Family History

by Vita Sackville-West

  “And what about Miles, Mummy? Where is he? When are we going to see him? He hasn’t answered my last two letters, which is very unlike him. I thought perhaps he had gone abroad? I didn’t worry, because I was sure you would know.”

  “No, he hasn’t gone abroad.” Now that she must speak, she hesitated, with a feeling almost of suffocation.

  “Well, then? Is anything wrong? Is he ill?”

  “No, he isn’t ill. At least, I don’t think so. Dan, I may as well tell you: I’ve quarrelled with Miles. We shan’t be seeing him again, ever.”

  “Quarrelled? seriously? for good? Oh, Mummy, no! Not with Miles? But why? what about?”

  “I can’t tell you thatt, Dan; you mustn’t ask. I’m very sorry,—for you, I mean, because I know how much you will miss him. You must just believe that I couldn’t help it; just take my word for it; just take it on trust. Perhaps some day you can be friends with him again, but for the moment I think it’s better that you shouldn’t try to see him. And you must understand that I can never see him; even if you and he are friends later on. I don’t want to prevent your friendship, but you must never try to reconcile Miles and me; you must never bring him here: all thatt is quite finished,—done with.”

  She had half intended to tell him the whole truth, but could not force herself to it; it cost her enough to say what she had already said. Besides, Dan might be shocked; horrified. Her ideas on some subjects were too old-fashioned and conventional, when it came to the point, to admit the possibility of telling a boy that his mother had a lover.

  “But surely,” said Dan, greatly distressed, “people often quarrel when they are in love and then they make it up again? Is there no hope, Mummy? Can’t you possibly reconsider it? Poor Miles! he must be so unhappy. And so must you.”

  “Dan, what are you saying?”

  “Well, Mummy, you didn’t suppose that I didn’t know?”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course. Not quite at first,—not the first time we went to the castle, perhaps, or then only subconsciously,—but soon afterwards.”

  “How did you know? who told you?”

  “Nobody told me. I guessed. I put two and two together. It was obvious, surely? I couldn’t help noticing the excuses that you both made to get me out of the way. I couldn’t help noticing the disguised jokes you had together. At first I knew only that you were alluding to something I couldn’t understand, and I thought it was something grown-up that a person of my age couldn’t understand anyway; you see, at my age one is rather humble and rather easily snubbed. Then I realised that your jokes were something quite special to yourselves; private jokes; and thatt made me think. They were recurrent jokes,—little phrases that made you both laugh in a secret way every time you uttered them. You laughed; and then you looked at each other; and then you both looked at me to see if I had noticed; and you thought I hadn’t; but I had.—I’m sorry, now, if I was so obtuse at first. I must have been a bore. But then, you see, I didn’t know. I was more tactful later on, surely? Or wasn’t I? I tried to be. I meant to be. Yes, of course I knew. I wasn’t surprised; I mean, I could understand anybody falling in love with Miles. Or with you. He was so terribly attractive,—I don’t quite know why I say ‘was,’ as though he were dead. He isn’t dead; he’s alive. Or isn’t he? Mummy, you aren’t trying to break to me that Miles is dead? No, he can’t be; I should have seen it in the papers. Mummy, please?”

  “No, Dan, no: he isn’t dead; we’ve only quarrelled, thatt’s all; I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Yes, Mummy, I’m sure you are. You always told me the truth; you told me the truth when you said that my father was like Uncle Geoffrey. Thatt was a shock; but you were quite right to tell me, when I asked you.—But about Miles, now. I mind too much to leave it alone. I can’t bear to think that Miles has gone out of our lives, yours and mine, for ever. He was so valuable to both of us, in different ways! Are you sure, Mummy, that you haven’t made a horrible mistake?”

  “Oh, Dan, don’t torture me,—yes, I’m sure, I’m sure.”

