The Edwardians

by Vita Sackville-West

  So, at least, thought Teresa; except that she did not put it to herself in terms of apprehending works of art. Sebastian was wiser, and colder. He had estimated—and, up to a certain point, with accuracy—the effect that the dark galleries would have upon Teresa. When he chose, his technique could be faultless; it was faultless now. (He was not really to blame for his miscalculation of one essential particular.) He was very gentle with Teresa, warning her not to stumble over a step, holding the tapestry aside that she might pass beneath; he was protective, though impersonal: the stories he told her were just such as would lead her deeper into this poetic world where reality ceased to have any weight. He wanted her to feel that he and she were its only inhabitants, and that it was their possession, for them to re-enter at any moment which left them alone together. So gradually he began to speak of the people they had deserted in the drawing room—“chattering magpies,” said Sebastian—and of the difference between herself and them, speaking with eloquence because he had half-persuaded himself that he believed what he was saying. Teresa believed it too. With her final putting-together of Sebastian, she had come to the sustaining conviction that she “understood” him. He must know it, she thought; for otherwise he would not have led her away into this beautiful, secret house of his. Her reverent adoration of him became slightly maternal.

  Despite their lingering, they had wandered through two galleries and found themselves now in Queen Elizabeth’s Bedroom, where the great four-poster of silver and flamingo satin towered to the ceiling and the outlines of the famous silver furniture gleamed dimly in a ray of the moon. Sebastian went to the window and pulled back the curtains. He knew that this was the moment for which the whole day had been but a preparation, yet he almost forgot Teresa and his wary plotting in the first shock of the beauty that met his eyes. The white garden lay in the full flood of the moon. The dark room was suddenly irradiated; the figures on the tapestry seemed to stir, the bed was full of shadows, the bosses on the silver shone, the polished floor became a lake of silver light. Softly he blew out his candles, and as their three spears of gold vanished, the room was given up entirely to that argent radiance. Teresa’s gold cloak turned silver too as she slipped into the embrasure of the window and leant there by his side. They were both silent, now gazing through the lattices into the white garden, now turning to let their eyes roam and search the recesses of the beautiful room. Teresa’s arm, escaping from the cloak, lay along the window sill. Sebastian recollected himself; he remembered the purpose with which he had brought her there; his desire revived—but he was a little shocked to discover that his delight in Chevron, ever renewed, could eclipse even for a moment his desire for a woman—it was, however, not too late to repair the mistake; his hand stole out, and he laid it upon hers.

  Teresa also came to her senses as his touch recalled her. She looked at him in some surprise. She had been weaving a dream about him, in which she saw him straying endlessly as a wraith among this incredible beauty. That moment in which she fancied she saw him in the round had been very valuable and illuminating to her. But it had slightly accentuated his unreality. On the whole, in spite of her maternal impulse when she told herself that she “understood” him, it had helped to make him into something more of a peep show, something more definitely apart from herself. As his romance increased, so did his reality diminish. So now, when his slim fingers closed upon her hand, she was surprised, and baffled, and could not relate the physical contact with the image she had formed of him.

  They were once again at cross-purposes.

  He leant towards her, and, to her intense perplexity, began to pour words of love into her ear. “Teresa,” he said, in a tone she had never heard him use, just as she had never heard him use her Christian name; and she found that he was speaking of the great shadowy bed, and of his desire for her body, and of their solitude and safety, and of the loveliness and suitability of the hour. “They will be stuck at their bridge until at least midnight,” he said, and proceeded to paint a picture of the joys that might be theirs for years to come. But the immediate moment was the most urgent, he said. The snow outside, the moonlight, their isolation; he pleaded all this in fulfilment of his desire. Her mind flew to John, sitting in the great drawing room, playing bridge for stakes which he knew were beyond his means; John, whom she had persuaded against his will to come to Chevron for Christmas; John, who had given her a cheque for fifty pounds; John, who had searchingly asked her once whether there was ‘nothing wrong’ between herself and this young duke, and had instantly, almost apologetically, accepted her indignant denial. She pushed Sebastian away. She almost hated him. “You must be mad,” she said, “if you think I am that sort of woman.” Sebastian, in his turn, was equally perplexed. Had he not spent all his life among women who made light of such infidelities? Besides, had he not seen the adoration in Teresa’s eyes? “Teresa,” he said, “don’t waste our time. Don’t pretend. You know I am in love with you, and I believe you are in love with me—why make any bones about it?” Teresa put her hands over her ears to shut out the sudden voicing of this crude and shocking creed. “John!” she cried in a low voice, as though she were crying for help. “John!” said Sebastian, taken aback; the very mention of her husband at such a moment struck him as an error of taste. “Why, John knows all about it, you may be sure; else, he would never have consented to bring you here.” “What?” said Teresa, taking her hands away and staring at him in real amazement; “you think that? You think that John knew you were in love with me, and condoned it? You believe that? You think that John and I are that sort of person?” “Oh,” said Sebastian, maddened into exasperation, “don’t go on saying ‘that sort of woman,’ and ‘that sort of person’; it means nothing at all.” “But it does mean something,” said Teresa, suddenly discovering a great many things about herself, and feeling firmer than she had ever felt before; “it means that John and I love each other, and that when we married we intended to go on loving each other, and to be faithful to one another, and that that is the way we understand marriage. I know that it is not the way you understand it—you and your friends. I am sorry if I gave you the impression that I was in love with you. I don’t think I ever was, and if I had been I should have asked you to go away and never see me again. I was dazzled by you, I admired you, I used to watch you and think about you, in a way I almost worshipped you, I don’t mind admitting it, but that is not the same as being in love.”

