Family History

by Vita Sackville-West

  “Why not go to your friends, then? They’re far better suited to you than I. Why did you ever come, Miles, to upset my life, and Dan’s? I was quite happy before I knew you.”

  “Were you? Playing bridge, playing up to the Jarrolds, wasting yourself . . .”

  “I’ve nothing to waste, and you know it. Go back to your friends, and leave me to myself. Leave Dan alone, too. Dan worries me enough, God knows, without you. And now, if he gets into the hands of the Anquetils . . .”

  “Do him good,” said Miles firmly.

  “Oh, Miles, Miles, you’re a stranger to me! You’re so hard, I don’t understand you. Thatt woman understands you. I can’t compete. I’m not jealous of her as a woman; don’t misunderstand. But one day you’ll meet a woman of whom I shall be jealous, a woman like thatt girl Inez perhaps; I don’t know. I know only that we’re bound for disaster. I love you to the last drop of my blood, but you don’t love me in the same way, and we ought never to have come together.”

  PART THREE

  Portrait of

  Lesley Anquetil

  They had quarrelled. It was a landmark in their relationship. Having once lost control of herself; Evelyn could not regain it. All the feelings which she had repressed rose to the surface. Everything which had charmed her about Miles began now to arouse her opposition. She nagged at him about his work, his politics, his manners, his friends, even his clothes.

  “Miles, I do wish you wouldn’t wear thatt black hat. It makes you look like a conspirator, or an organ-grinder.”

  “But I don’t in the least mind looking like a conspirator or an organ-grinder.”

  He took it good-humouredly, and thatt irritated her too. If she could goad him into a rage, she felt, she would be satisfied. She interpreted his good-humour as a sign of indifference; she was always on the look-out, now, for signs of indifference.

  “He can’t love me for ever,” so she argued miserably to herself. “The day will come when he turns naturally to a younger woman,—it must come,—he must begin to fall out of love with me. The sooner I make up my mind to it the better. Haven’t I always foreseen it? Oh, if only I could go back to those first few weeks, when I refused to think of it,—when loving him and being loved by him was enough! And if I go on as I do at present, I shall only drive him away from me before I need. What a fool I am! I must stop myself, I must, I must.”

  So she walked up and down her room, pressing her hands together, unhappy and tortured, after every fresh lapse.

  To make matters worse, the Jarrolds had found out her liaison with Miles. They did not say so openly, but they made it clear to her. Hester’s innuendoes were unmistakable. Evelyn minded terribly. She despised herself for minding, but her training and traditions were too strong for her. She determined not to tell Miles, and of course told him next time she saw him.

  He laughed.

  “Dear old frumps! are they shocked? What does it matter?”

  “It may not matter to you, Miles,—you’re a man, and you’re different anyway. But they’re my only family.”

  “I thought they bored you?”

  “They do bore me,—but I don’t want them to think ill of me.”

  Miles was incapable of understanding this point of view. He had nothing of the bourgeois in the whole of his composition.

  “The remedy lies in your own hands,” he said, as patiently as he could; “I’ve suggested over and over again that you should marry me.”

  “I know you have, and the very way in which you put it shows me what you really feel about it. ‘I’ve suggested over and over again!’ You know quite well that you suggest it only in order to please me. You don’t really want it. Naturally, I don’t blame you for not wanting to tie yourself to a woman fifteen years older than yourself. Indeed, it’s very nice and chivalrous of you to suggest it at all. But you needn’t be afraid, Miles: I shan’t take you at your word.”

  “Evelyn, don’t be so unreasonable; I do want it; I admit I hate the idea of marriage as an institution,—it always makes me think of Mr. and Mrs. Noah and the animals went in two by two,—but if ever I wanted to marry anybody it would be you. Why not? we could always divorce, if it wasn’t a success.”

  “Miles, please stop joking.”

  “I’m not joking. I’ll get a special licence tomorrow, anti it’ll be a smack in the eye for your precious sanctimonious Jarrolds. I’ll even buy a bowler for the ceremony. Or would you prefer a top-hat? And where shall we go for our honeymoon?”

