All Passion Spent

by Vita Sackville-West

  They were gratified now to see that she blushed, and that her hands went up nervously to fiddle with the grey strands of her hair; the gesture implied that she had not spoken. Having reduced her to this confusion, they returned to their conversation, suitably hushed and mournful. Even the voices of Herbert and Carrie, habitually insistent, were lowered. Their father lay upstairs, and their mother was with him.

  ‘Mother is wonderful.’

  Over and over, thought Edith, they had reiterated that phrase. Surprise was in their accents, as though they had expected their mother to rant, rave, scream, give herself up for lost. Edith knew very well that her brothers and sister privately entertained a theory that their mother was rather a simpleton. From time to time she let fall remarks that could not be reconciled with ordinary sense; she had no grasp on the world as it was; she was apt to say impetuous things which, although uttered in English, made no more sense than had they been uttered in an outer-planetary language. Mother was a changeling, they had often said politely, in the bitter-sweet accents reserved for a family joke; but now in this emergency they found a new phrase: Mother is wonderful. It was the thing they were expected to say, so they said it, several times over, like a refrain coming periodically into their conversation and sweeping it upwards on to a higher level. Then it drooped again; became practical. Mother was wonderful, but what was to be done with Mother? Evidently, she could not go on being wonderful for the rest of her life. Somewhere, somehow, she must be allowed to break down, and then, after that was over, must be stowed away; housed, taken care of. Outside, in the streets, the posters might flare: DEATH OF LORD SLANE. The journalists might run up and down Fleet Street assembling their copy; they might pounce on the pigeon-holes – that macabre columbarium – where the obituary notices were stored in readiness; they might raid each other’s information: ‘I say, is it true that old Slane always carried his cash in coppers? wore crêpe soles? dipped his bread in his coffee?’ Anything to make a good paragraph. Telegraph-boys might ring the bell, propping their red bicycles against the kerb, delivering their brown messages of condolence, from all over the world, from all parts of the Empire, especially where Lord Slane had served his term of government. Florists might deliver their wreaths – already the narrow hall was full of them – ‘indecently soon,’ said Herbert, peering jealously nevertheless at the attached cards through his monocle. Old friends might call – ‘Herbert – so dreadfully sudden – of course, I didn’t expect to see your dear Mother—’ But obviously they had expected it, had expected to be the sole exception, and Herbert must turn them away, rather enjoying it: ‘Mother, you understand, is naturally rather overcome; wonderful, I must say; but just at present, you’ll understand, I’m sure, is seeing nobody but Us’; and so with many pressings of Herbert’s hand they took their departure, having got no further than the hall or the doorstep. Reporters might loiter on the pavement, dangling cameras like black concertinas. All this might go on outside the house, but inside it, upstairs, Mother was with Father and the problem of her future lay heavy upon her sons and daughters.

  Of course, she would not question the wisdom of any arrangements they might choose to make. Mother had no will of her own; all her life long, gracious and gentle, she had been wholly submissive – an appendage. It was assumed that she had not enough brain to be self-assertive. ‘Thank goodness,’ Herbert sometimes remarked, ‘Mother is not one of those clever women.’ That she might have ideas which she kept to herself never entered into their estimate. They anticipated no trouble with their mother. That she might turn round and play a trick on them – several tricks – after years of being merely a fluttering lovable presence amongst them, never entered into their calculations either. She was not a clever woman. She would be grateful to them for arranging her few remaining years.

