The Middle Age of Mrs Eliot

by Angus Wilson

  The lame ducks, however, broke down all the defences she put up against them; they were not only consistently kind and sympathetic, they proved to be so exactly the same as they had always been.

  Lady Pirie had sent a closely written airmail letter to Srem Panh containing nothing but her memories of what Bill had done and said, … If the wisdoms and witticisms recorded there so exactly recalled to Meg rather Bill’s manner of dealing with ‘dear old fogies’ than any utterances she herself could have wished to remember, the true admiration Lady Pirie showed in recollecting them and the natural tact she evidenced in her one reference to the shooting – ‘a thing so apparently cruel and meaningless, Meg dear, that without faith I do not know how you will be able to accept it; only that knowing you and your courage I know that you will find the way’ – were sufficient and more to make up for any naïvetés. She had added to this letter a postscript saying that if Meg needed a man to come out to Srem Panh to deal with officials ‘and that sort of thing’ she suggested Mr Templeton. She had seen him more than once since that party and he seemed so clever. Tom, of course, would gladly come out there if Meg wanted him, and would be a tower of strength – as he always was in a crisis – but officials might be more impressed by an older man. The absurdity of Viola Pirie’s loyalty to her son and her manner of noting yet modifying the world’s estimate of him had been one of the happy signs by which, in the strange isolation of the Marriots’ house, Meg had felt that, among so much in England to which she dreaded returning, there were humours and affections she would be glad to know again.

  Meg, avoiding Kensington hotels as emblems of the plucky reduced gentility she feared, had temporarily chosen a small hotel near Victoria Station, where the genteel was seasoned with the disreputable and both were sufficiently transitory to create a rather colourless, seedy atmosphere. Here on the first morning Viola Pirie, informed no doubt by Donald Templeton, telephoned to her with a simple welcome home. Only when a week had passed did she press an invitation upon her. ‘I know how busy you must be, Meg‚’ she said, ‘and the last thing you’ll want is to feel tied up with invitations. But if you suddenly know you must see someone, my dear, or the hotel menu doesn’t attract you, just put your bonnet on and come round. There’s always something fairly substantial here to eat, because there’s a man in the house. Anyway,’ she said, ‘I can never eat hotel food without stomach rumbles afterwards. And then all the people in those lounges look at me.’

  She made no complaint when Meg did not follow up the invitation, but merely wrote her a note saying, ‘The committee need your services as soon as you can spare the time. Talk about the blind leading the blind, it’s old crocks helping old crocks now. And they’re so slow about it. Cackle, cackle, cackle. Darlington and I just pray for your return to speed things up again. Anyway, it’s time you were in harness, Mrs Masters kicked up an awful fuss about Miss Rogers taking that course. She’s not a bad old stick but she does like things her own way. I think she felt that Miss Rogers wouldn’t be her protégée any longer if she had any qualifications. She started a moan, as Tom says, when we said the committee ought to pay for the girl’s course. However, Darlington and I had been doing a bit of lobbying and old Purdyke stuck by us nobly, so we pushed it through. The course is doing Miss Rogers a power of good. She obviously feels she’s there in her own right and she doesn’t sulk so much. So you see how much we depend on you.’

  It was a letter that helped Meg a stage further in adapting herself to her new life. Whatever she decided to do, she would not be available for afternoon committees. She knew, indeed, with a certain measure of self-ridicule, that no job would satisfy her that allowed it. Independence of that kind was too strongly associated with the life she had left behind her. No more ‘open prisons’! The reality in front was vague in its outline, but she knew that it must begin with the circumscribed hours ordinarily demanded of the wage earner. Less welcome was the realization that she doubted her ability to control the committee once they knew her to be no longer a goddess descended from the heights of chic worldliness, but only poor Mrs Eliot, can we give you a lift? To resign from the committee was obviously a step towards the new life, not as immediate or pressing as selling her porcelain, but, she had to admit, a good deal less unpleasant. First, however, she must write to Viola to tell her what she was going to do. It meant speaking openly of what she felt sure Viola already knew – her changed financial position–, but at least she could do it on her own terms, saying simply that she and Bill had lived beyond their income, that she would be a good deal poorer and, in fact, have to earn her living. ‘I’m grateful to you‚’ she wrote, ‘more than you can realize for roping me in on the committee. As a result of my work there at least I shall have no illusions that I’m anything but rich compared to many people, and I can also thank God that I’m young enough to be able to fend for myself.’

