All Passion Spent

by Vita Sackville-West

  Kay was going. He must get some dinner. He could come back later, if Edith thought it desirable. He added this, being cowardly though self-indulgent, and anxious to avoid unpleasantness at any cost. Fortunately for him, Edith was cowardly too, and immediately retracted any reproof or appeal her pursuit might have been intended to convey. ‘Oh no, Kay, of course not; why should you come back? I’ll look after Mother. You’ll be coming in to-morrow morning?’

  Yes, said Kay, relieved; he’d come in to-morrow morning. Early. They kissed. They had not kissed for many years; but that was one of the strange effects of death: elderly brothers and sisters pecked at one another’s cheeks. Their noses, from lack of custom, got in the way. Both of them looked up the dark well of the staircase, after they had kissed, towards the floor where their father lay, and then in sudden embarrassment Kay scuttled off down the stairs. He felt a relief as he shut himself out into the street. A May evening; normal London; taxis passing in the King’s Road; and FitzGeorge waiting for him at the club. He must not keep Fitz waiting. He would not go by bus. He would take a taxi.

  FitzGeorge was his oldest, indeed his only, friend. Over twenty years of difference in age separated them, but after threescore such discrepancies begin to close up. The two old gentlemen had many tastes in common. They were both ardent collectors, the only difference between them being a difference of wealth. FitzGeorge was enormously rich; a millionaire. Kay Holland was poor – all the Hollands were comparatively poor, their father had been Viceroy of India. FitzGeorge could buy anything he liked, but such was his eccentricity that he lived like a pauper in two rooms at the top of a house in Bernard Street, and took pleasure in a work of art only if it had been his own discovery and a bargain. Since he possessed an extraordinary instinct for discoveries and bargains – finding unsuspected Donatellos in the basement of large furniture shops in the Tottenham Court Road – he had amassed at small cost (to his own delight and to Kay Holland’s envious but exasperated admiration) a miscellaneous collection coveted by the British and the South Kensington Museums alike. Nobody knew what he would do with his things. He was just as likely to bequeath them all to Kay Holland as to make a bonfire of them in Russell Square. Obvious heirs he had none, any more than he had obvious progenitors. Meanwhile he kept his treasures closely round him; the few people privileged to visit him in his two rooms came away with a tale of Ming figures rolled up in a pair of socks, Leonardo drawings stacked in the bath, Elamite pottery ranged upon the chairs. Certainly, during the visit one had to remain standing, for there was no free chair to sit on; and jade bowls must be cleared away before Mr FitzGeorge could grudgingly offer one a cup of the cheapest tea, boiling the kettle himself on a gas-ring. The only visitors to receive a second invitation were those who had declined the tea.

  Nearly everybody knew him by sight. When people saw his square hat and old-fashioned frock-coat going into Christie’s they said, ‘There’s old Fitz.’ Winter or summer, his costume never varied; square hat, frock-coat, and usually a parcel carried under his arm. What the parcel contained was never divulged; it might be a Dresden cup, or a kipper for Mr FitzGeorge’s supper. Londoners felt affectionately towards him, as one of their genuine eccentrics, but no one, not even Kay Holland, would have dreamed of calling him Fitz to his face, however glibly they might say ‘There’s old Fitz’ when they saw him pass. It was said that the happiest event of his life was the death of Lord Clanricarde; on that day, old Fitz had walked down St James’s Street with a flower in his buttonhole, and all the other gentlemen sitting in club windows had known perfectly well why.

