by Priya Parmar
“Yes,” I said. I looked closer at the painting. It was an expressive, intimate, beautifully wrought portrait of her husband. His head was bent over a book, and the painting captured Roger’s absorption and joy. “It is stunning,” I said truthfully.
“Thank you,” Mrs Fry said. “I loved being an artist.”
It was a sad comment, spoken as though she no longer had the skill or artistry to paint. But said without self-pity.
She led me into a small, pretty room. “How soon?” she asked.
“Soon?” I repeated.
“You are expecting a baby, aren’t you?” she said, sitting on a curved velvet sofa. “Men never notice these things. Roger has no idea or he would never have insisted on a walk.” She pulled a low, embroidered footstool over. “Please put your feet up. When I was pregnant with Julian, I could not go more than an hour without resting my feet. They would start to look like huge root vegetables if I didn’t.”
“Your son is Julian?” I asked. Roger had never mentioned his son’s name.
“Yes, my son is also Julian. And my daughter is Pamela.”
I reached out my hand to her. She had been there at the table, this sad, kind, talented woman. She had heard everything, but had been unable to speak to us.
Later (home)
We got back to find Adrian in the drawing room. He came to tell us that he had called Dr Savage. He says the voices have been at Virginia today, and she has been clawing at the skin on her neck. Clive and I went over right away.
Very late (four am)
Dr Savage administered a sedative. She did not resist. She must sense that she is nearing a cliff. The doctor says she will be all right if she can stay calm and sleep.
3 April 1910—46 Gordon Square
She has found her way back to herself. In the last week she has rested and eaten more than usual. Not an easy thing for Virginia, and I am proud of her.
Tuesday 5 April 1910—46 Gordon Square (feels like spring)
“They would be wonderful together. I’m right, Nessa, you’ll see,” Lytton said, tipping his face to the sun.
I was pleased he was outside. Lytton has been feeling unwell since Christmas. We were sitting on a bench in Gordon Square, and Lytton was explaining why Mr Woolf would be a perfect husband for Virginia. I am not sure. But then I don’t really remember him. His name conjures the memory of an angular, serious, bony-faced boy with floppy brown hair whom Thoby loved dearly. But someone has to marry Virginia. She is twenty-eight and can’t go on living with Adrian much longer. I am sure it is at the root of her unrest this spring.
“And how does Mr Woolf feel about this?” I asked him.
“Oh, he is quite sure she is the only woman for him,” Lytton said.
“How is he sure?” I asked. “He’s only met her a few times, and that was years ago.”
“Yes, but he trusts me. And I am sure. You will be too. I know it.”
I do not trust his complacent logic, but there was no time to discuss it further. Ottoline has invited Lytton to Bedford Square for every Tuesday evening in April. Lytton has arrived.
And—Began a large painting of the seaside today. I think it is Studland Beach. Here is what I know: it is by the water. The figures will be a mixture of children and adults. The shoreline is stark. Faces will be vague.
Later
We have argued. Clive came in to talk to me while I had my bath, and I wish now that he hadn’t. He asked me about my day, Julian, my painting, and the new nanny we are planning to hire, but he became shorttempered when I told him that I spent the day with Lytton. He is increasingly hostile towards Lytton lately. I am sure it stems from Lytton and Virginia’s bungled engagement.
KING EDWARD VII
12 April 1910—46 Gordon Square
I had returned from an afternoon of shopping—Whiteleys for more baby clothes, Hatchards for novels, and Fortnum’s for cake and a baby cup, as well as a quick stop into the Royal Academy to see the new Titian exhibition—when Duncan turned up for tea. He had been in his studio and had flakes of green paint on his nails, but beyond that he looked as unruffled as ever. I look wild after a day in the studio; paint in my hair and on my nose, and stains on my dress even though I wear a smock.
We opened the new tin of cake, and Maud brought the tea. Duncan likes his tea very sweet. Our talk was surprising. He is about to go up and visit his parents in Scotland. From what I understand, they have a very happy if unconventional relationship. Each engages in prolonged but discreet love affairs but never deserts the marriage. It is equitable and functional. Duncan’s voice held no judgement when he told me. I was flattered by the confidence. He rarely discusses his family. Nor does he ever discuss his own messy, heartbreaking romances. Duncan believes that love is a private business. The conversation left me wondering if I am the only woman in England who has not strayed from her marriage.
And—Now Desmond is also going to Paris in the summer to pull together the paintings for Roger’s exhibition. It is turning into a holiday, and I wish I could go.
Friday 22 April 1910—46 Gordon Square (muggy)
“Nessa!” Virginia called from the downstairs study as I came through the door at Fitzroy Square. “Nessa! Mr Fry has to go to Poland today!”
“What?” I looked at Virginia, surprised. She was not usually so exuberant.
“On Tuesday,” Roger said calmly.
“Poland?” I took a seat by the window. “Why Poland?”
“I am buying a picture for the industrialist Mr Henry Clay Frick in New York. He has an extensive collection, and he wants this painting badly.” Mr Fry helped himself to another sandwich and sat forward in his chair. His mobile face animated with delight. “Rembrandt’s The Polish Rider—unique, beautiful. You would love the layered brushwork, Nessa,” he said, leaning farther forward. “Stunning texture.”
