by Priya Parmar
Clive. Now, when I feel so unsteady and far from the familiar crutches of home, I miss him terribly.
29 October 1906—The Orient Express (late, everyone asleep)
The rocking of the train is soothing as I write this. Everyone is settled into sleeping compartments, and the black, shadowy scenery flashes past the thick glass window. Such a long day.
This morning:
“It is a regular train,” Adrian said, stating the obvious.
Virginia shot him a withering look.
I looked up from my book. “Should it be something else?” I too had been disappointed by the train. Black with peeling gold lettering, the outside was not promising. Inside there are relics of its fabled past. Elaborate Tiffany-style lights and curved divans upholstered in cracked red velvet. At night it can pass for luxurious, but in the inflexible daylight, it looks worn through.
“No, no, I just thought it would be more than a train,” Adrian said, clearly wishing he had never made the remark.
Virginia was enjoying his muddle—it distracted her from missing Thoby.
“I know what you mean,” I said, rescuing Adrian. “It is the Orient Express. One expects it to be drawn by elephants.”
Virginia rolled her eyes.
THE RETURN
1 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (chilly and wet)
A small, mousy nurse was waiting for us upon our return to Dover. A nurse! George must have arranged it. She held a sign that read “Miss V. Stephen.” “Well, that could mean either of us,” Virginia said. I did not take the bait. I was too tired. The nurse proved more cumbersome than she looked, but at least she could help Adrian sort out his lost luggage.
I was irritated and just wanted to get home. A nurse was all so unnecessary, and I made the mistake of saying so. Virginia gave me a triumphant look. I am always telling her that her nurses are necessary. No use arguing. I felt like telling her that if I were raving mad and running all over the house shouting nonsense, as she does, then I would absolutely require a nurse—but I didn’t.
And then we returned here and were shocked. Instead of finding the house empty and Thoby gone to the Lake District, we found him here and very unwell. Not serious, the doctor assured us, but uncomfortable. George, who picked us up from the station, insisted the doctor examine me as well. The doctor announced that I was recovering but not quickly enough and must go to bed at once. I did as he asked but looked in and kissed poor Thobs on his feverish head. Virginia is delighted to have us both invalided for a bit. She asked me not to “recover too fast or I won’t get enough chance to spoil you.” The idea does not improve my nerves.
And—Bother. The doctor also said I had to gain at least eight lbs and brought a weighing machine for me to use every third day.
2 November 1906—46 Gordon Square
Thoby has malaria, a bad case apparently. Dr Thompson just came in and told me (he is replacing Dr Savage, who is away for a few days). The dreadful disease has been nesting inside Thobs for weeks. He must have had fever in Greece but never said. But the doctor has instructed us not to worry. An atmosphere of calm will speed his recovery. This was said to me but aimed at Virginia. She is genuinely shocked by Thoby’s diagnosis but is doing her best, I can tell. I am also shocked. Thoby is the deep ground, and we are the fickle, flexible tree that rests upon it. How can the ground fall ill?
And—Now wishing I had not cabled Snow to visit as I am not the one who needs looking after.
Saturday 3 November 1906—46 Gordon Square
Clive came again today. He has been stopping in every day, and is the one who insisted poor Thobs go to bed and not to the Lake District. I am grateful.
This afternoon:
“What if I just leave the offer on the table, like a fruit bowl?” he said, sounding amused rather than nervous.
“A fruit bowl? Did you just compare your marriage proposal to a fruit bowl?” I shifted on the sofa, tucking the thick cream blanket around my legs. I am meant to be in bed, but Snow allowed me down to Thoby’s study. I am glad she is here, although her unruffled calm is annoying Virginia.
“Yes. Why not? Fruit symbolises the offering of love and devotion,” Clive said with a look of wry dignity.
“And knowledge. Fruit gets women into trouble,” I said carefully.
And—Weighed every other morning now. Gained one lb. As I get weighed in my nightgown, I have moved the weighing machine into my sitting room.
Later—back upstairs
Clive has been considering my suggestion that he go away for a year to jolt me into understanding myself. Perhaps Paris. As I heard him talk about it, I felt a shiver of jealousy. Good. I will nurture that. Perhaps it may grow into something useful. But he will not leave now. He will not leave Thoby while he is so ill.
Clive Bell
12, King’s Bench Walk
The Temple
5 November 1906
Strache,
Get down here. Bring Saxon. Get Desmond. The Goth is ill, and while the doctor swears it is malaria and just miserable, rather than threatening, I am beginning to think the man is a charlatan and want to get a second opinion. Goth doesn’t look like a man with malaria. His face is waxy and slack, and his great bear’s body has rather sunk in on itself. Looks bad.
The girls are all right. Virginia is fixated on what he eats and sees each spoonful of coddled egg and clear broth as a sign of immediate recovery. Nessa herself is very ill and has not been allowed to see him. She is a quieter, fragile Nessa, and I only love her more. Adrian is pragmatic and dogmatic and hell-bent on not questioning the doctor. Frankly, I am surprised these Stephens are not panicked, given their history of losing people. In over my head, Strache. Hurry.
Yours,
Bell
8 November 1906—46 Gordon Square (early—everyone asleep)
“Dearest?” I touched his foot so he would know I was there. I was not meant to see him, but I had to.
“Nessa,” he said, turning his face towards me. His eyes were open and glassy. He had not been sleeping after all.
“They are all here. Lytton, Saxon, Desmond, and Clive. They have all come to see you.”
I knew the arrival of his friends would mean much to him. His face lit with a faint smile. Like a pale pool of gaslight on a fogged street.
“Good men, Nessa. They are all good men,” he said, his voice dwindling as he used up his strength. His chest rose and fell rapidly with the effort. “Bell. Bell is especially good.”
“Yes, dearest,” I said, taking his hot, papery hand. He closed his eyes, and we fell into the comfortable silence of siblings.
I THINK ABOUT THE many times I have heard Thoby and his friends discussing the nature of good. By whose standard should good be measured? By whose count should good be counted? Thoby’s good is good enough for me.
Later—early evening (my sitting room)
“Virginia.” I struggled for patience. “All I know is what you know and what the doctor told us. I did not receive any more information than you.”
I closed my eyes. Keeping them open is very difficult these days. My appendix appears to have improved, but my strength refuses to return. I am meant to be taking the rest cure but find bed more exhausting than not bed. And so I get up. I bathe but then get into my nightgown and blue silk wrapper again. I never manage to get my hair up and just leave it in a long braid snaking down my back. Virginia came in today and tied a black ribbon at the bottom to hold it together.
I am sure it was just the travelling that wore me out and nothing more sinister. Dr Thompson has prescribed an invigorating tonic for nerves, and rest, complete rest, which is of course a huge bother.
“Virginia,” called Clive from the hall. “Virginia, she is meant to be asleep. Come away, please.”
This is how it is now. Clive roams all over the house like a member of the family. This morning I saw him upstairs without his jacket—such informality would have been outrageous a month ago. He speaks to Dr Thompson about the med
ical treatments and then discusses them with us. We have come to rely on him. Yesterday Snow went to him to ask if he thought she was still needed or if she ought to return home. It is probably best that she go, as she gets on Virginia’s nerves. Clive told Snow he would send a telegram at the first sign of trouble, and in the meantime he promised to look after us and so drove her to the station. Should I mind such intimacies? I find I do not. I am relieved. Yesterday I found him and Virginia discussing enemas in the drawing room: glycerine versus turpentine—dear God. Had no idea what to make of it and so returned to bed.
IN 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)
They 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.
Sti
ll 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?
69 LANCASTER GATE
LONDON W.
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.
