Seducers in Ecuador and the Heir

by Vita Sackville-West

  Jakes began making his way out of the room. He had the shameful air of one who has failed before all men in the single audacity of his life-time. For him, Lot 4 had been the lot that must rivet everyone’s attention; it had been not an episode but the apex. Chase saw him slink out, burdened by disgrace. It would be several hours before he regained the spirit to put the bagginhook through the flowers.

  “Lot 5 . . .” Callous as Roman sports proceeding on the retreat of the conquered gladiator. Scatter sand on the blood! Chase sat on, dumbly listening, the auctioneer’s voice and the rap of the hammer twanging, metallic, across the chords of his bursting head. He had surely been mad to come, – to expose himself to this pain, madder than poor Jakes, who at least came with a certain hope. What had brought him – his body felt curiously light; he knew only that he had slipped out of his lodgings at six that morning, had found his way into trains, his limbs performing the necessary actions for him, while his mind continued remote and fixed only upon the distant object towards which he was being rapidly carried. His house – during this miserable week in Wolverhampton, what had they been doing to his house? – perpetrating what infamy? Sitting in the train his mind glazed into that one concentration – Blackboys; he had wondered dimly whether he would indeed find the place where he had left it, among the trees, or whether he had dreamt it, under an enchantment; whether life in Wolverhampton – his office, his ledgers, his clerks, his lodgings – were not the only reality? Still his limbs, intelligent servants, had carried him over the difficulties of the cross-country journey, rendering him at the familiar station – a miracle. As he crossed the stile at the bend of the footpath – for he had taken the short cut across the fields from the station – he had come upon the house, he had heard his breath sob in his throat, and he had repressed the impulse to stretch out both his hands . . . With his eagerness his steps had quickened. It was the house, though not as he knew it. Not slumbrous. Not secluded. Carriages and motors under the trees, grooms and chauffeurs strolling about, idly staring. The house unveiled, prostituted; yes, it was like seeing one’s mistress in a slave-market. He had bounded up the steps into the hall, where a handful of loafing men had quizzed him impertinently. The garden door opposite stood open, and he could see right up the garden; was puzzled, in passing, because he missed the peacocks parading the blazon of their spread tails. The familiarity of the proportions closed instantly round him. Wolverhampton receded; this was reality; this was home.

  He had gone up the staircase, his head reeling with anger when he saw that the pictures had been taken down from their places, and stood propped along the walls of the upper passage, ticketed and numbered. He had madly resented this interference with his property. Then he had gone into the gallery, sick and blind, dazzled by the sight that met him there, as though he had come suddenly into too strong a light. He had assured himself at once that they had not yet reached the selling of the house. Still his – and he stumbled into a chair and assisted at the demolition of Jakes.

  The windows were wide open; bees blundered in and out; the tops of the woods appeared, huge green pillows; above them the cloudless sky; Midsummer day. Where, then, was the sweet harmony of the house and garden that waited upon the lazy hours of such a day? – driven out by dust and strangers, the Long Gallery made dingy by rows of chairs, robbed of its own mellow furnishing, robbed of its silence by sharp voices; the violation of sanctuary. Chase sat with his fingers knotted together between his knees. Perhaps a score of people in that room knew him by sight; to the others he was an onlooker; to the ones who knew him, an owner hoping for a good price. They must know he was poor – the park fence was lichen-covered and broken down in many places; the road up to the house was overgrown with weeds. Poor – obliged to sell; the place, for all its beauty, betrayed its poverty. Only the farmers looked prosperous. (Those farmers must have prospered better than they ever admitted, for here was one of them buying-in at a most respectable figure the house and lands he rented.) His over-excited senses quietening down a little, he paid attention to the progress of the sale, finding there nothing but the same intolerable pain; the warmth of his secret memory stirred by the chill probe of the words he heard pronounced from the auctioneer’s desk – ”ten acres of fallow, known as Ten-Acre Field, with five acres, three roods, and two perches of wood, including a quantity of fine standing timber to the value of two hundred and fifty pounds” – he knew that wood; it was free of undergrowth, and the bare tree-trunks rose like columns straight out of a sea of bluebells: two hundred and fifty pounds’ worth of standing timber. Walking in Ten-Acre Field outside the edge of that wood he had scared many a rabbit that vanished into the wood with a frisk of white tail, and had startled the rusty pheasants up into heavy flight.

