by Priya Parmar
“And Virginia?” Ottoline asked with a pragmatic clarity.
“Virginia loves that he is mine. I do not think she loves him for himself.”
“Does it really matter,” Ottoline asked, “why she loves him? Why she wants him? She is your sister. He is your husband. It is wrong. Does it matter why?”
“No,” I answered her. “I don’t think it does.”
HOAXING AT SEA
10 February 1910—46 Gordon Square (late)
“You what?” I asked, trying to understand what he was saying.
“It was terrific, Nessa,” Adrian said, rocking on his heels. He was too excited to sit down. “Just wait—Duncan and Ginia will tell you. They will be here in a moment. They walk so slowly.”
Adrian is six feet and five inches. To him, everyone walks slowly.
“Nessa!” Virginia called from the hall.
“She’s in here!” Adrian shouted back.
“Nessa, you should have come!” Virginia said breathlessly, hurling herself onto the sofa. She looked manic, agitated. “It was amazing. No, only the first bit was amazing. After a while I think I started believing it, and the whole thing began to feel quite ordinary.”
“Until Guy’s moustache started melting off,” Duncan said.
“Guy who?” I asked, getting irritated.
“Guy Ridley. You remember him, Nessa,” Adrian said. “He helped us the last time we did this in Cambridge, when we pretended to be in the court of the Sultan of Zanzibar.”
It was an absurd stunt, and I remember Thoby being cross with him for doing it. While at university, Adrian and his friends had dressed up and pretended to make a state visit to Cambridge, posing as the Sultan of Zanzibar and his entourage. Sometimes Adrian goes along with things he really shouldn’t. Now, it seemed, they had done it again. “Did you—”
“Don’t worry, Nessa. We didn’t do the sultan again,” Adrian said breezily.
“Who were you this time?” I asked, trying to summon my good humour.
“The Emperor of Abyssinia,” Adrian said proudly. “Tudor sent a cable from the Foreign Office, announcing a visit from the Emperor of Abyssinia to the H.M.S. Dreadnought. We were to inspect the ship.”
Dear God. The Dreadnought is not only the biggest and most famous ship in His Majesty’s Navy, but it is also captained by our cousin, William Fisher.
“It was fine, Nessa,” Adrian said, sensing my disapproval. “Anthony Buxton played the emperor beautifully—very regal. Duncan and Ginia were court officials, along with Guy Ridley and Horace Cole—it was all Cole’s idea really. And I was the translator. I was the only one without makeup, but I did most of the speaking,” Adrian said, leaning back in his chair.
“And what were you speaking?” I asked. “You don’t speak—”
“Swahili, we think,” Adrian said. “Mostly Anthony and Guy just said ‘bunga, bunga’ at regular intervals.”
“And what did you answer to ‘bunga, bunga’?” I asked, horrified.
“I ‘bunga, bunga-d’ back, of course,” Adrian answered. “Nessa, is there any Dundee cake?”
“He recited Virgil,” Virginia said. “Mixed up with a bit of Greek. And he looked perfectly dreadful in an ill-fitting suit.”
“Like a commercial traveller,” Duncan agreed. “But he spoke wonderfully, and what is more, Anthony Buxton, playing the emperor, caught on to the Virgil and spoke back.”
“No cake at the moment, but we have buns.” I rang for Maud. “You were speaking Latin?” I asked, trying to keep Adrian on the subject.
“With some Greek and some German and some nonsense thrown in,” Duncan said. “I think he used a bit of Lear’s ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ translated into Latin at one point.”
“The owl and the pussycat went to sea … Bunga bunga!” Adrian shouted.
“Oh my God,” I said, appalled.
“No, it really was fine, Nessa,” Adrian reassured me. “I think we were quite convincing.”
He looked happier than I have seen him since Thoby. Adrian has always adored practical jokes. As long as it is someone else’s plan. I don’t think he would like to carry the weight of the thing on his own.
