Vanessa and Her Sister

by Priya Parmar

  A cosy conversation with Clive this evening. I think he will sleep in our room tonight—

  31 March 1908—46 Gordon Square

  Yes, he did, until four am, when Julian’s crying woke him up and he went back to his own bed.

  3 April 1908—46 Gordon Square

  The news: Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman resigned as prime minister today because of ill health. Henry Asquith is to bump up from chancellor to PM. I must send a note.

  Lytton brought his eccentric but strangely beautiful friend Lady Ottoline Morrell, who lives around the corner in Bedford Square, for tea today. She has an affected, lilting voice, long, melancholy features, and wore an astonishing hat. I was startled when she said a quick grace over her sugar bun. Lytton is certainly not religious, and I was surprised he would be so friendly with anyone who is. When she left, Lytton told me that she was the mother of twins, a boy and a girl, but the boy died of a haemorrhage a few days after his birth. Awful. I can understand her belief in God. Lytton said the little girl survived and is called Julian. I was pierced through. Julian.

  11 April 1908—46 Gordon Square (raining)

  Moving a family is exhausting. Clive will help when I ask him to but cannot seem to be able to look around and notice what needs to be done in order to relocate our son to his parents’ home.

  In the end, I decided to buy all new clothes for Julian as he is growing so rapidly. I do not want to risk shopping with Clive’s family. I feel piecemeal and disorganised.

  And—We were hoping Lytton and possibly Saxon could come to Cornwall, but it is not to be. We will all meet in London when we return.

  Thursday 16 April 1908—Cleeve House, Seend, Wiltshire

  The train journey was ghastly. A tasteless man held forth on the evils of interracial social mixing—loudly, for the benefit of the entire carriage, ad nauseam. Hideous. Luckily I had Lytton’s latest draft of rude poetry to entertain me.

  When we got here, it was hardly any better. Clive’s bullyboy father gave Cory, Clive’s brother, a tremendous dressing-down at luncheon today. It was appalling to see Cory, a grown man and such a nice one, get belittled like that. Clive’s nervous, rabbit-faced mother could do nothing to stop the onslaught. Cory and Clive, accustomed to such scenes, just sat in silence and waited for it to end. I am terrified that this loud, volatile house will affect Julian, but he seems as placid as he was in London.

  Luncheon with the Raven Hills and the Armours tomorrow. Curious to see what she looks like. The men should be interesting as well—Mr Raven Hill and Mr Armour are Punch artists.

  And—bottle feeding. Am using binding and am still terribly sore.

  17 April 1908—Cleeve House, Seend, Wiltshire

  (nine pm—the grisly supper ritual over)

  Mrs Raven Hill is as double-chinned, flat-bottomed, and vulgar as I could hope for my husband’s former lover. But she is also direct, and I liked her immediately. She and Mrs Armour and I had a blunt and shocking conversation about sex: birth control, childbirth, husbands, and lovers. It seems once one is married with a baby, the jig is up, and we are allowed to speak frankly about sex with anyone. Clive’s eyebrows lifted straight up into his red curls when he heard us. I must remember to tell Lytton all I learned. The intricacies of female sexual plumbing fascinate him.

  Later

  “She keeps suggesting I kiss your eyeball,” Clive said, apropos of nothing. We were having coffee in the small library. He was seated in the musty armchair opposite, reading a letter while I sketched.

  “Who wants you to kiss my eyeball?” I asked, looking up.

  “Virginia, of course. Who else would say such a thing? Not only your eyeball: your earlobe, elbow, temple, and collarbone. She is very specific.”

  “She wants to be included,” I said. A year since the wedding, and I had hoped Virginia would have accepted that marriages are restricted to two people, but so far this essential truth has eluded her.

  “I do like your elbow,” Clive said, laying aside his letter and crossing to lightly kiss my neck. “And your collarbone is nice too. She chooses well.”

  We left our coffee on the tray and went upstairs.

