Vanessa and Her Sister (43 page)

30 January 1911—46 Gordon Square (early)

“He gave letters of introduction to meet who?” I asked, pulling Clive’s socks out of the drawer.

“To meet
whom
,” Clive said pompously. He is always correcting my speech.

“To meet
whom
, then,” I said, looking for the other brown sock.

“Miss Stein and a Mr Matt Prichard. I am sure I have met him before but cannot remember when. How many pairs of shoes, Nessa? Three?”

“Two, just in case one pair gets wet,” I said, handing him a soft cloth bag for his shoes. Clive always takes too much. We were packing for his brief trip to Paris. Roger has given him letters of introduction for this Mr Prichard and his good friend, the American, Miss Gertrude Stein. Roger says hers is the only letter one ever needs in Paris. Once you meet Miss Stein, the rest of the city follows. Clive has been wanting to mix with that set for years. How like Roger to effortlessly open such a door. I would love to go with Clive, but Quentin is just coming through the worst, and I do not dare leave him.

Later (seven pm)

Clive caught the six o’clock train to Dover. He will spend the night there and take the first ferry in the morning. Julian, Quentin, and I had nursery tea at the scrubbed kitchen table. Julian dunked his toast in his milk, and Quentin dropped boiled egg on the floor. I ate nothing but jam tarts. Clive insists that we eat a proper meal in the dining room and that the children eat earlier with Nanny. I prefer it my way. Four whole days before I have to meet Virginia in Firle.

1 February 1911—46 Gordon Square

Roger stopped by in the late morning. He had read Clive’s unsigned article in the
Athenaeum
yesterday but forgot that Clive is still abroad.

“I went to see the sculpture exhibition he mentioned in the article, the one at the Chenil Gallery? And now I am convinced your husband is quite, quite wrong,” Roger said, moving Julian’s toy motorcar out of the way so he could sit on the sofa.

“Wrong?” I asked, sitting in the armchair opposite.

“Oh yes, very wrong. He claims that the artist is only ‘half educated’ artistically and therefore dismisses the work. I disagree entirely. I thought his work showed profound imagination.”

“Why does—”

“Nessa!” Julian came running in and jumped onto my lap. “Nessa, look!” He held out his finger.

“What am I looking at, little one?” I asked, holding his finger up to the light.

“They call you Nessa?” Roger asked.

“Julian does, so I am sure Quentin will too when he can speak. I don’t know how it happened. Darling,” I said to Julian, “I do not see anything wrong with this finger.”

“Elsie stood on it,” Julian said, studying Roger. “Who is that?”

“
That
is Mr Fry. Stand up and shake hands, darling,” I encouraged, aware that Clive would be appalled at his son’s terrible manners.

Julian climbed down from my lap and stood in front of Roger. Roger got to his feet and leaned down to shake his small chubby hand.

“How do you do?” Roger said sincerely.

“Well. Thank you,” Julian said formally. “Do you like trains?”

“Very much. Particularly red trains. They have such style.”

“I have a red train,” Julian said. “Would you like to see it?”

“I would like that very much, thank you.” Roger understood the importance of the invitation, and they swept out of the room.

Later

“His nanny came to take him for his nap,” Roger said, coming to find me in my studio.

“Yes.” I shifted Quentin on my lap. He had fallen asleep after lunch.

“I must be off,” Roger said. “I have an appointment with an art dealer on Bond Street He is interested in seeing one of the paintings from the exhibition before it gets shipped back to Amsterdam.”

“Which one?” I asked, ringing for Mabel. She came and took the baby upstairs.

“One of the Van Goghs. His sister, Madame Gosschalk-Bonger, is selling off his paintings. One hundred and twenty pounds for some of his beautiful sunflowers. They could go for four times that much. Outrageous.”

“
Gosschalk-Bonger?
That is really her name?”

Roger giggled. “I have been struggling to say it with a straight face. How was I?”

“Terrible—your mouth twitched.”

He looked startled, surprised that I had been studying him so closely. “Would you like to see it again? The
Sunflowers
? You could come to meet the dealer just now.”

I was pleased by the invitation. Clive has never asked me into that sealed world of dealers and auction houses.

How I love the saturated colours of Van Gogh’s painting. I have been struggling with colour lately. Nothing is as vibrant as I would like, and I am experimenting with stark white to offset the flatness.

“Yes,” I said, boldly. “I would love to go.”

And so I went.

3 February 1911—Train to Sussex

There is something relaxing about train journeys on one’s own. Something hidden and safe. I am on my way to Virginia’s new house, where it will
not
be relaxing.

5 February 1911—Little Talland House, Firle, Sussex

Two days of pure Virginia. We have her bedroom, library, and small drawing room organised so far. She has conceded to bookcases rather than just stacks of books heaped all over the floor. She is smoking more and eating less, but she is writing.

Monday 6 February 1911—Little Talland House, Firle, Sussex

“Virginia, I
can’t
stay,” I explained again.

“Why not? I always stay with you,” she answered illogically.

“Yes, and that is lovely, dearest, but I have a family. I must get back.” Perversely, Virginia was sitting on my coat.

“I am your family too,” Virginia persisted.

“Yes, I know, dearest, but you know what I mean,” I said, exasperated.

“Yes, I know what you mean. Children. A husband. A
real
family.”

· ·

A
REAL
FAMILY
. I know she is getting nervous. We all shed the conventions of our class, but spinsterhood is a clingy grey spectre that hugs the body and chokes the soul. I know Virginia is afraid. For years we have all speculated about
who
might win Virginia in the end. Walter Lamb is clearly keen, but she has no interest in him. Hilton Young seems to have moved on. Saxon never speaks to her—or to anyone else for that matter—and Lytton escaped with his life. Who does that leave?

