Rose Macaulay - Dangerous Ages

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"I said I'd _read_ them," Nan replied. "I didn't say I'd thought of
them."

Gerda looked at her with her wide, candid gaze, with the unrancorous
placidity of the young, who are still used to being snubbed. Nan, she
knew, would tease and baffle, withhold and gibe, but would always say
what she thought in the end, and what she thought was always worth
knowing, even though she was middle-aged.

Nan, turning her lithe body over on the grass, caught the patient child's
look, and laughed. Generous impulses alternated in her with malicious
moods where these absurd, solemn, egotistic, pretty children of Neville's
were concerned.

"All right, Blue Eyes. I'll write it all down for you and send it to you
with the MS., if you really want it. You won't like it, you know, but I
suppose you're used to that by now."

Neville listened to them. Regret turned in her, cold and tired and
envious. They all wrote except her. To write: it wasn't much of a thing
to do, unless one did it really well, and it had never attracted her
personally, but it was, nevertheless, something--a little piece of
individual output thrown into the flowing river. She had never written,
even when she was Gerda's age. Twenty years ago writing poetry hadn't
been as it is to-day, a necessary part of youth's accomplishment like
tennis, French or dancing. Besides, Neville could never have enjoyed
writing poetry, because for her the gulf between good verse and bad was
too wide to be bridged by her own achievements. Nor novels, because she
disliked nearly all novels, finding them tedious, vulgar, conventional,
and out of all relation both to life as lived and to the world of
imagination. What she had written in early youth had been queer
imaginative stuff, woven out of her childhood's explorations into
fairyland and of her youth's into those still stranger tropical lands
beyond seas where she had travelled with her father. But she hadn't
written or much wanted to write; scientific studies had always attracted
her more than literary achievements. Then she had married Rodney, and
that was the end of all studies and achievements for her, though not the
end of anything for Rodney, but the beginning.

Rodney came out of the house, his pipe in his mouth. He still had the
lounging walk, shoulders high and hands in pockets, of the undergraduate;
the walk also of Kay. He sat down among his family. Kay and Gerda looked
at him with approval; though they knew his weakness, he was just the
father they would have chosen, and of how few parents can this be said.
They were proud to take him about with them to political meetings and so
forth, and prouder still to sit under him while he addressed audiences.
Few men of his great age were (on the whole) so right in the head and
sound in the heart, and fewer still so delightful to the eye. When people
talked about the Wicked Old Men, who, being still unfortunately
unrestrained and unmurdered by the Young, make this wicked world what
it is, Kay and Gerda always contended that there were a few exceptions.

Nan gave Rodney her small, fleeting smile. She had a critical
friendliness for him, but had never believed him really good enough
for Neville.

Gerda and Kay began to play a single, and Nan said, "I'm in a hole."

"Broke, darling?" Neville asked her, for that was usually it, though
sometimes it was human entanglements.

Nan nodded. "If I could have ten pounds.... I'd let you have it in a
fortnight."

"That's easy," said Rodney, in his kind, offhand way.

"Of course," Neville said. "You old spendthrift."

"Thank you, dears. Now I can get a birthday present for mother."

For Mrs. Hilary's birthday was next week, and to celebrate it her
children habitually assembled at The Gulls, St. Mary's Bay, where she
lived. Nan always gave her a more expensive present than she could
afford, in a spasm of remorse for the irritation her mother roused in
her.

"Oh, poor mother," Neville exclaimed, suddenly remembering that Mrs.
Hilary would in a week be sixty-three, and that this must be worse by
twenty years than to be forty-three.

The hurrying stream of life was loud in her ears. How quickly it was
sweeping them all along--the young bodies of Gerda and of Kay leaping on
the tennis court, the clear, analysing minds of Nan and Rodney and
herself musing in the sun, the feverish heart of her mother, loving,
hating, feeding restlessly on itself by the seaside, the age-calmed soul
of her grandmother, who was eighty-four and drove out in a donkey
chair by the same sea.

The lazy talking of Rodney and Nan, the cryings and strikings of Gerda
and Kay, the noontide chirrupings of birds, the cluckings of distant hens
pretending that they had laid eggs, all merged into the rushing of the
inexorable river, along and along and along. Time, like an ever-rolling
stream, bearing all its sons away. Clatter, chatter, clatter, does it
matter, matter, matter? They fly forgotten, as a dream dies at the
opening day.... No, it probably didn't matter at all what one did, how
much one got into one's life, since there was to be, anyhow, so soon an
end.

