A Haunted House

First published in 1944, A Haunted House is a collection of short stories by Virginia Woolf. Curated by her husband Leonard, the collection includes at least four stories that were just drafts, and a couple more that were originally unpublished upon completion. In an effort to carry out her wishes to release an anthology, Leonard created this volume after her death.

The book is pleasingly short, with each story lasting no longer than it takes drink a cup of coffee or two. Woolf traverses big themes such as class, gender roles and the structure of British society; in amongst wallflower observations of humanity in close quarters. She has an enviably poetic imagination that allows her to create something out of anything, and reading these stories often felt like a window into flighty whimsicality. Though some of the stories feel dated and long-winded, others maintain their relevance through truly excellent story telling and a unique command of prose.

The first story in the collection is it’s namesake - A Haunted House. The tale reads in one, breathless, exhilarating moment. Its punctuation staccatos like the safe, safe, safe of the house and it’s heartfelt treasure. It slips easily from short and sharp to languid and flowing imagery, evoking the best of an english golden hour: rolling apples in the loft, wood pigeons and reading books in the grass. The second story, just two pages long, is Monday or Tuesday - originally published in 1921. This was my favourite of all eighteen, reminiscent of central London in drafty November, soot covered as it was when Woolf walked the streets; but just as busy as it is today.

Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled - and truth?

The juxtaposition of nature versus urban structure is a common trope throughout Woolf’s work, and she balances is particularly well in this short story. She spins her tale around our innate desire to control our surroundings, and our inevitable inability to do so. In An Unwritten Novel Woolf writes in her unique free form as she sits on a train to Eastbourne. She develops rich narratives about the two passengers with whom she is sharing a carriage. The story speaks volumes of her talent in whimsically creating whole worlds with little factual foundation. It is at once playful and a little melancholy, with beautifully written prose.

The String Quartet utilises imagery that sucks you in to the slow ascensions, sudden crashes and glorious peaks of a piece of classical music. Using water as a motif we follow the strings from a mountain top brook down the Rhone, through anguished reeds and moonlight to the singular “inextricably, commingled, bound in pain and strewn in sorrow - crash!”

The boat sinks. Rising, the figures ascend, not 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.

Kew Gardens and A Mark on the Wall contain no grand characters or narrative arcs, instead taking the reader on a pleasantly light hearted journey steered by the people and objects in view. I found that by contrast The Shooting Party and The New Dress, both longer and with more traditional structures, were much less enjoyable to read. Inevitably driven by her context and privilege as a result of her class and whiteness, Woolf’s characters reflect the world that she inhabits. Rather than a playfully curious tone, the stories become a little tedious and self-indulgent - although it is clear that she does utilise her female characters as vehicles to explore sexism within her own social standing. The Lady in the Looking Glass was another long-winded tale, lacking the wittiness I’d come to expect, or fanciful obscurity. Each five part sentence left my mind wandering and little of the plot line is memorable. Perhaps this one should have been left to “moulder sweetly”.

On a more uplifting note, The Man Who Loved His Kind was much more engrossing. Perhaps because it traverses themes of poverty and class more explicitly than the others, the central character feels very tangible in his social anxiety; perfectly describing social ostracism. By contrast, The Searchlight is a satisfyingly romantic narrative with wide open skies, sentences that have you reading as fast as the characters can run, and a well rounded ending. Together and Apart marries up and reflects upon the micro moments that make up human exchange in delicately interwoven dialogue and prose.

The final story A Summing Up completes the collection nicely, exploring how it feels to be both within and without. Seeing London in all of it’s complicated societal standards, relationships and divisions, both covered in gold dust and sunken in soot and ash all at once. A tale as relevant today as it was then. Overall, the collection is a worthy read, though undeniably a mixed bag.