She was given to increasing the bounds of the moment by flights into past or future; or sidelong down corridors and alley.
(Old Mrs Swithin, describing Woolf’s own technique, page 8)
She gave him an arch roguish twinkle, as if to say—but the end of that sentence was cut short.
(One of many instances of interruption and incompletion which characterise the novel at every level, p.182)
‘Bless my soul, what a dither!’
(An unknown member of the audience as it disperses at the end of the pageant which forms the centrepiece of the narrative, p.180)
Virginia Woolf killed herself before her last novel, Between the Acts, was published. She drowned herself in the River Ouse on 28 March 1941 and the novel was published on 17 July 1941.
According to her biographer, after the long, gruelling process of writing and rewriting her previous work, the long novel The Years, which covers 55 years in the lives of the extended Pargiter family, the writing of Between The Acts flowed much more easily. It stems from one simple concept: all the events are set on just one day in the summer of 1939 (p.48), on the day of the annual village pageant at Pointz Hall, at the heart of a remote and idyllic rural community in the south of England.
As usual, the narrative describes not only of events, but the thoughts and memories of half a dozen of the central characters. And the pageant itself reviews and celebrates English history just at the moment when the nation was poised on the brink of another world war, which would rewrite or even obliterate much of that history.
Shadows
Born in 1882, Woolf was approaching 50 when she wrote Between The Acts. She had been a prolific author, but had also lived a life plagued with mental illness and periodic collapses into complete madness. So the idea of a rural village pageant sounds as idyllic as can be, but the book is darkened by multiple shadows, details and themes.
So, for example, Isabella (Isa) dawdling in the library of the big house at the centre of the novel, picks up a copy of The Times and starts idly reading it. What could be more privileged and tony? Except that she finds herself reading the account of what seems to be an assault or rape case, of some British soldiers accused of luring a women into their barracks, throwing her on a bed and tearing off some of her clothing, at which point she started to slap the soldier…
This upsetting image recurs to Isa throughout the book, only a few times but enough to add a very dark thread to the fabric. Also regarding Isa, she is very obviously unhappily married to Giles, son of the village’s posh landowner, and her day is punctuated by thoughts of not just unhappiness, but active hatred for him. She tries to counter these by repeating the mantra that he is ‘the father to my children’ but it doesn’t really help.
As I say, dark shadows…
Threads and themes
So there’s this ancient house, Pointz Hall, sitting in a dip in remote and unspoilt English countryside. In it live old Mr Oliver who’s accompanied everywhere by his big Afghan hound, and his widowed sister, Mrs Swithin, who he calls Sindy though her given name was Lucy. They’re both in their 70s.
Old Oliver doesn’t understand how his sister, like him in so many ways, can believe in God, wears a big crucifix, is always off to church. a) Woolf herself, in either her novels or essays, gives no indication of understanding religion: this is another massive gap in her sense of human nature and experience, along with her timidity about sex and her inability to grasp most aspects of masculinity. b) But Oliver’s incomprehension doesn’t affect the deep affection of brother and sister. c) Which reminds me of the deep affection between the 70-something brother and sister, Eleanor and Edward, in The Years, one of the many ways that themes from the previous book spill over into this one.
Lucy / Mrs Swithin is the classic Woolfian absent-minded and dreamy older woman cf Eleanor in The Years.
Was it that she had no body? Up in the clouds, like an air ball, her mind touched ground now and then with a shock of surprise.
With Bart and Lucy lives Bart’s son, Giles Oliver, who is a stockbroker in London, and his wife, Isabella, generally called Isa. Isa is identified from the start as another typically dreamy Woolf woman, not interested in details, drifting off when people talk, preferring her dream world of disconnected thoughts and perceptions. Isa writes poetry but does so in a book disguised as an accounts book so as to hide it from her husband.
Isa is not a slip of a thing. When she takes Dodge to see the greenhouses, the narrative tells us she is ‘broad’ and ‘fairly filled the path’ (p.101).
At one point there’s a really pure expression of the dream aesthetic underlying Woolf’s entire approach, the non-human stasis and timelessness she aspires to.
Empty, empty, empty; silent, silent, silent. The room was a shell, singing of what was before time was; a vase stood in the heart of the house, alabaster, smooth, cold, holding the still, distilled essence of emptiness, silence. (p.33)
If only life, or art, could have that perfection. but things keep changing, moving on, everything is in flux, and so no record of it can be perfect.
