All Passion Spent

by Vita Sackville-West

  But now Mother might play follow-my-leader as she would; for three or four days Mother might play follow-my-leader, leading the dignitaries of Europe and of Empire some dance up to Golder’s Green or Huddersfield as the fancy took her, instead of resigning herself to Westminster Abbey or Brompton Cemetery as was expected; but the disappointment – to the imp in Edith’s mind – lay in Mother’s refusal to take any lead at all. She simply agreed to everything that Herbert suggested. Just as well might Herbert, at the age of seven, playing follow-my-leader, have prompted her, ‘Now let’s romp through the kitchens;’ her acquiescence to-day, when she was eighty-eight and Herbert sixty-eight, shocked Edith as something unfitting. It shocked Herbert too – though, true son of his father, he was flattered by womanly dependence. Only for these three or four days – since he was playing a game, subscribing to a convention – did he demand of his mother that she should hold opinions of her own. Yet at the same time, such was his masculine contrariness, he would have resented any decision running counter to his own ideas.

  Herbert, then, became gentler and gentler as he saw his own ideas adopted and yet could persuade himself that they had originated with his mother and not with him. He came down from his mother’s room to his brothers and sisters, again – continuously, as it seemed to Edith – assembled in the drawing-room. Mother wanted the Abbey; therefore the Abbey it must be. After all, Mother was doubtless right. All England’s greatest sons were buried in the Abbey. He himself would have preferred the parish church at Huddersfield, he said, though Edith shrewdly estimated the honesty of this remark, and in speaking for himself he thought he might speak for them all; but Mother’s wishes must be considered. They must bow to the publicity of the Abbey. After all, it was an honour – a great honour – the crowning honour of their father’s life. Carrie, William, and Charles inclined their heads in silence at this solemn thought. Edith, on the other hand, thought how much amused her father would have been, and at the same time how much gratified, though professing scornfulness, could he have watched himself being buried in the Abbey.

  The pall worked by the ladies of the Royal School of Embroidery was undoubtedly very sumptuous. Heraldic emblems were embossed on violet plush. The Prime Minister duly carried his corner, becomingly serious, and so satisfactorily in character that no one seeing him could have hesitated to say, ‘There goes a Prime, or at any rate a Cabinet, Minister of England.’ The Leader of the Opposition kept step with the Prime Minister; for an hour they had buried their differences, which, indeed, were part of a game too, since under the tuition of a common responsibility they had both absorbed much the same lessons, though their adherents forbade them to repeat them in the same language. The two young princes, ushered hurriedly though respectfully to their seats, wondered, perhaps, why fate had isolated them from other young men, by condemning them to cut tapes across new arterial roads or to honour statesmen by attending their funerals. More probably, they took it all as part of the day’s work.

  But where, meanwhile, Edith wondered, was reality?

  After the funeral was over, everything at Elm Park Gardens subtly changed. Consideration towards Lady Slane was still observed, but a note of impatience crept in, a note of domination, held rather insistently by Herbert and Carrie. Herbert had become, quite definitely, the head of the family, and Carrie his support. They were prepared to take a firm though kind line with their mother. She could still be led to a chair, and, once lowered into it, could still be patted on the shoulder with a kindly protective gesture, but she must be made to understand that the affairs of the world were waiting, and that this pause of concession to death could not go on for ever. Like the papers in Lord Slane’s desk, Lady Slane must be cleared up; then Herbert and Carrie could get back to their business. Nothing not put actually into words could have been conveyed more plainly.

  Very quiet, very distinguished, very old, very frail, Lady Slane sat looking at her sons and daughters. Her children, who were accustomed to her, took her appearance for granted, but strangers exclaimed in amazement that she could not be over seventy. She was a beautiful old woman. Tall, slender, and pale, she had never lost her grace or her carriage. Clothes upon her ceased to be clothes and became draperies; she had the secret of line. A fluid loveliness ran over all her limbs. Her eyes were grey and deeply set; her nose was short and straight; her tranquil hands the hands of a Vandyck; over her white hair fell a veil of black lace, highly becoming. Her gowns for years past had always been soft, indefinite, and of unrelieved black. Looking at her, one could believe that it was easy for a woman to be beautiful and gracious, as all works of genius persuade us that they were effortless of achievement. It was more difficult to believe in the activity that Lady Slane had learned to pack into her life. Duty, charity, children, social obligations, public appearances – with these had her days been filled; and whenever her name was mentioned, the corollary came quick and slick, ‘Such a wonderful help to her husband in his career!’ Oh yes, thought Edith, Mother is lovely; Mother, as Herbert says, is wonderful. But Herbert is clearing his throat. What’s coming now?

