Without Knowing Mr Walkley

by Edith Olivier

  Gladys Meyrick speaks of Mildred’s gift as a raconteuse, and Dorothy of her ‘Subtle sense of humour, too much for everyday people who often did not understand her’.

  Yoi Maraini draws two pictures of Mildred talking. ‘When I saw her last, a short time before she died, she lay in bed explaining to me how the wireless worked in her room. She described vividly the strange sounds she heard, sometimes, late at night when, unable to sleep, she listened. It seemed to me, in hearing her, as if she, with a few words, brought the whole world—throbbing and palpitating with life—into her small room. The trees outside, close to the windows, dripped with rain, the light through them was sad beyond words; with death so near we might have felt closed in, shut away, afraid of the unknown. Instead of that, I look back on that day as if, then, with her and through her, I had seen and heard the cities and the forests of the world in the laughing company of a gay comrade.’

  And again: ‘Sometimes when talking with Mildred of merely passing interests, she would suddenly lean forward, look into one’s eyes and ask a question about one’s most intimate feelings. This was done in such a way that it was not possible, for any sincere person, to answer her evasively or with a lie. Under the light talk she had detected something that was vitally important and she cared enough to want to discuss the matter. I can think of nothing that it would have been impossible to talk out with Mildred. The most tortuous paths of the mind, the most illogical, and the most inconsistent actions would have been understood by her.’

  Christina Gibson ‘would like to give a picture of Mildred half mirthful, half consumed with warm pity or sympathy, twinkling and teasing.… Her intuition was at times uncanny, like talking to a fairy creature.’

  One of her nieces called her ‘ such an easy person to be alone with’; while another wrote: ‘Another thing we relied on from her was criticism; she was impatient of dullness or stupidity and expected people to be what she was herself—gay, lively and amusing, and of “quick understanding”.… She had almost perfect knowledge of what was going on in another’s mind.… While she talked we listened and laughed or were deeply interested in her very definite but unusual ideas about people and all the many other things we discussed. Definite ideas, but she had a curiously indefinite way of expressing them; or perhaps only half expressing, and yet with it she was illuminating and made us think, and see things that we never saw before.’

  Gwen Plunket Greene wrote: ‘She could be scathing, mocking, and critical, full, too, of spice and wickedness.… She would listen with the whole of her attention, the whole of her mind absorbed.… Her constant occupation with the feelings and thoughts of others made her more understanding than almost anyone I have ever known.’

  And Brian Howard tells how once he saw a very lovely view with Mildred. ‘I admired what we saw and said so, but Mildred said nothing. She loved what she saw too much to do anything but smile. And the reason why I remember that spring afternoon, and I think always will, is because she smiled at me.’

  Can these various extracts bring to the mind of those who will never know her anything of the savour of Mildred’s companionship—rare in her speech, rarer still in her gift of eloquent listening?

  Anne Douglas Sedgwick was another enchanting talker. Her conversation was greatly helped by her appearance which, with her white hair and bright-blue eyes, was as dazzling as a day of sun and hoar-frost. There was a New England Puritanism in Anne’s point of view, and though she enjoyed being with the younger generation, she wished them definitely to know that she was not of them. Her talk had the sharp glint of steel, with a sudden bright finality like the shutting of a knife. Anne talked beautifully about books, flying swiftly upon the essential in them, much as one of the birds she loved watching might fly upon a bright cluster of holly berries. She had a genius for seeing what the writer meant to say, even when he hadn’t quite succeeded in saying it; and her knowledge of technique was such that it was truly illuminating to hear her pick out just the failure in craftsmanship which had prevented a complete achievement. She made one almost like a book the better for its flaws, and enjoy one which was not quite successful as much as one would have enjoyed a masterpiece. Anne was also a very delicate psychologist, and she could analyse the characters of her friends with truth, tenderness and a little spice of venom: in fact she brought to conversation just those qualities which she brought to her writing.

