Family History

by Vita Sackville-West

  So thatt was the explanation of Miles’ silence! How crude, how commonplace, how cheap! And Ruth, who was crude and commonplace and cheap herself, had been chosen as the instrument to break this news to her! She supposed that everyone else had known it long since, but, being less crude than Ruth, had had the decency to conceal it from her. For a whole day she was too angry and humiliated to be conscious of any pain at all. For two days after thatt she suffered all the terrible pangs of imaginative jealousy. Then even jealousy left her, and she knew nothing but an utter and final despair, which taught her that until thatt moment she had really been living on a thread of hope. For days she was unable to rouse herself out of her apathy; she could scarcely even make the effort to play her part of hostess. Finally, restless and tormented, she asked Dan if he would very much mind her going up to London for a few days. He said of course he would not mind; looked as though he wanted to say something more; but held his tongue. He was worried about his mother; she looked ill and feverish, and her eyes were not right. He was, however, too shy to make the first move. Evelyn went, not knowing exactly why she was going. In her mind there was no consciously formulated intention of seeing Miles, yet, looking back on it afterwards, she supposed that she had really gone with the idea already teasing at her. If not Miles, then Viola Anquetil; but in some way or other she must get nearer to Miles, and at all costs she must know the truth. At first she took no steps; she remained in her own fiat nearly all the time, doing nothing, walking up and down, swaying from indecision to indecision. Then, scarcely knowing what she did, she went out and drove to the Anquetils’ house. Viola was alone in the big studio. She was horrified by Evelyn’s appearance. The woman looked as though she had not slept for weeks. “My dear,” she said, hastily getting up and dropping her embroidery, “this is a very great pleasure. Do sit down. I must just go and say something to the servant, and I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “No, don’t,” said Evelyn. She sat down weakly. “I know what you want to say to the servant,” she said; “you’re afraid lest Miles should come. Well, if he must come, let him. Perhaps it would be better. If I must see him at all, I’d rather see him in your house. I promise you I won’t make him a scene.”

  She smiled so pitifully that Viola was deeply moved, and wondered wildly what to do for the best.

  “I had better tell you at once,” she said then; “I think it very likely that he will be coming.”

  She thought Evelyn was going to faint, for she put her hand over her eyes and remained silent.

  “Listen,” she said gently, “at least let me tell the servant not to let anyone else in. About Miles, I will do as you like. Which is it to be?”

  “Let him come,” said Evelyn in a whisper.

  Viola got up and went out of the room; when she came back Evelyn had picked up a copy of Miles’ book from off the table. She put it down again.

  “Is he likely to come soon?” she asked.

  “No,—certainly not for another half-hour.”

  “Then may I talk to you for a little first? There is just one question I want to ask you. On your answer depends whether I go or stay.”

  “Ask me anything you like.”

  Evelyn seemed unable to speak; she got up and walked over to the fireplace. She picked up a little ornament, looked closely at it, and set it down.

  “Is it true,” she asked, turning round, “that Miles is engaged to your daughter?”

  “Engaged to Lesley? no, it is not true; who has been telling you thatt? They are very good friends, even very great friends, but they are not engaged; I am sure they are not; Lesley would have told me. Now do sit down,—you look absolutely worn out,—and let us talk about what can be done.”

  “One more question, and I will. Are they in love with one another?”

  “You ask me a more difficult question there, but,—no, I don’t think so. I am almost sure that they are not.”

  “Almost sure? not quite sure?”

  “How can one be quite sure? I don’t want to mislead you. They have much in common, they are constantly together . . .”

  “And they are much the same age,” Evelyn finished the sentence for her.

  “You know,” said Viola, “than has not really much to do with the matter. Whether one falls in love or not, has nothing to do with reason.”

  “You needn’t try to spare me,” said Evelyn, “although it is kind of you. I assure you that I have learnt neither to spare myself nor to deceive myself. It is true that falling in love has nothing to do with reason, but remaining in love has to do with a great many things.”

  “I think you are deceiving yourself after all; the trouble between you and Miles did not arise because of the difference in your ages.”

  “Then why, according to you, did it arise?”

