Vanessa and Her Sister (26 page)

“But neither as good as Eliot.”

Fine. It was more than I was willing to do. Clive is just learning the secret language of Virginia. Even though I was sure he was still irritated by her childishness, I could hear the admiration in his voice and felt perversely proud of her learning and witty exactitude. My sister captivates and does not ransom her prisoners lightly. Virginia has a vibrancy about her that makes time spent with her seem inherently more valuable than time spent away from her; minutes burn brighter, words fall more steeply into meaning, and you feel you are not just alive but
living
. I have understood this Virginia equation all her life—but I also understand what Clive does not. There is no rational, logical, reachable Virginia lurking beneath, and eventually Virginia becomes
exhausting
.

Since my marriage, she is determined to be her
most
Virginia. No longer able to dissuade me from Clive, she seeks to ingratiate herself into our marriage. Does she think to charm Clive into relinquishing me? She does not know that a marriage does not work on charm but trust. I watch her trying to win a place in our marriage when there is no place to be had.

I do try. I pretend that I am not newly happily married with a new and happy baby. I do my best not to call attention to what she calls “my real family.” I try not to discuss painting with Clive in case she feels excluded. I steer clear of their literary discussions so that she may shine brighter. I try not to go running when I hear Julian crying. Does she notice all this effort? Why should I do it when she does not take the same care of me? But then, I remember what Mother and Father always told Thoby and me. When one has a sister as extraordinary as Virginia,
one must put up with a fair amount of inconvenience. True, but it does not make her any less exasperating.

And
—I wanted to speak to Clive about Julian tonight. Since we left London, Clive has been growing increasingly unhappy with my distraction. I think he hoped that coming away would bring us closer together. I do miss him. And I miss us, but I am unwilling to give up huge swathes of time with Julian when he is so young. Some time, yes. Most of the time, no. I tried to explain it to him tonight but failed. How to explain something that feels so obvious? I must try harder.

Tuesday 28 April 1908—Trevose View, Carbis Bay

“I did read it!” Clive said as they came in the garden door from their walk.

“But did you read it when
I
suggested it?” asked Virginia. She looked relaxed; pink-cheeked and wind-tossed from the tangy sea air. “Or did you say, ah, that Virginia Stephen, what would
she
know about what to read?” Virginia smiled her Virginia smile.

“That Virginia Stephen—” Clive laughed but, sensing he was beaten, did not finish his sentence.

“Read what?” I asked, without setting down my brush. I was working on a small portrait of Clive, and I was finding the perspective challenging. They both looked up, surprised to see me. Normally I would be putting Julian down for his nap at this time, but I was making an effort to be less consumed with the baby. I knew it would please them both.

“Greville’s
Life of Sidney
,” Clive said, brushing my hair back to drop a kiss on my forehead. He leant over me an extra moment, smelling my hair. Clive loves the smell of my hair. “Baby all right?” he asked, pleased that I was downstairs.

Disrupted, I laid down my brush.

“Yes, I asked Elsie to put him down so I could be here when you got back.” He kissed my forehead again and nuzzled my neck.

“Sir
Philip
Sidney,” Virginia answered tartly, bringing the conversation back to literature. She always gets like this when Clive mentions the baby. With specific purpose, she brushed my hair back as well to deposit a damp kiss in the same spot. Virginia was not in the mood to be outdone. “Poet. Elizabethan. Died early.”

I bristled and tried not to feel patronised, but grew quickly bored with her competitive bid for attention. Why should I prove that I knew who Philip Sidney was.

“Don’t look like that, Nessa,” she said, dropping onto a cushion at my feet. “There are several Sidneys. You can’t be expected to remember them all.”

“True,” said Clive, pulling a book down from the bookshelf. “His sister, Mary Sidney, was very bright; wrote longer, did more. Mmm, Apuleius?” He handed Virginia a thickly embossed volume. “You might like it.” This is how it is with them now. A kind of literary shorthand has cropped up.

“Would I?” she asked, resting her head, Virginia-like, on my knees and not looking at him, happy to have navigated the room back to her sphere. She drew closer. Virginia is a burrowing animal in search of perpetual notice. At least their book talk enlivens them and keeps them from discussing me. I am not the only one she competes with. Virginia seems determined to prove that she knows me better and has for longer than Clive. It is absurd. She is my sister, and he is my husband. They know different Nessas. I prefer them to talk of words. They keep a constant literary conversation going now, like an unbroken shoreline. I went back to my paint. Not much time, Julian would be awake soon.

And
—Virginia has begun a review of
The Life and Correspondence of John Thadeus Delane
for the
Cornhill
. Virginia is especially anxious that it be up to scratch, as Father used to be editor of the
Cornhill
. She and Clive talk of her articles endlessly. I find it dull but cannot admit that without sounding like a philistine, and so I just nod and wait for it to go away.

Later

Tonight the talk turned to Virginia’s marriage—or the absence of Virginia’s marriage. More and more, the discussion circles around Virginia’s prospects. She does not shy away from the subject, but neither does she participate. She is a fixed, still centre and lets that conversation drift around her like well-cut silk. If it makes her uncomfortable, she does not show it. Good for her.

