Family History

by Vita Sackville-West

  He laughed in a kindly and superior way and patted her arm. “I think you’ll find it has gone down. I’m going to send her something which will bring it down.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, then?”

  “Oh dear me, no; nothing to worry about. Go in and see her, but don’t let her talk too much. The quieter she remains today the better.”

  The doctor was right; her temperature did go down. Her sister-in-law came again in the evening and chaffed her about the fright she had given them. Evan sent some flowers with a sympathetic note. She lay in bed, feeling rather weak but peaceful. She was too tired to think about Miles. Her limbs and head ached too much for her to think about the ache in her heart. She noted with a cynical amusement that physical ills could obliterate the ills of the mind, and, noting it, wished fancifully that she might permanently suffer this slight discomfort in exchange for the other. It was not unpleasant to be slightly ill; even the pains in one’s joints were interesting rather than inconvenient. It was interesting to move one’s foot and to feel the remote, indefinable pain in one’s ankle. It was difficult to say where the pain exactly was; difficult to pin it down. She knew only that it spread itself almost sensuously over her whole body; it was just enough to make her aware of her body, like a caress. Shut away in her room, a compulsory prisoner, she felt more at peace than she had felt for months. Privett was kind, and the necessity of asking Privett to attend to her small physical needs came as a curious relief to the personal loneliness she had recently endured. It was a relief to ask Privett for another glass of milk and soda; a relief to say that she was thirsty; almost equivalent to saying that she was unhappy. Illness, even a trivial illness, so rapidly became important! The sick-room, so rapidly, became the center of the world.

  Privett was very kind. Twice during the night she stole into Evelyn’s room on tiptoe in slippers,—which was remarkable for Privett, who usually tramped about defiantly in noisy boots. Hester and Ruth and Evan were kind too; they came to see her, bringing flowers and grapes. Her room was soon heaped with the things that people send or bring when one is ill. Knowing Miles, she could imagine how he would let loose his scorn on such conventional expressions of sympathy. But from Miles she had had no word at all. She could not blame him, for how could he know that she was ill? Only the unreasonable petulance of the invalid made her resent his silence; and once, as she lay alone staring at the fire, she felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

  The fever appeared to pass, but she developed a cough which troubled her more, for it shook her and made her head ache again. The doctor forbade her to get up until it should be better. “We don’t want you down with bronchitis,” he said, and he came to see her every day. She had already lost count of time, and was astonished to find that she had been in bed for a week. It was surprising how one could lie doing nothing for most of the day, and yet not feel that time dragged with intolerable slowness; the small routine of the sick-room punctuated the day, dividing it up and making it pass. She would have been quite content, but for the cough that worried her perpetually and hurt her chest.

  “Yes,” said the doctor in reply to Hester’s question. “there is certainly a touch of bronchitis. A mere touch. If we keep her warm, it should soon go off.”

  It showed no signs of going off, however, and a small array of remedies began to appear in Evelyn’s room: inhalers, and a kettle that had to be kept steaming day and night. Hester expressed anxiety to the doctor. Surely this bronchitis should be better by now?

  “What can you expect in this weather?” he said. “These fogs and damp don’t give anybody a chance. We can’t even open the window to air the room without being half choked.”

  They heard Evelyn coughing next door, and stopped to listen.

  “Poor thing, she must be racked by it. It’s so tiring, and it keeps her awake at night.”

  “Thatt reticent maid of hers seems very devoted.”

  “Thatt reminds me, Doctor Gregory: Evelyn worries because Privett goes in constantly to attend to her in the night. It didn’t matter when we thought she would be up in a few days, but, after all, she has been in bed now for over a week and it begins to look as though she would be there for another week.”

  “She certainly will,” said the doctor.

  “Well, then, do you think we should get a nurse? It seems absurd to suggest a nurse for such a slight illness, but it would spare Privett and I think Evelyn would prefer it. She could sleep in Dan’s room, and Evelyn could have a bell.”

  The doctor thought it a good idea, and the nurse was installed, though everyone was very careful to insist that it was in order to spare Privett, and not because Evelyn really needed nursing.