  She paused for breath after rapidly delivering this little speech. She clutched the cloak about her and fixed Sebastian with a distressed but courageous gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said more gently, “but I must tell you exactly how it is. I suppose it is as difficult for you to understand our ideas as it is for us to understand yours. I know what you are thinking—you are disgusted with me, and you are wondering why you ever wasted your time over a conventional little bourgeoise like me. To tell you the truth, I used to wonder too. To tell you even more of the truth, I knew I attracted you and I was pleased. But I never took it seriously. If I had taken it seriously I should have told John at once. But I didn’t take it seriously, and anyway I was weak, because you represented everything I had always longed for. I am being so frank with you because I want you to understand. Perhaps I never really thought about it very much; I was so excited about you, and when you asked me to Chevron I nearly died of joy. There, now, you know all the depths of my silliness. You were offering me sweets, and I took them. But I love John, and he’s my husband.”

  “And if you did not love him?” asked Sebastian curiously.

  “It would still be the same,” said Teresa; “marriage is marriage, isn’t it?—not in your world, perhaps, but in mine—and I should hold on to that. Not one of my relations would ever speak to me again if I were unfaithful to John. Surely you must know that?”

  Sebastian could not sympathise with these sentiments. He had acknowledged her dignity when she first spoke, but now she seemed to have switch
ed over from something fundamental to something contemptible. Love was one thing; middle class virtue was another. This was as bad as Sylvia Roehampton, who could sacrifice him and herself to her social position. Sebastian was angry, because he saw his caprice broken against a rock. Was he never to find moral courage anywhere in the world, he demanded? It now seemed to him that that was the only quality worth having. (Reference has already been made, perhaps too frequently, to the intemperate nature of his moods.) He had tried the most fashionable society, and he had tried the middle class, and in both his plunging spirit had got stuck in the glue of convention and hypocrisy. The conventions differed—Sylvia had not hesitated to give herself to him—but the hypocrisy remained the same. He raved and stormed. He tried anger, only too unfeigned; and he tried persuasion, but neither could move Teresa. She was grieved, she was sorry, but she was softly stubborn; she even appeared incapable of understanding half he said. Indeed, he poured out such a torrent that no one but himself could have followed his arguments; no one, that is, who had not grown up as he had grown up, with the sense of being caught and condemned to a prearranged existence; who had not alternately struggled against his bonds and then drawn them tighter around him; who had not loved his good things and despised himself for loving them; who had not tried to solace himself with pleasures and with women who meant nothing to him; who had not wavered, in unhappy confusion, between an outward rôle that was almost forced upon him, and the inward passion for Chevron that was the one stable and worthy thing in his life. It was not surprising that Teresa should be puzzled by the abuse that he poured upon her or by the bitterness that he heaped upon himself.

  The big clock, striking overhead, abruptly reminded her of her absence. What would John think, what would they all think? she cried. “We must go,” she cried, tugging at him; she was frightened now by this scene that had taken place between them; she only wanted to get back to safety and to John. “Do come,” she implored. Sebastian would not move; he leant against the window sill, looking wild and indifferent to earthly pleadings. “Please!” she cried childishly; and desperately added, “I can’t leave you here alone, but I must get back.” She made the only appeal that meant anything to her; it was an unfortunate choice. “Do think of me,” she said; “think of John, think of my reputation.” At that Sebastian laughed. The contrast between her plea and his own feelings was—or seemed to him—too ironically discrepant. “Your reputation?” he said; “what does your reputation matter? You timid, virtuous wife!” The inner knowledge that he was behaving not only badly but histrionically increased his obstinacy. He was acutely ashamed of himself, since, for the first time in his life, he saw himself through other eyes; and saw his selfishness, his self-indulgence, his arrogance, his futile philandering, for what they were worth. Still he would not give way. He was as childish as she; for he was in what Wacey would have called a Regular State; and when people get into Regular States all the problems of their life rise up and join forces with their immediate sorrow. He had wanted Teresa; he had been thwarted by Teresa; so he remembered that he had wanted Sylvia and had been thwarted by Sylvia, and so by a natural process he had remembered everything else—Chevron, and his hatred of his friends, and the shackles that had been tied round him like ribbons in his cradle, and the sarcasm of Leonard Anquetil. “You shan’t go,” he said, making a movement towards Teresa.

