by Priya Parmar
I do not think, in this case, Virginia meant actual harm; she just could not bear to be irrelevant. Virginia lives to be essential. That is the only way she is comfortable. But this was an evening for art, rather than books: not her forte. And so with honey sweetness she sought to upstage and invited Bell for a walk around the square to smell the last of the dying summer roses. Bell countered her by suggesting we go promenading en masse. And so like a herd of low-slung dachshunds, we trotted out into the autumn night to go flower sniffing. I look forward to next week, especially as Vanessa has promised to serve my favourite chicken.
And you, dear Leonard? How go the wilds of empire? Amazing to think of you battling through the brush, trading in the most basic elements of survival, while we sit in symmetrical squares and tinkle our teacups. You are much missed, my dear. Come home to us soon.
Always your,
Lytton
PS: Duncan’s attention is slipping—I am not imagining it. I expect the worst. I am bracing myself for tragedy and spending time with Maynard. He is a man of total self-conviction, much like the Goth, but his roots rest in a mathematical earth. He sees life, love, and human interaction as a series of knowable equations—how alarming.
PS encore: The Mole’s novel came out last week. Where Angels Fear to Tread, from the Alexander Pope line that I don’t much care for. The publisher put down his large inky foot and insisted on a title change, and the Mole is put out. I would be too. Sales good so far, and another printing is expected. I am vert with jealousy.
8 November 1905—46 Gordon Square
Virginia would not get out of the bath, so we were dining late, but it was not meant to be a dinner party. It was a simple family meal of pea soup, cold chicken, and green salad vegetables. Maud had just cleared the soup when the knocking began, and in they tumbled.
“No, the Goth must read it first,” James Strachey said, handing the paper to Thoby.
“But the girls are here,” Clive said, as if that statement made sense. I could tell he felt awkward about interrupting our meal. We are all keen to break with convention, but arriving during dinner grated upon his sense of decorum. We expected them at ten, and it was only quarter past eight.
Thoby scanned down the page of the Daily News. “Ha! What a review! Where is he?”
“Still fussing with the cab, I think. You know how he dawdles,” James said.
Lytton and Morgan walked into the dining room.
“He was not dawdling,” Lytton said, smacking his pipe into his palm. Poor Lytton is rather storm-tossed at the moment. “He was making an entrance.” Lytton bent to kiss my cheek. “Hello, dear one.” Straightening, he said, “Clive, you philistine, the great auteur cannot just march into a room sans trumpets. Goth, my dear, fix Mother a whisky?” He dropped gracefully into a dining chair.
Thoby stood to fix Lytton a drink.
Morgan looked even more slight and frazzled than usual. “I was trying to sort out the tip for the cabbie,” he said. “He is still waiting. Does anyone have sixpence?”
I nodded to Sloper, who went out to pay the driver.
“Mole, you have outdone us all!” Lytton said, pulling Morgan to him for a waltz. I stood and pushed in the other dining chairs so they would not get knocked over. Round and round the table they went in small uneven ellipses. Maud fetched more place settings and brought back the soup tureen.
“Remarkable! Mastery of material! Keen insight! Mole! This is brilliant!” Thoby said, reading fragments aloud. Virginia, brittle and still, was silent.
“I don’t like the title,” Morgan said, as Lytton released him from their dizzying waltz.
“You wanted Monteriano?” I asked. It was the fictitious name he had chosen to conjure the very real towered city of San Gimignano. I think it does capture the cadence and height of that hillside town.
“The Manchester Guardian called the title ‘mawkish’—awful,” Morgan said fretfully, folding and refolding his neat slim hands.
“Well, I think it is splendid,” Virginia said, unexpectedly. Thoby and I looked at each other, surprised. When Virginia says “splendid,” that is rarely what she means.
20 November 1905—46 Gordon Square
(late afternoon, getting chilly)
Clive wants me to go to Paris with him. In fact, he invited the four of us plus Lytton and Saxon, but it is me he wants.