And
—I finished Morgan’s beautiful new novel on the train. It is about sisters: one wild and uncompromising but breathtaking in her courage. And one practical, reasonable, and unhappily bound by her good sense. Elinor Dashwood and Marianne. Margaret and Helen Schlegel. Even the name is haunting:
Howards End
.

10 February 1911—46 Gordon Square (late)

It was a strange evening.

Ottoline gave a dinner party for the poet Mr William Yeats tonight. It was a difficult mix of people with several of Philip’s colleagues—all MPs—sitting in one corner and Ottoline’s aristocratic connections making camp in another. Clive is in Paris until tomorrow, and Virginia is still in Sussex, so I sat on a sofa with Lytton and Duncan. Ottoline spent the evening talking to Roger. I saw her lightly rest her large, bony head on his shoulder.

Duncan was watching too. “Are they …?” Duncan asked, leaning towards Lytton.

“No, his wife is in a mental hospital,” I said, answering for Lytton.

“
Permanently
in a mental hospital,” Lytton corrected.

I sat up a little straighter, invisibly bristling. “He wouldn’t,” I said firmly.

· ·

L
ATER
L
YTTON WALKED ME HOME
.

“He
would
, you know,” he said gently.

“Has he?” I tried to conjure the image of Roger in bed with Ottoline and instantly regretted it.

Lytton shrugged. “Maybe not with her, but he
would
.”

A textured warmth roiled up my spine. He would.

Saturday 11 February 1911—46 Gordon Square

Clive is home and surprised me by announcing that Roger is coming for supper tonight. It was arranged before Clive went to Paris. I felt sliced by an irrational jealousy. A visceral sense of possession thudded through me. When Quentin was so ill, Roger saw what Clive did not, and it changed things, the way a dinner that becomes a stay-up-until-sunrise kind of night changes things between two people. Clive tumbled away, and Roger stepped into clear focus. His friendship, his respect, his opinion,
his
affection
have become essential to me. They nurture the seeds that grow the plant. Regardless of what Lytton thinks, I know that Roger and I could never slip beyond the high walls of friendship—he still loves his wife. It lives in the way he says her name.
Helen
. Beautiful, lost Helen.

And
—And then I shake myself out like a dog who has been swimming in the sea and remember: I too am still married. But I no longer
feel
married in the way I did. I feel alone.

Three pm—beginning to rain

I was looking for stamps in Clive’s desk and found a letter he wrote to Lytton. Dear God. It is riddled with acrimony and written in rage. He must not send it. So much will break if he sends it.

Later

Roger is staying the night. As is Desmond. Unusually, Desmond actually thought he might make his train and went dashing out into the rain, but he was back again in half an hour, drenched. I gave him a pair of Thoby’s old flannel pyjamas. Lytton looked at them sadly when I fetched them, but I handed them over without grief. Thoby would give them gladly were he here. He would not want to become a museum—carefully dusted and lovingly preserved. He would want to be remembered and included. The reflexive thought gave me a brisk snap of happiness.

Lytton ignored Clive all evening, but as it was mutual, it lent balance to the occasion. Normally he would delight in unnerving Clive, but Lytton was not joyful tonight. He seemed put out that Roger was here. Roger makes him feel displaced, and nothing I say rights it. Ironically, Lytton makes Clive feel exactly that brand of left out and irritable. Or perhaps I make Clive feel left out and irritable? And then I think, what are we all vying for?

Virginia singled Roger out and began her inevitable campaign to charm him. I pulled her aside and reminded her that his wife is in an
institution. It is not right. Roger sought me out several times, but I slid away. I am transparent. I don’t want Virginia to see how much I enjoy his company. She would stop at nothing to make him love her.

And
—Exciting. A trip to Constantinople is in the works. I did not think I would want to go back but I do. Roger has been wanting to go and is looking for travelling companions. I said yes, as did Clive and Harry Norton, who popped by after supper.

15 March 1911

Dear Leonard
,

Things are so dull here. Couldn’t you leave sooner? It is awkward in London at the moment. Duncan and Adrian are together, but I am hoping that such an unlikely romance cannot last. I do not even think Adrian really is a bugger at heart. He simply finds women terrifying—which of course, they are—and has gone with the devil he knows. In any case, I do not see how it can go on much longer with Duncan. Adrian is too tall. The physics of the thing boggle the mind.

I have had a blazing row with that great pink pig Clive and can only slink to Gordon Square when I am sure he is either out fornicating or drunk. The other night I tried to spend a civil evening in his company and found it exhausting. What a bore. He claims that he does not like me to spend time with his wife, but it is when I am in Virginia’s company that he goes berserk. The row the other day was sparked when he realised I had been down to see Virginia in her new and quite hideous country cottage in Sussex. Steam from the ears, my dear. Comme un teapot.

I have just received your letter. No, of course Virginia is not planning to marry Saxon. How could anyone marry Saxon? That is an absurd notion. I could not tell from your tone; are you worried that someone else will marry her before you meet her again, or are you panicking and trying to palm her off?

It is nerves, Leonard. You are coming back, and after hearing about her for so long, meeting her again is a daunting prospect. I understand fully. But you must persevere. Buck up. You are the best man I know. You are her equal as very few men could ever be. We have already lost one of those delicious sisters to an unsuitable oaf—we mustn’t lose two. That would be careless. Virginia is exactly right for you. I cannot explain how I know this, but I do. You will see, and then you will be astonished by my perception. I am looking forward to that.