by Priya Parmar
Virginia is off to Manorbier tomorrow. As usual, George and Margaret are appalled that she is travelling alone, but she is determined and says she needs the solitude to write. She is to stay at Sea View, where Clive and I stayed on our wedding tour. Last year—a hundred years ago. Everything before Julian feels like a hundred years ago. Virginia is cutting it finely. She will barely make it back from Wales in time for us to all leave for Italy in a few weeks. “Did Clive suggest it?” I asked her when I stopped in this afternoon.
“Of course. He said I would enjoy Tenby, the little village by the sea,” Virginia answered without looking up from the letter she was writing. “I told him it would make me miss you less to be in a place where I knew you had been happy. Won’t it make you happy to know I will be thinking of you?”
Virginia logic.
20 August 1908—Gordon Square (late)
Another three letters from Virginia today. They were disastrous. She talks of cliff walking and slipping and imagines the sensation of her arms being torn back by the fall but reassures me that she has no wish to misstep. Does she mean to terrify me? Of course she does. I beg her to take care, and she basks in my protectiveness, but it only spurs her on to recklessness.
Saturday 22 August 1908—46 Gordon Square (ten pm—in the library, chilly without a fire)
Clive lowered the letter he was reading. “She wants to know if you have finished your sonnet.” Clive uncrossed his ankles and stretched his legs in a great cat stretch.
“Sonnet? Am I writing a sonnet?” I put down my sketchbook.
“Apparently you are writing a sonnet about Julian’s eyelashes?” Clive said, consulting his letter.
“Virginia?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Who else? She is now calling you ‘sweet honey bee’ and would like me to kiss your, I can’t make it out … knee, maybe? At once.”
“Only because it rhymes with bee.” I went back to sorting through my sketches of Julian.
“Perhaps, but ever the faithful brother-in-law, I am happy to oblige.” He popped out of his chair and kissed my knee. “She also says that she is enjoying the primitive and unbridled setting of our wedding tour. Was it primitive? I don’t recall?”
“Yes, it was.” I ran my hand through his reddish curls. “The sea was wild, and the air never stood still. But you were the one who was unbridled, if I remember,” I said.
67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS
HAMPSTEAD, N.W.
TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090
25 August 1908
My Dear Woolf,
Mon frère, James has fallen for the rather garishly beautiful Rupert Brooke. We are in Scotland recuperating our demolished hearts. Our sisters Pippa and Pernel are joining us in a few days. Virginia writes that she has completed one hundred pages of her grand oeuvre and the Mole has nearly rattled off another novel. I shall ask him to send you an early copy. I am feeling slothful in my lack of productivity. Your physical exertions sound alarming. Do take care. Very pleased you are in a more comfortable situation but have no interest in your becoming so comfortable that you never return.
Yrs,
Lytton
PS: Do consider marrying Virginia. Apart from being lovely to look at, she is the most extraordinary company, and we do not want to lose her to an outsider. If Bell can make off with Vanessa, anything is possible.
Virginia Stephen
29 Fitzroy Square • London W.
Sea View, Manorbier
Pembrokeshire, Wales
27 August 1908
Dearest Nessa,
Is Clive keeping my letters from you? Is he stashing them under cushions and inside shoes? Has he locked you in a store cupboard and refused you pen and ink? Have you been jailed for duelling? Taken prisoner? Shipped to Australia? Chased up a tree, shot at dawn, or lost at sea? It is the only explanation for your continued silence. I have not had a letter in four days. I feel like Napoleon badgering Josephine.
I am writing well, dearest. One hundred pages of my novel and counting. It is something. I arrive back on the 31st and I understand we leave for Italy on the 1st? Would you send Maud round to unpack and re-pack your disorganised Goat? I am meant to go to the opera with Saxon on either the Monday or the Tuesday (depending on when he can get a ticket). Would you and Clive like to go? If so, send a note round to him at once. I can make either day provided the train is on time.
