Compton MacKenzie's The Seven Ages of Woman. 1923

Chapter One: The Infant

On a June morning in the year 1859 Sir Richard Flower of Barton Flowers in the county of Southampton decided that the weather was propitious for his annual progress on horseback round the confines of his demesne. The order was given to saddle his gray gelding; Lady Flower was informed that her husband would dine two hours later than usual, and upon her expressing alarm at the prospect of so long a fast for him, she was reassured by a farther announcement that he would fortify himself against the strain of waiting until six o'clock for his dinner with light refreshment at one of the outlying farms. Lady Flower sent back word to say how much she regretted not having known of Sir Richard's expedition earlier in order that she might have made an effort to overcome her headache and bid him farewell in person. To this the baronet replied with a solemn admonition to her ladyship's maid that her ladyship must on no account do anything to make her headache worse. The exchange

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 of courtesies being thus complete, Sir Richard mounted his gray gelding and set out, pausing for a moment at the top of the drive to look back at the Hall and respond with his crop to a handkerchief that fluttered from an upper window. In the manner of shaking his crop Sir Richard succeeded in conveying a reproof for the indiscretion of rising from bed, affection for his beloved wife, and gratification at the devotion displayed for himself. Then he turned his horse's head to the left and cantered down a grassy avenue between ancient oak trees.

Sir Richard was accustomed to give much thought to his position as holder of one of the oldest baronetcies in England, to the responsibilities that such a position laid upon himself, to the beauty and fertility of his demesne, to the timbered glories of his Hall, and to the honorable record of his family; but on the day annually devoted to riding round his ten thousand acres he never allowed himself to think about anything else. He even went so far, when in the depths of the wood neither squirrel moved nor bird chattered and there was none but the gray gelding to overhear him, as to cry aloud in exultation the motto of his house Floreant Flores. On this day dedicated to himself, his family, and his land, Sir Richard indulged in so many whimsicalities of behavior that an observer might have supposed him the prey of madness or the victim of degraded superstition. Thus at one point he dismounted from his horse and, kneeling in the middle of the ride, placed

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 an outspread palm upon the cushions of moss and incorporated the thousands of green and golden stars within his allegiance. He went farther; he laid bare the earth beneath and commanded a congregation of disturbed millipedes to acknowledge him as master. He made with his hands a cup to contain the black earth, and let it trickle through his fingers as a miser might play with his gold. "Mine," he said aloud, and stood for a moment in amazement at one who owned not merely all the green world within sight, but four thousand miles of unimaginable territory beneath his feet. "Mine," he repeated, "and after me John, and after John another Richard. Praise God that I appreciate the state of life to which He has called me;" with this apostrophe the baronet swept off his high silk hat to salute his patron.

Sir Richard kept such extravagance of speech and gesture for the solitude of the woodland. No sooner had he emerged into one of the deep, hazel-bordered lanes that intersecting his demesne reminded him, deserted though they were, of the world beyond his boundaries, than he became the least fantastic inhabitant of that decorous countryside of well-tilled farms and preserved coverts. Sir Richard was close on sixty; but his slim figure, upright carriage, and clear-cut features enhanced by iron-gray whiskers, bushy enough to show that he was not afraid of the fashion and yet not so full as to mark him down the slave of that fashion, made him appear younger at

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 a period when twenty-five looked middle-aged. Every good horseman gives the impression of being part of his steed, and Sir Richard on his gray gelding, with his gray whiskers and gray riding breeches and gray frieze tail-coat was as natural a centaur as Chiron himself.

"Good morning, Sir Richard."

The baronet pulled up to exchange a word with the first of his tenant farmers he was to meet that day, a bull-necked, stubby man who was leaning over a gate against a background of bright green barley.

"Good morning to you, Wilberforce. Your barley's looking uncommonly well."

"Beautiful, Sir Richard, beautiful. Some grumbles, but not me, Sir Richard, not me. May was bad for fruit with all that hail we had. But the crops didn't suffer. Will you be passing by the farm, Sir Richard?"

"Not this morning, Wilberforce. I'm taking my annual ride round the estate. You know my old custom."

