By 1909, Vita was in her fourth and final year at Helen Woolff’s School for Girls in London’s South Audley Street. She had first attended classes there at the age of thirteen and pursued her studies thereafter during the autumn and Easter terms. At the same time, until July 1905, Victoria retained the services of Vita’s French governess of ‘such an uneven temper’, Hermine Hall.108 Vita continued to write outside school: her earliest surviving poems, along with fragments of poems, date from this period. Like Cyrano de Bergerac, Miss Woolff’s school was a catalyst in Vita’s life: it represented her first sustained participation in the world of her contemporaries outside Knole. Neither the curriculum studied nor Miss Woolff herself impacted significantly on her intellectual growth or her development as a writer. Nor did she much relish the company of her peers, dismissing in her diary ‘the average run of English girls’ as dull and stupid.109 Meanwhile Victoria oversaw her cultural education: on 13 February 1909, Vita attended a matinée of The Mikado; on 16 February she went to an organ recital in Westminster Abbey given by Master of the King’s Musick, Sir Walter Parratt; on the following day she was present at ‘a most interesting lecture on Madame Récamier’.
More compelling than anything Miss Woolff or Victoria offered was Vita’s unquenchable thirst for her writing. ‘There is writing, always writing,’ she remembered of this period:110 her best days resembled those of Cranfield Sackville, at work undisturbed in his garden arbour. Vita was an autodidact. In every area she prized most highly, from poetry to gardening, she was partly self-taught. Writing had the added attraction of temporarily screening Vita from her parents’ world of acrimony and threats of litigation: she excluded from her first fictions anything unheroic in her Sackville heredity. In Orlando, her fictional ‘biography’ of Vita, Virginia Woolf describes Orlando’s hope ‘that all the turbulence of his youth … proved that he himself belonged to the sacred race rather than the noble – was by birth a writer rather than an aristocrat’.111 Throughout her life, Vita thirsted for just such an acknowledgement. She was never brave enough to separate her two identities. At first an aristocrat who wrote, she became a writer whose work affirmed her own ideal of aristocracy. It was one of several conflicts in her nature.
Vita considered that she had worked hard at Miss Woolff’s. ‘I set myself to triumph at that school, and I did triumph. I beat everybody there sooner or later, and in the end-of-term exams, I thought I had done badly if I didn’t carry off at least six out of eight first prizes.’112 Her triumph transcended examinations. She did indeed earn the reputation for cleverness she had deliberately cultivated. It went some way towards softening the blow of her unpopularity, which she attributed to her moroseness, pedantry, priggishness and savagery, as well as an appearance of aloofness that she was at a loss to explain. There were other discoveries too. Among her fellow pupils were girls who fell in love with Vita.
As an adult, Vita seldom loved singly and was always, as one of her sons remembered, in love.113 Her childhood had been poor preparation for intimacy. Neither Victoria nor Lionel consistently gave her grounds to suppose herself the exclusive object of their affections. Victoria’s love was erratic, Lionel’s mostly implied. As Vita wrote of Shirin le Breton in The Dark Island, ‘It was not a particularly united family, and indeed was held together, as is the case in many families, less by the ties of affection than by those of convenience and convention.’114 Vita loved Knole and believed that Knole returned her love. Her attitude refuted that of Leonard Anquetil in The Edwardians: ‘Chevron [Knole] is really a despot of the most sinister sort: it disguises its tyranny under the mask of love.’115 Yet the house could not wholly replace more conventional relationships. When she was older, Vita wrote in one of the unpublished private poems she called diary poems: ‘The horrible loneliness of the soul makes one crave for some contact.’116 ‘Contact’ was not love, nor limited to a single donor or recipient. During her teenage years at Miss Woolff’s, Vita inspired, and partly reciprocated, the love of two classmates: Rosamund Grosvenor and Violet Keppel.
