Pepita

by Vita Sackville-West

  It has all been long since forgotten, and concerned a Presidential Election and the Fishery question. I reproduce the text of the letter and my grandfather’s reply, which was written in his own hand. I cannot imagine why he should have troubled to reply at all to such an enquiry, even if he believed it to be bona fide,—which it was not. Nobody ever discovered who Charles F. Murchison really was, if he ever existed. The Evening Express of Los Angeles said he was a farmer named Haley living two miles from Pomona, Cal., but it does not very much matter. What matters is the letter my grandfather received, and the reply he sent to it.

  POMONA, CAL., Sept. 4, 1888

  To the British Minister, Washington, D.C.

  SIR,

  The gravity of the political situation here and the duties of those voters who are of English birth but still consider England the mother-land constitute the apology I hereby offer for intruding for information.

  Mr Cleveland’s message to Congress on the Fishery question justly excites our alarm and compels us to seek further knowledge before finally casting our votes for him as we had intended to do. Many English citizens have for years refrained from being naturalized, as they thought no good would accrue from the act, but Mr Cleveland’s Administration has been so favourable and friendly toward England, so kind in not enforcing the Retaliatory Act passed by Congress, so sound on the free-trade question and so hostile to the dynamite school of Ireland, that by the hundreds,—yes, by the thousands—they have become naturalized for the express purpose of helping to elect him over again. The one above all of American politicians they consider their own and their country’s best friend.

  I am one of these unfortunates with a right to vote for President in November. I am unable to understand for whom I shall cast my ballot, when but one month ago I was sure Mr Cleveland was the man. IF CLEVELAND WAS PURSUING A NEW POLICY TOWARD CANADA, TEMPORARILY ONLY AND FOR THE SAKE OF OBTAINING POPULARITY AND CONTINUATION OF HIS OFFICE FOUR YEARS MORE, BUT INTENDS TO CEASE HIS POLICY WHEN HIS RE-ELECTION IS SECURED IN NOVEMBER AND AGAIN FAVOR ENGLAND’S INTEREST, THEN I SHOULD HAVE NO FURTHER DOUBTS, BUT GO FORWARD AND VOTE FOR HIM.

  I know of no one better able to direct me, sir, and I most respectfully ask your advice in the matter. I will further add that the two men, Mr Cleveland and Mr Harrison, are very evenly matched and a few votes may elect either one. Mr Harrison is a high-tariff man, a believer on the American side of all questions and undoubtedly an enemy to British interests generally. This State is equally divided between the parties, and a mere handful of our naturalized countrymen can turn it either way. When it is remembered that a small state (Colorado) defeated Mr Tilden in 1876 and elected Hayes, the Republican, the importance of California is at once apparent to all.

  As you are at the fountain head of knowledge on the question, and KNOW WHETHER MR CLEVELAND’S PRESENT POLICY IS TEMPORARY ONLY, AND WHETHER HE WILL, AS SOON AS HE SECURES ANOTHER TERM OF FOUR YEARS IN THE PRESIDENCY, SUSPEND IT FOR ONE OF FRIENDSHIP AND FREE TRADE, I apply to you privately and confidentially for information, which shall in turn be treated as entirely secret. Such information would put me at rest myself, and if favorable to Mr Cleveland enable me, on my own responsibility, to assure any of our countrymen that THEY WOULD DO ENGLAND A SERVICE BY VOTING FOR CLEVELAND AND AGAINST THE REPUBLICAN SYSTEM OF TARIFF. As I before observed, we know not what we do, but look for more light on a mysterious subject, which the sooner it comes will better serve true Englishmen in casting their votes.

