Vanessa and Her Sister

by Priya Parmar

  Monday 6 February 1911—Little Talland House, Firle, Sussex

  “Virginia, I can’t stay,” I explained again.

  “Why not? I always stay with you,” she answered illogically.

  “Yes, and that is lovely, dearest, but I have a family. I must get back.” Perversely, Virginia was sitting on my coat.

  “I am your family too,” Virginia persisted.

  “Yes, I know, dearest, but you know what I mean,” I said, exasperated.

  “Yes, I know what you mean. Children. A husband. A real family.”

  A REAL FAMILY. I know she is getting nervous. We all shed the conventions of our class, but spinsterhood is a clingy grey spectre that hugs the body and chokes the soul. I know Virginia is afraid. For years we have all speculated about who might win Virginia in the end. Walter Lamb is clearly keen, but she has no interest in him. Hilton Young seems to have moved on. Saxon never speaks to her—or to anyone else for that matter—and Lytton escaped with his life. Who does that leave?

  And—I finished Morgan’s beautiful new novel on the train. It is about sisters: one wild and uncompromising but breathtaking in her courage. And one practical, reasonable, and unhappily bound by her good sense. Elinor Dashwood and Marianne. Margaret and Helen Schlegel. Even the name is haunting: Howards End.

  10 February 1911—46 Gordon Square (late)

  It was a strange evening.

  Ottoline gave a dinner party for the poet Mr William Yeats tonight. It was a difficult mix of people with several of Philip’s colleagues—all MPs—sitting in one corner and Ottoline’s aristocratic connections making camp in another. Clive is in Paris until tomorrow, and Virginia is still in Sussex, so I sat on a sofa with Lytton and Duncan. Ottoline spent the evening talking to Roger. I saw her lightly rest her large, bony head on his shoulder.

  Duncan was watching too. “Are they … ?” Duncan asked, leaning towards Lytton.

  “No, his wife is in a mental hospital,” I said, answering for Lytton.

  “Permanently in a mental hospital,” Lytton corrected.

  I sat up a little straighter, invisibly bristling. “He wouldn’t,” I said firmly.

  LATER LYTTON WALKED ME HOME.

  “He would, you know,” he said gently.

  “Has he?” I tried to conjure the image of Roger in bed with Ottoline and instantly regretted it.

  Lytton shrugged. “Maybe not with her, but he would.”

  A textured warmth roiled up my spine. He would.

  Saturday 11 February 1911—46 Gordon Square

  Clive is home and surprised me by announcing that Roger is coming for supper tonight. It was arranged before Clive went to Paris. I felt sliced by an irrational jealousy. A visceral sense of possession thudded through me. When Quentin was so ill, Roger saw what Clive did not, and it changed things, the way a dinner that becomes a stay-up-until-sunrise kind of night changes things between two people. Clive tumbled away, and Roger stepped into clear focus. His friendship, his respect, his opinion, his affection have become essential to me. They nurture the seeds that grow the plant. Regardless of what Lytton thinks, I know that Roger and I could never slip beyond the high walls of friendship—he still loves his wife. It lives in the way he says her name. Helen. Beautiful, lost Helen.

  And—And then I shake myself out like a dog who has been swimming in the sea and remember: I too am still married. But I no longer feel married in the way I did. I feel alone.

  Three pm—beginning to rain

  I was looking for stamps in Clive’s desk and found a letter he wrote to Lytton. Dear God. It is riddled with acrimony and written in rage. He must not send it. So much will break if he sends it.

  Later

  Roger is staying the night. As is Desmond. Unusually, Desmond actually thought he might make his train and went dashing out into the rain, but he was back again in half an hour, drenched. I gave him a pair of Thoby’s old flannel pyjamas. Lytton looked at them sadly when I fetched them, but I handed them over without grief. Thoby would give them gladly were he here. He would not want to become a museum—carefully dusted and lovingly preserved. He would want to be remembered and included. The reflexive thought gave me a brisk snap of happiness.