The garden became strange and far and flat, like tapestry, or a dream....

The lunch gong boomed. Nan, who had fallen asleep with the suddenness of
a lower animal, her cheek pillowed on her hand, woke and stretched. Gerda
and Kay, not to be distracted from their purpose, finished the set.

"Thank God," said Nan, "that I am not lunching with Rosalind."

CHAPTER II

MRS. HILARY'S BIRTHDAY

1

They all turned up at The Gulls, St. Mary's Bay, in time for lunch on
Mrs. Hilary's birthday. It was her special wish that all those of her
children who could should do this each year. Jim, whom she preferred,
couldn't come this time; he was a surgeon; it is an uncertain profession.
The others all came; Neville and Pamela and Gilbert and Nan and with
Gilbert his wife Rosalind, who had no right there because she was only an
in-law, but if Rosalind thought it would amuse her to do anything you
could not prevent her. She and Mrs. Hilary disliked one another a good
deal, though Rosalind would say to the others, "Your darling mother!
She's priceless, and I adore her!" She would say that when she had
caught Mrs. Hilary in a mistake. She would draw her on to say she had
read a book she hadn't read (it was a point of honour with Mrs. Hilary
never to admit ignorance of any book mentioned by others) and then she
would say, "I do love you, mother! It's not out yet; I've only seen
Gilbert's review copy," and Mrs. Hilary would say, "In that case I
suppose I am thinking of another book," and Rosalind would say to Neville
or Pamela or Gilbert or Nan, "Your darling mother. I adore her!" and Nan,
contemptuous of her mother for thinking such trivial pretence worth
while, and with Rosalind for thinking malicious exposure worth while,
would shrug her shoulders and turn away.

2

All but Neville arrived by the same train from town, the one getting in
at 12.11. Neville had come from Surrey the day before and spent the
night, because Mrs. Hilary liked to have her all to herself for a little
time before the others came. After Jim, Neville was the child Mrs. Hilary
preferred. She had always been a mother with marked preferences. There
were various barriers between her and her various children; Gilbert, who
was thirty-eight, had annoyed her long ago by taking up literature as a
profession on leaving Cambridge, instead of doing what she described as
"a man's job," and later on by marrying Rosalind, who was fast, and, in
Mrs. Hilary's opinion, immoral. Pamela, who was thirty-nine and working
in a settlement in Hoxton, annoyed her by her devotion to Frances Carr,
the friend with whom she lived. Mrs. Hilary thought them very silly,
these close friendships between women. They prevented marriage, and led
to foolish fussing about one another's health and happiness. Nan annoyed
her by "getting talked about" with men, by writing books which Mrs.
Hilary found both dull and not very nice, in tone, and by her own
irritated reactions to her mother's personality. Nan, in fact, was often
rude and curt to her.

But Jim, who was a man and a doctor, a strong, good-humoured person and
her eldest son, annoyed her not at all. Nor did Neville, who was her
eldest daughter and had given her grandchildren and infinite sympathy.

Neville, knowing all these things and more, always arrived on the
evenings before her mother's birthdays, and they talked all the morning.
Mrs. Hilary was at her best with Neville. She was neither irritable nor
nervous nor showing off. She looked much less than sixty-three. She was
a tall, slight, trailing woman, with the remains of beauty, and her dark,
untidy hair was only streaked with grey. Since her husband had died, ten
years ago, she had lived at St. Mary's Bay with her mother. It had been
her old home; not The Gulls, but the vicarage, in the days when St.
Mary's Bay had been a little fishing village without an esplanade. To
old Mrs. Lennox it was the same fishing village still, and the people,
even the summer visitors, were to her the flock of her late husband, who
had died twenty years ago.

"A good many changes lately," she would say to them. "Some people think
the place is improving. But I can't say I like the esplanade."