The young people of the village – Jim, Iris, David, Jessica – are busy decorating the old stone barn where the pageant will be held. A stage has been erected at one end. They call Mrs Swithin ‘Old Flimsy’.
Enter Mrs Manresa and William Dodge
Uninvited, two people show up at the house, Mrs Manresa, 45, and her friend, William Dodge. Through Isa’s eyes we learn that Mrs Manresa is a well-known local eccentric, married to a well-off City financier, with homes in London and down here, well known for playing jazz, roaming round in unusual clothes, insisting on teaching the village girls basket weaving.
Isa affectionately mocks Mrs Manresa as ‘the wild child of nature’ but she represents enjoyment of life, what Woolf mockingly refers to as the importance of ‘the jolly human heart’. She stirs some sugar into her coffee and:
She looked before she drank. Looking was part of drinking. Why waste sensation, she seemed to ask, why waste a single drop that can be pressed out of this ripe, this melting, this adorable world? (p.51)
It is identical to the sentiment expressed several times in Mrs Dalloway, about the sheer delight in living, in being live and sensitive to everything around you, no matter how small.
The stories that never are
It was in Orlando that I realised something distinctive about Woolf: given that her characters hardly ever do anything except drift from house to house, stroll through the streets, catch buses or cabs, and attend luncheons and dinner parties – for action, for interest, to liven up conversations, they often refer to ‘stories’, are described as telling ‘stories’, remind each other of the old ‘story’ about so-and-so.
But here’s my point: we never get to hear these stories. The promised stories are never told.
This was most flagrant in Orlando where we are repeatedly told about the months Orlando spent with buccaneers and whores in the East End and the stories they told! How the knackered old playwright Nicholas Green told him story after story about his contemporaries Shakespeare and Marlowe! About his time with the Turkish gypsies who told many a fine yarn round their campfires! And here’s the point: we never hear one of these stories.
In her big long novel, The Years, characters threaten to tell each other ‘stories’ about the old days, but never do.
Partly this has a modernist feel, a deliberate strategy of indirection, reminiscent of The Waste Land or The Cantos, which are made of unfinished fragments. But it’s also, I think, because Woolf couldn’t actually tell a story; she was one of those people who doesn’t remember stories, isn’t really interested in stories; her thing is moments of being, her characters noticing luminous details, dreams. Each of her novels features a leading woman protagonist who is the first to admit how forgetful they are: Mrs Dalloway, Mrs Ramsay, Eleanor Pargiter and here’s inattentive old Mrs Swithin.
‘A bishop; a traveller;—I’ve forgotten even their names. I ignore. I forget.’ (p.64)
The never-told stories are closely connected to another phenomenon, which is something to do with incompletion. Characters start to say something that may be a story, but are interrupted, shouted down, talked over, or someone laughs and the character listening doesn’t hear the crucial part. Woolf’s narratives revel in incompletion and frustration. The classic instance is at the end of The Years when Nicholas attempts to cap the big party which forms the final section of the book with a speech, but he is interrupted once, tries again and is interrupted again, tries a third time but other people walk by, talk over him, suggest someone else makes a speech, and so it never happens.
That sense of an action, generally a narrative, of someone trying to tell a story or a speech but not being completed, left hanging, frustrated, is a fundamental aspect of Woolf’s fictions, and the same happens here in Between The Acts. Here is a typical Woolf anecdote, Mrs Manresa rattling on to the Oliver family:
On she went to offer them a sample of her life; a few gobbets of gossip; mere trash; but she gave it for what it was worth; how last Tuesday she had been sitting next so and so; and she added, very casually a Christian name; then a nickname; and he’d said—for, as a mere nobody they didn’t mind what they said to her—and ‘in strict confidence, I needn’t tell you,’ she told them. And they all pricked their ears. And then, with a gesture of her hands as if tossing overboard that odious crackling-under-the-pot London life—so—she exclaimed ‘There!…And what’s the first thing I do when I come down here?’ They had only come last night, driving through June lanes… (p.38)
What happened to the ‘story’? We are not told it. I think Mrs Manresa actually does tell it and Woolf simply doesn’t report it, though it’s not very clear. What is certainly clear is that Woolf doesn’t share it. She never does. In all these novels we never get to hear any ancillary or subsidiary stories.
Here’s another typical moment. Old Bart is telling the unexpected lunch guests, Mrs Manresa and William, about the paintings hanging in the dining room.
Dodge [said] ‘I like that picture.’
