by Priya Parmar
“Greville’s Life of Sidney,” Clive said, brushing my hair back to drop a kiss on my forehead. He leant over me an extra moment, smelling my hair. Clive loves the smell of my hair. “Baby all right?” he asked, pleased that I was downstairs.
Disrupted, I laid down my brush.
“Yes, I asked Elsie to put him down so I could be here when you got back.” He kissed my forehead again and nuzzled my neck.
“Sir Philip Sidney,” Virginia answered tartly, bringing the conversation back to literature. She always gets like this when Clive mentions the baby With specific purpose, she brushed my hair back as well to deposit a damp kiss in the same spot. Virginia was not in the mood to be outdone. “Poet. Elizabethan. Died early.”
I bristled and tried not to feel patronised, but grew quickly bored with her competitive bid for attention. Why should I prove that I knew who Philip Sidney was.
“Don’t look like that, Nessa,” she said, dropping onto a cushion at my feet. “There are several Sidneys. You can’t be expected to remember them all.”
“True,” said Clive, pulling a book down from the bookshelf. “His sister, Mary Sidney, was very bright; wrote longer, did more. Mmm, Apuleius?” He handed Virginia a thickly embossed volume. “You might like it.” This is how it is with them now. A kind of literary shorthand has cropped up.
“Would I?” she asked, resting her head, Virginia-like, on my knees and not looking at him, happy to have navigated the room back to her sphere. She drew closer. Virginia is a burrowing animal in search of perpetual notice. At least their book talk enlivens them and keeps them from discussing me. I am not the only one she competes with. Virginia seems determined to prove that she knows me better and has for longer than Clive. It is absurd. She is my sister, and he is my husband. They know different Nessas. I prefer them to talk of words. They keep a constant literary conversation going now, like an unbroken shoreline. I went back to my paint. Not much time, Julian would be awake soon.
And—Virginia has begun a review of The Life and Correspondence of John Thadeus Delane for the Cornhill. Virginia is especially anxious that it be up to scratch, as Father used to be editor of the Cornhill. She and Clive talk of her articles endlessly. I find it dull but cannot admit that without sounding like a philistine, and so I just nod and wait for it to go away.
Later
Tonight the talk turned to Virginia’s marriage—or the absence of Virginia’s marriage. More and more, the discussion circles around Virginia’s prospects. She does not shy away from the subject, but neither does she participate. She is a fixed, still centre and lets that conversation drift around her like well-cut silk. If it makes her uncomfortable, she does not show it. Good for her.
One am
An argument with Clive tonight. With this new terrible upset over Duncan and Maynard, I want to invite Lytton down here to escape it. These things are always easier to face by the sea. Clive was resistant to the idea. He keeps saying that it is just us, and we ought not to ruin it by inviting anyone else. “But it is not just us. Virginia is already here.” And I get nowhere. Maybe it is best? Without Thoby, I am not sure how well Clive and Lytton really get on any more.
67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS
HAMPSTEAD, N.W.
TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090
The Green Dragon, Lavington
29 April 1908
Dearest Nessa,
My dear, there is nothing like a pastoral holiday to take one’s mind off shockingly unpleasant news. I would have written my news to Virginia (who is not taken up with cumbersome marital obligations and ongoing baby nurturing and much prefers to be told news first), but one cannot write the heart to Virginia—only the mind. The heart veers towards you.
Maynard has truly taken up with Duncan. They are always together now. And my soul broke over those unhappy rocks. I have made an effort to remain friendly with them both—although why I should I can’t think. But I have fled, my darling, to Salisbury Plain for a reading party with Morgan, Desmond, James, and several friends of his from Cambridge, among them the delectable pink-cheeked, yellow-haired fallen angel Rupert Brooke, a newly minted Apostle. He is so beautiful, I think he must be doomed. The gods do not give such gifts for long.
Yours,
Lytton
PS: Is it true that Walter Headlam is courting Virginia? He is a great friend of Rupert’s, but that alone cannot elevate him to Virginia. Has he proposed? How unpleasant.
30 April 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall
I overheard a conversation between Clive and Virginia this afternoon. On the verandah:
“Mr Headlam has always been a hypochondriac and is always sure he will die before he finishes his next great oeuvre,” Virginia said, irritated.
“Yes, but once he survives to publish the oeuvre, he recovers, doesn’t he?” Clive said. I could not tell if he was teasing. Difficult to know with him sometimes.
“He is also hopeless and cannot even manage his own holiday packing.”
“Virginia, have you ever done your own holiday packing?” Clive asked, his question curling with laughter.
Ha. A point scored. I slipped away.
And—Another letter from Lytton. He suffers, and yet he sympathises. Maynard apparently invited him out to see Isadora Duncan dance in an effort to help him forget the Duncan they both love. Seems a crass way to alleviate heartbreak, but any bridge between them is better than none.
1 May 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall (early and clear)
I asked her directly at breakfast. Clive has succeeded in coaxing her to sit at the table even if she only drinks black coffee.
Walter Headlam has proposed. She is thinking about it. How long has she been thinking about it?