But the visitors, unless they were very old, didn't know anything about
the changes. To them St. Mary's Bay was not a fishing village but a
seaside resort. To Mrs. Hilary it was her old home, and had healthy air
and plenty of people for her mother to gossip with and was as good a
place as any other for her to parch in like a withered flower now that
the work of her life was done. The work of her life had been making a
home for her husband and children; she had never had either the desire or
the faculties for any other work. Now that work was over, and she was
rather badly left, as she cared neither for cards, knitting, gardening,
nor intellectual pursuits. Once, seven years ago, at Neville's
instigation, she had tried London life for a time, but it had been no
use. The people she met there were too unlike her, too intelligent and up
to date; they went to meetings and concerts and picture exhibitions and
read books and talked about public affairs not emotionally but coolly and
drily; they were mildly surprised at Mrs. Hilary's vehemence of feeling
on all points, and she was strained beyond endurance by their knowledge
of facts and catholicity of interests. So she returned to St. Mary's Bay,
where she passed muster as an intelligent woman, gossiped with her
mother, the servants and their neighbours, read novels, brooded over the
happier past, walked for miles alone along the coast, and slipped every
now and then, as she had slipped even in youth, over the edge of
emotionalism into hysterical passion or grief. Her mother was no use at
such times; she only made her worse, sitting there in the calm of old
age, looking tranquilly at the end, for her so near that nothing
mattered. Only Jim or Neville were of any use then.

Neville on the eve of this her sixty-third birthday soothed one such
outburst. The tedium of life, with no more to do in it--why couldn't it
end? The lights were out, the flowers were dead--and yet the unhappy
actors had to stay and stay and stay, idling on the empty, darkened
stage. (That was how Mrs. Hilary, with her gift for picturesque language,
put it.) _Must_ it be empty, _must_ it be dark, Neville uselessly asked,
knowing quite well that for one of her mother's temperament it must. Mrs.
Hilary had lived in and by her emotions; nothing else had counted. Life
for her had burnt itself out, and its remnant was like the fag end of a
cigarette, stale and old.

"Shall I feel like that in twenty years?" Neville speculated aloud.

"I hope," said Mrs. Hilary, "that you won't have lost Rodney. So long as
you have him...."

"But if I haven't...."

Neville looked down the years; saw herself without Rodney, perhaps
looking after her mother, who would then have become (strange, incredible
thought, but who could say?) calm with the calm of age; Kay and Gerda
married or working or both.... What then? Only she was better equipped
than her mother for the fag end of life; she had a serviceable brain and
a sound education. She wouldn't pass empty days at a seaside resort. She
would work at something, and be interested. Interesting work and
interesting friends--her mother, by her very nature, could have neither,
but was just clever enough to feel the want of them. The thing was to
start some definite work _now_, before it was too late.

"Did Grandmama go through it?" Neville asked her mother.

"Oh, I expect so. I was selfish; I was wrapped up in home and all of you;
I didn't notice. But I think she had it badly, for a time, when first she
left the vicarage.... She's contented now."

They both looked at Grandmama, who was playing patience on the sofa and
could not hear their talking for the sound of the sea. Yes, Grandmama was
(apparently) contented now.

"There's work," mused Neville, thinking of the various links with life,
the rafts, rather, which should carry age over the cold seas of tedious
regret. "And there's natural gaiety. And intellectual interests. And
contacts with other people--permanent contacts and temporary ones. And
beauty. All those things. For some people, too, there's religion."

"And for all of us food and drink," said Mrs. Hilary, sharply. "Oh,
I suppose you think I've no right to complain, as I've got all those
things, except work."

But Neville shook her head, knowing that this was a delusion of her
mother's, and that she had, in point of fact, none of them, except the
contacts with people, which mostly either over-strained, irritated or
bored her, and that aspect of religion which made her cry. For she was
a Unitarian, and thought the Gospels infinitely sad and the souls of the
departed most probably so merged in God as to be deprived of all
individuality.

"It's better to be High Church or Roman Catholic and have services, or
an Evangelical and have the Voice of God," Neville decided. And, indeed,
it is probable that Mrs. Hilary would have been one or other of these
things if it had not been for her late husband, who had disapproved of
superstition and had instructed her in the Higher Thought and the Larger
Hope.

3

Though heaviness endured for the night, joy came in the morning, as is
apt to happen where there is sea air. Mrs. Hilary on her birthday had
a revulsion to gaiety, owing to a fine day, her unstable temperament,
letters, presents and being made a fuss of. Also Grandmama said, when
she went up to see her after breakfast, "This new dress suits you
particularly, my dear child. It brings out the colour in your eyes," and
everyone likes to hear that when they are sixty-three or any other age.

So, when the rest of her children arrived, Mrs. Hilary was ready for
them.

