Vanessa and Her Sister

by Priya Parmar

  22 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (dawn)

  Clive has gone back to his room. I asked him to. I could not let him stay. Sex, yes. Sleep, no. This is my room now.

  25 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (late, raining)

  Virginia and Adrian, Lytton and Marjorie, Ottoline and Philip, Gwennie Darwin and Rupert Brooke (down from Cambridge), Maynard, Duncan, Lady Katherine (Katie) Thynne and her husband, Lord Cromer, and Saxon for supper this evening. Virginia went quiet several times (each time that Clive called me “darling” in fact), but Clive and Hilton took turns enticing her out. I watched Clive expertly knit the evening together. I watched him slip in and out of conversations, fuelling debate, laughter, and gossip. He makes people feel comfortable and heard. I felt flat and scattered. I kept losing the arc of the evening. Instead, I watched. I watched Clive watching Virginia.

  27 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (late)

  “Isn’t this the first novel you started, Morgan?” Clive said, taking a sandwich from the tray. Virginia looked away. She can’t bear watching people eat.

  “Yes, I started this one in 1902. But it did not feel right, so I dropped it,” Morgan said in a low voice, wiping his hands softly on his napkin.

  It is good having him back in London, however briefly. He is so often away, Greece last year, and now he is going to India. He sails on Monday.

  “I began it after Mother and I travelled in Italy in 1901,” Morgan continued quietly.

  “Why didn’t you finish it?” Lytton asked from his basket chair, where he was having trouble lighting his pipe. He never cleans his pipes properly and then complains that they won’t light. Morgan goes about his writing with such an unfussy, self-effacing grace that he is one of the few people for whom Lytton feels no real jealousy, only admiration.

  “A Room with a View is a beautiful title,” I said, handing Lytton my lighter. I’ve been smoking far less since Julian was born but still carry Great-aunt Julia’s chased silver lighter in my pocket.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said. “I like it too. I was pleased the publishers let me keep it.”

  “Why didn’t you finish it six years ago?” Virginia asked. She is bitingly jealous of Morgan and usually avoids discussing his novels, but curiosity had got the best of her.

  “I couldn’t,” Morgan said, uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. “It would not come right. The end felt too neatly patched together and too, I don’t know … resolved?” he said, his voice lifting into a question. “The problem of how to go about things, how to live as one should, as one wants to, when one can’t really. It was such a muddle.”

  I looked at Morgan, astonished. It was a lengthy and deeply personal speech for him.

  “Ah,” said Lytton. “You mean how to live as a bugger when the world tells you not to?” Everyone roared with laughter.

  “Yes, I suppose,” Morgan said, flushing. “I suppose that is it.”

  29 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (late afternoon—beautiful light)

  We are going to Cornwall. We are booked in to stay at Penmenner House, a small hotel in an area known as the Lizard—seems fitting for my family at the moment. No, Vanessa. Too forked. Too spiteful. Too obvious, really. My jealousy is seeping through.

  And—Lytton is coming with us. We will not be alone in our unhappy triangle.

  Saturday 31 October 1908—46 Gordon Square (All Souls’ Eve)

  Just home from a supper party at Ottoline and Philip Morrell’s magnificent Bedford Square house. It was a pleasant evening. Morgan was there, and we spoke some more about his new novel. I had thought that he had written himself as George Emerson, but it seems he is Lucy Honeychurch.

  “Mr Emerson—old Mr Emerson—is that not you?” I asked.

  “Ah, Mr Emerson. He is how I ought to be,” Morgan said. “But being Mr Emerson takes huge courage.”

  “Is he based on someone?” I asked.

  “I met a man once, in Italy. A Mr Edward Carpenter.” Morgan stopped mid-thought, as he sometimes does. I waited for him to resume. “He believed in love—all kinds of love. He was”—Morgan paused—“very wonderful.”