  She escaped him; she fled out of the beautiful room, leaving her cloak where it fell, lying in a pool of moonlight. Sebastian stared at it after she had gone. Its wrinkled gold was turned to silver. Its sable lining was as dark as the shadows within the great bed. It was as empty and as crumpled as everything that he had ever desired.

  Chapter VII

  Anquetil

  Five years had passed, when, for the second time in this chronicle, but for probably the thousandth time in her life, Lucy again poured out her heart to Miss Wace. But it was in a mood of hopefulness, not of despair, that she now sought Wacey in the schoolroom. “I really think something may come of it, Wacey!” she said in triumph, but sinking her voice as though she feared lest some malignant spirit should overhear. “They were playing tennis together all yesterday afternoon, and now he has taken her for a walk in the park. Don’t you think that looks as though he intended something? You know how he hates girls as a rule. Of course, I daren’t ask him. If I did, he might kick up his heels and be off. He might go and join Viola, or worse. You know how he hates to be watched or questioned. He might ruin all our hopes. She’s a nice girl, Wacey. Not pretty, but perhaps that’s all the better. She’s well-born enough to make up for any lack of looks; she’s docile, and quite obviously she adores him. And I daresay I could do something about her clothes, once her old frump of a mother is out of the way. Why don’t you say anything, Wacey? You’re as dumb as a fish.”

  Lucy took herself off to Mrs. Levison, leaving Miss Wace to mourn the prospective bride’s homely appearance. All her hopes of a Radiant Young Couple were vanishing. The girl was definitely plain, and Miss Wace could not believe that Sebastian was in love with her. There was a great difference between Radiant Young Couples and Settling Down. Sebastian meant to settle down. That was Miss Wace’s reading of it. She sighed.

  Mrs. Levison took a more sensible point of view. “If I were you, Lucy,” she said, “I should be delighted. You’ll never have any trouble with that girl, and that’s about the best one can say of any daughter-in-law. I don’t see why you shouldn’t continue to live here after they’re married. You know quite well that you wouldn’t like to leave Chevron, Lucy, and the alternative would be the Dower House or Sir Adam. You’ve never been able to make up your mind about Sir Adam in all these years, and now you may be glad you didn’t. If you play your cards cleverly you may get everything your own way. Sebastian doesn’t seem to notice much what happens—I sometimes think, you know, that Sylvia did him more harm than any of us realised at the time—and the girl will never dare to lift a finger against you. She’ll have her babies to keep her quiet. She looks a good breeder,” said Mrs. Levison, coarsely, “and I daresay Sebastian will make her thoroughly miserable, so between motherhood and worry she oughtn’t to give you much trouble.”

  “You always had a lot of good sense, Julia,” said the duchess.

  “Whereas,” continued Mrs. Levison, developing her theme, “a lively, pretty daughter-in-law would put your nose completely out of joint. For one thing, Sebastian might be in love with her, and then he would support her in everything against you. Out you would go, my dear. He doesn’t care a rap for this girl, and once he is married he will be only too glad to shut his eyes to anything that goes on. You would hate to play second fiddle, Lucy.’”

  “Yes, I should,” said Lucy frankly. “After all, Julia, we’re not getting any younger, and one likes to hold on to whatever one has got. With so much Socialism about, one doesn’t know what may happen; and now the King is dead I expect it will get worse; I always felt that he kept things together somehow,” she said vaguely. “Oh dear,” she said, “how things are breaking up. There’s Romola gone to China, and Sylvia disappeared out of our lives, and Harry has become a bore, and people are quite disagreeable about Sir Adam now that he no longer has the King behind him, and now, of course, the Court will become as dull as ditch water.

  “Poor things,” said Mrs. Levison, apparently referring to the new sovereigns; “we must all do what we can to help them.”

  “Yes,” said Lucy dubiously. She was not sure how far King George and Queen Mary would relish Julia’s assistance. “In the meantime, what will become of us? Eadred Templecombe says England is going to the dogs. It really looks like it, when girls like Viola can defy their own mothers and go off to live by themselves in London. I always knew that I ought to have taken a firm line about that, and told her that I would wash my hands of her forever, but Sebastian took her part and I was helpless. Heaven only knows what she does in London, or what kind of people she sees. All self-respect seems to
be going out of the world. Sebastian has some extraordinary theory that people are becoming more honest towards themselves. All I can say is that we may not have been honest, but we did at least know how to behave. It is all very puzzling. Naturally one wants to hold on to anything one can.”

  “Anyway, you may be thankful you have plenty of money,” said Mrs. Levison, with the bitter note that always came into her voice when she spoke of other people’s fortunes.

  “For the moment, but one wonders how long one will be allowed to keep it. There are terrible rumours flying about. Sebastian is a perfect fool. He is almost as bad as Viola. He says he is going to join the Socialist party. A Socialist duke! Did you ever hear of such a thing? If we don’t all hold together and support our own class, where shall we be? That’s what I say to him. But Sebastian has always been odd. Do you remember that dreadful time two years ago, when he threatened to marry the keeper’s daughter? I never knew whether he really meant it or not. And lately I have heard that he has been seen about with some little model he has picked up in Chelsea.”