Rose Macaulay - Dangerous Ages

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DANGEROUS AGES

by

ROSE MACAULAY

Author of "Potterism"

Boni and Liveright
Publishers New York

1921

TO MY MOTHER
DRIVING GAILY THROUGH THE
ADVENTUROUS MIDDLE YEARS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. NEVILLE'S BIRTHDAY
II. MRS. HILARY'S BIRTHDAY
III. FAMILY LIFE
IV. ROOTS
V. SEAWEED
VI. JIM
VII. GERDA
VIII. NAN
IX. THE PACE
X. PRINCIPLES
XI. THAT WHICH REMAINS
XII. THE MOTHER
XIII. THE DAUGHTER
XIV. YOUTH TO YOUTH
XV. THE DREAM
XVI. TIME
XVII. THE KEY

'As to that,' said Mr. Cradock, 'we may say that all ages are dangerous
to all people, in this dangerous life we live.'

'Reflecting how, at the best, human life on this minute and perishing
planet is a mere episode, and as brief as a dream....'

_Trivia_: Logan Pearsall Smith.

CHAPTER I

NEVILLE'S BIRTHDAY

1

Neville, at five o'clock (Nature's time, not man's) on the morning of her
birthday, woke from the dream-broken sleep of summer dawns, hot with the
burden of two sheets and a blanket, roused by the multitudinous silver
calling of a world full of birds. They chattered and bickered about the
creepered house, shrill and sweet, like a hundred brooks running together
down steep rocky places after snow. And, not like brooks, and strangely
unlike birds, like, in fact, nothing in the world except a cuckoo clock,
a cuckoo shouted foolishly in the lowest boughs of the great elm across
the silver lawn.

Neville turned on her face, cupped her small, pale, tanned face in her
sunburnt hands, and looked out with sleepy violet eyes. The sharp joy of
the young day struck into her as she breathed it through the wide window.
She shivered ecstatically as it blew coldly onto her bare throat and
chest, and forgot the restless birthday bitterness of the night; forgot
how she had lain and thought "Another year gone, and nothing done yet.
Soon all the years will be gone, and nothing ever will be done." Done by
her, she, of course, meant, as all who are familiar with birthdays will
know. But what was something and what was nothing, neither she nor others
with birthdays could satisfactorily define. They have lived, they have
eaten, drunk, loved, bathed, suffered, talked, danced in the night and
rejoiced in the dawn, warmed, in fact, both hands before the fire of
life, but still they are not ready to depart. For they are behindhand
with time, obsessed with so many worlds, so much to do, the petty done,
the undone vast. It depressed Milton when he turned twenty-three; it
depresses all those with vain and ambitious temperaments at least once a
year. Some call it remorse for wasted days, and are proud of it; others
call it vanity, discontent or greed, and are ashamed of it. It makes no
difference either way.

Neville, flinging it off lightly with her bedclothes, sprang out of bed,
thrust her brown feet into sand shoes, her slight, straight, pyjama-clad
body into a big coat, quietly slipped into the passage, where, behind
three shut doors, slept Rodney, Gerda and Kay, and stole down the back
stairs to the kitchen, which was dim and blinded, blue with china and
pale with dawn, and had a gas stove. She made herself some tea. She also
got some bread and marmalade out of the larder, spread two thick chunks,
and munching one of them, slipped out of the sleeping house into the
dissipated and riotous garden.

Looking up at the honeysuckle-buried window of the bedroom of Gerda,
Neville nearly whistled the call to which Gerda was wont to reply.
Nearly, but not quite. On the whole it was a morning to be out alone in.
Besides, Neville wanted to forget, for the moment, about birthdays, and
Gerda would have reminded her.

Going round by the yard, she fetched Esau instead, who wouldn't remind
her, and whose hysterical joy she hushed with a warning hand.

Across the wet and silver lawn she sauntered, between the monstrous
shadows of the elms, her feet in the old sand shoes leaving dark prints
in the dew, her mouth full of bread and marmalade, her black plait
bobbing on her shoulders, and Esau tumbling round her. Across the lawn to
the wood, cool and dim still, but not quiet, for it rang with music and
rustled with life. Through the boughs of beeches and elms and firs the
young day flickered gold, so that the bluebell patches were half lit,
like blue water in the sun, half grey, like water at twilight. Between
two great waves of them a brown path ran steeply down to a deep little
stream. Neville and Esau, scrambling a little way upstream, stopped at
a broad swirling pool it made between rocks. Here Neville removed coat,
shoes and pyjamas and sat poised for a moment on the jutting rock, a
slight and naked body, long in the leg, finely and supplely knit, with
light, flexible muscles--a body built for swiftness, grace and a certain
wiry strength. She sat there while she twisted her black plait round her
head, then she slipped into the cold, clear, swirling pool, which in one
part was just over her depth, and called to Esau to come in too, and
Esau, as usual, didn't, but only barked.

