Vanessa and Her Sister (4 page)

I watched the practised, casual way the great man discussed his method but I failed to work up the nerve to ask him for criticism. I wanted to ask his opinion of my portrait of Nelly, still grandly called
A Portrait of Lady Robert Cecil
. That name feels stiff and Victorian. I asked Nelly if she really wanted to use the whole mouthful, but it seems she does. Or I suppose she does. In the last few years dear Nelly has become quite deaf and conversation is a struggle. Strange to think that she is only a little older than Stella would be. But Stella will always be twenty-eight.

Some days Nelly’s portrait feels exactly, seamlessly right and others it slips and misses the mark. Does Mr Sargent fall in and out of love with his own paintings? I did not ask.

26 March 1905—46 Gordon Square

Ginia and Adrian left on the morning train. The day stretches out in front of me, empty and whole.

27 March 1905—46 Gordon Square

Thoby spent the morning marching about the house fretting about a hat that Adrian pinched and took on his trip. “But your hat will benefit from a broader acquaintanceship,” I told him after breakfast. “It will mix with urbane Spanish hats and come back lisping and tanned.”

“It will end up lost, stolen, smashed, or, worse, smelling of pork—everything smells of pork in Spain,” Thoby said with authority and went back to his book.

Now Thoby has gone birdwatching with Mr Bell. The house settles onto its haunches when Thoby goes; lays its head on its paws and waits for his return.

4 April 1905

Grand Oriental Hotel, Colombo, Ceylon

Dear Lytton
,

Travelled from Jaffna back to Colombo this week. They are recalling me and two other cadets to discuss ways to improve communications between the provinces. The summons took a fortnight to reach me.

I left Charlie-the-dog in the hands of my Sinhalese houseboy and am sure he will have gained a stone and picked up very bad habits by the time I return.

Has spring come to Cambridge?

Yrs
,      

Leonard

HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY

5 April 1905—46 Gordon Square (before breakfast)

Chaos. And dust everywhere. The mantel from Hyde Park Gate (one of the only things we wanted to keep from the house) is to be installed in the drawing room on the first floor, and the current mantel (thickset and literal) is to be dislodged and discarded. I had thought of moving it to Thoby’s study downstairs but am afraid it might ruin the pretty, squared simplicity of that room.

Later

We dressed for dinner. It is becoming fussy and old-fashioned to change in the evening but I like it. I like the ritual grace of it, the sharp, circular breath of the fresh corset, the slim columns of lace and silk.

Thoby’s friends call him the Goth as they think he looks like a gothic romantic hero, but in a starched evening shirt, crisp collar, white silk tie, and beautifully finished tailcoat, Thoby looks more like a monumental Elgin marble. Both my brothers are tall, but it is Thoby’s golden proportions that give him that Acropolis look.

Even later (one am)

Packing and cocoa. Packing in my nightgown. My toes grip the warm wood floor. I open the window. The square ripples with lilac. The chestnut trees lean protectively over the garden. The low grass is subtle and lush like a well-kept secret. Too much sensation. I close the window. The tautness of waiting. Curls of anticipation. Of travel? Of change? Of art?

No. None of these. The answer does not land like a bird in my hand the way I want it to.

Damn.

Waiting has become a habit with me.

A HOLIDAY IN FRANCE

6 April 1905—Portsmouth (raining)

W
here are they now? Seville? Adrian will be complaining of the heat, and Virginia will want to go bull fighting.

Eavesdropping. Two commercial travellers discussing riots in Madrid.
Worrying
.

POST CARD

This Space to Be Used for Correspondence

9 April 1905

Dear Ginia and Adrian,
Waterworks have burst in Madrid and there has been rioting—turn back! All well here. Re-reading the Greeks in honour of spring and bicycling in the afternoons with Bell. Ginia, I borrowed your bicycle as my basket is broken.

With love,
Thobs

 
PS: Adrian, do you have my hat?

To:
Miss Virginia Stephen
Hotel Roma
Seville, Spain

SERIES 12 NO. 6: BUST OF A ROMAN GIRL—THE BRITISH MUSEUM

10 April 1905—Hôtel de Ste. Lucie, Honfleur (early—sky still pink)

I am sitting in the postage-stamp garden behind this crumbly hotel drinking cocoa from a handle-less blue cracked bowl. Snow is painting on a bluff overlooking the harbour. I should be painting, or reading Balzac under a plane tree, but unromantically, I am doing our household accounts. They pass to the eldest woman in our family. Mother, Stella, and now me.

Was it right to let the house in Hyde Park Gate? Will those funds, plus the income from our inheritance from Father, be enough for our yearly allowance? And if it is enough now, will it be enough always? So far it has been all right, but Virginia’s doctor’s fees threaten to chip away at the capital, and George says we must be careful. Luckily, the rent in Bloomsbury is cheap. I meant to do the accounts before I left but ran out of time. It is absurd to be paying the bill for a butcher in Covent Garden when I am in Honfleur, but I am the eldest woman in my family, and this is what we do.

Hotel Washington Irving, Granada

11 April 1905

My Dearest Nessa
,

Are you still in Honfleur? I forgot to write down your travel dates.

Nothing went to plan. Boat broke and so took the train to Lisbon. Is there anything so irritating as travelling without a book? I left it in the last hotel, and there was not time to go back for it. We saw only one church today and just two yesterday, but we had a good proper walk this morning and saw: one woman who looked as if she was late to meet her lover, two small boys selling turnips, and seven nuns, so that makes up for everything.

I am second-guessing the article I sent in to Mr Maitland at the Times. I should have sent the piece about Father and Tennyson or the chunk about our childhood summers in Cornwall. Feeling the thumping dread of a missed opportunity.

Are you well, dearest? Adrian has already caught a cold, and I am quite concerned for poor Thoby, confined to bed in London with diphtheria. His unhappy throat is swollen to three times its normal size, and he can manage nothing but lemon custard and hot chocolate. As you can imagine, he yearns for a carrot. Take good care of yourself, my dearest Dolphin, and please do think of your poor Billy Goat who is missing you terribly. I wish I had something blooming and fresh to lay at your feet to show you how I love you.

Your
       

Billy Goat

PS:
Adrian has lost his luggage twice on this trip and his cases have only now caught up to us—naturally, but there is a piano in the hotel, so he is happy.

PPS:
I look at the heading on the writing paper and it makes me miss the mechanical noises of London. Spanish traffic sounds so unbridled.

Friday 14 April 1905—Hôtel d’Angleterre, Caen, France (the air smells of apple blossom)

There were Cornish fishing boats in the harbour at Honfleur yesterday. I see them and am dissolved into a thousand late days of summer fireflies and cool Cornish water sipping the rocky beach. It comes back wholly, sensually, in a way that no active recalling of a moment can do.

CARTE POSTALE

Côté correspondance

17 April 1905

Dearest Virginia,
Just a line to check that your meaty Billy Goat nose is still wet, your furry ears are tender monkey pink, and your sturdy mountain feet are as crusty and quick as ever in the chalky Portuguese heat. Are you feeling quite well, dearest? Sleeping well? Any headaches? Remember to cable Thoby or me at once if you have any of the old troubles. Promise me, dearest.

 
Your
Nessa