  They stood in the drawing-room in a group, uncomfortably shifting from one foot to the other, but it never occurred to them to sit down. They would have thought it disrespectful. For all their good solid sense, death, even an expected death, disconcerted them just a little. Around them hung that uneasy, unsettled air which attends those about to set out on a journey or those whose lives have been seriously disturbed. Edith would have liked to sit down, but dared not. How large they all were, she thought; large and black and elderly, with grandchildren of their own. How lucky, she thought, that we all wear so much black habitually, for we certainly could not have got our mourning yet, and how terrible it would have been for Carrie to arrive in a pink shirt. As it was, they were all black as crows, and Carrie’s black gloves lay on the writing-table with her boa and her bag. The ladies of the Holland family still wore boas, high collars, and long skirts which they had to hold up when they crossed the road; any concession to fashion was, they felt, unbecoming to their age. Edith admired her sister Carrie. She did not love her, and she was frightened of her, but she admired and envied her tremendously. Carrie had inherited her father’s eagle nose and commanding presence; she was tall, pale, and distinguished. Herbert, Charles, and William were tall and distinguished also; only Kay and Edith were dumpy. Edith’s thoughts were straying again: we might belong to a different family, she thought, Kay and I. Kay in fact was a chubby little old gentleman, with bright blue eyes and a neat white beard; there, again, he differed from his brothers who were clean-shaven. What a queer thing appearance was, and how unfair. It dictated the terms of people’s estimate throughout one’s whole life. If one looked insignificant, one was set down as insignificant; yet, one probably didn’t look insignificant unless one deserved it. But Kay seemed quite happy; he didn’t worry about significance, or about anything else; his bachelor rooms, and his collection of compasses and astrolabes seemed to satisfy him quite as well as public esteem, or a wife and a more personal life. For he was the greatest living authority upon globes, compasses, astrolabes, and all kindred instruments; lucky Kay, thought Edith, to have concentrated so contentedly upon one little department. (Curious symbols to have chosen, though, for one who had never loved the sea or climbed a mountain; to him, they were collector’s pieces, ranged and ticketed, but to Edith, the romantic, a vast dark world rose beyond their small brass and mahogany, their intricacy of pivots and gimbals, discs and circles, the guinea-gold brass and the nut-brown wood, the signs of the Zodiac and the dolphins spouting up the ocean; a vast dark world where nothing was charted on the maps but regions of danger and uncertainty, and ragged men chewed bullets to allay their thirst.) ‘Then there is the question of income,’ William was saying.

  How characteristic of William to mix up Mother’s future with questions of income; for to William and Lavinia parsimony was in itself a career. An apple bruised by falling prematurely from the tree must immediately be turned into a dumpling lest it be wasted. Waste was the bugbear of William’s and Lavinia’s life. The very newspaper must be rolled into spills to save the matches. They had a passion for getting something for nothing. Every blackberry in the hedgerow was an agony to Lavinia until she had bottled it. Living, as they did, at Godalming with two acres of ground, they spent painful-happy evenings in calculation as to whether a pig could be made to pay on the household scraps, and whether a dozen hens could out-balance their corn in eggs. Well, thought Edith, they must pass the time very absorbingly with such a constant preoccupation; but how miserable it must make them to think of all the sacks of gold squandered by them since their marriage. Let me see, thought Edith, William is the fourth, so he must be sixty-four; he must have been married for thirty years, so if they have spent fifteen hundred a year – what with the children’s education and all – that makes forty-five thousand pounds; sacks and sacks of treasure, such as the divers are always looking for at Tobermory. But Herbert was saying something. Herbert was always full of information; and the surprising thing was, for such a stupid man, it was usually correct.

  ‘I can tell you all about that.’ He put two fingers inside his collar, adjusted it, jerking his chin upward, cleared his throat, and gave a preliminary glare at his relations.
‘I can tell you all about that. I discussed it with Father – he took me, I may say, into his confidence. Ahem! Father, as you know, was not a rich man, and most of his income dies with him. Mother will be left with a net income of five hundred a year.’

  They digested this fact. William and Lavinia exchanged glances, and it could be seen that their minds were involved in rapid and experienced calculations. Edith, who passed privately among her relations for a half-wit, could on occasions be surprisingly shrewd – she had a habit of seeing through people’s words right down into their motives, and of stating her deductions with a frankness that was disconcerting rather than discreet. She knew now quite well what William was about to say, though for once she held her tongue. But she chuckled to herself as she heard him say it.