They embraced her in turn; Pamela, capable, humorous and intelligent,
the very type of the professional woman at her best, but all the time
preferring Frances Carr, anxious about her because she was overworking
and run down; Nan, her extravagant present in her hands, on fire to
protect her mother against old age, depression and Rosalind, yet knowing
too how soon she herself would be smouldering with irritation; Gilbert,
spare and cynical, writer of plays and literary editor of the Weekly
Critic, and with him his wife Rosalind, whom Mrs. Hilary had long since
judged as a voluptuous rake who led men on and made up unseemly stories
and her lovely face, but who insisted on coming to The Gulls with Gilbert
to see his adorable mother. Rosalind, who was always taking up
things--art, or religion, or spiritualism, or young men--and dropping
them when they bored her, had lately taken up psycho-analysis. She was
studying what she called her mother-in-law's "case," looking for and
finding complexes in her past which should account for her somewhat
unbalanced present.

"I've never had complexes," Mrs. Hilary would declare, indignantly, as if
they had been fleas or worse, and indeed when Rosalind handled them they
_were_ worse, much. From Rosalind Mrs. Hilary got the most unpleasant
impression possible (which is to say a good deal) of psycho-analysts.
"They have only one idea, and that is a disgusting one," she would
assert, for she could only rarely and with difficulty see more than one
idea in anything, particularly when it was a disgusting one. Her mind was
of that sort--tenacious, intolerant, and not many-sided. That was where
(partly where) she fell foul of her children, who saw sharply and clearly
all around things and gave to each side its value. They knew Mrs. Hilary
to be a muddled bigot, whose mind was stuffed with concrete instances and
insusceptible of abstract reason. If anyone had asked her what she knew
of psycho-analysis, she would have replied, in effect, that she knew
Rosalind, and that was enough, more than enough, of psycho-analysis for
her. She had also looked into Freud, and rightly had been disgusted.

"A man who spits deliberately onto his friends' stairs, on purpose to
annoy the servants ... that is enough, the rest follows. The man is
obviously a loathsome and indecent vulgarian. It comes from being a
German, no doubt." Which settled that; and if anyone murmured "An
Austrian," she would say, "It comes to the same thing, in questions of
breeding." Mrs. Hilary, like Grandmama, settled people and things very
quickly and satisfactorily.

They all sat in the front garden after lunch and looked out over the
wonderful shining sea. Grandmama sat in her wheeled chair, Tchekov's
Letters on her knees. She had made Mrs. Hilary get this book from Mudie's
because she had read favourable reviews of it by Gilbert and Nan.
Grandmama was a cleverish old lady, cleverer than her daughter.

"Jolly, isn't it," said Gilbert, seeing the book.

"Very entertaining," said Grandmama, and Mrs. Hilary echoed "Most," at
which Grandmama eyed her with a twinkle, knowing that it bored her, like
all the Russians. Mrs. Hilary cared nothing for style ("Literature!" said
Lady Adela. "Give _me_ something to _read_!"); she liked nice lifelike
books about people as she believed them to be, and though she was quite
prepared to believe that real Russians were like Russians in books, she
felt that she did not care to meet either of them. But Mrs. Hilary had
learnt that intelligent persons seldom liked the books which seemed to
her to be about real, natural people, any more than they admired the
pictures which struck her as being like things as they were. Though she
thought those who differed from her profoundly wrong, she never admitted
ignorance of the books they admired. For she was in a better position to
differ from them about a book if she had nominally read it--and really it
didn't matter if she had actually done so or not, for she knew beforehand
what she would think of it if she had. So well she knew this, indeed,
that the line between the books she had and hadn't read was, even in her
own mind, smudgy and vague, not hard and clear as with most people. Often
when she had seen reviews which quoted extracts she thought she had read
the book, just as some people, when they have seen publishers'
advertisements, think they have seen reviews, and declare roundly in
libraries that a book is out when it lacks a month of publication.

Mrs. Hilary, having thus asserted her acquaintance with Tchekov's
Letters, left Gilbert, Grandmama and Neville to talk about it together,
and herself began telling the others how disappointed Jim had been that
he could not come for her birthday.

"He was passionately anxious to come," she said, in her clear, vibrating
voice, that struck a different note when she mentioned each one of
her children, so that you always knew which she meant. "He never
misses to-day if he can possibly help it. But he simply couldn't get
away.... One of these tremendously difficult new operations, that hardly
anyone can do. His work must come first, of course. He wouldn't be Jim if
it didn't."

"Fancy knifing people in town a day like this," said Rosalind, stretching
her large, lazy limbs in the sun. Rosalind was big and fair, and
sensuously alive.

Music blared out from the parade. Gilbert, adjusting his glasses,
observed its circumstances, with his air of detached, fastidious
interest.

"The Army," he remarked. "The Army calling for strayed sheep."

