains, and search for the first glow in the sky which shows that life is breaking through. And with my cheek leant upon the window pane I like to fancy that I am pressing as closely as can be upon the massy wall of time, which is for ever lifting and pulling and letting fresh spaces of life in upon us. May it be mine to taste the moment before it has spread itself over the rest of the world! Let me taste the newest and the freshest. From my window I look down upon the Church yard, where so many of my ancestors are buried, and in my prayer I pity those poor dead men who toss perpetually on the old recurring waters; for I see them, circling and eddying forever upon a pale tide. Let us, then, who have the gift of the present, use it and enjoy it: That I confess, is part of my morning prayer.

  It rained steadily today, so that I had to spend the morning with my sewing. My mother was writing her letter to my father which John Ashe will take with him to London next week. My thoughts naturally dwelt upon this journey, and upon the great city which perhaps I may never see, though I am for ever dreaming of it. You start at dawn; for it is well to spend few nights on the road. John travels with three other men, bound to the same place; and I have often seen them set forth, and longed to ride with them. They gather in the courtyard, while the stars are still in the sky; and the people of the neighbourhood come out wrapped in cloaks and strange garments, and my mother carries out a tankard of strong Ale to each traveller; and gives it to him from her own hand. Their horses are laden with packs before and behind, but not so as to hinder them from starting out in a gallop if need be; and the men are well armed, and closely dressed in fur lined habits, for the winter days are short and cold, and maybe they will sleep beneath a hedge. It is a gallant sight in the dawn; for the horses champ and fret to be gone; the people cluster round. They wish their God speeds and their last messages to friends in London; and as the clock strikes four they wheel about, salute my mother and the rest, and turn sharply on their road. Many young men and women too, follow them some paces on the way till the mist comes between, for often men who set forth thus in the dawn, never ride home again.

  I picture them riding all day along the white roads, and I see them dismount at the shrine of our Lady and do homage, pray [to] her for a safe journey. There is but one road, and it passes through vast lands, where no men live, but only those who have murdered or robbed; for they may not dwell with others in towns, but must pass their lives with the wild beasts, who murder also, and eat the clothes from your back. It is a fearful ride; but, truly, I think I should like to go that way once, and pass over the land, like a ship at sea.

  At midday they reach an Inn - for there are Inns at all the stages upon the journey to London, where a traveller may rest in safety. The landlord will tell you the state of the road, and he will ask you of your adventures, so that he may give warning to others who travel the same way. But you must press on, to reach your sleeping place before the dark lets loose all those fierce creatures, who have lain hidden in the day. John has often told me how as the sun comes from the sky silence falls on the company, and each man has his gun swung beneath his hand, and even the horses prick their ears and need no urging. You reach the crest of the road, and look fearfully beneath you, lest something moves in the shade of the fir trees by the wayside. And then Robin, the cheerful Miller, shouts a snatch of a song, and they take heart, and step bravely down the hill, talking lest the deep breath of the wind, as of a woman who sighs deeply, may cast a panic into their hearts. Then some one rises in his stirrup and sees the spark of a lodging far off on the rim of the land. And if Our Lady is merciful to them they reach this in safety when we at home are on our knees in prayer for them.

  (3)

  My mother called me from my book this morning to talk with her in her room. I found her in the little chamber where my father is wont to sit, when he is at home, with the Manor Rolls and other legal papers before him. It is here that she sits when she has duty to do as the head of the household. I curtseyed deeply; thinking that I guessed already why she had sent for me.

  She had a sheet spread before her, covered with close writing. She bade me read it; and then before I had taken the paper in my hand she cried, ‘No — I will tell you myself.’

  ‘Daughter,’ she began, solemnly, ‘it is high time that you were married. Indeed it is only the troubled state of the land’ — she sighed— ‘and our own perplexities, that have delayed the matter so long.’

  ‘Do you think much of marriage?’ she looked at me half smiling.

  ‘I have no wish to leave you,’ I said.

  ‘Come, my child you speak like a Babe,’ she laughed, though I think she was well pleased at my affection.

  ‘And besides, if you married as I would have you marry’ — she tapped the paper— ‘you would not go far from me. You might for instance rule over the land of Kirflings - your land would touch ours - You would be our good neighbour. The Lord of Kirflings is Sir Amyas Bigod, a man of ancient name.’

