{"id":20388,"date":"2025-03-03T10:56:12","date_gmt":"2025-03-03T14:56:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=20388"},"modified":"2025-03-03T10:56:14","modified_gmt":"2025-03-03T14:56:14","slug":"virginia-woolf-the-string-quartet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/virginia-woolf-the-string-quartet\/20388\/","title":{"rendered":"Virginia Woolf: The String Quartet\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Summary:<\/strong> The String Quartet<\/em> is a short story by Virginia Woolf, published in 1921 in the collection Monday or Tuesday<\/em>. The narrative captures the sensory experience of a chamber music concert through a spectator’s mind immersed in a stream of thoughts and memories. As she watches the musicians and listens to the melody, her consciousness drifts between fleeting impressions of the audience, dialogues between strangers, and scenes evoked by the music. The fragmented and lyrical story explores the relationship between art and perception, allowing the harmony of the quartet to intertwine with the flow of memory and imagination.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Virginia<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The String Quartet <\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Virginia Woolf
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, here we are, and if you cast your eye over the room you will see that Tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a few, even, I venture to believe, landaus with bays in them, have been busy at it, weaving threads from one end of London to the other. Yet I begin to have my doubts \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If indeed it\u2019s true, as they\u2019re saying, that Regent Street is up, and the Treaty signed, and the weather not cold for the time of year, and even at that rent not a flat to be had, and the worst of influenza its after effects; if I bethink me of having forgotten to write about the leak in the larder, and left my glove in the train; if the ties of blood require me, leaning forward, to accept cordially the hand which is perhaps offered hesitatingly \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSeven years since we met!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe last time in Venice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd where are you living now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, the late afternoon suits me the best, though, if it weren\u2019t asking too much\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I knew you at once!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStill, the war made a break\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If the mind\u2019s shot through by such little arrows, and \u2014 for human society compels it \u2014 no sooner is one launched than another presses forward; if this engenders heat and in addition they\u2019ve turned on the electric light; if saying one thing does, in so many cases, leave behind it a need to improve and revise, stirring besides regrets, pleasures, vanities, and desires \u2014 if it\u2019s all the facts I mean, and the hats, the fur boas, the gentlemen\u2019s swallow-tail coats, and pearl tie-pins that come to the surface \u2014 what chance is there?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of what? It becomes every minute more difficult to say why, in spite of everything, I sit here believing I can\u2019t now say what, or even remember the last time it happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you see the procession?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe King looked cold.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, no, no. But what was it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s bought a house at Malmesbury.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow lucky to find one!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the contrary, it seems to me pretty sure that she, whoever she may be, is damned, since it\u2019s all a matter of flats and hats and sea gulls, or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here well dressed, walled in, furred, replete. Not that I can boast, since I too sit passive on a gilt chair, only turning the earth above a buried memory, as we all do, for there are signs, if I\u2019m not mistaken, that we\u2019re all recalling something, furtively seeking something. Why fidget? Why so anxious about the sit of cloaks; and gloves \u2014 whether to button or unbutton? Then watch that elderly face against the dark canvas, a moment ago urbane and flushed; now taciturn and sad, as if in shadow. Was it the sound of the second violin tuning in the ante-room? Here they come; four black figures, carrying instruments, and seat themselves facing the white squares under the downpour of light; rest the tips of their bows on the music stand; with a simultaneous movement lift them; lightly poise them, and, looking across at the player opposite, the first violin counts one, two, three \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Flourish, spring, burgeon, burst! The pear tree on the top of the mountain. Fountains jet; drops descend. But the waters of the Rhone flow swift and deep, race under the arches, and sweep the trailing water leaves, washing shadows over the silver fish, the spotted fish rushed down by the swift waters, now swept into an eddy where \u2014 it\u2019s difficult this \u2014 conglomeration of fish all in a pool; leaping, splashing, scraping sharp fins; and such a boil of current that the yellow pebbles are churned round and round, round and round \u2014 free now, rushing downwards, or even somehow ascending in exquisite spirals into the air; curled like thin shavings from under a plane; up and up. . . How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world! Also in jolly old fishwives, squatted under arches, oh scene old women, how deeply they laugh and shake and rollick, when they walk, from side to side, hum, hah!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s an early Mozart, of course\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair \u2014 I mean hope. What do I mean? That\u2019s the worst of music! I want to dance, laugh, eat pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine. Or an indecent story, now \u2014 I could relish that. The older one grows the more one likes indecency. Hall, hah! I\u2019m laughing. What at? You said nothing, nor did the old gentleman opposite. . . But suppose \u2014 suppose \u2014 Hush!