The Beadle, the Lock, & the Shilling

But for women of the early 20th century and their predecessors, the ability to freely be oneself was a luxury that most could not afford. In her renowned essay, “A Room of One’s Own,” Virginia Woolf attempts to discover why female writers and intellectuals like herself have faced such difficulty in their quest for authentic creative expression. While investigating the reason for women’s exclusion from the halls of literary legends, Woolf – true to poetic form – shares her findings with the reader through an intricate network of layered symbolism. Here we will attempt to substantiate the classification of this work as a masterpiece by exploring the creative genius in Woolf’s symbology, and peeling back figurative layers of her themes to unveil the truth and wisdom in the heart of their meaning.

Beginning with a scene that is truly indicative of its time, Woolf – who refers to herself in this essay as Mary Beton – is denied admission to the Oxbridge College Library. Told that women cannot enter without male accompaniment or letter of introduction, the first moments of Woolf’s inquiry are thwarted by her own existence as a woman. Forced to continue her research elsewhere, she reflects on her plight while overlooking a nearby river; with her imagination free to roam, her creativity presents itself for the first time, she writes, “Thought…had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections of the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it, until – you know the little tug – the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line,” (Woolf 1178). This eloquent expression of thought is but a glimpse of Woolf’s creative potential, but just as it begins to flourish, it is once again thwarted by the constraints of gender. Approached by a Beadle whose, “Face expressed horror and indignation,” (Woolf 1178), she is admonished for standing on the grass – where women are not allowed; but even in the face of such absurd treatment, there is nothing to be done, and she resigns: “He was a Beadle; I was a woman. This was the turf; there was the path,” (Woolf 1178). This representation of patriarchal oppression demonstrates the intellectual stifling that Woolf and her creative predecessors have endured; but beyond the denial of her entry to the library - its own symbolic display of obstructing female education – this encounter with the Beadle illustrates the barriers to not only learning, but thinking in and of itself. In her analytical essay for Södertörn University College, author, Lina Stenemo writes, “Woolf experiences an injustice…an invisible fence, which is the line of demarcation between what she, as a woman, can or cannot do. The Beadle makes Woolf aware of the difference between her rights and those of the Fellows and Scholars. Therefore, the Beadle comes to symbolize that which hampers both intellectual freedom and women’s status” (Stenemo 22). Although this introduction to Woolf’s use of symbolism is one of oppression and injustice, it is her response to this encounter that truly encapsulates the spirit of this essay: “I refuse to allow you, Beadle though you are, to turn me off the grass. Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind,” (Woolf 1217). And it is with this fortitude and strength of character that Woolf gives her voice the power to resonate on a deep and meaningful level.

Let us move now, to the most evident and encompassing of Woolf’s symbolic representations – the necessity of having a room of one’s own. Serving as the focal point of Woolf’s argument, this titular motif aims to express how women’s ambition – specifically, in writing and creative professions – has been stifled by lack of privacy and space. This need for space, however, goes beyond literal denotation to imply that without adequate room to dwell in, one is not only physically confined, but one’s mental space is subsequently restricted as well. This, according to Woolf, is the reasoning for the great disparity between the quantity of creative works by men and women in literary history; without room – both literally and figuratively – to exist within themselves, women have been withheld the opportunity to think, feel, and create on the same level as their male counterparts. By consistently being at the call (and mercy) of the household, the female mind’s potential for creativity has been muddled by the murky cloud of incessant social obligation; specifically, the burden – one that is so commonly imposed on women – of catering to the needs of those around them. Looking back at the history of this plight, Woolf finds the current circumstances unsurprising, as women have been molded and conditioned to predicate their behavior on the feelings of others; she writes, “[Female] sensibility had been educated for centuries by the influences of the common sitting-room. People’s feelings were impressed on her; personal relations were always before her eyes,” (Woolf 1212). This position of deference that women must occupy leaves them without the slightest hope for a moment of physical, mental, or emotional solitude, and enforces the symbolic importance of having “room” in which one can live freely. The relationship between this tangible and intangible room is unique, because before the freedom of creative, cognitive space can be achieved, it’s literal counterpart must first be present. In her analytical essay, “Here Was One Room, There Another” from the Penn State University Press, author Christina Stevenson substantiates Woolf’s claim that, rather than being a consequence of mental inferiority - as most men of the time would suggest, “There is a material reason…behind the apparent inequalities of talent: the unequal division and distribution of space. Literature has largely been written by men in part because men had studies and women did not,” (Stevenson 5). Further compounding Woolf’s notion, she interprets this room as oasis, paradise; because, “Detached from the rituals of domesticity, the study as the upstairs “intellect” of the home transcends the petty concerns of daily life,” (Stevenson 5). It is here, away from the demands of others, that the mind is given the privacy and independence it needs for free thought; as Woolf succinctly declares, “A lock on the door means the power to think for oneself” (Woolf 1233), and it is in contemplating the absence of this lock, this intellectual sanctuary, that the gravity of its necessity becomes evident.

