by Priya Parmar
Virginia has been veering towards a breakdown all this spring. The danger lives in the small details: the way she waits a fraction too late before she responds to a question; the way she repeats herself without knowing it; the way her voice slides uphill when she speaks; the way she eats less and walks more; the way her face is mapped in blueish circles and sharp bones; the way she locks her hands together in her lap while on the omnibus; the way she is not writing.
It is not all the time, not every day, but it is enough to worry. The worry begins to grind and churn, and I watch her, vigilant, waiting for the moment when the boat capsizes in the dark.
Ten pm
Duncan, Saxon, and Adrian just left. We all sat up with Virginia. Maud brought cocoa and sandwiches and we had a sickroom picnic. Adrian and Duncan left first, and finally Clive took Saxon downstairs to let Virginia rest. I straightened the bedclothes around her and put the books she had requested from Thoby’s study on the nightstand.
“Well,” she said, sitting back on the pillows, “what do you think of the grand passion?”
“What?” I asked, startled. There are so many grand passions passing through the house this spring. “Which one?”
“Duncan and Adrian! Haven’t you noticed Adrian keeps talking about buggers?” Virginia said, rolling out the vowels in the word.
“Duncan and Adrian? Are they … oh god.” I had not noticed. “Does Lytton know?” Lytton is half infatuated with George Mallory and half with Henry Lamb, but still mostly in love with Duncan.
“I do not think anyone knows yet. I only know because I caught Duncan creeping down the stairs at five in the morning yesterday,” Virginia said, pulling the covers up around her. “Hasn’t Adrian spoken to you about inverts yet? He has been on about buggers all month.”
“No,” I said, feeling unobservant. “I do not think he has mentioned it more than normal. Does Clive know?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Virginia said. “Of course, I told him right away.”
3 June 1910—46 Gordon Square
Now Adrian has mentioned inverts. Guessing that I knew, he brought it up after supper last night.
“It really is wonderful, Nessa,” Adrian said to Clive and me, sounding too loud for the room. “So much less complicated than an affair with a woman.”
I looked at him. Had he ever had an affair with a woman?
“Yes, I am sure it is.” I handed him his cocoa. “And Duncan lives in the same square. That must be convenient.”
Clive rolled his eyes at me. I could hear how banal I sounded. Clive had so far remained noncommittal on the subject.
“So you don’t object, Nessa?” Adrian said, sounding like himself.
“Of course not, dearest. I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” Adrian said, relieved. He turned to Clive. “Clive, I am sure you know, Virginia minds dreadfully.”
And—I went to see Dr Savage this afternoon to talk about Virginia. Voices, anger, visions, sleeplessness. These are the things we must look for. I do not know why I asked him. I know that list.
Later (one am)
“What did he mean?” I asked Clive when we got home tonight.
We had been at a supper party at Ottoline’s in Bedford Square. Adrian and Duncan had sat close together and did not speak to anyone but each other all night. Adrian’s hand rested on Duncan’s knee. Lytton, sitting on the other side of the room, had noticed and left early. I watched him out the window, his lean figure stalking through the pale, gravelled square. I considered going after him, but that would only draw attention to his disappointment.
“What did who mean?” Clive asked, pouring himself a drink.
“Adrian. Last night. When he said that Virginia minded.”
“Oh, you know Virginia,” Clive said without irony. “She does not like to be left out.”
“So is she going to seduce Duncan too?” I asked.
“I shouldn’t think she would get very far,” Clive said, neatly evading the jab. “You know Duncan does not care for women.”
I came upstairs. It is left to Duncan to curb Virginia. Virginia is not expected to control herself.
Wednesday 8 June 1910—The Moat House, Blean, near Canterbury
We have brought Virginia away. As well as not sleeping, she has been having her headaches again, a sure sign of trouble coming. Dr Savage suggested getting out of London to see if the country air might restore her mental balance. Clive took this cottage, and we arrived here last night. We are paid up through next Wednesday, but if Virginia does not improve, we may stay on. Clive and Virginia have gone for a walk. At eight months, I do not feel like a walk. Clive tells me I am my most beautiful when pregnant, but when I look, his eyes always rest on Virginia.
Later
A long discussion with Clive tonight. After Virginia finally got to sleep, we sat up by the fire, and I told him the rest of what Dr Savage had said. I could not tell him before, as we have not had a moment out of Virginia’s company.
“And he thinks it may be her teeth?” Clive asked.
“He says there is some imbalance that comes from infected teeth,” I said. “As Virginia has been running a slight fever this spring and has not been sleeping well, Dr Savage thinks it might get better if he removes some of her teeth.” I paused, unsure how to phrase my concerns. “The theory is new, very new,” I said.
“Which teeth?” Clive said, evidently considering the aesthetics of the thing.
“What does it matter which teeth?” I said, irritated. “Anyway, these are just things to try if the rest cure does not work.”
12 June 1910—The Moat House, Blean, near Canterbury
Not improving. She had one of her headaches this morning and hasn’t eaten anything all day. I could hear her talking to herself, and twice she bolted downstairs to me.
“Virginia?”
