by Priya Parmar
“Amazing, isn’t he?” Desmond said, coming to stand by me in the midst of the chaos. “The gallery curators do not know what to do with him, he is such a tornado of energy.” Desmond pointed to one of the directors of the gallery who was standing at the edge of the whirlwind trying to catch Roger’s attention.
“How long has he been like this?” I asked.
“Like what? Roger is always like this.”
And—Clive was put out that I went to the gallery. Specifically, he was put out that I went without him. “But Roger did not invite you,” I said. “He invited me.”
And—Still working on my beachgoers painting. It plays a sombre song that comforts me.
8 November 1910—46 Gordon Square
The exhibition opens to the public today. Desmond and Roger decided not to hang the two Gauguin nudes. They stashed them in Desmond’s basement office instead. The right choice, I think. There is enough to excite the public as it is. Desmond is concerned that Roger reordered the paintings so many times, and the catalogue is all wrong. He is terrified that one of Van Gogh’s curvy landscapes will be listed as Station Master at Arles or, worse, that one of Gauguin’s lush tropical paintings of bare-chested Tahitian girls will be mislabelled as “Cézanne’s wife.” Roger trusts Desmond and is sure it will all turn out all right.
And—Julian and I watched the birds in the square this morning. He is so like Thoby. I have hung Thoby’s lark and nuthatch drawings in his room.
Thursday 10 November 1910—46 Gordon Square (late)
“The reviews are awful,” Maynard said to no one in particular.
“But that is perfect!” Lytton said from his basket chair. “The British public will rush to see something scandalous. My dears, they must see it. Otherwise how can they criticise?”
“But they are taking it as a moral affront,” I said. “I knew they would not like it, but they are outraged.”
“Wonderful!” Clive said. “That way they will be sure to see it.”
Roger Fry
Durbins
Guildford
11 November 1910
Dearest Mother,
Please explain to Father that I am not exhibiting pornography. I am sure he will read the reviews of my show and worry that I am. Yes, the public are disconcerted, but that is how art must happen. It cannot be a comfortable, smooth transition from one aesthetic to another. It must bump and jostle and disrupt and shake the ground until the ground gives way. My reputation as an Old Masters lecturer is sunk for good after this. So be it. The old does not politely move over to make way for the new; it must be roughly shouldered aside. If you and Father would like to come one evening after all the crowds are gone, I would very much like you to see the exhibition.
Thank you for writing to Helen. The doctor has been very kind and helpful to me as well as to her. He encourages me not to blame myself, and I sense that he is trying to prepare me for the worst. I told him that I have been trying to prepare myself for this news for years but cannot do it. The callus will not grow. I do not want it to. What sort of person would I have to become to be “prepared” for such news? Instead, I must continue to hope. In each letter, in each visit, there are moments, small and fragile as eggs, of precious normality. For that fraction of time the ice door opens and she is calm, not violent, not rageful, but herself. I hang my heart on these moments.
Love,
Roger
14 November 1910—46 Gordon Square
They were right. The gallery is packed like a fish crate every day. Morgan went yesterday and pronounced it “confusing.” Morgan is traditional in his tastes and gets startled when I say “bugger” at a dinner party, so I am not surprised he got muddled about the paintings. Maynard is seeing it tomorrow. Duncan loved it and is enjoying the vocal indignation of the public. Virginia has not been to see it yet (crowds make her nervous at present), and Clive and I go daily.
And—I am experimenting with dark fragmented outlines around my loosely drawn figures. It allows me to move freely inside a stricter space. Like wild horses in a broken-down paddock.
Sunday 20 November 1910—46 Gordon Square (9.30pm)
What Roger has done is remarkable. His reputation as an art critic will never recover from the mighty fury he has raised in London, but he does not care. He lives entirely in the present tense. It is astonishing, particularly given what he has been enduring this month. Desmond was here for supper. He has been staying here whenever he misses the last train back to Surrey. Desmond is chronically late and leads a mistimed life, so often misses his trains.
He said it quietly. He said it just to me. While Lytton, Maynard, Duncan, Adrian, Virginia, and Clive were enjoying a rowdy gossip about Ottoline and Henry Lamb, whose affair seems to be drawing to a messy close, Desmond leaned over and, in a low voice, told me that Roger’s wife has finally been declared incurably insane and was placed in a permanent institution this morning.
“He has known it was coming for some time,” Desmond said softly. “But I think that makes it harder when the day actually comes, don’t you?”
I looked over at Virginia. All my worst fears for my sister follow this sea lane. It is lightless and choppy and the tide is strong. “Yes,” I said. “Hope is an unbreakable habit.”
Later (two am)
I came up to bed and went to check on Quentin. They are all still downstairs. I keep thinking of Roger alone in the big house in Guildford. Desmond says the children are with Roger’s sister in Bristol. I know Roger built that astonishing house on a hill for his wife, even though he never said so. “Open spaces are better for Helen,” he said on the day we joined him for luncheon. “She prefers to be out of London.” She lived there so briefly. It is a terrible thing to grieve for someone who is not dead, not in love with someone else, but just no longer there.
