Vanessa and Her Sister (18 page)

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I
N MY FURTHEST REACHES
, I recognise this malaise of mine. It is from nursing Virginia last year—when she went really mad, and I had to hand her over to Violet. I was unravelled to my core but did not have time to collapse then. It is an old debt that had to be paid sometime, and I may as well pay it now. Virginia said tonight that she is sure Thoby is improving. She says she heard the doctor say so. She also said Thoby ate nearly half a chicken, which must be a good sign. Thoby could hardly manage toast and weak tea yesterday, so I do not imagine he has already moved on to chicken. Virginia must be mistaken.

And
—Violet has typhoid. Ghastly. Virginia is writing to her now.

9 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (two pm)

He’s awake! We sat in Thoby’s room talking of nothing: the new field glasses Thoby wants to buy, Adrian’s stolen bicycle, Virginia’s pens and my nerves. Clive and Lytton had gone to luncheon and it was just us. Just us.

Saturday 10 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (after lunch)

“I want to tell him, Nessa.” Virginia has been increasingly strident since Snow left—she has run the enemy out of town and must dance to celebrate. The doctor has recommended that she spend no more than ten minutes twice a day visiting me.

“Tell who what?”

“Tell
him
—that thing, Clive—that he is not good enough.” Her venom spilt, she sank back into her chair. Frankly, I was surprised. I had thought her attitude towards him had improved. But I knew better than to try to shift her opinion. She had the look of a commanding general who has measured the enemy and found them wanting. She looked coiled and oiled and dangerously excited.

“Virginia, Clive has been very kind—”

“Kind? You call sniffing round you like some great sniffing dog
kind
?” Her voice arced shrilly. “He means
harm
, Nessa. He means to wriggle and fit and ingratiate until he has made himself one of us; now, while we are too disrupted and different and ill to defend ourselves. He is not
good
enough, Nessa. And it will
not
do.” Increasing in speed, her voice was pitching like a ship.

“Clive is—” I stopped. Clive is what?

“Clive is a great round ball of unrooted, well-decorated
nothing
. He has no
character
. He lacks
bottom
. And one day I shall sit him down and tell him so. I shall say, ‘Absurd Mr Bell, you lack bottom and are not good enough for us. Please go.’ ”

She was sitting forward in her chair, her long, lean body curved like
a spoon. Having arrived at her subject, her face had pulled into taut lines of precision and discord.

I lay back on the pillows, too exhausted to argue. She waited.

“What do you say to that, Nessa? What will you do when I tell your thing to go away, we do not want him?”

“He does not want us, Virginia.” I looked at her levelly, raising my head from the pillows. “He wants
me
.”

THOBY

14 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (early evening)

T
hey are all downstairs. I can hear them from my little sitting room. Thoby’s friends. Our friends. They visit him in turns, but too much and he gets worn out, so mostly they prowl about the drawing room and nap in Thoby’s study. Occasionally they arrive in my room bearing a tray or a book or a daisy. Their company immeasurably helps what cannot be seen but drains Thoby’s strength. This morning Lytton’s spirited story about an argument he had with a woman who did not believe in women’s suffrage left Thoby grey with effort but so much happier. Even I can see he is not improving. Patience, Dr Thompson says.

Later (after midnight)

Dr Savage is back! The second opinion. Clive summoned him.

Even later (two am—can’t sleep)

Softened voices in the hall. Doors open, chairs scuff the floorboards. I hear Clive’s voice, “I do not want to wake her. We will tell her in the morning.”

Thursday 15 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (early)

“Not malaria?” I repeated.

“It seems not,” Clive said. He looked exhausted. I am sure he leaves this house, but I have no idea when.

“Do they know what …?”

“Typhoid. Quite serious. They will operate today, tomorrow at the very latest.”

“Operate?” I gripped the arm of the chair.

“Yes,” Clive said, looking at me steadily. “There is a perforation. Savage says it must be closed or the poisons will leak.” He did not lessen the statement nor flinch from the graphic verbs. He just stood next to me while I absorbed the blow. Did he hope to halve the impact? Perhaps he did. Perhaps it worked.

“Will you—”

“Tell the others? Yes. I will. I have told Adrian and will tell Virginia after breakfast. Strachey was here last night and spoke to the doctor as well. He and Adrian have agreed to help should I run into trouble with Virginia.”

He tried to pry my fingers from the carved arm of the chair. I looked down and was surprised to see that my knuckles were bone white, wrapped around the wood.