  Once again Lady Pirie’s reply pleased Meg. ‘I had heard something about your money bothers‚’ she wrote, ‘but I knew you would know just what you wanted to do with your life without a lot of interference. I remember when Herbert died far too many people were busy telling me what I should do. Of course I had the widow’s pension from the Colonial Office and just as well too, because I’d never have been any good at a job. But Tom was still at school and they would keep on interfering. Tom and I knew just what we wanted without outside advice. It would be different if I could offer you the sort of advice that a man could. But there, I hear you have your brother to help you. Of course, I’m very sad about the committee and so will Mr Darlington be, but you know best. I wonder if you’ve thought of taking up social work professionally, you’d be so good And it’s something you would find interesting even if things took a better turn later. But you’re sure to have thought of everything and worked it all out for yourself, I am going to fuss you about one thing though, and, if you don’t like it, just forget that I wrote it. A hotel’s no life for you and the food won’t be anything like sufficient if you’re working all day. Why don’t you come and P.G. with me? I’ve got the spare room which will make an excellent bed-sitting room. I kept it for Tom to invite friends to stay but I don’t think young people do that sort of thing nowadays. I’m being quite selfish really because I’d decided for some time that I must let it. It’s wrong to keep a room empty with so many people needing somewhere to live. And I could do with the money. But to be honest, Meg, the real thing is that Tom and I are too much alone together. He oughtn’t to be with an old woman all the time. And you and he get on so well together. Forgive me for being so selfish and if the idea’s quite impossible don’t feel you have to refer to it again.’

  The idea was, of course, quite impossible, but, nevertheless, deserving of a full and grateful reply which Meg hoped that she provided. For the time being, she wrote, she wanted to be quite on her own. No doubt that mood would only last a short while and then one of the first people she would want to see would be Viola; and Tom, too, of course, if he felt like it. She didn’t see herself living with anyone else, but if ever she felt differently, Viola was the only person she could imagine being indulgent enough of her general untidiness to make such a thing possible. As to social work, she was glad Viola suggested it, because as a matter of fact it was one of the things she had in mind. If she should decide on it, she would expect Viola to write her an absolutely first rate reference and she hoped that Viola realized that she had committed herself to it.

  After she had written the letter, she saw that, however it might appear from her words, she did in fact intend to see Viola Pirie; that it was a link unbroken.

  And so also it happened with Poll and with Jill. Poll’s first reaction had rather depressed Meg. The letter of condolence she sent to Srem Panh had been so very stilted and conventional that except for a certain illiteracy of phrasing it seemed to have nothing of Poll in it. However, a few days before she returned to England another air mail letter arrived of a far more characteristic kind and she realized that she should have known tha
t, at times of birth, marriage, or death, Poll would revert to the conventions of her upbringing.

