by Priya Parmar
31 July 1910—46 Gordon Square
No Clarissa yet. I feel sure she is fully cooked in there and ought to emerge any day now.
Clive has just been to see Virginia. Apparently she has set about seducing a Sapphic Swedish woman in the sanatorium—how alliterative—and apparently, half the ward is in love with her. Luckily, the amorous Swede was discharged before hearts were broken. Even with women, Virginia enjoys the mental seduction rather than the physical. Even the matron, Miss Thomas, a practical and sensible if overly religious woman, has also fallen headlong for Virginia. Virginia can be maddeningly charming when she chooses to be.
Later (hot and uncomfortable!)
Clive, Julian, and I went walking in Russell Square this evening. It is as far as I can manage. Clive and I sat on a bench, and Julian chased fireflies.
“Thoby loved fireflies,” I said, apropos of nothing. Julian reminds me more of Thoby every day.
And—Miss Thomas plans to accompany Virginia on a walking tour of Cornwall once Virginia is declared sane again. Perhaps by the middle of August.
GRATIAN
20 August 1910—46 Gordon Square (hot)
Not a girl. And not in July. He arrived yesterday, 19 August—three weeks late. I was so sure. We had an understanding, a communication. It was one-sided, it seems. Julian has a brother and will be thrilled. I was startled, certainly, but recovered from my disappointment as soon as he lay on my chest. He is here, and he is whole. That is all I asked for. I have decided to call him Gratian. Too exhausted to write more. I do not remember being this undone by Julian.
Later
Snow left last Monday, after hanging about for two weeks, and I wish she hadn’t. At the time, I felt like an inadequate hostess for not producing the baby I had promised. Unable to pull the rabbit from the top hat, I asked her to go home. Now I have asked Clive to cable and ask her to return. “Not Virginia?” Clive asked, hopeful.
“Not Virginia,” I said, standing my ground.
21 August 1910—46 Gordon Square
Everyone hates the name. Not indifference but dislike. I am wavering.
Later (six pm)
Clive is sweet but nervous and just as inept as I remember him being. He is reluctant to hold the baby. I told him to buck up. At least this time I know he will grow into his fatherhood. He left to write to Virginia, who has finished her rest cure and has begun a walking tour with Miss Thomas. Virginia wrote letter after letter complaining of this woman and then went on holiday with her. Strange.
And—I know babies often lose weight just after they are born, but Gratian is losing too much. He is spindly, frail. Worried.
24 August 1910—46 Gordon Square (ten am)
“Hadrian?” Saxon offered. He had been sitting in the corner with Gibbon’s Latin dictionary for the last three hours.
“No,” I said, annoyed by the subject. I am not up out of bed, but visitors are flocking in and out of my bedroom.
“Pausanius?”
“No, Saxon.” Adrian and Duncan had left for lunch, and Clive was off, most likely penning another letter to Virginia.
“Viggo?”
The baby’s name is not sitting well with anyone, including the baby. I must come up with something else. Julian was such a Julian when he was born. His name settled on him like a wave on the shore. Gratian is bumpy and loose and not settling on my new baby at all.
Later
“Clive, you cannot just disappear!” I hissed at him. The house had not emptied. Saxon, Adrian, Duncan, Maynard, Desmond, Aunt Anny, Molly, and Snow were all downstairs. Lytton is still in Sweden for his health cure, and Morgan left to dine with his publisher but will be back tonight. Gerald and George and George’s wife, Margaret, are due any minute and will be appalled by the collection of buggers in the drawing room. I needed Clive to stay and keep all the social feathers from ruffling, but he kept vanishing up to his study or out to meet art dealers, or out to meet Mrs Raven Hill for all I knew.
“I didn’t disappear. I have been cooped up in the house for days,” Clive said irritably. “You have dozens of people to help you. What do you need me for?”
“Clive, we have guests—lots of guests, and I want you to be the host. I cannot get out of bed and cannot control the rumpus downstairs. Could you please do that for me?”
