Vita & Virginia

And now, in our third series of discussions

entitled Modern Marriage

Mr. Harold Nicolson and his wife

the distinguished novelist Vita Sackville-West

share with us their thoughts

on the foundation of a modern marriage.

I didn't sign a marriage contract.

I negotiated one.

And I found a great deal more flexibility

than I was brought up to expect.

- Would you agree? - I would.

Marriage is less a piece of furniture

and more like a plant.

A living organism in need of constant nurture.

It is not something we own but something we grow.

And in so doing, we are offered the opportunity

to nurture it in our own image.

Yes, but it does seem

that men tend to regard themselves the plant

and women, the soil.

This is a poor state of affairs for both sexes.

I enjoy the qualities in myself

that may be said to be masculine.

And so do I, darling.

Nevertheless, I would argue the most virile woman

is infinitely more feminine than the most feminine man.

That kind of thinking implies damaging absolutes.

That there is something necessarily passive about the feminine

and therefore that it should always be the woman

who surrenders her opportunities.

But you do agree that the joys of motherhood

are sufficient compensation for any such sacrifice?

Emphatically not.

Are you saying that your success as a bestselling writer

thrills you more than your duties as a mother?

My professional success satisfies a different stomach.

Independence has no sex.

Do you think we scandalized the nation?

With any luck, we did.

Are you coming to Bloomsbury?

I'm not sure I could bear an evening of sullen handshakes

and breathless philosophy.

I think you'd find you've got them quite wrong.

Good luck with your mother.

Aren't you sweet?

I want some cake, mama.

Boys, what do you say to bonne maman?

Oh, it's alright. Tuck in.

I've been invited to a party in Bloomsbury tonight.

All the most exciting artists will be there

and all the writers from the Hogarth Press.

Oh, isn't it run by those Woolfs?

Yes. That's why I'm so flattered.

But they're socialists. They are bohemians.

This is a chance for me to be accepted by serious minds.

I hear she's mad.

I wouldn't want people to believe everything they hear about me.

Well, of course, in your case, everything they hear is true.

Virginia is a wickedly brilliant mind

and I must know her.

I hope you're not thinking of running off with her as well?

- No, maman. Of course not. - If you do that again...

You've scolded me enough.

I've said again and again how much I regret what happened

and that I only pretended to be a man when I went to France

with Violet to get copy for my book.

I'm sorry if the gossip gave you pain.

I thought I could try to forget your behavior

but you decided now to tell the whole world.

- S... so you've read it then? - It's not a novel.

It's a thinly disguised account of your ludicrous affair.

- It's already been printed. - But not published.

You will stop the publishing

or I will stop all money to you and Harold.

And I shall take steps to protect the boys

from your influence.

I'll ask my publisher not to go ahead with the binding.

What I want very much

is to have a daughter that I can be proud of

and not a promiscuous exhibitionist

who brings only shame on me

after all I have done to be accepted by society.

You really must promise not to go.

Ah!

There you are, Vita.

Um, I'm not sure Nessa would be thrilled

to find you poking around in here.

I couldn't resist.

Ah, that's my wife's new portrait of her sister.

Oh, it's Virginia?

Well, come back to the party

and I'll introduce you to the real thing if you like.

She's not so tranquil off the canvas

I can promise you.

Duncan, I found Vita in Nessa's studio.

- What shall we do with her? - Forty lashes immediately.

Much more taken with Nessa's work

than Duncan's, weren't you, Vita?

I didn't know you worked with Mrs. Bell, Mr. Grant.

Constantly. About half the work in there is mine.

They have the same way of seeing the world, you see, Vita.

Theirs is what Virginia calls a left-handed marriage.

And what would that make your marriage to Nessa then?

A crowded one.

Nessa and I try to catch the truth of a thing

by... by stripping it back...

- Vanessa? - ...capturing its essence.

Radical simplification.

Mm, no, no, no, you're boring poor Vita, Duncan.

I heard you on the radio this morning.

I just read your latest novel.

Why do you think your books sell more than mine?

Popularity was never a sign of genius.

Are you going to smoke that?

Bodies, bodies, bodies.

- How does it feel? - What are you getting at?

The present moment.

What is it composed of?

It is composed of bodily sensations.

The air wafts cold on the skin under one's clothes.

The touch of a hand gives the sense

that one is sinking through the center of the earth.

The moment becomes harder..

...stained by the desire to be loved..

...to be held close by another shape.

Can you feel it running molten up your spine

and down your limbs?

Can you see what's inside this moment?

Can you feel it?

Yes, it is hardened.

Stained by the desire to be loved.

There.

Snap.

The body takes us there and brings us back.

It's entirely necessary and a constant distraction.

If we don't live quietly inside the moment..

...what would be one's gain in dying?

No.

Stay this moment. No one ever says that enough.

Good morning, neighbor.

Morning, neighbor.

And a very good morning... it is, neighbor.

How was Clive's?

A revelation.

Well, did you meet her?

Yes.

I adore her.

And so will you.

She was utterly silent

until she wanted to say something

and then she said it supremely well.

I still don't know why you wanna go slumming about in Bloomsbury.

Don't be such a dreadful snob, Harold.

The lot of them feel so downtrodden and earnest.

I thought I might invite her to join my little writers' club

unless you disagree?

- Strongly, darling. - Marvelous.

That will make it all the more enjoyable to invite her.

No, I hear nothing but reports of her madness.

Madness.

What a convenient way to explain away her genius.

Genius.

I'm not set against her, darling.

I just think she sounds like rather hard work.

That young man is a congenital idiot.

What little brain he had

has been commandeered by Dora Carrington.

He forgot to grease the rollers on the press.

He can't remember where he put

the woodcuts for your new easels.

I just hope they sell better than the last round.

Are you sure that headache is from blocked sinuses?

- Quite sure. - You were up too late last night at Vanessa's.

- You should get back to bed. - Stop fussing, Leonard.

There are your wretched woodcuts.

- I suppose he's told you? - About the rollers?

No. Damn the rollers!

How can I think about rollers when I've been... betrayed?

- Dora's betrayed me. - In what way?

Well, she lied to me.

She said she wasn't seeing Lytton

and she was seeing Lytton.

She was honest.

She told you she wanted to see Lytton.

And I told her she wasn't to see Lytton.

I see. You told her.

I... I love her. She's mine.

- Do you think that is love? - Absolutely.

And I'm in... in agony!

Next time we advertise for staff

we'll stipulate only eunuchs need apply.

I often think romance is just

not altogether knowing the other person.

It's the not knowing that drives one mad.

Dear Mrs. Woolf

I admit that when Clive invited me

to your sister's party, I came with every intention

of meeting you.

And what a curious creature I found.

You operate with such strength and clarity.