Then Cambridge 1906, Jacob aged nineteen, in King's College Chapel, winking at Timmy Durrant; lunching with George Plumer, Professor of Physics, avoiding his cold grey eyes.
Lights later burning in three rooms: Greek, Science, Philosophy. Behind walls young men reading, smoking, sprawling in chairs – legs hooked over chair-arms – or over tables, writing.
Jacob astride a chair, eating dates and laughing. Jacob at the window, smoking his pipe, as the last stroke of the clock sounds: Good Night.
So to the sea – Jacob and Timmy – where the Scilly Isles, like mountain-tops – are sighted; where Shakespeare, knocked overboard, went under.
The mainland then, smelling of violets. White cottages and smoke. To dinner at the Durrants – the bell had dinned: Cutlets! And afterwards deaf old Mr. Clutterbuck, on the terrace, had recited to Miss Eliot, the names of the constellations; she shifted the telescope: “Andromeda.” Mrs. Durrant, bored by stars, in the drawing room, wound a ball of wool.
And so to London – always a man there trying to sell a tortoise to a tailor. There's Jacob! Getting off an omnibus, pausing before he enters St Paul's; reading his essay aloud to a young man with a Wellington nose; throwing rejection letters into a black wooden box – his name in white paint – and shutting the lid.
Jacob awkward, yet distinguished-looking. Jacob at twenty-two, filling his pipe, sipping his whisky.
Jacob holding frightfully unhappy Florinda upon his knee; her face hid in his waistcoat.
Jacob again with Timmy Durrant talking, then shouting, unintelligible Greek at dawn. Again with Florinda listening to her prattle; walking the streets with her on his arm.
But here again is Mrs. Durrant, thinking she is too severe. And her daughter Clara. Miss Eliot too. A party – the piano in tune. So much to look at, so many people talking: Timothy Durrant to Jacob, then Elsbeth Siddons sings. Clapping. Mr. Clutterbuck there; Mr. Carter plays Bach. A musical evening.
Morning, Jacob slams his door, buys his paper, makes his way to the office: a desk, a telephone...signs letters all day. Another in a pale blue envelope waits at home, lays on the hall table, addressed to Jacob Alan Flanders. From Scarborough, his mother's hand.
But Florinda's visit first. A little creak, a sudden stir. Then Jacob reappears in his dressing gown; Florinda arranges her hair as Jacob opens his letter and reads.
Florinda seen that same night with another man. Jacob stood, under an arc lamp, motionless; its light drenched him from head to toe. Cut to Jacob alone in his room.
Cut to Jacob dining with the Countess of Rocksbier, a rude old lady, tearing at the chicken – with Jacob's permission – with her own hands. Cut to Jacob galloping over the fields of Essex, losing the hunt, finding them at the Inn.
Cut to Jacob arguing with Bonamy – the young man with the Wellington nose – as unreliably reported by Mrs. Papworth: she heard words, all long words – book learnt she thought – in a loud overbearing tone; stamp stamp stamp. Mr. Sanders, no Flanders she meant had broken the coffee pot, smashed it was on the hearthrug.
A calmer scene: Jacob 25, the youngest in the room, handing the wrong plates at tea. Miss Perry, a spinster of 66, clasping the kettle holder to her breast: “Home every afternoon – except Thursdays.”
A curious one: Laurette and Jacob, side by side, in two large green plush chairs. An intelligent girl, a respectable room, a reasonable conversation; Madame saw him out.
Picture credit: Poppy, P R Francis
See
Jacob's Room by Virginia Woolf.
Written February
2022.
