“Unfortunately, Hester, as you call her, is Evelyn’s sister-in-law and you aren’t, so if she wants to send for Evelyn’s father she will probably do so without consulting you.”
“How silly it all is, isn’t it, Miles, this idea of family? You and I know far more about Evelyn—though heaven knows I know her little enough, as time goes,—than all the Jarrolds put together.”
“Don’t send for her father. If Hester likes to send for him, then it’s her responsibility. I agree with you, that it would be simply unkind and unnecessary to introduce the old man here.”
“He may blame us afterwards.”
“Still, you will have done the kindest thing. He may not realise it, but in your own mind you will know that you did right.”
They were silent for a space.
“What about her temperature?”
“Thatt doesn’t seem to count very much. It has never been very high. The pulse seems to count much more, and the strain upon her heart.”
“What about the pain?”
“The morphia relieves it, but she is allowed only one injection a day. The hours in between are pretty trying.—Miles, I must go back, in case she wakes up.”
“If Dan arrives, what am I to say?”
“Say that she is bad, but that we have hope. Whatever you do, don’t let him burst into her room. I shall leave you here on guard.”
“One has one’s uses,” said Miles bitterly.
“You will be a great comfort to Dan.”
“Does she know he is coming?”
“No, of course not. He won’t be allowed to see her, unless she gets better, or unless she doesn’t.”
“Shall I?”
“Miles, dear, you must be patient; we must all be patient. You shall see her if it can do her no harm. What are you going to do? Will you read?”
“I’ll find a book if I want one,” said Miles, looking at Evelyn’s bookcase. How often he had teased her about the well-bound books her friends gave her for Christmas! He knew the room so well, and every object in it, except those alien introductions on the white-clothed table. Everything was associated with Evelyn and his memories: there was the writing-desk at which he had so often found her sitting; the arm-chair in which she had always sat, while he sat at her feet; the toasting-fork which he had given her because he liked making his own toast for tea. He missed various other things he had given her, and supposed that she must have put them away; this hurt him quite unreasonably. He wondered if she had taken off the ring he had given her? He went over to the writing-desk, and found there the exercise-book in which the nurse kept her notes of the case; he opened it idly without realising what he was doing, but the few words he read caused him such anguish that he hastily put it down again. It was no good straying about the room, being so restless: He might be left alone there for hours; he must try to concentrate on something, must try to keep some grasp on life which became so insanely hideous the moment he let his imagination get possession of him. Looking about for a book, he found one which he himself had given Evelyn, a translation of Du côté de chez Swann; he had given it to her, he remembered, after one of their quarrels, saying, in the restored good-humour of their reconciliation, that herein she would find the passion of jealousy depicted in all its aspects. And then, when he asked her repeatedly if she had yet read it, she always replied that she hadn’t had time . . . that it was so long . . . that its unbroken pages frightened her . . . that she thought she liked books with more conversation in them. And then he had grown annoyed again, and had said that she was really hopeless. What did she mean, by saying that she hadn’t had time? What else had she to do?
Looking back, it seemed that he had always scolded her.
Dan arrived unexpectedly early, at four o’clock, having travelled from Blois to Paris by a night train, and from Paris by the first available aeroplane. Bad weather had delayed him. He arrived in an agony of impatience and anxiety, and seemed scarcely surprised to find Miles waiting for him in the flat. He took Miles’ presence for granted, and greeted him at once with the inevitable question: How is she? And added immediately, making for the door, “I must go in and see her.”
Miles stopped him.
“No, Dan, I’m afraid you can’t.”
“Can’t? But why? Why, else, should I have been sent for? Why can’t I go in? You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
“No, Dan, I haven’t. And you mustn’t talk so loud; she might hear your voice. She doesn’t know that you are here.”
“Doesn’t know? Miles! Then she really is so very ill?”
“They still have hope,” said Miles, as he had been told to say.
Before Dan could speak, Viola came out from Evelyn’s room. She saw Dan, went up to him, and took him into the passage outside.
“You are Dan, I know. I’m Viola Anquetil. Look here, you must be very quiet; your mother doesn’t know that you have arrived.”
She saw that the boy was completely bewildered. “She is very ill, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Can I see her?”
“Not now,—later on, perhaps. You must be patient and wait with Miles.”
“She isn’t dying, is she?”
Viola respected him for the direct question. Here was a boy to whom one could tell the truth. She had always recognised the difference between the people to whom one could tell the truth,—even in insignificant matters,—and those to whom one could not tell it, but during the last few days she had recognised it more deeply, more acutely.
“She is very gravely ill this evening,” she replied, meeting his level eyes.
“Is the doctor here?”
“He is coming back at any moment. The specialist too. We have telephoned for them. You shall see them when they come.”