  Lytton ignored Clive all evening, but as it was mutual, it lent balance to the occasion. Normally he would delight in unnerving Clive, but Lytton was not joyful tonight. He seemed put out that Roger was here. Roger makes him feel displaced, and nothing I say rights it. Ironically, Lytton makes Clive feel exactly that brand of left out and irritable. Or perhaps I make Clive feel left out and irritable? And then I think, what are we all vying for?

  Virginia singled Roger out and began her inevitable campaign to charm him. I pulled her aside and reminded her that his wife is in an institution. It is not right. Roger sought me out several times, but I slid away. I am transparent. I don’t want Virginia to see how much I enjoy his company. She would stop at nothing to make him love her.

  And—Exciting. A trip to Constantinople is in the works. I did not think I would want to go back but I do. Roger has been wanting to go and is looking for travelling companions. I said yes, as did Clive and Harry Norton, who popped by after supper.

  67 BELSIZE PARK GARDENS

  HAMPSTEAD, N.W.

  TEL.: HAMPSTEAD 1090

  15 March 1911

  Dear Leonard,

  Things are so dull here. Couldn’t you leave sooner? It is awkward in London at the moment. Duncan and Adrian are together, but I am hoping that such an unlikely romance cannot last. I do not even think Adrian really is a bugger at heart. He simply finds women terrifying—which of course, they are—and has gone with the devil he knows. In any case, I do not see how it can go on much longer with Duncan. Adrian is too tall. The physics of the thing boggle the mind.

  I have had a blazing row with that great pink pig Clive and can only slink to Gordon Square when I am sure he is either out fornicating or drunk. The other night I tried to spend a civil evening in his company and found it exhausting. What a bore. He claims that he does not like me to spend time with his wife, but it is when I am in Virginia’s company that he goes berserk. The row the other day was sparked when he realised I had been down to see Virginia in her new and quite hideous country cottage in Sussex. Steam from the ears, my dear. Comme un teapot.

  I have just received your letter. No, of course Virginia is not planning to marry Saxon. How could anyone marry Saxon? That is an absurd notion. I could not tell from your tone; are you worried that someone else will marry her before you meet her again, or are you panicking and trying to palm her off?

  It is nerves, Leonard. You are coming back, and after hearing about her for so long, meeting her again is a daunting prospect. I understand fully. But you must persevere. Buck up. You are the best man I know. You are her equal as very few men could ever be. We have already lost one of those delicious sisters to an unsuitable oaf—we mustn’t lose two. That would be careless. Virginia is exactly right for you. I cannot explain how I know this, but I do. You will see, and then you will be astonished by my perception. I am looking forward to that.

  Now. Are you packed? Have you booked your passage? Have you booked your dog’s passage? I do not want any last-minute hiccups or apologetic telegrams. You must board the ship, dear man. No lollygagging in exotica. Enough is enough. Time to come home.

  Yours,

  Lytton

  28 March 1911—46 Gordon Square (raining)

  “And you are definitely going to Constantinople? Again? Extraordinary,” Lytton said, crossing his thin ankles. He had folded himself into his chair like a stork, the way he does when he disapproves.

  Clive was out, but this morning I told him pointedly that Lytton was going to stop in this afternoon. He did not say much but just picked up his umbrella and left. Everyone is plotting how to navigate the two of them back onto the shoals of friendship. Virginia wants to hold a masked ball—dress Clive up as a guardsman and Lytton as a ballet dancer and persuade them to waltz. She is sure i
t will solve everything.

  “It has all happened so fast,” I said to Lytton, laughing. “Roger does not waffle the way we do. He makes a plan and then buys tickets. Clive and I usually mull over a trip for weeks before doing anything about it.”

  “And who is going on this Asiatic adventure?” Lytton asked, relighting his pipe, his face pleated in distaste.

  “So far it is Clive, Roger, Harry Norton, and me. I am sure I will get stuck talking to Harry the whole time while Roger and Clive debate the finer points of art criticism,” I said. “I am just happy to be going abroad. Clive and Roger have been nipping over to Paris all winter, and I have been stuck in England for a hundred years.”

