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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f74358 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63230 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63230) diff --git a/old/63230-h.zip b/old/63230-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8773ec9..0000000 --- a/old/63230-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/63230-h/63230-h.htm b/old/63230-h/63230-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 8b177f5..0000000 --- a/old/63230-h/63230-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1365 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Two stories, by Virginia and Leonard Woolf. - </title> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} -.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} -.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%} -hr.full {width: 95%;} - -hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} -hr.r65 {width: 65%; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;} - -ul.index { list-style-type: none; } -li.ifrst { margin-top: 1em; } -li.indx { margin-top: .5em; } -li.isub1 {text-indent: 1em;} -li.isub2 {text-indent: 2em;} -li.isub3 {text-indent: 3em;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - - .tdl {text-align: left;} - .tdr {text-align: right;} - .tdc {text-align: center;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} /* page numbers */ - -.linenum { - position: absolute; - top: auto; - right: 10%; -} /* poetry number */ - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -.sidenote { - width: 10%; - padding-bottom: .5em; - padding-top: .5em; - padding-left: .5em; - padding-right: .5em; - margin-left: .5em; - float: left; - clear: left; - margin-top: .5em; - font-size: smaller; - color: black; - background: #eeeeee; - border: dashed 1px; -} - -.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} - -.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} - -.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} - -.br {border-right: solid 2px;} - -.bbox {border: solid 2px;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.u {text-decoration: underline;} - -.gesperrt -{ - letter-spacing: 0.2em; - margin-right: -0.2em; -} - -em.gesperrt -{ - font-style: normal; -} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.figleft { - float: left; - clear: left; - margin-left: 0; - margin-bottom: 1em; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-right: 1em; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; -} - -.figright { - float: right; - clear: right; - margin-left: 1em; - margin-bottom: - 1em; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-right: 0; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; -} - -/* Notes */ -.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} - -.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: - none; -} - -.actor {font-size: 0.8em; - text-align: center;} - -/* Poetry */ -.poem { - margin-left:10%; - margin-right:10%; - text-align: left; -} - -.poem br {display: none;} - -.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's Two Stories, by Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Two Stories - -Author: Virginia Woolf - Leonard Woolf - -Illustrator: Dora Carrington - -Release Date: September 18, 2020 [EBook #63230] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by British Library.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/stories_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h5>PUBLICATION NO. I.</h5> - - -<h2>TWO STORIES</h2> - - -<h4>WRITTEN AND PRINTED</h4> - -<h4>BY</h4> - -<h3>VIRGINIA WOOLF</h3> - -<h4>AND</h4> - -<h3>L. S. WOOLF</h3> - - -<h4>HOGARTH PRESS</h4> - -<h4>RICHMOND</h4> - -<h5>1917</h5> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p><a href="#THREE_JEWS">THREE JEWS By L. S. WOOLF</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_MARK_ON_THE_WALL">THE MARK ON THE WALL By VIRGINIA WOOLF</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<img src="images/figure01.jpg" width="300" alt="400" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - - -<h4><a id="THREE_JEWS">THREE JEWS</a></h4> - -<h5>By</h5> - -<h4>LEONARD WOOLF.</h4> - - -<p>It was a Sunday and the first day of spring, the first day on which one -felt at any rate spring in the air. It blew in at my window with its -warm breath, with its inevitable little touch of sadness. I felt -restless, and I had nowhere to go to; everyone I knew was out of town. I -looked out of my window at the black trees breaking into bud, the tulips -and the hyacinths that even London could not rob of their reds and blues -and yellows, the delicate spring sunshine on the asphalt, and the pale -blue sky that the chimney pots broke into. I found myself muttering -"damn it" for no very obvious reason. It was spring, I suppose, the -first stirring of the blood.</p> - -<p>I wanted to see clean trees, and the sun shine upon grass; I wanted -flowers and leaves unsoiled by soot; I wanted to see and smell the -earth; above all I wanted the horizon. I felt that something was waiting -for me beyond the houses and the chimney-pots: I should find it where -earth and sky meet. I didn't of course but I took the train to Kew.</p> - -<p>If I did not find in Kew the place where earth and sky meet or even the -smell of the earth, I saw at any rate the sun upon the brown bark of -trees and the delicate green of grass. It was spring there, English -spring with its fresh warm breath, and its pale blue sky above the -trees. Yes, the quiet orderly English spring that embraced and sobered -even the florid luxuriance of great flowers bursting in white cascades -over strange tropical trees.</p> - -<p>And the spring had brought the people out into the gardens, the quiet -orderly English people. It was the first stirring of the blood. It had -stirred them to come out in couples, in family parties, in tight -matronly black dresses, in drab coats and trousers in dowdy skirts and -hats. It had stirred some to come in elegant costumes and morning suits -and spats. They looked at the flaunting tropical trees, and made jokes, -and chaffed one another, and laughed not very loud. They were happy in -their quiet orderly English way, happy in the warmth of the sunshine, -happy to be among quiet trees, and to feel the soft grass under their -feet. They did not run about or shout, they walked slowly, quietly, -taking care to keep off the edges of the grass because the notices told -them to do so.</p> - -<p>It was very warm, very pleasant, and very tiring. I wandered cut at last -through the big gates, and was waved by a man with a napkin—he stood -on the pavement—through a Georgian house into a garden studded with -white topped tables and dirty ricketty chairs. It was crowded with people, -and I sat down at the only vacant table, and watched them eating plum-cake -and drinking tea quietly, soberly, under the gentle apple-blossom.</p> - -<p>A man came up the garden looking quickly from side to side for an empty -place. I watched him in a tired lazy way. There was a bustle and roll -and energy in his walk. I noticed the thickness of his legs above the -knee, the arms that hung so loosely and limply by his sides as they do -with people who wear loose hanging clothes without sleeves, his dark fat -face and the sensual mouth, the great curve of the upper lip and the -hanging lower one. A clever face, dark and inscrutable, with its large -mysterious eyes and the heavy lids which went into deep folds at the -corners.</p> - -<p>He stopped near my table, looked at the empty chair and then at me, and -said:</p> - -<p>"Excuse me, Sir, but d'you mind my sitting at your table?"</p> - -<p>I noticed the slight thickness of the voice, the overemphasis, and the -little note of assertiveness in it. I said I didn't mind at all.</p> - -<p>He sat down, leaned back in his chair, and took his hat off. He had a -high forehead, black hair, and well-shaped fat hands.</p> - -<p>"Fine day," he said, "wonderfully fine day, the finest day I ever -remember. Nothing to beat a fine English spring day."</p> - -<p>I saw the delicate apple-blossom and the pale blue sky behind his large -dark head. I smiled. He saw the smile, flushed, and then smiled himself.</p> - -<p>"You are amused," he said, still smiling, "I believe I know why."</p> - -<p>"Yes," I said, "You knew me at once and I knew you. We show up, don't -we, under the apple-blossom and this sky. It doesn't belong to us, do -you wish it did?"</p> - -<p>"Ah," he said seriously, "that's the question. Or rather we don't belong -to it. We belong to Palestine still, but I'm not sure that it doesn't -belong to us for all that."</p> - -<p>"Well, perhaps your version is truer than mine. I'll take it, but -there's still the question, do you wish <i>you</i> belonged to -<i>it</i>?"</p> - -<p>He wasn't a bit offended. He tilted back his chair, put one thumb in the -arm-hole of his waistcoat, and looked round the garden. He showed -abominably concentrated, floridly intelligent, in the thin spring air -and among the inconspicuous tea-drinkers. He didn't answer my question; -he was thinking, and when he spoke, he asked another:</p> - -<p>"Do you ever go to Synagogue?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Nor do I, except on Yom Kippur. I still go then every year—pure -habit. I don't believe in it, of course; I believe in nothing—you -believe in nothing—we're all sceptics. And yet we belong to Palestine -still. Funny, ain't it? How it comes out! Under the apple-blossom and blue -sky, as you say, as well as—as—among the tombs."</p> - -<p>"Among the tombs?"</p> - -<p>"Ah, I was thinking of another man I met. He belongs to Palestine too. -Shall I tell you about him?"</p> - -<p>I said I wished he would. He put his hand's in his pockets and began at -once.