Vanessa and Her Sister (37 page)

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.

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 did 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.”

“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 short-tempered 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 S´wiatopełk-Czetwerty´nska,” 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.