  Later

  I woke up in the night and, out of habit, checked on Julian. Seeing that he was sleeping, I came down to the darkened drawing room and sat on the long sofa overlooking the square. I thought about the conversation with Morgan, about the asymmetrical shapes of love, about the inevitable destructive quality of secrets. Morgan’s ideal is to bring the muddle into the open. He does not try to solve the muddle, he just hopes not to hide it. What a small important thing he is doing.

  12 November 1908—Penmenner House, the Lizard, Cornwall (early)

  I relish writing our current address. It is a tiny serpent joy. Everything is different from the last time we holidayed here. But the activities remain stubbornly unchanged: breakfasting, painting, walking, writing, piquet, reading, and talking—always the talking. I really could do without so much talking. I have nothing to say. Instead I seethe. Have they noticed that I no longer talk? No. Because now we are translated into another language—a language of ragged-edged undercurrents and bitten-off consonants rather than the open-armed, snareless friendship of good.

  Lytton watches them, fascinated by their boldness, by their shamelessness really. Clive’s pursuit and Virginia’s encouragement. Their pretexts are long-winded and their excuses reed thin. Each afternoon Virginia goes walking, and it is only Clive who joins her. Lytton is astonished. But he can’t help being fascinated by Virginia.

  Later

  We stayed up late as Lytton and Virginia talked about his intended novel. From what I can tell, the plot involves a prime minister, a don’s wife, a saucy footman, and some prostitutes. He won’t actually write scenes of buggery, but he means to brush very close. He and Virginia sat by the fire hashing out ways for this unlikely medley of characters to believably interact. Virginia grew agitated (as she often does around good writers) and abruptly ended the conversation by asking Lytton to please confine his genius to nonfiction. Clive watched from the sofa looking stormy.

  Friday 13 November 1908—Penmenner House, the Lizard, Cornwall (early morning)

  I went in to visit Lytton over his breakfast tray. His routine is unshakeable. Soft-boiled egg, toast, coffee, and his letters all taken on a tray in bed.

  “I have been thinking about triangles,” Lytton said, dunking his toast in his egg. “We all love in triangles. Duncan, Maynard, and me. James, Henry, and Rupert. And now Clive, Virginia, and you. And Ottoline always has a triangle going on with some man or woman.”

  “Ottoline is a Sapphist?” Did I know that?

  “Only sometimes. She is having an affair with Augustus John at the moment. I don’t think Philip minds, especially as he is always entangled in a romance of his own. You know she has a beautiful, long, low country home where she stashes them? Peppard Cottage. I have often stayed there.”

  “And do you participate in these liaisons with Ottoline?” I asked, half-teasing.

  “At one point I worried she might be expecting it, and I thought I would have to pack my bags and go as it would be too ghastly, but no. She knows I am a bugger.”

  “Ha!” How I love Lytton’s pragmatic indecency. I kissed his forehead and left him to his breakfast.

  Later (afternoon)

  “Does he know he is making himself ridiculous?” Lytton asked, dropping into the wicker armchair opposite and picking up the thread of our ongoing discussion of Clive. “He is becoming a buffoon. He was already mostly a buffoon, but now he is really finishing the job.”

  “Does anyone know when they are becoming ridiculous? Is there such a thing as ridiculous, or is it just a social construction?” I asked. That was the sort of circular philosophical nonsense question that Thoby used to ask during our earnest Thursday evenings. Now we mostly gossip and talk about sex.

  “No,” Lytton answered. “No, he does not know. Nor does he think that you suspect. You are playing the part of the unwitting wife
perfectly.”

  “And Virginia?”

  “She wants you to know. It is your attention she’s after, not his. She does not care about Clive. It is you she loves.” Lytton gestured out the window. Virginia and Clive were coming up the walk. Virginia’s hat was off, and her cheeks were whipped raw with pink. They paused on the path, their heads bent close. Clive watched intently as Virginia pinned her hat back into place. Virginia waited as Clive tugged self-consciously at his jacket.