“We have to go back to London, Nessa!” Virginia said, her words crumpling together like a carriage wreck. “There is someone in my room. We must go at once!”
“There is no one in your room, dearest, but I will ask Clive to go and check as soon as he returns,” I said in my most soothing voice. Frankly, I prefer her down here with me. Her windows have no locks.
She insisted on returning to her room.
“Go away, Nessa!” she yelled when I followed her.
I took off my shoes, softly crept up to the landing of the stairs, and settled onto the floor. Three paces from her door. I hoped it was close enough to make it in time.
Later
She is shrieking in her room. Clive is fetching the doctor from the village.
Still later (six pm—Virginia with the doctor)
Clive pounced on the poor man as he came down the stairs. “Well?” Clive said roughly.
“Not good, I am afraid,” the country doctor said, pulling on his coat.
“Not good how?” Clive persisted.
The doctor turned to me. “Mrs Bell, your sister is in the midst of an hysterical episode. While I am sure this particular crisis will pass in a day or so, she seems to be on the verge of a significant nervous collapse.”
“And what will that look like? A nervous collapse?” Clive interrupted rudely.
I knew he was sick with worry, but he was not helping matters. I was surprised. He is usually so calm in the sickroom. But then the last time we dealt with illness, we lost Thoby. That must be it. He is terrified of losing Virginia.
“Delusions, headaches, voices, inability to eat or sleep, hostility, numbness, detachment, irrational behaviour, anger, and possibly an attempt at suicide,” the doctor finished quietly.
Yes, I thought, mentally checking the list against Virginia’s past. Yes, that is right.
Monday 13 June 1910—The Moat House, Blean, near Canterbury
“No, Clive, she cannot come to us.” I took a deep breath. “It is impossible,” I repeated.
“She is your sister, Nessa, and she is unwell.” Clive ran his hand through his fluffy red hair. It was
riding high, puffed up by the wind.
“Yes, and so she must be looked after by her doctors and not by her extremely pregnant sister!”
“You will not have to take care of her alone!” Clive shouted. “I will be there to help!”
I looked out the window to see if Virginia was returning from her walk. It would do her no good to hear this row. I had been opposed to allowing her to walk alone, but Clive had insisted. I was anxious for her to return.
“Clive, I know you mean well,” I said generously, “but you must see that she needs a proper facility. We are not equipped to care for her, and we will be even less equipped once the baby comes.”
“But she went to Violet the last time this happened,” Clive said, his voice rising. “And she could handle her!”
“But I could not manage her! That is why she went to Violet! And even then it was only after she was released from the nursing home.”
Clive sat down abruptly. “It just seems cruel, Nessa.”
“I know it does, but it isn’t.”
“I want to help her to …” Clive’s sentence trailed off, and his face resumed its cagey expression.
“You want to save her. I know you do. You love her, you want to be near her, and you want to rescue her. I do understand some things, Clive.”
Clive rose and wrapped me in his arms. “What an extraordinary woman you are,” he said into my hair.
I must go to London next week to see my doctor. Clive has suggested he and Virginia remain here.
Sunday 19 June 1910—46 Gordon Square (two pm)
In the end it was the only thing to do. Clive swears that he is up to the task of handling Virginia. I doubt that very much, but they were both adamant that I keep my appointment. My true reason for going was to be here to meet Elsie when she brings Julian from Seend this afternoon. I have hated to leave my beautiful boy with Clive’s family, but between Virginia’s illness and my pregnancy, I had no choice.
Clive and Virginia are alone in the Moat House. The thought intrudes, unwelcome, unbidden. They will sleep there alone tonight. All the way home, I tried to muster fury, anxiety, jealousy, indignation—but I could not. I do not think that their relationship has turned sexual. I am sure Clive is still hoping it will. Thoby once told me that Clive has a hunter’s patience. Her illness will only draw him in further. Clive is drawn to fragile things.
But I know Virginia will not allow him near her now. She will invite him to love her but not to touch her. She becomes further removed from her body when she is ill. She cannot manage breakfast right now, much less a lover. Is that naïve? Is that complacent? Am I now accustomed to my husband’s faithlessness? Perhaps. But not with Virginia. I will never accept his affair with Virginia.
And—Julian is home and delighted to find me here alone without Daddy or Aunt Ginia. We spent the afternoon playing with his toy trains.
46 GORDON SQUARE
BLOOMSBURY
TELEPHONE: 1608 MUSEUM
21 June 1910
My dear Snow,
I am sorry to have neglected you. It is dreadful of me to cancel at the last minute, but I will not be able to give you lunch on Monday. Everything has unspooled here. Virginia is not at all well. It is the old illness, and it looks set to stay awhile. I am meeting her doctor this week and will know more then, but I can already guess the outcome.
I could say that I will come up to you, but I know I would be lying. I am getting to the uncomfortable stage in this lengthy process. Would you be an angel and come down for the birth? Clive, I have learned, is not a natural with newborns. He is much more comfortable when the child is able to bring something to the conversation. He is marvellous with Julian now, but I know he will be inept when Clarissa comes. Have I told you her name? Clarissa. Clarissa Julia Bell. Isn’t that wonderful? She should arrive on 25 July or thereabouts. Do say you will come?