  Knocked down to the farmer who had just bought-in his farm.

  He didn’t much resent the fields and woods going to the farmers. If anyone other than himself must have them, let it be the yeomen by whom they were worked and understood. But the house – there was the rub, the anguish. Nutley had mentioned a Brazilian (Nutley’s most casual word about the house, or a buyer for the house, had remained indelibly stamped on Chase’s mind.) He looked about now, for the first time since he had come into the room, and discovered Nutley leaning against the auctioneer’s high chair, then he discovered the young man who must certainly be the Brazilian in question, and all the dread which had been hitherto, so to speak, staved off, now smote him with its imminence as his eyes lighted on the unfamiliar, insouciant face.

  The new owner, lounging there, insufferable, graceful, waiting without impatience, so insultingly unperturbed! Cool as a cucumber, that young man, accustomed to find life full of a persevering amiability. Chase made a movement to rise; he wanted to fly the room, to escape an ordeal that appalled his soul, but his shyness held him down: he could not create a sensation before so many people. Enraged as he was by the weakness that caught him thus, and prevented him from saving himself while there was still time, he yet submitted, pinned to his chair, enduring such misery as made all his previous grief sink to the level of mere discomfort. He yearned even after hours that lay in the past, and that at the time of their being had seemed to him, in all truth, sufficiently weighted; the hours he had spent standing beside the dealers during their minute examination of his possessions, while he wrung out his pitiable flippancies; then, in those days, he had known that ultimately they would take their leave, and that he would be left to turn back alone into his house, greeted by the dog beating his tail against the legs of the furniture, as pleased as his master; or the hour when, sitting in this very gallery (how different then!), he had read through Nutley’s offensive booklet, and had not known whether it was chiefly anger or pain that drove extravagant ideas of revolt across his mind; those hours by comparison now appeared to him elysian – he had tasted then but the froth on the cup of bitterness of which he now reached the dregs.

  God, how quickly they were getting through the lots! Lot 14 was already reached, and 16 was the house. Surely no soul could withstand such pressure, but must crumble like a crushed shell? When they actually reached Lot 16, when he heard the auctioneer start off with his “Now, gentlemen . . .” what would he do then, how would he behave? It was no longer shyness that held him, but fascination, and a physical sickness that made his body clammy and moist although he was shivering with cold. Fear must be like this, and from his heart he pitied all those who were mortally afraid. He noticed that several people were looking at him, amongst others Nutley, and he thought that he must be losing control of his reason, for it seemed to him that Nutley’s face was yellow and pointed, and was grinning at him with a squinting malevolence, an oblique derision, altogether fantastic, and pushed up quite close to him, although in reality Nutley was some way off. He put up his hand to his forehead, and one or two people made an anxious movement towards him, as though they thought he was going to faint. He rejected them with a vague gesture, and at that moment heard the auctione
er say, “Lot 16, gentlemen . . .”

  XVI

  There was a general stir in the room, of chairs being shifted, and legs uncrossed and recrossed. Mr. Webb gave a little cough, while he laid aside his catalogue in favour of the more elaborate booklet, which he opened on the desk in front of him, flattening down the pages with a precise hand. He drew himself up, took off his glasses, and tapped the booklet with them, surveying his audience. “As you know, ladies and gentlemen – as, in fact, this monograph, which you have all had in your hands, will have told you if you did not know it before – we have in Blackboys one of the most perfect examples of the Elizabethan manor-house in England. I don’t think I need take up your time and my own by enlarging upon that, or by pointing out the historical and artistic value of the property about to be disposed of; I can safely leave the ancient building, and the monograph so ably prepared by my friend Mr. Nutley, to speak for themselves. It only remains for me to beg those intending to bid, to second my efforts in putting the sale through as quickly as possible, for we still have a large portion of the catalogue to deal with, and to bear in mind that a reserve figure of reasonable proportions has been placed upon the manor-house and surrounding grounds. – Lot 16, the manor-house known as Blackboys, the pleasure-grounds of eight acres, and one hundred and twenty-five acres of park land adjoining.”