‘And you’re right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A man—I forget his name—a man connected with some Institute, a man who goes about giving advice, gratis, to descendants like ourselves, degenerate descendants, said…said…’ He paused. They all looked at the lady. But she looked over their heads, looking at nothing. She led them down green glades into the heart of silence.
‘Said it was by Sir Joshua?’ Mrs. Manresa broke the silence abruptly.
‘No, no,’ William Dodge said hastily, but under his breath. (p.45)
And that’s it. Things move on to Mrs Manresa counting out the stones from the cherries in her tart. In other words the story, or anecdote, about the expert who assessed the Oliver paintings, is never completed.
Later, in the interval of the pageant, Mrs Manresa is tempted to tell an off-colour story, but, of course, doesn’t.
Mrs. Manresa laughed. She remembered. An anecdote was on the tip of her tongue, about a public lavatory built to celebrate the same occasion, and how the Mayor… Could she tell it? No.
No, we never get to hear this as we never get to hear hundreds of other ‘stories’ referred to but never told. Woolf conversations are full of these interruptions and incompletions, it’s her trademark move. Thus at the very end of this book, the vicar starts to make a speech but is interrupted in mid-word by a flight of airplanes overhead.
‘But there is still a deficit’ (he consulted his paper) ‘of one hundred and seventy-five pounds odd. So that each of us who has enjoyed this pageant has still an opp…’ The word was cut in two. A zoom severed it. Twelve aeroplanes in perfect formation like a flight of wild duck came overhead. That was the music. The audience gaped; the audience gazed. Then zoom became drone. The planes had passed. ‘…portunity,’ Mr. Streatfield continued, ‘to make a contribution.’
We, like the author, want things to form a unity, to be whole. But life is never whole, life is really a litany of interruptions and distractions.
‘One thing follows another’
Giles Oliver, Isa’s husband, arrives by train from London. He is nettled that they have unexpected guests i.e. Mrs Manresa has imposed on them. Giles bolts his lunch (the fish) to catch up with the others, then they take their coffee on the terrace with a view.
If his wife is a Woolfian dreamer, Giles represents a type of the Angry Man. He is angry that Mrs Manresa is breaking the family mood he came down to enjoy. This spills over into his acute awareness that war is coming and his seething frustration that all these old fogies just sit around in their deckchairs admiring the view as if nothing’s up. He instantly forms a bad opinion of Dodge and, as the coffee conversation wears on, decides he is a ****, a word he cannot say. Presumably he means gay.
The narrative meanders on. On the face of it Old Bart commences an inconsequential conversation asking why the British are so indifferent to their painters but so much more devoted to their writers (because the writers are better is the short answer). But while these middle-class types noodle on their inconsequential conversation, other things go on. The narrative ponders the subtle affiliation between cross Giles and self-professed wild child Mrs Manresa.
A thread united them—visible, invisible, like those threads, now seen, now not, that unite trembling grass blades in autumn before the sun rises. She had met him once only, at a cricket match. And then had been spun between them an early morning thread before the twigs and leaves of real friendship emerge.
Woolf isn’t interested in ‘stories’ and her novels have next to no plot because this is what interests her: the invisible threads that link people, places, memories…
Miss La Trobe
Only now, a quarter into the text, are we introduced to a figure who’s going to dominate it, Miss La Trobe, the impresario who stages the village pageant every year.
Outwardly she was swarthy, sturdy and thick set; strode about the fields in a smock frock; sometimes with a cigarette in her mouth; often with a whip in her hand; and used rather strong language…
This commanding figure has decided that the country house’s terrace would be the ideal place to perform the play. Now the lunch party (the Olivers, Giles and Isa, Mrs M etc) hear voices coming from the dip beyond the lily pond because it is here that Miss La Trobe is organising her troops for the day ahead. (Her nickname among the village actors is ‘Bossy’.)
Mr Streatfield the vicar arrives, with his ‘handsome, grizzled head’.
Rhymes
Isa is a poet so we see her continually versifying and looking for rhymes. It’s her shtick, her identifier.
‘Where we know not, where we go not, neither know nor care,’ she hummed. ‘Flying, rushing through the ambient, incandescent, summer silent…’ The rhyme was ‘air’. She put down her brush. She took up the telephone.