One swim round is enough, if not too much, as everyone who knows sunrise
bathing will agree. Neville scrambled out, discovered that she had
forgotten the towel, dried herself on her coat, resumed her pyjamas, and
sat down to eat her second slice of bread and marmalade. When she had
finished it she climbed a beech tree, swarming neatly up the smooth trunk
in order to get into the sunshine, and sat on a broad branch astride,
whistling shrilly, trying to catch the tune now from one bird, now from
another.

These, of course, were the moments when being alive was enough. Swimming,
bread and marmalade, sitting high in a beech tree in the golden eye of
the morning sun--that was life. One flew then, like a gay ship with the
wind in its sails, over the cold black bottomless waters of misgiving.
Many such a June morning Neville remembered in the past.... She wondered
if Gerda and if Kay thus sailed over sorrow, too. Rodney, she knew, did.
But she knew Rodney better, in some ways, than she knew Gerda and Kay.

To think suddenly of Rodney, of Gerda and of Kay, sleeping in the still
house beyond the singing wood and silver garden, was to founder swiftly
in the cold, dark seas, to be hurt again with the stabbing envy of the
night. Not jealousy, for she loved them all too well for that. But envy
of their chances, of their contacts with life. Having her own contacts,
she wanted all kinds of others too. Not only Rodney's, Gerda's and Kay's,
but those of all her family and friends. Conscious, as one is on
birthdays, of intense life hurrying swiftly to annihilation, she strove
desperately to dam it. It went too fast. She looked at the wet strands of
black hair now spread over her shoulders to dry in the sun, at her
strong, supple, active limbs, and thought of the days to come, when the
black hair should be grey and the supple limbs refuse to carry her up
beech trees, and when, if she bathed in the sunrise, she would get
rheumatism. In those days, what did one do to keep from sinking in the
black seas of regret? One sat by the fire, or in the sunlit garden, old
and grey and full of sleep--yes, one went to sleep, when one could. When
one couldn't, one read. But one's eyes got tired soon--Neville thought of
her grandmother--and one had to be read aloud to, by someone who couldn't
read aloud. That wouldn't be enough to stifle vain regrets; only
rejoicing actively in the body did that. So, before that time came, one
must have slain regret, crushed that serpent's head for good and all.

But did anyone ever succeed in doing this? Rodney, who had his full,
successful, useful, interesting life; Rodney, who had made his mark and
was making it; Rodney, the envy of many others, and particularly the envy
of Neville, with the jagged ends of her long since broken career stabbing
her; Rodney from time to time burned inwardly with scorching ambitions,
with jealousies of other men, with all the heats, rancours and troubles
of the race that is set before us. He had done, was doing, something, but
it wasn't enough. He had got, was getting, far,--but it wasn't far
enough. He couldn't achieve what he wanted; there were obstacles
everywhere. Fools hindered his work; men less capable than he got jobs he
should have had. Immersed in politics, he would have liked more time for
writing; he would have liked a hundred other careers besides his own, and
could have but the one. (Gerda and Kay, still poised on the threshold of
life, still believed that they could indeed have a hundred.) No, Rodney
was not immune from sorrow, but at least he had more with which to keep
it at bay than Neville. Neville had no personal achievements; she had
only her love for Rodney, Gerda and Kay, her interest in the queer,
enchanting pageant of life, her physical vigours (she could beat any of
the rest of them at swimming, walking, tennis or squash) and her active
but wasted brain. A good brain, too; she had easily and with brilliance
passed her medical examinations long ago--those of them for which she had
had time before she had been interrupted. But now a wasted brain;
squandered, atrophied, gone soft with disuse. Could she begin to use
it now? Or was she forever held captive, in deep woods, between the two
twilights?

"I am in deep woods,
Between the two twilights.
Over valley and hill
I hear the woodland wave
Like the voice of Time, as slow,
The voice of Life, as grave,
The voice of Death, as still...."