A room to call one’s own may be the key to creative liberation, but the difficulty in its acquisition is predicated on another crucial element of freedom: financial independence. According to Woolf, “Intellectual freedom depends on material things…And women have always been poor, not for two hundred years merely, but from the beginning of time,” (Woolf 1233). Here, her use of them term “poor” not only denotes a financial deficit, but symbolizes the poverty of education, opportunity, and respect that women have endured for centuries. Reflecting on her own financial stability and the freedom it has granted her, Woolf describes how monetary struggles not only hinder the ability to survive, but weaken the intellectual, emotional, and moral fiber of one’s being. Likening money’s damage on the soul to that of rust in the heart of a tree, she describes the revitalizing power of release from financial hardship, saying, “Whenever I change a ten-shilling note a little of that rust and corrosion is rubbed off; fear and bitterness go,” (Woolf 1196). Furthering her contemplation on the value of financial independence, she articulates it’s potential to promote understanding, wellbeing, and communion between the sexes; saying, “What a change of temper a fixed income can bring about…Food, house, and clothing are forever mine. Therefore, not merely do effort and labour cease, but also hatred and bitterness. I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me,” (Woolf 1196). Woolf compounds the oppressive nature of money by demonstrating its impact on the ambitions of female authors throughout history, and suggests that if the literary careers of women past had been socially accepted as legitimate, not only would there have been greater opportunity for artistic expression, but potential to profit from their work - and subsequently, financial independence as professional authors. Expounding on Woolf’s position in her essay, “The Myth of Judith Shakespeare,” author Margaret J.M. Ezell of the Johns Hopkins University Press, deconstructs the economic circumstances of female writers throughout history, and the impact of these circumstances on literary canon. She writes, “Literature, for Woolf, was the process by which one could gain an economic independence…In her vision of history, if women did write, it was in the face of opposition and discouragement, and their writings were never intended to be read,” (Ezell 7). Further substantiating the claim that wealth is imperative for personal and professional freedom, Ezell explains how Woolf uses money as a symbol to “Emphasize the destructive effects of the literary life on women, torn between the forces of genius and social demand,” (Ezell 7). It is precisely this dissonance between personal aspiration and monetary restriction that has subjugated women for centuries; and according to Woolf, this same financial dependence has precluded them from personal and professional autonomy. As Woolf, once again succinctly proclaims, “[Money] stands for the power to contemplate” (Woolf 1233), and thus, in the absence of financial control, the female intellectual is powerless.

Woolf’s use of symbolism not only lends itself to creative genius, but evokes deep and powerful feelings from the reader. The ability to articulate complex concepts – especially ones that are entrenched in controversy and contention – is a gift that few appreciate, and even fewer possess; but in understanding the bravery and boldness that it took to not only stand up against oppression of the time, but do so with eloquence and style, one can clearly see that Woolf’s work is deserving of the title: masterpiece. And it is with this knowledge, that one can see even beyond titles and accolades, to understand that the mark of a masterpiece lies not in its fame, but in its impact. A true masterpiece inspires and ignites the heart of the reader; it unifies the masses and speaks with integrity on behalf of the common good, “For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice,” (Woolf 1211).