by Hugh Walpole
Peter turned back to the door. “This room must be made warmer and more comfortable. I will send a doctor from the hotel this evening — I will come in again to-night.”
As he looked about the poor room, as he saw the dust that the sunlight made so visible, he wondered that the house of cards could so recently have held him within its shadow. He felt as though he had passed through some terrible nightmare that the light of day rendered not only fantastic but incredible. That old Peter Westcott had indeed been flung out of the high window of Norah Monogue’s room.
Leaving Scaw House on his right he struck through the dark belt of trees and came out at the foot of the Grey Hill. The dark belt of cloud was spreading now fast across the blue — soon it would catch the sun — the Tower itself was already swallowed by a cold grey shadow.
Peter began to climb the hill, and remembered that he had not been there since that Easter morning when he had kissed an unknown lady and so flung fine omens about his future.
Soon he had reached the little green mound that lay below the Giant’s Finger. Although the Grey Hill would have been small and insignificant in hilly country here, by its isolation, it assumed importance. On every side of it ran the sand-dunes — in front of it, almost as it seemed up to its very feet, ran the sea. Treliss was completely hidden, not a house could be seen. The black clouds now had caught the sea and only far away to the right the waves still glittered, for the rest it was an inky grey with a touch of white here and there where submerged rocks found breakers. For one moment the sun had still evaded the cloud, then it was caught and the world was instantly cold.
Peter, as he sat there, felt that if he were only still enough the silence would soon be vocal. The Hill, the Sea, the Sky — these things seemed to have summoned him there that they might speak to him.
He was utterly detached from life. He looked down from a height in air and saw his little body sitting there as he had done on the day when he had proposed to Clare. He might think now of the long journey that it had come, he might watch the course of its little history, see the full circle that it had travelled, wonder for what new business it was now to prepare.
For full circle he had come. He, Peter Westcott, sat there, as naked, as alone, as barren of all rewards, of all success, of all achievements as he had been when, so many years ago he had watched that fight in the inn on Christmas Eve. The scene passed before him again — he saw himself, a tiny boy, swinging his legs from the high chair. He saw the room thick with smoke, the fishermen, Dicky the Fool, the mistletoe swinging, the snow blocking in from outside, the fight — it was all as though it passed once more before his eyes.
His whole life came to him — the scenes at Scaw House, Dawson’s, the bookshop, Brockett’s, Bucket Lane, Chelsea, that last awful scene there ... all the people that he had known passed before him — Stephen Brant, his grandfather, his father, his mother, Bobby Galleon, Mr. Zanti, Clare, Cards, Mrs. Brockett, Norah, Henry Galleon, Mrs. Rossiter, dear Mrs. Launce ... these and many more. He could see them all dispassionately now; how that other Peter Westcott had felt their contact; how he had longed for their friendship, dreaded their anger, missed them, wanted them, minded their desertion....
Now, behold, they were all gone. Alone on this Hill with the great sea at his feet, with the storm rolling up to him, Peter Westcott thought of his wife and his son, his friends and his career — thought of everything that had been life to him, yes, even his sins, his temptations, his desires for the beast in man, his surly temper, his furious anger, his selfishness, his lack of understanding — all these things had been taken away from him, every trail had been given to him — and now, naked, on a hill, he knew the first peace of his life.
And as he knew, sitting there, that thus Peace had come to him, how odd it seemed that only a few weeks ago he had been coming down to Cornwall with his soul, as he had then thought, killed for ever.
The world had seemed, utterly, absolutely, for ever at an end; and now here he was, sitting here, eager to go back into it all again, wanting — it almost seemed — to be bruised and battered all over again.
And perceiving this showed him what was indeed the truth that all his life had been only Boy’s History. He had gone up — he had gone down — he had loved and hated, exulted and despaired, but it was all with a boy’s intense realisation of the moment, with a boy’s swift, easy transition from one crisis to another.
It had been his education — and now his education was over. As he had said those words to Norah Monogue, “I will go back,” he had become a man. Never again would Life be so utterly over as it had been two months ago — never again would he be so single-hearted in his reserved adoption of it as he had been those days ago, at Norah Monogue’s side.
He saw that always, through everything that boy, Peter Westcott had been in the way. It was not until he had taken, on that day in Norah Monogue’s room, Peter Westcott in his hands and flung him to the four winds that he had seen how terribly in the way he had been. “Go back,” Norah had said to him; “you have done all these things for yourself and you have been beaten to your knees — go back now and do something for others. You have been brave for yourself — be brave now for others.”
And he was going back.
He was going back, as he had seen on that day, to no easy life. He was going to take up all those links that had been so difficult for him before — he was going to learn all over again that art that he had fancied that he had conquered at the very first attempt — he was going now with no expectations, no hopes, no ambitions. Life was still an adventure, but now an adventure of a hard, cruel sort, something that needed an answer grim and dark.