  ‘I think it is a suitable match; such as a mother might wish for her daughter,’ she mused, always with the sheet before her.

  As I have only seen Sir Amyas once, when he came home with my father from the sessions at Norwich, and as on that occasion my only speech with him was to invite him gravely to drink the sack which I proffered, curtseying, I
could not pretend to add anything to what my mother said. All I knew was that he had a fair, straight face; and if his hair was gray, it was not so gray as my father’s, and his land bordered ours so that we might well live happily together.

  ‘Marriage, you must know my daughter,’ went on my mother, ‘is a great honour and a great burden. If you marry such a man as Sir Amyas you become not only the head of his household, and that is much, but the head of his race for ever and ever, and that is more. We will not talk of love — as that song writer of yours talks of love, as a passion and a fire and a madness.’

  ‘O he is only a story teller, Mother,’ I chimed in —

  ‘And such things are not to be found in real life; at least I think not often.’ My mother was used to consider gravely as she spoke.

  ‘But that is beside the question. Here, my daughter,’ and she spread the paper before her, ‘is a writing from Sir Amyas, to your father; he asks for your hand, and wishes to know whether there are other treaties for you and what dowry we will give with you. He tells us what he will provide on his part. Now I give you this paper to read by yourself; that you may consider whether this exchange seems to you a fair one.’

  I knew already what lands and monies I had as my portion; and I knew that as the only daughter of my father my dowry was no mean one.

  So that I might continue in this country which I love, and might live on close to my mother, I would take less than my right both of wealth and of land. But the gravity of the compact is such that I felt as though several years were added to my age, when my mother handed me the roll of paper. Since I was a child, I have always heard my parents talk of my marriage; and during the last two or three years there have been several contracts almost made I know, that came to nothing in the end. I lose my youth however, and it is high time that a bargain were struck.

  I thought, naturally, for a long time, until the dinner bell rung indeed at midday, of the general honour and burden, as my mother calls it, of marriage. No other event in the life of a woman can mean so great a change; for from flitting shadow like and unconsidered in her father’s house, marriage suddenly forms her to a substantial body, with weight which people must see and make way for. That is of course, if her marriage is suitable. And so, every maiden waits this change with wonder and anxiety; for it will prove whether she is to be [an] honourable and authoritative woman for ever, like my mother; or it will show that she is of no weight or worth. Either in this world or in the next.

  And if I marry well, the burden of a great name and of great lands will be on me; many servants will call me mistress; I shall be the mother of sons; in my husband’s absence I shall rule his people, taking care for herds and crops and keeping watch on his enemies; within doors I shall store up fine linens and my chests shall be laden with spices and preserves; by the work of my needle all waste of time and use will be repaired and renewed so that at my death my daughter shall find her cupboards better lined with fine raiments than when I found them. And when I lie dead, the people from the countryside shall pass for three days before my body, praying and speaking good of me, and at the will of my children the priest shall say mass for my soul and candles shall burn in the church for ever and ever.

  (4)

  I was stopped in the midst of such reflections firstly by the dinner bell; and you must not be late, or you interfere with Sir John’s grace and that means no pudding; and then, when I might have put myself more into the position of a married woman, Jeremy my brother, insisted that we should go for a walk with Anthony, my father’s chief steward — after my mother that is.

  He is a crass man, but I like him because he is a faithful servant, and knows as much about land and sheep as any man in Norfolk. It was he also who broke Lancelot’s head in last Michaelmas for using bad language [to] my mother. He is for ever tramping our fields, and knows them better and loves them more, so I tell him, than any human creature. He is wedded to this clump of earth, and sees in it a thousand beauties and gifts such as ordinary men see in their wives. And, as we have trotted by his side since we could walk alone, some of his affection has become ours too; Norfolk and the parish of Long Winton in Norfolk is to me what my own grandmother is; a tender parent, dear and familiar, and silent to whom I shall return in time. O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old; but to spend one’s life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world! Marriage or any other great joy would confuse the clear vision which is still mine. And at the thought of losing that, I cried in my heart, ‘No, I will never leave you — for a husband or a lover,’ and straightway I started chasing rabbits across the heath with Jeremy and the dogs.