Roger’s plate was balanced precariously on his knees. Was it rude to reach out and steady it?
“Wasn’t there a question of authorship?” I asked, wishing I could remember the circumstances.
“Yes!” Roger clapped his hands. “Yes, wonderful! How clever of you to know the work! There was a question, but it has been resolved. It is thought now to be from Rembrandt’s latest period, around 1654. A marvellous picture.”
“The scale is unusual, is it not?” I asked, flushed with happiness that I had said something clever.
“Yes, the scale is—”
“Yes, but tell her whom you are buying from,” Virginia interrupted, steering the conversation away from the technical aspects of painting.
“Ah yes. It is Count Adam Amor Tarnowski von Tarnów and his wife. They have a wonderful family collection.” To my relief, Roger set the plate on the low table.
“A Polish count married to a Polish princess,” Virginia said. She does not like to admit to it, but she is captivated by the aristocracy. Even Ottoline and her eccentric aristocratic relations fascinate her.
“I was telling your sister, the count’s wife is the Princess Marie swiatopelk-Czetwertynska,” Roger said with difficulty. “I shall have to practise her name over the next few days. Luckily, the count prefers to be called Adam.”
“How dull,” Virginia said. “Names are so important.”
29 April 1910—46 Gordon Square (seven pm)
Back from Fitzroy Square. The conversation inevitably turned to names (baby boy names—I have thought of none). Virginia, keen to move the conversation away from babies, asked us to help her with character names for her novel. Today she has fixed upon the name “Rachel Vinrace” for her heroine.
“It is not a sweet name,” I said.
“I do not think it is meant to be,” Roger said, looking at Virginia.
7 May 1910—46 Gordon Square (early)
The king is dead! Clive just came in to tell me.
The Prince of Wales told the king that his horse, The Witch of the Air, had won at Kempton Park. And the king responded, “I am very glad.” His last words. He died late last ni
ght.
Friday 20 May 1910—46 Gordon Square (day of the Royal Funeral)
In the end, we went. Everyone went. We stood near Hyde Park Corner and watched the funeral procession. All his children were there, and every crowned head in Europe. They look alike—but then they all had the same grandmother, so I suppose they would look alike. The older generation are moustachioed and dignified (Kaiser Wilhelm and Tsar Nicholas of Russia both have magnificent moustaches), and the younger set, like the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the Duke of Aosta, were dapper and bright. The children (all shouldering hefty names like Prince Heinrich something something of Prussia) marched along without complaining. The dowager queen and all the ladies rode in carriages and were harder to see.
The whole day made me feel sentimental about the old king. We dined at Ottoline’s later, and everyone was telling royal anecdotes. There were all the predictable old threads of gossip—Lillie Langtry and Alice Keppel—but there were other, less salacious stories I had never heard. Ottoline (who is distantly related to the royal family—I suppose you can see it with that extraordinary chin of hers) says that Bertie was a genuinely affectionate father, holding his children when they were first born and taking time to play with them as they grew up. Apparently he was devastated when his youngest son, John, died after only one day. He insisted on placing him in the tiny casket himself and by all accounts was openly weeping at the funeral. That made me like him very much.
67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS
HAMPSTEAD, N.W.
TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090
23 May 1910
Dear Woolf,
Cambridge is wrapped in black. The colleges all sport huge mourning wreaths over the doors. The Edwardian era was brief but poignant. That sentence made me feel one hundred years old. I do not like change at all, but it feels as though it is afoot. My apologies, terrible form to complain while the nation mourns, but what to do? My health has faded, away like spring fog. Virginia is headed straight for Bedlam, Vanessa is pregnant, Clive is an amoral pig, Duncan is being evasive, Maynard is a revoltingly successful new don, Desmond is procreating, my sister Dorothy is annoyed with me, Henry Lamb is entangled with Ottoline, and I find all of England dissatisfying today. Complaining is the only answer. Could you possibly come home sooner?
With love,
Lytton
P.S. Virginia will surely be fully recovered by the time you return.
30 May 1910—46 Gordon Square (hot and fuggy—all the windows thrown open)
“Post-Impressionist?” I asked Roger, who was sitting in Lytton’s basket chair by the tall window.
“Yes!” he said, looking at me over his sketchbook. We were alone in the drawing room. Clive had gone out on one of his unexplained errands and would collect Virginia, who was joining us for supper, on his way back. Virginia has been dining with us most evenings. It makes more sense while her mood is so precarious and her madness looms. Lytton was expected soon and would also stay for supper, as would Desmond, who would be late as always. Julian was napping, and Roger was taking advantage of this small pocket of stillness to do some studies for a portrait of me. When I suggested he wait until after Clarissa’s birth, he flatly refused and said, “But you are so perfectly you right now. Why wait?” I could not argue with such tangled, kind logic.