“These people are driving me mad, Nessa,” Clive complained, dropping heavily into a fraying armchair. “I am leaving for Paris in a few weeks. I am meant to be helping Roger organise the exhibition. Desmond does not have the least idea about how to put this all together. I have things to do!”
“But Desmond is—”
“Desmond is acting as secretary for Roger for the exhibition,” Clive interrupted. “He is helping collect the paintings, set the commissions, that sort of thing.”
“Yes. I know.” I cannot bear Clive when he becomes pompous. “I was going to suggest that you talk to him here. After all, he is downstairs!”
Clive shot me an exasperated look. Clearly, I had missed the point. Clive was feeling trapped in our overstuffed house and needed to escape.
And—Should I try the other broad branch of the Roman Augustan tree? What about Claudian?
Later (two pm)
I decided to take a different tack. When Clive came in after luncheon, I tried to speak to him again.
“Clive, I know you have things to do. You need to get out. I understand.” I took a deep cool breath. “But before you go, could you look in on the guests downstairs? And since you want to get away, could you make arrangements to go and get Julian from Wiltshire?” That is what I had been waiting to ask him.
“Nessa!” Clive leapt out of his chair and began to pace around the bedroom.
“Clive, you said you would go and get Julian from your parents as soon as the baby came. And now he is here.”
“Yes, he is. And I will get Julian. It is just not the right time now.” Clive was pacing between the window and the door.
“Why isn’t it the time?” I asked, exasperated. “Your Mrs Raven Hill? Is she away?”
“Yes,” Clive said, surprising me with honesty, “she is, but that is not the point.”
“What is the point?” I shifted uncomfortably in the bed. I am constantly uncomfortable. I remember the month’s rest after Julian being peaceful and happy. I do not remember this feeling of being pulled apart like wax and being unable to come back together again.
“The point is that there are things that need to be done in London!” Clive said, his voice rising.
“Clive—”
“No, Nessa. As you said, we have a houseful of guests, a new baby, a new nurse, you’re in bed, and it just does not make sense to leave to fetch one more person into the house.”
“That one more person is your son,” I said icily.
“Of course he is,” Clive said, sensing his misstep. “But Elsie will come back with him. I have no idea if Sloper and Maud have organised the new nurse’s rooms—have they, Nessa? Did you see to that? What is she called? Margaret?” He sat on the edge of the bed, tipping the mattress down in a way that irritated me.
“Mabel. Of course I organised it. I put her in the room next to Elsie. Julian will be in the night nursery. Gratian is here with me. Snow is in Virginia’s room, and all the other guests go home and sleep in their own beds.”
“And Virginia?” Clive said, avoiding my gaze.
“Virginia is in Cornwall, as far as I know. Is she in Cornwall, Clive?”
“How should I know where she is?” Clive said quickly. Too quickly.
Much later (one am—the baby just fell asleep)
“You asked her to come back. Didn’t you?” I said, choosing to be direct. I was too exhausted for anything else.
“She is your sister. Of course I cabled her. I cabled your aunt and my parents and brother too—would you like to see the receipts?”
“Yes, but you asked her to come back, didn’t you? You knew I did not want her here, and you asked her to come back.”
Clive di
d not answer. That is why he won’t go and get Julian. That is why he is restless. He is waiting for Virginia.
And—The baby is not sucking as he should. He cannot grab hold of the thing. His instincts are off. Or my instincts are off? I am less adept this time around. He is smaller the Julian was. Less substantial. Terrified. Cannot sleep. The doctor is coming tomorrow.
Roger Fry
Durbins
Guildford
25 August 1910
My dear Vanessa,
Congratulations! I just received Clive’s note about the baby. How very wonderful. I hope you are well and taking very great care of yourself. Forgive me—how indelicate to mention such things. But it is such a very traumatic process. I hope you are being truly spoiled in care and affection. I would very much like to visit once the house settles and the little one has found his feet a bit. Please let me know when would be convenient. I really am very, very pleased for you and your family.