  WE STAYED UP TO SEE the sunrise, curled in the heavy warm of our bed. We talked of Lytton’s heartbreak and Maynard’s lack of empathy, Duncan’s clean selfishness, Desmond’s ongoing renovations, and the expensive new windows needed for the nursery at Gordon Square. We talked of Julian’s cold, and the early-blooming pear tree in our garden, and Clive’s lost grey overcoat, left on a London train. And then we whispered about our work: my new canvas, his new essay, the new exhibitions we are planning to see in Paris next spring, the things we have done and will do together. We are such a together sort of together. A very whole whole. A family.

  Virginia Stephen

  29 Fitzroy Square • London W.

  17 April 1908

  My Violet,

  Nessa has eloped to Wiltshire with her true love, Baby Julian. She permitted Clive to accompany them but only on the understanding that he sleep down the hall. I find it elating to see him ousted from the crook of Nessa’s heart. She does not even realise that she has done it. I hope it lasts. Nessa invited me to join them on this visit to the terrifying Bells, but I nimbly leapt aside to avoid the hurtling threat. Clive’s rambunctious family of overfed philistines offend every sense I have.

  Lytton came for lunch today. I was very brave and boldly discussed the menu with Sophie (lent by Nessa, as our new and beastly cook is ill). She wanted lamb and I wanted fish and I prevailed. Do you remember Mr Strachey? The narrow-framed, rumpled, outrageous one with a frizzy red beard? He slides his spectacles farther down his steep-sloping nose when he intends to say something audacious. He and Nessa have been trading rude words for the past few months and are enjoying their déclassé behaviour immensely. Lately he has been salaciously graphic about his lost amour Duncan Grant (fey, artistic, vague) and his current but erratic amour Mr Maynard Keynes (bright, sleek, selfish). Nessa being married has somehow opened the door for such liberal, anatomical chat. Do you know, before Julian was born, the Bells of 46 Gordon Square received guests in their bedroom? While they were lying down on the bed? Hurry, my Violet! Swoop down like the great good eagle you are and snatch up your little wallaby from the maw of such brutish corporeal talk. Too bad eagles do not have marsupial pouches. Wallabies need snug pouches. I could curl up inside and read Swinburne.

  And you, my decent Violet? I imagine you at Welwyn pottering amongst dear Ozzie’s azaleas, offering them sturdy biscuits of oatey common sense dipped in sweet milky wisdom. I am sure your brother owes his garden’s happiness to you, however splendid a gardener he may be. Adrian and I are holed up here in Fitzroy Square, the shipwrecked siblings awaiting rescue and speedy removal to Cornwall. Shall you visit, my dearest? Shall you come and smooth my soft wallaby ears and kiss my velvet wallaby nose?

  Your

  Virginia

  18 April 1908—Cleeve House, Seend

  “Her mind is so subtle,” Clive said, handing me the lighter. “I am not sure I realised before.”

  He was reading a letter from Virginia, no doubt full of literary allusion and editorial questions. I am pleased they have this in common and hopeful that she might think better of him at last.

  “Yes, it is subtle, but be careful. Do not mistake that subtlety for discernment. She can often miss what is right in front of her when she is aiming to impress and be clever.”

  “Do you think—”

  “Julian,” I interrupted. Instantly alert to the sound of his crying. I took the stairs two at a time.

  After tea, I asked Clive what he was going to say before I rushed up to check on Julian, but he couldn’t remember.

  Clive is sleeping in his dressing room here. If he stays with me, his sleep is fractured by either Julian’s crying or my listening for Julian’s crying. We breakfast and work together through the mornings as normal, but the afternoons and evenings I am alone with my sweet baby. Bugger. Have I be
come one of those mothers?

  And—Reading Virginia’s manuscript of her Life of Violet. It is rigorous but full of affection for Violet’s big-hearted, romping spirit. Virginia was kind enough to send two copies: one for Clive. Perhaps she is accepting him at last—a relief.

  Later (three am, Julian just stopped crying)

  Clive reminded me that Virginia leaves for Cornwall in the morning. I had forgotten. I forget everything this spring. Luckily, Clive remembered to book her seats on the train, as I forgot to make her travel arrangements. It was thoughtful of him. Clive does take good care of me and my family—just as he promised. I have married a good man.