But somewhere, this cloud, this crust, this doubt, this dust—She waited for a rhyme, it failed her…
Here she is, taking Dodge to see the greenhouses:
‘Fly then, follow,’ she hummed, ‘the dappled herds in the cedar grove, who, sporting, play, the red with the roe, the stag with the doe. Fly, away. I grieving stay. Alone I linger, I pluck the bitter herb by the ruined wall, the churchyard wall, and press its sour, its sweet, its sour, long grey leaf, so, twixt thumb and finger…’
This fondness for rhymes is occasionally present not just in Isa but in the narrator themselves. In the first third of the book it occasionally spills over into the narrative text but once the pageant gets going, it becomes far more present (see below).
A tour of the house
There’s an odd jump cut from Miss La Trobe fussing with props to the narrative suddenly showing us Mrs Swithin showing young Mr Dodge round their house. For some reason this tour by the 70-year-old lady becomes freighted with an almost symbolical weight:
‘The nursery,’ said Mrs. Swithin. Words raised themselves and became symbolical. ‘The cradle of our race,’ she seemed to say. (p.66)
And for his part Dodge feels a sudden urge to confess his life story, to tell her he was bullied at school and that, yes, he is a **** (the word which Giles thinks can’t be mentioned, presumably poof or some such slur meaning gay) and so describes himself as a ‘half-man’.
The sound of cars in the drive reminds them that guests are arriving to watch the pageant. It is half past three on a June day in 1939.
Rows of chairs, deck chairs, gilt chairs, hired cane chairs, and indigenous garden seats had been drawn up on the terrace.
Into these the guests start fumbling and sitting. And then, without any preparation from the narrator, a child steps onstage and starts reciting, meaning the pageant has started.
The pageant 1. Elizabethan age
The pageant is surprisingly incoherent and confusing. Woolf deliberately makes it so. Thus a child comes onto the terrace/stage and starts declaiming but half the audience can’t hear. A chorus of villages comes on and sings but the audience can’t hear the words etc. It’s a continuation of the non-stories and interrupted speech theme. Nothing can get finished or completely understood. In a way, it’s like a nightmare where you’re running full pelt but not moving.
Anyway it appears to be a pageant overview of English history, starting with Chaucer and people in medieval garb miming the Canterbury pilgrims. Then a local figure, Mrs Clark, who runs the local shops (‘licensed to sell tobacco’) comes on impressively made up as Queen Elizabeth.
First play with the play
She recites some (bad) verse describing herself but is interrupted and mocked by the village idiot, Albert, skipping around, mocking her and the audience. Elizabeth introduces a play within a play. This appears to be a pastiche of an Elizabethan play with lost relatives and far-fetched coincidences but the real point is that, characteristically, it is badly explained and we don’t see it all acted out.
She bawled. They bawled. All together they bawled, and so loud that it was difficult to make out what they were saying.
First interval: tea in the barn
The play with a play is interrupted and incomplete when the Interval arrives, much to the chagrin of Miss La Trobe, yet another example of incompletion. Here is Isa’s confused response:
There was such a medley of things going on, what with the beldame’s deafness, the bawling of the youths, and the confusion of the plot that she could make nothing of it. Did the plot matter?… Don’t bother about the plot: the plot’s nothing.
You can’t help reading that as Woolf’s instructions about her own novels: ‘the plot’s nothing’.
But the other thing about the pageants is the way format of poetry, rhyme and repetition infects the narrative. At the interval all the characters and the narrator have picked up the habit of rhyming, repeating short phrases, poetic diction, as if it’s catching. Here’s how the narrative describes the audience returning to their seats. See how it’s become… what exactly? Impressionistic? Certainly with fanciful rhymes.
Feet crunched the gravel. Voices chattered. The inner voice, the other voice was saying: How can we deny that this brave music, wafted from the bushes, is expressive of some inner harmony? “When we wake” (some were thinking) “the day breaks us with its hard mallet blows.” “The office” (some were thinking) “compels disparity. Scattered, shattered, hither thither summoned by the bell. ‘Ping-ping-ping’ that’s the phone. ‘Forward!’ ‘Serving!’—that’s the shop.” So we answer to the infernal, agelong and eternal order issued from on high. And obey. “Working, serving, pushing, striving, earning wages—to be spent—here? Oh dear no. Now? No, by and by. When ears are deaf and the heart is dry.” (p.107)
At the interval everyone crowds into the ancient barn where tea and cakes are being served. Woolf takes the time to emphasise that both are disgusting, the tea tasting like ‘rust boiled in water’. There’s a great press of people all talking at the same time, overhearing each other’s fragments of speech, never finishing their sentences, a festival of inconsequentiality.
Symbolical voices they seemed to her, half hearing…. feeling invisible threads connecting the bodiless voices.