  If there were no such bird as a stormy petrel, those two words would spring together to describe Elinor Wylie. Her appearance was beautiful, brittle and tragic, like ‘The Venetian Glass Nephew’ of whom she wrote, and she was extremely touchy. She was also the most egotistical person I ever knew; but egotism, if joined to intelligence, gives great point to conversation. Elinor’s talk was always exciting, because one never knew when she would fly at a tangent into a sudden fury, or quarrel most violently with someone with whom she had, a moment before, been conversing serenely on some high literary topic. I remember one such instantaneous squall when she and Harold Acton were discussing Shelley’s poetry. My attention wandered for a moment and then I heard them screaming at each other like fish-wives. She shrieked at him that Roman Catholics never read the Bible, and he hurled back at her that Shelley’s face was covered with spots. I never learnt how these two poisoned darts came to fit each other as the appropriate ripostes, but they certainly both struck home and roused their opponent to fury. The mention of Edward Garnett’s name was also quite certain to break up any conversation in which Elinor Wylie was engaged. He advised her not to write that fictional sequel to the drowning of Shelley in the Mediterranean Sea, which she eventually published as Mortal Image. Mr. Garnett thought that this might jar upon the feelings of some of Shelley’s admirers, but Elinor knew that she loved Shelley herself so much that no one could be more sensitive about him than she. She could not forgive a criticism which seemed to her to put her outside the circle of Shelley’s true intimates, and to speak of Edward Garnett before her was certain to strike a flint which would light a bonfire.

  When she was not in this inflammable mood, Elinor was a very poetic talker; her conversation was full of uncommon words and individual turns of phrase. She delighted to find poetry on side-tracks, and, picking up some little casual allusion that someone had let fall, she would play with it and beautify it till it became the chief subject of the conversation. Then again she enjoyed nothing more than a serious discussion of her own personal appearance. We talked for hours about her each separate feature—her nose, eyes, mouth, cheekbones, wrists, or hair. Each part of her became like a separate person to be discussed and argued over with heated agreement or disagreement.

  Stephen Tennant is the most sparkling talker who ever comes to my house, and perhaps the most amusing. He dances like a will-o’-the-wisp where other people stick in the mud. Though his really kindred spirits are the most exotic people he can find, he also greatly enjoys a talk with some extremely commonplace person, when he pretends that he thinks they mean something which they never thought of in their lives. He can be by turns poetic, malicious, and nonsensical. His talk is very pictorial and he handles words as if they were paint on a brush. When Stephen is alone with one friend he is often drawn to speak of very grave and profound subjects, and then he becomes unhappy, for he is never sure about what he loves and believes in, and he would like to love and believe in so much.

  On the other hand, when David Cecil talks, his words rush out like rockets and turn into stars because of the fire of faith within. He is so passionately interested in his subject that he might be expected to become a monologuist, but as a matter of fact he is completely the opposite, and when he is in the room he makes everyone else talk well. He seems to care intensely, not only for the subject which is being discussed, but also for what every person in the room thinks about it, looking eagerly from one to the other, and drawing from everyone his best. David is the most sympathetic talker I know, and he always succeeds in making the conversation general. He also has a delightful gift for brin
ging the talk round, without any apparent effort, to any subject on which he happens to know that someone present will be able to shine. This makes the talk leap about the room with great variety and freshness. Such talk is for me quite impossible to report. Writing it down always rubs off its bloom; but even apart from that, one only remembers the outstanding things that are said in an evening’s talk, although the little remarks thrown in by one and another have given it half its charm. They have in fact made it into ‘talk’. One night, for instance, David made us speculate as to what really gave to a personality the quality of romance. This started a very good talk, of which I can remember only David’s own contribution. He thought that a romantic figure is one which one thinks of, first of all, as walking alone and apart.

  I enjoy nothing more completely than hearing David Cecil and Arthur Ponsonby talking together. It is like hearing an eighteenth-century Whig conversing with a product of post-war Oxford. Arthur’s Whiggism is coloured with Socialism, as the Whiggism of Charles James Fox was affected by the French Revolution; while David Cecil’s opinions are Conservative. But they don’t talk politics here: they talk instead of life and of letters. It might be the historian of Melbourne talking with Melbourne himself. Arthur and David are of different generations, yet they both seem to belong to the age in which people had time, not only to toy with all kinds of knowledge, but to assimilate their knowledge before they began toying with it. These two men share a hundred interests, but each has his own manner of approaching them—Arthur with wit and wisdom, and David with lightness and learning.