And—I watched Clive and Virginia tonight. Clive has behaved in a way that has released me from all the love I felt for him. But he has left me whole, intact. However can Roger go on after breaking his own heart?
21 November 1910—46 Gordon Square (late—everyone asleep)
I suppose it was inevitable. Clive and Lytton have never liked each other much. No, that is not true. I think Clive would very much have liked to be Lytton’s friend, especially after Thoby died, but over the years it has become painfully clear that Lytton does not think much of my husband. Tonight they had a noisy row, and Clive threw Lytton out of the house.
The air between them was drum tight. Clive accused Lytton of spending too much time with his family—by that he meant Virginia and me. Lytton accused Clive of behaving like a pig of a husband. I was grateful that he left the specific details of Clive’s bad behaviour unsaid. But then, there was no need to say them. Everyone knows.
22 November 1910—46 Gordon Square
We had breakfast as usual. Neither of us mentioned the row with Lytton. This is how our life is this autumn. We get on fine if things remain flat, routine, and dishonest. But I could not leave it at that.
“You know I mean to still invite Lytton here, don’t you?” I said as he sliced his grapefruit.
“When?” he snapped.
“Whenever.”
“To annoy me?”
“No. I do not think it should annoy you.”
“But it does, and you won’t change to suit me,” Clive said, sounding hurt.
“No, I won’t. I love Lytton dearly and want him here. I am sorry.” The truth is best.
Later
I met Lytton at Ottoline’s this afternoon. She left us alone to talk. She really does have the most marvellous tact.
“Are you going to try to make it up with him?” I asked him bluntly.
“No use,” Lytton said. “He is angry about things that I cannot help.”
Thursday 24 November 1910—46 Gordon Square
The art gallery at Helsinki just bought a Cézanne from the show, the Mont Sainte-Victoire, for eight hundred pounds! I am regretting Clive’s decision not to buy the Van Gogh we like
d. He thought four hundred pounds was too much. I am pleased we bought the Picasso last month for only four pounds. It is a small cubist still life with beautiful colours. Ottoline has bought two paintings from the exhibition, though I am not sure which ones. She has visited the gallery nearly as often as Clive and me. It is strange that she never asks me to accompany her. Our friendship has mellowed to a kind civility. I am disappointed. To my surprise, I enjoy her company very much.
Later
Clive came home with lots of gossip. Ottoline and Henry are through, although they always say that and never really are, and Bertie Russell is in love with Ottoline. He and his wife, Alys, live entirely apart now. I did not tell Clive but I suspect Ottoline has begun to care very much for Roger. Roger notices nothing. This month, how could he?
Roger Fry
Durbins
Guildford
1 December 1910
My dear heart,
Yes, I have received your letters. I am sorry not to have replied. I was acting under the doctor’s advice. He thinks you will settle in better if you have less news from Durbins. But I know it pains you not to hear from your family. I ought to have written. It was wrong. Forgive me? I am stumbling, my dear, and you must believe that I am doing my best.
The children are still with Joan, and both asked me to send their very best love. Joan is teaching them to ride, and they are learning quickly. I have been very much occupied with the new exhibition in London. It has brought a riot of anger and derision down on my head, but the bad press has only increased our sales. It is all painters you have long loved and I am sure you would approve. There is a Matisse you would adore and two Gauguin nudes I chose not to hang in the end. You would have included them, but then you are braver than I am. You always have been.
How I miss you, my dearest one. How you are threaded through my thoughts. I wish I could take you away to a world of colour and light. Perhaps things will change and you will grow well enough. I hope only for that.
Sleep well, my dear,
Roger
20 December 1910—46 Gordon Square
Leaving for Wiltshire to see Clive’s family for Christmas and am resentful. Virginia and Adrian are staying at the Pelham Arms in Lewes for a week’s holiday, and I am being hauled off to face the dragons.
Quentin is doing a bit better but still does not weigh as much as he should. I do not like taking him out in midwinter.
THE RED TRAIN
15 January 1911—Little Talland House, Firle, Sussex
Virginia has rented her own house. She found it while she and Adrian were spending Christmas in Firle and took it on the spot. I came down to see it right away. “My own first proper home,” she said, happily trotting from room to room. Having a place of her own has already done such good. It settles her, calms her, just knowing it exists somewhere on this earth. Predictably, she has renamed it Little Talland House after the house Father rented for so many years in Cornwall. We have been scavenging for furniture for the last three days, and Virginia is fed up. She has found a wonderful stand-up desk, very like her desk in Fitzroy Square, and so considers the house furnished. Her books are stacked in towering piles on the floor of her new study.
I worry that Adrian will be a bit adrift on his own at Fitzroy Square, but Virginia told me that he spends nearly all his time with Duncan anyway. Good.
25 January 1911—46 Gordon Square
Virginia’s birthday. She is visiting Lytton’s sister Marjorie for the night. Clive, who said that he was in Wiltshire last week to see about some family business, was most likely either in Sussex at Virginia’s new country house or with his Mrs Raven Hill. I made the mistake of working on my painting of the bathers today. I am sure I ruined it. So I sent a note round to Lytton, who came over, and we ate cake.
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?”
R
oger 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.