Friends of Violet have just returned from Florence and report that there is a dangerous fever running riot in the city—but maybe that is just in the heat of summer and by next week we will find Italy bathed in cool clean air of autumn? What do you think? What does Clive say?
Yrs,
Ginia
And—Bliss! A letter from you in the second post. I did not wait but gobbled it up right there in the hotel foyer. I shall spend the afternoon composing a proper response, but for now, know that I am eating breakfast and not planning to fall off a cliff. Kiss your left shoulder for me. Rhymes with “boulder.”
28 August 1908—46 Gordon Square (hot!)
Another letter from Virginia. Her letters amuse but ultimately infuriate. She is trying to provoke affection from me, and it is tiresome.
And—Clive was talking tonight about rumours of fever in Italy. Rumours planted by Virginia. Nevertheless, I am growing anxious about taking Julian. But how could I leave him behind?
Sunday 30 August 1908—46 Gordon Square
Just returned from Fitzroy Square, where I spent the morning sorting out Virginia’s things for Italy. Siena, Perugia, Pavia, Assisi, and then Paris for a week. Clive is hoping to meet the famous Steins, M. Henri Matisse, and M. André Derain, who have been causing such a fuss. He also hopes to see M. Picasso again, but apparently he may be in Spain at this time of year.
Clive has decreed that Julian is to stay behind at Seend with his frightful family, and I have reluctantly agreed. Elsie is going to go with my sweet boy. For once, I am glad of her meaty efficiency and viscous spirit. She has promised to let the bathwater run until it is warm.
Later
It was glorious light for painting—substantial, fluid, thick, bright light—when Clive came into my studio waving a letter. “Now she wants me to kiss your nose,” Clive said, settling into the low blue armchair. “Are we to run through your entire anatomy? Not that that would bother me.”
“My entire anatomy at least twice, I should think,” I said, choosing a broader brush. I was still working on the still life—all pale greys and whites, and then a slash of poppy red. I am pleased with the effect. It looks like blood on the snow.
Clive looked at the still life approvingly. “Red is the only break in the palette?”
“Yes—too severe?” I stood back from the easel to get a wider perspective.
“No, I like it. Reminds me of Derain.”
And—Clive just told me that Maynard has left the India Office and is trying for a fellowship at Cambridge. I half hope he does not get it, as it could salt the fragile soil between him and Lytton. If Maynard got not only the man Lytton wanted but the position as well? Awful.
Still later (after supper)
“Clarissa?” Clive asked. “She thinks our next child will be called Clarissa.” Another letter had come from Virginia. I was having trouble keeping up.
“She knows I have always loved that name,” I said, handing the letter to Clive.
“And she dreamt the baby will be born with a complete set of teeth and be able to say ‘no objection’ upon arrival?” he asked, looking up. Sometimes Virginia’s letters alarm him.
“Yes, the vocabulary is fine, but the teeth might be a bit rough going,” I said, accustomed to Virginia’s random nonsense. I looked over at Clive. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack. He was sleepy after a large supper. “It is our last night alone,” I said, but he did not move.
And—Just before we went to bed, Clive asked me about Virginia and Hilton Young. Had he proposed to Virginia? Would he propose to Virginia? Would Virginia accept him? Would Virginia pref
er Lytton? Who would Virginia like to marry?
And and—I woke up in the night with the thought: Clarissa. Is she trying to find out if I might be pregnant?
CORRESPONDING
67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS
HAMPSTEAD, N.W.
TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090
3 September 1908
Dear Woolf,
And they’re off. The complicated Bell ménage has left for Italy, leaving England feeling deserted and passé. What is it about those sisters that compels? One craves their company, no matter how naughty Virginia can be. Clive has certainly married up. But my God is he making a pig’s ear of it. Not content with marrying darling Vanessa, he is now hell-bent on landing Virginia too.
From what I gather, the Bells and the Stephens went to Cornwall, and because Vanessa was too taken up with the baby, Clive grew bored and Virginia grew spiteful. It all came apart like a Greek tragedy, my pet. Act I—prophecy. Act II—betrayal. Virginia has always wanted to be part of that marriage, and here she was being invited in. Clive has never understood how desperately Virginia loves her sister.
