Vanessa and Her Sister (12 page)

25 November 1905

Jaffna, Ceylon

Lytton
,

Do not be alarmed. Before you read further, know that I am well—well enough to have had eggs and ham for breakfast and be sitting on a sunny verandah writing this to you. I have had typhoid. Terrifying, I know. The very name of the dreadful disease waters one’s bowels. But in a one-room hospital, with a nurse who would not come closer than eight feet to me and a doctor who visited once a day, I am cured. The doctor diagnosed me and then said sternly “If you eat nearly nothing and do not move at all, in twenty-one days your fever will return to normal, and you will be cured.” My fever was 103 degrees when he said it, and do you know what? On the twenty-first day? 98.6. I have renewed veneration for country doctors on bicycles.

All love
,

Leonard

HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY

6 December 1905

Dearest Leonard
,

The Goth just told me that you had an encounter? Quoi? Avec qui? Do you think my stealthy use of French will disguise our subject du jour? Innocence lost. Experience gained. Blake would be so pleased. Milton, I fear, would not. Milton was such a prude. About time, I suppose. Dearest, at twenty-five was innocence wearing thin? And with a woman no less—that makes it official. Did you tell Goth and not me as you thought I would not understand such things? I demand a full account at once. Do write in specifics, dear. Such voluptuous gossip is no fun without specifics.

And how am I? I have recently become obsessed with Gluck. I fear I have lost my Eurydice to a great beefy Frenchman who probably smells of onions and cheese.

Yours
,

Lytton

PS:
Your letter just arrived! Typhoid! My dear friend. Thank God for angels on bicycles. Get that doctor’s name and ship him here at once. I have need of such a man.

Thursday 7 December 1905—46 Gordon Square (late, can hear birds in the square)

Morgan Forster (I cannot call him the Mole—it makes him sound like a beauty mark) was in high spirits tonight as another printing has been ordered for his lovely little novel. It is a slender narrative with an enormous scope. I am haunted by it. The great central tragedy skips across the story’s water with only the smallest stone. Virginia read it and pronounced it
Edwardian
—damning criticism.

We celebrated at Gordon Square.

“The Mole must drink champagne!” Lytton pronounced from his customary basket chair. He was looking more ramshackle charming than usual in his drooping red bow tie and brown velveteen coat.

“And how is your novel, Virginia?” I asked, knowing she would want the conversation brought round to her own writing.

“It has a healthy constitution,” she said mysteriously. “Changed the title, though. I am thinking of calling it
The Voyage Out
.”

“I like it,” Morgan said, rising to go. He always leaves first. “It feels suspended in air and ends with a good sliced consonant.” Without saying goodbye to anyone, he put out his cigarette and left.

“Has he always done that?” I asked once he had gone.

“What, left abruptly with no goodbye?” Thoby asked. “Always.”

“Goodbyes make him anxious,” Desmond said, picking an apple from the fruit bowl. “And competition undoes him completely,” he said, without looking at Virginia. “Every time a rowdy discussion broke out in college, he would suddenly stand up and announce that he had to catch the train to Weybridge.”

“What’s in Weybridge?” I asked, offering a pear to Virginia but knowing she would refuse.

“His mother and sisters, I think. Although they might have moved. It is just something he says.” Desmond accepts everyone wholly without criticism. Questions, yes. Criticism, no.

8 December 1905

My Violet
,

I am concerned I may have lost track of your precise goings and more goings and am formally requesting a detailed itinerary. I like to know where you lay your beloved head down to sleep each evening, as well as where and with whom you dine. If I am to be deprived of your bolstering company, then I would like to know where to direct my jealousy.

Your only, only, only
,

Virginia
                   

PS:
I think Clive is winding up to take another swing at Nessa. Vive la Nessa! Courage pour la résistance! Thankfully, no one has asked to marry me yet, but I feel the question of my future beginning to hover.

19 December 1905—46 Gordon Square (more snow)

“Nessa!” I could hear the door slam and Thoby’s heavy footstep thumping through the house.

“In here!” I stepped back to look at my morning’s work. I was pleased with the vase, although the tilt of the apple still felt wrong.

“Do you hear it?” Thoby banged open the door of my studio without knocking and threw open the sash window.

I stopped to listen. A Christmas robin, singing in the snowy garden.

25 December 1905

Jaffna, Ceylon

Lytton
,

How wonderful for the Mole. How easy he must rest. He has done something significant. Probably not all he will do, but very definitely something significant. I am envious. I am not sure I am doing anything here at all.

My writing has taken on the jungle tempo of the East and no longer belongs in draped drawing rooms. Happy Christmas, dear Lytton. Please tell Bell that I have faith that he will prevail. I feel it is too personal a thing to write him myself.

Yours
,

Leonard

PS:
Be careful. Duncan will always break a heart. He knows no other way. He softly roars with selfish truthfulness and tears apart all that is tender in his ruthless drive to be genuine. The only heart he understands is his own.

HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY

PART TWO

T
HE
S
TEPHENS
G
O
A
BROAD

· ·

1906–1907

“Thoby sends his love. So does Nessa—but Wallabie love is the nicest kind to get.”

(
VIRGINIA STEPHEN TO VIOLET DICKINSON, 26 NOVEMBER 1906
)

IS IT WORTH IT?

3 January 1906

To my Beloved Wife
,

An extraordinary afternoon. Went with J. P. Morgan to the White House for lunch with the President. J.P.M. was unimpressed by such august company but I kept worrying about using the right fork. Did you know, they turn their dinner forks up in this country? I am staying at the New Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Ave. in Washington. Cable
at once
should you need me. I left you feeling wonderful a few weeks ago but I know how quickly these things can turn. Although I had a letter from Mother today and she commented on how well you looked. She even said you were painting! I am thrilled, my darling.

Please write soon, dearest. I only sleep well once I have had a letter from you.

Your own
,

Roger
      

PS:
J.P.M. wants me to arrange for him to buy Farinola’s Botticelli.

5 January 1906—46 Gordon Square (snowing)

Cricket has taken over our house this week. It is the only sport Adrian and Thoby truly love. That means that meals are dedicated to talk of runs and wickets and bats and bowlers. It is what comes of living with brothers.

“One wicket!” Thoby repeated, refolding the newspaper in disgust. “And South Africa wins it. Revolting. Sloper, is there any more of the grapefruit, or did Mr Adrian finish it?”

Sloper returned to the dining room with a sliced grapefruit on a tray. (Fresh grapefruits are Thoby’s newest obsession, following closely on the heels of ripe figs and sugared walnuts.) “Mr Bell is here—”

“Bell!” Thoby bellowed from the table. “Get in here!”

My hand flew to my hair, hastily twisted into a messy knot. Regretting my faded skirt and fraying blouse (I was planning on staying in to paint this morning), I discreetly wiped the jam and ink from my fingers before shaking Clive’s hand.