  Osbert Sitwell not only looks, but is a character from the circle of Horace Walpole. More than anyone to-day he succeeds in converting the lightest conversation into a polished formal art. He never dominates a conversation, but he controls it. Much of the best talk to-day is rather like colts gamboling freely in a field; but when Osbert is there he harnesses the tricksome little creatures, takes the reins and drives the team. He decides the lines which the talk is going to follow, though no one seems to be aware that he has done so: then, although he leads the conversation, he brings everybody else into it just at the right moment. So after an evening with Osbert one can often remember the whole form of the conversation, how it began, developed, and ended. Osbert is also a master of the art of the Conte, using the word in what must have been its original sense—a tiny polished gem-like anecdote, made to be spoken and not to be written down. He achieves this perfectly himself, and he is also most appreciative of other people’s successes in this genre. He always remembers other people’s good stories, and afterwards will deftly seize the apt moment in another conversation to call upon the teller to fit it in again.

  Siegfried Sassoon is a wayward and capricious talker, and if he finds himself among uncongenial people he often won’t talk at all, but sits apart in the spirit of his own line:

  ‘I have sat silent, angry at what they uttered’.

  Siegfried is by turns violently intolerant, sympathetically appreciative, and savagely satirical. I suppose that everyone talks best in an intimate circle of friends, but this applies to Siegfried more than to anyone I know. When he does wake up and begin to talk, his conversation is very racy and amusing. He makes fun of himself as well as of other people and his descriptive powers are quite astonishing. Siegfried is the best of friends.

  One often reads of a richly stored mind, but one does not so often come across it. G. M. Young is an encyclopædia, but it is an encyclopædia which might have been compiled and written by de la Rochefoucauld. He not only seems to know all about everything, but that knowledge of his is all on the tip of his extremely witty tongue. He has a quiet presence and his mass of information never streams forth in monologue form. He takes no larger share in a conversation than anyone else; and yet at the end of the evening, one finds that it is he who has brought to it all its real substance and matter, its out-of-the-way bits of information and an intimate acquaintance, not only with the important events of history, but with many historical characters who have for centuries been forgotten by everyone else. Talk is always worth while when G. M. Young is there, and his least observation is barbed with wit.

  Ottoline Morrell’s personality is sybilline. When she talks, all that she says comes across with an added quality given by her beautiful figure, her noble features, her sombre eyes, and her deep emotional voice. She reads aloud very well, and some of the best talks with her which I remember have sprung up round about her reading of something or another. Ottoline has no superficial acquaintances. She is only interested in people whom she knows really well, and then she talks about them with wit and profundity, with sympathy and sometimes with bitterness. One evening at the Daye House, Ottoline read us a little study that she had written of Katherine Mansfield. She set her before us completely—body, soul and spirit. It seemed as if a little ghost-like figure had been created and was standing in the room; and at the moment when this impression was complete, all the lights suddenly went out. Her husband took a candle and held it to Ottoline’s manuscript, and then she read on in the darkened room, the candlelight playing on her face till she too looked like a ghost, and her voice came from some remote distance. That is the kind of happy accident which Ottoline seems to call up wherever she is. She creates her own setting and speaks out of it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SIGHTSEEING

  I learnt the love of sightseeing from my father. By the time I knew him, it was the chief, if not the only, sport which he continued to practise. By then, he no longer walked up partridges, so instead he walked up churches; and, as ever, he preferred the chase to the battue. Indeed sightseeing itself he found less enjoyable than the process of reaching the sight to be seen; and the organization of our excursions meant an immense amount of preliminary staff work. The facile sightseer of to-day has no notion of how, in the past, we manæuvred and planned our approach to a ruin, a church, or a country house.