"None better, Sir Richard. And what a one you be for keeping up old customs, if you'll permit the liberty of the observation, Sir Richard. And glad I am for one to have such a landlord in these days when Jack thinks himself so good as his master. And how's Mr. John, Sir Richard?"

"Mr. John is well, very well. He hopes to be quartered at Aldershot presently, when we may expect to see something of him."

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"It'll be a grand day for Barton Flowers when the village turns out to see the conquering hero come. Mr. John must have been proud when Her Majesty pinned on the Victoria Cross with her own hands at Buckingham Palace the other day. But, as I said to all of 'em, Her Majesty must have been proud of Mr. John when she were a-pinning of it on."

"Yes, I believe he deserved his honor," said the father, trying to look unconcerned. "Of course you saw the little account of it in the newspaper?"

Farmer Wilberforce gave his landlord the pleasure of supposing that he had not yet read the account, whereupon Sir Richard took a cutting from his waistcoat pocket and read aloud as follows:

Lieutenant (now Captain) John Flower, Royal Artillery.

Date of act of bravery, 5th November, 1854.

For having at the Battle of Inkerman personally attacked three Russians, and, with the gunners of his Division of the battery, prevented the Russians from doing mischief to the guns which they had surrounded.

Part of a regiment of English infantry had previously retired through the battery in front of this body of Russians.

"He had to wait a long time for his deed to be recognized," said the father, replacing the slip of paper in his pocket with a sigh of satisfaction.

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 "Good morning to you, Wilberforce. I mustn't stay gossiping here any longer. I've a good many miles in front of me, you know."

Sir Richard rode on, his mind full of his elder son's valor. He should be thinking about marriage, though. It was time to see a grandson at the Hall. One was apt to forget how fast the years were going by. How old was John now? Thirty. So he was, by gad, thirty. Yes, he must be getting married. Not much difficulty about that, the proud father laughed to himself. Handsome, brave, the heir to Barton Flowers! It was right that he should take his profession seriously, but after the Crimea and the Mutiny he could claim to have served his country well, could afford to sell out and prepare himself to administer the property he would one day inherit. One day ... but not just yet. "No, not just yet," Sir Richard murmured, gripping the flanks of the gray horse tightly in pride of his own strength. And perhaps at this moment when the electric telegram was almost daily bringing news of French victories in Italy, and when that rascal Napoleon might be forming who knows what schemes to invade England, yes, perhaps at this moment, Captain John Flower should stick to his guns. Still, he would talk to his wife about the boy's marriage. He hoped that when he arrived home again he should find that headache sufficiently improved to let her discuss the subject with keenness and intelligence. The right plan was to invite some eligible young women to visit

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 the Hall during John's next furlough, and if luck should station him at Aldershot to take care that whenever he drove over to Barton he should find an attraction at home. Luckily there were plenty of eligible young women in the neighborhood. Sir Richard was enumerating the possible wives for his heir when the disquieting thought occurred to him that John, like his father before him, might look beyond Hampshire for a wife. Not that for a single moment he had regretted his own choice; but what might be done once with success might end in disaster if fortune were tempted again. Anybody who had been made aware of Sir Richard's thoughts at this moment might have been pardoned for supposing that he had found a wife of beauty, merit, and ability in a lower stratum of society. As a matter of fact, the present Lady Flower was the daughter of one of Wellington's most gallant officers and a French lady of rank whose father had taken refuge from the Terror in England, where he had preferred to remain during the Napoleonic tyranny. It was the French blood that made Sir Richard feel he was committing a breach of tradition in marrying Miss Helen Baxter. To have introduced French blood into the Flowers, notwithstanding the pride of the family in their Norman origin, still seemed to him an astonishing piece of audacity; and even now he could shudder to think what his father would have said, had his father been alive when he married. Yet his wedded life had been one of un

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broken happiness, and Helen had not betrayed the least sign of her mixed origin unless perhaps in an incurable propensity to succumb to violent headaches, which she dignified, or as her husband preferred to think, Frenchified by calling migraines. The old family doctor attributed them to nerves, and nerves, Sir Richard felt, were French, not English, so that if Doctor Wilkinson was right, the headaches must have been inherited from her French mother. There was nothing of the Frenchman in the elder son John. He never had a headache in his life, and he had won the Victoria Cross. English to the backbone was John. But Edward...?