  His flippancy jarred on her.

  “You don’t understand, Miles. Nothing would induce me to spoil your life.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake don’t start bringing out the big phrases. And do try to regard the Jarrolds with the contempt they deserve.”

  He saw then that she was really distressed, and coming over to her he sat on the arm of her chair.

  “Darling, I’m sorry if I can’t take the Jarrold prejudices as seriously as you do. I can’t stand people with severely admirable precepts and no charity in their souls. Pharisees! That thatt stick of a Hester should dare to criticise you, or thatt dried-up old virgin Catherine! It would do Catherine all the good in the world to be raped, and as for Hester I don’t suppose she ever knew a moment’s honest pleasure in all her life. Of course they envy us, and whisper about us, and stick darts into you whenever they can. Well, let us shut their mouths for them.”

  “Never, never, Miles; I never will; you mustn’t ask me, because it’s so hard for me to say no.”

  “Listen, you know you hate the irregularity of our relationship; you hate it right inside yourself, not only on account of the Jarrolds. You know it worries you and makes you unhappy; you think that Dan would criticise you if he knew,—as he very soon will know, he’s not a child any longer; I believe you even mind vis-à-vis Privett. You try to pretend to me that you don’t mind, and all the time it gnaws at you and makes you uncomfortable. Whenever we squabble, I believe that thatt is at the root of it,—not only my book! When I ask you to come down to the castle, your pleasure in coming is entirely spoilt by the fear that people will find out where you are. You resort to all kinds of subterfuges, and being very above-board by nature you find subterfuges irksome. Yet out of sheer obstinacy you won’t accept the remedy I offer you. I believe that at the back of your head you think I ought to marry a Nice Girl, and say good-bye to you for ever.”

  “It’s only too true, Miles; I don’t deny a word of it. I shan’t urge you to marry your nice girl, because I simply haven’t the strength or the courage, but I shall and do refuse to marry you myself.”

  “Then at least be consistent, and forget your qualms and hesitations, and let us be as happy as we may.”

  “I will, Miles, I really will.” She looked at him and smiled, trying to banish the cloud and to prevent him from guessing the force of the temptation to which he exposed her.

  She was grateful to him for having understood her so well, and to show her gratitude she not only refrained from sharp and nagging remarks, but allowed him to take her out to places where they would be sure to meet their friends and invite comment on their constant appearance together. The Easter holidays were over, and she could no longer plead mourning for old Mr. Jarrold. For Miles’ sake and in order not to incur his contempt, she discarded her instinctive discretion. It was a form of martyrisation for her, and she tried to pretend to herself that she liked it, but actually she endured the greatest discomfort; and looking at herself in the glass one evening when Miles was corning to fetch her, she wondered why her inner feelings could not accord better with her outward semblance.

  “I ought to be dowdy,” she said to herself; “Miles was quite right.” His phrase had stuck in her mind. “I ought to wear grey voile and an amethyst cross; I ought to look like the bourgeoise I really am.”

  Did she regret having met Miles? Did she re
gret having been swept away from the virtuous path she had always followed? Did she regret the smug and comfortable position she had always held, ensconced in the heart of the Jarrolds? those bolsters and pillows of family affection and respectability, sheltering her in the world to which she belonged? They had never had cause to criticise her before. Even when she went with friends to the Riviera, a district of which Jarrolds disapproved, they knew that her conduct remained impeccable, and the most they could say was that if dear Evelyn wanted a little sun in the winter why didn’t she go to some Swiss resort, or even to Rapallo, where they understood one met very nice people?

  Well, those days were over now; she had valued her reputation and she had lost it. She was ashamed of her pre-occupation over something which Miles regarded as so petty, but it lay deep, deep within her, as deep as her bones.

  “Forget it,” she kept saying to herself; “forget it, and keep Miles happy. Then he won’t turn away from me to somebody else quite so soon.” And she ordered more clothes, and went out dancing with Miles, and boldly met the amused glances of, other women, and let other men talk to her in a way they would not have ventured on before.