Later (Thoby’s study)

Downstairs for a few minutes. It was good to be dressed. Though I needn’t have bothered. Downstairs is so different now. All of them go without their jackets, and everyone follows their own pursuits without necessarily talking. This one will read, those two will play cards, another one will sleep. I am not up to painting, but I have been enjoying the simple friendship of this room.

“Woolf had it,” Lytton said, laying down his book.

There was no need to ask what “it” was. The word
typhoid
looms large in this house.

“No medication of any kind. The country doctor in Ceylon bumped over on his bicycle, put him to bed, starved him, and told him to hold absolutely still for three weeks, and he would come through. And do you know what? He did. And so will the Goth. Strength of ten. I asked Woolf to ship me that doctor and his bloody bicycle, and he never did, damn him.” Lytton was speaking to no one in particular. Desmond was writing at the desk, and Adrian was reading music at the piano but not playing. I looked at Clive, who was smoking at the open window. Footsteps on the stairs: the doctor.

Very late (wrapped in a blanket)

They will operate tomorrow. Dr Savage says he can do it here. It is better not to move him. I must go and tell Virginia. Time to face the cannon. The others did it last time. It is my turn.

16 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (late afternoon, chilly)

Tried to write letters today: the aunts and Snow and the Asquiths and the Balfours and the Freshfields and so many other family friends who have heard of Thoby’s illness and sent cards. But I couldn’t do it. I let the ink dribble onto the thick spongy paper. My fingers hovered over the page as if they had forgotten the alphabet.

Later

The operation was quick and apparently successful. He is asleep. He must sleep enough for us all, as no one else can.

And
—We are not a religious family, but tonight my wish, liquid and pure, became a prayer.
Please.

Saturday 17 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (early)

“Coddled eggs, Virginia?” I asked. “Are you sure that is what he wants?”

“Yes, he told me. And sausages.” Virginia bridled at my scepticism.

“He
told
you?” I looked at Adrian warily. I knew Thoby had not yet woken.

“Ask him,” Virginia said imperiously. Instinctively, I looked around for Thoby to intercede. He is the heavy artillery when it comes to Virginia. But not today.

His temperature is holding steady.

Still later (midnight)

Hopeful. I opened his door to watch his chest rise and fall with sleep before creeping back to my room. Virginia heard me and came in and sat on the end of my bed. I did not talk. I did not want to.

20 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (midday)

Thoby, you died this morning. You died on a Tuesday. When I heard Virginia’s scream, I was just coming out of the bath. I had washed my hair, and when I leaned over to kiss you, I dripped water onto your chest. Your eyes were already closed. I do not know who closed them. Or maybe you were asleep? Did you wake up in time to see your last morning?

I feel such a need to go and tell you that you died today. To talk over the flowers and the cemetery and the verse and the drops of water on your chest. You are the only one I want to talk to about it. It is an impossible circle with no door.

I look at this sentence and I think … but how can I think, write, want
anything
, Thoby, when you died this morning?

21 November 1906

Oh Woolf
,

My dearest man, please sit. I was going to send a telegram and then realised that there is no rush. Even if you left this instant, you would never see our Goth again. His malaria was not malaria but typhoid. The operation that was a success ultimately failed. He left us yesterday. Such a quick moment, but what a very final thing.

Vanessa is the centre we hold to, although she does not know it. Virginia bucked and wriggled like a dying fish in order to evade this awful thing, but Vanessa stood up when grief knocked at the door. She turned to it squarely and put out her hand and took its hat and coat. There was no need for an introduction. They had met before.

Funeral on Friday. Golders Green Crematorium. Bell has just sent me a note to say that he cannot go and would I take special care of Nessa? He knows he cannot get through such a grisly moment whole and does not want to come apart before her. It is not pride, I think, but care. It would do her no good. And so he is going birdwatching, to look for Thoby.

Look up, dearest Leonard. You may see him.

Such love
,

Lytton
      

YES

22 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (sunny)

Y
es. He asked again, and I have said yes. Yes.
Yes
.

Later (late afternoon)

I have come back to bed to selfishly think about myself. Out there, the house is engulfed in a thick, choking grief. The friends have gone, and Thoby’s study is empty. We are left to get on with it. There is nothing to wait for.

I will marry Clive. I turn the decision over like a dish, checking for flaws. After each death, Mother, Father, Stella, came a wrenching sea change; a new fiery alchemy, a different physics. I know it will happen again. I cannot lose Thoby and stay the same.

But Clive knows me now. Knew me before. There is no other man I could marry who would know
this
Nessa. And now I will not have to go through the next terrible part alone.