  Yours very respectfully,

  CHARLES F. MURCHISON

  (PRIVATE)

  BEVERLY, MASS. Sept. 13, 1888

  SIR,

  I am in receipt of your letter of the 4th inst. and beg to say that I fully appreciate the difficulty in which you find yourself in casting your vote. You are probably aware that any political party which openly favoured the mother country at the present moment would lose popularity, and that the party in power is fully aware of this fact. The party, however, is I believe, still desirous of maintaining friendly relations with Great Britain, and is still as desirous of settling all questions with Canada, which have been unfortunately reopened since the retraction of the treaty by the Republican majority in the Senate, and by the President’s message, to which you allude. All allowances must, therefore, be made for the political situation as regards the Presidential election thus created. It is, however, impossible to predict the course which President Cleveland may pursue in the matter of retaliation, should he be elected; but there is every reason to believe that, while upholding the position he has taken, he will manifest a spirit of conciliation in dealing with the question involved in his message.

  I enclose an article from The New York Times of August 22, and remain,

  Yours faithfully,

  L. S. SACKVILLE-WEST

  My mother always maintained that she three times prevented him from sending his reply, but that he eventually despatched it without her knowledge. Whether this was true or not, I am not in a position to say. She had told a different story to her friends at the time, to the effect that she was away on a visit, and that her father, left to his own devices in the small house where they were spending their summer holiday, had written because he was bored and could find nothing better to do.

  VII

  It became quite clear that he could no longer retain his position as Minister and it seemed doubtful whether any other country would welcome an envoy recalled owing to an indiscretion; Lord Salisbury in London, in fact, was wondering what on earth he should do with Sackville-West. Fate, however, had another trick up her sleeve, and intervened by suddenly transforming Sackville-West into Lord Sackville, in succession to his brother, only a month after the unfortunate correspondence had passed.fn1 He now had an admirable pretext for offering his resignation and quitting his post with the minimum loss of dignity, even after the reception of a note issued by Mr Secretary Bayard by direction of the President, to the effect that ‘for causes heretofore made known to Her Majesty’s Government, Lord Sackville’s continuance in his present official position in the United States is no longer acceptable to this Government and would consequently be detrimental to the relations between the two countries’. This was plain speaking, but everything was carried out in as gentleman-like a spirit as possible; the American statesmen were courteously anxious to spare the feelings of their hapless friend; no pressure was put on the Minister to hurry his departure, and the sale of his effects at the Legation was arranged at leisure. The silent, reserved man had been well liked, even though the more voluble Americans did declare that he was as tightly shut-up as an oyster; the popularity of his three daughters had never been in question. The success of the sale was due in part to the determination of the souvenir-hunters. Any objects bearing the family crest fetched absurdly high prices, even if they were horse-cloths so moth-eaten as to be of no practical use at all. The big ballroom, it was said, ‘looked for all the world like a bazaar, with a junk shop extension’. Two thousand five hundred cards of admission had to be supplemented by a further five hundred before the sale had even begun. The reserve prices which had been fixed by my mother,—who was not Catalina’s grand-daughter for nothing,—were in most cases far exceeded.

  The break-up of this Victorian Legation offers as suggestive a ‘period’ document as the sales of the treasures at Albolote and Buena Vista. There were small work-tables inlaid with marqueterie, little tea-services ornamented with Victoria West’s monogram, bamboo flower-holders, old parasols, a Japanese dinner-gong, an immense French picnic umbrella, material for fancy dresses, and endless bric-à-brac, all of which speak eloquently of the gay life, half intimate and half social, which had flowed through those no doubt atrociously furnished rooms. In the stables, too, there were the horses and carriages which had served on many a pleasant drive over the then uncultivated heights of Rocky Crags or on expeditions into the wooded hills of Virginia. The family landau, the victoria, the phaeton, the buggy with its red wheels, the sleigh with its reversib
le robes and harness bespangled with little silver plates and bells, the English saddle which had lost half its padding, all came under the hammer and were bought for reasons more sentimental than practical. I wish I had the complete catalogue, but my only source of information lies in some old newspaper cuttings of the day.

