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come, to have the genius of Shakespeare. He wrote
to the papers about it. He also told a lady who
applied to him for information that cats do not as a
matter of fact go to heaven, though they have, he
added, souls of a sort. How much thinking those
old gentlemen used to save one! How the borders of
ignorance shrank back at their approach! Cats do
not go to heaven. Women cannot write the plays
of Shakespeare.

Be that as it may, I could not help thinking, as I looked at the works of Shakespeare on the shelf, that the bishop was right at least in this; it would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare. Let me imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say. Shakespeare himself went, very probably,—his mother was an heiress—to the grammar school, where he may have learnt Latin—Ovid, Virgil and Horace—and the elements of grammar and logic. He was, it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps shot a deer, and had, rather sooner than he should have done, to marry a woman in the neighbourhood, who bore him a child rather quicker than was right. That

70 A ROOM OF ONE'S OWN

Be that as it may, I could not help thinking, as I looked at the works of Shakespeare on the shelf, that the bishop was right at least in this; it would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare. Let me imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say. Shakespeare himself went, very probably,—his mother was an heiress—to the grammar school, where he may have learnt Latin —Ovid, Virgil and Horace—and the elements of grammar and logic. He was, it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps shot a deer, and had, rather sooner than he should have done, to marry a woman in the neighbourhood, who bore him a child rather quicker than was right. That

A ROOM OF ONE'S OWN

escapade sent him to seek his fortune in London.
He had, it seemed, a taste for the theatre; he began
by holding horses at the stage door. Very soon
he got work in the theatre, became a successful
actor, and lived at the hub of the universe, meeting
everybody, knowing everybody, practising his art
on the boards, exercising his wits in the streets, and
even getting access to the palace of the queen.
Meanwhile his extraordinarily gifted sister, let us
suppose, remained at home. She was as adventur-
ous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as he
was. But she was not sent to school. She had no
chance of learning grammar and logic, let alone of
reading Horace and Virgil. She picked up a book
now and then, one of her brother's perhaps, and
read a few pages. But then her parents came in and
told her to mend the stockings or mind the stew and
not moon about with books and papers. They would
have spoken sharply but kindly, for they were sub-
stantial people who knew the conditions of life for
a woman and loved their daughter—indeed, more
likely than not she was the apple of her father's eye.
Perhaps she scribbled some pages up in an apple
loft on the sly, but was careful to hide them or set
fire to them. Soon, however, before she was out of
her teens, she was to be betrothed to the son of

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71

escapade sent him to seek his fortune in London. He had, it seemed, a taste for the theatre; he began by holding horses at the stage door. Very soon he got work in the theatre, became a successful actor, and lived at the hub of the universe, meeting everybody, knowing everybody, practising his art on the boards, exercising his wits in the streets, and even getting access to the palace of the queen. Meanwhile his extraordinarily gifted sister, let us suppose, remained at home. She was as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as he was. But she was not sent to school. She had no chance of learning grammar and logic, let alone of reading Horace and Virgil. She picked up a book now and then, one of her brother's perhaps, and read a few pages. But then her parents came in and told her to mend the stockings or mind the stew and not moon about with books and papers. They would have spoken sharply but kindly, for they were substantial people who knew the conditions of life for a woman and loved their daughter—indeed, more likely than not she was the apple of her father's eye. Perhaps she scribbled some pages up in an apple loft on the sly, but was careful to hide them or set fire to them. Soon, however, before she was out of her teens, she was to be betrothed to the son of