  Hester and the doctor agreed privately that when she was well enough to travel she should go away to a warm climate for a few weeks,—the South of France, perhaps, or even Egypt.

  Meanwhile there could be no question of it, for her temperature, which had gone up again when the bronchitis began, remained up obstinately. The nurse kept a temperature chart, at which Hester glanced always on the sitting-room desk before going through into Evelyn’s room. Evelyn was not allowed to talk much, nor had she any desire to do so, for talking made her cough. She just smiled when Hester came in, and patted her hand as it lay on the eiderdown. Hester thought she looked very ill, so flushed, and her eyes large and bright; and she could see by Evelyn’s hands how thin she had become. She had now been ill for ten days; yes, ten days; it was the sixteenth of December.

  Hester asked the doctor for his opinion.

  “She doesn’t seem so well today, certainly. The cough wears her out, and I am afraid there is a slight congestion. Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Geoffrey; I assure you that I am not seriously worried.”

  “Congestion of the lungs, do you mean?”

  “Yes, congestion of the lungs.”

  “Doctor Gregory, you are not afraid of pneumonia, are you?”

  “Well, of course in these cases one always has to bear the possibility in mind; no more.”

  “Is there nothing more we can do?”

  “For the moment I don’t think there is; she is receiving good nursing; no, I think we can only wait and see. Don’t, I beg you, mention this to your sister-in-law. I would not have mentioned it to you, but you asked me.”

  “You really think the chance of pneumonia is a remote one?”

  “Oh, very remote, I hope; oh dear me, yes, very remote. Tell me, Mrs. Geoffrey,—I don’t want to be indiscreet, but I have known you all for a long time,—has your sister-in-law anything on her mind, do you know?”

  Hester paused before answering.

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Frankly, when I went in this evening, I thought Mrs. Jarrold had been crying.”

  “Frankly, then, I think she may have had reason to be unhappy lately. I am not in her confidence, so I cannot say for certain, but one hears things, you know.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “I understand. You don’t think there is anyone she would like to see for a moment? It is very important to keep her mind at rest while she is still so feverish.”

  “I don’t know, but I can ask her.”

  “I wish you would, but they must not stay for more than five minutes, and she must talk as little as possible.”

  Hester tried to put the question tactfully, for at heart she was not an unkind woman, and though she had disapproved rigidly of Evelyn’s affair with Vane-Merrick she was really touched now by Evelyn’s frailty and appearance of suffering exhaustion. So she leant over her and said gently, “You must be so bored, my dear, lying here. The doctor says you may see any one of your friends, if you like, for just a few minutes.”

  Evelyn looked up at her in surprise, and Hester saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears. But then she turned her head away, and shook it without speaking.

 
It was the anniversary of the Chevron House ball, but of course Hester could not know thatt; neither could the doctor.

  Hester went out and had a few words with the nurse. They spoke in low voices now, and everything was very hushed and silent in the flat. The nurse, true to the manner of her kind, was extremely non-committal, though she admitted that Mrs. Jarrold did not seem “quite so well tonight as usual.” What a strange way the medical profession have of putting things, thought Hester, going back into Evelyn’s room to say good-bye.

  She found that Evelyn had written something for her on a slip of paper; it was the means of communication they used sometimes to spare Evelyn’s voice. She had written: “I should like to see Viola Anquetil; Mason knows the telephone number.”

  Hester, after reading, said she would see to it. She was a little surprised, for she had no idea that Evelyn knew thatt eccentric Viola Anquetil; but then she had known so little of Evelyn’s life. It had always been a grievance amongst the Jarrolds. They imagined that Evelyn spent her time with smart friends who played bridge and went racing.

  Evelyn caught her hand as she was about to turn away, and beckoned her down to whisper. “Tonight,” she said.

  “Yes, yes, I promise; I’ll see about it tonight. I’ll telephone to her myself.”

  The weak irritability of the invalid overcame Evelyn at Hester’s inability to understand at once what she meant. If Hester only knew what it cost her to speak and give explanations!

