The Edwardians

by Vita Sackville-West

  Although he did not know much about himself, he did at any rate after fifty years of life recognise that his brain, considered as an instrument, was a leisurely and laborious affair. It required a very long time to absorb a new idea or to come to a decision; so that he could not help feeling it had been taken a very unfair advantage of, in that here it had abruptly been offered an entirely new and peculiarly distressing idea, and was being called upon to make a decision of the utmost importance. He ought to have been given warning, and no warning had been given. By the time he had reached the top of the stairs he had also reached the decision that as yet he must make no decision. He would take a week to think it over. He must first accustom himself to several truths: that Sylvia was unfaithful to him; that she had probably been unfaithful to him before; that at least one person—the sender of the letters—knew it. (It was not until the middle of the night that it dawned upon him that probably everybody knew it, had always known it, except himself. He remembered a joke to that effect, in a Flers et CailIavet play in Paris; the audience had laughed, and Romola Cheyne, who was with them, seeing him look puzzled, for his French was limited, had translated it for him; kind of her to bother, he had thought at the time, but now he wondered.) A good Conservative, he had the principle firmly fixed in him that nothing must be done in a hurry. The greater the consequence, the greater the need for deliberation. In the crumbling world of his private life, that axiom still held good; he reverted to it, after the first storms of rashness that had threatened to sweep him off his feet. “A week to think it over.” The very phrase brought him a measure of reassurance; so far, the matter was private between himself and his drawer; no one need know what was going on between himself, his principles, his heart, and his conscience. He was well trained in the habit of reserve. Driving out to dinner with Sylvia in the brougham that night, no impulse assailed him to blow the brougham to pieces with the truth, as it might have assailed a less bridled man.

  In the week that followed, he kept to his determination with comparatively little effort. Sebastian came twice to luncheon; he even came once to dine before a small dance, and took his hostess into dinner as was, indeed, inevitable. Lord Roehampton scarcely observed them, from his end of the table, as a man obsessed by personal jealousy would observe, for his concern was not with jealousy but with principle. It was not so much that he loved Sylvia, as that Sylvia was his wife. Sylvia was Lady Roehampton. She bore his name. Now that he had recovered from the first shock, he no longer thought of Sebastian in personal terms; Sebastian had become a symbol, an x. But as the personal element shrunk from Lord Roehampton’s views, so, proportionately, did the impersonal determination increase. “I won’t stand any nonsense” was the rhythm now running in his head. “My wife behaves herself, or she ceases to be my wife,” was another phrase he had coined for himself during those painful days, and which gave him great support and satisfaction. By the end of the week, he had really persuaded himself that his severity towards Sylvia was wholly directed towards Lady Roehampton.

  At moments a sentimental remorse seized him, as he saw Sylvia going about her amusements unconscious of the trouble that was about to break over her head. He felt then as one might feel who, darkly standing in the wings, trains a revolver upon the laughing, triumphant, twirling queen of ballet. He would come up to her bedroom after he had had his breakfast and had read his Times, and would find her still lying in her wide bed littered with notes and household orders, directing her maid to lay out various costumes with their adjuncts, that she might choose what she would wear that day. And so, eight or ten selections might be displayed on chairs ranged round the room, complete with shoes, stockings, hat, veil, boa, and parasol, while Sylvia reclined in bed as Cleopatra upon her throne, scorning some, hesitating between others, losing her temper over this, weakening in favour of that, saying that she hated pink and could not imagine why she had ever ordered it, saying now that Worth was the only dressmaker who understood her, and now that Paquin could cut a bodice as nobody else; and finally, that she possessed nothing fit to wear, but supposed she must make shift with the tussore for today. It often happened that after standing and turning before her cheval-glass, completely dressed, she would declare that she could not possibly go out looking like that, and would change again from head to foot, for she would rather keep a luncheon party waiting for three quarters of an hour, than fall below the standard of her own perfection. It was a worship, a rite, that she performed in the service of a double deity: her own beauty and the society that she decorated. As her husband watched her, seeing the little familiar gestures by which she twisted up an escaping curl, or pinned a bow so that it might nestle just under her ear, and heard her prattle of last night’s ball—for in intimate life she was as good-humoured as a happy child—he felt nothing but tolerance towards this creature of frivolity and shameless vanity. Then he remembered that she would probably meet Sebastian wherever she was going, and his purpose again became firm within him.

  The situation was complicated by a development in Margaret’s affairs. Margaret had met a young painter who had fallen in love with her, and with whom she had fallen in love, and whom she now wished to marry. “Where can she have met such a creature?” said Lady Roehampton, wringing her hands; “I thought she was safe enough with Clemmie and Ernestine.” Apparently she had not been safe. She arrived at her parents’ house one day, a radiant, different Margaret. Adrian had a great future before him, she said; and the hitherto lumpish girl pleaded with real inspiration. This eccentricity on the part of their daughter did much to draw Lord and Lady Roehampton together; Sylvia felt real gratitude towards George for his firmness, and George almost forgot his mortal disapproval of Sylvia when he saw how wholeheartedly she supported him. She retains some principles, he thought; she has not entirely lost her sense of decency. It was manifestly impossible that Margaret should be allowed to marry the creature. To begin with, he was illegitimate, and cheerfully said that he could produce no parents, having been left on the steps of the Foundling Hospital in a brown paper parcel, with the name “Adrian” pinned to his shawl. “But, my dear fellow . . . ,” said George; and though he restrained himself from completing the sentence, it was obvious that he meant, “You can scarcely expect that to be good enough for our daughter.”

