Vanessa and Her Sister (44 page)

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 it 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

S
easick. 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.”

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 between 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.

12 April 1911

Kandy, Ceylon

Lytton
,

I sail next month and should be with you by mid-June. I will take the first train to London and find you straightaway. We shall dine and we shall talk and it will be marvellous.