  ‘Mother, dear …’ A form of address semi-childish, semi-conventional; Herbert putting his fingers into his collar. Yet she had once sat on the floor beside him, and shown him how to spin his top.

  ‘Mother, dear. We have been discussing … we have, I mean, felt naturally troubled about your future. We know how devoted you were to Father, and we realise the blank that his loss must leave in your life. We have been wondering – and that is why we have asked you to meet us all here in the drawing-room before we separate again to our different homes – we have been wondering where and how you will choose to live?’

  ‘But you have decided it already for me, Herbert, haven’t you?’ said Lady Slane with the utmost sweetness.

  Herbert put his fingers into his collar and peeked and preened until Edith feared that he would choke.

  ‘Well! decided it for you, Mother, dear! decided is scarcely the word. It is true that we have sketched out a little scheme, which we could submit for your approval. We have taken your tastes into consideration, and we have realised that you would not like to be parted from so many interests and occupations. At the same time …’

  ‘One moment, Herbert,’ said Lady Slane; ‘what was that you said about interests and occupations?’

  ‘Surely, Mother, dear,’ said Carrie reproachfully, ‘Herbert means all your committees, the Battersea Club for Poor Women, the Foundlings’ Ward, the Unfortunate Sisters’ Organisation, the …’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Lady Slane; ‘my interests and occupations. Quite. Go on, Herbert.’

  ‘All these things,’ said Carrie, ‘would collapse without you. We realise that. You founded many of them. You have been the life of others. Naturally, you won’t want to abandon them now.’

  ‘Besides, dear Lady Slane,’ said Lavinia – she had never unbent sufficiently to address her mother-in-law by any other name – ‘we realise how bored you would be with nothing to do. You so active, so energetic! Oh no, we couldn’t visualise you anywhere but in London.’

  Still Lady Slane said nothing. She looked from one to the other with an expression that, in one so gentle, was surprisingly ironical.

  ‘At the same time,’ Herbert proceeded, reverting to his original speech whose interruption he had endured, patient though not pleased, ‘your income will scarcely suffice for the expenses of a house such as you are entitled to expect. We propose, therefore …’ and he outlined the scheme which we have already heard discussed, and may consequently spare ourselves the trouble of listening to again.

  Lady Slane, however, listened. She had spent a great deal of her life listening, without making much comment, and now she listened to her eldest son without making any comment at all. He, for his part, was unperturbed by her silence. He knew that all her life she had been accustomed to have her comings and goings and stayings arranged for her, whether she was told to board a steamer for Capetown, Bombay, or Sydney; to transport he
r wardrobe and nursery to Downing Street; or to accompany her husband for the week-end to Windsor. On all these occasions she had obeyed her directions with efficiency and without surprise. Becomingly and suitably dressed, she had been ready at any moment to stand on quay or platform, waiting until fetched beside a pile of luggage. Herbert saw no reason now to doubt that his mother would dole out her time according to schedule in the spare bedrooms of her sons and daughters.

  When he had finished, she said: ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Herbert. It would be very kind of you to put this house in the agents’ hands to-morrow.’

  ‘Capital!’ said Herbert; ‘I’m so glad you agree. But you need not feel hurried. No doubt some little time must elapse before the house is sold. Mabel and I will expect you at your convenience.’ And he stooped and patted her hand.

  ‘Oh, but wait,’ said Lady Slane, raising it. It was the first gesture she had made. ‘You go too fast, Herbert. I don’t agree.’

  They all looked at her in consternation.