  Although Mr FitzGeorge and Kay Holland had been friends for some thirty years, no personal intimacy existed between them. When they sat at dinner together – a familiar spectacle in Boodle’s or the Thatched House Club, each paying his share, and drinking barley-water – they discussed prices and catalogues as inexhaustibly as lovers discuss their emotions, but beyond this they knew nothing of each other whatsoever. Mr FitzGeorge knew, of course, that Kay was old Slane’s son, but Kay knew no more of Mr FitzGeorge’s parentage than anybody else. Quite possibly Mr FitzGeorge himself knew nothing of it either; so people said, basing their suspicions on the suggestive prefix to his name. Certainly Kay had never asked him; had never even hinted at any curiosity on the subject. Their relationship was beautifully detached. This explains why Mr FitzGeorge awaited Kay’s arrival in some perturbation, uncomfortably aware that he ought to make some allusion to the Hollands’ bereavement, but shrinking from this infringement of their tacit understanding. He felt vexed with Kay; it was inconsiderate of him to have lost his father, inconsiderate of him not to have cancelled their appointment; yet Mr FitzGeorge knew quite well that a cancelled appointment was a crime he never forgave. Very cross, he watched for Kay’s approach, drumming on the window at Boodle’s. He must say something, he supposed; better to do it at once, and get it over. Surely Kay was not going to be late? He had never yet been late for an appointment, in thirty years; never been late, and never failed to turn up. Mr FitzGeorge drew an enormous silver turnip, price five shillings, from his pocket and looked at the time. Seventeen minutes past eight. He compared it with the clock on St James’s Palace. Kay was late; two whole minutes. – But there he was, getting out of a taxi.

  ‘Evening,’ said Kay, coming into the room.

  ‘Evening,’ said Mr FitzGeorge. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Dear me, so I am,’ said Kay. ‘Let us go in to dinner at once, shall we?’

  During dinner they talked about a pair of Sèvres bowls which Mr FitzGeorge alleged that he had discovered in the Fulham Road. Kay, who had seen them too, was of the opinion that they were fakes, and this divergence led to one of those discussions which both old gentlemen so thoroughly enjoyed. But this evening, Mr FitzGeorge’s pleasure was spoilt; he had not said what he intended to say, and every moment made the saying of it more awkward and more impossible. His irritation against Kay was increased. It was the first unsuccessful meal that they had ever had together, and the disappointment made Mr FitzGeorge reflect that all friendship was a mistake; he regretted crossly that he had ever allowed himself to become involved with Kay; other people had always been kept at arm’s length, a most commendable system; it was a mistake, a great mistake, to admit exceptions. He scowled across the table at Kay, drinking his barley-water and carefully wiping his neat little beard, unaware of the hostility he was arousing.

  ‘Coffee?’ said Mr FitzGeorge.

  ‘I think so – yes, coffee.’

  Poor old chap, he looks tired, thought Mr FitzGeorge suddenly; not quite so spruce as usual; he’s drooping a little; he’s been making an effort to talk. ‘Have a brandy?’ he said.

  Kay looked up, surprised. They never had brandy.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Yes. Waiter, give Mr Holland a brandy. Put it down on my bill.’

  ‘I really …’ began Kay.

  ‘Nonsense. Waiter, the best brandy – the eighteen forty. When all’s said and done, Holland, I saw you in your cradle. The eighteen forty brandy was only thirty years old or so then. So don’t make a fuss.’

  Kay made no fuss, startled as he was by this sudden revelation that old Fitz had seen him in his cradle. His mind flung itself back wildly into time and space. Time: 1874; space: India. So old Fitz must have been in India in 1874. ‘You never told me that you had been in Calcutta then,’ said Kay, sipping his brandy over his little Vandyck beard. ‘Didn’t I?’ said old Fitz negligently, as though it were of no importance; ‘well, I was. My guardians didn’t approve of universities, and sent me round the world instead. (Strange revelations! so old Fitz, in his adolescence, had been controlled by guardians?) Your parents were very kind to me,’ Mr FitzGeorge proceeded; ‘naturally, your father as Viceroy hadn’t much leisure, but your mother, I remember, was most gracious; most charming. She was young then; young, and very lovely. I remember thinking that she was the most lovely thing I had seen in India. – But you’re wrong about those bowls all the
same, Holland. You know nothing whatever about china – never did, never will. It’s too fine a taste for you. You ought to confine yourself to junk like your astrolabes. That’s all you’re fit for. Setting yourself up as a judge of china, indeed! And against me, who have forgotten more about china than you ever learnt.’