Sir Richard, who had been trotting gaily along his boundaries, pulled up his horse to a walk, because the personality and character of his younger son perplexed him. Edward had headaches, was prone to day-dreaming, and at twenty-eight showed no sign of making any progress at the Bar, to which without apparently the slightest taste for a legal career he had recently been called. Headaches, day-dreams, instability, these were not English qualities. What had Edward been doing down at home all the summer? How could he expect to be a successful barrister if he left his chambers in Pump Court to take care of themselves? If John had been a barrister, he would have made his mark by now. Yet Edward had been endowed with more brains than John. John was diligent, determined; but Edward had the brains. It had been the ancient custom of the

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 Flowers to send the eldest son to Winchester, the others to Eton. Sir Richard, who was a Wykhamist, had broken the tradition by sending John to Eton and Edward to Winchester, partly because he thought that Winchester would eradicate more sternly any French symptoms that appeared in Edward, partly because he believed that what was known as cleverness in a boy would receive more encouragement at the older foundation. But Edward had been a disappointment. His career at Winchester had been undistinguished, and he had gone down from New College without taking a degree. That was the moment when his father should have been firm with him, when he should have insisted upon his making his own way in the world without parental assistance. But Helen had intervened, and she intervened so rarely that when she did her husband was always defeated. Edward had expressed a half-hearted desire to read for the Bar, and he had allowed himself to be persuaded into making the necessary allowance. What was the result? Edward at twenty-eight as little able to provide for himself as he was at eight! It had been all very well for his mother to plead for his company over long months at Barton to console her for the absence of her elder son first in the Crimea and then in India. But John had been back a year now, and Edward spent more time than ever at home. Confound it, the problem of Edward's future was

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 spoiling the day, and in a burst of irritation the baronet spurred his horse to a canter.

At this point the boundary of Sir Richard's estate might have been the subject of litigation had there been enough people interested to litigate. It was the old dispute over common land which had been gradually enclosed by the lord of the manor. In this case the issue was complicated by the fact that the head of the Flowers was as such himself a commoner, and it was difficult to prove that a commoner had no right to plant beechwoods if he was so minded. This had been the Flower method of encroachment. At this date there were only three other families of commoners left, and inasmuch as these gained a miserable livelihood by poaching Sir Richard's coverts rather than by pasturing a few scrawny geese, there was no doubt that before long the landlord would succeed in fixing his boundary on the far side of the common. At present the common extended for a mile, a narrow strip of coarse grass land two hundred yards wide at its greatest breadth along the baronet's dark beechwoods. Beyond the common the railway cut its track through the meadows of another landowner, and Sir Richard laughed to think how twenty years ago he had refused to let the line run through his land.

"That's the way good estates are ruined," he thought complacently, urging his horse from a canter to a gallop.

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The wild commoners came out from their hovels to stare at him as he flew past, and congratulated themselves that he had not noticed how much turf in excess of their allowance had recently been cut.

At the end of the gallop Sir Richard reined in his horse to a walk that he might move slowly and admiringly through a plantation of larches he had put in ten years ago, which now in its symmetry and silence impressed him as a painter might be impressed by the beauty of an early work he had forgotten. Sir Richard regretted that he had not made a similar plantation near the Hall, so that his wife might enjoy walking upon this pale grass where the sun shone with so dim and so diffused a light. He was convinced that the experience would appeal to that romantic side of her character which expressed itself in migraines. Yes, it was a pity he had not thought of planting another within access of the Hall. He was now in the most remote corner of his demesne, and it would be difficult to drive her to this place without considerable discomfort. This plantation must be making a fine screen for old Taylor's orchard by now, thought Sir Richard. The old man had grumbled when first his landlord had insisted upon afforesting that useless field, covered with thistles and ragwort; he would admit now that his landlord had been right. But the old man was always grumbling. No doubt if he met him to-day he would be full of woe over the thunder and hail of last month, vowing that none of his blossom