  ‘You don’t agree, Mother?’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Slane, smiling. ‘I am not going to live with you, Herbert; nor with you, Carrie; nor with you, William; nor with you, Charles, kind though you all are. I am going to live by myself.’

  ‘By yourself, Mother? It’s impossible – and anyway, where would you live?’

  ‘At Hampstead,’ replied Lady Slane, nodding her head quietly, as though in response to an inner thought.

  ‘At Hampstead? – but will you find a house that will suit you; convenient, and not too dear? – Really,’ said Carrie, ‘here we are discussing Mother’s house as though everything were settled. It is absurd. I don’t know what has come over us.’

  ‘There is a house,’ said Lady Slane, again nodding her head; ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘But, Mother, you haven’t been to Hampstead.’ This was intolerable. Carrie had known all her mother’s movements day by day for the past fifteen years at least, and she revolted against the suggestion that her mother had visited Hampstead without her knowledge. Such a hint of independence was an outrage, almost a manifesto. There had always been so close and continuous a connection between Lady Slane and her eldest daughter; the plans for the day would always be arranged between them; Genoux would be sent round with a note in the morning; or they would telephone, at great length; or Carrie would come round to Elm Park Gardens after breakfast, tall, practical, rustling, self-important, equipped for the day with her gloves, her hat, and her boa, a shopping list slipped into her bag, and the agenda papers for the afternoon’s committee, and the two elderly ladies would talk over the day’s doings while Lady Slane went on with her knitting, and then they would go out together at about half-past eleven, two tall figures in black, familiar to the other old ladies of the neighbourhood; or if their business, for once, did not lie in the same direction, Carrie would at least drop into Elm Park Gardens for tea, and would learn exactly how her mother had spent her day. It was surely impossible that Lady Slane should have concealed an expedition to Hampstead.

  ‘Thirty years ago,’ said Lady Slane. ‘I saw the house then.’ She took a skein of wool from her work-basket and held it out to Kay. ‘Hold it for me, please, Kay,’ and after first carefully breaking the little loops she began to wind. She was the very incarnation of placidity. ‘I am sure the house is still there,’ she said, carefully winding, and Kay with the experience of long habit stood before her, moving his hands rhythmically up and down, so that the wool might slip off his fingers without catching. ‘I am sure the house is still there,’ she said, and her tone was a mixture between dreaminess and confidence, as though she had some secret understanding with the house, and it were waiting for her, patient, after thirty years; ‘it was a convenient little house,’ she added prosaically, ‘not too small and not too large – Genoux could manage it single-handed I think, with perhaps a daily char to do the rough work – and there was a nice garden, with peaches against the wall, looking south. It was to be let when I saw it, but of course your father would not have liked that. I remember the name of the agent.’

  ‘And what,’ snapped Carrie, ‘was the name of the agent?’

  ‘It was a funny name,’ said Lady Slane, ‘perhaps that’s why I remember it. Bucktrout. Gervase Bucktrout. It seemed to go so well with the house.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mabel, clasping her hands, ‘I think it sounds too delicious – peaches, and Bucktrout …’

  ‘Be quiet, Mabel,’ said Herbert. ‘Of course, my dear Mother, if you are set on this – ah – eccentric scheme, there is no more to be said about it. You are entirely your own mistress, after all. But will it not look a little odd in the eyes of the world, when you have so many devoted children, that you should elect to live alone in retirement at Hampstead? Far be it from me to wish to press you, of course.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Herbert,’ said Lady Slane, and having come to the end of her winding, she said, ‘Thank you, Kay,’ and making a loop on a long knitting needle she started on a fresh piece of knitting. ‘Lots of old ladies live in retirement at Hampstead. Besides, I have considered the eyes of the world for so long that I think it is time I had a little holiday from them. If one is not to please oneself in old age, when is one to please oneself? There is so little time left!’