Yours apologetically,
Vanessa
Thursday 23 June 1910—46 Gordon Square
I have just seen Dr Savage, and he prescribed the rest cure for Virginia—not a strict rest cure but a milder, modified version. He says the stopgap measure of taking her out of London will not cure the root of the problem and only put off the inevitable collapse. I did tell him that she has many good days, but he thinks the headaches have come too frequently this spring to be ignored. They herald madness.
There is a good private nursing home in Twickenham, run by a cultured and sympathetic woman called Miss Jean Thomas. Good. Virginia does badly with officious matrons. Now, how to tell Virginia and Clive?
And—I flatly told Dr Savage to leave Virginia’s teeth alone.
Later (four pm)
In the end, I wrote to Virginia. I did not wait to ambush her when she stepped off the train. It was simpler and more honest. I dread to think how she is taking it. Clive will have to manage her somehow. I sweep the thought cleanly from my head.
I am going to the Friday Club exhibition tonight with Adrian and Duncan. The last few times I have spent the evening with them as a couple, something has felt off centre. Their love affair makes me uncomfortable. It is not the ostentatiously furtive affection, nor the nature of the thing that I mind—how could I? I am besieged by buggers. It is the falseness. Adrian seems to be playing a part. His affection for Duncan does not feel spontaneous and natural. It feels staged and rehearsed, as if he is cast in the role of the young man in love and is proud of remembering all his lines. I hope that I am wrong. I wish such true happiness for Adrian.
And—Duncan is exhibiting his wonderful Lemon Gatherers tonight and so, Lytton has fled to Grantchester with Rupert Brooke. The two have become friends at last—not lovers apparently, but friends.
One am
Saxon, Adrian, and Duncan just left. We came back here for drinks and sandwiches after the show. I wish I had not drunk so much coffee. It always gives me indigestion when I am this pregnant. I bought Lemon Gatherers. I feel bold. I had a moment of calm, clean decision. Clive will not be pleased. Is that why I bought it? The painting will be delivered when the exhibition comes down. Truthfully, I am shocked that I bought it. But it felt right. This painting is meant to live here. I also liked the work by Mark Gertler, the eighteen-year-old prodigy. Ottoline believes he will become an important painter. I shiver with envy when I hear painters spoken about in these terms. It is not the fame or the money but the position—the respect, the clearly marked seriousness. Duncan is also on his way to importance. He is regularly written up in the art journals, and his paintings always sell. I think it was clever of me to buy his work now.
Sunday 26 June 1910—46 Gordon Square
They are home. They came straight here from the train, and the three of us discussed the nursing home and Dr Savage’s advice. Virginia submitted to the idea with little resistance. Clive looked scattered and shocked.
I painted while Clive took Virginia home. Adrian will look after her tonight. Still working on my seaside canvas. The little girl is now wearing a straw hat with a wide ribbon. I shall buy one like it for Clarissa.
Seven pm
Clive is back from dropping Virginia at Fitzroy Square and is truly upset. I don’t understand. I have told him about the Goat’s madness before. Did he not believe me? He says there was a terrible scene in Canterbury. Virginia did not take my letter well. Until yesterday, Clive had seen only the remote, endearing aspects of Virginia’s madness. Now he has seen the dark, uncontrolled edges of her. It all began well. She wrote me a clear, sober letter, but soon after Clive says she went mad, and beat her head against the glass window. Then she lay for hours in a darkened room with a thrumming headache. Clive wanted to take the train down yesterday, but he did not dare move her. He is so happy to be home.
IT IS AGREED. Clive and Adrian will take Virginia to Twickenham tomorrow, where she will undergo the rest cure for at least a month. By then Clarissa will be here.
And—Clive was not pleased about Lemon Gatherers. He would have preferred I spend the money on a French
artist—more cachet. Clive always considers how a thing will or won’t impress other people.
1 July 1910—46 Gordon Square
Spent the afternoon with Ottoline at Bedford Square. She is going abroad later this month. Philip is standing for election, and they want to get away before the upheaval of canvassing begins. I am hoping Clarissa will come before she goes. So few of my friends have children; it makes it difficult. I sat with Lytton for hours yesterday, gossiping and discussing Rupert’s affair with that schoolgirl. I can usually tell Lytton anything, but he becomes acutely uncomfortable when I mention anything anatomical, female, and unrelated to sex. Pregnancy terrifies him.
Ottoline is practical, if not at all maternal. It must be protective, since she lost one of her twins. The boy was called Hugh. Her daughter, Julian, is a sweet, solemn child. Perhaps she and Clarissa can be friends?
OTTOLINE ASKED AFTER ROGER several times. She was more persistent and pointed in her questions than I would have expected. Have I seen him? Is his wife’s condition improving? Do I think it will ever improve? Is his sister Joan still looking after the children? Was Clive going to accompany Roger to France to collect the paintings for the November exhibition? My information is hopelessly out of date. I did not even know the exhibition dates had been set.
And—Letter after angry letter from Virginia. The bed is uncomfortable. The hallways too loud. The food is inedible. And Miss Thomas keeps trying to convert her to Christianity. And it is all my fault.