“Girls will probably be wearing knickerbockers in a year or two,” Stanley, always hopeful, asserted. “For exercise and games and things. Or else a new kind of skirt will come in, short and wide. Our clothes are absurd.”
“Women’s clothes always are,” said Irving, content that this should be so.
Stanley would rush in, happy and bruised, assume again her absurd, caught-in-at-the-knees skirt, and argue desperately with Maurice about Christian socialism. Stanley was a Christian, ardent and practical; that was the effect Oxford was having on her. She privately wondered how papa, having known and loved Oxford, could bear the Ethical Church. But probably the Oxford Anglicanism of papa’s day had not been so inspiring.
Vicky told Stanley that socialism, Christian or unchristian, was very crude; religion was an affair of art and beauty, not of economics.
“Religion—oh, I don’t know.” Stanley wondered, frowning. “What is religion, Rome?”
Rome, looking up from Samuel Butler, merely said, “How should I know? You’d better ask papa. He should know; he’s writing a book about it.”
“No; I don’t mean comparative religions. I mean religion. . . .”
“A primitive insurance against disaster,” Maurice defined it. He always looked up and took notice when religion was mentioned; to this family the word was like “rats “to a dog, owing, perhaps, to their many clerical ancestors, perhaps to the fact that they were latish Victorians.
“But it courts disaster. . . .” Stanley was sure of that. “Look where it leads people. Into all sorts of hardships and dangers and sacrifices. Look at Christianity—in the Gospels, I mean.”
“That’s a perversion. Originally religion was merely a function of the self-preservative instinct. Offer sacrifices to the gods and save your crops. And even Christianity, after all, insures heavily against the flaws in this life by belief in another.”
“What about the Ethical Church? They don’t believe in another.”
“A perversion too. A mere sop thrown to the religious instinct by people who don’t like to starve it altogether. A morbid absurdity. A house without foundations. If they simply mean, as they appear to, that they think they ought to be good, why meet in South Place and sing about it?”
“Why,” inquired Rome, who never did so, “meet anywhere and sing about anything?”
“Why,” said Maurice, “indeed? A morbid instinct inherent in human nature. Mine, I am glad to say, is untainted by it; so is yours, Rome. Vicky has it badly, and Stanley, who gets everything in turns, has it on and off, but she is but young and may get over it. . . . The queer thing about Stanley is that she’s trying to run two quite incompatible things at the same time. Æsthetics and Christian socialism—you might as well be a cricketer and a rowing man, or hang Dicksee and Whistler together on your walls. The æsthetes may go slumming, in the absurd way Vicky does, but they’ve no use for socialism.”
“I’m not an æsthete,” Stanley cried, finding it out suddenly. “I’m through with that. I’m going in with the socialists all the way. I shall join the Socialist Democratic Federation at once.”
That was Stanley’s headlong manner of entering into movements. She was a great and impetuous joiner.
But Rome, playing with her monocle on its dangling ribbon, looked at all movements with fastidious rejection. Cui, her faintly mocking regard would seem to inquire, bono?
9
Discussing Life
1880 pursued its way. Mr Gladstone formed his cabinet of sober peers and startling commoners, the new parliament met, the Radicals at once began to shock the Whigs with their unheard-of proposals for so-called reform, Lord Randolph Churchill and his Fourth Party mounted guard, brisk and pert, in the offing, Parnell and his thirty-five Irishmen scowled from another offing, demanding the three F’s, and, for a special comic turn side-show, Mr. Bradlaugh, the unbeliever, was hustled in and out of the House, claiming to affirm, being ejected with violence, returning at a rush, ejected yet again, and so on and so forth, until gentlemanly unbelievers said, “A disgraceful business. Why can’t the man behave like other agnostics, without all this fuss?” and gentlemanly Christians said, “Why can’t the House let him alone?” and the dignified Press said, “It is repugnant to public opinion that one who openly denies his God should be allowed in a House representative of a great Christian nation,” for, believe it or not as you choose, that was the way the Press still talked in the year 1880.
