Vanessa and Her Sister
Page 5
Despite my worrying, I was not awkward with Clive at all. We stepped out onto the shallow balcony and talked of last winter’s Whistler exhibition, and painting lemons in Paris and flowers in Berkshire and picnicking on rocky beaches in Studland and reading Victorian novels on trains, but were interrupted when Lytton called us back into the room.
I never found the right moment to thank him for the flowers.
And—“Mallard” turned out to be Maynard Keynes, Lytton’s young economist friend from Cambridge—with whom I understand him to be occasionally involved? But then, I may be wrong. I often am.
69 LANCASTER GATE
LONDON W.
7 July 1905
Dear Woolf,
These Gordon Square evenings always start off with a delicious twinge of awkwardness, a hesitant lining up at the starter’s marks. Throats are cleared, equipment checked, strings tightened, shoulders set, and we are off!
Each in our own way tries to pretend away such bourgeois discomfort. The Goth muscles through it in his large-scaled, country house charm sort of way, robustly enquiring after books and health. Saxon, blinking into the middle distance, adopts the air of a man who does not expect to speak or be spoken to. I know he must communicate with people all day long at the Treasury, but I can’t picture it. Virginia rises above it all like a bony wraith waiting impatiently for a good reason to come down. Desmond, unhurried and late, sits on the farthest sofa and stretches forward his loosely jointed limbs. I am sure he spends the evening hoping that no one will ask about whatever article he has failed to turn in that week. I sit in one of the basket chairs by the tall windows looking over the square and do my best to say shocking things. All assembled, we begin.
Darling Duncan—a new initiate—is urbanely unbothered by the tension. My dear, there is ferocious tension—a paramount need to say important things and discuss worthy subjects: Good, Beauty, Truth—all very Keatsian. The stakes are high. One feels quite gladiatorial stepping into this arena of ideas. It is not an easy win. A subject is introduced but often flames out. Another is offered, volleyed, but fails to catch. But from these clipped efforts grows a rhythm, an unshelling, a feeling of group endeavour. Eventually the air takes, and the evening finds its shape.
Bell, usually so bluff and unflappable, has been out of step recently. I met him the other night on my way to Gordon Square. I do not often bump into him, as he approaches from King’s Bench Walk and I come from Gray’s Inn Road, but on Thursday I found him lurking in the square behind a boxwood hedge. We stood in the shadows like assassins and he told me the source of his agitation. It is Vanessa, the Goth’s sister. It is, I think, obsession rather than love but he insists it is the one wrapped in the other. He is determined to act despite almost certain failure. He sent flowers that were either ignored or misconstrued and then were elbowed out by some of Virginia’s meadow weeds. He is now in search of a more telling declaration and is talking about armfuls of roses. He might have remained in Paris overlong.
I do see it. Vanessa is an ocean of majestic calm even if she does not know it. Virginia envies her sister’s deeply anchored moorings. Nessa is powered by some internal metronome that keeps perfect time, while the rest of us flounder about in a state of breathless pitching exaggeration, carried by momentum rather than purpose. I do not see her accepting Bell, but I was touched by his earnest, lemming-like determination.
Must go and nap as the afternoon is so hot.
Yours,
Lytton
Saturday 8 July 1905—46 Gordon Square
Clive stopped by to see Thoby again today. The third time since Thursday. Our conversations are broken, short, and familiar. Great swathes of a subject go unsaid but are understood just the same. We spoke of Wings of the Dove.
“So much more there than in The Ambassadors,” he said while he was waiting for Thoby to come down. “I understand how Kate could risk him in order to keep him. She believes that if they really love each other, they can go through anything. The thing with Milly wouldn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.”
“But how could it not matter?” I interrupted him. “She loves him. How can betrayal be irrelevant?”
“James comes back to that subject, doesn’t he?” Clive said, leaping up to pace the drawing room. “Look at The Golden Bowl.”
I was aware of Virginia listening. Books are her domain.