  “Well, if you’re so sure, Mummy, I expect you’re right. I don’t know about these things.—But what was it, anyhow, that went wrong? If you were thinking of me, you know I would have adored Miles as a stepfather. No fairy-story jokes about Miles as a stepfather! and fairy-story jokes are about stepmothers anyway, not about step-fathers,—I wonder why? Why didn’t you marry Miles, Mummy? You were both free to marry, and I would have been delighted,—so why not? Why not, even now? Look here, is it too late? I’m sure he wanted to marry you . . . Can’t we send him a telegram? Look here, I’ll send it myself; I’ll say ‘Please come quickly and marry my mother.’ Will thatt do? And then everything will be all right, and we can all three be happy together for ever after. Wouldn’t thatt make it all right? And then Miles could help me about Orlestone. He would be in a position of authority against Uncle Geoffrey. Uncle Geoffrey would be frightened of Miles; he’d be over-awed, especially if Miles were my stepfather. And then I could carry out all my schemes and everyone would be happy except Uncle Geoffrey, who doesn’t matter. You would be happy, Mummy, and so would Miles, and so would I. Look here, can’t I make it all right just by sending a telegram? It seems so simple. Quarrels are so silly, such a waste of time, between people who really love each other. I’m sure they are; it’s as though you and I were to quarrel. Let me send thatt telegram to Miles! Damn the man, I’ve forgotten his telephone number at his castle, and he forbids the exchange to give it.”

  “No, Dan, leave things as they are; don’t send any telegrams; I know that you mean it all for the best, but there comes a point where one must judge things for oneself and nobody can help.—I would rather not talk any more about it just now, please, Dan. Let us talk about your holiday plans instead.”

  Dan had given her a look then, and she had wondered how much he exactly knew. His matter-of-fact acceptance of her relationship with Miles had staggered her; then this childishly simple solution of the problem had staggered her afresh. Had he meant it seriously? Had he been joking? Did he really believe that all love-affairs ended in marriage? His realisation of their relationship had been so surprising; his urgent little speech no less surprising in contrast. At one moment he seemed so calmly adult; at another moment, so naïf and direct.

  She was glad that he knew; knew, and did not mind.

  They referred no more to Miles. Evelyn noticed how Dan would give a quick turn to his sentence whenever the forbidden name threatened to arise. By this she knew that he gauged the pain of her feelings, and when she suggested to him that they should go abroad together there was no necessity for her to explain her desire to escape: he was aware of it already.

  They could not remain abroad for ever. She must screw up her courage to return. How she dreaded the winter, with its cycle of dates that would all be anniversaries! There would be the date when she had first seen Miles at Park Lane; the date of the Chevron House ball; the date,—next day,—when he had come to her flat to say that he loved her. What a state of mind she had been in during those twenty-four hours, between the ball and his arrival! for she had recognised well enough the catastrophe which had overtaken her. Had it overtaken him too, she had wondered, pacing her room in an anguish of uncertainty, anxiety, apprehension, and indecision? If it had,—and she had little doubt of it, remembering his ardent eyes and his manner that suggested his wish to speak, but for an effort of restraint,—if it had, what should she do? Virtuous and self-disciplined, she wondered if she could resist temptation. Then he had suddenly telephoned and asked to see her; “I must see you today if possible,” he had said, and all her indecision had vanished like a dream. She could only sit then and await his coming.

  Now she must live through all those dates again, and through the ensuing months with their mixture of retrospective ecstasy, dissatisfaction, and misery. She supposed wearily that she would survive it. If only
Miles would leave her alone, would not try to weaken her, then she might get through. She must get through. Some day he would be grateful to her. Meanwhile the pain that she must suffer was her own affair.

  It was raining in England when they landed at Dover. It was raining in London,—long, wet streets, dreary and deserted under the watery shine of the lamps. But it was warm in the flat, and Privett, who had disapproved strongly of Spain, for once looked pleased as she unpacked Evelyn’s things and rearranged her bedroom as it had always been. There were piles and piles of letters, however; Evelyn eyed them with a shrinking heart: would she come across thatt familiar writing? She would not look through them until after dinner.

