Complete Works of Virginia Woolf

by Virginia Woolf

  LORD T.

  For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life — O father! O God! was it well? —

  Mangled, and flatten’d, and crush’d, and dinted into the ground; There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.

  [TENNYSON becomes absorbed in his reading and does not notice that [illegible], MR. CAMERON falls, asleep and snores gently, TENNYSON goes on reading. The door opens and ELLEN TERRY comes in, dressed in white veils which are wrapped about her arms, head, etc. TENNYSON reads on to himself in rather a low voice, without noticing her.MR. CAMERON snores very quietly.]

  ELLEN [looking from one to the other]

  O how usual it all is. Nothing ever changes in this house. Somebody’s always asleep. Lord Tennyson is always reading Maud. The cook is always being photographed. The Camerons are always starting for India. I’m always sitting to Signor. I’m Modesty today — Modesty crouching at the feet of Mammon. If it weren’t for Mammon, I should be there still. But Mammon’s big toe is out of drawing. Of course Signor with all his high ideals couldn’t pass that. So I slipped down and escaped. If I only could escape. [She wrings her hands in desperation.] For I never thought when I married Mr. Watts that it was going to be like this. I thought artists were such jolly people — always dressing up and hiring coaches and going for picnics and drinking champagne and eating oysters and kissing each other and — well, behaving like the Rossettis. As it is, Signor can’t eat anything except the gristle of beef minced very fine and passed through the kitchen chopper twice. He drinks a glass of hot water at nine and goes to bed in woolen socks at nine thirty sharp. Instead of kissing me he gives me a white rose every morning. Every morning he says the same thing— “The Utmost for the Highest, Ellen! The Utmost for the Highest!” And so of course I have to sit to him all day long. Everybody says how proud I must be to hang for ever and ever in the Tate Gallery as Modesty crouching beneath the feet of Mammon. But I’m an abandoned wretch, I suppose. I have such awful thoughts. Sometimes I actually want to go upon the stage and be an actress. What would Signor say if he knew? And then, when I’m dressed like this, all in white and crouching there under Mammon’s big toe, it suddenly comes into my head that I should like somebody to fall in love with me.

  And, what’s much worse — oh, it’s so unspeakable that I can’t think how I’ve the face to go on crouching any longer — somebody has fallen in love with me. At least I think so. It happened like this. Signor and I were picking primroses in Maidens Lane. Suddenly I heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and a horse and rider sprang right over our heads. Luckily, the lane was very deep, or we should have been killed. Luckily, Signor is very deaf and he heard nothing. But I had just time to see a beautiful, sunburnt, whiskered face and to catch this. [She takes out a piece of paper and reads.]

  Come into the garden, Nell, I’m here at the gate alone. Tuesday, Midday, Craig. Tuesday! Midday! Craig! It is Tuesday. [She goes up to the mantelpiece and looks at the large ticking clock.] It is just half past eleven. But who’s Craig?

  LORD T. [bursting out in great agitation]

  Colvin has the temerity to say that my lyrics are better than my narrative. Gosse has the audacity to affirm that my narrative is better than my lyrics. That is the kind of criticism I have to endure. That is my daily portion of insult and injustice. If I weren’t the most stoical man in the world, the very skin on my wrists would rise and blossom in purple and red at the innumerable bites of the poisoned bugs and pismires of the Press! [He shoots out his hand and looks at if.] That’s a wonderful hand now. The skin is like a crumpled rose leaf. Young woman [beckoning to ELLEN], have you ever seen a poet’s skin? — a great poet’s skin? Ah, you should see me in my bath! I have thighs like alabaster.

  ELLEN

  It’s a very beautiful skin, Lord Tennyson.

  LORD T.

  And you’re a very beautiful wench. Get on my knee.

  ELLEN

  I sometimes think you’re the most sensible of them all, Lord Tennyson.

  LORD T. [kissing her]

  I am sensible to beauty in all its shapes. That is my function as Poet Laureate.

  ELLEN

  Tell me, Lord Tennyson, have you — ever picked primroses?

  LORD T.

  Millions and millions of times.

  ELLEN

  And did Lady Tennyson ever jump over your head?

  LORD T.

  Jump! Emily jump! She has lain on her sofa for fifty years.

  She took to it on her honeymoon, and I should be surprised, indeed I should be shocked, if she ever got up again.

  ELLEN

  Then I suppose you were never in love. You were never in the devil of a mess. Nobody ever painted you in your chemise. Nobody ever gave you a white rose. Nobody ever threw a note into your hand and galloped away.

  LORD T.

  No: Hallam never galloped. He had a bad seat on horseback. My life has been singularly free from amorous excitement of the kind you describe. Tell me more.

  ELLEN

  If you were quite young and you saw somebody you wanted to marry and she was married already to an old, old man, would you throw everything to the winds —

  your name, your fame, your house, your books, your servants, your wife — and elope with her?

  LORD T. [in great agitation]

  I should! I should!

  ELLEN

  Thank you, Lord Tennyson. You’re a very great poet!

  [She kisses him, slips off his knee and runs out of the room.]