  It was a cold afternoon, but a bright one; as though the sun were made of gleaming ice and not of fire; and its rays were long icicles that reached from sky to earth. They splintered on our cheeks, and went glancing across the fen. And the whole country seemed empty, save of a few swift rabbits, but very chaste and very glad in its solitude. We ran to keep warm, and chattered when the blood raced sparkling through our limbs. Anthony stalked straight on, as though his stride were the best thing in the world against the cold. Certainly when we came to a broken hedge, or a snare stretched for a rabbit, he took off his gloves and leant on his knee and took note of it as though it were a midsummer day. Once we came upon a strange man, slouching along the road, in rusty green, with the look of one who knows not which way to take. Anthony held my hand firmly; this was a Sanctuary man he said, prowling out of bounds in search of food. He had robbed or murdered, or perchance he was only a debtor. Jeremy swore he saw blood on his hands: but Jeremy is a boy, and would like to defend us all with his bow and arrows.

  Anthony had some business at one of the cottages, and we came in with him out of the cold. But indeed, I could hardly stand the heat and the smell. Beatrice Somers, and her husband Peter live here, and they have children; but it was more like the burrow of some rabbit on the heath than the house of a man. Their roof was of brush, and straw, their floor was but the earth trodden bare of grass or flower; sticks burnt in the corner, and sent the smoke stinging into our eyes. There was but a rotten log on which a woman sat, nursing a baby. She looked at us, not with fright, but with distrust and dislike written clear in her eyes; and she clasped her child more closely. Anthony spoke to her as he would have spoken to some animal who had strong claws and a wicked eye: he stood over her, and his great boot seemed ready to crush her. But she did not move or speak; and I doubt whether she could have spoken, or whether snarling and howling was her only language.

  Outside we met Peter coming home from the fen, and tho’ he touched his forehead to us, he seemed to have no more human sense in him than his wife. He looked at us, and seemed fascinated by a coloured cloak which I wore; and then he stumbled into his burrow, to lie on the ground I suppose, rolled in dried bracken till morning. These are the people we must rule; and tread under foot, and scourge them to do the only work they are fitted to do; as they will tear us to pieces with their fangs. Thus Anthony spoke as he took us away, and then clenched his fists and set his lips as though he were razing to the earth some such poor wretch already. Still the sight of that ugly face spoilt the rest of the walk; since it seemed that even my dear country bred pests like these. I saw such eyes staring at me from the furze bushes, and the tangles of the undergrowth.

  It was like waking from a nightmare to enter our own clean hall, where the logs burnt tidily in the great chimney, and the oak shone bright; and my mother came down the staircase in her rich gown, with spotless linen on her head. But some of the lines on her face, and some of the sternness of her voice, had come there, I thought suddenly, because she always saw not far from her such sights as I had seen today.

  (5)

  May The spring which has now reached us means more than the mere birth of green growing things; for once again the current of life which circles round England is melted from its winter frost, and in our l
ittle island we feel the tide chafing at our shores. For the last week or two strange wayfarers have been seen on the roads, who may be either pilgrims and pedlars, or gentlemen travelling in parties to London or the North. And at this season the mind becomes eager and hopeful even though the body must stay motionless. For as the evenings lengthen and new light seems to well up from the West so one may fancy that a new whiter light of another kind is spreading over the land; and you may feel it hitting your eyelids as you walk or sit over your embroidery.

  In the midst of such a stir and tumult, one bright May morning, we saw the figure of a man striding along the road, walking fast and waving his arms as though he conversed with the air. He had a great wallet at his back and we saw that he held a stout book of parchment in one hand at which he glanced occasionally: and all the while he shouted words in a kind of measure with his feet, and his voice rose up and down, in [menace?] or in plaint till Jeremy and I shrank close against the hedge. But he saw us; and pulled off his cap and made a deep bow; to which I curtseyed as properly as I could.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, in a voice that rolled like summer thunder, ‘may I ask if this is the road to Long Winton?’

  it is only a mile in front of you, Sir,’ I said, and Jeremy waved down the road with his stick.

  ‘Then Sir,’ he went on, shutting his book, and looking at once more sober and more conscious of the time and place, ‘may I ask further where is the house where I could sell my books most easily? I am come all the way from Cornwall, singing songs, and trying to sell the manuscripts I have with me. My wallet is still full. The times are not favourable to songs.’