Vanessa and Her Sister (8 page)

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.

· ·

W
E 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?

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 breakdown was medical and her ranting unavoidable and so not shameful. I watch the easy way Violet talks with her—without fear of misstep.

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

A
n 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.

POST CARD

This Space to Be Used for Correspondence

30 July 1905

Dear Woolf
,
Bell is resolved. He loves her straight through. He would rather fail at her feet and live on her doorstep than settle for less. Comfort is of no value, he says. Uncomfortable, thorny passion is where he will pitch his tent. Surprisingly, I wish him luck. Unusual, when I think she is ten times the man he is. But his conviction has won me. How wonderful it must be to feel such pure decision.

 
Yours,
Lytton

To:
Mr Leonard Woolf
Assistant Gov’t Agent
Jaffna, CEYLON

SERIES 4: SUNFLOWERS IN PROVENCE

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.