</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * * * * * *</p> - -<p>The first time I saw him, I remember the day well, as well as yesterday. -There was no apple-blossom then, a November day, cold, bitter cold, the -coldest day I remember. It was the anniversary of my poor wife's death. -She was my first wife, Rebecca. She made me a good wife, I tell you—we -were very happy. (He took out a white silk pocket handkerchief, opened -it with something of a flourish, and blew his nose long and loudly. Then -he continued.)</p> - -<p>I buried her at the cemetery in K—Road. You know it? What? No? You -must know it, the big cemetery near the hospital. You know the hospital at -any rate? Well, you turn down by it coming from the station, take the -first turning to the right and the second to the left, and there you -are. It's a big cemetery, very big, almost as big as Golders Green, and -they keep the gardens very nicely. Well, my poor wife lies there—my -first wife, I've married again, you see, and she's living and well, -thank God—and I went on the first anniversary to visit the grave and -put flowers on it.</p> - -<p>There you are now, there's another curious thing. I often wonder why we -do it. It's not as if it did anyone any <i>good.</i> I don't believe in -immortality, nor do you, nor do any of us. But I go and put flowers on -her grave though it won't do her any good, poor soul. It's sentiment, I -suppose. No one can say we Jews haven't got that, and family affection. -They're among our very strongest characteristics.</p> - -<p>Yes, they don't like us. (He looked round at the quiet tea-drinkers.) -We're too clever perhaps, too sharp, too go-ahead. <i>Nous</i>, that's what -we've got, <i>Nous</i>, and they don't like it, eh? But they can't deny us -our other virtues—sentiment and family affection. Now look at the -Titanic disaster: who was it refused to get into the boats, unless her -husband went too? Who met death hand in hand with him? Eh? A Jewess! -There you are! Her children rise up and call her blessed: her husband -also and he praiseth her!</p> - -<p>I put that verse from Proverbs on my poor wife's tombstone. I remember -standing in front of it, and reading it over and over again that day, -the day I'm talking about. My dear Sir, I felt utterly wretched, -standing there in that cold wet cemetery, with all those white -tombstones round me and a damp yellow November fog. I put some beautiful -white flowers on her grave.</p> - -<p>The cemetery-keeper had given me some glass gallipots to stand the -flowers in, and, as I left, I thought I would give him a shilling. He -was standing near the gates. By Jove! You couldn't mistake him for -anything but a Jew. His arms hung down from his shoulders in that -curious, loose, limp way—you know it?—it makes the clothes look -as if they didn't belong to the man who is wearing them. Clever cunning -grey eyes, gold pince-nez, and a nose, by Jove, Sir, one of the best, one -of those noses, white and shiny, which, when you look at it full face, -seems almost flat on the face, but immensely broad, curving down, like a -broad highroad from between the bushy eye-brows down over the lips. And -side face, it was colossal; it stood out like an elephant's trunk with -its florid curves and scrolls.</p> - -<p>I was, as I say, utterly wretched. I wanted someone to talk to, and -though I didn't expect to get much comfort out of a cemetery-keeper, I -said by way of conversation, as I gave him a shilling:</p> - -<p>"You keep these gardens very nicely."</p> - -<p>He looked at me over the gold rims of his glasses:</p> - -<p>"We do our best. I haven't been here long, you know, but I do my best. -And a man can't do more, now <i>can</i> he?"</p> - -<p>"No" I said, "he can't."</p> - -<p>He put his head on one side, and looked at a tombstone near by: it was -tilted over to one side, blackened by the soot to a dirty yellow colour, -the plaster peeling off. There was one dirty scraggy evergreen growing -on the grave. There was a text on the stone, I remember, something about -the righteous nourishing like the bay-tree.</p> - -<p>"Of course one can't do everything. Look at that now. Some people don't -do anything, never come near the place, don't spend a penny on their -graves. Then of course they go like that. It will get worse and worse, -for we only bury reserves here now. Sometimes it ain't anyone's fault: -families die out, the graves are forgotten. It don't look nice, but -well, I say, what does it matter after all? When I'm dead, they may -chuck me on the dung-hill, for all I care."</p> - -<p>He looked down his nose at the rows and rows of dirty white -grave-stones, which were under his charge, critically, with an air of -hostility, as if they had done him some wrong.</p> - -<p>"You don't perhaps believe in a life after death?" I said.</p> - -<p>He pushed his hands well down into the pockets of his long overcoat, -hugged himself together, and looked up at the yellow sky and dirty -yellow houses, looming over the cemetery.</p> - -<p>"No I don't," he said with conviction. "It ain't likely. Nobody knows -anything about it. It ain't likely, is it?"</p> - -<p>"No, but what about the Bible?"</p> - -<p>His cold grey eyes looked at me steadily over the gold pince-nez.</p> - -<p>"I'm not sure there's much in the Bible about it, eh? And one can't -believe everything in the Bible. There's the Almighty of course, well, -who can say? He may exist, he may not—I say I don't know. But a life -hereafter, I don't believe in it. One don't have to believe everything -now: it was different when I was young. You had to believe everything -then; you had to believe everything they told you in Schul. Now you may -think for yourself. And <i>mind you</i>, it don't <i>do</i> to think too -much: if you think too much about those things, you go mad, raving mad. -What I say is, lead a pure clean life here, and you'll get your reward -here. I've seen it in my own case: I wasn't always in a job like this. I -had a business once, things went wrong through no fault of mine, and I lost -everything—everything sold up except an old wooden bed. Ah, those -were hard times, I can tell you! Then I got offered this job—it ain't -very good, but I thought to myself: well, there'll be a comfortable home -for my wife and my two boys as long as I live. I've tried to live a clean -life, and I shall have better times now, eh?</p> - -<p>I thought of my own wife and my motherless children: my sadness -increased. And I thought of our race, its traditions and its faith, how -they are vanishing in the life that surrounds us. The old spirit, the -old faith, they had kept alive hot and vigorous—for how many -centuries?—when we were spat upon, outcasts. But now they are cold -and feeble, vanishing in the universal disbelief. I looked at the man under -the shadow of the dirty yellow London fog and the squalid yellow London -houses. "This man," I thought to myself, "a mere keeper of graves is -touched by it as much as I am. He isn't a Jew now any more than I am. -We're Jews only externally now, in our black hair and our large noses, -in the way we stand and the way we walk. But inside we're Jews no -longer. Even <i>he</i> doesn't believe, the keeper of Jewish graves! The -old spirit, the ancient faith has gone out of him."</p> - -<p>I was wrong; I know now, and I'll tell you how I came to see it. The -spirit's still there all right; it comes out under the apple-blossom, -eh?, and it came out among the tombs too.</p> - -<p>The next time I saw him was another November day, an English, a London -day; O Lord, his nose showed in it very white and florid under the -straight houses and the chimney-pots and the heavy, melancholy dripping -sky. I had married in the meantime, and my wife—like the good soul -that she is—had come with me to put flowers on my poor Rebecca's -grave—another anniversary you see. Yes, I was happy—I don't -mind telling you so—even at my poor Rebecca's graveside.</p> - -<p>He was standing there in the same place, in a black top-hat and a great -black overcoat, looking at the tombstones over the top of his -gold-rimmed glasses. All the cares of the world seemed to be weighing -down his sloping shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Good day", he said to me, just touching the brim of his hat.</p> - -<p>"Well", I said, "and how's the world going with you?"</p> - -<p>He fixed me with his hard grey eyes that had a look of pain in them, and -said in a tone which had neither reverence nor irony in it, nor indeed -any feeling at all:</p> - -<p>"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the -Lord. I buried my poor wife last Thursday".</p> - -<p>There was an awkward silence.</p> - -<p>"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said, "very sorry."</p> - -<p>"Yes" he said, "The righteous flourish like the bay-tree: they tell us -that: you see it there on the tombstone."</p> - -<p>He put his head on one side and stared at it.</p> - -<p>"Vell," he said—and I noticed for the first time the thick Jewish -speech—"vell, its there, so I suppose its true, ain't it? But its -difficult to see, y' know always. I've often said the only thing we can -do is to lead a clean life here, a pure life, and we'll get our reward. -But mine seems to be pretty long in coming," he sighed, "yes pretty -long, I tell you. I had hard times before: we both of us did, my poor -wife and I. And then at last I got this job; I thought she was going to -have a happy peaceful life at last. Nothing very grand in pay, but -enough to keep us and the two boys. And a nice enough house for her. And -then as soon as we come here she takes ill and dies, poor soul."</p> - -<p>He wiped his eyes.</p> - -<p>"I don't know why I should call her poor soul. She's at rest any way. -And she made me the best, the very best wife a man could have."</p> - -<p>He put his hands well down in the pockets of his overcoat, drew his arms -to his sides so that he looked like a great black bird folding its wings -round itself, and rocked himself backwards and forwards, first on his -toes and then on his heels, looking up at me sideways with wrinkled -forehead.