Woolfian Boundaries - Clemson University

letter, Virginia Woolf generously invited me for tea.
At 6:00 pm on the designated date, I arrived at her home and rang the bell. Leonard
Woolf greeted me and brought me into the living room. Virginia lay on a rug before the
fi replace. She was an elegant fi gure of grace and beauty, dressed in a long gray silk gown,
with gray shoes, gray stockings, gray hair, and a silver cigarette holder, through which she
blew gray smoke.
Leonard shook my hand and escorted me to an upholstered armchair inches away from
her. “Th is is strange,” I thought. “I’ve come to sit at her feet, and now she is lying at mine.”
He then seated himself at the far end of the room. His face was long and egg-shaped,
with soft cheeks that seemed to have no bones. His eyes sank beneath thick black brows,
and his hands moved erratically with a nervous tremor. Despite his distance from us, I had
the sense that he was hovering over Virginia, brooding and protective.
Th e housekeeper brought in a tray with delicate cups already fi lled with tea. Th ere
was nothing to nibble on. No sandwiches, no cakes. I was so afraid that my trembling
hands might drop the cup that I carefully placed it on a small end table and never touched
it again. Virginia and Leonard had no such fear.
I was too awed to speak, but she fi nally placed her cup delicately on the fl oor and
opened the conversation: “I looked into the study you wrote about me. Quite scholarly.”
“In your letter,” she continued, “you wrote that you are a journalist and are planning
to write a book. I don’t know how I can help you. I don’t understand a thing about politics.
I never worked a day in my life.”
I was startled that at this stage in her life she did not consider it was work to publish ten
books, countless essays, and many brilliant reviews. Also, nearly everyone in her Bloomsbury
circle, especially Leonard, was deeply involved with the political issues of the day.
A long silence ensued, during which I waited for Virginia to speak again. Curled up
before the fi re, she smoked dreamily, looking into the fl ames.
Returning from wherever her reverie had taken her, she fi nally broke the silence: “We
were just in your Germany.”
Why did she call it my Germany? I had written her from my home in Brooklyn and
my accent was decidedly American. But I did not interrupt her.
“We were driving through on holiday,” she said. “Our car was stopped to let Hitler
and his entourage pass. Madness, that country.”
“As a student in Cologne,” I ventured at last, “I went to hear Hitler speak at a huge
rally.” Leonard moved his chair closer to us.
“Th e place was fi lled with men in brown uniforms and high boots, who waved fl ags
emblazoned with swastikas,” I continued. “Th ey went wild, screaming and waving their
fl ags as Hitler entered, surrounded by bodyguards. He climbed to the podium and began
to rail against America, and especially against Jews. His voice terrifi ed me. It seemed to
come not from his lungs but his bowels.”
“He has a terrifying voice,” she agreed. “Th ere is such horror in the world.”
“But what strikes me so forcefully in your books is hope,” I replied. “Th e hope that
women will help end the horror of war and create peace.”
“Once,” she said, “we had such hope for the world.”
Th e words rang in my head. Such hope for the world.
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