  She saw less and less of the Jarrolds now, and in a way, although they had bored her, she missed them. She missed her occasional week-ends of Newlands, where old Mr. Jarrold had kept the family together. They were dispersed; the old lady was living in the dower-house, quite happy with her rhododendrons; Newlands was more or less shut up, and Evelyn suspected that Dan, when he came of age, would decide to sell it. She met Evan sometimes, at a night-club, and from the look in his eye she could tell that he had as yet set no restrictions upon his brandy. She went to dinner once or twice with Geoffrey and Hester, but noticed that Ruth always contrived to be out. She supposed that she ought to feel relief at the close family life having come to an end.

  At Long Leave, at the beginning of July, resisting the united appeals of Miles and Dan, she firmly took Dan down to stay with her own father at Biggleswade, saying that it was right and proper that he should visit his surviving grandfather. It gave her a good deal of satisfaction to say this, since the argument was unanswerable. Even Miles could not and did not sneer. Dan could and did grumble, but she remained virtuously obstinate.

  It gave her a curious satisfaction, also, to reënter an atmosphere to which she had nearly become a stranger. Her father’s house, in its modest way, was the counterpart of Newlands; her father’s creed was, tacitly, the creed of the Jarrolds. Mr. Wilson, a retired solicitor living on an adequate income behind the oak paling of his two acres of grounds, gave a reassuring impression of well-invested stability. His house, which was of red brick discordantly covered by Virginia creeper, was comfortable though not luxurious; he believed in cutting his coat according to his cloth. He prided himself on his cigars and on his cellar, whose key, more from convention than from mistrust of his elderly parlour-maid, he kept on his watch-chain. Before each meal he would descend ceremoniously to the cellar with an electric torch, and would himself select the bottle he wanted. A good deal of his conversation revolved round various wines and their years of vintage, with appropriate anecdotes reminiscent of the Inner Temple. He habitually ate rather too much, without noticeably impairing his constitution, and in his own way was a gourmet, though it was not in the French way; he liked to have egg-sauce with his fish, horse-radish with his roast beef on Sunday, Lea and Perrin with his cold roast beef next day, mashed potatoes with almost everything, except pheasant which demanded chips; a dinner of less than five courses would have seemed to him a lapse from good breeding; and his luncheon was always rounded off by a savoury. He prided himself, moreover, on being a man of culture; his views on these subjects were immovable, and seemed to have come to a standstill at whatever point where they happened to have stuck; he considered Mr. Galsworthy supreme among English novelists, but set his mind resolutely against the novels he received twice a week from his lending library,—the list compiled from the more reputable of the weekly and Sunday papers;—read them with a certain amount of pleasure and a certain amount of disquiet; and returned them hoping for something better attuned to his own ideas next time. Among his water-colours, however, he felt quite safe; he liked to wander round his sitting-room, when he had nothing better to do, and to look at those pretty, comforting sketches of children in sun-bonnets among corn-fields and red pop-pies; Evelyn liked them too,—so he told himself, for he sometimes felt lonely, and the thought of Evelyn was a solace,—Evelyn liked them, and Evelyn’s boy would have them all when he died; it was nothing compared with the wealth his other grandfather had been able to leave him, but still perhaps Evelyn’s boy would find a place for the water-colours in his own particular study.

  Evelyn was bringing the boy down for Long Leave. Nice of her. He ordered a specially good dinner, and a specially large one, thinking of a schoolboy’s appetite. His little household was all in a fluster. Ellen, the parlour-maid, asked if she should buy a hot-water bottle for Mrs. Jarrold’s bed.

  “Won’t Mrs. Jarrold bring her own, Ellen?”

  “A stone one, I thought, sir, for the feet, you know, sir, just to warm the bed.”

  “But the beds are aired, Ellen?”

  “Oh, sir!”

  “Yes, of course, Ellen, I knew they were.—I was just thinking, this is July.—Well, buy a stone bottle if you think right. Yes, I dare say it would be a good thing—please Mrs. Jarrold, you know,—and a bottle always comes in useful, I dare say?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir, even though you won’t never have one yourself. And what about his lordship, sir?”