Woolf likes this kind of thing, mocking but also enjoying the hubbub and sustained inconsequentiality of banal conversation, an atmosphere of ‘scraps and fragments’ (a phrase she repeats six times). She staged the same sort of thing in Mrs Dalloway’s party which forms the climax to the novel of the same name, in the Ramsay family dinner in To The Lighthouse and in Delia’s party which forms the climax of The Years.
Thus Mrs Swithin rambles on to Mrs Manresa about the swallows which nest in the barn every year, someone comments on the King and Queen’s upcoming trip to India, someone else points out it’s actually Canada they’re going to, random voices interrupt asking for a splash more milk or another slice of cake. Isa and Dodge find themselves in a corner and jokingly quote bits of the play to each other. Dodge is an alienated outsider, the role played by North at Delia’s party. He is just thinking he’s made a bit of connection with poetry-quoting Isa when here whole expression changes and her little boy George comes running over to her, while Dodge catches sight of her husband, Giles, by the door, virile and still angry about everything.
New faces at the pageant
- Albert, the village idiot
- old Cobbet of Cobbs Corner, who worked out East for a while
- Lady Haslip, of Haslip Manor
- Mrs Parker
- Mrs Neale who runs the village post office
- Mrs Moore the keeper’s wife
- Mr Pinsent with his bad leg
- Mabel Hopkins
- Major and Mrs Mayhew
- Mrs Lynn-Jones who shares a house with Etty Springett, both being widows
- Mr Page the village reporter, who is used to point out many of the above
On being gay
On a whim, Isa offers to show Dodge the greenhouses and off they wander. He knows she’s realised he’s gay.
‘And you—married?’ she asked. From her tone he knew she guessed, as women always guessed, everything. They knew at once they had nothing to fear, nothing to hope. At first they resented—serving as statues in a greenhouse. Then they liked it. For then they could say—as she did—whatever came into their heads…. ‘I’m William,’ he said, taking the furry leaf and pressing it between thumb and finger. ‘I’m Isa,’ she answered. Then they talked as if they had known each other all their lives; which was odd, she said, as they always did, considering she’d known him perhaps one hour. (p.102),
The pageant part 2. Restoration comedy
The audience drifts back to the seating in front of the terrace-stage, with much fragmented and inconsequential chatter, many of them repeating an irritatingly catchy line from the first half:
‘O sister swallow, O sister swallow,
How can thy heart be full of the spring?’
Out onto the stage steps Mabel Hodges, one of the family nannies, in costume with make-up and starts to recite more poetry about Reason but, in the classic style, the audience doesn’t catch many of her words. Behind her a troupe of villages pass to and fro among the trees chanting something which also cannot be heard, for ‘the wind blew their words away’, which itself becomes a catchphrase, repeated three times, even though Miss la Trobe furiously yells at them to chat the words louder.
Then the wind rose, and in the rustle of the leaves even the great words became inaudible; and the audience sat staring at the villagers, whose mouths opened, but no sound came.
Second play within a play: a restoration comedy
If the play within a play in the first half was from the Elizabethan era, this one is from the age of reason, and so is a Restoration comedy. It is a very bad pastiche. The point of Restoration comedy is the rapier wit, the cut and thrust of dialogue. Woolf is useless at this, as she showed in Orlando. The characters keep drifting off into Woolfian reverie, dreaming, free association. Also Restoration comedy is funny. Woolf is rarely funny.
It’s actually quite long this pastiche play, consisting of four scenes, between which we see some members of the audience clapping, shouting ‘hear hear’, commenting on the action, or Mrs Elmhurst reading out the plot summary in the programme to her deaf husband.
It’s a pastiche of a Restoration comedy in which Lady Harraden, the aunt of a pretty young virgin, Flavinda, conspires with an old gent, Sir Spaniel Lilyliver, for him to marry the virgin so that she will inherit a fortune which the old couple can divide between them, when all the time young Flavinda is, of course, in love with handsome young Valentine.
Cast of the Restoration comedy
- Lady Asphodilla Harraden, played by Mrs Otter from the End House
- Deb, her maid: ?
- Sir Spaniel Lilyliver: ?
- Flavinda, played by Millie Loder, shop assistant at Messrs. Hunt and Dicksons, drapery emporium
- Valentine: ?
In the characteristic Woolfian way which I’ve been emphasising, one of the four scenes is missing, was never written, and the programme gives a short prose summary of it (it’s the key scene in the plot). As I’m said quite a few times, Woolf is all about incompletion and absence.