“It is electrifying! Such an exhibition could never happen in England. We must go!” Clive said, pacing between the drawing room window and the fireplace, rolling and unrolling the newssheet into a tight cylinder. I had never seen him so agitated. “Now, Nessa! We must go now! It is a moment, Nessa! All Paris is talking! The Salon d’Automne is turned upside down by this bunch. Vauxcelles, the French art critic, notoriously hard to please, is calling them the Fauves.”
“The … beasts?” I translated tentatively, never sure of my French. “Is that a compliment?”
“The wild beasts,” Clive corrected. “Of course it is a compliment. They have taken the Salon by the scruff of the neck and are giving it a good shake—as wild beasts do. Henri Matisse, I met him a few years ago at a dinner party—marvellous man, bold painter, beautiful colours, can drink everyone under the table.”
I loved watching him lose his urbane calm and get boyishly excited by something.
“Nessa!” He pulled me out of my reverie. “We have to get on to Cunard today!”
Clive calls me Nessa now. Thoby smiled when he heard it. Virginia did not.
Later
When Clive went down to Thoby’s study, I read his tightly rolled-up article. M. Matisse is receiving terrible press for his shocking Woman with a Hat. No matter how groundbreakingly new and daringly bold he is, bad press must wound.
The exhibition finishes in six days, so there is no time. And where would we stay? An unmarried woman and unmarried man travelling alone together? Neither Thoby nor Adrian nor Lytton nor Saxon can go, and Virginia would only make matters worse. Travelling alone with a single man? Even I am not bold enough to break that rule.
25 November 1905—46 Gordon Square (late)
Clive just left with Thoby. The Steins—Gertrude and Leo, Clive called them—have bought Matisse’s Woman with a Hat. I am glad, as M. Matisse must feel cheered up. Clive told me Mr and Miss Stein (brother and sister, not husband and wife) also bought M. Picasso’s work, spending a huge sum of money. Clive said it was lucky, as last winter M. Picasso had no money to buy coal and so burnt his own drawings to keep warm.
Tonight Clive brought me an article by Mr Roger Fry, the art critic who has just been named curator of the Metropolitan Museum in New York. It was a piece about the Fauves, and it was Clive’s last-ditch effort to convince me to go to the exhibition in Paris with him.
I dined with Mr Fry once at Desmond MacCarthy’s, and although his scholarly reputation intimidated me, I liked him enormously. He had to leave early as his wife, Helen, was unwell. I think she had had a serious breakdown some months before. All through dinner, she was unable to speak to anyone on either side of her and sat in an agitated silence. Her husband watched her anxiously from the other side of the table, and as soon as it was possible, he announced their departure. Just as he was leaving, I rose and, taking his hand in mine, asked him to take good care. I wanted to say that watching over a beloved who is prone to insanity is a treacherous, guilty, and lonely road, but I did not presume that far.
Reading his words, I was reminded of his quick bright manner and sincere expression. Mr Fry’s article was visual, visceral. It nearly convinced me to discard convention and go with Clive to Paris. Nearly.
UNION POSTALE UNIVERSELLE
CEYLON (CYLAN)
25 November 1905
Jaffna, Ceylon
Lytton,
Do not be alarmed. Before you read further, know that I am well—well enough to have had eggs and ham for breakfast and be sitting on a sunny verandah writing this to you. I have had typhoid. Terrifying, I know. The very name of the dreadful disease wa
ters one’s bowels. But in a one-room hospital, with a nurse who would not come closer than eight feet to me and a doctor who visited once a day, I am cured. The doctor diagnosed me and then said sternly “If you eat nearly nothing and do not move at all, in twenty-one days your fever will return to normal, and you will be cured.” My fever was 103 degrees when he said it, and do you know what? On the twenty-first day? 98.6. I have renewed veneration for country doctors on bicycles.
All love,
Leonard
HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY
69 LANCASTER GATE
LONDON W.