  VIII

  Thus ended the affair of the Murchison Letter, and, accompanied by his two unmarried daughters,fn2 ‘Minister West’ left for Europe and the splendid inheritance which had fallen to him. From my mother’s point of view, she knew that she was now about to become the mistress of one of England’s most magnificent country-houses. For an absurd reason, however, highly characteristic of a family which was always cursed by litigation, they preferred not to go straight to England but to spend several months in Paris and on the Riviera. My grandfather’s predecessor, in fact, after a lifetime spent in quarrelling violently with his relations and his neighbours, endeavoured to complicate matters as much as possible for his heir by leaving an extraordinary will behind him, to the effect that all his personal estate should be equally divided between the Queen’s four maids-of-honour. It was supposed that he had private reasons for wishing to benefit one of them, and hit on this method of doing it without singling her out into a scandalous publicity. It was ingenious, but it produced consternation among his relations. They could not submit to this wanton ruin of Knole. Eventually the matter was settled out of court, but in the meantime the new owner and his family were forced into something like a voluntary exile. Exile it might be, but it was only temporary and by no means unpleasant. From my mother’s diaries, all of which I possess from this time (1889) onwards, and kept, of course, in French, I learn how gaily she enjoyed herself in the country of her birth. True, the diary opens on a wistful note: ‘My first thought was to offer this year to God (le bon Dieu). I have passed through so many sorrows; let us hope that they will not be renewed. I am so anxious about the future …’; but the wistfulness quickly disappears under the influence of the southern sun and the amusing company she found in the villas of her friends. There were so many diverting things to do, and such an odd assortment of people to observe! There were battles of flowers at Nice; there were luncheon-parties and cotillons (she seems to have forgotten her dislike of society for the time being); there was the tir aux pigeons; picnics, and parties on luxurious yachts lying in the harbours; drives in landaus along the Corniche road, with such ravishing views opening at every corner, and such a blue, blue sea, and flowers pouring in such profusion over the white walls; Monte Carlo especially was ‘féerique le soir avec toutes ses lumières se reflétant dans l’eau’. Then there were the people, from the Prince of Wales downwards. Jovial, genial, pleasure-loving, he escaped from his own country and from the supervision of his mother to enjoy himself freely in foreign parts. He was the leading figure, socially, on the Riviera. ‘I was horribly shy (terriblement intimidée) the first time I met him. After dinner, he sent for me to the smoking-room to smoke a cigarette. I refused to smoke, but was obliged to go there. I took Miss Stonor with me. He asked for my photograph, which I shall delay sending him as long as possible.’ She was cautious, among all those gay, dashing, smart people. ‘Cependant toutes ces femmes “fast” me respectent car je ne vais jamais nulle part sans Papa.’ She was evidently still very innocent and deliciously naïve. The highly sophisticated Prince and his friends delighted in her naïveté. ‘I did not understand what he meant by his jokes, but they must have been funny, because everybody laughed.’ Then he told her that she brought him luck at baccarat: ‘He made me sit at his right hand, and indeed he won. He gave me a big gold piece of 100 francs as a mascot with his name and the date engraved on it…. Then we went on to the Club, where the Prince danced the Quadrille d’honneur with me. He had been looking for me all over the place, while I was sitting quietly talking with someone else. He put me at his right hand at supper; he is amiability itself towards me.’ In the Casino at Monte Carlo she was much struck by the number of cocottes, and especially by the lack of animation on their faces. She met one lady, who would have been so nice if only she had chosen a white wig instead of a blonde one. She was shown a clockwork ostrich,—‘une autruche à mécanique, dont j’étais complètement émerveillée’,—and met a man with neither legs nor arms, ‘et il s’est marié tout de même!’ All this was very novel and amusing, but she hints that her own popularity brought certain disadvantages. It was annoying to be told by Count Sala at a luncheon party that he would give any man a week to fall in love with her: ‘C’est bien peu, et je n’ai pas une si bonne opinion de moi’. It was ‘such a bore, everybody here thinks that one is flirting when un homme est aimable pour vous’. She thought she would have to give up wearing her pink tulle frock trimmed with silver leaves at cotillons, as it seemed to be too much appreciated whenever she appeared in it. It was embarrassing when Mrs Bloomfield Moore, who had already given her the string of pearls at Washington, offered her a present of £10,000. ‘Of course, I cannot deny that the money would be very useful to me, but I cannot accept it.’ This thought was often present in her mind, for another day she writes: ‘Je fais de tristes réflexions ce soir sur la vanité de l’argent, mais pourtant j’aimerais bien avoir un petit million à moi’. Above all, she was terribly worried by a young French marquis who was especially determined to marry her. So ardent was he, that she invented an extensive curtain as a piece of needlework which she hastily produced whenever his visit was announced, so that entrenched behind her curtain and many needles and skeins of wool she felt herself comparatively safe. ‘Je les agace tous avec mon ouvrage que je traîne partout avec moi.’ Nevertheless, she was more than half inclined to accept him. The Prince of Wales eulogised him to her, saying that he was such a good fellow. Everybody brought pressure to bear on her. And she herself was not indifferent. She liked him. When he failed to return from Paris owing to some mishap, she records frankly that she was disappointed. ‘Désappointée’, she writes in her sloping foreign hand in her diary; just the one word, no more; but it evidently meant a lot. Yet she was not in love,—not in love according to her full capacity. She liked him, she toyed with the idea of marrying him. ‘C’est un bon garçon, très sérieux.’ That was much, but it was not enough. It was not enough to carry her off her feet. She still sat with the curtain draped across her knees, and thought the situation over. The difference in their religion was the great difficulty, for, although a Frenchman, he happened to be a Protestant. She could scarcely foresee that within the year she would be defying Cardinal Manning over precisely the same difficulty,—but not in connexion with the same man.