2

The voices, the young loud clear voices of Gerda and of Kay, shrilled
down from the garden, and Esau yapped in answer. They were calling her.
They had probably been to wake her and had found her gone.

Neville smiled (when she smiled a dimple came in one pale brown cheek)
and swung herself down from the beech. Kay and Gerda were of enormous
importance; the most important things in life, except Rodney; but not
everything, because nothing is ever everything in this so complex world.

When she came out of the wood into the garden, now all golden with
morning, they flung themselves upon her and called her a sneak for not
having wakened them to bathe.

"You'll be late for breakfast," they chanted. "Late on your forty-third
birthday."

They each had an arm round her; they propelled her towards the house.
They were lithe, supple creatures of twenty and twenty-one. Between them
walked Neville, with her small, pointed, elfish face, that was sensitive
to every breath of thought and emotion like smooth water wind-stirred.
With her great violet eyes brooding in it under thin black brows, and
her wet hair hanging in loose strands, she looked like an ageless
wood-dryad between two slim young saplings. Kay was a little like her in
the face, only his violet eyes were short-sighted and he wore glasses.
Gerda was smaller, fragile and straight as a wand, with a white little
face and wavy hair of pure gold, bobbed round her thin white neck. And
with far-set blue eyes and a delicate cleft chin and thin straight lips.
For all she looked so frail, she could dance all night and return in the
morning cool, composed and exquisite, like a lily bud. There was a look
of immaculate sexless purity about Gerda; she might have stood for the
angel Gabriel, wide-eyed and young and grave. With this wide innocent
look she would talk unabashed of things which Neville felt revolting. And
she, herself, was the product of a fastidious generation and class, and
as nearly sexless as may be in this besexed world, which however is not,
and can never be, saying much. Kay would do the same. They would read and
discuss Freud, whom Neville, unfairly prejudiced, found both an obscene
maniac and a liar. They might laugh with her at Freud when he expanded on
that complex, whichever it is, by which mothers and daughters hate each
other, and fathers and sons--but they both all the same took seriously
things which seemed to Neville merely loathsome imbecilities. Gerda and
Kay didn't, in point of fact, find so many things either funny or
disgusting as Neville did; throwing her mind back twenty years, Neville
tried to remember whether she had found the world as funny and as
frightful when she was a medical student as she did now; on the whole she
thought not. Boys and girls are, for all their high spirits, creatures of
infinite solemnities and pomposities. They laugh; but the twinkling
irony, mocking at itself and everything else, of the thirties and
forties, they have not yet learnt. They cannot be gentle cynics; they
are so full of faith and hope, and when these are hurt they turn savage.
About Kay and Gerda there was a certain splendid earnestness with regard
to life. Admirable creatures, thought Neville, watching them with
whimsical tenderness. They had nothing to do with the pre-war, dilettante
past, the sophisticated gaiety of the young century. Their childhood had
been lived during the great war, and they had emerged from it hot with
elemental things, discussing life, lust, love, politics and social
reform, with cool candour, intelligent thoroughness and Elizabethan
directness. They wouldn't mind having passions and giving them rein; they
wouldn't think it vulgar, or even tedious, to lead loose lives. Probably,
in fact, it wasn't; probably it was Neville, and the people who had grown
up with her, who were overcivilized, too far from the crude stuff of
life, the monotonies and emotionalisms of Nature. And now Nature was
taking her rather startling revenge on the next generation.

3

Neville ran upstairs, and came down to breakfast dressed in blue cotton,
with her damp hair smoothly taken back from her broad forehead that
jutted broodingly over her short pointed face. She had the look of
a dryad at odds with the world, a whimsical and elfish intellectual.

Rodney and Kay and Gerda had been putting parcels at her place, and a
pile of letters lay among them. There is, anyhow, that about birthdays,
however old they make you. Kay had given her a splendid great
pocket-knife and a book he wanted to read, Gerda an oak box she had
carved, and Rodney a new bicycle (by the front door) and a Brangwyn
drawing (on the table). If Neville envied Kay and Gerda their future
careers, she envied Rodney his present sphere. Her husband and the
father of Gerda and Kay was a clever and distinguished-looking man of
forty-five, and member, in the Labour interest, for a division of Surrey.
He looked, however, more like a literary man. How to be useful though
married: in Rodney's case the problem was so simple, in hers so
complicated. She had envied Rodney a little twenty years ago; then she
had stopped, because the bringing up of Kay and Gerda had been a work in
itself; now she had begun again. Rodney and she were more like each other
than they were like their children; they had some of the same vanities,
fastidiousnesses, humours and withdrawals, and in some respects the same
outlook on life. Only Rodney's had been solidified and developed by the
contacts and exigencies of his career, and Neville's disembodied,
devitalised and driven inwards by her more dilettante life. She "helped
Rodney with the constituency" of course, but it was Rodney's
constituency, not hers; she entertained his friends and hers when they
were in town, but she knew herself a light woman, not a dealer in
affairs. Yet her nature was stronger than Rodney's, larger and more
mature; it was only his experience she lacked.