“And they were wonderful hosts,” Virginia added, her face alight with the excitement of the day. I worried. She swings so quickly from melancholy to manic this winter. “They laid out a red carpet for us, and everyone was in full dress. They even offered to fire the guns, but Adrian said no, thank you. Which I thought was exactly right.”
Adrian sat taller. He rarely hears praise from Virginia. “They would have to clean all the guns out afterwards and that would be unsporting of us to cause them more work,” Adrian said. “And we did not have any lunch either, although the salmon looked wonderful. We refused on religious grounds.”
“Then it started to rain, and we worried the makeup would run, so we left,” Duncan said.
Later (midnight)
Clive came home late. I thought he had been with his whore, but he was with Roger. Roger wants Clive’s help in organising this exhibition of modern French artists in the autumn. Clive was hugely annoyed about the Dreadnought Hoax, as we are now calling it, and was very glad I did not take part. “Virginia ought to know better,” he said icily.
67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS
HAMPSTEAD, N.W.
TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090
28 February 1910
Dear Woolf,
Delightful man! I have grown so accustomed to singing for you like a siren beached up on a friendless rock. Whatever will I do with my time, now that I no longer need to lure you home?
What news of us, you ask? Lots. Remarkably, Adrian, Duncan, Virginia, Anthony Buxton (do you remember him?—he was a few years below us), and a few others whose names I cannot remember dressed up as the Emperor of Abyssinia and his entourage and toured H.M.S. Dreadnought. It has all ended badly, as the papers have got hold of it now and are having a field day at the Royal Navy’s expense. They are calling it the Dreadnought Hoax. Adrian is very pleased with himself, which I find off-putting, and Duncan feels badly about the whole thing, now that the Royal Navy has been made to look foolish. He keeps telling me how kind they were to the emperor, how they rolled out a red carpet for the emperor, how they showed such deference to the emperor, and I have to keep reminding him that there was no emperor. It all feels like Hans Christian Andersen.
In the end, Adrian and Duncan went to see Mr Reginald McKenna, the First Lord of the Admiralty. Duncan had convinced Adrian that the officers who had been so sweet to them on the ship were now headed for a military tribunal and were going to be severely punished. Duncan and Adrian went to apologise and plead for them. McKenna was quite wonderful and told them he did not hold the officers responsible at all and thought the Navy had behaved beautifully. Duncan and Adrian agreed with him and complimented him on the Navy’s hospitality. McKenna also said he would see them locked up if they did it again.
In other news, dear Leonard, I have come down with an attack of violent jealousy. It is noxious stuff, my friend. Steer clear. A man has come into our midst, an artist and art critic. He is ancient and was an Apostle while we were still in short trousers. See how unkind I am? He is a Mr Roger Fry. Do you know him? I ought to check before I begin my rant. He is, as far as Ottoline and Vanessa are concerned, captivating. My sister Dorothy and her husband, Simon Bussy, are wild about him too. He is animated and learned and respected and accomplished, and I am irritated by his perfection. Even Virginia likes him, and she never likes anyone. Do not worry on that score, he is forever married to a truly unhappy woman who is always detained in some mental institution or other.
Ottoline has had him down to Peppard Cottage twice this month, and now he has begun attending the Friday Club meetings. He is frustratingly charming, and I feel slothful, unproductive, consumptive, and uninteresting around him. I would like him to return from whence he came and leave my darling women alone. I prefer them to be dazzled by my wit and my charm, not some interloper’s par
ty tricks. Vanessa, usually so intimidated by critics, glows with opinions around him. But then she has changed altogether lately. Clive, after he showed himself to be a pig by fornicating with his Wiltshire hausfrau, has grown less substantial and Vanessa more so. Her voice carries conviction, and the room looks to her for assurance. With humour and the lightest touch, she holds the floor without trying. It impresses Clive and annoys Virginia, whose plan to unravel her sister’s marriage has misfired badly. Vanessa is more splendid for her forbearance.
You would settle Virginia wonderfully. And she would inspire you with her sharp, quirky mind. How clever I am to see what a happy couple you would make.