Second interval
Mrs Swithin breaks convention by going into the bushes where Miss La Trobe is supervising the actors getting dress, to congratulate her, for activating invisible strings, for waking the sense of history in her. Miss La Trobe hastily dresses Mrs Rogers and Hammond in Victorian clothes.
The pageant part 3. Victorian age
Mr Budge the publican steps on stage in the costume of a Victorian policeman directing the traffic. In his speech Woolf mocks the Victorian age, its racist assumption of white superiority, the white man’s burden to rule the world etc. Then:
There was a pause. The voices of the pilgrims singing, as they wound in and out between the trees, could be heard; but the words were inaudible. The audience sat waiting.
Inaudibility. Fragments. Incompletion.
Third play within the play
The Picnic Party. About 1860. Scene: A Lake.
Quite a few actors in Victorian dress perform the creation of a large picnic party. There’s a young couple, Edgar and Eleanor, who very earnestly discuss getting married and going out to Africa to convert the heathen. There’s a chorus of young men and a chorus of young women. It’s as big as an opera! Ladies sing a song. Mr Hardcastle leads Victorian prayers.
The picnic party pack up and leave, as Budge-as-constable returns and stands on his dais, painting a picture of the hard-working Victorian bourgeois returning to the bosom of his family, while the gramophone, offstage, plays Home Sweet Home.
Third interval
Mrs Swithin, Mrs Manresa, William, Isa and Giles witter on.
The pageant part 4. The present day
The program tells the audience that the last part of the pageant represents ‘the present day’. Obviously the use of that phrase, ‘the present day’, recalls the end of her previous novel, The Waves, the long final section of which was titled ‘Present Day’. It brings out the way the structure of all her mature novels reuse a handful of the same themes, settings or ideas.
Tick tick
I haven’t mentioned yet that during the interludes and a bit during the performances, the audience can hear the sound of the gramophone turning but not playing anything and that this sound is a ‘tick tick tick’. Obviously this is the sound of time, and the more the phrase is repeated, the more ominous and oppressive it becomes…
Only the tick of the gramophone needle was heard. The tick, tick, tick seemed to hold them together, tranced… Tick, tick, tick the machine continued…
Tick, tick, tick, the machine continued. Time was passing. The audience was wandering, dispersing. Only the tick tick of the gramophone held them together…
Tick, tick, tick, went the machine in the bushes… Tick tick tick the machine reiterated.
What is time? Why are we trapped in time? How is it that we vividly remember events from our childhood but can’t remember what we did this morning? Can we ever recapture lost time? Time is a trap.
They were all caught and caged; prisoners; watching a spectacle. Nothing happened. The tick of the machine was maddening. (p.158)
The audience becomes restive, grumbling among themselves. Cut away to Miss La Trobe and it is a deliberate strategy: nothing happens for ten minutes so the audience can experience the present moment.
After ten minutes of this, something happens. The cast come onstage holding a variety of mirrors, large and small and silver surfaces, moving around to reflect an image of the audience back at themselves, but in shimmering fragments. Hmm. Could Virginia be saying something about art? Or the novelist’s art?
Then a scene is quickly concocted, a backdrop showing a ruined wall, and some workers in front rebuilding it. It symbolises our civilisation (ruined by the Great War?) and the endless labour needed to maintain it.
Suddenly an unseen voice sets off on a long surreal and bracing accusation of the audience declaimed through a megaphone, which reminded me of W.H. Auden’s many minatory verses from the 1930s.
Let’s break the rhythm and forget the rhyme. And calmly consider ourselves. Ourselves. Some bony. Some fat. Liars most of us. Thieves too. The poor are as bad as the rich are. Perhaps worse. Don’t hide among rags. Or let our cloth protect us. Or for the matter of that book learning; or skilful practice on pianos; or laying on of paint. Or presume there’s innocency in childhood.
Then the vicar, the Reverend G. W. Streatfield, appears and delivers a speech. Characteristically, his first words are inaudible. Life, Woolf insists, is a thing of fragments and incompletion.
He says he is speaking simply as a member of the audience, as puzzled as everyone else, but he thinks one of the pageant’s meanings was that we are all one, that one person plays many parts, that there is a spirit which pervades all things. His speech is interrupted mid-word by the roaring of a flight of airplanes flying overhead, the machine, the modern world intruding into this idyll. Interruptions and fragments.