</p> - -<p>"Vell," he said, "EI've got my two boys. I wish you could see 'em. Fine -young fellows. One earning 30/- a week, though he's only eighteen. He'll -do well, I tell you; all right up here." He tapped his forehead. "And -the other, though I'm his father I'm not afraid to tell anyone, he's a -genius—he draws, draws beautiful, and paints too, real artistic -pictures. Ah they're good lads—a bit wild, the elder one—" he -lowered his voice and showed his teeth in a grin, "he's got an eye for the -petticoats, but then boys will be boys. I daresay I was the same -myself."</p> - -<p>I didn't altogether like the grin, with my wife standing there, so I -gave him a shilling and went. I've seen him once more: the day came -round again, and I took my boy this time, dear little chap, to see his -mother's grave. And Fanny came too,—ah, she's a mother to those -motherless children.</p> - -<p>There he was standing in the same place, in his top-hat and seedy black -coat. I saw at once that things were not right with him. His clothes -seemed to hang on him as if he were merely an old clothes prop; his old -bowed shoulders sloped more than ever. His face was grey, pasty, -terribly lined, and his nose more white and shiny than ever. Seedy was -the word for him, seedy inside and out, seedy through and through. He -was beaten, degraded, down, gone under, gone all to bits. And yet -somehow he looked as if that was just what hadn't happened—he hadn't -gone all to bits: there was something in him that still stood up and -held him together, something like a rock which, beaten and buffeted, -still held out indomitable.</p> - -<p>"Well, and how are you?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"Poorly," he said in a flat voice, "poorly—I'm not what I -was."</p> - -<p>"Nothing serious, I hope?"</p> - -<p>"Vell, I'm not on my back yet."</p> - -<p>"And the boys? They're still doing well, I hope."</p> - -<p>A sort of rigidity came over him: he eyed me furtively and yet -sternly.</p> - -<p>"Boys? I've only one boy."</p> - -<p>"Ah, I'm sorry, very sorry to—"</p> - -<p>"No, no, it's not what you think, not that. I've had trouble, but not -that. That eldest boy of mine, he's no longer my son——I have -done with him; I have only one son now."</p> - -<p>There was nothing dejected, nothing humble in him now. He seemed to draw -himself together, to become taller. A stiff-necked race, I thought!</p> - -<p>"If you ask me how many sons I've got, I say only one, only one. That -fellow isn't my son at all. I had a servant girl here working in my -house, a Christian serving girl—and he married her behind my back. He -asks me to sit down to meat with a girl, a Christian girl, who worked in -my house—I can't do it. I'm not proud, but there are some -things—If he had come to me and said: "Dad, I want to marry a -girl"—a really nice girl—"but she's not one of us: will you -give me your permission and blessing?" Well I don't believe in it. Our -women are as good, better than Christian women. Aren't they as beautiful, -as clever, as good wives? I know my poor mother, God rest her soul, used to -say: "My son," she said, "if you come to me and say you want to marry a -good girl, a Jewess, I don't care whether she hasn't a chemise to her back, -I'll welcome her—but if you marry a Christian, if she's as rich as -Solomon, I've done with you—don't you ever dare to come into my house -again." Vell, I don't go as far as that, though I understand it. Times -change: I might have received his wife, even though she was a Goy. But a -servant girl who washed my dishes! I couldn't do it. One must have some -dignity."</p> - -<p>He stood there upright, stern, noble: a battered scarred old rock, but -immovable under his seedy black coat. I couldn't offer him a shilling; I -shook his hand, and left him brooding over his son and his graves.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<img src="images/figure02.jpg" width="300" alt="400" /> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<img src="images/figure03.jpg" width="300" alt="400" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="THE_MARK_ON_THE_WALL">THE MARK ON THE WALL</a></h4> - -<h5>By</h5> - -<h4>VIRGINIA WOOLF</h4> - - -<p>Perhaps it was the middle of January in the present year that I first -looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is -necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the -steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three -chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must -have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I -remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the -mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my -cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and -that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came -into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up -the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark -interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made -as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the -white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.</p> - -<p>How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little -way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it . . -. . . . If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a -picture, it must have been for a miniature—the miniature of a lady -with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red -carnations. A fraud of course, for the people who had this house before -us would have chosen pictures in that way—an old picture for an old -room. That is the sort of people they were—very interesting people, -and I think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will never -see them again, never know what happened next. She wore a flannel dog -collar round her throat, and he drew posters for an oatmeal company, and -they wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their -style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in -his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, -as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man -about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as -one rushes past in the train.</p> - -<p>But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made -by a nail after all; its too big, too round for that. I might get up, -but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say -for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it -happened. O dear me, the mystery of life! The inaccuracy of thought! The -ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our -possessions we have—what an accidental affair this living is after -all our civilisation—let me just count over a few of the things lost -in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of -all loses—what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble—three pale -blue canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the -iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle -board, the hand organ—all gone, and jewels too. Opals and emeralds, -they lie about the root of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is -to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit -surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to -compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the -Tube at fifty miles an hour—landing at the other end without a single -hair pin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! -Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper -parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying -back like the tail of a race horse. Yes, that seems to express the -rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so -haphazard. . . .</p> - -<p>But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the -cup of the flower as it turns over deluges one with purple and red -light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, -helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the -roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which are -trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, -that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will -be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by thick stalks, -and rather higher up perhaps, rose-shaped blots of an indistinct -colour—dim pinks and blues—which will, as time goes on, become -more definite, become—I don't know what.</p> - -<p>And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be -caused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, -left over from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant -house-keeper—look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the -dust which, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of -pots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe. But I know a -house-keeper, a woman with the profile of a policeman, those little -round buttons marked even upon the edge of her shadow, a woman with a -broom in her hand, a thumb on picture frames, an eye under beds and she -talks always of art. She is coming nearer and nearer; and now, pointing -to certain spots of yellow rust on the fender, she becomes so menacing -that to oust her, I shall have to end her by taking action: I shall have -to get up and see for myself what that mark—</p> - -<p>But no. I refuse to be beaten. I will not move. I will not recognise -her. See, she fades already. I am very nearly rid of her and her -insinuations, which I can hear quite distinctly. Yet she has about her -the pathos of all people who wish to compromise. And why should I resent -the fact that she has a few books in her house, a picture or two? But -what I really resent is that she resents me—life being an affair of -attack and defence after all. Another time I will have it out with her, -not now. She must go now. The tree outside the window taps very gently -on the pane. I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be -interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from -one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I -want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard -separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea -that passes. Shakespeare. Well, he will do as well as another. A man who -sat himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so—A -shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through -his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people looking in -through the open door, for this scene is supposed to take place on a -summer's evening,—But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It -doesn't interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of -thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are -the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest -mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear -their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising oneself; that -is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this.