The storm was coming up apace. The wind had risen and was now rushing over the short stiff grass, bellowing out to meet the sea, blowing back to meet the clouds that raced behind the hill.
The sky was black with clouds. Peter could see the sand rising from the dunes in a thin mist.
Peter flung himself upon his back. The first drops of rain fell, cold, upon his face. Then he heard:
“Peter Westcott! Peter Westcott!”
“I’m here!”
“What have you brought to us here?”
“I have brought nothing.”
“What have you to offer us?”
“I can offer nothing.”
He got up from the ground and faced the wind. He put his back to the Giant’s Finger because of the force of the gale. The rain was coming down now in torrents.
He felt a great exultation surge through his body.
Then the Voice — not in the rain, nor the wind, nor the sea, but yet all of these, and coming as it seemed from the very heart of the Hill, came swinging through the storm —
“Have you cast This away, Peter Westcott?”
“And this?”
“That also—”
“And this?”
“This also?”
“And this?”
“I have flung this, too, away.”
“Have you anything now about you that you treasure?”
“I have nothing.”
“Friends, ties, ambitions?”
“They are all gone.”
Then out of the heart of the storm there came Voices: —
“Blessed be Pain and Torment and every torture of the Body ... Blessed be Plague and Pestilence and the Illness of Nations....
“Blessed be all Loss and the Failure of Friends and the Sacrifice of Love....
“Blessed be the Destruction of all Possessions, the Ruin of all Property, Fine Cities, and Great Palaces....
“Blessed be the Disappointment of all Ambitions....
“Blessed be all Failure and the ruin of every Earthly Hope....
“Blessed be all Sorrows, Torments, Hardships, Endurances that demand Courage....
“Blessed be these things — for of these things cometh the making of a Man....”
Peter, clinging to the Giant’s Finger, staggered in the wind. The world was hidden now in
a mist of rain. He was alone — and he was happy, happy, as he had never known happiness, in any time, before.
The rain lashed his face and his body. His clothes clung heavily about him.
He answered the storm:
“Make of me a man — to be afraid of nothing ... to be ready for everything — love, friendship, success ... to take if it comes ... to care nothing if these things are not for me —
“Make me brave! Make me brave!”
He fancied that once more against the wall of sea-mist he saw tremendous, victorious, the Rider on the Lion. But now, for the first time, the Rider’s face was turned towards him —
THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
HER DECLINE AND DEATH – A ROMANTIC COMMENTARY
The Duchess of Wrexe, Her Decline and Death was first published in London by Martin Secker in 1914. Secker published the work of many famous and respected authors: Thomas Mann, D. H. Lawrence, Henry James and George Orwell. Walpole had established a firm friendship with Henry James after writing a letter of admiration to him in 1908. James responded kindly to the correspondence and the authors exchanged letters, before meeting in London for lunch at the start of 1909. They quickly developed a close friendship, as James became extremely fond of the young author and would write to him in affectionate terms, while Walpole considered the older and accomplished novelist to be a mentor. When James passed away in 1916, Walpole was working in the Anglo-Russian Propaganda Bureau in Petrograd and learned of his death via the newspapers, resulting in great personal distress.
Largely inspired by James’ works, The Duchess of Wrexe centres on the Beaminster clan, as they navigate their relationships during the late Victorian period. The family is ruled over by the terrifying and unyielding Duchess, who is wedded to a strong belief in ceremony, duty, custom and tradition and is strongly opposed to notions of change. She is unwillingly and unprepared to adapt to an altering world and has chosen to sequester herself in her home and dictate her demands to her family. The Duchess’ granddaughter fears and loathes her grandmother’s overbearing and autocratic nature; and so determines to enter into a marriage of convenience with a friend, Sir Roderick. The entangled relationships unfurl over the course of the book as Walpole portrays the fracturing and decaying of the authoritarian, rigid and undemocratic order that the Duchess so perfectly encapsulates.
The first edition's title page
CONTENTS
BOOK I. THE DUCHESS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
BOOK II. RACHEL
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
BOOK III. RODDY
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
Henry James was a close friend of Walpole
TO
MY MOTHER
A SMALL EXPRESSION
OF GRATITUDE
BEYOND WORDS
BOOK I. THE DUCHESS
CHAPTER I
FELIX BRUN, DR. CHRISTOPHER, RACHEL BEAMINSTER — THEY ARE SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT.
I
Felix Brun, perched like a little bird, on the steps of the Rede Art Gallery, gazed up and down Bond Street, with his sharp eyes for someone to whom he might show Yale Ross’s portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. The afternoon was warm, the date May of the year 1898, and the occasion was the Young Portrait Painters’ first show with Ross’s “Duchess” as its principal attraction.