  In her second letter Poll said, ‘I do think Bill being killed like that is the most awful balls up and makes me more mad than ever that people talk about God being good and all that. Of course, in my church they wouldn’t do that. To give them their due they don’t pretend in that kind of way. In fact sorrow and sin are their standbys. They’d probably say it was a special dispensation to bring you into a state of grace. But although that’s more sensible really, I still think it’s jolly nasty and it’s one of the reasons why I lapsed really. Apart of course from wanting to be divorced. But anyhow I expect you have all your own idea about that. As far as I remember you and Bill were rather proud of being nothing, which seems funny to me too in a way. What has made me absolutely mad has been the papers. About how Bill gave his life for this unpronounceable man. I shouldn’t think it was true, would you? And if it was, I think the unpronounceable man ought to be shot for letting it happen. Bill was one of the most attractive men I ever knew. I told you not to go to those awful foreign places. And anyway why are you staying out there now? I should think you would have had enough of those beastly yellow people by now. And the consul must be quite ghastly. Don’t let him bully you or anything, will you? They’re quite unimportant people. Even now, I mean, when quite a lot of kinds of people are more important than they used to be. I hope you’re not brooding, Meg, are you? My Mum brooded after Father’s death, although we all told her not to and how she ought to be glad, nicely, of course. But she went on brooding and really she did get to be like an old hen and of no interest to anybody, like hens. And before he died she’d been rather a nice, interesting sort of person, at any rate much better than him. Of course, I can see that when you’ve lost a top attractive kind of husband like Bill you would want to brood. I never did but then the only one I had that died was Robson and although he was really the best, he wasn’t exactly up to brooding standard. But you mustn’t. Because although I keep on saying how attractive Bill was, so are you, and you know I don’t go much for having women about. But like Americans say “you’re a truly lovely person”, only not of course all the awful things they mean. And seeing you turn into a hen would be very sad. Except that with your loud voice and looks it would be more like a peahen which would be better but not much. Anyhow there’s an awful song that they sing on Saturday nights in a pub I go to at World’s End. Only I don’t go any more because I can’t bear the kind of pubs where they sing. I couldn’t really write it just like that, could I? but as the name of an awful song I can. Come home soon.’

  A few days after Meg had been at the hotel she returned to find a present of two dozen large yellow Korean chrysanthemums and a bottle of champagne. With them was a note from Poll.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re staying at a hotel for tarts,’ it said, ‘I had a terrible time finding where you were. I’m not surprised you’ve concealed it. I had to ring up that sex repressed beard, Lady Thing’s son. I should think your staying at that hotel would give him ideas. He tells me you’re going to be rather poor. Poor you! Actually you won’t find it so bad as you think. I don’t. I shall write to those beasts of trustees and tell them I must have the money to pay you back what I owe you. It might break that bloody trust. The champagne isn’t very good but nice to have, I thought. P.S. Don’t talk to any of the tarts. I’ve done so once or twice in pubs and they’re always insolent.’

  A few days later a letter came to say that the trustees had been unable to make Poll a special payment to repay her debts to Meg; ‘so I shan’t be able to pay you. I’ve written the beasts a stinking letter, but I shouldn’t think it would help, should you? What I did think was that you oughtn’t to stay in that hotel brooding. I’ve made inquiries about it and it isn’t only a place where tarts go, but also respectable people like clergymen and “mademoiselles” from grand girls’ schools on their way to and from Paris. Only neither know that the others go there. I can’t think why, can you? I always know tarts and clergymen, and mademoiselles too for that matter only I don’t see them very often. Why don’t you come and stay here? You could have the room for nothing, only I’d probably borrow from you at the end of the quarter. I shouldn’t think it would work out for long, should you? But it would be rather heaven while it lasted which is more than one can say for most things. And you’d be doing me a good turn which I know you like to do, because, as it is, such a lot of drunks ask to be put up for the night and if you were there there wouldn’t be room. Anyway you wouldn’t be able to brood because there are always people here – not by any means all drunk and lots of them rather nice. Do do it.’

  To this letter Meg replied that she thought it wouldn’t work out for long enough to be any good, because she was so set in her rather overtidy ways. At the moment, she said, she wasn’t brooding but job-hunting all day which made her very sleepy and boring in the evening; and as she loathed being sleepy and boring in company she wasn’t seeing anyone. As soon as she was settled, however, the first person she intended to see was Poll. And, she thought to herself, I really believe that she is.