Rodney was and had always been charming; there could be no doubt
about that, whatever else you might come to think about him. Able, too,
but living on his nerves, wincing like a high-strung horse from the
annoyances and disappointments of life, such as Quaker oats because the
grape-nuts had come to an end, and the industrial news of the morning,
which was as bad as usual and four times repeated in four quite different
tones by the four daily papers which lay on the table. They took four
papers not so much that there might be one for each of them as that they
might have the entertainment of seeing how different the same news can be
made to appear. One bond of union this family had which few families
possess; they were (roughly speaking) united politically, so believed the
same news to be good or bad. The chief difference in their political
attitude was that Kay and Gerda joined societies and leagues, being still
young enough to hold that causes were helped in this way.

"What about to-day?" Rodney asked Neville. "What are you going to do?"

She answered, "Tennis." (Neville had once been a county player.) "River.
Lying about in the sun." (It should be explained that it was one of those
nine days of the English summer of 1920 when this was a possible
occupation.) "Anything anyone likes.... I've already had a good deal of
day and a bathe.... Oh, Nan's coming down this afternoon."

She got that out of a letter. Nan was her youngest sister. They all
proceeded to get and impart other things out of letters, in the way of
families who are fairly united, as families go.

Gerda opened her lips to impart something, but remembered her father's
distastes and refrained. Rodney, civilised, sensitive and progressive,
had no patience with his children's unsophisticated leaning to a
primitive crudeness. He told them they were young savages. So Gerda kept
her news till later, when she and Neville and Kay were lying on rugs on
the lawn after Neville had beaten Kay in a set of singles.

They lay and smoked and cooled, and Gerda, a cigarette stuck in one side
of her mouth, a buttercup in the other, mumbled "Penelope's baby's come,
by the way. A girl. Another surplus woman."

Neville's brows lazily went up.

"Penelope Jessop? What's _she_ doing with a baby? I didn't know she'd got
married."

"Oh, she hasn't, of course.... Didn't I tell you about Penelope? She
lives with Martin Annesley now."

"Oh, I see. Marriage in the sight of heaven. That sort of thing."

Neville was of those who find marriages in the sight of heaven
uncivilised and socially reactionary, a reversion, in fact, to Nature,
which bored her. Gerda and Kay rightly believed such marriages to have
some advantages over those more visible to the human eye (as being more
readily dissoluble when fatiguing) and many advantages over no marriages
at all, which do not increase the population, so depleted by the Great
War. When they spoke in this admirably civic sense, Neville was apt to
say "It doesn't want increasing. I waited twenty minutes before I could
board my bus at Trafalgar Square the other day. It wants more depleting,
I should say--a Great Plague or something," a view which Kay and Gerda
thought truly egotistical.

"I do hope," said Neville, her thoughts having led her to the statement,
"I do very much hope that neither of you will ever perpetrate that sort
of marriage. It would be so dreadfully common of you."

"Impossible to say," Kay said, vaguely.

"Considering," said Gerda, "that there are a million more women than men
in this country, it stands to reason that some system of polygamy must
become the usual thing in the future."

"It's always been the usual thing, darling. Dreadfully usual. It's so
much more amusing to be unusual in these ways."

Neville's voice trailed drowsily away. Polygamy. Sex. Free Love. Love in
chains. The children seemed so often to be discussing these. Just as,
twenty years ago, she and her friends had seemed always to be discussing
the Limitations of Personality, the Ethics of Friendship, and the Nature,
if any, of God. This last was to Kay and Gerda too hypothetical to be a
stimulating theme. It would have sent them to sleep, as sex did Neville.