Yours,
Lytton
PS: It seems Vanessa is enceinte encore. I only wish it were the result of a frothy love affair and not a product of marital duty. She deserves more fun than she gets.
1 March 1910—46 Gordon Square (early—sky pale pink)
I do not think I am a modern woman. At least, I am not modern enough for this.
Last night Clive and Virginia stayed up until two in the morning in our drawing room. Maud had lit the fire, but they sat on the far sofa. Ostensibly, they were looking over Virginia’s novel. In fact, Clive was just looking at Virginia. The air around them snapped and took like a brushfire. Virginia sat very straight but was careful not to meet my eyes. She knew that if she did, I would look away. She is never happier than when she knows I am watching.
I ought to have gone to bed. I should have known that Virginia would not go home as long as I stayed up. Being alone with them, I felt pulpy and skinned. I had thought I was coming to accept this awful new incarnation of my marriage, but I am not. It was all made fresh because I was marooned in our unhappy trio. Lytton was meant to come last night, but at the last minute he went to the ballet with Saxon and Desmond. Lytton’s steady, unspoken disapproval of the shameless pair helps. He makes me feel bolstered and reasonable.
At three, unable to wait them out, I came up to bed. Five minutes later, I could hear Clive outside hailing Virginia a cab. Why can’t I learn to walk away from them and show nothing? Galling that tomorrow Clive will come down for breakfast and be perfectly charming as if tonight were all in my imagination.
9 March 1910—46 Gordon Square (pouring)
Virginia found out. Adrian mentioned it to her without thinking. As soon as he realised, he came rushing over here in the rain.
“I thought she knew,” Adrian said, removing his soaked shoes. “Lytton said everyone knew.”
“Lytton told you?” I asked, surprised. Lytton’s opinion of Clive has steeply diminished, but I did not think he would discuss it with Adrian. We all still treat Adrian like our little brother who must be shielded from any unpleasantness that rears up. “Never mind,” I said, sitting next to him on the velvet sofa. “She was bound to find out. Clive and Mrs Raven Hill are not being discreet.”
I handed him a pair of Thoby’s socks.
“Nessa,” Adrian said, digging his bare feet into the thick carpet, “she is furious.”
Later
Furious. Because her almost lover, my husband, has taken up with his former lover. And why should she be furious? It is not as if he has stopped pursuing her. But if I am worried about Mrs Raven Hill, Virginia will have lost some of her purchase in our marriage. Now she will work to reel Clive back to her. She is selfish but predictable.
At least she did not have a mad scene, I keep telling myself. Anything is better than that.
15 March 1910—46 Gordon Square (late morning)
Virginia joined us for breakfast, although she refused to eat anything. We were all off to Duncan’s studio to see his Dancers before he shows it to Roger next week. It was meant to be just Clive and I, but yesterday Virginia asked to come too.
“And Mrs Raven Hill?” Virginia said with clear and sturdy diction. “Will she be joining us to see the painting?”
Clive looked up from his paper, startled. I said nothing, unsurprised at Virginia’s tactic and curious to hear his response.
He quickly recouped his composure. “No, I don’t think she is coming to town today,” he answered.
I looked at Virginia to gauge her reaction, but she was not looking at Clive but at me.
Later
Duncan’s paintings. Besides his beautiful but unexceptional Matisse-inspired Dancers, we saw his Bathers and his Crime and Punishment. Bathers gives the viewer a sense of wild irrepressible joy. Crime and Punishment shows a woman whose heart is broken. She sits with her face in her hands and has not bothered to take off her hat.
Clive saw it, and even though Virginia was watching, he wrapped his arm around my waist. Painting unites us.
Thursday 17 March 1910—46 Gordon Square (sunny and warm)
What a fiasco. We never found the house. Admittedly, it was raining and I was grumpy. Clive and I had had a crashing row on the train. It was not a good day.
What happened:
“That can’t be it.” We stepped under a broad chestnut tree, and Clive shook out the umbrella. “It is too big and bald and new. The man is an expert in Italian painters. He would not build that.”
