Vanessa and Her Sister (30 page)

Yrs
,  

Ginia

And
—Bliss! A letter from you in the second post. I did not wait but gobbled it up right there in the hotel foyer. I shall spend the afternoon composing a proper response, but for now, know that I am eating breakfast and not planning to fall off a cliff. Kiss your left shoulder for me. Rhymes with “boulder.”

28 August 1908—46 Gordon Square (hot!)

Another
letter from Virginia. Her letters amuse but ultimately infuriate. She is trying to provoke affection from me, and it is tiresome.

And
—Clive was talking tonight about rumours of fever in Italy. Rumours planted by Virginia. Nevertheless, I am growing anxious about taking Julian. But how could I leave him behind?

Sunday 30 August 1908—46 Gordon Square

Just returned from Fitzroy Square, where I spent the morning sorting out Virginia’s things for Italy. Siena, Perugia, Pavia, Assisi, and then Paris for a week. Clive is hoping to meet the famous Steins, M. Henri Matisse, and M. André Derain, who have been causing such a fuss. He also hopes to see M. Picasso again, but apparently he may be in Spain at this time of year.

Clive has decreed that Julian is to stay behind at Seend with his frightful family, and I have reluctantly agreed. Elsie is going to go with my sweet boy. For once, I am glad of her meaty efficiency and viscous spirit. She has promised to let the bathwater run until it is warm.

Later

It was glorious light for painting—substantial, fluid, thick, bright light—when Clive came into my studio waving a letter. “Now she wants me to kiss your nose,” Clive said, settling into the low blue armchair. “Are we to run through your entire anatomy? Not that that would bother me.”

“My entire anatomy at least twice, I should think,” I said, choosing a broader brush. I was still working on the still life—all pale greys and whites, and then a slash of poppy red. I am pleased with the effect. It looks like blood on the snow.

Clive looked at the still life approvingly. “Red is the only break in the palette?”

“Yes—too severe?” I stood back from the easel to get a wider perspective.

“No, I like it. Reminds me of Derain.”

And
—Clive just told me that Maynard has left the India Office and is trying for a fellowship at Cambridge. I half hope he does not get it, as it could salt the fragile soil between him and Lytton. If Maynard got not only the man Lytton wanted but the position as well? Awful.

Still later (after supper)

“Clarissa?” Clive asked. “She thinks our next child will be called Clarissa.”
Another
letter had come from Virginia. I was having trouble keeping up.

“She knows I have always loved that name,” I said, handing the letter to Clive.

“And she dreamt the baby will be born with a complete set of teeth and be able to say ‘no objection’ upon arrival?” he asked, looking up. Sometimes Virginia’s letters alarm him.

“Yes, the vocabulary is fine, but the teeth might be a bit rough going,” I said, accustomed to Virginia’s random nonsense. I looked over at Clive. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack. He was sleepy after a large supper. “It is our last night alone,” I said, but he did not move.

And
—Just before we went to bed, Clive asked me about Virginia and Hilton Young. Had he proposed to Virginia? Would he propose to Virginia? Would Virginia accept him? Would Virginia prefer Lytton? Who
would
Virginia like to marry?

And and
—I woke up in the night with the thought:
Clarissa
. Is she trying to find out if I might be pregnant?

W
INSOR AND
N
EWTON
L
TD:
Art Suppliers 37–40 Rathbone Place, London W.

BY APPOINTMENT TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN ALEXANDRA

1 September 1908
         To Be Delivered to Mrs Clive Bell, 46 Gordon Sq.

Transparent Oil Colours: Retail 4d each

“British Ink” (2 tube)

“Chinese White” (6 tube)

“Rose Doré” (1 tube)

“Polished Silver” (2 tubes)

New Travel Palette and Sketchbook

(Note—Do rush this order as Mrs Bell is to travel abroad)

CORRESPONDING

3 September 1908

Dear Woolf
,

And they’re off. The complicated Bell ménage has left for Italy, leaving England feeling deserted and passé. What is it about those sisters that compels? One craves their company, no matter how naughty Virginia can be. Clive has certainly married up. But my God is he making a pig’s ear of it. Not content with marrying darling Vanessa, he is now hell-bent on landing Virginia too.

From what I gather, the Bells and the Stephens went to Cornwall, and because Vanessa was too taken up with the baby, Clive grew bored and Virginia grew spiteful. It all came apart like a Greek tragedy, my pet. Act I—prophecy. Act II—betrayal. Virginia has always wanted to be part of that marriage, and here she was being invited in. Clive has never understood how desperately Virginia loves her sister.

The only part of this that gives me any pleasure is my absolute confidence in Virginia’s awkwardness. Knowing her, I am sure that the liaison has teetered near the brink of sex but has remained largely a love affair of the mind rather than the body. Headlam said she really was the most godawful tease last winter, lurking behind palm fronds and then refusing even a kiss. Not being able to have her is driving Clive bats with frustration. He has become unbearable again. It is his shamelessness that I find galling. He swore that all he needed in this world to be happy was one Stephen sister. Now he needs two? Several times I thought Vanessa was going to mention it, but she kept silent and went for stoicism instead—brave girl.

Clive is not stoic. I have received two letters from him demanding to know if I am planning to propose to Virginia. And if not, who is? And then the day before yesterday, I was lunching at Simpson’s with Keynes, and in burst the sweaty, lovesick clod.

“Has Hilton Young proposed to Virginia?” he asked without preamble.

Keynes was delighted at this moist interruption.

“I’ve no idea,” I answered, irritated that my soup was getting cold—the sorrel soup with watercress they do so well.

“Well, as I am her brother-in-law, shouldn’t he ask my permission first?”

Naturally, I promised him that I would forewarn Hilton that should he wish to propose to Virginia, he ought to ask her brother-in-law/lover before he does so. Ridiculous.

On the home front, things are even more hopeless. Harry Norton has fallen in love with my brother James, who is in love with Rupert Brooke, who seems to be in love with a woman called Noel, of all things. It is like an unhappy daisy chain. Missing you, dear Leonard. Come back.

Yrs
,   

Lytton

PS:
You must not think this reflects poorly on Virginia. She is not an easy creature, but she is well worth the trouble. This current flirtation is ill advised, but you must understand that it stems from inexperience and jealousy rather than malice. She cannot bear to lose her sister to this man. She really does have the most spectacular mind, Leonard. In a conversation, there is no one quite like her. It really would be best for everyone if you married her.

PPS:
Morgan’s new novel is out next month. I will send it on to you.

24 September 1908

My Violet
,

I have run out of my own thick, creamy English writing paper, and so this letter to you, my dearest, arrives on wings of former French trees. Do you think these shaved, flattened French trees feel it when they are sent abroad? Do they miss Gallic comforts and familiar food?

Alors. Paris, encore. I will spare you the pavement café art talk as I am sure you are growing weary of my descriptions of paint-smudged young men wearing Breton stripes and straw boaters sipping absinthe in the sunshine. Or perhaps you are not? If you are not, board a train at once and join me here.

Nerves are frayed, and our Nessa is fractious and unreasonable. Madness runs in the blood, and I am quite concerned for her. Clearly it is being returned to adult company that has done this. Nessa, accustomed to the soft baby gurglings of her infant, is unused to the rigours of proper conversation. And
what
conversation. Clive has been reading my writing and has had several viable suggestions for my novel. I am reinventing him in my mind as a cultured being. How generous you must find me.

Home in a week!

Yours
,  

Virginia

30 September 1908

My dear Lytton
,