  Lytton, also watching, leaned forward to me. “You know nothing has happened between them, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “It is not nothing.”

  My sister and my husband opened the front door and let the cold air in.

  VIRGINIA

  20 November 1908—46 Gordon Square (London!)

  Home and a raft of notes and cards were piled upon the hall table waiting for me. Invitations:

  Ottoline: yes

  Aunt Anny: yes

  Gerald: no

  As well, there was a stack of post for Virginia. She still receives about half of her correspondence here. An envelope from Mr Cecil Headlam, Walter’s brother. I will walk it over to her now.

  And—My God, Thoby, it has been two years today. I feel decades older, and you are still a golden twenty-six.

  Later (one am)

  Home. Exhausted. It happened. I suppose it had to happen.

  Tonight:

  “Virginia, aren’t you going to open it?” I asked, watching her toss Cecil Headlam’s letter onto the kindling pile.

  “No. I already know what it says, and I know I don’t want to.” Virginia slumped deeper into her wingback chair. It used to be Father’s, and I can remember him adopting that same sulky position.

  “Well, then, I will answer Cecil. What does he want?”

  “He wants me to help write Walter’s memoir. He wants to know if I have any particular memories I want included. And I don’t.” Virginia pointedly took up her book. I looked at the spine. Eliot. The Mill on the Floss. She’s reading it again.

  “Dearest Billy Goat.” I could feel myself wheedling and stopped. If she wished to insult Cecil, I was not going to prevent her. Virginia is determined to behave badly in every quadrant of her life at the moment, and nothing I say seems to stop her. I picked the letter up out of the pile and began looking around for my hatpin, lost in the sofa cushions.

  “Nessa, that is my letter. What do you want with it?” Virginia challenged.

  “I am going to write to him, since you seem to be too ill-mannered to do so.”

  I was shocked when Virginia leapt from her chair and snatched the envelope out of my hand.

  “It is mine. Do not touch what is mine.” Virginia’s face had taken on a feral malevolence. I should have called out for Adrian. I should have sent for Dr Savage.

  “What is yours, Virginia?” I asked softly. I too could be dangerous. “Do you want to discuss what is yours and what is mine? Do you really?”

  But Virginia was trapped in a cyclone of anger and resentment by then and too far gone to hear my warning.

  She was muttering to herself, “Mine, Nessa. You do not get to have everything and everyone. Some things are mine. Walter was mine. He did not love you. You think that everyone must love you? You? The perfect mother. The perfect wife. Walter didn’t. Walter loved me.” She was pacing. For once I was unafraid of her madness. Unmoved by her fragile mind.

  “Yes, Walter loved you. He even asked to marry you.” I watched her stride back and forth in front of the fireplace.

  “Yes, yes, he did. He thought I was beautiful and brilliant. He told me I had a classically noble disposition, Vanessa. A noble disposition, unlike you, who have become some sort of breeding animal, dribbling milk and grunting at her piglet. How could you, Nessa, when you were so splendid.”

  I stepped back, stung.

  “Beautiful and brilliant,” she continued. “He told everyone he thought so. Beautiful and brilliant.” She was repeating herself. A bad sign that I should have heeded, but I refused to bend to her instability. “He said that there was no one who could touch me, no one who could best me. And so he asked me to marry him.”

  “Yes.” I paused. “Just as Clive asked me.” His name fell like a stone through the thickened air.

  “Clive.” Virginia had stopped pacing. “Clive and you.”

  “Yes. And now it is Clive and you.” I held very still.

  “That is not my fault, Nessa,” Virginia said, pulling at her hair and shifting from foot to foot. “Not my fault. I cannot help how he feels.”

  “No. I do not believe that.” I looked at her levelly, insisting she remain calm. “You have pursued this, Virginia. And I could have forgiven you, had you fallen in love with him. Had you felt sincere passion or even real affection, I could have made sense of my sister doing this atrocious thing. But you are not in love. You are jealous. You cannot bear to be left out. And so you have broken what you could not have.”