  Then turning away she went idly to smell the great white lilies standing on the piano, supposing that they had been sent up from Newlands, but tied on to them she found a card: From M. There was a branch of southernwood amongst them. So he had found out when she was coming back! He had no intention of leaving her alone. “Oh God,” she murmured in an access of despair, feeling that she had no strength for this long and torturing struggle.

  It had begun already, ten minutes after she had entered the house. Fortunately Dan was out of the room, or she must have betrayed her weakness and lassitude at thatt moment. She must pull herself together before he came back. Her life, henceforth, would consist of the frightful loneliness of pulling herself together always and concealing her secret thoughts from other people.

  Mason came in, and found her with her hand still on the lilies. She had never liked Mason: he was respectful but furtive.

  “I forgot to tell you, madam: Mr. Vane-Merrick brought those.”

  “Thank you, Mason; I found the card.”

  “He brought them this morning, madam. Mr. Vane-Merrick telephoned several times, madam, to know when you would be back. He telephoned again yesterday evening.”

  “Thank you, Mason.”

  “I don’t know whether I did right in telling him, madam; I had had no instructions to the contrary.”

  “Quite right, Mason.”

  “Lady Viola Anquetil also telephoned, madam; she was anxious that you and his lordship should go to dinner. The message was, would you ring her ladyship up. I have the number written down.”

  “Thank you, Mason; please put the number on my writing-table and I’ll ring up tomorrow.”

  “Mrs. Geoffrey Jarrold also rang up, madam. There was no message; only to ask when you would be back, and whether you and his lordship would be staying here or going to Newlands. I replied that I was unable to inform her.”

  “Thank you, Mason; if Mrs. Jarrold or Mr. Vane-Merrick should telephone again, please say that I am going down to Newlands with his lordship early tomorrow morning. In fact, if anybody telephones, you had better say that I am out. I have a good deal to do before going to Newlands.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Mason withdrew. No other word could express his removal of himself from the room. Evelyn hated him; she was sure that he knew everything, from beginning to end. Privett probably knew too, but she minded Privett less,—good, staunch, disagreeable old Privett, sour as a lemon and solid as a turnip. It was Mason’s spying on her that she hated.

  She detached Miles’ card from the lilies with meticulous care and threw it into the fire. She watched the brief message shrivel; the “From M.” blacken and go up in a smoky twist.

  Privett came in, carrying Evelyn’s attaché-case to set down beside the writing-table.

  “Privett, could you put those flowers outside, do you think? They smell too strong in here, they give me a headache.”

  “In the bathroom shall I put them?” said Privett regarding the heavy vase with disfavour.

  “No, put them in the passage. Take them into your own room if you like; I don’t want them.”

  Would Mason tell Privett that they had come from Mr. Vane-Merrick? She must risk thatt. Anything to get them out of her sight.

  Privett took them away, and came back with the branch of southernwood.

  “I know you always liked thatt stuff, to burn,” she said gruffly, giving it to Evelyn.

  Evelyn threw it on to the fire. It flared aromatically, and its scent filled the room.

  Dan came in, washed and clean.

  “Hullo, what a good smell.”

  “Dan, tell Mason we’ll have dinner, will you? Tell him to hurry —tell him we’re hungry. Tell him we’ll have some champagne.”

  She could bear no more. The smell of the southernwood was the last straw.

  The champagne did her good; it strengthened her. She had never been accustomed to drink much wine, and two glasses affected her instantly. She remembered poor Evan’s words; he never felt alive, he had said, unless he had something in him. With a grim sense of humour, induced by the champagne, she reflected that she must not take to drink as a remedy for a broken heart; it would really be too trite, too well-precedented. Nevertheless, she felt better; Miles seemed a long way off; detached; her anxieties decreased; she began even to think with amusement of how easily she would greet him, were he to be ushered in suddenly by Mason. And, getting up, she said to Dan, “Come on, Dan; let’s dance.”