  A short silence succeeded Mr. Webb’s little speech. The Brazilian and his solicitor whispered together. The representatives of the various agencies looked at one another to see who would take the first step. Finally a voice said, “Eight thousand guineas.”

  “Come, come”, smiled Mr. Webb.

  “Nine thousand”, said another voice.

  “I told you, gentlemen, that a reasonable reserve had been placed upon this lot”, said the auctioneer in a tone of restrained impatience, “and you must all of you be sufficiently acquainted with the standard of sale-room prices to know that that nine thousand guineas comes nowhere near a reasonable figure for a property such as the one we have now under consideration.”

  Thus rebuked, the man who had first spoken said, “All right – twelve thousand.”

  “And five hundred”, said the second man.

  “Sticky, sticky”, murmured Nutley, shaking his head.

  Still neither the Brazilian nor his solicitor made any sign. The agents were evidently unwilling to show their hands; then a little man began to bid on behalf of an American standing at his elbow: “Thirteen thousand guineas.”

  This stirred the agents, and between them all the bidding crackled up to eighteen thousand. Mr. Webb, judging that the American was probably good for twenty or twenty-five, and wishing to entice the Brazilian into competition, said in the same resigned tone, “I am unwilling to withdraw this lot, but I am afraid we cannot afford to waste time in this fashion.”

  “Make it twenty, sir”, called out the American, “and let’s get a move on.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Webb, in the midst of a laugh. “I am bid twenty thousand guineas for Lot 16, twenty thousand guineas are bid . . . and five hundred on my right . . . twenty-one thousand on my left . . . thank you again, sir: twenty-two thousand guineas. Twenty-two thousand guineas. Surely no one wishes to see this lot withdrawn? Twenty-two thousand guineas. And five hundred. And two hundred and fifty more. Twenty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty guineas . . .”

  “Twenty-three thousand,” said the solicitor who had come with the Brazilian.

  People craned forward now to see and to hear. The Brazilian had been generally pointed out as the most likely buyer, and until he or his man took up the bidding it could be disregarded as preliminary. The small fry of the agents served to run it up into workable figures, after which it would certainly pass beyond them. The duel, it was guessed, would lie between the American and the Brazilian.

  “Twenty-four thousand,” called out one of the agents in a sort of dying flourish.

  “And five hundred,” said another, not to be outdone.

  “Twenty-five thousand,” said the Brazilian’s solicitor.

  “Twenty-five thousand guineas are bid,” said the auctioneer. “Twenty-five thousand guineas. I am authorised by Mr. Nutley, the solicitor acting for this estate, to tell you . . .” he glanced down at Nutley, who nodded, “. . . to tell you that this sum had already been offered, and refused, at the estate office. If, therefore, no gentleman is willing to pass beyond twenty-five thousand guineas, I shall be compelled . . . and five hundred, thank you, sir. Twenty-five thousand five hundred guineas.”

  Most people present supposed that this sum came very near to being adequate, and a murmur to this effect passed up and down the room. People looked at Chase, who was as white as death and sat with his eye fixed upon the floor. The American, good-humouredly enough, was trying to take the measure of the unruffled young man; judging from the slight shrug he gave, he did not think he stood much chance, but nevertheless he called, “Keep the ball rolling. Two hundred and fifty more.”

  The room began to take sides, most preferring the straightforward vulgarity of the jolly American to the outlandishness of the young man, which baffled and put them ill at their ease. (Nutley found time to think that the youth of the neighbourhood would need some time before it recovered from the influence of that young man, even if he were to pass away with the day.) Those who had the habit of sale-rooms thought Chase lucky in having two men, both keen, against one another to run up a high price. They bent forward with their elbows on their knees and their chins in their hands, to listen.