Moving on, the Reverend congratulates everyone because the pageant has raised thirty-six pounds ten shillings and eightpence towards the fund for installing electric light in the church. But a hundred and seventy-five pounds is still required so he asks everyone to give to the collection tins which come round.
Lastly he goes to offer a vote of thanks to the impresario of the afternoon’s entertainment but Miss La Trobe is nowhere to be seen. This is very like the climax of Delia’s party in The Waves, which Nicholas repeatedly tries to make a speech to provide a climax to the evening but is repeatedly interrupted and shouted down and eventually gives up. Fragments and frustration.
Similitudes
And it’s not the only repetition or echo of earlier works. Some of the characters are so similar to ones in this novel’s predecessor, The Years, as to be virtually identical.
Old Lucy Swithin, in her good-natured vagueness, is very like good-natured, vague Eleanor Pargiter.
Isa’s sharp observations remind me of critical young North. But her habit of misquoting long streams of poetry, or making up long streams of verse in more or less every situation she finds herself in, reminded me very much of the eccentric Sara or Sally, who does exactly the same in The Years.
In the event his puzzlement is ended when someone puts the National Anthem on the gramophone and everyone stands and sings along. Then that’s it. The actors are still onstage chatting to each other and the audience, a bit puzzled, start to disperse. The gramophone plays a song, first heard earlier, with the refrain ‘Dispersed are we’, and the audience disperse with four pages of what Woolf enjoys, scraps and fragments of random conversation.
Coda
The audience packs up, gets into their cars, and leaves, leaving the family as in the first quarter: old Bart, Lucy / Mrs Swithin, Mrs Manresa and William, Giles and Isa.
Lucy asks whether they oughtn’t to go and thank Miss La Trobe. Bart gruffly says she doesn’t need thanks, she’ll go to the pub with the actors and stumps off with his dog. Thank God the bloody thing’s over for another year. Lucy stays to watch the fish in the big pool and reflect on God and the unity of all things.
William Dodge casts a shadow on the fish pool as he finds Lucy and thanks her and shakes her hand.
Isa listens to the bells in the nearby church, the one the pageant has raised money to illuminate. When they stop she knows the service is starting. So presumably it’s a Sunday. She notices William Dodge making for the car park and hastening thither, discovers her husband talking up close to Mrs Manresa. She has entranced him. But at that moment (gay) William arrives, Mrs Manresa flirtatiously tells him to jump in and the car roars off.
Miss La Trobe
She avoided everyone, refused to go forward to take the vicar’s thanks, waited until everyone left, and then packed up the gramophone and records. She is an emblem of the artist, of Woolf herself and the creative agony. if only she had had more time, more money, more resources, she might have said the thing she wanted to but instead… hurry, imperfection, incompletion. She is haunted by her failure.
For what it’s worth we learn that she shares her bed with an actress and is shunned by the village women.
She was an outcast. Nature had somehow set her apart from her kind.
So I think that pretty much confirms she is a lesbian, as William Dodge is gay. Interesting that Woolf made these queer identities not exactly prominent but just notable, in her last novel.
She goes to the local pub where the talk stops when she enters because they’d been talking about her, using her nickname ‘Bossy’. She doesn’t care and doesn’t hear, orders a drink and the whole world fades out as the nurses a vision, two figures onstage by a rock at midnight, and the shape of her next project starts to come to her. She is moving onto the next work. Which we imagine is how Woolf felt as each new project began to take shape in her (troubled) mind.
The Oliver family
Everyone has gone leaving the Oliver family to have dinner (prepared, served and cleared away by the unknown servants). Bartholomew, Lucy, Giles and Isa. They discuss the play and its meaning without any great ideas, for example Bartholomew simply thinks it was too ambitious. Isa regards her husband, dressed in formal evening wear and reflects that she loves and hates him. The second post of the day is handed into the drawing room by the butler Candish. The reader is a little awed at how flat and boring their lives are.
Darkness falls deeper and deeper. The flowers close up. The windows are closed. Lucy draws her shawl tighter as she resumes reading H.G. Wells’s Outline of History (a book which also crops up in D.H. Lawrence’s novella, St Mawr).
The end
The ending may be the best thing about it. All day long there had been barely suppressed tension between Giles and Isa. Old Bart and Lucy go to bed leaving them alone and they both know a fight is coming, but after the fight what we nowadays call ‘make-up sex’. The last three paragraphs are really powerful.