After all, Dan was nineteen. It was right that he should bear part of the responsibility; right, though hard. She could see how childish he still was, though outwardly so grown-up.
She went back into Evelyn’s room. It was quiet in there, but for the faint moan that came regularly from the bed. Viola went over to the fire and talked with the nurse in whispers. They need have no fear of disturbing Evelyn who was half unconscious.
“Her son has arrived.”
“Thatt’s good.”
Their voices ceased, they sat listening to Evelyn moaning in pain.
“Can’t you give her the morphia now, Sister?”
“Not till eight o’clock, I’m afraid.”
“Or when the doctor comes?”
“Yes, if he allows it.”
Evelyn called feebly from the bed. Viola went across. She bent down, and caught the one word, “Morphia.”
“Quite soon, darling. The doctor is on his way here, and he’ll give you some.” She would rather have morphia, Viola thought, than be told that Miles is in the next room. How strange and terrible it was, this body, which could obliterate everything from the mind and heart and soul! What was the meaning of it? Was it on Miles’ account that she was dying? And, if so, the long laborious process of death meant more to her, just now, than Miles himself.
What a horrible muddle she had made of her relationship with Miles! and how she was paying for it!
The doctor and the specialist arrived together. They went straight into Evelyn’s room without seeing Dan. The specialist immediately ordered a saline injection, for the heart was very weak. It was given, and she revived slightly and asked for the morphia again. The specialist took Viola aside. He no longer had the air of being in a hurry, or of considering his patients a nuisance.
“We may as well give it, Lady Viola. But she will not wake from it again.”
“Should she see her son for a moment, before you give it?”
“Yes, and anyone else you think she would like to see.”
Viola perceived
that the specialist knew everything and understood. He had noticed Miles’ presence in the next room. Still, she felt bound to say, “Should I telephone for her sister-in-law and brother-in-law?”
The specialist hesitated. Then, being a man who by reason of his profession had a wide knowledge of human life, and who observed more than he appeared to observe, but who released his observations only at the last moment, he said, “We can telephone for them after she has had the injection.”
“Then I had better call the boy in at once?”
“Yes, there is no reason for delay.”
Viola went into the sitting-room and spoke to Dan. He and Miles were sitting there, on either side of the fire, in the dark. They had restored the two arm-chairs to their original positions.
“Dan, would you like to come and say good night to your mother?”
He rose immediately.
“Just go up to the bed and say good night. Don’t be alarmed if she doesn’t answer you. She is very tired and half asleep. She may not recognise you. Just say good night and come away quickly. Miles and I will wait for you.”
He went, after a scared glance at Viola.
“You must go in next, Miles. They are going to give her a piqûre, after this.”
Miles knew quite well what she meant.
“This is the end, then?”
“They seem to think so.”
It was surprising, how calm and remote everything seemed, almost as though nothing really mattered.
Dan came back.
“She knew me. She said she was glad I was home.”
“Now, Miles, go and say good night to her.”
Miles went into the familiar bedroom. It was dark but for a shaded lamp burning near the fire. The nurse rose as he came in, with a glimmer of white uniform, and slipped from the room. He was alone with the shadow on the bed, the shadow that was Evelyn. He could see nothing, at first, in the half light, but the darkness of her head on the pillow.
“Evelyn?” he said. “It’s Miles.”
He sat down beside her and took the hand which he found lying out on the sheet. He noticed that she was still wearing the ring he had given her, but that it was now very loose on her finger. This small fact touched him inexpressibly.
“Miles?” she said. She said no more, but lay contentedly with her hand in his. He did not know whether to speak or not, so sat there in silence, expecting that at any moment Viola would come to take him away. In all the hours of his intimacy with Evelyn, he had never been so completely alone with her as this. It was strange and terrifying, and yet comforting. It seemed to be the complete purification and consummation of all that had gone before.
Viola did not come to take him away. He sat on, having lost all count of time. Evelyn neither stirred nor moaned, but every now and then she pressed his hand, so that he knew she still lived. Once, as she pressed his hand, he whispered, “Do you want the morphia?” and she whispered back “I shall presently.” By that he knew she was temporarily out of pain.
So long a period of time seemed to pass, that he began to wonder whether she slept or had died. But when he tried to withdraw his hand, she kept it and whispered, “Don’t go.” So he stayed on for an indefinite period again. He thought of nothing, not even of how often he had scolded her. He was simply merged with her in the dark room, with no physical contact between them except her hand lying in his.
First published in 1932 by The Hogarth Press
This edition published 2011 by Bello
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Copyright © Vita Sackville-West, 1932
Copyright © Victoria Glendinning 1986
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Family History Page 28