  “And Virginia?” Lytton asked.

  “Virginia is happily nesting in her new country house. She wouldn’t want to go. She has had such a rocky year. It will be better if she just keeps on doing what she is doing.” I marvelled at how cleanly I delivered the lie.

  Later

  Clive had the nerve to ask, and I flatly refused. I will not go if he invites her.

  Friday 31 March 1911—46 Gordon Square

  We have been to Cook’s, arranged the post, bought the tickets, and packed the cases. Roger and Harry Norton leave tomorrow for Calais and then on to Ghent. We are to meet them in Paris at the Gare de l’Est and together take the Orient Express to Constantinople. They refurbished the entire train a few years ago, apparently, and returned it to its belle époque glory.

  At the last minute I ordered a new silver evening dress, four crisp white shirts, and two serge skirts. They make me feel starched, clean, prepared, and snapped together in the way that only new clothes can do.

  We leave for Wiltshire to drop Julian and Quentin with Clive’s parents tonight. I am dreading it.

  Later (Cleeve House, Seend, Wiltshire)

  It was not as bad as I feared. Elsie and Mabel will be with the boys, and the weather is warming up enough for Julian to go outside in the afternoons. I have learned to ignore Clive’s ruddy robust family. I hope my boys will learn to do the same.

  PAINTERS

  4 April 1911—Calais

  Seasick. Terribly seasick. Clive is fussing and wants to turn back. I am ignoring him. Paris in a few hours. Clive has promised me supper in Montmartre before we meet the others at the Gare de l’Est. I hope I can keep it down.

  5 April 1911—The Orient Express (somewhere outside Strasbourg)

  We made it—just. The ferry ride went on and on and was awful. And naturally Clive began to panic—lately he goes to pieces when I am ill. It has not been an easy journey thus far: first he thought we would miss the train to Dover, then he thought we would miss the ferry to Calais, and then he was sure I was going to die of nausea on the boat. He is recovering; lying down in our tiny berth like a consumptive prostitute in an Italian opera.

  And in the lavish dining car, Roger and I paint—the blurry scenery outside and the faces of the other passengers inside. We use simple words and uncomplicated grammar but have exemplary conversations. Harry has been buried inside his newspaper since Paris, but Roger is exuberant and jolly. I cannot think why he ever frightened me so. He is unlike anyone I have ever known. He is game. Game for painting anything: the light, the sea, the people, the goats, and for discussing anything: babies, families, books, art. No suggestion is ever too silly or too impossible. He will consider anything. I am unused to such a lack of cynicism.

  Friday 7 April 1911—Hotel Bristol, Constantinople

  The day went to Roger. And it was a perfect day. We boarded a rickety boat with two rowers and headed up the Bosphorus into the East. Breakfast in Europe, luncheon in Asia. We landed up on a rocky beach and all tumbled out of the boat onto the slippery dock. Clive’s expression was sour as he picked his way over the damp planks.

  Roger and I found a dry spot away from the others and set up our makeshift easels. We work quickly and efficiently together.

  “Nessa?”

  “Mm?” I was trying to capture the small boy fishing from the dock. His skinny legs dangled over the water, and his head was thrown back, his face tipped toward the bleached, hot sky.

  “Today makes me … happy,” Roger said hesitantly, guiltily.

  I put down my brush. “Good.”

  I know he has not had many happy days this year. Perhaps he no longer feels entitled to them?

  Later (seven pm)

  “Nessa?”

  “Mm?”

  “What shall I do when we go back to London?” Roger asked thoughtfully. We were seated on a stone bench, watching the sun set in a riot of fuchsia.

  “Anything you like. You can hardly go back to lecturing on Old Masters now,” I laughed. Roger is taking his expulsion from the conservative lecture circuit with customary good grace. After the fury he caused over the exhibition, no one wants to hear him speak about anything other than modern art. Unfortunately, the people who want to hear about modern art cannot afford to hire Roger to speak.