  For instance, the distance from Wilton to Stonehenge and back is under eighteen miles. Nowadays, if a departing guest unexpectedly lets fall the remark that he has never seen the Stones, it is a simple matter to make a detour round them and to reach the station that way instead of by the usual direct three miles drive to Salisbury. But in my youth, we didn’t throw in Stonehenge like that, as an unconsidered item in the course of a day’s journey. We chose our date some time beforehand, because the horse must be allowed at least two days’ rest before the tremendous undertaking. On the morning of our excursion, we packed two meals into the carriage and drove as far as Wishford, where we all got out, to ‘save the horse’, and walked up the long hill leading to the grass track which I believe was then the only approach to Stonehenge from the Wilton side. Then we got back into the carriage, and drove deliberately on and on. The steady fall of the horse’s hoofs was silenced by the smooth short turf, and our passage would have been entirely soundless but for the squeaking of carriage springs which needed oil. The Stones came into sight at least half an hour before we actually reached them; and to-day it is hard to imagine the romance of that slow and quiet approach, travelling upon a green primeval road, to find Stonehenge at last, alone, unprotected by wire fences, and seemingly forgotten in the wide empty spaces of the Plain.

  When we arrived, the horses were at once taken out of the shafts, and their noses were put into nose-bags. When they had finished their dinner they wandered about, on the ends of long hobble-ropes, making a dessert off the turf; while the driver smoked his pipe and went to sleep, and we listened, till we could listen no more, to our elders gravely discussing the origins of Stonehenge, and then we crept away and played rounders.

  When my uncles and aunts stayed at Wilton in the summer, my father occasionally consented to interrupt his otherwise invariable rule of visiting in the parish every afternoon, in order to make an ‘excursion’ with us. It required no little planning. We used to start by train and get out at some station twenty, or thirty miles away. Here my father’s genius as conjuror first came into play. He ne
ver descended to the time-worn, and indeed futile, trick of producing a rabbit out of a hat; but he never failed to produce a wagonette upon a country road. And here, in the station yard at our first halting place, we always found the first wagonette. We clambered in, bristling with Alpenstocks and field glasses—Papa in his tall hat; uncles in soft felts; Mamma and aunts in cloth dresses and bustles; and I in the hard straw boater which girls of the period laid across the tops of their heads, much as the pancake man carries his tray. It was often pouting with rain, but we had not been able to change our plans because of the weather. Our arrangements had been made by post several days before: telephones did not then exist and most of our ‘ sights’ were so far away from post-offices that telegraphing was out of the question.

  We drove to our first destination, and here we generally dismissed our ‘conveyance’ and had luncheon at a wayside inn. We then inspected our first sight, while the beloved stuttering Uncle Bob Eden read aloud some appropriate passages from the Wiltshire Archæological Magazine, and Papa stood impatiently by, watch in hand, waiting to hustle us on to the next stage on our journey. This often meant striking out adventurously on foot across the virgin down; for South Wilts is a country of river valleys divided one from the other by green ridges, and it is often quicker to walk over the hills than to drive round by the roads. Protected by our mackintoshes and umbrellas, or else carrying them in bundles in our hands, we then set out to scramble up the slippery side of the down, holding up our cumbersome skirts, and turning now and again to scan the view through our field glasses. At the time of which I am writing, my elder sister was married, and as Mildred was always sick if she travelled either by train or by carriage, I was as a rule the only member of the party belonging to my own generation. Our route had been chosen to include various points of vantage from which specially good views of the surrounding country could be seen, so there were always several halts on the way, and our walk usually lasted well over an hour. When at last we began to descend towards the next main road, we saw waiting far beneath us the unfailing wagonette. It was not the one we had travelled by in the morning, and it came from a different village; for many of these excursions of ours took place on the lovely bit of country lying between the South and the Great Western Railways, so that our afternoon vehicle often came from a railway station on quite another line. Joyously we now crowded into our little wagonette to be carried to another inn where tea had already been ordered. After this we saw another church or two before catching a train home.