6 December 1905
Dearest Leonard,
The Goth just told me that you had an encounter? Quoi? Avec qui? Do you think my stealthy use of French will disguise our subject du jour? Innocence lost. Experience gained. Blake would be so pleased. Milton, I fear, would not. Milton was such a prude. About time, I suppose. Dearest, at twenty-five was innocence wearing thin? And with a woman no less—that makes it official. Did you tell Goth and not me as you thought I would not understand such things? I demand a full account at once. Do write in specifics, dear. Such voluptuous gossip is no fun without specifics.
And how am I? I have recently become obsessed with Gluck. I fear I have lost my Eurydice to a great beefy Frenchman who probably smells of onions and cheese.
Yours,
Lytton
PS: Your letter just arrived! Typhoid! My dear friend. Thank God for angels on bicycles. Get that doctor’s name and ship him here at once. I have need of such a man.
Thursday 7 December 1905—46 Gordon Square
(late, can hear birds in the square)
Morgan Forster (I cannot call him the Mole—it makes him sound like a beauty mark) was in high spirits tonight as another printing has been ordered for his lovely little novel. It is a slender narrative with an enormous scope. I am haunted by it. The great central tragedy skips across the story’s water with only the smallest stone. Virginia read it and pronounced it Edwardian—damning criticism.
We celebrated at Gordon Square.
“The Mole must drink champagne!” Lytton pronounced from his customary basket chair. He was looking more ramshackle charming than usual in his drooping red bow tie and brown velveteen coat.
“And how is your novel, Virginia?” I asked, knowing she would want the conversation brought round to her own writing.
“It has a healthy constitution,” she said mysteriously. “Changed the title, though. I am thinking of calling it The Voyage Out.”
“I like it,” Morgan said, rising to go. He always leaves first. “It feels suspended in air and ends with a good sliced consonant.” Without saying goodbye to anyone, he put out his cigarette and left.
“Has he always done that?” I asked once he had gone.
“What, left abruptly with no goodbye?” Thoby asked. “Always.”
“Goodbyes make him anxious,” Desmond said, picking an apple from the fruit bowl. “And competition undoes him completely,” he said, without looking at Virginia. “Every time a rowdy discussion broke out in college, he would suddenly stand up and announce that he had to catch the train to Weybridge.”
“What’s in Weybridge?” I asked, offering a pear to Virginia but knowing she would refuse.
“His mother and sisters, I think. Although they might have moved. It is just something he says.” Desmond accepts everyone wholly without criticism. Questions, yes. Criticism, no.
Virginia Stephen
46 Gordon Square
Bloomsbury
8 December 1905
My Violet,
I am concerned I may have lost track of your precise goings and more goings and am formally requesting a detailed itinerary. I like to know where you lay your beloved head down to sleep each evening, as well as where and with whom you dine. If I am to be deprived of your bolstering company, then I would like to know where to direct my jealousy.
Your only, only, only,
Virginia
PS: I think Clive is winding up to take another swing at Nessa. Vive la Nessa! Courage pour la résistance! Thankfully, no one has asked to marry me yet, but I feel the question of my future beginning to hover.
19 December 1905—46 Gordon Square (more snow)
“Nessa!” I could hear the door slam and Thoby’s heavy footstep thumping through the house.
“In here!” I stepped back to look at my morning’s work. I was pleased with the vase, although the tilt of the apple still felt wrong.
“Do you hear it?” Thoby banged open the door of my studio without knocking and threw open the sash window.
I stopped to listen. A Christmas robin, singing in the snowy garden.
UNION POSTALE UNIVERSELLE
CEYLON (CYLAN)
25 December 1905
Jaffna, Ceylon
Lytton,
How wonderful for the Mole. How easy he must rest. He has done something significant. Probably not all he will do, but very definitely something significant. I am envious. I am not sure I am doing anything here at all.
My writing has taken on the jungle tempo of the East and no longer belongs in draped drawing rooms. Happy Christmas, dear Lytton. Please tell Bell that I have faith that he will prevail. I feel it is too personal a thing to write him myself.