  “Do you want me to be frank? Because of the difference in your temperaments.”

  “But you don’t, forgive me, know anything of my temperament.”

  “One guesses,” said Viola, “and I know Miles pretty well. I will tell you honestly, I am sorry for any woman who loves Miles.”

  “Your own daughter, though . . .”

  “I have told you already that I do not believe Lesley to be in love with Miles. Of course, one never knows. People are secretive about these things, and sometimes even unaware themselves until the moment of revelation. It is quite possible that Miles and Lesley might come together suddenly. I don’t think you could blame Miles. He has been very unhappy.”

  “It is not a question of blaming him.—But has he been so very unhappy? I don’t believe it. When one is very unhappy, desperately unhappy, one does something drastic about it.”

  “But Miles has written to you, tried to see you . . .”

  “Oh, Viola! Is thatt enough? Is thatt all one does? Look, I am speaking to you without vanity. You know yourself that Miles is hot-headed and impulsive enough not to hesitate when he wants something. He wrote to me, yes; he tried to see me, yes,—for a time. He could scarcely do less, and I dare say he was genuine about it. But now what has happened? He no longer tries to see me, he no longer writes; quite clearly, he has accepted my decision.”

  “Miles is proud, you know,—and you withdrew yourself very abruptly and thoroughly.”

  “I had no choice; it had to be one thing or the other; half-measures weren’t possible.”

  “Couldn’t you perhaps have adapted yourself to him a little more? I don’t want to preach to you, but couldn’t you have spared yourself and Miles a great deal of misery?’ Couldn’t you, even now?”

  “Viola, I am sure you are arguing against your own convictions; I am sure you would be sorry to see me and Miles together again. You know quite well how it would end; in a repetition of the whole miserable business. Admit that you know I have been right.”

  “Then, tell me, why do you want to see him today?” Evelyn looked at her, startled.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You have been firm for all these months, right or wrong. Personally, so far as I can judge, I think you were probably right. I know at any rate that you did it from the best motives. Miles knows it too.”

  “Miles?”

  “I told him. But what I don’t quite understand is why you weaken now. Is anything to be gained by seeing him?”

  “I didn’t come here with the intention of seeing him, remember.”

  “But when you heard he might be coming the temptation was too strong for you?”

  “You can put it thatt way, if you like.—No, I don’t think it was entirely for thatt reason. I think I want to be quite quite certain that I ought to give him up. I want to be quite certain that he himself would prefer it. I shall be able to tell in an instant from his manner. I almost hoped that you would confirm the rumour about him and Lesley . . . It would make it much easier for me. At presen
t I wonder sometimes whether I am not making a horrible and unnecessary mistake. If Miles really wants me . . . but, no, he doesn’t, he doesn’t. You said yourself that you thought I was probably right.”

  “It seems a harsh thing to say . . .”

  “No, you must be truthful. The whole thing matters so seriously,—to me, at least,—that you must be truthful at all costs. Never mind how much it may hurt me. It is too important for there to be any room for kindness. Tell me again, you really think I was right?”

  “If you couldn’t adapt yourself to Miles,—if you couldn’t make him happy in the way he wanted,—if you believe that you never could,—then I am sure you were right.”

  “I did try, Viola; at first I tried very hard, and at first I think I succeeded. But once things began to go wrong, some cussedness forced me always to make them worse. If I saw that I was annoying Miles, I wanted to annoy him more. Can you possibly understand?”

  “I understand so well, that I wish you would stop lacerating yourself in this way. You need not tell me; I know already.”

  “I was even jealous of him.”

  “I am sure you never had any reason to be thatt.”

  “Not by his fault, perhaps. But Miles is very popular . . . and rather vain; women ran after him, and he didn’t dislike it, and I never knew when he would meet some woman who would take him away from me . . .”

  Viola smiled.

  “Thatt was scarcely the best way to keep him, perhaps.”

  “I know, I know! I was insane. I couldn’t stop myself. He was very patient on the whole.—What’s the good of talking? I see how things are. I had much better go away, now, at once, before he comes.”

  She got up, collecting her bag, and her gloves, as she did so.