The only part of this that gives me any pleasure is my absolute confidence in Virginia’s awkwardness. Knowing her, I am sure that the liaison has teetered near the brink of sex but has remained largely a love affair of the mind rather than the body. Headlam said she really was the most godawful tease last winter, lurking behind palm fronds and then refusing even a kiss. Not being able to have her is driving Clive bats with frustration. He has become unbearable again. It is his shamelessness that I find galling. He swore that all he needed in this world to be happy was one Stephen sister. Now he needs two? Several times I thought Vanessa was going to mention it, but she kept silent and went for stoicism instead—brave girl.
Clive is not stoic. I have received two letters from him demanding to know if I am planning to propose to Virginia. And if not, who is? And then the day before yesterday, I was lunching at Simpson’s with Keynes, and in burst the sweaty, lovesick clod.
“Has Hilton Young proposed to Virginia?” he asked without preamble.
Keynes was delighted at this moist interruption.
“I’ve no idea,” I answered, irritated that my soup was getting cold—the sorrel soup with watercress they do so well.
“Well, as I am her brother-in-law, shouldn’t he ask my permission first?”
Naturally, I promised him that I would forewarn Hilton that should he wish to propose to Virginia, he ought to ask her brother-in-law/lover before he does so. Ridiculous.
On the home front, things are even more hopeless. Harry Norton has fallen in love with my brother James, who is in love with Rupert Brooke, who seems to be in love with a woman called Noel, of all things. It is like an unhappy daisy chain. Missing you, dear Leonard. Come back.
Yrs,
Lytton
PS: You must not think this reflects poorly on Virginia. She is not an easy creature, but she is well worth the trouble. This current flirtation is ill advised, but you must understand that it stems from inexperience and jealousy rather than malice. She cannot bear to lose her sister to this man. She really does have the most spectacular mind, Leonard. In a conversation, there is no one quite like her. It really would be best for everyone if you married her.
PPS: Morgan’s new novel is out next month. I will send it on to you.
HÔTEL DU QUAI VOLTAIRE
19 Quai Voltaire
7ème Arrondissement
Paris
24 September 1908
My Violet,
I have run out of my own thick, creamy English writing paper, and so this letter to you, my dearest, arrives on wings of former French trees. Do you think these shaved, flattened French trees feel it when they are sent abroad? Do they miss Gallic comforts and familiar food?
Alors. Paris, encore. I will spare you the pavement café art talk as I am sure you are growing weary of my descriptions of paint-smudged young men wearing Breton stripes and straw boaters sipping absinthe in the sunshine. Or perhaps you are not? If you are not, board a train at once and join me here.
Nerves are frayed, and our Nessa is fractious and unreasonable. Madness runs in the blood, and I am quite concerned for her. Clearly it is being returned to adult company that has done this. Nessa, accustomed to the soft baby gurglings of her infant, is unused to the rigours of proper conversation. And what conversation. Clive has been reading my writing and has had several viable suggestions for my novel. I am reinventing him in my mind as a cultured being. How generous you must find me.
Home in a week!
Yours,
Virginia
HÔTEL DU QUAI VOLTAIRE
19 Quai Voltaire
7ème Arrondissement
Paris
30 September 1908
My dear Lytton,
I know you know, so there is little sense in pretending.
To answer your long-ago question, yes, I mind. My sister and my husband do little to hide their affair, and I am at last angry—very angry. Do they suppose I am a dim-witted woman? Do they suppose that as Virginia presumes upon every other aspect of my life, I would not mind sharing my marriage as well? Do they suppose that my trust in my marriage will survive this? We have all talked so much about the provincial confinement of conventional marriage and our desire for modern, broad-minded freedom. But we never spoke of what trust is broken when freedom is taken rather than given. I am released from my traditional marriage, whether or not I chose to be. Here I am.