  MR. C. [opening his eyes slowly]

  Alfred, Alfred!

  LORD T. [much startled]

  I thought you were asleep!

  MR. C.

  It is when our eyes are shut that we see most!

  LORD T.

  But there is no need to mention it to Emily.

  MR. C. [dreamily]

  I slept, and had a vision. I thought I was looking into the future. I saw a yellow omnibus advancing down the glades of Farringford. I saw girls with red lips kissing young men without shame. I saw innumerable pictures of innumerable apples. Girls played games. Great men were no longer respected. Purity had fled from the hearth. The double bed had shrunk to a single. Yet as I wandered, lost, bewildered, utterly confounded, through the halls of Alfred Tennyson’s home, I felt my youth return. My eyes cleared, my hair turned black, my powers revived. And [trembling and stretching his arms out] there was a damsel — an exquisite but not altogether ethereal nymph. Her name was Lydia. She was a dancer. She came from Muscovy.

  She had danced before the Tsar. She snatched me by the waist and whirled me through the currant bushes. Oh Alfred, Alfred, tell me, was it but a dream?

  [Enter GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS carrying a palette.]

  WATTS

  Where is Ellen? Has anybody seen Ellen? She must have slipped from the room without my noticing it. [Turning to the audience and speaking in rapturous tones] Praise be to the Almighty Architect! The toe of Mammon is now, speaking under Providence, in drawing. Ah, my dear old friends, that toe has meant months of work — months of hard work. I have allowed myself no relaxation. I have sustained my body on the gristle of beef passed through the kitchen chopper twice, and my soul by the repetition of one prayer — The Utmost for the Highest! The Utmost for the Highest. At last my prayer has been heard; my request granted. The toe, the big toe, is now in drawing.

  [He sits down.]

  LORD T. [gloomily]

  It sometimes seems to me that the toe is not the most important part of the human body, Watts.

  WATTS [starting up]

  There speaks the voice of the true artist. You are right, Alfred. You have recalled me from my exaltation; upwards, you point upwards. You remind me that even if I have succeeded, humanly speaking, with the toe, I have not solved the problem of the drapery. That, indeed, is a profoundly difficult problem. For by my treatment of the drapery I wish to express two distinct and utterly contradictory ideas. In the first pl
ace it should convey to the onlooker the idea that Modesty is always veiled; in the second, that Modesty is absolutely naked. For a long time I have pondered at a loss. At last I have solved the problem.

  I am wrapping her form in a fine white substance, which has the appearance of a veil but, if you examine it closely, is seen to consist of innumerable stars. It is, in short, the Milky Way. For in the Mythology of Ancient Egypt the Milky Way was held to symbolise — let me see, what did it symbolise? — [He searches in his pockets and takes out a large book.]

  [Enter MRS. CAMERON with her camera.]

  MRS. C.

  What is the use of a policeman if he has no calves? There you have the tragedy of my life. That is Julia Margaret Cameron’s message to her age! [She sits down facing the audience.] All my sisters were beautiful, but I had genius [touching her forehead]. They were the brides of men, but I am the bride of Art. I have sought the beautiful in the most unlikely places. I have searched the police force at Freshwater, and not a man have I found with calves worthy of Sir Galahad. But, as I said to the Chief Constable, “Without beauty, constable, what is order? Without life, what is law?” Why should I continue to have my silver protected by a race of men whose legs are aesthetically abhorrent to me? If a burglar came and he were beautiful, I should say to him: Take my fish knives! Take my cruets, my bread baskets and my soup tureens. What you take is nothing to what you give, your calves, your beautiful calves. I have sought beauty in public houses and found her playing the concertina in the street. My cook was a mendicant. I have transformed her into a Queen. My housemaid sold bootlaces at Charing Cross; she is now engaged to the Earl of Dudley. My bootboy stole eggs and was in prison. He now waits at table in the guise of Cupid.

  WATTS [crying out in agony]

  Horror! Horror! I have been cruelly misled — utterly deceived. [He reads aloud.] “The Milky Way among the Ancient Egyptians was the universal token of fertility. It symbolised the spawn of fish, the innumerable progeny of the sea, and the harvest of the fields. It typified the fertility of the marriage bed, and its blessings were called down upon brides at the altar.” Horror! Horror! I who have always lived for the Utmost for the Highest have made Modesty symbolise the fertility of fish! My picture is ruined! I must start afresh. It will cost me months of work, but it must be done. It shall never be said that George Frederick Watts painted a single hair that did not tend directly — or indirectly — to the spiritual and moral elevation of the British Public. Where is Ellen? There is not a moment to be lost. The Utmost for the Highest! The Utmost for the Highest!

  MR. C.

  Where is Ellen, Alfred?

  LORD T.

  Where is Lydia, Charles?

  MRS. C.

  Who is Lydia?

  LORD T.

  Who is Lydia, what is she that all our swains adore her?

  MR. C.

  She is a Muscovite. She danced before the Tsar.

  MRS. C.

  The very person I want! A housemaid who can dance!