  “But where are you going?” said Viola, getting up also. She could not bear the idea of Evelyn’s loneliness; indeed, she was afraid of what she might do.

  “Oh, back to Newlands, I suppose”; said Evelyn; “where else can I go? Any place is the same to me, anyhow, and I have Dan to look after. Let me go, Viola, and thank you for being so good to me. I shall always be grateful to you, always.”

  She looked so white and tired that Viola nearly took her into her arms, but she knew that Evelyn would break down.

  “Listen,” she began, but at thatt moment Miles came into the room. Viola never knew exactly what happened between them. After the first moment in which they all three paused in equal consternation, she decided that she had better leave them together; circumstances had forced it. She went upstairs, after telling the servant that Mrs. Jarrold and Mr. Vane-Merrick had business to discuss and must not be disturbed. Business! yes, of a vital sort. She went upstairs to her bedroom, and there spent two of the most anxious and unpleasant hours of her life. In the middle she remembered that both Leonard and Lesley were out, and would probably let themselves in by their latch-keys and burst happily into the studio. So she crept down to leave a note for both of them in the place where they always put notes. Then she went upstairs again, and spent another hour looking out of the window, thinking about the two downstairs, and wondering which of the two would remain behind to tell her what had taken place, or whether she would see them both leaving together, thoughtless in a taxi. Then she saw Evelyn come out of the house, hail a taxi, and drive away. Miles, then, was left? But before she could go down to him, he, also, came out of the house and walked away, hatless, at an angry pace down the street. Evelyn went back to Newlands and found Dan with a party of young people playing poker. They were all very pleased to see her; rose politely, abandoning their game; and said that they had missed her a great deal. Dan was especially affectionate, taking her arm and pressing it against his side. “Darling Mummy,” he said, “how lovely to have you back.” For a moment she felt that here she was really wanted. For a moment she felt that this could suffice her. Dan, at least, was her own.—But Dan would go away from her in time; Dan would have his own loves and his own ideas.

  His own ideas he had already, and they were not hers: they were Miles’.

  Still, in a stupor, she held on. She entertained Dan’s friends and her own, and even went up to Orlestone with Dan to open a new hostel organised by a young man who reminded her of Bretton. There seemed to be many young men of thatt type among Dan’s acquaintance; uncivil, fierce young men; and she resented it. Dan, at least, had perfect manners; she supposed that thatt was because he had gone to Eton. She thought that old William Jarrold might have been right after all.

  Dan was upset again by Orlestone. He brought the young man like Bretton back to the hotel with him, and they sat up talking till three o’clock in the morning. Dan said that something must be done; that he was willing to sacrifice the whole of his personal fortune, but that thatt was not enough; it might relieve the misery in Orlestone, but it would not help the problem as a whole. Evelyn left them to it, but as Dan shut the door behind her she heard him saying, “Now Miles Vane-Merrick . . .”

  Always Miles. She could not escape from him, either in talk or in the newspapers; least of all, in her own thoughts.

  They came back to Newlands. Dan hated Newlands, now, and wanted to rid himself of it as quickly as possible. Newlands was in the market as a desirable residence not desired by its young owner. Evelyn’s father, who had seen the advertisements in The Times and in County Life, wrote a distressed letter to Evelyn saying what a pity it was that Dan should wish to part with such a nice place. Geoffrey Jarrold could not understand why Dan should wish to sell Newlands. What nicer place could the boy want? unless, indeed, he wanted a better sporting centre,—but then, he understood that Dan didn’t care much for shooting or hunting, so what the devil was the boy after? Evelyn showed this letter to Dan, asking him what reply she should give? “Tell him,” said Dan, “that I hate the white posts, and the chains, and the paddocks, and the gravel drives, and the whole of Surrey.”

  Evelyn did not entirely grasp his meaning. But she came nearer to grasping it than she would have come, twelve months ago. And thatt, again, was due to Miles.

