Violet, Cynthia Weston’s elder daughter, was engaged to Wilfred Moreton, the eldest son of a viscount with property in Radnorshire, but it was not yet announced, and so it came about that she sat in a supper room and declined a young man’s invitation to dine with him unchaperoned the following night and the young man said it was the fault of these dashed conventions and cried out quite passionately, ‘You know what it means? It means that you are throwing us into the arms of actresses!’ And Violet, sharing it in anticipation with Kitty, put back her head and laughed too loudly for decorum, and the young man, seeing the laughter in her long neck, became even more restless and quite soon left the party altogether.
Anyway, it was during the summer of 1914 that all this happened, but it might have happened at any time, at least, I suppose it might I suppose in fact these same events take place all the time in one shape or another, or might take place, and it is only the human inclination for myth which requires them to have happened once and for all, at some specific moment in time, but then I am not sure that I can always tell the difference between an idea and an event, which may lead to confusion, so we had better confine ourselves to events Because the particulars, the people, the scandal, all that really did happen, and in dealing with that, we shall, I suppose, know where we are.
(I know it happened because I was there, but in quite a subsidiary capacity, and it was a long time ago).
Cynthia had forgotten to tell her husband what time Alice Benedict was arriving, and the servants, who did know, had not reminded him because they thought he also knew, so that Aylmer and his mother were still in the dining room when someone came in and said, ‘Miss Benedict is here.’
‘Miss who?’ They were in the middle of an argument and did not want to be interrupted.
‘Miss Benedict, Sir Aylmer. The young lady who is to look after Miss Kitty.’
‘Of course, how stupid of me.’ He rose hurriedly to his feet. ‘We’ll have our coffee in the library – oh we’ve had coffee? – we’ll have some more then I’m sure Miss Benedict would like some.’ He was already out in the hall and shaking her hand. ‘I am so sorry to keep you waiting I had rather forgotten the time of your train, just for the moment. We were involved in an argument. My mother’s political views are so extreme that I tend to forget the passage of time in trying to refute them But you haven’t met my mother Miss Benedict – Mrs Weston.’
The old woman shook her hand, looked at her rather piercingly and said, ‘I’m sorry you have been kept waiting’
‘But I’ve only been here a few moments. And I have been looking round me. It’s so pretty.’
‘It is pleasant in the evening. Have they shown you your room? Then come in and have some coffee.’ Mrs Weston led the way into the library, which the evening sun had just left.
Later, Alice Benedict wrote to her mother and father. Her father was a dean in Dublin.
‘I am delighted with the whole idea,’ she wrote, ‘and bursting with impolite curiosity and, I’m afraid, the usual thing, unbounded admiration. They really do seem, in spite of being so grand, to be so good as well – and clever. The whole house speaks of it. I haven’t seen Kitty yet because she was already in bed, but they talked about her and she sounds fun. Old Mrs Weston seems to be very fond of her, and amused by her, he rather more worried. Apparently she is an ardent Suffragist! Mrs Weston is rather alarming, very much a wonderful old lady. She certainly looks it and dresses it, but her conversation is perhaps too acid exactly to fit the role. She uses foreign phrases quite a lot, like Aunt Mildred, but with a better French accent – and German as well. When I came they had been arguing about politics and afterwards he teased her about some German called Marks that she had been quoting – but fancy keeping his political faith alive like that and arguing about it – isn’t that good when he has been in the thing so long? The house is beautiful – and roses climbing all over the trees outside just beginning to come out – I thought I was driving into a fairy story when I arrived – perhaps I was Lady Weston is in London but returns tomorrow. She must look even more beautiful here than she did when I saw her in London. There is a picture of her in the hall by Boldini – very dramatic but too fashionable looking – he has missed the spirituality of her face.’
Old Mrs Weston, who slept little, was walking in the upper part of the garden, wrapped in a shawl. The vixen was crossing the field, returning to her cubs.