  “Boys don’t need hot-water bottles,” said Mr. Wilson severely, “and if they do, they shouldn’t. Especially in July.”

  He had not seen Evelyn for some months and was enchanted by her when he did see her. He could scarcely believe that so delightful a woman was his own daughter. All his old gallantry rose up in him,—and in his earlier years he had appreciated women,—so that he felt he must exert himself for her entertainment. As he dressed for dinner, he thought out his best stories, but was afraid she had already heard them all. It was a little confusing: he felt as though he had a stranger under his roof, a pretty bewildering stranger, yet thatt stranger was his own daughter, the same Evelyn he had known as a little girl in pinafores. A good girl; she had always been a good girl; any other woman would have married again, after poor Tommy’s death, but she, Evelyn, had devoted herself to Dan. Not many women of Evelyn’s attractions would have done thatt. Thank God, Evelyn had been well brought up; well grounded; she had had a good mother, although her mother had died when Evelyn was but nine years old. (The first seven years of a child’s life were the most important; so he had heard.) Thatt good grounding was bearing its fruits. As Evelyn had had a good mother then, so had Dan a good mother now. Mr. Wilson felt obscurely that the whole credit reverted to him. In an exceedingly good mood he descended his Turkey-carpeted stairs to dinner, to the chimes of a punctual gong.

  Evelyn was happy too. She was seldom wholly happy nowadays, even in her most delirious moments, and it was a relief to let herself relax. She almost forgot Miles. Miles faded and receded, for the first time in seven months. She was happy, sitting between her father and her son. It was safe here, safe and continuous; there was no danger, no need to adjust oneself to a swiftly moving current. She could rest. The boat was anchored.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, that you may find it rather dull.” “Oh, Father, if only you knew how I enjoy getting away from London!”

  “Very good of you to say so, my dear. And what about Dan? Doesn’t he want parties? theatres? I did, at his age . . .”

  Dan answered politely; he made his answer quite convincing, but Evelyn knew that he longed to be with Miles. She resented this reminder of Miles. She looked from Dan to his grandfather: Dan so handsome in his adolescence, his grandfather so handsome in his old age, with his white curls and rosy beaming face, looking floury
, as though he smelt good. She knew that his grandfather was proud of Dan, assuming, as a matter of course, that the boy was ‘a good boy’; knowing nothing of the gulf which separated Dan from his own ways of thinking.

  Ellen put the port on the table and left the room.

  “A glass of port, my boy? No? Quite right, quite right,—but wait till you get to Oxford! And see here, I’ll tell you something: when you were born I laid down a pipe of port, and one day you’ll thank me,—don’t forget. Eh? Now tell me, what are you going to do with yourself, eh? When you leave Oxford, I mean?”

  Dan answered evasively. He had the tact which springs from a kind and sensitive heart. He hadn’t made up his mind, he said; and then, at the end of his resources, looked at his mother to help him out.

  “I think Dan ought to travel, Father, don’t you? before settling down?”

  “There’s nothing like travel for broadening the mind,” said Mr. Wilson, who disliked nothing on earth so much as a broadened mind, although he would have denied it hotly, “and nothing like travel, I always say, for showing one that one’s own country is the best. Splendid idea, Evelyn! It isn’t everybody that can afford it, these days. Dan’s lucky. And then what’ll you do? Get down to work as a hereditary legislator?”

  Mr. Wilson laughed at his own phrase. He belonged to the school that thought polysyllables funny. He laughed so innocently and simply that Evelyn was filled with tenderness for him. Besides, Evelyn, when she was away from Miles, still thought polysyllables rather funny too.

  Then Mr. Wilson grew curious, as though he had just remembered something.

  “How is it you aren’t at Lord’s, Dan? You mustn’t stay down here just to please an old man, you know. Like to go up tomorrow for the day with your mother?”

  “Oh no, Grandpapa, thanks, I’d rather stay here.”