Virginia Woolf in Manhattan. Maggie GeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
loved that book when it was just an essence, a wisp of pale silk, frost on the downs, their long spines reddened by the sunset. A pageant … something as light as its name, Poyntz Hall. I wanted to stipple it like Seurat, make it short & musical, & the world could be distilled in the gaps, aerations between the bright points of the brush-strokes.
But then it grew long & dragged at my heart & I knew the execution couldn’t match the first image. And then the clawing fear began. And darkness ate in around the edges. Then they started to lie to me, telling me it was good enough to publish – I knew it wasn’t. And so did Leonard. Although he denied it, his face declared it
the strain puckering his dear deep lines
How often I gave poor Leonard worry.
– Is it possible that we were all wrong?
‘Did you say they are calling it a masterpiece?’
ANGELA
‘Some people say it’s your best book. I think it brings all your themes together.’
For the first time, then, she looked at me. It was a long, assessing stare.
She looked at me. I looked at her. I dared to meet those startling eyes, their shocking hunger, their intelligence. Around us other beings surged. Families wailing like cats mating: hordes of busy animals. But we were human. We saw each other.
With one accord, we looked away.
I fixed my gaze on the narrowing band of sunlight on the sea lions’ island. While we were distracted, everything had changed. Unnoticed, the great pale sea lion elder had heaved its vast yellow bulk up the mountain, pushed past the black balletic young and surged on rolls of fat and muscle up to sunbathe on the very summit. Old, solid, surprisingly strong. Late sunlight gilded her.
VIRGINIA
‘Of course I don’t care at all about the critics.’
ANGELA
‘Of course.’
VIRGINIA
‘I never gave a fig for their opinions.’
ANGELA
‘No.’
VIRGINIA
‘What kind of thing exactly do they say?’
ANGELA
I tried to give her what she wanted. ‘That you were trying to link art to the people – ’ But a little devil made me go on. ‘Whereas Bloomsbury became a byword for, you know, snobbery. Art for art’s sake, and all that stuff.’
VIRGINIA
‘Snobbery? Bloomsbury? We are socialists! Leonard is always out canvassing!’
ANGELA
‘Sorry, sorry. Yes, I know. Your husband was remarkable.’
I watched that past tense give her pause. Her long arms wrapped around her body, her head went down, then up again, her eyes burned, she was formidable.
VIRGINIA
‘Did you hear me? We were socialists. Anti-imperialists through and through!’
ANGELA
I wouldn’t let her hector me.
‘Perhaps that message didn’t reach your public.’
VIRGINIA
‘The public can be ridiculous …’ (Brightening) ‘But I have a public? – Still? – Now?’
ANGELA
‘You do.’
There was a pause. Something shifted between us. For another brief moment, we looked at each other. Sunlight, or hope, gave her skin a faint flush. Yes, she was very beautiful. (But Edward called me beautiful, too. I was still young, and she was old.)
Her brows lifted. A secret smile.
VIRGINIA
And in that moment, life poured through me. My new ‘now’. My American now! The particular. That apricot sunlight. It was just on the point of leaving the island, intensifying as it yielded to night. The vault of the sky was indigo violet, making love with the apricot. The animals straining up into it.
And I am here. Life has come back.
Indigo, violet, the pigeons circling, each vane of their wing-tips sharp on the glow.
The electric shock of life thrilled me, shivering in an instant across the tiny stalks of hair on my skin, the back of my neck, my hidden places. I was alive. And I had a public.
ANGELA
A low whoosh, then another, and another. And finally something like a thwack-whoomp. All four sea lions were back in the water.
VIRGINIA
‘Let’s go back out on the streets and walk. You say we’re in America?’
ANGELA
‘New York. But it will soon be dark.’
VIRGINIA
‘Of all places. I never went there! Never went to America. I never cared to, I loved Europe …’
I did want to go. I was afraid. Part of me wanted to stay in my room, never going out, writing, writing. Another part longed to see the world. I loved our car. I was safe inside. Leonard, me, and Mitz Marmoset, and Europe floating past outside the window …
We knew Europe, all our friends went, but America seemed a world away. I imagined the cars in endless ribbons, dozens abreast, streaming into the future, indifferent to me, a vast indifference … Terrifying. I would not exist.
In this American now, was I a different person? The night was coming, but I wasn’t afraid.
On the other hand, I had no luggage. What did they wear, these new … New Yorkers?
‘I have no clothes. Just these old rags. More to the point, I have no money – ’
ANGELA
‘Nothing at all in your pockets?’ (I had seen it, clearly, a bulge in her pockets.) ‘Alas, I’m not exactly rich.’
VIRGINIA
‘ – and nowhere to live. Where will I live?’
After all, one had to live somewhere.
Just for a moment, I felt simple pleasure. Somewhere to live. A new place. The fun I had had at Monk’s House. Finding the perfect bentwood chair, glimpsed through the window of an antique shop. Yes, I would have to find somewhere to live!
But is anyone allowed those pleasures twice? Would they suffer me to … begin again? Whichever hell-hounds had let me go.
Maybe I was just released for the day.
ANGELA
‘As I said, I’m not rich. Not rich rich. But maybe I can tide you over.’
Virginia was staring at the gravel. We followed the thinning crowd through the gate. The sun had slipped behind the towers that ringed the park like gate keepers. Would it be fun to walk through the park?
Very soon we were just two shadows, silent companions in a world of shades. Every now and then she stepped off the path to touch a plane tree. Her fingertips lingered, digging her nails into the bark. Once, I noticed she wasn’t there and saw her clutching the ordinary black railings, clinging on as if she’d never let go. She came back making small contented noises, tilted forward, smiling and nodding. But not at me. She was on her own.
I thought, if only the others knew – the tired humans walking home, the writers, students, advertising people, eyes on the path, shoulders hunched – that this tall shadow is Virginia Woolf. And she’s with me! I breathed in deep.
We