Yours,
Leonard
PS: Be careful. Duncan will always break a heart. He knows no other way. He softly roars with selfish truthfulness and tears apart all that is tender in his ruthless drive to be genuine. The only heart he understands is his own.
HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY
IS IT WORTH IT?
3 January 1906
To my Beloved Wife,
An extraordinary afternoon. Went with J. P. Morgan to the White House for lunch with the President. J.P.M. was unimpressed by such august company but I kept worrying about using the right fork. Did you know, they turn their dinner forks up in this country? I am staying at the New Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Ave. in Washington. Cable at once should you need me. I left you feeling wonderful a few weeks ago but I know how quickly these things can turn. Although I had a letter from Mother today and she commented on how well you looked. She even said you were painting! I am thrilled, my darling.
Please write soon, dearest. I only sleep well once I have had a letter from you.
Your own,
Roger
PS: J.P.M. wants me to arrange for him to buy Farinola’s Botticelli.
5 January 1906—46 Gordon Square (snowing)
Cricket has taken over our house this week. It is the only sport Adrian and Thoby truly love. That means that meals are dedicated to talk of runs and wickets and bats and bowlers. It is what comes of living with brothers.
“One wicket!” Thoby repeated, refolding the newspaper in disgust. “And South Africa wins it. Revolting. Sloper, is there any more of the grapefruit, or did Mr Adrian finish it?”
Sloper returned to the dining room with a sliced grapefruit on a tray. (Fresh grapefruits are Thoby’s newest obsession, following closely on the heels of ripe figs and sugared walnuts.) “Mr Bell is here—”
“Bell!” Thoby bellowed from the table. “Get in here!”
My hand flew to my hair, hastily twisted into a messy knot. Regretting my faded skirt and fraying blouse (I was planning on staying in to paint this morning), I discreetly wiped the jam and ink from my fingers before shaking Clive’s hand.
20 January 1906—46 Gordon Square
Thoby’s friends now collect here most evenings rather than just on Thursdays. One can walk into our drawing room and find any assortment of guests milling about after supper.
This evening Virginia had just returned from teaching her class and was still wearing her slouchy Delft blue hat when she launched headlong into the discussion of the new book about Byron’s incestuous affair. “Incredible that they did it! Marvellous. Great gumption,” Virginia said.
“And he knows for certain?” I turned to Desmond, wh
o was sitting on the green chintz sofa. “Irene Noel would know. What was Byron, her great-uncle?”
“We don’t need to ask Irene. She doesn’t like to talk about family history,” Thoby said.
“Lord Lovelace is Byron’s grandson. He wouldn’t have written it if it weren’t true.” Desmond shrugged. “Anyway, Lovelace’s book is not about Byron’s whole life, just the separation from Lady B. and his affair with Augusta.”
“Augusta was his whole sister or half-sister? Half, wasn’t it? That makes it better, surely?” said Morgan from the doorway. He was late, as usual.
“Does half make it better? Does it need improving?” asked Virginia, relighting her cigarette. “Manfred makes it plain that they knew they were up to no good but went ahead. But it was love. If they’d had any courage, they would have gone out and faced everyone down.”
“How awful, to feel that way about a sister,” I said to no one in particular.
“Is it?” Virginia countered. “He could have loathed his sister—that would be worse.”
No, I thought. That would not be worse.
Thursday 25 January 1906—46 Gordon Square (icy)
Virginia’s 24th birthday today. She insisted on collecting her customary one hundred birthday kisses. Trying. Thobs got fed up after three and refused to donate any more to the cause. Affection is so much easier to give when it is not owed.
Saturday 3 February 1906—46 Gordon Square
Desmond is engaged! He is going to marry Miss Molly (or Mary?) Warre-Cornish, the daughter of the Vice Provost of Eton. Virginia says she is a crisp sort of a person. Will this change everything? Is this when it begins to happen? Will we singular Stephens become an anomaly? Will we become extinct? In the last years I have felt of a set, a breed—young, adventurous, artistic—unmarried. Outside our set, I am a spinster.