  WATTS

  I have been visited by a most marvellous inspiration. Why should I not transform Modesty into Maternity? I see no treachery to the British Public in that. Mammon trampling upon Maternity. The sound is certainly excellent; but what about the sense?

  LORD T.

  Take care of the sound and the sense will take care of itself.

  WATTS [fumbling in his pocket and producing several papers]

  I must make sure of my facts this time. I have here a letter from Rosalind, Countess of Carlisle, a very noble and highminded lady whom I am even now painting as Boadicea or Godiva — I forget which — but here it is. She is profoundly interested in the suppression of the sale of spirituous liquors — a movement which has my fullest sympathy; but hitherto, owing partly to the pressure of other subjects, I have not devised any means of treating a glass of hot water allegorically. [He reads.] “Dearest Signor, great painter of all time, brother of Michael Angelo, son of Titian, nephew of Tintoret, you who wear the white flower of a blameless Art, will scarcely credit the fact that the Working Classes of Great Britain spend upon beer in one year a sum sufficient to maintain and equip twenty battleships or two million horse marines.” No; that had never struck me. Never! But there is my picture! Lady Carlisle has given me my picture! Mammon typifies British love of beer. Maternity, two million horse marines. The Milky Way symbolising the spawn of fish and the fertility of the marriage bed may be held, without impropriety, to be highly symbolical of two million horse marines. Thus the picture will serve I hope a very high and holy purpose. I shall call it Mammon trampling upon Maternity, or the Prosperity of the British Empire being endangered —

  LORD T. [interrupting]

  — by the fertility of the Horse Marines.

  WATTS

  No, no, no, Alfred. You mistake my meaning entirely. I shall call it Mammon trampling upon Maternity or the Prosperity of the British Empire being endangered by the addiction of the Working Classes to the Consumption of Spirituous Liquors —

  LORD T. [shrieking and clasping his head]

  Oh, oh, oh — twelve s’es in ten lines — twelve s’es in ten lines! The prosssperity of the British — the wspawn of the Horse Marines — consssumption of ssspirituous fissshes —

  Oh, oh, oh, I feel faint! [He sinks onto the table.]

  MRS. C. [planting her tripod]

  “The Passing of Arthur!”

  WATTS up to TENNYSON and patting him on the shoulder]

  Cheer up, my dear old friend; cheer up. I will be guided entirely by your wishes. I will call it merely “Mammon trampling upon Maternity.” Unless I mistake — and I have made some very terrible mistakes today — there is not a single letter s in the line.

  LORD T.

  The moan of doves in immemorial elms. The murmuring of innumerable bees. Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawns. Forgive my weakness. It is years since I encountered the letter s in such profusion. Hallam eradicates them from the Times with a penknife every morning. Even so, the Siege of Sevastopol was almost the death of me. If I had not been engaged in writing Maud at the time, I doubt that I could have survived. Living at Farringford there is constant danger from flocks of geese. So I carry a copy of my own works wherever I go and fortify myself by repeating the mellow ouzel fluting on the lawn, the moan of doves in immemorial elms. Maud, Maud, Maud, they are crying and calling. Maud, Maud, Maud.

  [He sits down by the window and begins to read.]

  MRS. C. [fluttering her fingers]

  “Inspiration — or the poet’s dream.” Look at the outline of the nose against the ivy! Look at the hair tumbling like Atlantic billows on a stormy night! And the eyes — look up, Alfred, look up — they are like pools of living light in which thoughts play like dolphins among groves of coral. The legs are a trifle short, but legs, thank God, can always be covered. [She covers his legs with an embroidered table cloth.] Charles, rouse yourself. Signor, lean against the window frame. Cook! Louisa! Mary Magdalen! James!

  Lord Tennyson is about to read Maud.

  [The servants come trooping in, COOK dressed as Guinevere; JAMES as Cupid. They form a tableau round LORD TENNYSON at the window.]

  MRS. C. [to the audience]

  “Alfred, Lord Tennyson reading Maud to Julia Margaret Cameron for the last time.”

  LORD T.

  Come into the garden, Nell, [The clock begins striking twelve as he reads.]

  I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.

  She is coming, my own, my dear; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet. And blossom in purple and red.

  MRS c. [in great excitement, pointing at the window]

  Sir Galahad!

  ALL

  Sir Galahad?

  MRS. C.

  There among the raspberry canes — kissing;
no, being kissed. Wait, young man. Wait! [She dashes out of the room.]

  MR. C.

  I slept, and had a vision in my sleep. I saw a yellow omnibus advancing down the glade. I saw Lydia among the raspberry canes.

  WATTS

  Your music, Alfred, has tuned my mind to its highest pitch, and I now feel inspired to approach the most awful problems of my art in a spirit of devout devotion. But where is Ellen? I must find Ellen. Where is Ellen?

  [Enter MRS. CAMERON with ELLEN TERRY, who is dressed as a young man.~

  MRS. C.

  I have found him at last. Sir Galahad!

  [Everybody stares, WATTS, TENNYSON and MR. CAMERON rise to their feet.]

  LORD T.

  Nell!

  MR. C.