Maurice Garden and his friends at Cambridge greeted Mr. Bradlaugh’s determined onslaughts with encouraging cheers. Maurice Garden enjoyed battle, and he rightly thought the cause of liberty of thought served by this tempestuous affair.
Freedom: that was at this time the obsession of Maurice Garden and his compeers. Freedom of thought, freedom of speech (though not, of course, of action), freedom of small nations (such as Armenia, Ireland, Poland, and the Transvaal Boers), for that was a catchword among our forefathers of the nineteenth century; freedom even of large ones, such as India; freedom of women, that strange, thin cry raised so far only by sparse, sporadic groups, freedom of labour (whatever that may have meant, and Maurice Garden, a clear-thinking young man, could have told you precisely and at length what he meant by it); freedom even of Russians, that last word in improbabilities.
“Freedom?” queried Rome. “A word that wants defining”—and that was all she had to say of it. While Maurice and Stanley went, hot heads down, for the kernel, she was for ever meticulously, aloofly, fingering the shell, reducing it to absurdity. That seemed, at times, to be all that Rome cared about, all she had the humanity, the vital energy, to seek. Stanley, rushing buoyantly through Oxford, seizing upon this new idea and that, eagerly mapping out her future, ardently burning her present candle at both ends, intellectually, socially and athletically (so far as young women were allowed to be athletic in those days, when hockey and bicycling had not come in and lawn tennis consisted in lobbing a ball gently over a net with a racket weighing seventeen ounces and shaped like a crooked spoon)—Stanley seemed to Rome, whom God had saved from too much love of living, amusingly violent and crude.
They were oddly different, these four sisters; Vicky so sprightly, Rome so cool, Stanley so eager, Una so placid.
“Your languid indifference is tip-top form, my dear,” Vicky would say to Rome. “You’re fin-de-siècle—that’s utterly the last word to-day. But I can’t emulate you.”
“Don’t you want to do anything, Rome?” Stanley home for the long vacation, asked, and Rome’s eyebrows went up.
“Do anything? Jamais de ma vie. What should I do?”
“Well, anything. Any of the things women do. Teaching. Settlement work. Doctoring. Writing. Painting. Anything.”
“What a list! What frightful labours! I do not.”
“But aren’t you bored?”
“In moderation. I survive. I even amuse myself.”
“I think, you know, that women ought to do things, just as much as men.”
“And just as little. What’s worth doing, after all?”
“Things need doing. The world is so shocking. . . . All this time women have been suppressed and kept under and not allowed to help in putting things right, and now they’re just getting free. . . .”
“There’s one thing about freedom” (a word upon which Rome had of late been speculating), “each generation of people begins by thinking they’ve got it for the first time in history, and ends by being sure the generation younger than themselves have too much of it. It can’t really always have been increasing at the rate people suppose, or there would be more of it by now.”
“It’s only lately begun, for women. What was there for mamma to do, when she was young? Nothing. Only to marry papa. But now . . .”
“What is there for Vicky to do, now she’s young? Nothing. Only to marry Charles—or another.”
“Oh, well, Vicky slums. And she could do any of the other things if she liked. . . . Anyhow Rome, you’re not supporting marriage as the only woman
’s job worth doing!”
“No. Not even marriage. Perhaps, in fact, less than most things marriage. I only said it is, so far as one can infer, Vicky’s job. . . . The only job worth doing in this curious fantasia of a world, as I see it, is to amuse oneself as well as may be and to get through it with no more trouble than need be. What else is there?”
With all the desperate needs of the certainly curious but as certainly necessitous world crying in her ears, with vistas of adventure and achievement stretching illimitably before her eyes, Stanley found this too immense a question. She could only answer it with another. “Why do you think we were born, then?” and Rome’s matter of fact, “Obviously because papa and mamma got married,” sent her sulkily away to play cricket on the lawn with Irving and Una. Apathy, languor, selfishness, did very greatly anger her. She was the more troubled in that she knew Rome to be clever—cleverer than herself. Rome could have done anything, and elected to do nothing. Rome would probably not even marry; her caustic tongue and cool indifference kept those who admired her at arm’s length; she made them feel that any expression of regard was an error in taste; she shrivelled it up by an amused, inquiring look through the deadly monocle she placed in one blue-green eye for the purpose.
