Vanessa and Her Sister (41 page)

25 August 1910

My dear Vanessa
,

Congratulations! I just received Clive’s note about the baby. How very wonderful. I hope you are well and taking very great care of yourself. Forgive me—how indelicate to mention such things. But it is such a very traumatic process. I hope you are being truly spoiled in care and affection. I would very much like to visit once the house settles and the little one has found his feet a bit. Please let me know when would be convenient. I really am very, very pleased for you and your family.

Yours sincerely
,

Roger
              

26 August 1910—46 Gordon Square

Clive will
not
go to Wiltshire to collect Julian. We had a row. I am sure everyone—servants, guests, neighbours, family—all heard it, and I don’t care. Clive is behaving appallingly. He wants us to go on holiday to Cornwall next month and to stop and collect Julian on the way.

I flatly refused. I am going to spend the rest of the requisite month convalescing in bed, and then I will go to collect Julian from Clive’s horrible family myself since Clive refuses to go for me. Clive is stalling. He is hoping Virginia will appear.

Two pm

The doctor just left. This is the third time he has been here this week. He did not say anything new. Try to remain calm. Try to nurse. If it fails, try again. That is
terrible
advice. How can I possibly remain calm when my baby is starving? His weight has dropped again. Why is no one but me panicking?

And
—A letter arrived from Clive’s mother. She suggests I leave the baby with a wet nurse and take a short holiday. Clive must have put her up to writing that letter. I tore it up.

28 August 1910—46 Gordon Square

The baby was up all night again. He is not gaining weight. His indignant wails have given way to small yelps of misery. It is heartbreaking.

Later (three am)

Everyone is still in the drawing room. How did I keep these hours before? I just checked on the baby, and Mabel is now upstairs trying to get him to sleep. Clive gets annoyed when I go up there. He does not understand why we are paying a nurse if I won’t let her get on with it. He has a point, but I am too anxious about the baby to be away from him for long.

Tonight was amusing in glimpses but overall it was infuriating. Harry Norton ambushed me when I came downstairs and asked if I was “bearing up all right.” I assumed he was referring to the trouble with the baby and was touched that he asked, but no. He said that he had had several letters from Virginia, and she implied that I was missing her
quite terribly. Not five minutes later, Henry Lamb asked me the same thing. Galling.

29 August 1910—46 Gordon Square

“Stephen?” Adrian asked.

“His name already has Stephen in it,” I answered, handing him his coffee. We were still looking for the right baby name. So far I have been too distracted to focus on it. Clive is frustrated because he does not know what to tell his parents. I do not care what he tells his parents, but as they are giving us a gift of a thousand pounds, I know I should probably come up with something.

“Claudian?” suggested Saxon. Saxon was still going through the Latin dictionaries. I like Claudian, but it feels too formal for a baby. It conjures Roman elephants.

“Quentin?” Duncan said. He had been eating cake, and his mouth was rather full.

“Quentin?” I repeated.
“Quentin.”
I rolled the word over my tongue.

Snow came in, holding the baby. She is leaving tomorrow, and I am desperate for her to stay.

“Mabel will be down in a minute, but I think he just wants you.” She handed me the squalling baby.

“Quentin Claudian Stephen Bell? Yes.”

30 August 1910

Dearest Virginia
,

Quentin Claudian Stephen Bell. Quentin for short. It suits his antiquated spirit. Clarissa was a Trojan horse. Perhaps she will come another day. In the meantime, I am very glad to have my newest darling boy to take her place.

How is the ocean? Kiss it for me. I am afraid, with two small boys, we shall never make it to the seaside again. I understand that you have been encouraging us to holiday in Cornwall. I can hear you now, vehemently denying it. Be honest, Billy Goat. Did you suggest it to Clive? Did you imply that our summer would be far more pleasant spent by the sea? Yes. I thought so.

Write and walk, dearest, and enjoy the salty air.

Yours
,

Nessa

PS:
Virginia, do stop alarming our friends. It is awkward when they hear from you that I am wasting away with missing you and then see me in perfectly good humour and health.

31 August 1910—46 Gordon Square

A rare and beautiful evening.

Roger came tonight. Roger plus the usual mob that descends on our house at nine pm. Thursday nights have bled out into the rest of the week, and now our circle seem to always be here. Desmond and Molly were unable to make it, but Adrian, Duncan, Harry Norton, Henry Lamb, Maynard, Lytton (just returned from Sweden), James, Ottoline and Philip (also just returned from abroad), and Gwen Darwin were all here. I had a long bath—ill-advised after childbirth, but I was desperate to be scrubbed clean—and dressed for dinner. I am recovering my figure quickly, but the weight is coming off in odd places, leaving me a different shape than I was before. Not that I am worrying about looking appealing. I cannot focus on clothes or my hair or anything but the baby. Clive had to finally ask me to change my dressing gown so that I would not be receiving visitors in the same one three days running.