  ‘Well,’ said Carrie, making the best of a bad job, ‘at least we shall see to it that you are never lonely. There are so many of us that we can easily arrange for you to have at least one visitor a day. Though, to be sure, Hampstead is a long way off, and it is not always easy to fit in the arrangements about the motor,’ she added, looking meaningly at her small husband, who quailed. ‘But there are always the great-grandchildren,’ she said, brightening; ‘you’d like to have them coming in and out, keeping you in touch; I know you wouldn’t be happy without that.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Lady Slane, ‘that is another thing about which I have made up my mind. You see, Carrie, I am going to become completely self-indulgent. I am going to wallow in old age. No grandchildren. They are too young. Not one of them has reached forty-five. No great-grandchildren either; that would be worse. I want no strenuous young people, who are not content with doing a thing, but must needs know why they do it. And I don’t want them bringing their children to see me, for it would only remind me of the terrible effort the poor creatures will have to make before they reach the end of their lives in safety. I prefer to forget about them. I want no one about me except those who are nearer to their death than to their birth.’

  Herbert, Carrie, Charles, and William decided that their mother must be mad. They took a step forward, and from having always thought her simple, decided that old age had definitely affected her brain. Her madness, however, was taking a harmless and even a convenient form. William might be thinking rather regretfully of the lost subsidy to his house-books, Carrie and Herbert might remain still a little dubious about the eyes of the world, but, on the whole, it was a relief to find their mother settling her own affairs. Kay gazed inquiringly at his mother. He had taken her so much for granted; they had all taken her so much for granted – her gentleness, her unselfishness, her impersonal activities – and now, for the first time in his life, it was becoming apparent to Kay that people could still hold surprises up their sleeves, however long one had known them. Edith alone frolicked in her mind. She thought her mother not mad, but most conspicuously sane. She was delighted to see Carrie and Herbert routed, by their mother quietly disentangling herself from their toils. Softly she clapped her hands together, and whispered ‘Go on, Mother! go on!’ Only a remnant of prudence prevented her from saying it out loud. She revelled in her mother’s new-found eloquence – not the least of the surprises of that surprising morning, for Lady Slane habitually was reserved in speech, withholding her opinion, concealing even the expression on her face as she bent her head over her knitting or embroidery, when her occasional ‘Yes, dear?’ gave but little indication of what she was really thinking. It now dawned upon Edith that her mother
might have lived a full private life, all these years, behind the shelter of her affectionate watchfulness. How much had she observed? noted? criticised? stored up? She was speaking again, rummaging meanwhile in her work-bag.

  ‘I have taken the jewels out of the bank, Herbert. You and Mabel had better have them. I wanted to give them to Mabel years ago, but your father objected. However, here are some of them,’ and as she spoke she turned the bag over and shook the contents out on to her lap, a careless assortment of leather cases, tissue paper, some loose stones, and skeins of wool. With her fine hands she began picking them over. ‘Ring the bell for Genoux, Edith,’ she said, glancing up. ‘I never cared about jewels, you know,’ she said, speaking to herself rather than to her family at large, ‘and it seemed such a pity – such a waste – that so many should have come my way. Your father used to say that I must be able to deck myself out on Occasions. When we were in India, he used to buy back a lot of things at the Tash-i-Khane auctions. He had a theory that it pleased the princes to see me wearing their gifts, even though they knew perfectly well that we had bought them back. I daresay he was right. But it always seemed rather silly to me – such a farce. I had a big topaz once, a big bronze topaz, unset, cut into dozens of facets; I wonder if you children remember it? I used to make you look at the fire through it. It made hundreds of little flames; some went the right way up, and others upside down. When you came down after tea we used to sit in front of the fire looking through it, like Nero at the burning of Rome. Only it was brown fire, not green. I don’t suppose you remember. That was sixty years ago. I lost it, of course; one always does lose the things one values most. I never lost any of the other things; perhaps because Genoux always had charge of them – and she used to invent the most extraordinary places to hide them in – she mistrusted safes, so she used to drop my diamonds into the cold water jug – no robber would think of looking for them there, she said. I often thought that if Genoux died suddenly I shouldn’t know where to look for the jewels myself – but the topaz I used to carry in my pocket.’ Here Lady Slane’s dreamy reminiscences were cut short as Genoux came in, rustling like a snake in dry leaves, creaking like a saddle, for, until May was out, Genoux would not abandon the layers of brown paper that reinforced her corsets and her combinations against the English climate. ‘Miladi a sonné?’