  “True,” he said. “But then I would not want to go back. I prefer to go forward.”

  “Forward how?” I asked. I know Roger is still asked by private collectors to help them find and purchase particular pieces. He is also writing a good deal. “Would you write another book?”

  “I think I ought to put on another Post-Impressionist exhibition, don’t you? I could talk to the Grafton Galleries. I know they are anxious to have me back.” He spoke, his face in profile, turned to the gashed pink sky. “Would you show your paintings with me?”

  “In your second Post-Impressionist exhibition?” I asked carefully, reverently, trying to make sure I understood him clearly.

  “Of course. Your work is important, Nessa.”

  Important. Not beautiful or lovely or charming—important. I did not turn to look at him. The birds in my rafters took flight. “Yes, I would like that.”

  “Good,” he said, taking my hand impulsively and bringing it to his lips. “Good.”

  46 GORDON SQUARE

  BLOOMSBURY

  TELEPHONE: 1608 MUSEUM

  Hotel Bristol, Constantinople

  11 April 1911

  Dearest Snow,

  Today Roger and I painted eleven portraits between us. Roger wedges stacks of canvases under his arms, and rather than carrying his paintbox, he stuffs it into the pocket of his Ulster coat along with handkerchiefs, a sketchbook, a novel, and any other assorted bits of wreckage from his day. His coat ends up looking distorted and lumpy, but Roger refuses to be weighed down. He walks quickly, his bright eyes wide with interest and his long hair flying behind him.

  Wherever we go, we promptly set up easels and bully the public into sitting for dashed-off oil sketches. I feel like a penny portraitist at a country fair. Harry and Clive grow bored and wander off in search of culture or luncheon or both. I did not know that Roger would prefer to paint rather than talk about painting. Clive confines himself to talking about painting. Why take part in the artistry when you can sit back and judge? How catty I am—forgive me?

  Our days are colourful and busy. Roger has become our host, even though he does not know this country. He can communicate with anyone. It reminds me of Thoby. He arranges day trips and mule pack picnics and boat rides and Roman baths and gains entry into secret Byzantine churches that have burst into mosques. We keep company with ancient Greeks and Ottomans and Crusaders and kings. At first Clive wrangled for control of the party, and then, sensing a more competent traveller was among us, he conceded the field. He was outgunned. Although Clive has admitted defeat, he has not accepted it. He thumps around begrudging Roger his ingenuity. I am a terrible wife and find it endlessly amusing.

  But none of that matters in a place such as this. The sun sets differently here. It does not discreetly slip behind the trees in a genteel wash of lavender, as it does in England. It goes down swinging in a ball of roaring firelight. It would be presumptuous to paint it. It is too beautiful. I can only witness and hope to remember.

  It is an unspoken agreement be
tween us. At a quarter to seven, Roger and I put down whatever we are doing and go outside. We meet on the hotel terrace and wind down the gravel drive to the rocky bluff overlooking the sea. We do not speak much. I do not take his arm. The sun sets. We hold very still. And then we return.

  We leave for Brusa, the ancient capital of the Ottoman Empire, tomorrow to see Mount Olympus and the mosaics. How I miss you.

  Yours,

  Vanessa

  PS: Roger calls my chunky black outlines “slithery handwriting.” He likes the way they stop and start, which is my favourite bit about them too. I have found a style that suits me.

  12 April 1911—Hôtel d’Anatolie, Brusa

  We took a Greek steamer and then a German train. The train crawled uphill through tangled olive groves and bare hillsides to Brusa while we lunched on bread, cheese, and sweet oranges. With sadness and sympathy, Roger and I talked about madness.

  “She turned violent. That is when the doctor finally persuaded me that Helen, my Helen, was gone,” he said quietly, his back to the train window. “Have you ever had to make such a terrible decision?” he asked simply.

  “We have brushed very close. So far Virginia has always come back.”

  He nodded as the train pulled in to the station. Even if we never speak of it again, it is comforting to be with someone who understands so well.

  UNION POSTALE UNIVERSELLE