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight. Woven together, inextricably commingled, bound in pain and strewn in sorrow \u2014 crash!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boat sinks. Rising, the figures ascend, but now leaf thin, tapering to a dusky wraith, which, fiery tipped, draws its twofold passion from my heart. For me it sings, unseals my sorrow, thaws compassion, floods with love the sunless world, nor, ceasing, abates its tenderness but deftly, subtly, weaves in and out until in this pattern, this consummation, the cleft ones unify; soar, sob, sink to rest, sorrow and joy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why then grieve? Ask what? Remain unsatisfied? I say all\u2019s been settled; yes; laid to rest under a coverlet of rose leaves, falling. Falling. Ah, but they cease. One rose leaf, falling from an enormous height, like a little parachute dropped from an invisible balloon, turns, flutters waveringly. It won\u2019t reach us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, no. I noticed nothing. That\u2019s the worst of music \u2014 these silly dreams. The second violin was late, you say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s old Mrs. Munro, feeling her way out \u2014 blinder each year, poor woman \u2014 on this slippery floor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eyeless old age, grey-headed Sphinx. . . There she stands on the pavement, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow lovely! How well they play! How \u2014 how \u2014 how!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The tongue is but a clapper. Simplicity itself. The feathers in the hat next me are bright and pleasing as a child\u2019s rattle. The leaf on the plane-tree flashes green through the chink in the curtain. Very strange, very exciting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow \u2014 how \u2014 how!\u201d Hush!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

These are the lovers on the grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf, madam, you will take my hand\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen these are the embraces of our souls.\u201d The lemons nod assent. The swan pushes from the bank and floats dreaming into mid stream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut to return. He followed me down the corridor, and, as we turned the corner, trod on the lace of my petticoat. What could I do but cry \u2018Ah!\u2019 and stop to finger it? At which he drew his sword, made passes as if he were stabbing something to death, and cried, \u2018Mad! Mad! Mad!\u2019 Whereupon I screamed, and the Prince, who was writing in the large vellum book in the oriel window, came out in his velvet skull-cap and furred slippers, snatched a rapier from the wall \u2014 the King of Spain\u2019s gift, you know \u2014 on which I escaped, flinging on this cloak to hide the ravages to my skirt \u2014 to hide. . . But listen! the horns!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gentleman replies so fast to the lady, and she runs up the scale with such witty exchange of compliment now culminating in a sob of passion, that the words are indistinguishable though the meaning is plain enough \u2014 love, laughter, flight, pursuit, celestial bliss \u2014 all floated out on the gayest ripple of tender endearment \u2014 until the sound of the silver horns, at first far distant, gradually sounds more and more distinctly, as if seneschals were saluting the dawn or proclaiming ominously the escape of the lovers. . . The green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars. . . Tramp and trumpeting. Clang and clangour. Firm establishment. Fast foundations. March of myriads. Confusion and chaos trod to earth. But this city to which we travel has neither stone nor marble; hangs enduring; stands unshakable; nor does a face, nor does a flag greet or welcome. Leave then to perish your hope; droop in the desert my joy; naked advance. Bare are the pillars; auspicious to none; casting no shade; resplendent; severe. Back then I fall, eager no more, desiring only to go, find the street, mark the buildings, greet the applewoman, say to the maid who opens the door: A starry night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood night, good night. You go this way?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlas. I go that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The String Quartet is a short story by Virginia Woolf, published in 1921 in the collection Monday or Tuesday. The narrative captures the sensory experience of a chamber music concert through a spectator’s mind immersed in a stream of thoughts and memories. As she watches the musicians and listens to the melody, her consciousness drifts between fleeting impressions of the audience, dialogues between strangers, and scenes evoked by the music. The fragmented and lyrical story explores the relationship between art and perception, allowing the harmony of the quartet to intertwine with the flow of memory and imagination.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20380,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[772,691],"class_list":["post-20388","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-united-kingdom","tag-virginia-woolf-en","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":772,"label":"United Kingdom"},{"value":691,"label":"Virginia Woolf"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/03\/Virginia-Woolf-El-cuarteto-de-cuerdas.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":772,"name":"United Kingdom","slug":"united-kingdom","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":772,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":92,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":691,"name":"Virginia Woolf","slug":"virginia-woolf-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":691,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20388","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=20388"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20388\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20380"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20388"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20388"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20388"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}