“It must be it,” I said, irritated that Clive refused to go and knock on the door and ask if this was Durbins, Roger Fry’s house. We had been wandering the country roads outside Guildford for over an hour. I was annoyed that when Roger suggested he collect us from the station, Clive had refused.
“Why didn’t you just agree when he offered to meet us off the train?” I asked again.
“I did not want to trouble him,” Clive said. “I did not want to seem as if I needed …”
“Directions?” I interrupted.
“Assistance,” Clive said coldly.
This was no place for an argument, but it was inevitable at this point. “Clive, that is absurd,” I said. “His house has no number. It is newly built, and no one in town has heard of it. We have no map, and it is raining. Of course we need assistance.”
Clive ignored me. “Let’s go back to the station, and we can write Roger a note and explain. I am too wet to sit down to luncheon anyway.”
I looked at him. He was the one holding the umbrella, and he was drier than I was.
And—We heard the news when we got into Victoria. The king has collapsed in Biarritz! At a dinner party last month, Margot Asquith said that he smokes at least twenty cigarettes and fifteen cigars a day and that he has been coughing all winter. How awful.
Roger Fry
Durbins
Guildford
18 March 1910
My dear Mr and Mrs Bell,
Please forgive me! I ought to have foreseen your difficulty. Durbins is an easy house to find, once you know what to look for. I am absolutely sure you passed the house several times, looked at it, and dismissed it as impossibly ugly. “How can that be the house?” you said. Do not worry. Neither my house nor I are the least offended. We shall win you in the end.
I would be delighted if you both could come for lunch this Sunday. I promise to meet you at the station, convey you easily to my house, give you a marvellous lunch and a superb walk. Please allow me to make up for yesterday!
Sincerely yours,
Roger Fry
Sunday 20 March 1910—Train from Guildford to Victoria
What is it about a train journey that makes one feel skimmed with city grit? Clive had drunk four cups of coffee and talked about Roger without stopping.
“What a brilliant multifaceted mind he has,” Clive said. “It is not just the breadth of his knowledge—which would be impressive enough—but it is how he pieces things together. I am flattered he asked me to help him with the exhibition. It is going to change everything, you know.”
We were coming back from lunch in Guildford. Roger has invited Clive to accompany him to France to help him gather paintings for his autumn exhibition at the beautiful Grafton Galleries. They are calling it “Manet and the Post-Impressionists.” I am not sure exactly what Post-Impressionism is but d
id not want to say so at luncheon.
I agree that Roger has a wonderful, active, interested mind and a unique way of making conversations feel whole and important, but my experience of the day was different from Clive’s. After lunch we went walking. I was reluctant to go, as my ankles were starting to swell. But Roger not realising I was pregnant strode ahead, and Clive did not stop to think that I might prefer resting to walking. The men marched ahead, and Mrs Fry—Helen—and I lagged behind. She had been silent throughout the meal, her hands folded in her lap, and her food growing cold. Until the coffee, when she jerked in her chair, her head spinning swiftly towards the door.
“They are not here, dearest,” Roger said, anticipating her question. “They are with my sister.”
Helen looked confused, and Roger repeated the sentence. “They are not here, dearest, they are with Joan. She has taken them to Bristol.” To us he said, “She thinks she hears our children outside.”
Helen did not turn back to the table.
“We wanted to give you some time to settle back in. Remember? You have been away, and now you are home.” This was clearly a sequence of sentences he repeated several times a day. How patient he is, I thought, watching him wait for her face to register understanding.
The conversation moved on, and Helen faded into her own thoughts once again. When we spoke of Julian, I looked over at her nervously. I did not want to discuss my happy, healthy son, from whom I could not bear to be separated for long, in her hearing. It felt cruel.
After lunch, we walked down the grassy hill behind the extraordinary house. Midway down the slope, she suggested we go up to her sitting room instead. Exhausted already, I accepted. Along the upstairs gallery, she pointed out several small oils she had painted.
“It was a lovely thing,” she said, stopping in front of a small portrait of Roger. “To be able to do that.”