  They went into the sitting-room and turned on the wireless. The sitting-room was not a good room to dance in; it had a thick pile carpet and far too much furniture. But it amused Evelyn, this evening, to dance under difficulties and to steer her way among the many obstacles of chairs and tables. It amused Dan too, for he also had had some champagne; just enough, not too much. He, like his mother, was an instinctive and beautiful dancer. They both had enough recklessness and rhythm in their blood.

  They had often danced together before, but the same current had never run in quite the same way between them. Dan was excited, without knowing exactly why; he supposed that it must be the champagne and the strangeness of finding himself back in the flat after the distant loveliness of Spain and the long motor-run home, with their stops for the night in little Spanish and French towns, sitting out on the pavement drinking sirop or vermouth in the evening, while the local population passed up and down wearing un-English boots, and stiff black clothes, and he and his mother made silly jokes and Were happy together, and warm, and care-free.

  Care-free? Had she really been care-free, even for a moment? He remembered then with a pang of remorse the sorrow that must have accompanied her all the time like a shadow cast by the sun. She had concealed it from him,—she had been unselfish enough to conceal it. She had never referred again, even obliquely, to Miles. Yet she must have been thinking of him all the time. Evelyn felt Dan’s hold on her tighten as they danced. She wondered why, but responded by giving herself even more softly into his arms. And he, for his part, felt her yield; and felt the softness of her woman’s body in her silken clothes; and knew how much Miles must have loved her, and how much she must have loved Miles.

  At half-past eleven the telephone-bell rang.

  “Answer it, Dan. Mason must have gone to bed.—Dan! If it’s Miles, say I’ve gone to bed.”

  “All right, Mummy.”

  He took up the receiver; said “Hullo!”; and listened.

  “No, Mummy, it isn’t Miles; it’s Uncle Evan.” He had covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants to come round.”

  “All right, tell him to come round.”

  “But, Mummy, aren’t you tired?”

  “No, tell him to come round.”

  “Uncle Evan, Mummy says yes, do please come.” “And now, Dan, you go to bed. You must be tired.”

  “But so must you.”

  “No, I’m not. And anyway it wouldn’t matter if I were. You go to bed, Dan. Good night, my sweet; sleep well.”

  “Can’t I have another glass of champagne, Mummy? before I go?”

  “N
o, you can’t. Go to bed, darling; it’s late.”

  “Good night then, Mummy; sleep well.”

  “Sleep well, my sweet.”

  Evan came; she opened the door to him. He was not very drunk; only just drunk enough to welcome the champagne she offered him. He had had just thatt amount of drink to make him want a little more.

  “By Jove, Evelyn, you look lovelier than ever.”

  “Do I, Evan?”

  “Yes, by Jove you do. How do you manage it, after a long journey in the train?—oh no, I forgot,—you went by motor, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, we went by motor.”

  “You and Dan?”

  “Yes, I and Dan.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell me another, Evelyn. You and Dan,—going off to Spain alone together? And who went with you, eh?”

  “Nobody went with us, Evan,—unless you count Privett. Privett didn’t like Spain. She found a flea in her bed, several fleas.”

  “And what did you find in your bed? Not a flea, I bet. Something better than a flea,—what?”

  “Evan, if you are in the mood to be so vulgar, I think you had better go away.”

  “Nah, Evelyn, don’t be cross. Remember, I haven’t seen you for months. Tell me some more. How have you been getting on? There’s been all sorts of talk about you in the family.” He had not meant to say this, but a third glass had made him indiscreet.

  Evelyn winced; she regretted having allowed him to come. The mood was passing off in which she had felt that anybody’s company, even Evan’s, would be preferable to her own. She was now just very tired; very tired and very sad; too tired to feel anything acutely any more.

  “I hate gossip, Evan; please don’t repeat unkind things to me.”

  “I don’t wonder you hate gossip, especially when it’s true. Of course knew all about you, but don’t imagine that I gave you away; it was old Hester and Catherine, nosing about. I knew what they were after when Hester asked me casually one day if I knew a certain young man.”