Maggie Gee - Virginia Woolf in Manhattan

‘Could you give her some air?’ I asked them, brusquely. ‘Let her breathe and my friend will be fine.’ There were offers of help, which I rejected. They drifted away, disappointed.

She leant on me as we went back to the boat. Her face was pleated, drained and grey. I said ‘What’s the matter?’ but she couldn’t speak. I sat her beside me on one of the long seats, settled her head against my shoulder.

It was the closest we had been. Through my warm blue coat I could feel the heat, as if her brain were burning her. I did not dare to move, or disturb her, though part of me wanted to stroke her hair, her grey-brown hair, more flyaway than ever since I had prevailed upon her to wash it — I suppose I longed to smooth it, tidy it. Yes, there was still some brown in there. Gold strands gleamed in the afternoon sunlight: had I noticed that before? (And of course I thought of Gerda’s hair: her beloved head with its hanks of bright chestnut. Such beautiful hair, though when she was little, she had been bullied as a ‘ginger’. No-one would dare bully Gerda now!)

The siren sounded to warn us we were sailing. Virginia stirred and sat up straight.

‘It’s me, Virginia. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Don’t fuss. Of course I am.’

But she sat and shivered, almost silent, as the boat wheeled round to cross the bay and the life of the boat blared on all round her.

‘Shall I get some tea?’

Virginia ignored me. But when I brought her some, she began to recover.

VIRGINIA

‘Thank you. Thank you for your trouble.’

I think she must have thought I fainted. At the feet of the Statue, the great bronze mother. I know that I was safe with her. It felt like sleep, perfect contentment. Sleep, yes, or something deeper.

But when I woke, I was no longer alone. I was being eaten by the twenty-first century. The smell of these people, fatty, cheap, a mixture of sweat and something synthetic — in my day people didn’t smell like petrol. They swirled around me like a poisoned sea.

Then Angela came and took me away. I don’t remember getting back on the boat, but when she brought me tea, sips of life returned to me.

ANGELA

‘Look, you can still see the statue.’

VIRGINIA

I turned for one last look at her, my grey-green statue with her fine Greek profile. By now the contours of freedom had blurred. Against the light, she was just a stick, a stick surmounted by a needle. But if I screwed up my eyes at the sun, I could make out the line of the arm in the centre, reaching up, up, holding the beacon skyward. Straight and strong against the blaze of day, tiny and brave on the expanse of sea.

I still felt the thrill: she still moved me.

Yet somewhere, the stone of disappointment.

Freedom had come, to some at least. Freedoms we never thought possible. It was ugly: it was beautiful. I had not understood, in Between the Acts . Freedom for the masses is not aesthetic.

Everyone was free — ‘But what does it mean? How do they use their American freedom?’ I didn’t realise I had spoken aloud.

ANGELA

‘That isn’t the point. Everyone is free. Everyone . That’s really something.’

VIRGINIA

Yes, everyone was free, from the women milling around me on the boat in their trousers and shorts, their cheap necklaces and unflattering brassieres, shouting at their husbands in loud coarse voices — to the Africans, who were everywhere, chewing toffee and nuts, throwing the wrappers on the ground, laughing with their children, who had sticky faces, no longer in chains but out for the day, talking louder than everyone else; here were the servants, out with the masters: there was no distinction between the two, those women carolling about the opera and the big-thighed, ignorant working class; half of these people were hooked to machines, little white ones that hung from their ears or bright-coloured boxes in their pockets; homosexuals were free, for couples of men were holding hands quite openly, and when we got to the Statue, two men embraced and pressed their lips together and laughed — and how is it possible — part of me flinched, when Bloomsbury was full of buggers like Lytton?

This was freedom: we had longed for it.

I had seen it all: it was done; it was finished.

Yes, I thought, and now I am tired. Tired to death of what I have seen, and what has been lost, in this dazzling new century, with the masses forever pressing forward till those like me will be trampled underfoot — we have been trampled, for they are all gone, Desmond and Lytton, G. E. Moore, Maynard, Leonard and all the others, those wry, clever faces, those cultured brains with their subtle cargo of Latin and Greek, their skilful phrases, their philosophy, their discriminations, their subtleties in art and life — all of it discarded and out of date, their names forgotten, the velleities lost that they argued over till the morning hours; the bookshops are gone, the books are gone, the crowd round the Statue hardly used language — and who will I write for, if I write about this?

Maybe the past can never write the present .

Long strands of grey hair blew into my mouth, perhaps I should get it shingled, like hers, my spine ached, my feet had swelled … I felt I might die of extreme fatigue. The moment swelled and receded all round me. I’d come too late. I could see nothing.

Yes, I had had my vision. But that was decades, a life, ago. I had my vision in my own century.

Angela understood this world. I did not envy her for belonging.

But oh, she must not leave me here. Angela was my only hope. ‘Angela, please, I want to come with you.’

ANGELA

‘Of course, we’re going back to the hotel.’

VIRGINIA

‘No, you must take me with you tomorrow.’

ANGELA

‘Tomorrow?’

VIRGINIA

‘To Turkey.’

ANGELA

‘I can’t, Virginia. You’re joking, of course.’

VIRGINIA

‘No, I promise, I am not joking.’

ANGELA

‘Virginia, you know it’s all arranged. All sorted with your friends in the lobby. You’ll be perfectly safe at the Wordsmiths Hotel. They will look after you beautifully.’ (I could hear I was doing my annoying voice, the voice that you use to bear children down with extra-determined cheerfulness.) ‘You have a special deal for the next four weeks. And I must go home and spend time with Gerda. It’s her birthday, you know, at the end of term. Then after her holidays are over, I will try to come back for you. By then you’ll have decided where you want to be. I’ll take you there. That is a promise.’

I felt — panic. I had to escape her.

And yet, I did not feel easy in my mind. Virginia was always so up and down! (Which was fair enough, being a manic-depressive, but her behaviour was so hard to predict.) However understanding last night’s policeman had been, she had jarred herself on that fire hydrant.

VIRGINIA

‘I’ve been to Turkey before, you know …’

ANGELA

‘Remind me, where did you go?’ I asked. I was playing for time, my mind spinning.

Could I conceivably take her with me?

Could Virginia fly on a plane?

So far as I remembered, she never had.

And what on earth would she make of the conference? I thought of the email from Gerda. ‘Why can’t Virginia Woolf go to her own conference?’ As usual, Gerda had a point.

VIRGINIA

‘We sailed to Constantinople. Of course, the Turks re-named it Istanbul. It was terribly hot. My brother had gone home … we knew nothing. We had been to Greece, really. That was the aim. Very early in the morning, we approached by sea …’

And I was young, so very young. It was the morning of my life. Nothing was fixed. It was marvellous. Later we looked down on the sea from Pera. From east to west, everything was on fire, rose and blue, above, below. I watched it side by side with Nessa. This was our world, stretching out for ever. No-one could grow old, or die. Those were the last days of being invulnerable, perfectly young, perfectly hopeful. I will always love Constantinople.