10
Vicky Gets Married
Vicky, on the contrary, became, during this summer, definitely affianced to Charles, whom she had decided to marry next spring. She had not, as yet, made of Charles either an æsthete or a ritualist, but these things, she hoped, would come after marriage, and anyhow Charles was intelligent, his career promised well, he had sufficient income, and, in fine, she loved him.
“The main thing, after all, Vicky,” papa inevitably said.
“No, papa; the main thing is that the American merchant princesses are descending on the land like locusts, and that if I don’t secure Charles they will, even though he hasn’t a title—yet. He’s so obviously a distinguished person in embryo. American merchant princesses have brains.”
Vicky, having surrendered, put on a new tenderness, even an occasional gravity. It was as if you could catch glimpses here and there of the gay wife and mother that was to supersede the flighty girl. Beneath her chaff and bickerings with her Charles, her love swelled into that stream so necessary to carry her through the long and arduous business. She did her shopping for her new life with taste and gusto, tempering Morris picturesqueness with Chippendale elegance, chasing Queen Anne with unflagging energy from auction to auction, and from one Israelitish shop to another, tinkling the while with snakish bangles, swinging golden swine from her ears, as was the barbarous and yet graceful custom of our ancestresses in that year.
11
Maurice Starts Life
Maurice left Cambridge, armed with a distinguished first in his classical tripos.
“And what now?” inquired papa, indulgently.
“Wilbur has offered me a job on the New View. That will do me, for a bit.”
The New View was a weekly paper of the early eighties, started to defeat Whiggery by the spread of Radicalism. Its gods were Sir Charles Dilke and Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, its objects to introduce a more democratic taxation, to reform the suffrage, to free Ireland, to curtail Empire, and so forth. As its will was strong, it suffered but it did not suffer long, and is, in fact, now forgotten but by the seekers among the pathetic chronicles of wasted years. All the same, it was, in its brief day, not unfruitful of good; it was deeply, if not widely, respected, and many of our more intelligent forbears wrote for it for a space, particularly that generation which left the Universities round about the year 1880. It was hoped by some of them (including Maurice Garden) that it would make a good jumping-off ground for a political career. As it turned out, the first thing into which Maurice jumped off from it was love. At dinner at the Wilburs, he met Amy Wilbur, the young daughter of his editor. She was small and ivory-coloured, with long dark eyes under slanting brows, a large, round, shallow dimple in each smooth cheek, a small tilting red mouth (red even in those days, when lip salve was not used except in the half world) a smooth, childlike voice, and a laugh like silver bells. Maurice thought her like a geisha out of the new opera, The Mikado, and was enchanted with her lovely gaiety. Such is love and its blindness that Maurice, who detested both silliness and petty malice in male or female, did not see that his Amy was silly and malicious. He saw nothing but her enchanting exterior, and on that and his small salary he got married in haste. None of the Gardens except himself and papa much cared about Amy, and papa liked nearly every one, and certainly nearly all pretty girls. As to mamma’s feelings towards her daughter-in-law, who could divine them?
Vicky said to Rome, “They are both making a horrific mistake. Maurice is a prickly person, who won’t suffer fools. In a year he’ll be wanting to beat her. She hasn’t the wits or the personality to be the least help to him in his career, either. When he’s a rising politician and she ought to be holding salons, she won’t be able to. Her salons will be mere at homes.”
“When,” Rome speculated, “does an at home become a salon? I’ve often wondered.”
They decided that it was a salon when several distinguished people came to it, rather from habit than from accident. Also, the conversation must be reasonably intelligent (or, anyhow, the conversers must believe that it was so, for that is all that can be hoped of any conversation). And people must come, or pretend that they came, mainly for the talk, and not so much for any food there might be, or to show their new clothes.
“Asses they must be,” said Una, who was listening. “I shan’t go to salons ever.”
“No one will ask you, my child. Anything you’ll find yourself at will be a common party, with food and drink and foolish chit-chat.”