  Dan must go to France. He protested vigorously, though without giving his true reason: his reluctance to leave his mother. Evelyn, however, was firm. She was surprised, herself, at how firm she could now be; adversity seemed to have called out all the latent strength of her character. Much as she wanted to keep Dan, she was determined always to consider his good before her own; she had had enough of selfish love. Protesting to the last, he went, and she was left alone in England. Alone, in spite of the people who surrounded her, for Dan was now the only person in the world who held any significance for her. The rest of life was nothing but a thin shadow.

  She tried to interest herself in other things, but since all zest was lacking she felt as one who would attempt to lift heavy weights without the necessary muscles. It was love that she wanted, having once known it. She supposed that some women were like thatt, and that she was certainly one of them. It was a tragedy, to be made thatt way. Viola Anquetil was the only other person she wanted to see. She could have found a little temporary peace, sitting quietly in Viola’s cool presence, even without speaking. Diffidence kept her away; she had no right to impose her troubles upon Viola. Viola telephoned several times, and wrote, but she always replied that she was away at Newlands.

  There, again, she was firm.

  This firmness was mysterious, even to her. It seemed to be the reverse of the medal. The medal was stamped on the other side with self-indulgence, softness, luxury, egotism; now she had turned it over and found a certain austerity, pride, and self-sacrifice.

  All the same, she thought, what did the future hold? She had perhaps thirty to forty years of life left to her. Would this sense of having done the best thing for Miles be sufficient to sustain her? Or was it but a temporary exaltation? When it failed her, when the spirit sagged, would she fall broken to the ground, as an acrobat who topples from his tight-ro
pe?

  The interview with Miles had been final. She had known it, even while he besought her. He might storm, rave, appeal, implore: the genuine accent was missing. She was intuitive enough to know the difference; besides, she knew him so well! Emotional, eloquent, and unafraid of expressing his feelings, he was capable of working himself up into a state of agitation which deceived himself and would have deceived anybody but her. (Though, God knows, she had desired ardently enough to allow herself to be deceived.) On the point of yielding, she had looked at him sardonically, and had said “Tub-thumping as usual, Miles?” Then, taken up short, he had shot her a look of real hatred and all their past differences leapt suddenly into life again. “Tub-thumping”—what perverse ingenuity had led her to choose that word? It involved the whole of his public career,—their principal enemy in the days when they had been lovers. “Well, if you think thatt . . .” he had said, striding away to the opposite end of the room. She had watched him go, torn by his agitation and by the familiar grace of his movements. How near she had been to calling him back at thatt moment! He had stood silhouetted against the big window of Viola’s studio,—silhouetted, but with his hair shining;—angry, his hands in his pockets, and she had nearly gone up to him, saying, “Miles?” in the voice which she knew would swing him round to her and make him take her, then and there, into his arms. Once again she would have known thatt physical contact which meant so much and yet so little; for the moment they would have melted together, come back to one another; for an hour, for a night, for a week, their union might have touched perfection again. She had resisted the temptation,—at what cost!—and was glad. She had remained by the fire, while he stood over by the window, and had driven her points home. “There’s your natural platform, Miles,” she had said, “the tub, or the orange box. You stick to it, and let me go.”

  It was difficult for him to answer,—almost as difficult as to answer an American who says “pleased to meet you, Mr. Vane-Merrick”; his heart was not in the answer; there was the truth of it. He began then to doubt whether he had a heart at all. Emotion he had in plenty; eloquence at his command; but—heart? What did heart mean, anyhow? Compassion? Lust? Were those the ingredients of love? Not of love, as he understood it. Still less of love, as Evelyn understood it. Love as Evelyn understood it was an entire absorption of one lover into the other. He could not see love in thatt light. He wanted to retain his individuality, his activity, his time-table. He wanted to lead his own life, parallel with the life of love, separate, independent. So he had turned upon Evelyn, and had tried to explain, but he had explained in an exasperated voice and she had seen the exasperation behind the explanation. “Don’t worry, Miles,” she had said. “We had seven lovely months, and one can’t expect these things to last for ever.” She hoped thereby to convey the impression that the affair had come to an end for her as well as for him. She wanted him to take it lightly. She wanted him to believe that she herself took it lightly. She did not want him to be distressed,—thatt was part of her exaltation. If she must sacrifice herself for him, then she would do it as thoroughly and as graciously as possible.