  “I mean, will she come tonight?”

  “Oh, Evelyn dear, isn’t it rather late? Very well,” she added hastily, seeing Evelyn’s instant look of distress; “if the nurse allows it, she shall come tonight. There, are you pleased?”

  She smiled with bright reassurance; stooped to kiss the curly head, and went to telephone.

  Viola said of course she would come immediately. No one had told her that Evelyn was ill.

  Curiosity kept Hester in the flat until Viola arrived.

  She wanted to see this woman whom everyone knew by repute, although she deliberately shunned all forms of publicity, and who now turned out so unexpectedly to be a friend of Evelyn’s,—the one friend, in fact, whom she had asked to see. Viola arrived within twenty minutes, calm and beautiful. Hester recognised her beauty, although it was not of the obvious sort and although she thought Viola’s clothes very odd indeed, Viola on the other hand thought Hester exactly what she had imagined the Jarrold women to be; a rather hard face, sensible tweed coat and skirt, and large feet with low-heeled shoes. The kind of woman who would be intolerant and critical in ordinary life, but reliable and kindly in an emergency,—if it were an emergency she could understand, such as physical illness. The illness of the heart or soul would leave her baffled.

  Hester took her into Evelyn’s room and left them together.

  She waited for Viola to come out, having told her to remain for not more than five minutes. She employed those five minutes in talking to the nurse,—a common but efficient little thing, very much on her dignity always, devoting herself conscientiously to her patients and making herself objectionable to her patients’ servants in the background, when she imagined that they slighted her or did not serve her meals properly. It was part of her dignity, also, to preserve a reticent hostility towards the friends and relations of her patients; those tiresome anxious people who asked questions that nurses were not allowed to answer. She knew quite well that Mrs. Jarrold was in for pneumonia. She had seen many such cases. But she was not going to say so; thatt was the doctor’s business. She quite liked Mrs. Jarrold, who apologised always when she rang the bell in the middle of the night and who had such lovely pyjamas and lovely things on her dressing-table. But her patients were so many ciphers to her, really, although she did her best by them and could send a little money home to her mother in Yorkshire. She had learnt to adopt a manner towards the friends and relations of her patients; a nurse was compelled to do thatt, in self-defence. They were all ciphers; the patient who was just ‘a case,’ and the friends and relations who besieged her with anxious questions that she either might not or could not answer—although by virtue of her uniform they appeared to think her omniscient. The only person who was not a cipher was the young medical student who took her out to a cinema on her free evenings; when they never talked shop.

  Viola came out of Evelyn’s room after the prescribed five minutes. She went up to Hester and the nurse, and said: “Look here, she is very ill indeed.” For some reason, neither Hester nor the nurse resented this statement. They merely looked at her as she voiced what they already knew and felt. The nurse knew it, and Hester felt it. “Oh no,” said Hester, “the doctor says he is not seriously worried.”

  The nurse just looked at Viola, knowing that this was not a person who would bother her by questions, but who would call in a specialist regardless of Doctor Gregory. Dr. Gregory, in the nurse’s private opinion, was competent to deal with measles or influenza, but not with a case of double pneumonia. She, the nurse, had no special interest in Mrs. Jarrold, but her professional vanity minded seeing a case die under her hands. This Lady Anquetil was the sort of person who would insist on a consultation. Mrs. Geoffrey Jarrold was the sort of person who came most assiduously every morning and every evening, and was quite sensible on the whole,—compared with some relations,—but who respected the doctor too much and accepted his too optimistic view. Lady Anquetil formed her own judgment, and was prepared to tackle the matter with her own hands. The nurse was pleased when she heard Lady Anquetil say that a specialist ought to see Mrs. Jarrold. Lady Anquetil—what an odd name!—said that it was rubbish, the doctor saying he was not seriously worried. If he was not seriously worried, then he ought to be. In her opinion, Evelyn was very ill indeed. If Mrs. Geoffrey Jarrold agreed, she said, deferring to her as a person having the rights of a relation, a lung specialist should be called in without delay. She would see about it, if Mrs. Geoffrey Jarrold agreed.