Saturday 2 May 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall (Virginia left today as she could not get a seat on the Sunday train)
Ten past nine. The train was due to leave at half past. We stood on the platform in the fresh Cornish blue morning. The porter had already come for her trunk of books and travelling valise.
“Take it, Virginia, you may get hungry.” I pressed the small hamper of food into her hands. I had thought Clive would be impatient with my fretting over Virginia, but when I glanced at him, his face was softened by a sweet concern. “Dearest, will you take her to her seat?” I jostled Julian on my hip, as he was starting to fuss. I was regretting bringing him.
“Of course,” Clive said, smoothly scooping up the hamper and taking her arm to lead her to the train.
At the edge of the platform, Virginia stopped and spun round. “Delane! My book!” Virginia clutched at Clive’s arm, appalled that she had left it. Clive did not hesitate but turned and raced to the motor. “On my desk!” Virginia shrieked after him.
“There isn’t time!” The train whistle sounded. “Clive!” I yelled, upsetting Julian, but he did not hear me.
Later (Julian is napping)
I pressed the cold cloth onto Clive’s bloodied knee. “It serves you right, running off like that.”
He had just made it back to the station as the train was pulling away and handed the book up to Virginia’s waiting white-gloved hand. And then, scrambling to get away from the moving train, he promptly fell in the gravel.
“Yes, but I made it back in time,” he said, proud of himself. He winced as I ripped his torn trouser leg to get to the gash.
“She could easily have bought another copy in London. You were just showing off.”
Clive grimaced in pain as I dabbed the cut with iodine but did not deny it.
I smoothed white gauze over the wound and secured it with a clean linen strip. “There. You don’t need a stitch, but keep the bandage on it, as it will seep for a few days.”
Still later (the fire has gone out)
It was raining outside and snug and warm inside. Julian had had his bath and gone to sleep without fussing. I was finished and back down from the nursery earlier than usual.
“Quiet without her,” I said, looking up from my novel (Mansfield Park—again).
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“Mmm?” Clive said, his head bent over a letter he was writing.
“Quiet without her,” I repeated.
“She will be there by now,” he said absently. His thoughts elsewhere. “We will see her soon.”
4 May 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall
“Virginia is a Sapphist?” Clive said again.
“No,” I repeated for the fourth time. “Virginia is nothing at the moment. I can see how she could become a Sapphist.”
We were sitting on the big wicker chairs in the late afternoon sun, discussing Clive’s current favourite topic—Virginia. I had made the mistake of musing aloud on the nature of Virginia’s love for Violet, and now Clive was unwilling to let it drop.
“But is she in love with Violet?”
“Virginia, so far, has not loved, kissed, or been held by anyone that I know of,” I said wearily. “She likes affection from Violet. But then she likes affection from me too.”
Clive sighed, as if placated. “Well, of course she is not in love with you,” he said, relaxing into his sun chair.
I did not answer. In my deep bones, I have always known that Virginia is in love with me.
UNION POSTALE UNIVERSELLE
CEYLON (CYLAN)
8 May 1908
Kandy, Ceylon
Lytton,
I am not going to sweep in and propose to Virginia Stephen to save her from Walter Headlam, whom she has known all her life. She is a ravishing girl from what I recall, and there are many much more suitable and closer to hand candidates who would surely be up to the task. I can’t think she hankers after a Jewish civil servant whom she hardly knows and who is currently in the middle of the Indian Ocean. At least once a month you have suggested that I marry her. Do I sense a concealed agenda? Do you wish to be encouraged in that direction? Has your heart finally healed itself of Duncan? I can only hope that this is so.
I have been taking violent exercise; either squash racquets or tennis every day. I play with the Superintendent of Police, who was an Oxford Blue, and I have learned to play in inhospitable temperatures. I also occasionally play hockey with the Punjabi regiment. I am happy to report that Kandy is far more pleasant than Jaffna.
Yours,
Leonard
HRH KING EDWARD VII POSTAL STATIONERY
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
Sunday 10 May 1908—46 Gordon Square (warm and pink)
“And how is your valiant, wounded, book-fetching husband?” Lytton asked, settling into his customary basket chair.
“Busy,” I answered. It was good to be back. Our cases were hardly unpacked, and already the house thrummed with visitors. “He is preparing an essay on Manet at the moment. How did you know about his fall?”
“Injuries incurred in the service of Virginia are not likely to remain secret for long,” Lytton said flippantly. “She wrote to me, terribly excited that your devoted husband fell on his sword to please her. Although, more likely, it was to please you.” Lytton reached for a slice of Dundee cake. I had telephoned ahead and asked Maud to order it from Fortnum’s for him.
“He fell in the gravel, less dignified than a sword,” I said.
“The gravel was next to a moving train,” Clive said, joining us in the drawing room. It was the first time I had seen him all day. He bent and kissed me, and I handed him a thick wedge of cake.
“And the beau dauphin? Is he well? Belching, teething, seeing to all those important baby tasks?” Lytton asked, daintily wiping his mouth.
“Asleep, at long last,” I said. Julian has been fractious lately. No wonder, with all the travelling he has been doing in his small life.