2
Aylmer Weston was a Liberal politician, and a member of Asquith’s Cabinet.
He had first entered the House of Commons in 1894, three years after coming down from Oxford where he had been a Balliol scholar. He had also been President of the Union, won the Craven and Ireland scholarships and ended with First Class Honours in Classical Moderations and Greats, so that a certain amount was expected of him even in that age of scholar statesmen. He was made a Fellow of All Souls in 1903, while he was still building up a successful practice at the Bar, in 1906, when the Liberals came into power, he abandoned his career as a barrister and accepted office, in 1908 Asquith made him a member of his Cabinet.
His father had been a grand old man of Liberalism, and Aylmer’s career had, at first at any rate, suffered from his being unfavourably compared with his father, on grounds not of intelligence nor of honesty but of ‘character’. As well as his political traditions, he had inherited from his father his small estate in Wiltshire and his way of life as a member of the minor gentry. The house there was beautifully placed and showed the marks of years of care and discriminating affection, so that impressionable visitors like Alice Benedict gasped and became enthusiastic. Aylmer and Cynthia had three children, Edmund, Violet and Kitty, and a nephew, Philip, whom they had adopted in his childhood on the death of his parents in India. They entertained a good deal, not only because Aylmer’s position required it, but because Cynthia had become a famous hostess.
Cynthia arrived the day after Alice Benedict. She had stayed in London to dine with the Asquiths for the Monds’ dance in Lowndes Square. Aylmer, who had recently had a bad attack of bronchitis, had been told by his doctor to take things quietly and had come home to the country instead of going with her. He was feeling a little guilty about this, and making a special effort to show interest in her evening.
‘I was amused,’ she reassured him. ‘But you were quite right not to come. It was hot and crowded.’
‘Was Maud there, and Reggie? You took Violet?’
‘She came with the Moretons, looking very sweet. Everyone seems to know about the engagement, so it’s just as well it’s to be in the paper on Tuesday. Of course congratulations everywhere, and everyone seems to agree that he’s a nice boy and a good match. Poor Daisy Bellew couldn’t conceal her dismay – those two huge daughters still on her hands.’
‘She couldn’t have had hopes of Wilfred?’
‘One has hopes of everybody when one is as frantic as that.’
‘Are they joining us today, the young people?’
‘Wilfred is driving her down after lunch, with Trotter. Poor Trotter, she hates the back of that car. And the Tamworths are coming this afternoon, too. That’s all – we shall be quite quiet. Tell me, what do you think of our Miss Benedict? Is she going to be all right?’
‘I’m delighted with what I have seen of her. She seems a most intelligent and reasonable young woman. And Kitty and she seem to get on well. When I was in the garden this morning they came dashing past me at top speed, showing their knees and laughing like children, going to see the owl’s nest. It was charming.’
‘She’s supposed to stop Kitty showing her knees, not show hers too. Metaphorically speaking, I mean.’
‘But first she has to let her know she’s on her side. She told me as much herself. I think she’ll be a success.’
‘You don’t think she’s too pretty, do you? I mean – Philip?’
Aylmer shook his head. ‘She’s got too much sense.’
‘That’s what I thought too. Philip is coming tonight by the way.’
‘Is he? That’s unusual. Have his Bohemian friends not asked him away?’
‘It seems not. And Edmund will be here too of course.’
He looked at her, and smiled. ‘I have heard that mothers prefer their bad sons to their good.’
‘Philip is not my son,’ she said quickly, then, in explanation, ‘I feel the difference so much. Lately in fact I have been feeling. I don’t even know him very well.’
He nodded ‘I feel the same. He is something new to me Edmund is totally familiar’
‘I know. Philip puzzles me very much. You don’t think he has changed lately?’
‘I think he is having a turbulent youth, that’s all. He’s always been difficult.’