WE SPEAK ONLY FOR a moment or two while he is here, but once he goes, I press Thoby for news of him. What am I hoping to discover?
And—I have been thinking. Since we have already shocked our more conservative family and friends with our racy, mixed Thursday literary at homes, perhaps we should take it further and have a Friday evening club for artists?
Later
Thobs says that Clive hated the Watts exhibition at the Academy. So did I. I feel of a pair. But I do not feel a certainty. I cannot see my life ahead with this man, or any man, really. But then I do not imagine myself becoming a spinster. I thoughtlessly assume I will have a husband and children, but I do nothing to make that happen. I do not understand how one gets from here to there.
Neither of us has mentioned the flowers. Perhaps he has forgotten?
46 GORDON SQUARE
BLOOMSBURY
TELEPHONE: 1608 MUSEUM
Sunday 9 July 1905
Dearest Snow,
A dull week. My painting feels flat and obvious, the brush leaden, the paint slushy and thick. The rich colours of the square turn muddy and pedantic on my canvas. I am waiting for something.
I am thinking about starting a Friday evening club for artists. Much like Thoby’s Thursdays, but I am hoping we can show our work as well. What do you think? Who from the Academy and the Slade would you suggest? I am sure many of Thoby’s Thursday evening guests would be happy to reappear on Friday. It could begin when we return from Cornwall.
Would it draw you to London?
Yours,
Vanessa
10 July 1905—46 Gordon Square
Luncheon at Rules with Thoby (who had to leave early), Violet Dickinson, and Virginia. I always forget how very tall Violet is. She is at least six feet and sturdily built but so rooted in herself. Her gestures are large, and her gait has a musical swing. Although she is well past forty, people turn to watch her when she walks through a room.
Violet was able to fix Virginia’s twisted spectacles and then took her off to the powder room to reassemble her messy hair. Thoby and I were left at the table awash in a rare moment of comfortable sibling quiet. I love this restaurant. I love its bookish history and practised indifference. Thoby says that Dickens, Thackeray, and Henry Irving all came here. Knowing that makes a room more fun.
But lunch on the whole was not fun. It was trying. When with Violet, Virginia tends toward baby talk. Virginia has pet names for everyone, but then I do that too. I am her Dolphin, her Maria, her Nessa, and she is my Goat, my William, my Billy, my Apes. While my pet names can be taken or left, Virginia’s are serious. It is her way of making herself singular, memorable, lovable.
It was a tricky atmosphere. Virginia sulked over Violet’s impending trip around the world. Panic skipped through the conversation. Violet settles her so much better than I do. Sometimes even better than Thoby can. But then Violet has had so much practise. Virginia’s vitriol towards me during her terrible breakdown last year was more than I could manage, but I still regret packing her off to Violet. I know Violet’s big-bodied reassurance sets Virginia on her feet while my frantic flappings knock her flat, but to think of that time makes me twist in discomfort. Remembering how I palmed her off like a library book, or a fish, unhooked and thrown back into the lake. I was relieved to be unburdened of Virginia and able to get on with the business of moving into the new house—horrible of me. Virginia sensed my relief and took to shrieking unflattering things about me from her bedroom window. Now when I am with Violet, I suffer waves of embarrassment thinking of all she has heard of me.
Virginia feels no such discomfort. Her bre
akdown was medical and her ranting unavoidable and so not shameful. I watch the easy way Violet talks with her—without fear of misstep.
UNION POSTALE UNIVERSELLE
CEYLON (CYLAN)
11 July 1905
Jaffna, Ceylon
Lytton,
I was promoted to Assistant Government Agent of the Hambantota District. Charlie-the-dog is pleased. I am no longer a lowly cadet and can afford to buy him better cuts of meat. I thought I would be happier. Instead I am still waiting for the puzzle pieces to fit. For a sense of achievement and commencement. I lack the feeling of rightness we enjoyed at Cambridge. Right place. Right purpose. I am increasingly certain that my life here lacks (among many glorious, modern, and convenient other things) a rightness. I have realised that it is possible—without misery or alarm—to lead the wrong life and allow the right one to live somewhere else. This letter may not make it past the censors. My apologies to all unexpected readers.