We talked on, of the opera (Virginia went four nights in a row last week) and the theatre and Saxon’s current obsession with the Ballets Russes and then, when Clive went out, of Lytton’s terrible Duncan-shaped heartbreak. I am glad I came home.
Later (nine pm)
Clive just told me that Maynard means to move into 21 Fitzroy Square. One door down from Duncan. It will be awful for Lytton.
15 May 1908—46 Gordon Square (late afternoon, sunny but chilly)
Virginia popped by to deliver an extraordinary rumour this afternoon. She looked like a child with an extra-special secret. Apparently, Father’s friend Mr Henry James has been heard to say that he cannot believe one of Leslie Stephen’s daughters strayed so far as to marry Clive Bell. Stray so far from whom? The half-witted damp pink men George kept introducing me to? Irritating. No idea where Virginia got such a rumour. She might have made it up.
Later
I was surrounded by my favourite buggers tonight. Lytton, James, James’s friend Harry Norton, and Morgan all stopped by this evening. We played the gramophone, danced, gossiped, told rude jokes, drank, and ate chocolate biscuits until three in the morning. Clive stayed up in his study, saying he had to work. Unlike him.
Virginia Stephen
29 Fitzroy Square • London W.
20 May 1908
My Violet,
Where are you now? New York? I hope so, as that is where I am sending this letter. I am also sending a kiss that I ought to dress in chic, narrow-shouldered, expensive clothes and equip with a good cigarette holder to use uptown—is that a place? Uptown?
My dearest one, I dislike being proposed to. Unless of course it is you doing the proposing. Such a lot of affection and attention, I ought to like it, but I don’t. Walter Headlam will no doubt be coming next Thursday, and I am running out of things to say to him. I am trying not to be wicked—you do know that, don’t you? Trying don’t count for much when it comes time to pay up. I suppose I have refused Mr Headlam, but refused really is the wrong word. Drifted. That is what I have done. He asked me early in the year, and I prevaricated, sidestepped, and ignored it and let the subject drift away. Eventually, he stopped asking. Wicked, I know. When one is asked such a question, one ought to answer. But if one has no idea what to answer? Then what?
I think it was my first proper proposal. There have been others, but they lacked substance. Will it make me feel better to recount the others? Shall you like to hear them? There was Lytton, who asked me to marry him one evening at a Trinity Ball. That way we could avoid having to dance with anyone else and make awkward conversation. He also suggested I marry his long-absent friend Leonard, but as that was a proxy request, I doubt it counts. Walter Lamb also mentioned it once behind a potted palm at a dinner party—I can’t think whose. He said I would make an interesting wife. Hilton Young has been nosing about, and everyone thinks he will make a run at me, but I am not sure yet. I proposed almost daily to Nessa before she married Clive, but she always turned me down, however sweeping and sincere I was. And for symmetry, last week Clive tried to kiss me and told me he loves me—does that count?
Yrs,
Virginia
30 May 1908—46 Gordon Square (my birthday—raining and cosy)
Lytton stopped in today. It was a quiet afternoon. Clive went out after breakfast and will not be back until early evening. Before he left, he sweetly put birthday roses on my breakfast tray. I am to have a treat tonight: Clive and I are leaving the baby with Elsie and going out for a supper at Rules and then to see Maurice Baring’s The Grey Stocking. Lytton saw it and liked it but then told me that his taste is not to be trusted as he is too preoccupied to work up real disgust about anything at the moment.
Lytton is heartbroken. Touchingly, he has chosen to remain friends with both of the treacherous lovers—Maynard because they have been friends too long not to be friends, and Duncan because he loves him. Lytton understands the fundamental problem: “How could one not fall in love with Duncan?” he asked sincerely.
Our visit ended in laughter. Lytton tells me that ever since he found out about the affair between Maynard and Duncan, he is haunted by the smell of semen. “It is everywhere, darling. Mother just can’t escape it. Watch out at the opera house—it was definitely sprinkled in the dress circle. Someone was having a very good time in box six.” He says it is torturing him
enough to put him off men. Perhaps he should marry Virginia?
31 May 1908—46 Gordon Square (six pm)
My fingernails are cutting into my palm.
I ought to put them back where I found them. I ought to go and check on Julian. I ought to open my hand and look at them again. But I cannot seem to put them down.
I was collecting Clive’s jackets for Maud to press. For a man who cares so deeply about his appearance, he does not see to his clothes terribly well. But then, I suppose until recently he has always had a valet. We planned to hire one, but then came Julian and we needed a nurse instead. Clive has always resented that. And so I round up Clive’s jackets and send them down to the laundry with Maud to be washed and pressed.
I checked the pockets. I always look, as Maud forgets. They were inside the breast pocket. Mother’s blue enamelled hairpins: the ones Virginia always wears. Four of them lay in a row like toy soldiers in my palm.
And now I cannot seem to put them down.
Later
She may have left them in Cornwall. He may have found them when we were packing up. She may not know he has them. He may have thought they were mine. He may have. She may have.
It may be nothing. But nothing is nothing when it comes to Virginia.
Roger Fry
22 Willow Road