  Margaret cried, and Lord Roehampton, who was sincerely fond of her, was much distressed. As most men would have done in the circumstances, he went out of the house leaving her to Sylvia. Sylvia hated bother of all kind, especially bother which interfered with her own arrangements; but she was patient with the girl, and, patting her shoulder, explained that certain sacrifices had to be made sometimes when one was born to a certain position—”That’s the penalty, you see, Margaret darling,” she said, “and we all have to pay it in one form or another. It’s a terrible thing to become déclassée, as you certainly would be if you married this poor boy—nice though he may be,” she added hastily. “But if I don’t mind?” said poor Margaret. “You must think of your father and me, darling; it would break our hearts, I think; we’ve always been so ambitious for you. Besides, I thought the Wexford boy? . . . now that would be a really nice marriage, and we could all be so happy together.” At that moment the Duchess of Hull was shown in—old, painted, and masterful. “What’s this I hear, Margaret?” she began at once; “that you’re engaged to Tony Wexford? Well, I congratulate you; it’s a lovely place, I believe, and after all you aren’t obliged to stay over in Ireland all the time.” These remarks produced a fresh outburst of tears from Margaret. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” croaked the duchess; “don’t you like him, child? Oh, nonsense, you’ll soon get over that. Don’t you be such a little fool as to throwaway the chance—eh, Sylvia?” “Margaret thinks she wants to marry a painter,” said Sylvia, looking at her daughter with some compassion. “What’s that?” screamed the duchess; “a painter? What painter? Who ever heard of such a thing? Sylvia Roehampton’s daughter marry a painter? But of course she won’t. Yo
u marry Tony Wexford and we’ll see what can be done about the painter afterwards,” she said, winking at Sylvia behind Margaret’s back.

  Margaret took her sorrows away, seeing that there was no help in either of her parents; but since she must confide in somebody she surveyed her friends in the search for a sympathetic ear. Her cousins were no good; they were far too sober and well brought-up. Until this event, Margaret had thought herself sober too, and obedient; but now she discovered the growlings of rebellion in her heart, was seriously shocked at herself, and desired an impartial confidante who would show her where the truth lay. It was no good consulting people like her cousins, when she knew in advance what they would say. Finally she decided upon Viola.

  She had no idea what Viola’s opinion would be. Viola was a dark horse. She had changed a great deal within the last few months. She allowed herself to be taken about like any other young lady of her age and position, but—perhaps because she was quiet and watchful—she gave people the uneasy feeling that she merely submitted herself to something which she disdained. Consequently she was not popular, in spite of her looks. Further, she was reputed ‘clever,’ and that was a serious disadvantage for a girl; “though indeed,” said Mrs. Cheyne, “I never can see where her cleverness comes in, for she hardly speaks at all. Dicky Ambermere says he can’t get a word out of her.” Margaret went to consult Viola much as she might have gone to consult a witch. Accompanied by her maid, she walked up from Curzon Street to Grosvenor Square.

  Viola was in. She took Margaret up to her own room, having seen in the first minute that something was wrong. Margaret followed, feeling lumpish beside Viola’s sleek grace; raw before Viola’s quiet and reserve. How had Viola managed to do so much thinking in her eighteen years? But Viola made her sit down, and asked bluntly what was the matter.

  Margaret’s exposition was pitiably elementary and crude. Like most girls of her generation, she had always stayed in her place, her place being to believe whatever her elders told her. There had never been any freedom of discussion between them, nor had her mother, light-hearted and easy-going as she was, ever displayed the smallest interest in what Margaret thought, but took it for granted that Margaret should trail as a small tug in her wake—compliant, unobtrusive, and acquiescent. Unluckily for herself, Margaret took it for granted too, thinking herself very lucky not to have an irritable mother, as so many girls of her acquaintance had, but a lively, charming mother, who always joked and never scolded, seemed younger than the really young, and created far more fun out of everyday life than one could possibly have created for oneself. Margaret, up to that moment, had been very well contented. But now she was surprised to see how Viola, after quietly listening, took hold of her poor little story, used it, swelled it, juggled with it, erected it into a symbol, construed it, adopted it; she was dismayed, in fact, to see her difficulty pass into the possession of a strong mind. “For what have our mothers thought of us, all these years?” said Viola; “that we should make a good marriage, so that they might feel they had done their duty by us, and were rid of their responsibility with an added pride. A successful daughter plus an eligible son-in-law. Any other possibility never entered their heads—that we might consult our own tastes, for instance. They run like trains, on rails, and if you were to elope with your painter it would amount to a railway accident in their lives.”

  “That’s why,” said Margaret, groping, “one can’t.”