She had known them both before. Rosamund Grosvenor was an old familiar, Vita’s first friend, a relation of the Duke of Westminster. They were ten and six respectively when Rosamund first visited Vita at Knole in 1899. In his capacity as commander of the West Kent Yeomanry, Lionel had departed for South Africa and the Boer War, and Victoria worried that Vita would be lonely. Rosamund stayed for three days: Vita remembered only that her neatness and cleanliness contrasted with her own grubbiness. Until 1908, when her family moved away from Sevenoaks, Rosamund shared Vita’s morning lessons at Knole. Initially, theirs was a milk-and-water relationship. Vita complained in private of Rosamund’s ordinariness and lack of personality; Rosamund fell under the combined spell of Vita and Knole. Despite her four years’ seniority, Rosamund learned to adopt the role of supplicant. It may have come naturally to her or she may have realised that the Vita who prided herself on her hardiness and her resemblance to a boy could only be conquered by weakness. Fortunately for Rosamund, who by her late teens was deeply in love, she had good looks on her side. Her soft, creamy curvaceousness earned her the nickname ‘the Rubens lady’. Eventually it was Rosamund’s body, not her mind, which provoked a response in Vita. In her diary for 17 July 1905, she noted that Rosamund had gone swimming, noted too her appearance in a bathing costume ‘on the skimpy side’. Vita was thirteen, Rosamund seventeen. When their relationship progressed beyond girlish friendship, Vita was clear that, as far as she was concerned, its root was physical attraction: Rosamund was fatally uninterested in books.
Hero worship, and a tendency she could not resist to regard Vita as the living incarnation of centuries of Sackville swank, characterised Rosamund’s love. She revelled too in Vita’s Spanish blood, an association of exotic glamour which Vita herself exploited. Vita provoked a similar response in Violet Keppel: ‘All this, and a gipsy too! My romantic heart overflowed.’117 Rosamund addressed Vita as ‘Princess’; for Violet, Vita was her ‘Rosenkavalier’.118 Both names imply status, desirability, a prize.
Violet’s novel Broderie Anglaise offers a version of her relationship with Vita, whom she reimagines as a youthful peer, John Shorne. There is ‘a languid grace’ about Shorne, ‘a latent fire’. Like Vita, he bears a strong resemblance to his family portraits. His ‘face recalled so many others seen in frames and surrounded by a ruff, a jabot or a stock, a face that had been a type since 1500 … a hereditary face which had come, eternally bored through five centuries’.119 Like Rosamund, Violet romanticised Vita. Yet while Rosamund’s affection had the puppyishness of first love, Violet’s, even as a child, was characterised by an obsessive decisiveness. It was not, Vita insisted, ‘the kind of rather hysterical friendship one conceives in adolescence’:120 there was nothing exploratory about Violet’s feelings. Her emotional precocity was matched only by her determination. If Rosamund’s love for Vita resembled the blushing passions of a girls’ school story, Violet’s possessed from the beginning a more adult quality. Her decision that Vita was her destiny was virtually instantaneous and never rescinded. Decades later she underlined in her copy of The Unquiet Grave Cyril Connolly’s statement that ‘We only love once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.’121 She had not needed a book to tell her that. Even at the end of her life, fragile and lonely in the Villa Ombrellino in Florence, Violet spoke of Vita in adulatory tones. When it happened, she became Vita’s lover through force of will. Vita was a mostly willing participant, but it was Violet who contrived their collision.
Their first meeting took place on a winter afternoon: Mayfair, 1905, a tea party of sorts for a girl friend with a broken leg, who remained in her bed. The only fellow guest Violet noticed at the bedside was Vita. Vita was thirteen, tall for her age, ungainly and unmannerly (Lionel had recently complained of her abruptness and her roughness). Violet was two years younger. Vita rebuffed her conversational gambits, Violet inwardly criticised Vita’s dress. Both were evidently curious. Violet persuaded her mother to invite Vita to tea; Vita’s mother was delighted and Vita went. Again their conversation was at cross purposes. Violet described Paris while Vita enlarged on her rabbits. They found common ground in inventorying aloud lists of their ancestors: as Vita explained later, in upper-class Edwardian society ‘genealogies and family connections … formed almost part of a moral code’.122