</p> - -<p>"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how -I'd seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in -Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles -the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First? I -asked—(but I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple -tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up -the figure of myself in my own mind lovingly, stealthily, not openly -adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out, and stretch my -hand at once for a book in self protection. Indeed, it is curious how -instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any -other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original -to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It -is a matter of great importance. Suppose the looking glass smashes, the -image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest -depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person -which is seen by other people—what an airless shallow, bald, -prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each -other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror; -that accounts for the expression in our vague and almost glassy eyes. And -the novelists in future will realise more and more the importance of these -reflections, for of course there is not one reflection but an almost -infinite number; those are the depths they will explore, those the -phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and -more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the -Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps; but these generalisations are very -worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading -articles, cabinet ministers—a whole class of things indeed which as a -child one thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, -from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. -Generalisations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon -walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes -and habits—like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a -certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. -The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should -be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, -such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of -the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real -tablecloths. How shocking and yet how wonderful it was to discover that -these real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country houses, and -tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the -damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of -illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of those things, I -wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; -the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which sets the -standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has -become, I suppose, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, -which soon one may hope will be laughed into the dustbin where the -phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and Landseer prints, Gods and -Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of -illegitimate freedom—if freedom exists.</p> - -<p>In certain lights, that mark on the wall seems actually to project from -the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seems to -cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that -strip of the wall it would at a certain point mount and descend a small -tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the South Downs which -are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to -be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people and finding it -natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the -turf. There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up -those bones and given them a name. What sort of man is an antiquary, I -wonder? Retired colonels for the most part, I daresay, leading parties -of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, -and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring clergy, which -being opened at breakfast time gives them a feeling of importance, and -the comparison of arrowheads necessitates cross country journeys to the -county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly -wives, who wish to make plum jam, or to clean out the study, and have -every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in -perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himself feels agreeably -philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It -is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being -opposed, casts all his arrowheads into one scale, and being still -further opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the -quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and -his last conscious thoughts are not of wire or child, but of the camp -and that arrow-head there which is now in the case at the local museum, -together with the hand of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan -nails, a great many Tudor clay pipes a piece of Roman pottery, and the -wine-glass that Nelson drank out of—proving I really don't know -what.</p> - -<p>No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at -this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really—what -shall we say?—the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred -years ago which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many -generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, -and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a -white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain? Knowledge? Matter for -further speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up. -And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of -witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, -interrogating shrew-mice, and writing down the language of the stars? -And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect -for beauty and health of mind increases. . . . . Yes, one could imagine -a very pleasant world. A quiet spacious world, with the flowers so red -and blue in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists -or house-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could -slice with ones thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing -the stems of the water-lilies, and hanging suspended over nests of white -sea eggs. . . . . . How peaceful it is down here, rooted into the centre -of the world and gazing up through the gray waters, with their sudden -gleams of light, and their reflections—If it were not for Whitakers -Almanack—if it were not for the Table of Precedency!</p> - -<p>I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really -is—a nail, a rose-leaf, a crack in the wood?</p> - -<p>Here is Nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This -train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, -even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a -finger against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of -Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High -Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows -somebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to -know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature counsels, -comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can't be comforted, if -you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall.</p> - -<p>I understand Nature's game—her prompting to take action as a way -of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I -suppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action, men, we assume, -who don't think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's -disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.</p> - -<p>Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel I have grasped a -plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once -turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of -shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a -midnight dream of horror one hastily turns on the light and lies -quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, -worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof -of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure -of.... Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree; -and trees grow and we don't know how they grow. For years and years they -grow without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests and by the -side of rivers—all things one likes to think about. The cows swish -their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green -that when a moor-hen dives one expects to see its feathers all green -when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the -stream like flags blown out; and of water-beetles slowly raising domes -of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itself; -first the close dry sensation of being wood; then there is the grinding -of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of -it too on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves -close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a -naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. -The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold -the feet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses -up the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning -of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with huge diamond-cut -red eyes. One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure -of the earth; then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest -branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done -with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all -over the world, in bed-rooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms -where men and women sit after tea smoking their cigarettes. It is full -of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take -each one separately—but something is getting in the way ... Where was -I? What has it all been about? A tree? A river? The Downs, Whitaker's -Almanack, the fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's -moving, falling, slipping, vanishing... There is a vast upheaval of -matter. Someone is standing over me and saying—</p> - -<p>"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."</p> - -<p>"Yes?"</p> - -<p>"Though it's no good, buying newspapers....... Nothing ever happens. -Curse this war! God damn this war!... All the same, I don't see why we -should have a snail on our wall."</p> - -<p>Ah, the mark on the wall! For it was a snail.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="300" alt="400" /> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Two Stories, by Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 63230-h.htm or 63230-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/2/3/63230/ - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by British Library.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Two Stories - -Author: Virginia Woolf - Leonard Woolf - -Illustrator: Dora Carrington - -Release Date: September 18, 2020 [EBook #63230] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by British Library.) - - - - - - -PUBLICATION NO. I. - -TWO STORIES - - -WRITTEN AND PRINTED - -BY - -VIRGINIA WOOLF - -AND - -L. S. WOOLF - - -HOGARTH PRESS -RICHMOND - -1917 - - - - -CONTENTS -THREE JEWS By L. S. WOOLF -THE MARK ON THE WALL By VIRGINIA WOOLF - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THREE JEWS - -By - -LEONARD WOOLF. - - -It was a Sunday and the first day of spring, the first day on which one -felt at any rate spring in the air. It blew in at my window with its -warm breath, with its inevitable little touch of sadness. I felt -restless, and I had nowhere to go to; everyone I knew was out of town. I -looked out of my window at the black trees breaking into bud, the tulips -and the hyacinths that even London could not rob of their reds and blues -and yellows, the delicate spring sunshine on the asphalt, and the pale -blue sky that the chimney pots broke into. I found myself muttering -"damn it" for no very obvious reason. It was spring, I suppose, the -first stirring of the blood. - -I wanted to see clean trees, and the sun shine upon grass; I wanted -flowers and leaves unsoiled by soot; I wanted to see and smell the -earth; above all I wanted the horizon. I felt that something was waiting -for me beyond the houses and the chimney-pots: I should find it where -earth and sky meet. I didn't of course but I took the train to Kew. - -If I did not find in Kew the place where earth and sky meet or even the -smell of the earth, I saw at any rate the sun upon the brown bark of -trees and the delicate green of grass. It was spring there, English -spring with its fresh warm breath, and its pale blue sky above the -trees. Yes, the quiet orderly English spring that embraced and sobered -even the florid luxuriance of great flowers bursting in white cascades -over strange tropical trees. - -And the spring had brought the people out into the gardens, the quiet -orderly English people. It was the first stirring of the blood. It had -stirred them to come out in couples, in family parties, in tight -matronly black dresses, in drab coats and trousers in dowdy skirts and -hats. It had stirred some to come in elegant costumes and morning suits -and spats. They looked at the flaunting tropical trees, and made jokes, -and chaffed one another, and laughed not very loud. They were happy in -their quiet orderly English way, happy in the warmth of the sunshine, -happy to be among quiet trees, and to feel the soft grass under their -feet. They did not run about or shout, they walked slowly, quietly, -taking care to keep off the edges of the grass because the notices told -them to do so. - -It was very warm, very pleasant, and very tiring. I wandered cut at last -through the big gates, and was waved by a man with a napkin--he stood on -the pavement--through a Georgian house into a garden studded with white -topped tables and dirty ricketty chairs. It was crowded with people, and -I sat down at the only vacant table, and watched them eating plum-cake -and drinking tea quietly, soberly, under the gentle apple-blossom. - -A man came up the garden looking quickly from side to side for an empty -place. I watched him in a tired lazy way. There was a bustle and roll -and energy in his walk. I noticed the thickness of his legs above the -knee, the arms that hung so loosely and limply by his sides as they do -with people who wear loose hanging clothes without sleeves, his dark fat -face and the sensual mouth, the great curve of the upper lip and the -hanging lower one. A clever face, dark and inscrutable, with its large -mysterious eyes and the heavy lids which went into deep folds at the -corners. - -He stopped near my table, looked at the empty chair and then at me, and -said: - -"Excuse me, Sir, but d'you mind my sitting at your table?" - -I noticed the slight thickness of the voice, the overemphasis, and the -little note of assertiveness in it. I said I didn't mind at all. - -He sat down, leaned back in his chair, and took his hat off. He had a -high forehead, black hair, and well-shaped fat hands. - -"Fine day," he said, "wonderfully fine day, the finest day I ever -remember. Nothing to beat a fine English spring day." - -I saw the delicate apple-blossom and the pale blue sky behind his large -dark head. I smiled. He saw the smile, flushed, and then smiled himself. - -"You are amused," he said, still smiling, "I believe I know why." - -"Yes," I said, "You knew me at once and I knew you. We show up, don't -we, under the apple-blossom and this sky. It doesn't belong to us, do -you wish it did?" - -"Ah," he said seriously, "that's the question. Or rather we don't belong -to it. We belong to Palestine still, but I'm not sure that it doesn't -belong to us for all that." - -"Well, perhaps your version is truer than mine. I'll take it, but -there's still the question, do you wish _you_ belonged to _it_?" - -He wasn't a bit offended. He tilted back his chair, put one thumb in the -arm-hole of his waistcoat, and looked round the garden. He showed -abominably concentrated, floridly intelligent, in the thin spring air -and among the inconspicuous tea-drinkers. He didn't answer my question; -he was thinking, and when he spoke, he asked another: - -"Do you ever go to Synagogue?" - -"No." - -"Nor do I, except on Yom Kippur. I still go then every year--pure habit. -I don't believe in it, of course; I believe in nothing--you believe in -nothing--we're all sceptics. And yet we belong to Palestine still. -Funny, ain't it? How it comes out! Under the apple-blossom and blue sky, -as you say, as well as--as--among the tombs." - -"Among the tombs?" - -"Ah, I was thinking of another man I met. He belongs to Palestine too. -Shall I tell you about him?" - -I said I wished he would. He put his hand's in his pockets and began at -once. - -* * * * * * * * * - -The first time I saw him, I remember the day well, as well as yesterday. -There was no apple-blossom then, a November day, cold, bitter cold, the -coldest day I remember. It was the anniversary of my poor wife's death. -She was my first wife, Rebecca. She made me a good wife, I tell you--we -were very happy. (He took out a white silk pocket handkerchief, opened -it with something of a flourish, and blew his nose long and loudly. Then -he continued.) - -I buried her at the cemetery in K--Road. You know it? What? No? You must -know it, the big cemetery near the hospital. You know the hospital at -any rate? Well, you turn down by it coming from the station, take the -first turning to the right and the second to the left, and there you -are. It's a big cemetery, very big, almost as big as Golders Green, and -they keep the gardens very nicely. Well, my poor wife lies there--my -first wife, I've married again, you see, and she's living and well, -thank God--and I went on the first anniversary to visit the grave and -put flowers on it. - -There you are now, there's another curious thing. I often wonder why we -do it. It's not as if it did anyone any _good._ I don't believe in -immortality, nor do you, nor do any of us. But I go and put flowers on -her grave though it won't do her any good, poor soul. It's sentiment, I -suppose. No one can say we Jews haven't got that, and family affection. -They're among our very strongest characteristics. - -Yes, they don't like us. (He looked round at the quiet tea-drinkers.) -We're too clever perhaps, too sharp, too go-ahead. _Nous_, that's what -we've got, _Nous_, and they don't like it, eh? But they can't deny us -our other virtues--sentiment and family affection. Now look at the -Titanic disaster: who was it refused to get into the boats, unless her -husband went too? Who met death hand in hand with him? Eh? A Jewess! -There you are! Her children rise up and call her blessed: her husband -also and he praiseth her! - -I put that verse from Proverbs on my poor wife's tombstone. I remember -standing in front of it, and reading it over and over again that day, -the day I'm talking about. My dear Sir, I felt utterly wretched, -standing there in that cold wet cemetery, with all those white -tombstones round me and a damp yellow November fog. I put some beautiful -white flowers on her grave. - -The cemetery-keeper had given me some glass gallipots to stand the -flowers in, and, as I left, I thought I would give him a shilling. He -was standing near the gates. By Jove! You couldn't mistake him for -anything but a Jew. His arms hung down from his shoulders in that -curious, loose, limp way--you know it?