‘You don’t think he has changed towards us?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose they do change. One can only remain the same towards them oneself and hope for the best. His situation here is not intrinsically easy. He’s always been a bit jealous of Edmund. Perhaps now that he is making friends and a life of his own he will calm down, relax the tension.’
‘Perhaps if he and Edmund had not both gone to Eton?’ she said. ‘Edmund was more liked.’
‘He would have taken it as a slight if we had sent him somewhere else. Perhaps his new friends will make him use his mind more than they ever managed to at school. A little intellectual discipline would do him a world of good. But let’s not bother him about it. He has been away so long that we must be careful to welcome him without reproach. Besides, it will be nice to see him.’
‘Of course I love him, as you know. But some people are easier to love than others. Never mind. I’m afraid I bought some silly fans yesterday. I didn’t really need them but I was getting tired of my old ones, and they are rather pretty. Would you like to see them?’
‘Very much. And then could we walk round the garden before lunch? Gibbon wants to know what you are going to decide about the new rose beds, and after lunch I must get to work on this speech.’
Philip stood outside the window. He looked in without being seen. They have not seen me, he thought. They are in some drawing room comedy, in artificial sunlight, talking irrelevantly. They are a group, but an irrelevant group I am relevant I know what they do not know I know myself, therefore I know them, and know them to be liars.
Why is she never alone? Why does she only subsist in a web of chatter, spinning it all round her as she sews at her absurd embroidery? She makes a web to hide behind and when the sun shines on it looks as if it were made of brilliance, but when the sun goes there is nothing there at all. I am going to be irritated, I am going to behave badly. What an insult it is, their phantasmagorical self confidence Is it that which is making me hesitate behind the vines? All I want is to set her free.
The Tamworths – rhymes after dinner – oh God, not that, not rhymes after dinner? A new face, smiling, but silent – of course, the new governess – interesting? – not modest enough for a governess – mouth too big – possibilities – yes – spin your web, my great white love, I shall be upstairs tumbling the governess.
He laughed and stepped into the room.
Cynthia was sewing, listening to Kitty talking too much as usual, aware that Aylmer opposite her was wondering whether it was too soon to go back to the library and get on with his speech. The governess removed Kitty’s empty tea cup, thereby gently interrupting the flow of her talk. Cynthia was pleased. Kitty and the governess usually had tea with them when they were alone and since the Tamworths were old friends she had not banished them in their honour. She approved of Miss Benedict’s bearing, unobtrusive, yet not, as poor Miss Grainger’s used to be, aggressively so.
And then the short familiar laugh and Philip stepped in through the garden door and Cynthia stood up eagerly to embrace him and say, ‘How lovely I was afraid something must have happened Kitty, ring for some more tea. How well you look It’s lovely to see you.’
He greeted Aylmer and old Mrs Weston, shook hands with the Tamworths, Violet, Wilfred, was introduced to Miss Benedict, patted Edmund on the back and kissed Kitty, who said, ‘Why were you laughing?’
‘A concept,’ he said. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him. ‘Well, well. Little Kitty. Prettier every day I swear.’
She kicked him sharply on the shin. ‘I knew you’d say that,’ she said, pleased.
He rubbed his ankle. ‘Oh Miss Benedict, you haven’t improved her at all. You’ll have to be stricter.’
‘Kitty, Kitty,’ her father mildly remonstrated, and stood up. ‘I’ve got a speech to get out of the way. Come and smoke a cigarette with me when you’ve had some tea, Philip. I’ll be in the library.’
‘I will.’ Philip opened the door for him. ‘How’s the Bar, Edmund? And the wedding plans, Violet? I want to hear all your news.’
He sat down. Miss Benedict with a polite glance at Cynthia quietly left the room. Cynthia, smiling, began to pour out his tea.
Alice went upstairs to the schoolroom and sat down at the desk.