  “And two hundred and fifty more,” capped the solicitor.

  “Twenty-six thousand guineas are bid,” said Mr. Webb, who by now was leaning well over his desk and whose glances kept travelling sharply between the rivals. He was sure that the Brazilian intended, if necessary, to go to thirty thousand.

  “Twenty-seven,” said the American, recklessly.

  “Twenty-eight,” said the solicitor after a word with his employer.

  The American shook his head; he was very jovial and friendly, and bore no malice. He laughed, but he shook his head.

  “If that is your last word, gentlemen, I regret to say that the lot must be withdrawn, as the reserve has not been reached,” said Mr. Webb. “I am sure that Mr. Nutley will pardon me the slight irregularity in giving you this information, under the exceptional circumstances . . .” Nutley assented; he greatly enjoyed being referred to, especially now in Chase’s presence . . . . “I only do so in order to give you the chance of continuing should you wish . . .”

  “All right, anything to make a running,” said the American, who was certainly the favourite of the excited and eager audience; “two hundred and fifty better than the last bid.”

  The auctioneer caught the Brazilian’s nod.

  “I am bid twenty-eight thousand five hundred guineas . . . twenty-nine thousand,” he added, as the American nodded to him.

  “Thirty,” said the Brazilian quietly.

  He had not spoken before, and every gaze was turned upon him as, perfectly cool, he stood leaning against the wall in the bay of a window. He was undisturbed, from the sleekness of his head down to his immaculate shoes. He had all the assurance of one who is certain of having spoken the last word.

  “I’m out of this,” said the American.

  “Thirty thousand guineas are bid,” said the auctioneer; “for Lot 16 thirty thousand guineas. THIRTY THOUSAND GUINEAS,” he enunciated; “going, for the sum of thirty thousand guineas, going, going . . .”

  Chase tottered to his feet.

  “Thirty-one thousand,” he cried in a strangled voice, “thirty-one thousand!”

  XVII

  Of all the astonished people in that room, perhaps not the least astonished was the auctioneer. He had never seen Chase before, and naturally thought that he had to deal with an entirely new candidate. He adjusted hi
s glasses to stare at the solitary figure upright among the rows of seated people, standing with a trembling hand still outstretched. He had just time to notice with concern that Chase was deathly pale, his face carved and hollowed, before habit reasserted itself, and he checked the “gone!” that had almost left his lips, to resume his chronicle of the bidding with “Thirty-one thousand guineas . . . any advance on thirty-one thousand guineas?” and cocked his eye at the Brazilian.

  The Brazilian, equally surprised, had never before seen Chase either. What was this fierce little man, who had shot up out of the ground so turbulently to dispute his prize? He had not supposed that it would be necessary to go beyond the thirty-thousand; nevertheless he was prepared to do so, and to make his determination clear he continued with the bidding himself instead of leaving it to his solicitor. “And five hundred,” he said.

  “Thirty-five thousand,” said Chase.

  The sensation he would have created by escaping from the room half an hour earlier was nothing to the sensation he was creating now. But he was exalted far beyond shyness or false shame. He never noticed the excited flutter all over the room, or the extraordinary agitation of Nutley, who was saying “He’s mad! he’s mad!” while frantically trying to attract the auctioneer’s attention. Chase was oblivious to all this. He stood, feeling himself inspired by some divine breath, the room a blur before him, and a current of power, quite indomitable, surging through his veins. Infatuation. Genius. They must be like this. This certainty. This unmistakable purpose. This sudden clearing away of all irrelevant preoccupations. Vistas opened down into all the obscurities that had always shadowed and confused his brain: the secret was to find oneself, to know what one really wanted, what one really cared for, and to go for it straight. Wolverhampton? Moonshine! He was no longer pale, nor did he keep his eyes shamefully bent upon the ground; he was flushed, embattled; his nostrils dilated and working.