  Kay was well accustomed to such abuse; he liked being bullied by old Fitz; it gave him a little tremor of delight. He sat listening while old Fitz told him that he did not deserve the name of connoisseur, and would have done much better to go in for collecting stamps. He knew that Fitz did not mean a word of it, but enjoyed pecking at him like an old, pecking, courting pigeon, while Kay averted his head and dodged the blows, laughing a little meanwhile, ever so slightly arch, and looking down at the table-cloth, fingering the knives and forks. Their relations had miraculously got back to the normal, and so greatly did Mr FitzGeorge’s spirits rise at this re-establishment that he said presently he was dashed if he wouldn’t have a brandy too. He had forgotten all about that difficult allusion he intended to make, or thought he had forgotten, but perhaps it had really been in his mind all the time, for when they came out of the club together, and stood on the steps preparing to part, while Kay pulled on his chamois-leather gloves – Mr FitzGeorge had never owned a pair of gloves in his life, but Kay Holland was never seen without his hands gloved in butter-yellow – to his own surprise he heard himself growl out, ‘Sorry to hear about your father, Holland.’

  There, it was said, and St James’s Street had not opened to swallow him up. It was said; it had been quite easy, really. But what on earth was prompting him to go further to make the most incredible, unnecessary proposal? – ‘Perhaps some day you’ll take me to call on Lady Slane.’ Now what had possessed him to say that? Kay looked taken aback; and no wonder. ‘Oh, yes – yes, certainly – if you’d care to come,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Well, good-night – good-night,’ and he hurried away, while old Fitz stood staring after him, wondering whether he had made it impossible for himself ever to see Kay Holland again.

  The house was strange – thus Edith pursued her thoughts – there was such a contrast between what went on inside and what went on outside. Outside it was all blare and glare and publicity, what with the posters, and the reporters still hanging about the area railings, and the talk of Westminster Abbey, and speeches in both Houses of Parliament. Inside it was all hushed and private, like a conspiracy; the servants whispered, people went soundlessly up and down stairs; and whenever Lady Slane came into the room everybody stopped talking, and stood up, and somebody was sure to go forward and lead her gently to a chair. They treated her rather as though she had had an accident, or had gone temporarily off her head. Yet Edith was sure her mother did not want to be led to chairs, or to be kissed so reverently and mutely, or to be asked if she was sure she wouldn’t rather have dinner in her room. The only person to treat her in a normal way was Genoux, her old French maid, who was nearly as old as Lady Slane herself, and had been with her for the whole of her married life. Genoux moved about the house as noisily as ever, talking to herself as her custom was, muttering to herself about her next business in her extraordinary jumble of French and English; she still burst unceremoniously into the drawing-room in pursuit of her mistress, whoever might be there, and horrified the assembled family by asking, ‘Pardon, miladi, est-ce que ça vaut la peine d’envoyer les shirts de milord à la wash?’ They all looked at Lady Slane as though they expected her to fall instantly to pieces, like a vase after a blow, but she replied in her usual quiet voice that yes, his lordship’s shirts must certainly be sent to the wash; and then, turning to Herbert, said, ‘I don’t know what you would like me to do with your father’s things, Herbert; it seems a pity to give them all to the butler, and anyway they wouldn’t fit.’