“Like your parties,” Una agreed, amiably content. No teasing worried Una; she was as placid as a young cow.
12
Eighties
So, with Vicky and Maurice happily wedded (settled, as they wittily called it in those days, though, indeed, they knew as well as we do that marriage is liable to be as inconclusive and unsettling an affair as any other, and somewhat more than most), and papa and mamma happily, if impermanently, ethicised, and the three younger children still pursuing, or being pursued by, education, and Rome perfunctorily, amusedly and inactively surveying the foolish world, the Garden family entered on that eager, clever, civilised, earnest decade, the eighteen eighties. Earnest indeed it was, for people still took politics seriously, and creeds, and literature, and life. Over the period still brooded the mighty ones, those who are usually called the Giants (literary and scientific) of the Victorian era. For the nineteenth century was an age of giant-makers, of hero-worshippers.
The eighties were also a great time for women. What was called emancipation then occurred to them. Young ladies were getting education, and it went to their heads. No creature was ever more solemn, more earnest, more full of good intentions for the world, than the university-educated young female of the eighties. We shall not look upon her like again; she has gone, to make place for us, her lighter-minded daughters, surely a lesser generation, without enthusiasm, ardour or aspiration.
It was these ardent good intentions, this burning social conscience, as well as the desire to do the emancipated thing, that drove Stanley, leaving Oxford in 1882, to take up settlement work in Poplar. So Poplarised, so orientalised, did she become, that she took to speaking of her parental home in Bloomsbury as being in the West End. To her, everything west of St. Paul’s became the West End. The West End, its locality and its limits, is indeed a debatable land. Where you think it is seems to depend on where you live or work. To those who work in Fleet Street, as do so many journalists, it seems that anything west of the Strand is the West End. “West End Cocaine Orgie,” you see on newspaper placards, and find that the orgie occurred in Piccadilly or Soho. Mayfair and its environs are also spoken of by these scribblers of the east as the West End. But to those who live in Mayfair, the West End begins at about Edgware Road, and Mayfai
r seems about the middle, and to the denizens of Edgware Road the West End is Bayswater, Kensington, or Shepherd’s Bush. The dwellers in these outlying lands of the sunset do really acknowledge that they are the West End; and to them Mayfair and Piccadilly are not even the middle, but the east. A strange, irrational phrase, which bears so fluctuating and dubious a meaning. But then nearly all phrases are strange and irrational, like most of those who use them.
Anyhow, and be that as it may, Stanley went and worked in Poplar, to ameliorate the lot of the extremely poor, who lived there then as now. She took up with Fabians and admired greatly Mr. Bernard Shaw, while cleaving still to William Morris. She was concerned about Sweated Women, and served on Women’s Labour Committees. Her good working intelligence caused people to give her charges and responsibilities beyond her years. She was now a sturdy, capable, square-set, brown-faced young woman, attractive, with her thrust-out under-lip and chin, and her beautiful blue eyes under heavy black brows. She spoke well on platforms in a deep, girlish voice, was as strong as a pony, and could work from morning till night without flagging. There was something candid and lovable about Stanley. A doctor and a clergyman asked her in wedlock, but she did not much care about them, and was too busy and interested to think about marriage.
She had, among other strong and ardent beliefs, belief in God. She had religion, inherited perhaps from her papa, but taking in her a more concentrated and less diffused form. To her the Christian church was a militant church, the sword of God come to do battle for the poor and oppressed. To her a church was an enchanted house, glorious as a child’s dream, the Mass as amazing as a fairy story and as true as sunrise. She did not much mind at which churches she attended this miracle, but on the whole preferred those of the Anglican establishment to the Roman variety, finding these latter rather more lacking in beauty than churches need be. Stanley was an optimist. She looked on the shocking, wicked, and ill-constructed universe, and felt that there must certainly be something behind this odd business. There must, she reasoned, be divine spirit and fire somewhere, to account for such flashes of good as were so frequently evident in it. Something gallant, unquenchable, imperishably ardent and brave, must burn at its shoddy heart.
Told by an Idiot Page 4