  “On the contrary,” said Viola; “no one will be killed, only shaken. Don’t you see that their trains are made of cardboard—put together out of every odd-and-end of prejudice and convention, decorated with a few streamers of tinsel, and labelled with pompous names? There’s nothing real about them at all.”

  “Oh yes,” said Margaret, shocked. “They love us. That’s real.”

  “Love us! but do they? Yes, they love us, but they sacrifice us. To do them justice,” she added, “they sacrifice themselves as well. There’s not one of our fathers or mothers who wouldn’t break their own hearts without hesitation if it came to a struggle between their desires and their convictions. Really,” she said, “sometimes I think it magnificent. Like martyrs going to the stake. Magnificent and absurd. But for what a creed!”

  Margaret was staring at her in complete amazement.

  “Viola! But what do you mean? Surely one must have some principles? One must consider one’s . . . well, one’s class? Mother always brought me up to believe that, and I’m sure your mother did too. I always had it drummed into me. Not in so many words, perhaps; but it was always taken for granted. That’s why I feel so badly now. You see, Adrian was in a paper parcel. One doesn’t know who his parents were, and naturally father and mother don’t like it. I quite see that. It’s different for me, because I love him; but I suppose that ought not to count. Aunt Clemmie says one was not put into this world for self-indulgence.”

  “Does your mother say that too?”

  “I am sure she would say it. I know mother believes in doing one’s duty. She opened two bazaars last week.”

  “And was photographed, and given a bouquet of orchids?”

  “No, they were malmaisons.—But Viola, I see you are laughing at me. You puzzle me dreadfully. I feel that you are full of ideas and express only half of them. It is very disturbing. It’s like talking to a Socialist,” said poor Margaret.

  “Have you ever talked to a Socialist?”

  “No, of course not. But that is what I imagine it would be like. One would feel he was restraining himself—letting only a few drops come through, though a great Niagara was behind them. Dreadful people—wanting to upset everything. Aunt Clemmie explained it to me. Everything we believe in would go by the board. All decencies. All principles. Oh, Viola,” said Margaret, “I do try so hard to keep my head. Between Adrian, and mother and father, and now you, I feel in a whirl. Adrian says that love is the only thing which matters. Father and mother say behaviour is the only thing which matters. Goodness knows what you say. You talk about cardboard trains, till I don’t know where I am. What would Sebastian say?”

  “Sebastian?” Viola looked as though Margaret had jerked her. She paused. “Leave Sebastian out of this; Sebastian, I think, doesn’t know his own mind. So far, he takes what he wants, and doesn’t know why he is unhappy. He doesn’t talk to me. I fancy he doesn’t talk to anyone. He just lives, and tries not to think. People like us must never think, for fear of thinking ourselves out of existence. If Sebastian thought at all he would go back to Chevron.”

  Viola could have said a great deal more about Sebastian, but she felt some reluctance to discuss him with Lady Roehampton’s daughter—for unlike the simple Margaret, she was well aware of the liaison between them. She changed the subject, therefore, but because her resentment was strong and bitter she still hovered secretly round it, saying: “At least let us do our parents the justice of saying that they exact nothing from us which they would hesitate to exact from themselves. Your mother, for instance, would fling anybody aside rather than provoke a scandal. So would mine,” she added; for it sounded invidious to single out Margaret’s mother; but she had already committed herself, and Margaret caught her up.

  “My mother, Viola? A scandal? But who should she fling? There has never been any scandal about mother. You can’t think how nice she is to father, even though their tastes are quite different. Anyway, how very seldom one hears of scandals in connection with people like us! It is always among the working-classes that those dreadful murders happen, or else in Naples.”

  “Margaret, you really are delicious. I didn’t mean to say anything against your mother, and I think the way she has brought you up is a great tribute to her moral sense. There! are you satisfied? Don’t worry, my dear; I meant nothing, and it was only an imaginary case.”

  But Margaret persisted. “You did mean something, though perhaps not about my mother. Do you mean that people—the people we know—sometimes
do things they oughtn’t to do? Really awful things? The worst? Viola, tell me. I never thought of it before, but now I feel that perhaps things go on all the time which I don’t know or notice. You seem to know a lot more than I do.—Oh dear,” she said, “what would Aunt Clemmie say?”

  Viola looked at her round, puzzled face. She felt very much inclined to enlighten Margaret. She felt inclined to say, “Very well, if you want the truth, here it is. The society you live in is composed of people who are both dissolute and prudent. They want to have their fun, and they want to keep their position. They glitter on the surface, but underneath the surface they are stupid—too stupid to recognise their own motives. They know only a limited number of things about themselves: that they need plenty of money, and that they must be seen in the right places, associated with the right people. In spite of their efforts to turn themselves into painted images, they remain human somewhere, and must indulge in love affairs, which sometimes are artificial, and sometimes inconveniently real. Whatever happens, the world must be served first. In spite of their brilliance, this creed necessarily makes them paltry and mean. Then they are envious, spiteful, and mercenary; arrogant and cold. As for us, their children, they leave us in complete ignorance of life, passing on to us only the ideas they think we should hold, and treat us with the utmost ruthlessness if we fail to conform.”