  Hester agreed. She was surprised, and resentful, but on the whole grateful to this unknown woman who had come to take all responsibility for Evelyn. They would ask Dr. Gregory to call in a lung specialist next morning, she said, reasserting herself as the person who would be there in charge when Dr. Gregory came. But Viola said, quietly, that she would be back by ten in the morning; she would like to see the doctor, and hear the specialist’s report.

  Evelyn spent a bad night. She coughed a great deal, and could not sleep in the intervals, because she was thinking of the ball a year ago at Chevron House. Next morning the nurse had to trace a bigger peak than usual upon her temperature chart. She drew it with her pen, automatically and meticulously, stopping at precisely the accurate line. Then she sat back in her chair—Evelyn’s chair at Evelyn’s desk—and looked at the chart. It went up and down like an outline map of the Himalayas. The nurse was well accustomed to such charts but still she shook her head doubtfully. She was glad that Lady Anquetil had insisted on calling in a specialist.

  The specialist was not very comforting, and Dr. Gregory resented his presence in a deferential way. The specialist said that both lungs were affected, but that he hoped the mischief would not spread. He said that one must await developments and that he would return next day. He altered Dr. Gregory’s prescriptions just enough to annoy Dr. Gregory, but not enough to produce any noticeable effect on the patient. The nurse treated him with a shade more respect than she accorded to Dr. Gregory. Then he went away, driving off in a long, grey, Rolls-Royce coupé to his next rich patient. Evelyn appeared to take very little interest in the sudden introduction of a specialist. Hester, who was growing really anxious, asked the nurse whether this indifference were not a bad sign? No, said the nurse, they were always like thatt. Hester resented the pronoun ‘they’ ; it indicated that Evelyn had entered into the generalised class of people who were ill. It made Hester feel suddenly fonder of, and more protective towards, Evelyn. She began to dislike the nurse, although
she knew that the nurse was doing her best by Evelyn. She experienced all the helpless antagonism of the flustered ignorant towards the cool professional.

  But the person who really took charge was Viola Anquetil. Viola allowed no conventional considerations such as the rights of relationship to stand in her way. She was civil and even friendly towards Hester, but she made it quite clear that although merely a friend, she intended to see Evelyn safely through this illness. Both the nurse and Dr. Gregory, in whom she obviously had no confidence at all, recognised her power of authority. Their manner was quite different, as they spoke to Viola or as they spoke to Hester. Viola could make suggestions, and Dr. Gregory would accept them. He dared not do otherwise. Hester herself; managing and masculine woman though she was, found herself submitting to Viola’s decrees. They were proffered with so much knowledge and experience behind them, so much cold sense, and yet without any offensive air of superiority. Viola held both Dr. Gregory and Hester completely in control. The nurse, too, knew that she would not ask questions, but would simply give orders. She came every morning, and stayed at the flat all day. She was the only person whom Evelyn wanted to see. Evelyn was very quiet now, except when she coughed. She lay in her bed, but when Viola came in she smiled and reached out her hand. Viola took it, but not sentimentally. She had to be practical, not sentimental. It was important that Evelyn should not know how ill she was. Viola alone knew how ill she was. Dr. Gregory kept up his pretence that she would be all right in a week’s time. The specialist, too, was optimistic. The nurse, whose judgment was probably the best, expressed no opinion; it was not her place to do so. Hester, of course, was negligible. But Viola knew that Evelyn was very seriously ill.

  Every day she noticed a slight change in the patient. She noticed the definite withdrawal that accompanies serious illness. Evelyn would lie silent hour after hour. At first, she had written little notes on her block of paper. “Please, will you thank Evan for his flowers?” “Please, will you send Dan a postcard and tell him I’ll write next week?” Now, even these pathetic messages had stopped. She appeared to be quite indifferent to anything going on outside. Viola could not tell what she was thinking about,—if, indeed, she thought at all. She just lay in bed, and allowed anything to be done to her, without protest, without interest.