The old people had gone up to bed. Giles crumpled the newspaper and turned out the light. Left alone together for the first time that day, they were silent. Alone, enmity was bared; also love. Before they slept, they must fight; after they had fought, they would embrace. From that embrace another life might be born. But first they must fight, as the dog fox fights with the vixen, in the heart of darkness, in the fields of night.
Isa let her sewing drop. The great hooded chairs had become enormous. And Giles too. And Isa too against the window. The window was all sky without colour. The house had lost its shelter. It was night before roads were made, or houses. It was the night that dwellers in caves had watched from some high place among rocks.
Then the curtain rose. They spoke.
‘As the dog fox fights with the vixen’ sounds like D.H. Lawrence, and for the only time in the seven Woolf novels I’ve read, you get a real sense of the human depths, not polite and glossed over with dreams and memories and vivid impressions, but hard and dark and brutal. Wow.
Last thought
On the subject of thematic repetitions and echoes (or the very limited plot elements that Woolf chose to work with), Mrs Dalloway follows the lives of half a dozen characters during one day in London, whereas Between The Acts follows the lives of half a dozen characters during one day in the heart of the countryside. Town and country.
Make of this what you will but my interpretation is that High Modernism was an urban phenomenon which describes the fragmentation of experience and mentality in the modern (1920s) city: The Waste Land, Ulysses, Berlin Alexanderplatz, these are all intensely urban works.
But 20 years later, at the end of the 1930s, the modernist wave had retreated and there was a revival of interest in life in the country: T.S. Eliot transitioned from the intense alienation of The Waste Land (1922) to the powerfully rural descriptions of Burnt Norton (1936), and Virginia Woolf transitioned from the intensely London setting of Mrs Dalloway (1925) to the intensely rural setting of Between The Acts (1941) i.e. these two great modernists travelled in the same direction.
But it was also part of a broader cultural shift. In art the movement is called Neo-romanticism which turned against the city and revived interest in depicting an idealised, stylised (sometimes nightmarish) English countryside. In her own understated way, I think Woolf’s novel was part of that general cultural shift as the bitter end of the 1930s turned into the catastrophe of the 1940s.
Cast
Posh people
Mr Rupert Haines, the old gentleman farmer, his face ravaged by time and work
Mrs Haines, the wife of the gentleman farmer
Isabella, generally called Isa, the wife of their son – she is a dreamer, a quoter of poetry, haunting the library wondering which book to read
Mr Bartholomew Oliver, of the Indian Service, retired, who owns Pointz Hall, ‘A very tall old man, with gleaming eyes, wrinkled cheeks, and a head with no hair on it.’ Referred to by servants as The Master, or when no-one’s around, ‘Bartie’.
Mr Giles Oliver, a stockbroker, Old Bartholomew’s son, Isa’s husband. They met salmon fishing in Scotland.
Mrs Giles Oliver, daughter of Sir Richard ?, wife of old Oliver’s son, herself the mother of toddler George.
Old Mrs Cindy Swithin, sister of old Mr Oliver, Cindy is a nickname for Lucy. She married a squire, now dead, and two children, one in Canada, the other, married, in Birmingham. The staff call her ‘old mother Swithin’. The young people of the village call her ‘Old Flimsy’.
Sunny the cat, nickname of Sung-Yen.
Mrs Manresa, married to Ralph Manresa, a Jew who works in City finance.
Miss La Trobe, organiser of the pageant.
Servants and suppliers
Bates the dentist (up in London)
Mitchell the fishmonger and Mitchell’s boy who delivers orders on a motorbike.
Candish, the butler, fond of ‘gambling and drinking’.
Mrs Sands the Olivers’ cook, known to friends as Trixie, ‘the thin, acid woman, red-haired, sharp and clean, who never dashed off masterpieces, it was true; but then never dropped hairpins in the soup’ as her predecessor, Jessie Pook, had done.
Jane the kitchenmaid
Unnamed ‘girls’, maids and kitchen staff e.g. ‘the scullery maid’, dismissed as silly and superstitious, believers in ghosts etc.
Gardeners.
Billy, Mrs. Sands’s nephew, apprenticed to the butcher.
Bond the cowman
The future shadowed their present, like the sun coming through the many-veined transparent vine leaf; a criss-cross of lines making no pattern.
Credit
‘Between the Acts’ by Virginia Woolf was first published by the Hogarth Press in 1941. Page references are to the 1992 Oxford World Classics paperback edition, although the text is easily available online.
Related links
Related reviews
- Virginia Woolf reviews
- 1940s reviews
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