  Jill Stokes’ letter of condolence had not been at all disappointing, for Meg could not remember a time in their long friendship when Jill had allowed her emotions such rein. Thinking of the embarrassment that Jill would normally have shown even on hearing one quarter of the things she had written in her letter, Meg was, however, surprised and a bit embarrassed herself until she remembered that she had never before received more than a short note of thanks or acceptance from her. Distance, it seemed, gave her courage.

  ‘People have been saying to me,’ Jill wrote, ‘who have read the papers and knew that I knew you, “how dreadful for her to be so alone out there”. I haven’t felt that and I have a feeling that you won’t have felt it either. You are alone now and you’re much too intelligent – and you were much too happy with Bill – to want to have people pretending that you’re anything else. It is the most awful thing that can happen or that ever will happen. Don’t for a minute let people try to tell you that it isn’t. When Andrew was killed some good kind people did try to make me feel that it wasn’t I knew they were wrong, but the unhappiness was so great that I selfishly tried in some way to belittle it, to see it as they said “philosophically”. Those are the only moments of which I am ashamed, they were the only moments when I betrayed the greatest happiness, the real fulfilment of my life. And I truly believe that if one goes on thinking in that way – Time is the great Healer and all the stupid and wicked things people say – then one can be left with nothing. And deserve it. Only, of course, as I write it I know that what I found in Andrew was too great ever to have allowed me to lose it by such selfish “false comfort”. And I’m sure, Meg, that you will find the same. Of course the agonies are less often with one as time goes by. People say that they’re a form of selfishness anyway. But selfish or not they still come back and they’re still as intense. And I’m quite sure of this, that only by knowing them, by feeling them fully – I don’t mean awful outward expressions of grief, they seem to be a sort of show people put on who can’t feel enough – can we keep something with us. At any rate I’ve never tried – except for that sort while I’m ashamed of – to pretend that I’d lost less than everything; and as a result I have regained so much – Andrew is with me always now and in a far more real way than in the first years after his death.’

  In the strange, isolated misery of the Consulate, Meg had found this letter, alone of all those she had received, acceptable to her, if only because it alone gave the same weight to her loss as she did, really sympathized where the others only strove to do so. That it was only a complete identity of situation, she realized even then, for she doubted if Jill’s experience of widowhood was likely to be any fair guide to her own. Yet this, too, was exactly in keeping with what she had always felt about their friendship – that, with no agreement of outlook or interests, an intimacy existed between them below the level of their di
fferences. It might be merely the length of their association; but whatever it was, it allowed them a mutual insight that persisted through all incompatibility.

  That Jill, at any rate, knew her, another passage in the letter seemed to confirm. Jill had written, ‘I admired Bill immensely, Meg, and it didn’t alter that a scrap that I knew he didn’t really like me. How could he have done? He hardly knew me before Andrew was killed so that he only knew me when I lived in the past, and he was active in the present. But he was one of the few people whom I wished that I had known before I became a bore. With most people I simply don’t care. Fond as I am of you and knowing you much better than him, I have always thought you were very lucky. Perhaps too lucky. Although he seemed to go his own way so completely I used to feel that his life had been given to you. You’re a very infectious person, you know, Meg; you’re so sure of what you want that it’s not easy to resist you. But don’t blame yourself; if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. You’d be surprised how much I blame myself for shutting Andrew off from Evelyn when she was little. But saying these things doesn’t help. One just has to find one’s own level…’

  Whether it was that Jill felt embarrassed at her unusual openness, when Meg returned to England she sent a short, more characteristic note to the hotel. ‘Just to welcome you home. But, I suppose, only in transit. I imagine you’ll be off somewhere warm so long as the house is still let. I shan’t intrude myself on you because I know you’ll have so much to do and so many people to see. I’m surprised at the hotel you’ve chosen. So close to the station and in the days when I knew of such things, not at all your class of place. But for all I know, nowadays the Ritz may be a dosshouse. I can’t help envying you the West Indies or whatever it’s going to be. They say we shall have a very bad winter and the price of electricity seems to go up every year. I hope rest and sun will make the world seem a little brighter for you. Jill.’