Neville, led by Free Love to a private vision, brooded cynically over
savages dancing round a wood-pile in primeval forests, engaged in what
missionaries, journalists, and writers of fiction about our coloured
brothers call "nameless orgies" (as if you would expect most orgies to
answer to their names, like the stars) and she saw the steep roads of the
round world running back and back and back--on or back, it made no
difference, since the world was round--to this. Saw, too, a thousand
stuffy homes wherein sat couples linked by a legal formula so rigid, so
lasting, so indelible, that not all their tears could wash out a word of
it, unless they took to themselves other mates, in which case their
second state might be worse than their first. Free love--love in chains.
How absurd it all was, and how tragic too. One might react back to the
remaining choice--no love at all--and that was absurder and more tragic
still, since man was made (among other ends) to love. Looking under her
heavy lashes at her pretty young children, incredibly youthful, absurdly
theoretical, fiercely clean of mind and frank of speech, their clearness
as yet unblurred by the expediencies, compromise and experimental
contacts of life, Neville was stabbed by a sharp pang of fear and hope
for them. Fear lest on some fleeting impulse they might founder into the
sentimental triviality of short-lived contacts, or into the tedium of
bonds which must out-live desire; hope that, by some fortunate chance,
they might each achieve, as she had achieved, some relation which should
be both durable and to be endured. As to the third path--no love at
all--she did not believe that either Kay or Gerda would tread that. They
were emotional, in their cool and youthful way, and also believed that
they ought to increase the population. What a wonderful, noble thing to
believe, at twenty, thought Neville, remembering the levity of her own
irresponsible youth, when her only interest in the population had been
a nightmare fear lest they should at last become so numerous that they
would be driven out of the towns into the country and would be scuttling
over the moors, downs and woods like black beetles in kitchens in the
night. They were better than she had been, these children; more
public-spirited and more in earnest about life.

4

Across the garden came Nan Hilary, having come down from town to see
Neville on her forty-third birthday. Nan herself was not so incredibly
old as Neville; (for forty-three _is_ incredibly old, from any reasonable
standpoint). Nan was thirty-three and a half. She represented the
thirties; she was, in Neville's mind, a bridge between the remote
twenties and the new, extraordinary forties in which one could hardly
believe. It seems normal to be in the thirties; the right, ordinary age,
that most people are. Nan, who wrote, and lived in rooms in Chelsea, was
rather like a wild animal--a leopard or something. Long and lissome, with
a small, round, sallow face and withdrawn, brooding yellow eyes under
sulky black brows that slanted up to the outer corners. Nan had a good
time socially and intellectually. She was clever and lazy; she would
fritter away days and weeks in idle explorations into the humanities,
or curled up in the sun in the country like a cat. Her worst fault
was a cynical unkindness, against which she did not strive because
investigating the less admirable traits of human beings amused her. She
was infinitely amused by her nephew and her niece, but often spiteful to
them, merely because they were young. To sum up, she was a cynic, a rake,
an excellent literary critic, a sardonic and brilliant novelist, and she
had a passionate, adoring and protecting affection for Neville, who was
the only person who had always been told what she called the darker
secrets of her life.

She sat down on the grass, her thin brown hands clasped round her ankles,
and said to Neville, "You're looking very sweet, aged one. Forty-three
seems to suit you."

"And you," Neville returned, "look as if you'd jazzed all night and
written unkind reviews from dawn till breakfast time."

"That's just about right," Nan owned, and flung herself full length on
her back, shutting her eyes against the sun. "That's why I've come down
here to cool my jaded nerves. And also because Rosalind wanted to lunch
with me."

"Have you read my poems yet?" enquired Gerda, who never showed the
customary abashed hesitation in dealing with these matters. She and Kay
sent their literary efforts to Nan to criticise, because they believed
(a) in her powers as a critic, (b) in her influence in the literary
world. Nan used in their behalf the former but seldom the latter,
because, in spite of queer spasms of generosity, she was jealous of Gerda
and Kay. Why should they want to write? Why shouldn't they do anything
else in the world but trespass on her preserves? Not that verse was what
she ever wrote or could write herself. And of course everyone wrote now,
and especially the very young; but in a niece and nephew it was a
tiresome trick. They didn't write well, because no one of their age ever
does, but they might some day. They already came out in weekly papers and
anthologies of contemporary verse. Very soon they would come out in
little volumes. They'd much better, thought Nan, marry and get out of the
way.

"Read them--yes," Nan returned laconically to Gerda's question.

"What," enquired Gerda, perseveringly, "did you think of them?"

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