--it makes the clothes look as if -they didn't belong to the man who is wearing them. Clever cunning grey -eyes, gold pince-nez, and a nose, by Jove, Sir, one of the best, one of -those noses, white and shiny, which, when you look at it full face, -seems almost flat on the face, but immensely broad, curving down, like a -broad highroad from between the bushy eye-brows down over the lips. And -side face, it was colossal; it stood out like an elephant's trunk with -its florid curves and scrolls. - -I was, as I say, utterly wretched. I wanted someone to talk to, and -though I didn't expect to get much comfort out of a cemetery-keeper, I -said by way of conversation, as I gave him a shilling: - -"You keep these gardens very nicely." - -He looked at me over the gold rims of his glasses: - -"We do our best. I haven't been here long, you know, but I do my best. -And a man can't do more, now _can_ he?" - -"No" I said, "he can't." - -He put his head on one side, and looked at a tombstone near by: it was -tilted over to one side, blackened by the soot to a dirty yellow colour, -the plaster peeling off. There was one dirty scraggy evergreen growing -on the grave. There was a text on the stone, I remember, something about -the righteous nourishing like the bay-tree. - -"Of course one can't do everything. Look at that now. Some people don't -do anything, never come near the place, don't spend a penny on their -graves. Then of course they go like that. It will get worse and worse, -for we only bury reserves here now. Sometimes it ain't anyone's fault: -families die out, the graves are forgotten. It don't look nice, but -well, I say, what does it matter after all? When I'm dead, they may -chuck me on the dung-hill, for all I care." - -He looked down his nose at the rows and rows of dirty white -grave-stones, which were under his charge, critically, with an air of -hostility, as if they had done him some wrong. - -"You don't perhaps believe in a life after death?" I said. - -He pushed his hands well down into the pockets of his long overcoat, -hugged himself together, and looked up at the yellow sky and dirty -yellow houses, looming over the cemetery. - -"No I don't," he said with conviction. "It ain't likely. Nobody knows -anything about it. It ain't likely, is it?" - -"No, but what about the Bible?" - -His cold grey eyes looked at me steadily over the gold pince-nez. - -"I'm not sure there's much in the Bible about it, eh? And one can't -believe everything in the Bible. There's the Almighty of course, well, -who can say? He may exist, he may not--I say I don't know. But a life -hereafter, I don't believe in it. One don't have to believe everything -now: it was different when I was young. You had to believe everything -then; you had to believe everything they told you in Schul. Now you may -think for yourself. And _mind you_, it don't _do_ to think too much: if -you think too much about those things, you go mad, raving mad. What I -say is, lead a pure clean life here, and you'll get your reward here. -I've seen it in my own case: I wasn't always in a job like this. I had a -business once, things went wrong through no fault of mine, and I lost -everything--everything sold up except an old wooden bed. Ah, those were -hard times, I can tell you! Then I got offered this job--it ain't very -good, but I thought to myself: well, there'll be a comfortable home for -my wife and my two boys as long as I live. I've tried to live a clean -life, and I shall have better times now, eh? - -I thought of my own wife and my motherless children: my sadness -increased. And I thought of our race, its traditions and its faith, how -they are vanishing in the life that surrounds us. The old spirit, the -old faith, they had kept alive hot and vigorous--for how many -centuries?--when we were spat upon, outcasts. But now they are cold and -feeble, vanishing in the universal disbelief. I looked at the man under -the shadow of the dirty yellow London fog and the squalid yellow London -houses. "This man," I thought to myself, "a mere keeper of graves is -touched by it as much as I am. He isn't a Jew now any more than I am. -We're Jews only externally now, in our black hair and our large noses, -in the way we stand and the way we walk. But inside we're Jews no -longer. Even _he_ doesn't believe, the keeper of Jewish graves! The old -spirit, the ancient faith has gone out of him." - -I was wrong; I know now, and I'll tell you how I came to see it. The -spirit's still there all right; it comes out under the apple-blossom, -eh?, and it came out among the tombs too. - -The next time I saw him was another November day, an English, a London -day; O Lord, his nose showed in it very white and florid under the -straight houses and the chimney-pots and the heavy, melancholy dripping -sky. I had married in the meantime, and my wife--like the good soul that -she is--had come with me to put flowers on my poor Rebecca's -grave--another anniversary you see. Yes, I was happy--I don't mind -telling you so--even at my poor Rebecca's graveside. - -He was standing there in the same place, in a black top-hat and a great -black overcoat, looking at the tombstones over the top of his -gold-rimmed glasses. All the cares of the world seemed to be weighing -down his sloping shoulders. - -"Good day", he said to me, just touching the brim of his hat. - -"Well", I said, "and how's the world going with you?" - -He fixed me with his hard grey eyes that had a look of pain in them, and -said in a tone which had neither reverence nor irony in it, nor indeed -any feeling at all: - -"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the -Lord. I buried my poor wife last Thursday". - -There was an awkward silence. - -"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said, "very sorry." - -"Yes" he said, "The righteous flourish like the bay-tree: they tell us -that: you see it there on the tombstone." - -He put his head on one side and stared at it. - -"Vell," he said--and I noticed for the first time the thick Jewish -speech--"vell, its there, so I suppose its true, ain't it? But its -difficult to see, y' know always. I've often said the only thing we can -do is to lead a clean life here, a pure life, and we'll get our reward. -But mine seems to be pretty long in coming," he sighed, "yes pretty -long, I tell you. I had hard times before: we both of us did, my poor -wife and I. And then at last I got this job; I thought she was going to -have a happy peaceful life at last. Nothing very grand in pay, but -enough to keep us and the two boys. And a nice enough house for her. And -then as soon as we come here she takes ill and dies, poor soul." - -He wiped his eyes. - -"I don't know why I should call her poor soul. She's at rest any way. -And she made me the best, the very best wife a man could have." - -He put his hands well down in the pockets of his overcoat, drew his arms -to his sides so that he looked like a great black bird folding its wings -round itself, and rocked himself backwards and forwards, first on his -toes and then on his heels, looking up at me sideways with wrinkled -forehead. - -"Vell," he said, "EI've got my two boys. I wish you could see 'em. Fine -young fellows. One earning 30/- a week, though he's only eighteen. He'll -do well, I tell you; all right up here." He tapped his forehead. "And -the other, though I'm his father I'm not afraid to tell anyone, he's a -genius--he draws, draws beautiful, and paints too, real artistic -pictures. Ah they're good lads--a bit wild, the elder one--" he lowered -his voice and showed his teeth in a grin, "he's got an eye for the -petticoats, but then boys will be boys. I daresay I was the same -myself." - -I didn't altogether like the grin, with my wife standing there, so I -gave him a shilling and went. I've seen him once more: the day came -round again, and I took my boy this time, dear little chap, to see his -mother's grave. And Fanny came too,--ah, she's a mother to those -motherless children. - -There he was standing in the same place, in his top-hat and seedy black -coat. I saw at once that things were not right with him. His clothes -seemed to hang on him as if he were merely an old clothes prop; his old -bowed shoulders sloped more than ever. His face was grey, pasty, -terribly lined, and his nose more white and shiny than ever. Seedy was -the word for him, seedy inside and out, seedy through and through. He -was beaten, degraded, down, gone under, gone all to bits. And yet -somehow he looked as if that was just what hadn't happened--he hadn't -gone all to bits: there was something in him that still stood up and -held him together, something like a rock which, beaten and buffeted, -still held out indomitable. - -"Well, and how are you?" I asked. - -"Poorly," he said in a flat voice, "poorly--I'm not what I was." - -"Nothing serious, I hope?" - -"Vell, I'm not on my back yet." - -"And the boys? They're still doing well, I hope." - -A