  Her mother and Genoux, Edith thought, alone refused to adapt themselves to the strangeness of the house. She could read disapproval in the eyes of Herbert, Carrie, Charles, and William; but naturally no disapproval could be openly expressed. They could only insist, implicitly, that their own convention must be adopted: Mother’s life was shattered, Mother was bearing up wonderfully, Mother must be sheltered within the privacy of her disaster, while the necessary business was conducted, the necessary contact with the outside world maintained, by her capable sons and her capable daughter. Edith, poor thing, wasn’t much use. Everybody knew that Edith always said the wrong thing at the wrong moment, and left undone everything that she was supposed to do, giving as her excuse that she had been ‘too busy’; nor was Kay of much use either, but then he scarcely counted as a member of the family at all. Herbert, Carrie, William, and Charles stood between their mother and the outside world. From time to time, indeed, some special rumour was allowed to creep past their barrier: the King and Queen had sent a most affectionate message – Herbert could scarcely be expected to keep that piece of news to himself. Huddersfield, Lord Slane’s native town, desired the approval of the family for a memorial service. The King would be represented at the funeral by the Duke of Gloucester. The ladies of the Royal School of Embroidery had worked – in a great hurry – a pall. The Prime Minister would carry one corner of it; the Leader of the Opposition another. The French Government were sending a representative; and it was said that the Duke of Brabant might attend on behalf of the Belgian. These bits of information were imparted to his mother by Herbert in driblets and with caution; he was feeling his way to see how she would receive them. She received them with complete indifference. ‘Very nice of them, to be sure,’ she said; and once she said, ‘So glad, dear, if you’re pleased.’ Herbert both relished and resented this remark. Any tribute paid to his father was paid to himself, in a way, as head of the family; yet his mother’s place, rightfully, was in the centre of the picture; these three or four days between death and burial were, rightfully, her own. Herbert prided himself on his sense of fitness. Plenty of time, afterwards, to assert himself as Lord Slane. Generation must tread upon the heels of generation – that was a law of nature; yet, so long as his father’s physical presence remained in the house, his mother had the right to authority. By her indifference, she was abdicating her position unnecessarily, unbecomingly, soon. She ought, posthumously, for these three or four days, to rally supremely in honour of her husband’s memory; any abrogation of her right was unseemly. So it ran in Herbert’s code. But perhaps, chattered the imp in Edith, perhaps she was so thoroughly drained by Father in his lifetime that she can’t now be bothered with his memory?

  Certainly the house was strange, with a particular strangeness that had never invaded it before and could never invade it again. Father could not die twice. By his dying he had created this particular situation – a situation which, surely, he had never foreseen; the sort of situation which nobody would foresee until it came actually into being. Nobody could have foreseen that Father, so dominant always, so paramount, would by the mere act of dying turn Mother into the most prominent figure. Her prominence might last only for three or four days; but during that brief spell it must be absolute. Everybody must defer. She, and she alone, must decide whether the doors of Westminster Abbey should or should not revolve upon their hinges; a nation must wait upon her decision, a Dean and Chapter truckle to her wishes. Very gently, and cautiously, she must be consulted on every point, and her views ascertained. It was very strange that somebody so self-eclipsing should suddenly have turned into somebody so important. It was like playing a game; it reminded Edith of the days when Father in one of his gay moods would come into the drawing-room after tea to find Mother with all the children around her, reading to them perhaps out of a storybook, and would clap the book shut and say that now they would all play follow-my-leader all through the house, but that Mother must lead. So they had gone, capering through silent chanceries and over the parquet floors of ballrooms, where the chandeliers hung in their holland bags, performing all kinds of absurd antics on the way – for Mother had an inexhaustible invention – and Father would follow last, bringing up the tail
, but always playing the clown and getting all his imitations wrong, whereat the children would shriek with delight, pretending to put him right, and Mother would turn round with Kay clinging on to her skirts, to say with assumed severity, ‘Really, Henry!’ Many an Embassy and Government House had rung to their evening laughter. But once, Edith remembered, Mother (who was young then) had tumbled some papers in the archivist’s room out of a file, and, as the children had scrambled joyfully to make the disorder worse, Father had darkened suddenly, he had conveyed displeasure in a grown-up way; his gaiety and Mother’s had collapsed together like a rose falling to pieces; and the return to the drawing-room had been made in a sort of scolded silence, as though Jove stooping from Olympus had detected a mortal taking liberties in his pretended absence with his high concerns.