  I dread to think what Virginia packed for herself. I doubt she had the courage to ask her new maid to do it for her. She is even more terrified of the servants than I am.

  Sunday 19 April 1908—Seend, Wiltshire (late, alone in bed)

  A note from Snow. Am I painting? No. I am daydreaming. And another scathing note from Virginia regarding Clive. She cannot forgive him for hurling me to these ravening, unlettered Wiltshire beasts. So she has not come round as I had hoped.

  67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS

  HAMPSTEAD, N.W.

  TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090

  21 April 1908

  Dearest Nessa,

  Two am. Keynes was here all evening—grindingly dull conversation but very good otherwise. And then a shock: midway through the strawberries and cream, he told me that he is off to Cambridge in the morning to visit my brother James and is travelling up with Duncan. Duncan? Duncan who is meant to be in Paris but is clearly here, Duncan? Duncan to whom I introduced the wretched Maynard? I feel doubly and possibly triply jealous. Jealousy is such a creeping low feeling. I ought to be thoroughly cosmopolitan and not mind, but mine is a parochial heart. Sharing is anathema when love is involved. I can only hope that Duncan will find Maynard to be a clodhopping piece of arithmetic and not an exciting, savage brute. I am so fruitlessly petty today.

  Before she decamped, I was visiting your sister. She is a distracting creature: vain, brilliant, elusive, and bright. But she is not you. Come back at once.

  Yours,

  Lytton

  PS: My cold has got worse.

  WHERE THE LAND ENDS

  22 April 1908—Cleeve House, Seend, Wiltshire (three more days)

  I have written to Virginia asking her to arrange to receive two boxes. The first: Julian’s bath and cradle, the second: his linen, clothing, and pram. I know she will be unravelled by such practical tasks. It was Clive’s suggestion. He thinks she is made of sterner stuff than she lets on and can manage just fine. I hope he is right.

  He is enjoying her manuscript and says he sent her detailed editorial notes. Letters fly between them like summer bees. She is privately cruel about him, but as long as she is kind to his face, I am content. Peace at last.

  And—Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman is dead! His wife, Lady Sarah Charlotte, must be devastated. They had no children and were, it is said, very much in love. Dead only nineteen days after he gave up politics. Nothing good ever comes from retiring from what you love.

  67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS

  HAMPSTEAD, N.W.

  TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090

  25 April 1908

  Dearest Nessa,

  My dear, he’s done it. Maynard has stormed in, and with a ruthless mathematical cruelty, he has stolen my darling boy. It seems it began when they went to visit my brother James a few weeks ago. Do you remember? Maynard dropped by my rooms in Belsize Park tonight and made gratuitous reference to my darling Duncan’s very pointy hipbone. A hipbone that I was not aware he was previously acquainted with and now obviously is. Mon dieu. Mother needs her smelling salts. I will save the anatomical precision for when I see you. Needless to say, I was destroyed. And yet, perversely, I wanted to hear everything. Why does one press for details that can only wound?

  I long for Duncan. He is back in London. What exquisite torture to be so close to the exquisite torturer. I had hoped I was more recovered from him, but it seems I am not.

  Yours,

  Lytton

  27 April 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall

  Virginia and Clive are out walking, and the nurse has taken Julian up for his nap. This is my time. The intellectuals depart for a long seaside wander, and I paint in the airy quiet. Julian takes up an enormous amount of space for such a small creature, but I begrudge him none of it. He occupies my days and thoughts and ears and arms. I know Clive is feeling neglected, although he would never admit it, but I do not know what to do about it. Julian needs me so much just now, but it won’t always be like this. Surely Clive understands that?

  Virginia is also feeling put out by the baby. She complains that I am not paying her enough attention. I do not fix her hair, read her new writing, visit her lighthouse, walk her shore, run her bath, fret over her, watch over her, ask after her as I should. I allow the housekeeper to bring her tea and offer her the cake that she will never eat—an insult. Virginia likes to reject the cake that I offer.