  ‘I suppose Father didn’t happen to mention the jewels in the course of his confidences, did he, Herbert?’

  ‘He did. The jewels, as you know, form not the least valuable part of his estate. They were his private property, and he has seen fit to leave them unconditionally to Mother.’

  That’s a smack for Herbert and Mabel, thought Edith. I suppose they expected Father to leave the jewels, like heirlooms, to his eldest son. A glance at Mabel’s face showed her, however, that the announcement came as no surprise. Evidently Herbert had already repeated his father’s confidences to his wife – and Mabel had been lucky, thought Edith, if Herbert had betrayed no irritation against her for thus failing to turn him into a successful legatee.

  ‘In that case,’ said William decisively – for although he and Lavinia had hoped for a portion of the jewels, it was pleasing to think that Herbert and Mabel also had been disappointed – ‘in that case Mother will certainly wish to sell them. And quite right too. Why should she keep a lot of useless jewellery lying in the bank? In my opinion the jewels should fetch from five to seven thousand pounds, properly handled.’

  ‘But more important than the question of jewels or income,’ Herbert proceeded, ‘is the question of where Mother is to live. She cannot be left alone. In any case, she could not afford to keep on this house. It must be sold. Where, then, is she to go?’ Another glare. ‘Clearly, it is our duty to look after her. She must make her home among us.’ It was like a set speech.

  All these old people, thought Edith, disposing of a still older person! Still, it seemed inevitable. Mother would parcel out her year: three months with Herbert and Mabel, three with Carrie and Roland, three with Charles, three with William and Lavinia – then where did she herself and Kay come in? Rising once more to the surface of her reflections, she launched one of her sudden and ill-chosen remarks, ‘But surely I ought to bear the brunt – I’ve always lived at home – I’m unmarried.’

  ‘Brunt?’ said Carrie, turning on her. Edith was instantly annihilated. ‘Brunt? My dear Edith! Who spoke of brunt? I’m sure we shall all regard it as a joy – a privilege – to do our part in looking after Mother in these last sad years of her life – for sad they must be, deprived of the one thing she lived for. Brunt, I think, is scarcely the word, Edith.’

  Edith subserviently agreed: it wasn’t. Spoken like that, repeated several times over, without the support of its usual little phrase, it acquired a strange and uncouth semblance, like spick without span, hoity without toity, turvy without topsy. It became a rude and Saxon word, like woad, or witenagemot; brunt, blunt; a blunt word. And what did it mean, to bear the brunt? What was a brunt, anyhow? No, brunt was not the word. ‘Well,’ said Edith, ‘I think I ought to live with Mother.’

  She saw relief spread itself over Kay’s face; he had been thinking, that was evident, of his snug little rooms and his collection. Herbert’s voice had been as a trumpet threatening the walls of his Jericho. The others, also, considered Edith and the possibility she offered them. The unmarried daughter; she was the obvious solution. But the Hollands were not people to evade a duty, and the more irksome the duty, the less likely were they to evade it. Joy was a matter they seldom considered, but duty was ever present with them, seriously always and sometimes grimly. Their father’s energy had passed on to them, turning a trifle sour on the way. Carrie spoke up for her relations. Carrie was good; but, like so many good people, she always managed to set everybody by the ears.

  ‘There is certainly something in what Edith says. She has always lived at home, and the change would not be very great for her. I know, of course, that she has often wished for independence and a home of her own; dear Edith,’ she said, with a digressive smile; ‘but quite rightly, as I think,’ she continued, ‘she refused to leave Father and Mother so long as she could be of use to them. I feel now, however, that we ought all to take our share. We must not take advantage of Edith’s unselfishness, or of Mother’s. I am sure I speak for you too, Herbert, and for you, William. It would be greatly to Mother’s benefit if, instead of embarking on a new house, she could make her home amongst us all in turn.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Herbert approving, and again adjusting his collar; ‘quite so, quite so.’