"Oh," exclaimed Rosalind, raising herself, "wouldn't I love to go out and
be saved! I _was_ saved once, when I was eleven. It was one of my first
thrills. I felt I was blacker in guilt than all creatures before me, and
I came forward and found the Lord. Afraid I had a relapse rather soon,
though."

"Horrible vulgarians," Mrs. Hilary commented, really meaning Rosalind at
the age of eleven. "They have meetings on the parade every morning now.
The police ought to stop it."

Grandmama was beating time with her hand on the arm of her chair to the
merry music-hall tune and the ogreish words.

"Blood! Blood!
Rivers of blood for you,
Oceans of blood for me!
All that the sinner has got to do
Is to plunge into that Red Sea.
Clean! Clean!
Wash and be clean!
Though filthy and black as a sweep you've been,
The waves of that sea shall make you clean...."

"That," Mrs. Hilary asserted, with disgust, "is a _most_ disagreeable way
of worshipping God." She was addicted to these undeniable statements,
taking nothing for granted.

"But a very racy tune, my dear," said Grandmama, "though the words are
foolish and unpleasing."

Gilbert said, "A stimulating performance. If we don't restrain her,
Rosalind will be getting saved again."

He was proud of Rosalind's vitality, whimsies and exuberances.

Rosalind, who had a fine rolling voice, began reciting "General Booth
enters into heaven," by Mr. Vachell Lindsay, which Mrs. Hilary found
disgusting.

"A wonderful man," said Grandmama, who had been reading the General's
life in two large volumes. "Though mistaken about many things. And his
Life would have been more interesting if it had been written by Mr.
Lytton Strachey instead of Mr. Begbie; he has a better touch on our great
religious leaders. Your grandfather," added Grandmama, "always got on
well with the Army people. He encouraged them. The present vicar does
not. He says their methods are deplorable and their goal a delusion."

Rosalind said "Their methods are entrancing and their goal the Lord. What
more does he want? Clergymen are so narrow. That's why I had to give up
being a churchwoman."

Rosalind had been a churchwoman (high) for nine months some six years
ago, just after planchette and just before flag days. She had decided,
after this brief trial, that incense and confessions, though immensely
stimulating, did not weigh down the balance against early mass, Lent, and
being thrown with other churchwomen.

4

"What about a bathe?" Neville suggested to all of them. "Mother?"

Mrs. Hilary, a keen bather, agreed. They all agreed except Grandmama, who
was going out in her donkey chair instead, as one does at eighty-four.

They all went down to the beach, where the Army still sang of the Red
Sea, and where the blue high tide clapped white hands on brown sand.

One by one they emerged from tents and sprang through the white leaping
edge into the rocking blue, as other bathers were doing all round the
bay. When Mrs. Hilary came out of her tent, Neville was waiting for her,
poised like a slim girl, knee-deep in tumbling waves, shaking the water
from her eyes.

"Come, mother. I'll race you out."

Mrs. Hilary waded in, a figure not without grace and dignity. Looking
back they saw Rosalind coming down the beach, large-limbed and splendid,
like Juno. Mrs. Hilary shrugged her shoulders.

"Disgusting," she remarked to Neville.

So much more, she meant, of Rosalind than of Rosalind's costume. Mrs.
Hilary preferred it to be the other way about, for, though she did not
really like either of them, she disliked the costume less than she
disliked Rosalind.

"It's quite in the fashion," Neville assured her, and Mrs. Hilary,
remarking that she was sure of that, splashed her head and face and
pushed off, mainly to escape from Rosalind, who always sat in the foam,
not being, like the Hilary family, an active swimmer.

Already Pamela and Gilbert were far out, swimming steadily against each
other, and Nan was tumbling and turning like an eel close behind them.

Neville and Mrs. Hilary swam out a little way.

"I shall now float on my back," said Mrs. Hilary. "You swim on and catch
up with the rest."

"You'll be all right?" Neville asked, lingering.

"Why shouldn't I be all right? I bathe nearly every day, you know, even
if I am sixty-three." This was not accurate; she only bathed as a rule
when it was warm, and this seldom occurs on our island coasts.

Neville, saying, "Don't stop in long, will you," left her and swam out
into the blue with her swift, over-hand stroke. Neville was the best
swimmer in a swimming family. She clove the water like a torpedo
destroyer, swift and untiring between the hot summer sun and the cool
summer sea. She shouted to the others, caught them up, raced them and
won, and then they began to duck each other. When the Hilary brothers
and sisters were swimming or playing together, they were even as they had
been twenty years ago.

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