  Later—everyone is asleep

  It is not just Julian she resents but Clive. Tonight, when I thought she was asleep, I brought Clive a mug of cocoa. I set it on the desk where he was working and kissed his forehead. He wound his arms around my waist and pulled me into his lap, growling and biting my neck. It is a way he has. He chases and I run. I wriggled to get away and looked up to see Virginia on the stairs. Instantly, Clive released me. I was relieved. He can sometimes be belligerent and hold on to me even when she is watching; even though he knows it upsets her. Why rattle Virginia when it takes so long to unrattle her?

  Virginia came down the last few stairs and sat primly on the faded gingham wing chair but refused to be engaged in conversation. We tried. She picked up a book that I knew did not interest her and would only answer the most direct questions: Are you well, Virginia? Hungry, Virginia? Writing, Virginia? Bathed, Virginia? Tired, Virginia? Have you read this article? Seen this star? Heard that cow?

  When at last she did answer, it was alternately in Greek and German. Trying. Clive changed tack and, switching to French and Latin, asked her questions I did not understand nor care to understand. Sometimes her determination to disrupt is monstrous. Exasperated, I went to run a bath. Is that—

  IT WAS NOT JULIAN but the housekeeper’s son. I have developed oversensitive ears. I am sure I never heard so many babies crying before. In any case, I got out of the bath and was calmer. Clive had coaxed Virginia from her temper and nudged her towards speaking in English. Fragmented voices rose up the stairs.

  “Galsworthy … better than Hardy.”

  “But neither as good as Eliot.”

  Fine. It was more than I was willing to do. Clive is just learning the secret language of Virginia. Even though I was sure he was still irritated by her childishness, I could hear the admiration in his voice and felt perversely proud of her learning and witty exactitude. My sister captivates and does not ransom her prisoners lightly. Virginia has a vibrancy about her that makes time spent with her seem inherently more valuable than time spent away from her; minutes burn brighter, words fall more steeply into meaning, and you feel you are not just alive but living. I have understood this Virginia equation all her life—but I also understand what Clive does not. There is no rational, logical, reachable Virginia lurking beneath, and eventually Virginia becomes exhausting.

  Since my marriage, she is determined to be her most Virginia. No longer able to dissuade me from Clive, she seeks to ingratiate herself into our marriage. Does she think to charm Clive into relinquishing me? She does not know that a marriage does not work on charm but trust. I watch her trying to win a place in our marriage when there is no place to be had.

  I do try. I pretend that I am not newly happily married with a new and happy baby. I do my best not to call attention to what she calls “my real family.” I try not to discuss painting with Clive in case she feels excluded. I steer clear of their literary discussions so that she may shine brighter. I
try not to go running when I hear Julian crying. Does she notice all this effort? Why should I do it when she does not take the same care of me? But then, I remember what Mother and Father always told Thoby and me. When one has a sister as extraordinary as Virginia, one must put up with a fair amount of inconvenience. True, but it does not make her any less exasperating.

  And—I wanted to speak to Clive about Julian tonight. Since we left London, Clive has been growing increasingly unhappy with my distraction. I think he hoped that coming away would bring us closer together. I do miss him. And I miss us, but I am unwilling to give up huge swathes of time with Julian when he is so young. Some time, yes. Most of the time, no. I tried to explain it to him tonight but failed. How to explain something that feels so obvious? I must try harder.

  Tuesday 28 April 1908—Trevose View, Carbis Bay

  “I did read it!” Clive said as they came in the garden door from their walk.

  “But did you read it when I suggested it?” asked Virginia. She looked relaxed; pink-cheeked and wind-tossed from the tangy sea air. “Or did you say, ah, that Virginia Stephen, what would she know about what to read?” Virginia smiled her Virginia smile.

  “That Virginia Stephen—” Clive laughed but, sensing he was beaten, did not finish his sentence.

  “Read what?” I asked, without setting down my brush. I was working on a small portrait of Clive, and I was finding the perspective challenging. They both looked up, surprised to see me. Normally I would be putting Julian down for his nap at this time, but I was making an effort to be less consumed with the baby. I knew it would please them both.