A serious review/interpretation of Virginia Woolf’s String Quartet
Note: It is Quite Exhaustive!
Music flows, and so does Woolf’s stream of conscious writing; which sweeps us under – not by its stream but – its torrent; leaves us insufficiently quenched after feeding us with her dripping honey language – which is not only a verbal expression of a quartet music masked in a metaphor of love, but also a comment on the social mores, modern vs tradition, Classical Venice vs Modernist London – that we return home/world saying: Starry night – as does the lady listener says to her maid, after she comes to her home after her senses, by horns blaring at the end of the concert, signalling a doom, a fall, from the ornate venetian structures, designed by Angels listening to Mozart’s music, where lovers frolic near the nudging moon, drunk in childish love, while well knowing the tragedy of such feelings, to the desert called London where lovers keep running in the opposite direction and get tremendously frustrated by endless mirage of lover’s feet, that they choke and dash to their comfy homes, alone!
Social setting of a classical concert:
The narrator of the story (assuming it is a lady, though a man could rightly fit, or is it?) is a misfit to the place where she decides to open herself to the man, whom she meets after many years. And judging by the mention of Venice as the last met place (7 years ago) – an occasional classical music lover friend to be turned lover. Poor narrator/listener/Woolf! She is a foreigner, a modernist in the hall which sneers at foreigners; a place run by a strict code of class manners.
Sorry to digress here, this last comment reminds me of an incident that took place in my part of world.
If my memory serves well, we were to have a symphony concert, conducted by the honourable Zubin Mehta, at Chennai, 6 or 7 years back, which categorically stated that the audience are permitted only if they come in “Coat”
Now this is an unneccesary statement. Who goes to a classical concert wearing anything but coat and suit. But we are in India, so it needs a special prior announcement. And there was this article in “The Hindu” then, debating whether is it right to impose a dress code for audience.
The point of this digression is quite simple – classical concert hall possesses a certain class and code that you have to abide by.
Now back to the story.
The listener is a misfit because:
“since it’s 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
First sign of non-identifying herself to her class.
Second time, but now a more stronger statement, comes when mentioning Mozart, when she is pulled back from her thoughts:
“But the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair—I mean hope. What do I mean? That’s the worst of music! I want to dance, laugh, eat pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine. Or an indecent story, now—I could relish that.”
And it goes on. This makes it plainly evident that the person isn’t a classical music lover, though there are some activities above, which a classical music lover may enjoy while listening his Mozart!
“The older one grows the more one likes indecency. Hall, hah! I’m laughing. What at? You said nothing, nor did the old gentleman opposite … But suppose—suppose—Hush!”
This is hilarious! Love her anarchic wit! As we all know when a classical concert is in session, there is pin drop silence, and that’s what Woolf wants to break!
Love under the melody of Mozart:
Apart from few bits of “Supposed dialogues”, it’s full of colourful thoughts (also a dark one) the lady dreams up, stroked by Mozart’s music.
The images of meeting a stranger lover under the hazy moonlight shines brilliantly for few passages before brought back by a comment, which makes her comment:
“That’s the worst of music—these silly dreams.”
And immediately getting distracted – in the physical world for a change – by a mundane thing – old lady walking out; starting again on music, but expression through words fail:
“How lovely! How well they play! How—how—how!”
She doesn’t say how. And we all know how difficult it is to express music through our language. In my opinion, it would always end up as a distilled form; a subtraction of actual experience. You may stack up sheaf after sheaf pouring down every imaginable words in your language, describing the greatness of Beethoven or Mozart, or other masters, but just the opening notes of, say, 5th symphony, or pastoral symphony, or late string quartets, or moonlight sonata or any of Beethoven’s masterpiece will be far greater in its expression – effect on listener, than those bundle of words!
The lady continues to observe her surroundings, her fellow audience, rather than to continue to listen her music.
If not observing the surroundings, her thought goes back to her imaginary place with her lover. And now it turns dark for a change!
“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 ‘Ah!’ and stop to finger it? At which he drew his sword, made passes as if he were stabbing something to death, and cried, ‘Mad! Mad! Mad!’ Whereupon I screamed…”
Once a friend of mine remarked:
While I do like classical music, I find them fixated on tragedy, melancholy and pathos! And a happy light only shows its head for 1 piece or movement for every 1000 dark clouds.
While my friend may be right partially, the other side of it (as we all know, classical music is anything but mono) emerges now, and here comes Mozart the rescue:
“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—the King of Spain’s gift, you know—on which I escaped, flinging on this cloak to hide the ravages to my skirt—to hide … But listen! the horns!”
Ah, the horns in a string quartet?
Horns, trumpets, yes, the sign of the final crescendo and end of concert is here:
“The gentleman replies so fast to the lady, (the musical exchanges of two performers, or final exchanges between the lovers ) 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—love, laughter, flight, pursuit, celestial bliss—all floated out on the gayest ripple of tender endearment—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 …”
That’s it. End of concert and love escapade!
Venice vs London; Classical vs Modern:
“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.”
Perhaps it isn’t about any female meeting a guy to express love, but two separate sides of Woolf meets and tries to conjoin, make love, but diverge apart as the story ends. That she is a product of modernism in body and classical in spirit.
Perhaps the best picture/art expressing this short story, would be one of the greatest paintings of all time.
When the concert starts, she compares surging up of music with the waters of Rhone (perhaps wine of Rhone – a beautiful image), and finally with all this tryst with classical love, ends up saying: Starry night!
DIFFUSED MODE 