Brun was thrilled with excitement, with emotion, and he must have his audience. There must be somebody to whom he might talk, to whom he might explain exactly why this occasion was of so stirring an importance.
His eyes lighted with satisfaction. Coming towards him was a tall, gaunt man with a bronzed face, loose ill-fitting clothes, a stride that had little of the town about it. This was Arkwright, the explorer, a man who had been lost in African jungles during the last five years, the very creature for Brun’s purposes.
Here was someone who, knowing nothing about Art, would listen all the more readily to Brun’s pronouncement upon it, a homely simple soul, fitted for the killing of lions and tigers, but pliable as wax in the hands of a master of civilization like Brun. At the same time Arkwright was no fool; a psychologist in his way, he had written two books about the East that had aroused considerable interest.
No fool, Arkwright.... He would be able to appreciate Brun’s subtleties and perhaps add some of his own.
He had, however, been away from England for so long a time that anything that Brun had to tell him about the London world would be pleasantly fresh and stimulating.
Brun, round and neat, and a citizen of the world from the crown of his head to the top of his shining toes, tapped Arkwright on his shoulder:
“Hallo! Brun. How are you? It is good to see you! Haven’t seen a soul I know for the last ever so long.”
“Good — good. Excellent. Come along in here.”
“In there? Pictures? What’s the use of me looking at pictures?”
“We can talk in here. I’ll tell you all the news. Besides, there’s something that even you will appreciate.”
“Well?” Arkwright laughed good-humouredly and moved towards the door. “What is it?”
“The Duchess,” Brun answered him. “Yale Ross’s portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. At last,” he triumphantly cried, “at last we’ve got her!”
II
The Duchess had a small corner wall for her own individual possession. The thin glowing May sunlight fell about her and the dull gold of her frame received it and gave it back with a rich solemnity as though it had said, “You have been gay and unrestrained enough with all those crowds, but here, let me tell you, is something that requires a very different attitude.”
The Duchess received the colour and the sunlight, but made no response. She sat, leaning forward a little, bending with one of her dry wrinkled hands over a black ebony cane, a high carved chair supporting and surrounding her. She seemed, herself, to be carved there, stone, marble, anything lifeless save for her eyes, the tense clutch of her fingers about the cane, and the dull but brooding gleam that a large jade pendant, the only colour against the black of her dress, flung at the observer. Her mouth was a thin hard line, her nose small but sharp, her colour so white that it seemed to cut into the paper, and the skin drawn so tightly over her bones that a breath, a sigh, might snap it.
Her little body was, one might suppose, shrivelled with age, with the business and pleasure of the world, with the pursuit of some great ambition or prize, with the battle, unceasing and unyielding, over some weakness or softness.
Indomitable, remorseless, unhumorous, proud, the pose of the body was absolutely, one felt, the justest possible.
On either side of the chair were two white and green Chinese dragons, grotesque with open mouths and large flat feet; a hanging tapestry of dull gold filled in the background.
Out upon these dull colours the little body, with the white face, the shining eyes, the clenched hand, was flung, poised, sustained by its very force and will.
Nothing in the world could be so fierce as that determined absence of ferocity, nothing so energetic as that negation of all energy, nothing so pr
oud as that contemptuous rejection of all that had to do with pride.
It was as though she had said: “They shall see nothing of me, these people. I will give them nothing” ... and then the green jade on her bosom had betrayed her.
Maliciously the dragons grinned behind her back.
III
Arkwright, as he watched, was conscious suddenly of an overwhelming curiosity. He had in earlier days seen her portrait, and always it had been interesting, suggestive, provocative; but now, as he stood there, he was aware that something quite definite, something uncomfortably disconcerting had occurred; life absurdly seemed to warn him that he must prepare for some new development.
The Duchess had, he was aware, taken notice of him for the first time.
Little Felix Brun watched Arkwright with interest. They were, at that moment, the only persons in the room, and it was as though they had begged for a private interview and had been granted it. The other portraits of the exhibition had vanished into the mild May afternoon.
“She doesn’t like us,” Brun said, laughing. “She’d turn the dragons on to us if she could.”
“It’s wonderful.” Arkwright moved back a little. “Young Ross has done it this time. No other portrait has ever given one the least idea of her. She must be that.”
Brun stood regarding her. “There’ll never be anything like her again. As far as your England is concerned she’s the very, very last, and when she goes a heap of things will go with her. There’ll be other Principalities and Powers, but never that Power.”
“She’s asked us to come,” said Arkwright, “or, at any rate, asked me. I wonder what she wants.”
“She’s only asked you,” said Brun, “to tell you how she hates you. And doesn’t she, my word!”
There were voices behind him; Brun turned, and Arkwright heard him exclaim beneath his breath. Then in a moment the little man was received with: “Why, Mr. Brun! How fortunate! We’ve come to see my mother’s portrait.”