sort of rigidity came over him: he eyed me furtively and yet sternly. - -"Boys? I've only one boy." - -"Ah, I'm sorry, very sorry to--" - -"No, no, it's not what you think, not that. I've had trouble, but not -that. That eldest boy of mine, he's no longer my son----I have done with -him; I have only one son now." - -There was nothing dejected, nothing humble in him now. He seemed to draw -himself together, to become taller. A stiff-necked race, I thought! - -"If you ask me how many sons I've got, I say only one, only one. That -fellow isn't my son at all. I had a servant girl here working in my -house, a Christian serving girl--and he married her behind my back. He -asks me to sit down to meat with a girl, a Christian girl, who worked in -my house--I can't do it. I'm not proud, but there are some things--If he -had come to me and said: "Dad, I want to marry a girl"--a really nice -girl--"but she's not one of us: will you give me your permission and -blessing?" Well I don't believe in it. Our women are as good, better -than Christian women. Aren't they as beautiful, as clever, as good -wives? I know my poor mother, God rest her soul, used to say: "My son," -she said, "if you come to me and say you want to marry a good girl, a -Jewess, I don't care whether she hasn't a chemise to her back, I'll -welcome her--but if you marry a Christian, if she's as rich as Solomon, -I've done with you--don't you ever dare to come into my house again." -Vell, I don't go as far as that, though I understand it. Times change: I -might have received his wife, even though she was a Goy. But a servant -girl who washed my dishes! I couldn't do it. One must have some -dignity." - -He stood there upright, stern, noble: a battered scarred old rock, but -immovable under his seedy black coat. I couldn't offer him a shilling; I -shook his hand, and left him brooding over his son and his graves. - - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE MARK ON THE WALL - -By - -VIRGINIA WOOLF - - -Perhaps it was the middle of January in the present year that I first -looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is -necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the -steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three -chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must -have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I -remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the -mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my -cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and -that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came -into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up -the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark -interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made -as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the -white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece. - -How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little -way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it . . -. . . . If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a -picture, it must have been for a miniature--the miniature of a lady with -white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red -carnations. A fraud of course, for the people who had this house before -us would have chosen pictures in that way--an old picture for an old -room. That is the sort of people they were--very interesting people, and -I think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will never -see them again, never know what happened next. She wore a flannel dog -collar round her throat, and he drew posters for an oatmeal company, and -they wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their -style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in -his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, -as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man -about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as -one rushes past in the train. - -But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made -by a nail after all; its too big, too round for that. I might get up, -but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say -for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it -happened. O dear me, the mystery of life! The inaccuracy of thought! The -ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our -possessions we have--what an accidental affair this living is after all -our civilisation--let me just count over a few of the things lost in one -lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of all -loses--what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble--three pale blue -canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the -iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle -board, the hand organ--all gone, and jewels too. Opals and emeralds, -they lie about the root of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is -to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit -surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to -compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the -Tube at fifty miles an hour--landing at the other end without a single -hair pin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! -Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper -parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying -back like the tail of a race horse. Yes, that seems to express the -rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so -haphazard. . . . - -But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the -cup of the flower as it turns over deluges one with purple and red -light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, -helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the -roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which are -trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, -that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will -be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by thick stalks, -and rather higher up perhaps, rose-shaped blots of an indistinct -colour--dim pinks and blues--which will, as time goes on, become more -definite, become--I don't know what. - -And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be -caused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, -left over from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant -house-keeper--look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust -which, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of pots -utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe. But I know a -house-keeper, a woman with the profile of a policeman, those little -round buttons marked even upon the edge of her shadow, a woman with a -broom in her hand, a thumb on picture frames, an eye under beds and she -talks always of art. She is coming nearer and nearer; and now, pointing -to certain spots of yellow rust on the fender, she becomes so menacing -that to oust her, I shall have to end her by taking action: I shall have -to get up and see for myself what that mark-- - -But no. I refuse to be beaten. I will not move. I will not recognise -her. See, she fades already. I am very nearly rid of her and her -insinuations, which I can hear quite distinctly. Yet she has about her -the pathos of all people who wish to compromise. And why should I resent -the fact that she has a few books in her house, a picture or two? But -what I really resent is that she resents me--life being an affair of -attack and defence after all. Another time I will have it out with her, -not now. She must go now. The tree outside the window taps very gently -on the pane. I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be -interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from -one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I -want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard -separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea -that passes. Shakespeare. Well, he will do as well as another. A man who -sat himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so--A -shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through -his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people looking in -through the open door, for this scene is supposed to take place on a -summer's evening,--But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It -doesn't interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of -thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are -the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest -mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear -their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising oneself; that -is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this. - -"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how -I'd seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in -Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles -the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First? I -asked--(but I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple -tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up -the figure of myself in my own mind lovingly, stealthily, not openly -adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out, and stretch my -hand at once for a book in self protection. Indeed, it is curious how -instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any -other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original -to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It -is a matter of great importance. Suppose the looking glass smashes, the -image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest -depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person -which is seen by other people--what an airless shallow, bald, prominent -world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in -omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror; that -accounts for the expression in our vague and almost glassy eyes. And the -novelists in future will realise more and more the importance of these -reflections, for of course there is not one reflection but an almost -infinite number; those are the depths they will explore, those the -phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and -more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the -Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps; but these generalisations are very -worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading -articles, cabinet ministers--a whole class of things indeed which as a -child one thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, -from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. -Generalisations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon -walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes -and habits--like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a -certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. -The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should -be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, -such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of -the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real -tablecloths. How shocking and yet how wonderful it was to discover that -these real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country houses, and -tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the -damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of -illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of those things, I -wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; -the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which sets the -standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has -become, I suppose, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, -which soon one may hope will be laughed into the dustbin where the -phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and Landseer prints, Gods and -Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of -illegitimate freedom--if freedom exists. - -In certain lights, that mark on the wall seems actually to project from -the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seems to -cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that -strip of the wall it would at a certain point mount and descend a small -tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the South Downs which -are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to -be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people and finding it -natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the -turf. There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up -those bones and given them a name. What sort of man is an antiquary, I -wonder? Retired colonels for the most part, I daresay, leading parties -of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, -and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring clergy, which -being opened at breakfast time gives them a feeling of importance, and -the comparison of arrowheads necessitates cross country journeys to the -county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly -wives, who wish to make plum jam, or to clean out the study, and have -every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in -perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himself feels agreeably -philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It -is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being -opposed, casts all his arrowheads into one scale, and being still -further opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the -quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and -his last conscious thoughts are not of wire or child, but of the camp -and that arrow-head there which is now in the case at the local museum, -together with the hand of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan -nails, a great many Tudor clay pipes a piece of Roman pottery, and the -wine-glass that Nelson drank out of--proving I really don't know what. - -No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at -this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really--what -shall we say?--the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred -years ago which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many -generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, -and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a -white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain? Knowledge? Matter for -further speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up. -And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of -witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, -interrogating shrew-mice, and writing down the language of the stars? -And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect -for beauty and health of mind increases. . . . . Yes, one could imagine -a very pleasant world. A quiet spacious world, with the flowers so red -and blue in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists -or house-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could -slice with ones thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing -the stems of the water-lilies, and hanging suspended over nests of white -sea eggs. . . . . . How peaceful it is down here, rooted into the centre -of the world and gazing up through the gray waters, with their sudden -gleams of light, and their reflections--If it were not for Whitakers -Almanack--if it were not for the Table of Precedency! - -I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really -is--a nail, a rose-leaf, a crack in the wood? - -Here is Nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This -train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, -even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a -finger against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of -Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High -Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows -somebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to -know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature counsels, -comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can't be comforted, if -you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall. - -I understand Nature's game--her prompting to take action as a way of -ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I -suppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action, men, we assume, -who don't think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's -disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall. - -Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel I have grasped a -plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once -turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of -shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a -midnight dream of horror one hastily turns on the light and lies -quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, -worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof -of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure -of.... Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree; -and trees grow and we don't know how they grow. For years and years they -grow without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests and by -the side of rivers--all things one likes to think about. The cows swish -their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green -that when a moor-hen dives one expects to see its feathers all green -when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the -stream like flags blown out; and of water-beetles slowly raising domes -of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itself; -first the close dry sensation of being wood; then there is the grinding -of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of -it too on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves -close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a -naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. -The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold -the feet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses -up the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning -of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with huge diamond-cut -red eyes. One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure -of the earth; then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest -branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done -with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all -over the world, in bed-rooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms -where men and women sit after tea smoking their cigarettes. It is full -of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take -each one separately--but something is getting in the way ... Where was -I? What has it all been about? A tree? A river? The Downs, Whitaker's -Almanack, the fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's -moving, falling, slipping, vanishing... There is a vast upheaval of -matter. Someone is standing over me and saying-- - -"I'm going out to buy a newspaper." - -"Yes?" - -"Though it's no good, buying newspapers....... Nothing ever happens. -Curse this war! God damn this war!... All the same, I don't see why we -should have a snail on our wall." - -Ah, the mark on the wall! For it was a snail. - - -[Illustration] - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Two Stories, by Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 63230.txt or 63230.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/2/3/63230/ - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by British Library.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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