Yours sincerely,
Roger
26 August 1910—46 Gordon Square
Clive will not go to Wiltshire to collect Julian. We had a row. I am sure everyone—servants, guests, neighbours, family—all heard it, and I don’t care. Clive is behaving appallingly. He wants us to go on holiday to Cornwall next month and to stop and collect Julian on the way.
I flatly refused. I am going to spend the rest of the requisite month convalescing in bed, and then I will go to collect Julian from Clive’s horrible family myself since Clive refuses to go for me. Clive is stalling. He is hoping Virginia will appear.
Two pm
The doctor just left. This is the third time he has been here this week. He did not say anything new. Try to remain calm. Try to nurse. If it fails, try again. That is terrible advice. How can I possibly remain calm when my baby is starving? His weight has dropped again. Why is no one but me panicking?
And—A letter arrived from Clive’s mother. She suggests I leave the baby with a wet nurse and take a short holiday. Clive must have put her up to writing that letter. I tore it up.
28 August 1910—46 Gordon Square
The baby was up all night again. He is not gaining weight. His indignant wails have given way to small yelps of misery. It is heartbreaking.
Later (three am)
Everyone is still in the drawing room. How did I keep these hours before? I just checked on the baby, and Mabel is now upstairs trying to get him to sleep. Clive gets annoyed when I go up there. He does not understand why we are paying a nurse if I won’t let her get on with it. He has a point, but I am too anxious about the baby to be away from him for long.
Tonight was amusing in glimpses but overall it was infuriating. Harry Norton ambushed me when I came downstairs and asked if I was “bearing up all right.” I assumed he was referring to the trouble with the baby and was touched that he asked, but no. He said that he had had several letters from Virginia, and she implied that I was missing her quite terribly. Not five minutes later, Henry Lamb asked me the same thing. Galling.
29 August 1910—46 Gordon Square
“Stephen?” Adrian asked.
“His name already has Stephen in it,” I answered, handing him his coffee. We were still looking for the right baby name. So far I have been too distracted to focus on it. Clive is frustrated because he does not know what to tell his parents. I do not care what he tells his parents, but as they are giving us a gift of a thousand pounds, I know I should probably come up with something.
“Claudian?” suggested Saxon. Saxon was still going through the Latin dictionaries. I like Claudian, but it feels too formal for a baby. It conjures Roman elephants.
“Quentin?” Duncan said. He had been eating cake, and his mouth was rather full.
“Quentin?” I repeated. “Quentin.” I rolled the word over my tongue.
Snow came in, holding the baby. She is leaving tomorrow, and I am desperate for her to stay.
“Mabel will be down in a minute, but I think he just wants you.” She handed me the squalling baby.
“Quentin Claudian Stephen Bell? Yes.”
46 GORDON SQUARE
BLOOMSBURY
TELEPHONE: 1608 MUSEUM
30 August 1910
Dearest Virginia,
Quentin Claudian Stephen Bell. Quentin for short. It suits his antiquated spirit. Clarissa was a Trojan horse. Perhaps she will come another day. In the meantime, I am very glad to have my newest darling boy to take her place.
How is the ocean? Kiss it for me. I am afraid, with two small boys, we shall never make it to the seaside again. I understand that you have been encouraging us to holiday in Cornwall. I can hear you now, vehemently denying it. Be honest, Billy Goat. Did you suggest it to Clive? Did you imply that our summer would be far more pleasant spent by the sea? Yes. I thought so.
Write and walk, dearest, and enjoy the salty air.
Yours,
Nessa
PS: Virginia, do stop alarming our friends. It is awkward when they hear from you that I am wasting away with missing you and then see me in perfectly good humour and health.
31 August 1910—46 Gordon Square
A rare and beautiful evening.