“But what does it mean, Post-Impressionist?” I asked. “Obviously it is the school of thinking that comes after the Impressionists, but what does that mean? What do they believe?” I sat forward, ruining Roger’s composition. I have grown unafraid of looking silly in front of this man. I do not mind the stamp of ignorance, as I know he could never feel contempt. It is not within his spectrum of emotions. It is a relief to show myself to be brazenly uneducated with Roger. He never makes me feel stupid. Instead, he is consistently delighted in my questions and answers them all with somersaulting excitement rather than condescension. Strangely, I have grown self-conscious in front of Clive and am afraid of looking foolish when he is watching. It is not that Clive would criticise me, but I know he compares me to Virginia. Her clear mind against my illogical sentiment. Just as Father used to do. Sad, when Clive used to make me feel so free.
“Yes, that is just what it is,” Roger said, his eyes crinkling as he spoke. “It is the work of the Fauves but so much more than that. These artists—Manet, Cézanne, Gauguin, Derain, Matisse, Van Gogh, Seurat, Picasso—they do not care for replication. If distorting a subject’s features will reveal the artist’s sensibility, so be it. They do not need to prove that they can accurately reflect what a subject looks like. Not for a still life, nor a landscape, nor a portrait. Instead they show us what a subject feels like to them. It is so personal. So courageous. It is remarkable.”
“Manet does not care for replication?” I asked. I had seen his wonderful Olympia and Gare Saint-Lazare again the last time Clive and I were in Paris.
“Manet is the starting point,” Roger said. “The departure from Impressionism to all that has come later. I chose Manet because he was one of the very first to reject Impressionism. It was his own school of thinking, and he turned away from it. And so we are calling the exhibition ‘Manet and the Post-Impressionists.’ ”
“It was the only name we could think of,” Desmond said lightly as he walked into the room. He was early—surprising. “Roger wanted to call it Expressionism, but that sounded … what did I say it sounded, Roger?”
“You said it sounded unimportant,” Roger said.
“You could think of?” I was confused. I turned to Desmond. “Are you in on this as well? I thought you were just going along to Paris to round up paintings.”
“Roger asked me to be the secretary for the exhibition. He seems to think I have a head for business. He is mistaken, of course.”
“I am not mistaken,” Roger said cheerfully. “You managed to get the Grafton Galleries a twenty per cent commission on sales when previously they have only ever managed eleven. Remarkable. Nessa!” he said, refocusing on his sketch, “stay just there. Lean back a bit. Yes! That’s wonderful!”
But I could not stay there. It was uncomfortable, and I had to twist to speak to Desmond. Roger put down his sketchbook and selected a cake from the tray of pastries.
“Twenty per cent? Desmond, how did you manage twenty per cent?” I asked.
“Roger sent me into the meetings with the dealers, and I was totally unprepared. When they asked how much the gallery wanted in commission, I hadn’t the faintest idea what was right. I asked for twenty, and they agreed. But the whole thing will fail, and I doubt any of the paintings will sell, so it hardly matters. But for the moment, I feel unexpectedly shrewd.”
I looked over at Roger, but he seemed perfectly comfortable hearing his exhibition described as a failure. He was enjoying his cake and getting crumbs all over his jacket. Roger always manages to look dishevelled. Clive says he can make the best clothes look awful, but I don’t agree. I like his broken-in, rumpled look.
“You really don’t think it will be a success?” I ventured.
“Oh no,” Roger answered, his good humour unaffected. “The English public will hate it. The English artists will hate it, and I am sure it will be a commercial disaster. But it is the beginning of something. Something important. And that is what matters.”
And—I decided this morning that my seaside bathers will wear hats. The sand has become very clean. Flat. Uniform. The water is in the upper-right corner.
31 May 1910—46 Gordon Square
We’ve had another argument about Lytton. Clive came home and found Lytton, Virginia, and me in the garden drinking lemonade. I was pleased that Virginia was sounding more like herself. She has been so shaky and off-pitch in the last few months. Clive stood in the doorway but refused to come outside. When everyone left, I confronted him, but all he did was shout at me about “that damned effeminate bugger.” His petty jealousy over Virginia’s friendship with Lytton is absurd.
TWICKENHAM
1 June 1910—46 Gordon Square (sunny)
Apparently she was standing at the sideboard, looking out the window, when the plate dropped from her hand. It smashed at her feet, but she did not seem to notice. Maud called for me to come down and then swept up the hunks of china, but Virginia did not move. I found Virginia talking to herself in the dining room.
“Virginia?”
Nothing.
“Virginia?” I said again, putting my hand lightly on her arm.
“Is someone in the garden, Nessa?” she asked without lifting her eyes from the window.
“No one is out there,” I said, gently tugging her arm, trying to draw her towards Thoby’s study. We still call it that. I knew Virginia would feel safe surrounded by Thoby’s things.
“No!” Virginia said sharply.
I went to get Clive.
Six pm
Clive came, and together we got Virginia upstairs to her old room. I tucked her into one of my nightgowns and bundled her into bed. We debated sending for the doctor. By now Virginia was sitting up in bed chatting with Adrian, who had come straight over when he received my note. She seemed better. In the dining room I had felt her resting on a knife’s edge. Now she seemed easier in herself.