As I am still not supposed to get out of bed, the evening came to meet me. I twisted my hair into a messy knot and left off the corset but
was dressed enough for decency. We sat and gossiped most of the night: Morgan’s new book, Ottoline’s trip (exhausting), Lytton’s health (improved), Duncan’s painting (selling well), and naturally, Virginia’s Cornish adventures and the baby’s new name. Around midnight, the rain cleared and everyone went out into the garden square. I have asked people not to smoke upstairs until the baby is a bit older. He ends up smelling of smoke rather than of baby, and I do not think he cares for it much. Clive went down to ask Sloper to fetch up more wine, and Roger stayed to keep me company.

“You are well?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, much better.” I was not sure how to answer him.

“Thin,” he said, looking at me carefully. I like that. I like that he looks at me and sees what is there rather than what should be there.

“Worried,”
I answered truthfully. “Quentin is not gaining weight as he should.”

“Oh my dear,” Roger said, understanding the problem instantly. “How awful for you. Of course you are worried. How can you think of anything else?”

Moved by his raw sincerity, I began to cry. He was not embarrassed, nor did he try to quiet me. He sat beside me in sympathy. It helped more than any words ever could.

And
—Letters from Virginia. It seems her walking tour is
not
a success. Miss Jean Thomas is apparently cloying, and the beloved Cornish coast is obscured by rain. At least the local doctor has declared her sane again. Dr Savage will have to confirm it when she returns to town.

And and
—Clive is in a foul mood. He is always bad-tempered after an evening with Lytton. I don’t think Clive will ever forgive him for proposing to Virginia.

THE POST-IMPRESSIONIST EXHIBITION

Sunday 6 November 1910—46 Gordon Square (eight am)

“A
nd you were up all night?” I offered Desmond a cup of coffee. He looked exhausted.

“I missed all the trains back, and so we kept working in the gallery. We were still choosing pictures at four am. There are two nudes that Roger wants to hang that I am not sure are a good idea.”

We were in the dining room. Sloper informed me when I woke up this morning that Mr MacCarthy and Mr Fry had arrived early in the morning. He had shown them to Virginia and Adrian’s old rooms but did not like to wake me, as I had been up most of the night with Quentin, who is slowly improving.

“They
are
a good idea,” Roger said as he came into the room. Even early in the day he has a lived-in look about him. “Ah,” he said, sitting down opposite Desmond, “Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade. My very favourite. How did you ever know?” He spread the marmalade on a thick slice of toast. How like Roger to think that his hostess has gone to some trouble to locate his favourite jam. He always assumes the very best in people.

“Why not suitable?” I asked.

“Why don’t you come with us this afternoon and see?” Roger said.

And
—Virginia is back in London. Should I ask her to join me today?
No. There is something wonderful about being with Roger that I want to protect. Virginia will spoil it.

Later (seven pm)

I went. I did not understand what a tremendous thing Roger was doing when he invited me to the gallery this morning. Today was crucial, but still he took time to walk me through the entire exhibition.

When I got there, it was
mayhem
. And Roger was in the centre of it all. He was like an orchestra conductor, keeping a fraction ahead of the music. He was switching paintings (“I need the
other
Cézanne, not the mountain, the portrait of his wife, yes, up, down, a little to the left,
there
!”), talking to reporters (“No, I do not feel it is akin to pornography in the least”), installing lighting (“The chandelier should be
brighter
, we have to see the vibrancy!”); he was magnificent. I had not realised quite what a bold and important undertaking this was. Clive is right—it will change
everything
.

“Amazing, isn’t he?” Desmond said, coming to stand by me in the midst of the chaos. “The gallery curators do not know what to do with him, he is such a tornado of energy.” Desmond pointed to one of the directors of the gallery who was standing at the edge of the whirlwind trying to catch Roger’s attention.

“How long has he been like this?” I asked.

“Like what? Roger is always like this.”

And
—Clive was put out that I went to the gallery. Specifically, he was put out that I went without him. “But Roger did not invite
you
,” I said. “He invited
me
.”

And
—Still working on my beachgoers painting. It plays a sombre song that comforts me.

8 November 1910—46 Gordon Square

The exhibition opens to the public today. Desmond and Roger decided not to hang the two Gauguin nudes. They stashed them in Desmond’s
basement office instead. The right choice, I think. There is enough to excite the public as it is. Desmond is concerned that Roger reordered the paintings so many times, and the catalogue is all wrong. He is terrified that one of Van Gogh’s curvy landscapes will be listed as
Station Master at Arles
or, worse, that one of Gauguin’s lush tropical paintings of bare-chested Tahitian girls will be mislabelled as “Cézanne’s wife.” Roger trusts Desmond and is sure it will all turn out all right.