‘So now I have met them all,’ she wrote quickly (she knew that Kitty would soon be coming up, when the dressing bell went). ‘There are also staying here some people called Tamworth. He is tall, handsome, bearded, polite, and I thought rather amusing, but Kitty says he is an old bore and thinks of nothing but rhyming games (he has some quite high position in the Treasury so this can’t be the whole truth). Lady Tamworth is like a little monkey, always chattering and scratching. She is dressed in strange bright colours, rather oriental looking, and seems to know all about everything “But, my dears, didn’t you know, what really happened was” – I think half of her stories are made up and this may be the point of them, but I can’t understand all of what she says and find her extremely terrifying. There is another person coming in time for dinner. Her name is Margaret something and she is Violet’s greatest friend Kitty says she is feeble (but then so are we all, who don’t belong to the WSPU). Violet is pretty and small, not much like her mother. She is beautifully dressed and has lovely fair hair and a tiny mouth like a button. She seems very happy about her engagement and to think of little else. There is some talk of her fiance’s regiment having to go to India, so they may put the wedding forward. He is big, has a loud laugh, talks mostly of horses, or shooting.
‘Now, where have I got to? Oh yes, Edmund. Edmund is exactly like his father, though smaller and thinner – but the same long nose and melancholy good looks, made less melancholy by the same sweet smile. They both make me feel – what? – that if I told them my true thoughts they would be shocked, though kind – and yet they both must know far worse things than my true thoughts, mustn’t they? He is reading for the Bar.
‘Then there is Philip – dark and white-faced – their nephew who has lived here since he was a boy. Kitty loves him because he encourages her iconoclasm. He looks bitter, interesting, and the opposite of Edmund. I think he has what you might call a roving eye. He is in the Army, but Kitty says he does not like it. On Monday or Tuesday they will all go away again and there will only be Kitty and me and old Mrs Weston. Then we can try to do some reading! Old Mrs Weston is fun to talk to, though her grim oracular pronouncements are sometimes a little unnerving. But according to Kitty she approves of me, so I hope we shall.’
Here Kitty came in, holding a bunch of yellow roses ‘Gloire de Dijon. Do you like roses?’
‘Of course. But I know hardly any of their names.’
‘Nor do I. But this one is called Gloire de Dijon. Why are you always writing? It can’t be a letter home every time I know You are not really Alice Benedict. You are Charlotte Bronte. And you are going to write a frightfully fascinating novel in which you and Father elope together. Isn’t that it?’
Philip went into Cynthia’s bedroom as her maid was pinning up her hair.
‘You don’t mind my coming in? You’re always surrounded at every other moment of the day.’
‘Surrounded? Nonsense. Not down here. Here we are always quiet. But sit down, do. This is
a long business, isn’t it, Beatrice? What do you think of Wilfred? You’d hardly met him, had you?’
‘Once or twice in London. He seems nice enough. Just the thing for Violet. Are they really going to be married in July? It will be a terrible rush for you, won’t it?’
‘It will rather, but if his regiment is really likely to be sent to India I think we shall have to do it for them. Naturally they want to get married before he goes. But it’s yourself you’ve come to talk about. How are you? Are you happy?’
‘Do I always talk about myself then? I suppose I do. Yes, I’m happy.’
‘But what?’
‘But I’m wondering whether I’m cut out for the Army. Somehow I seem to be moving in a different sort of direction. None of my friends are in the regiment now, they’re all outside, in other fields. I feel I ought to be doing something less stereotyped, if you see what I mean. One ought to do what one likes, oughtn’t one, in other words what one can fulfil oneself in doing. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course. If you mean by that finding out how best you can serve your country and your fellow men.’
‘Oh Cynthia, Cynthia.’ He looked in the mirror at her serious beautiful face. ‘Not making my fortune, and enjoying it if I can?’
‘I’m sure we mean the same thing,’ she said, though she looked puzzled. ‘But what do you think – what would you like to do instead?’
‘Don’t look so serious. There’s no hurry about any of this. But I’ve got a friend who is in business, in the City.’
Statues in a Garden Page 2