  “And what if it is broken?” Her chin lifted in rebellion. “He is not enough for you, Nessa. He is not up to being a man in our family. I am your sister. Our relationship is unbreakable. What does it matter what happens between you and that thing, Clive?”

  “Nothing is unbreakable,” I said quietly.

  Virginia stood still. All her wildness tamed.

  Still later (three am)

  I go over it in my mind. How I should have said this, and this. How I should have raised all her terrible destruction to the surface like a shipwrecked boat dredged up from the sea floor. But that would have given the fracture a shape, a dimension—a definite perimeter to the ruin. This way has a subtle cruelty. This way will torment. She will spend years trying to map the rift she caused and sound the damage. She will push on the bruise and grow frantic trying to repair the creeping remoteness. It is the unkindest thing I have ever done. And I will not relent. I will not do otherwise. Damn her. And damn him.

  18 December 1908—46 Gordon Square

  This morning, when I went to take Julian from Elsie, he looked at me and with his voice full of purpose, said “Mama.”

  PROPOSALS

  Roger Fry

  Chantry Dene

  18 Fort Road

  Guildford, Surrey

  6 January 1909

  Dearest Mother,

  I spent all yesterday with the architects, Mr Clemence and Mr Moon, talking about the house I intend to build here in Guildford. They suggested several wonderful innovations to make the home more comfortable (radiators hidden under the floorboards!) and the plans should be ready by next week. I will bring them when I next come to London.

  I feel sure that leaving London was the right thing to do. Here Helen will be able to rest and recover in peace. She is still in hospital, but Dr Chambers is hoping she can be released by the end of the month. Joan has taken the children to Bristol so that I can work. For the last two weeks, the doctor has advised me not to visit Helen, as her outbursts have turned violent again. I should hate to see her restrained, even for her own safety. There are days when I feel in the grip of crashing sadness. We began with such an ignorant happiness. We had no idea such things could happen. And now. How could we have come to this place? I am choking in the swollen dark.

  And then I shake myself and return to my industry. It is the only answer. I am working with my former assistant, Burroughs, in New York to negotiate a marvellous Renoir for the museum, La Famille Charpentier. It is an unusual composition and has so far been undervalued. I hope this neglect persists long enough for me to buy it. There is also a Whistler (a portrait of M. Theodore Duret—wonderful—owned by King Leopold) that would be perfect for the Met. Burroughs (who has replaced me as curator) agrees and is travelling over next month to see them both.

  I hope you and Father are still planning to come for Sunday lunch? Let me know the time, and I will meet the train.

  All love,

  Roger

  Thursday 21 January 1909—46 Gordon Square (frosty)
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br />   “And she is fifteen!” Lytton lit his pipe and then handed me his lighter, and sat back in his customary chair.

  “And James is … ?” I relit my cigarette. We were having Thursday night here tonight, as Julian has a cold and I did not want to leave him. Since we returned from Paris, we have been meeting at Virginia and Adrian’s. It was still early. Clive was dressing, and Lytton and I were in the drawing room discussing his brother’s latest romantic misadventure.

  “James is still besotted by Brooke, and Brooke is besotted by this fifteen-year-old Miss Noel Olivier. Rupert is absurd, writing sometimes three or four letters a day to this schoolgirl. But then if one is in love, letters are a moment of relief until the frenzy subsides.”

  I looked at Lytton. This autumn he has done his best to make peace with Duncan and Maynard. It is a courageous thing.

  “I suppose I see it in a carnal, objective way, as he is astonishing to look at, but I just do not see the point of Brooke. He is so self-satisfied and, I don’t know, lazy—yes, lazy.” Lytton reached for another slice of cake.

  “Lazy? You only say that because he is not interested in being friends with you,” I said.