Virginia has decided that my foul mood is a result of my nerves and keeps insinuating that I am having a breakdown. I am ignoring it. London in a few days, and Julian and work. For now I think in colour, in paint and pen and ink and shape. It is safer, and there are fewer lies. I know they find me distant. I know they find me changed. I know they do not think I know. And I know what they still do not: that betrayal is betrayal, whether the betrayed knows it or not.
Preoccupied with art and artists, Clive and I have much to talk about, but the small intimacies of loving each other are lost—that time of trusting and expanding as a couple is over. I presume that affection between us will survive in some form. It is more convenient that way. And Virginia? I do not know what to say about Virginia except that she cannot be other than she is. She never could. But then, she has never had to.
Dearest Lytton, you did warn me. And Virginia warned me. Only Thoby had utter faith. Perhaps because he drew out the best parts of Clive? I do not, it seems. Virginia was right. My husband is not good enough.
Burn this letter.
Yours,
Vanessa
12 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (late afternoon)
So far I have said nothing. Lytton looks at me anxiously when he thinks no one is looking, but we have not had a moment alone together to discuss my appalling letter.
I am the one who is appalled. To have expressed so much. To have lost my nerve and crashed through the thicket of all the carefully built calm. And yet Clive and Virginia seem to notice nothing. Nothing. Clive still comes to my room at least once a week, and Virginia still prattles on, inviting me to praise her, to hear her, to heed her, to love her. And I do nothing to crack the smooth eggshell surface of our life together. Why?
But then, a dying star can light the sky for centuries after her fall.
CLIVE HAS SUGGESTED ANOTHER holiday to Cornwall. The Bells and the Stephens. Virginia clapped her lovely white hands and flashed her lovely grey eyes at the prospect. I am sure Clive truly believes this holiday was his idea, but I know better.
And—Elsie says that babies often say “Mama” before they are a year old. Julian looks at me, and I know he knows who I am, but he has yet to speak. Should I worry? Perhaps I ought to ask Ottoline?
21 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (late)
Henry Lamb came for supper. Virginia, Saxon, and Adrian were at the opera, and Lytton was with Maynard, so it was just the three of us. Henry is less affected than he used to be and dresses like an ecce
ntric. He is also less dogmatic and shrill when he speaks to Clive. He used to intimidate me with his unbridled conviction and utter absolutism. He is more civilised now.
Clive, Henry, and I stayed up and spoke about art until the early morning. Henry is now very much in the sway of Augustus John, has changed his approach to underpainting entirely, and has given up painting with black altogether. The result is a diffused, blended, less strict look. I like it enormously. Clive says that Virginia has commissioned Henry to do a portrait of me when he gets back from Edinburgh next month.
Clive insisted I show Henry my portrait of Lytton’s sister Marjorie. Clive thinks it is one of my best, but I am still ambivalent about the angle of the pose.
“Oh, I like this,” Henry said, pointing to the way the figure’s arm leaned over the table. “I like the quarter-turned shoulders and the way you do not try to make her beautiful.”
“Isn’t my wife marvellous,” Clive said, squeezing my hand with that familiar, possessive look of love and pride.
Henry was effusive in his praise and gave me some helpful advice about the troubling vase of yellow chrysanthemums. After supper we pushed back the furniture and switched on the gramophone so Henry could teach us the foxtrot. I caught on quickly, and Henry and I whirled around the rug, but Clive kept confusing the steps. He was always quick on the fourth beat when he should have been slow. Eventually, Henry took my place and danced with Clive until he got it. Lytton and Maynard stopped in at about midnight and, seeing Henry and Clive, began to dance as well.
Later (three am)
I switched on the light, but he did not move. Clive is sleeping beside me in our old bed—in our old room—tonight it feels like our room, but I know now that that feeling will go in the morning. Tonight was like sharply recalling a distant memory—the affection, the sex. Is this where our modern view of marriage has dropped us? He flirts with my sister during the day and then sleeps beside me at night? Am I to take only what I am offered? I feel passive, as if my life is being decided by others and I will be a bother to everyone if I fuss. It will not do.