  William and Lavinia again exchanged glances.

  ‘Of course,’ William began, ‘in spite of our limited income Lavinia and I would always be happy to welcome Mother. At the same time I think some financial arrangement should be come to. So much more satisfactory for Mother. She would then feel no embarrassment. Two pounds a week, perhaps, or thirty-five shillings …’

  ‘I entirely agree with William,’ said Charles unexpectedly; ‘speaking for myself, a general’s pension is so absurdly inadequate that I should find an additional guest a serious drain on my resources. As you know, I live very modestly in a small flat. I have no spare bedroom. Of course, I have hopes that the question of pensions may some day be adjusted. I have written a long memorandum to the War Office about it, also a letter to The Times, which no doubt they are holding in reserve until a suitable occasion, as they have not yet printed it, though, I confess, I see very little hope of reform under this present miserable Government.’ Charles snorted. He felt that that was rather a good speech, and looked round at his family for approval. He was not General Sir Charles Holland for nothing.

  ‘Isn’t it rather delicate …’ began the new Lady Slane.

  ‘Be quiet, Mabel,’ said Herbert. He was seldom known to address any other phrase to his wife, nor did Mabel often succeed in getting beyond her four or five opening words. ‘This is entirely a family matter, please. In any case, it cannot be discussed in any detail until after – h’m – poor Father’s funeral. I do not quite know how this unpleasant subject has arisen. (That’s one for William, thought Edith.) In the meantime Mother must, of course, be our first consideration. Anything which can be done to spare her feelings … After all, we must remember that her life is shattered. You know that she lived only for Father. And we should be very seriously and rightly blamed if we were to abandon her now to her loneliness.’

  Ah, that’s it, thought Edith: what will people say? So they mean to combine people’s good opinion with getting a little of poor Mother’s money. Wrangle, wrangle, she thought – for she had had some previous taste of family discussions; they’ll wrangle for weeks over Mother like dogs quarrelling over an old, a very old, bone. Only Kay will try to keep out of it. William and Lavinia will be the worst; they’ll want to get Mother as a paying guest, and then look down their noses while their friends praise them. And Carrie will wear an air of high martyrdom. This is the sort of thing, she thought, which happens when people die. Then she discovered that underneath this current of thought was running another current, concerned with whether she would now be able to live independently; she saw the little flat which would be her own; the cheerful sitting-room; the one servant, and the latchkey; the evenings over the fire with a book. No more answering letters for Father; no more accompanying Mother when she went to open hospital wards; no more adding up the house-books; no more taking Father for a walk in the Park. And at last she would be able to have a canary. How could she help hoping that Herbert, Carrie, Charles, and William would divide Mo
ther between them? Shocked though she was by their blatancy, she acknowledged inwardly that she was no better than the rest of her family.

  Edith was frightened of being left in this strange house, alone with her living mother and her dead father. She could not own to her fear, but she did everything in her power to delay the departure of her brothers and sister. Even Carrie and Herbert, whom she rather disliked, and Charles and William, whom she rather despised, became desirable to her as presences and companions. She invented pretexts to keep them back, dreading the moment when the front door would shut finally behind them. Even Kay would have been better than nothing. But Kay slipped from her before the others. She fluttered after him on to the landing; he turned to see who was following him; turned, with his neat little white beard and his comfortable little paunch, crossed by a watch-chain. ‘You’re going, Kay?’ He was annoyed, because he imagined a reproof in Edith’s tone, where, really, he should have detected only an appeal. He was annoyed, because he already had a sense of guilt in his intention of keeping an engagement; ought he, rather, to have remained to dinner at Elm Park Gardens? Then he had consoled his conscience by reflecting that the servants must not be given any extra trouble. So, when Edith ran after him, he turned, looking as patiently annoyed as it was possible for him to look. ‘You’re going, Kay?’