Roger came tonight. Roger plus the usual mob that descends on our house at nine pm. Thursday nights have bled out into the rest of the week, and now our circle seem to always be here. Desmond and Molly were unable to make it, but Adrian, Duncan, Harry Norton, Henry Lamb, Maynard, Lytton (just returned from Sweden), James, Ottoline and Philip (also just returned from abroad), and Gwen Darwin were all here. I had a long bath—ill-advised after childbirth, but I was desperate to be scrubbed clean—and dressed for dinner. I am recovering my figure quickly, but the weight is coming off in odd places, leaving me a different shape than I was before. Not that I am worrying about looking appealing. I cannot focus on clothes or my hair or anything but the baby. Clive had to finally ask me to change my dressing gown so that I would not be receiving visitors in the same one three days running.
As I am still not supposed to get out of bed, the evening came to meet me. I twisted my hair into a messy knot and left off the corset but was dressed enough for decency. We sat and gossiped most of the night: Morgan’s new book, Ottoline’s trip (exhausting), Lytton’s health (improved), Duncan’s painting (selling well), and naturally, Virginia’s Cornish adventures and the baby’s new name. Around midnight, the rain cleared and everyone went out into the garden square. I have asked people not to smoke upstairs until the baby is a bit older. He ends up smelling of smoke rather than of baby, and I do not think he cares for it much. Clive went down to ask Sloper to fetch up more wine, and Roger stayed to keep me company.
“You are well?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, much better.” I was not sure how to answer him.
“Thin,” he said, looking at me carefully. I like that. I like that he looks at me and sees what is there rather than what should be there.
“Worried,” I answered truthfully. “Quentin is not gaining weight as he should.”
“Oh my dear,” Roger said, understanding the problem instantly. “How awful for you. Of course you are worried. How can you think of anything else?”
Moved by his raw sincerity, I began to cry. He was not embarrassed, nor did he try to quiet me. He sat beside me in sympathy. It helped more than any words ever could.
And—Letters from Virginia. It seems her walking tour is not a success. Miss Jean Thomas is apparently cloying, and the beloved Cornish coast is obscured by rain. At least the local doctor has declared her sane again. Dr Savage will have to confirm it when she returns to town.
And and—Clive is in a foul mood. He is always bad-tempered after an evening with Lytton. I don’t think Clive will ever forgive him for proposing to Virginia.
THE POST-IMPRESSIONIST EXHIBITION
Sunday 6 November 1910—46 Gordon Square (eight am)
“And you were up all night?” I offered Desmond a cup of coffee. He looked exhausted.
“I missed all
the trains back, and so we kept working in the gallery. We were still choosing pictures at four am. There are two nudes that Roger wants to hang that I am not sure are a good idea.”
We were in the dining room. Sloper informed me when I woke up this morning that Mr MacCarthy and Mr Fry had arrived early in the morning. He had shown them to Virginia and Adrian’s old rooms but did not like to wake me, as I had been up most of the night with Quentin, who is slowly improving.
“They are a good idea,” Roger said as he came into the room. Even early in the day he has a lived-in look about him. “Ah,” he said, sitting down opposite Desmond, “Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade. My very favourite. How did you ever know?” He spread the marmalade on a thick slice of toast. How like Roger to think that his hostess has gone to some trouble to locate his favourite jam. He always assumes the very best in people.
“Why not suitable?” I asked.
“Why don’t you come with us this afternoon and see?” Roger said.
And—Virginia is back in London. Should I ask her to join me today? No. There is something wonderful about being with Roger that I want to protect. Virginia will spoil it.
Later (seven pm)
I went. I did not understand what a tremendous thing Roger was doing when he invited me to the gallery this morning. Today was crucial, but still he took time to walk me through the entire exhibition.
When I got there, it was mayhem. And Roger was in the centre of it all. He was like an orchestra conductor, keeping a fraction ahead of the music. He was switching paintings (“I need the other Cézanne, not the mountain, the portrait of his wife, yes, up, down, a little to the left, there!”), talking to reporters (“No, I do not feel it is akin to pornography in the least”), installing lighting (“The chandelier should be brighter, we have to see the vibrancy!”); he was magnificent. I had not realised quite what a bold and important undertaking this was. Clive is right—it will change everything.