Yours,
Leonard
HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY
13 July 1905—46 Gordon Square
“When do we leave, Nessa?” asked Virginia. We were sitting in the garden in the late afternoon summer sunshine.
“Tenth of August.” I pulled my newspaper closer.
“Nessa, are you sure we cannot go back to Talland House?” Virginia, sensing my shorthanded answers, had begun to repeat herself.
“I have told you, I could not manage it, dearest. The house is let.” True, I had tried, and the house was let, but I had not tried terribly hard. I did not want to return to Talland House. I wanted to be somewhere new and untilled. We must be careful in Cornwall. After thirteen happy childhood summers, all our ghosts will be waiting for us there.
“But Nessa, will it be near Talland House?” Virginia asked.
“Quite near, dearest,” I reassured automatically, when in fact I had no idea. “St. Ives is not a big enough place to be too far from it.”
“What’s the house called? Trevor something?” Thoby asked, dragging a wicker chair over the stones to sit down.
“But is it on the same side of the bay?” Virginia persisted.
“Trevose View, and yes, it is on the same side of the bay,” I said soothingly. I could feel Virginia pulled taut, on the brink of something, and I was not up to a mad scene today.
“Are you sure we could not stay in Talland House?” Virginia repeated, unfolding my newspaper and spreading it over her knees. The page I had been reading slipped to the ground.
“Ginia, if Nessa could have fixed it for us to stay there, she would have,” Thoby answered, with the unthinking authority of one who does not anticipate an argument. He set his lemonade down on the wrought-iron table and leaned back in his chair. He opened his book. “When do we leave, Nessa?”
ONCE FOR LUCK
Saturday 15 July 1905—46 Gordon Square
An argument rippled below the surface last night but did not break the skin.
I suggested Snow come with us to Cornwall. A mistake. Snow has a steady grace that gets on Virginia’s nerves. Women without a light fingerprint of malice are too foreign for Virginia. As well Snow, with her thick mahogany sheet of hair and her low, rich voice, is one of those women who grows more beautiful as you get to know her. Virginia hates that.
1 August 1905—46 Gordon Square (packing—cases everywhere)
I am surprised and not surprised all at once. I must have known it was coming.
The evening began beautifully.
After a wonderful dinner in his rooms—just us, very bohemian—he walked me home. The thick scent of roses sweetened my skin. He had bought hundreds of roses. Buckets of them. They overwhelmed his rooms at King’s Bench Walk, perching on narrow shelves and slim windowsills. The effect was potent, visceral. I was touched. He had taken Virginia’s knifing criticism and had gone out of his way to find roses that smelled of roses.
His rooms were not what I expected. Original Toulouse-Lautrec lithographs shared the mantel with invitations to shooting parties in Scotland. The bookshelves were crowded with a mix of Dickens, Shakespeare, Roman and Greek history, and books about fish. The conversation was unexpected too. I discovered he loves one of my loves: Jane Austen. Unusual for so outdoorsy a man to be interested in the indoorsy lives of women.
He walked me home. In the square, he paused by the large lilac tree he knows is my favourite. Wordlessly brave, he knelt and asked.
A silent beat. And another. I took a shallow breath, held very still, and tried not to think. A tide of instinct roared through me.
I kissed the top of his head and told him no. I could not understand yes, could not envisage yes, so it had to be no.
“No? Just no?” Clive asked, fighting to keep his voice level.
“No for now is cruel, don’t you think?” I asked. I was anxious to have the question settled.
“No for now is kind,” he said standing, without letting go of my hand.
“But when does now end?” He had no answer.
Later (half past three in the morning)
Clive guessed right. No for now is the truth. But is the truth fair? I do not want him to go, but I am not sure enough to go with him.