One am

An argument with Clive tonight. With this new terrible upset over Duncan and Maynard, I want to invite Lytton down here to escape it. These things are always easier to face by the sea. Clive was resistant to the idea. He keeps saying that it is just
us
, and we ought not to ruin it by inviting anyone else. “But it is not just us. Virginia is already here.” And I get nowhere. Maybe it is best? Without Thoby, I am not sure how well Clive and Lytton really get on any more.

The Green Dragon, Lavington

29 April 1908

Dearest Nessa
,

My dear, there is nothing like a pastoral holiday to take one’s mind off shockingly unpleasant news. I would have written my news to Virginia (who is not taken up with cumbersome marital obligations and ongoing baby nurturing and much prefers to be told news first), but one cannot write the heart to Virginia—only the mind. The heart veers towards you.

Maynard has truly taken up with Duncan. They are always together now. And my soul broke over those unhappy rocks. I have made an effort to remain friendly with them both—although why I should I can’t think. But I have fled, my darling, to Salisbury Plain for a reading party with Morgan, Desmond, James, and several friends of his from Cambridge, among them the delectable pink-cheeked, yellow-haired fallen angel Rupert Brooke, a newly minted Apostle. He is so beautiful, I think he must be doomed. The gods do not give such gifts for long.

Yours
,

Lytton

PS:
Is it true that Walter Headlam is courting Virginia? He is a great friend of Rupert’s, but that alone cannot elevate him to Virginia. Has he proposed? How unpleasant.

30 April 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall

I overheard a conversation between Clive and Virginia this afternoon. On the verandah:

“Mr Headlam has always been a hypochondriac and is always sure he will die before he finishes his next great
oeuvre
,” Virginia said, irritated.

“Yes, but once he survives to publish the
oeuvre
, he recovers, doesn’t he?” Clive said. I could not tell if he was teasing. Difficult to know with him sometimes.

“He is also hopeless and cannot even manage his own holiday packing.”

“Virginia, have
you
ever done your own holiday packing?” Clive asked, his question curling with laughter.

Ha. A point scored. I slipped away.

And
—Another letter from Lytton. He suffers, and yet he sympathises. Maynard apparently invited him out to see Isadora Duncan dance in an effort to help him forget the Duncan they both love. Seems a crass way to alleviate heartbreak, but any bridge between them is better than none.

1 May 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall (early and clear)

I asked her directly at breakfast. Clive has succeeded in coaxing her to sit at the table even if she only drinks black coffee.

Walter Headlam
has
proposed. She is thinking about it. How long has she been thinking about it?

Saturday 2 May 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall (Virginia left today as she could not get a seat on the Sunday train)

Ten past nine. The train was due to leave at half past. We stood on the platform in the fresh Cornish blue morning. The porter had already come for her trunk of books and travelling valise.

“Take it, Virginia, you may get hungry.” I pressed the small hamper of food into her hands. I had thought Clive would be impatient with my fretting over Virginia, but when I glanced at him, his face was softened by a sweet concern. “Dearest, will you take her to her seat?” I jostled Julian on my hip, as he was starting to fuss. I was regretting bringing him.

“Of course,” Clive said, smoothly scooping up the hamper and taking her arm to lead her to the train.

At the edge of the platform, Virginia stopped and spun round. “Delane! My book!” Virginia clutched at Clive’s arm, appalled that she had left it. Clive did not hesitate but turned and raced to the motor. “On my desk!” Virginia shrieked after him.

“There isn’t time!” The train whistle sounded. “Clive!” I yelled, upsetting Julian, but he did not hear me.

Later (Julian is napping)

I pressed the cold cloth onto Clive’s bloodied knee. “It serves you right, running off like that.”

He had just made it back to the station as the train was pulling away and handed the book up to Virginia’s waiting white-gloved hand. And then, scrambling to get away from the moving train, he promptly fell in the gravel.

“Yes, but I made it back in time,” he said, proud of himself. He winced as I ripped his torn trouser leg to get to the gash.

“She could easily have bought another copy in London. You were just showing off.”

Clive grimaced in pain as I dabbed the cut with iodine but did not deny it.

I smoothed white gauze over the wound and secured it with a clean linen strip. “There. You don’t need a stitch, but keep the bandage on it, as it will seep for a few days.”

Still later (the fire has gone out)

It was raining outside and snug and warm inside. Julian had had his bath and gone to sleep without fussing. I was finished and back down from the nursery earlier than usual.

“Quiet without her,” I said, looking up from my novel (
Mansfield Park
—again).

“Mmm?” Clive said, his head bent over a letter he was writing.

“Quiet without her,” I repeated.

“She will be there by now,” he said absently. His thoughts elsewhere. “We will see her soon.”

4 May 1908—Trevose View, Cornwall

“Virginia is a
Sapphist
?” Clive said again.

“No,” I repeated for the fourth time. “Virginia is
nothing
at the moment. I can see how she could
become
a Sapphist.”

We were sitting on the big wicker chairs in the late afternoon sun, discussing Clive’s current favourite topic—Virginia. I had made the mistake of musing aloud on the nature of Virginia’s love for Violet, and now Clive was unwilling to let it drop.

“But is she in love with Violet?”

“Virginia, so far, has not loved, kissed, or been held by anyone that I know of,” I said wearily. “She likes affection from Violet. But then she likes affection from me too.”

Clive sighed, as if placated. “Well, of course she is not in love with
you
,” he said, relaxing into his sun chair.

I did not answer. In my deep bones, I have always known that Virginia is in love with me.