  IX

  A very different story takes us briefly back to Spain. While all these events were filling the lives of Lionel Sackville-West and his daughter, the rackety existence of Juan Antonio Oliva was drawing towards its miserable end. That gay, sleek, whiskered dancer who had courted Pepita in his youth was now approaching his sixtieth year, and although afflicted with the terrible disease of cancer in the tongue, had continued to earn his living as he had always done, by accepting any engagement he could get, whether it kept him in Spain or took him to the little republics of Central America. When his friends questioned him about his trouble he answered them lightly. He said, ‘Oh, I am all right; I smoke and I drink and it doesn’t trouble me’. For, in fact, he could not afford to give in. He had not only himself but his woman Mercedes Gomez to support, and the pair of them struggled in the deepest poverty. After his return from Guatemala his condition became so serious that he had to be taken to the public hospital of San Carlos in Madrid: he could then speak but very little, and the doctors refused to operate again. His sister and one of his brothers visited him on Sundays and other days when they could get leave from their work. Nor did his old friend Pedrosa desert him at the last, although he found the visits extremely distressing, as Oliva’s speech had become almost inarticulate owing to his disease. Mercedes Gomez was constantly with him too, and it was in her arms that on a hot July day he died. They
took off the ring that he was wearing and gave it to his brother Agustin; Mercedes took his watch and chain, but afterwards said that she would like Agustin to have them as a memento. They buried him in the cemetery of Nuestra Señora de Almodena.

  Mercedes Gomez was left not only heart-broken but almost destitute. Oliva’s family took her to live with them, in return for a small contribution towards the household expenses. She brought all her effects with her, but they consisted only of a bedstead and a trunk. She managed to earn a little money by accepting engagements in Oporto and elsewhere, but before very long she fell ill with a chest complaint,—chronic catarrh they called it,—and it became obvious that she would never dance again. ‘With the sale of her stage dresses, the little money she had contrived to save, and occasional help from outside, she managed to live. On three occasions when she became very bad she was taken to the hospital, and when she got better she returned to our house. Whenever she was in the hospital her trunk remained in our house.’ After her death, they turned out the contents of the trunk. It contained a few clothes, some old letters, and a small collection of postage stamps.

  Meanwhile, in strangely striking contrast, the English family, in entire unconsciousness of what was happening to Oliva far away in Spain, was preparing to take up its residence at Knole. The treasures they were to find there differed in considerable degree and quantity from poor Oliva’s ring, and Mercedes Gomez’ collection of postage stamps.