2 August 1905—46 Gordon Square
I have written to Snow. A crass, flighty letter that I regret. I was not genuine, and I hate that. Wrong of me to write at all. This sort of business is best kept between those it concerns.
Saturday 5 August 1905—46 Gordon Square
I have not told Thoby but feel that I must. He mentioned that Clive was not himself yesterday at lunch. I want to reach out to him but do not want to give the wrong impression. But then what is the wrong impression? Surely the right impression can only be the truth?
9 August 1905—46 Gordon Square
Limbo: packed but not gone. Exhausted but not travelled. I still have not told Thoby but he keeps mentioning Clive’s ongoing strangeness. Clive leaves for Scotland on Thursday. Thursday, and no one will be at home.
GODREVY LIGHTHOUSE
10 August 1905—Trevose View, Carbis Bay, Cornwall (seven pm—exhausted)
We are here. The house is not beautiful but it is many-windowed and set apart in a crook of Cornish seascape. I have taken the large blue bedroom overlooking the bay. I was feeling selfish and was going to cede it to Virginia but found she liked the writing desk in the yellow bedroom. Thoby is shouting in the hallway—
12 August 1905—Trevose View, Carbis Bay
We have forded the brook, swum the bay, scaled the wall, crawled the brush, and scouted the old house. Really we just took the footpath and looked over the escallonia hedge at Talland House, but Virginia insisted it was a great adventure, and her enthusiasm changed the day. The old house looked entirely the same. We did not see the occupants, but the accoutrements were familiar: striped bathing towels, bathing costumes, sandy buckets, and straw hats dropped on wooden chairs.
I told Thoby, and he was unsurprised. He worries for Clive.
17 August 1905—Trevose View, Carbis Bay
We have settled into the rhythm of the sea.
69 LANCASTER GATE
LONDON W.
Great Oakley Hall, Kettering
25 August 1905
Dear Bell,
Oh my dear. The angels and I weep for you. The Goth—only after much hounding and gnashing of teeth—finally told me of your thwarted suit. Brave man, to have ventured such a question to such a formidably lovely woman. Quel courage, mon brave. Hold tight to your conviction. If there is a symmetry—and I suspect there is—a righting of wrongings will follow. Be sure you are prepared to live up to her love, should you win her.
As I told you before, she is a cautious creature. Given to bone-shattering honesty. Believe all her words. The Goth told me she has said no but left bread crumbs for you to find her? To horse! Storm the castle and take the keep, for she does nothing by accident. Nor is she careless, like her sister. Virginia would set the house on fire just to watch everyone come r
unning out in pyjamas. Vanessa might not know herself what she wants, but she will show you her muddle. I like that about her.
I have also found a clear ringing passion. It is Duncan, my beautiful cousin. He is also given to brutal honesty, but his sincerity rides a capricious horse. He lacks Vanessa’s self-perception. He will break my heart into a thousand glassy shards. How maudlin I am today. Forgive me.
Yours,
Lytton
30 August 1905—Trevose View, Carbis Bay, Cornwall
I was wrong. The sea does not offer its rhythm, nor its colours, lightly. It is a snarling blue beast in one moment and a frothy jade pool the next. It is disinclined to sit for a portrait.
Later
Life by the sea, on the other hand, has taken on a predictable, lolling rhythm. In the mornings: I paint, Virginia writes, Thoby reads, and Adrian does whatever mysterious things Adrian does—and then we play piquet. We gather for a simple, elemental luncheon: bread, salami, cheese, fruit, tea. In the afternoons: more painting, more reading, more writing, some beaching, some bathing, some walking, more tea, and then more piquet.
7 September 1905—Carbis Bay, Cornwall
We are remembered in the village—many people recall us running on the beach as children and many more remember Mother—and this morning we were scooped up into a conversation with the new owners of Talland House. The grocer introduced us. The new tenants are an artist couple. Their children are just the ages we were when we last lived there. Symmetry. That house reaches for artists to weave into its magic.