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
THREE JEWS
By
LEONARD WOOLF.
It was a Sunday and the first day of spring, the first day on which onefelt at any rate spring in the air. It blew in at my window with itswarm breath, with its inevitable little touch of sadness. I feltrestless, and I had nowhere to go to; everyone I knew was out of town. Ilooked out of my window at the black trees breaking into bud, the tulipsand the hyacinths that even London could not rob of their reds and bluesand yellows, the delicate spring sunshine on the asphalt, and the paleblue sky that the chimney pots broke into. I found myself muttering"damn it" for no very obvious reason. It was spring, I suppose, thefirst stirring of the blood.
I wanted to see clean trees, and the sun shine upon grass; I wantedflowers and leaves unsoiled by soot; I wanted to see and smell theearth; above all I wanted the horizon. I felt that something was waitingfor me beyond the houses and the chimney-pots: I should find it whereearth 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 thesmell of the earth, I saw at any rate the sun upon the brown bark oftrees and the delicate green of grass. It was spring there, Englishspring with its fresh warm breath, and its pale blue sky above thetrees. Yes, the quiet orderly English spring that embraced and soberedeven the florid luxuriance of great flowers bursting in white cascadesover strange tropical trees.
And the spring had brought the people out into the gardens, the quietorderly English people. It was the first stirring of the blood. It hadstirred them to come out in couples, in family parties, in tightmatronly black dresses, in drab coats and trousers in dowdy skirts andhats. It had stirred some to come in elegant costumes and morning suitsand spats. They looked at the flaunting tropical trees, and made jokes,and chaffed one another, and laughed not very loud. They were happy intheir quiet orderly English way, happy in the warmth of the sunshine,happy to be among quiet trees, and to feel the soft grass under theirfeet. They did not run about or shout, they walked slowly, quietly,taking care to keep off the edges of the grass because the notices toldthem to do so.
It was very warm, very pleasant, and very tiring. I wandered cut at lastthrough the big gates, and was waved by a man with a napkin—he stoodon the pavement—through a Georgian house into a garden studded withwhite 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-cakeand drinking tea quietly, soberly, under the gentle apple-blossom.
A man came up the garden looking quickly from side to side for an emptyplace. I watched him in a tired lazy way. There was a bustle and rolland energy in his walk. I noticed the thickness of his legs above theknee, the arms that hung so loosely and limply by his sides as they dowith people who wea