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 had set and that the season would be a dead loss in consequence. How different from Wilberforce, who had recognized most sensibly the promise of the arable crops! The fact of it was, old Taylor was growing too old for the responsibility of a large farm. Of course he had not the slightest intention of turning him out, but he did wish that old Taylor showed more signs of appreciating his landlord's consideration. That was the trouble with people, Sir Richard sighed to himself, one did all that was possible for them and received nothing in return. If only some of the tenants who grumbled at the least delay in carrying out necessary repairs would try to understand the point of view of the landlord. Nowadays people only tried to understand their own point of view. Yes, the age was degenerating, humanity was not what it was.

The prey of these pessimistic reflections, Sir Richard had allowed the horse to take his own pace; the progress had been slow and silent; and when the long central aisle of the plantation made an abrupt curve at its conclusion Sir Richard found himself in old Taylor's orchard so suddenly that he had to dismount in a hurry to save his silk hat from being knocked off by the boughs of the apple trees. As his foot touched the ground, he saw in a sun-flecked space about eighty yards from where he was standing two figures disengage from a close embrace. Sir Richard recognized from the color of her auburn hair old Taylor's granddaughter, Elizabeth, and

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 he was on the verge of a smile for youth and love in the summer time when he perceived that the man was his own son, Edward. He raised his riding-crop with a gesture of rage, while the lovers as if even a moment's separation were bitter as death clung together in a fresh embrace, standing heedless of all except their love, heedless of the young apples that fell from time to time from every tree, heedless of the noise Sir Richard's horse made in cropping the tender grass, heedless of Sir Richard's foot stamped upon the ground in anger, nor even looking round when he jerked his horse's bridle, remounted, and galloped back the way he had come down the long central aisle between the larches.

"The damned philandering puppy," he muttered to himself, as he came out from the plantation and set the gray to gallop more swiftly than before over the common land. He paid no attention to the wild commoners, who seeing the baronet return at this furious pace supposed that he had been made aware of their depredations upon the turf and ran to hide from his wrath in the dark bordering beeches. He paid no attention to the geese that flapped across his path except to give the gelding a cruel jab when he swerved in his stride. It was barely two o'clock when Sir Richard reached the Hall, having for the first time in thirty-five years failed at his yearly task of riding round the confines of his ten thousand acres. So deeply enraged was he with his son's conduct that he neither sent

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 up to warn his wife of his early return nor even inquired after her headache. He shut himself in his big library, pacing up and down among the rows of books, the titles of which wrote themselves upon his mind more rapidly but perhaps not less intelligibly than they had written themselves on the minds of generations of Flowers. Sir Richard glared at the busts of poets, orators, and philosophers posed with such unconcern, with such coolness and such contempt above the cornice of the shelves. If Homer, Demosthenes and Plato had not been out of reach, the baronet would have swept them from their perch to the ground. Instead he pulled the bell rope violently.

"When Mr. Edward comes in," he told the butler, "I wish to see him at once."

"Very good, Sir Richard," said the butler apprehensively, and as the old man went out of the library Sir Richard wondered if his son's conduct was already a topic in the steward's room and servants' hall. In the middle of his rage there was a tap at the door, and his wife entered to a gruff summons. Lady Flower was a small, dainty woman whose smallness and daintiness was accentuated by the vast crinolines of the moment. Although she was almost fifty, her black hair lacked the faintest film of gray, her ivory skin showed few lines. To Sir Richard she seemed the same as when thirty-one years ago he had married her. She never came into a room but his mind went back to the first sight

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 of her dressed in a short flounced skirt with her black hair tied high with roses and ribands; and it seemed not she but her clothes which had grown older and more stately with years.

"My dear, what is the matter?" she asked. "What has upset you?"

The distressed father poured out his tale.

"But aren't you taking it all too seriously?" his wife suggested. "Edward has only found a Graziella at Barton. Il y a toujours des petits amoureux...."

"For God's sake don't talk French!" Sir Richard burst in. "There's nothing like French for giving an unpleasant turn to the conversation."

"It was tactless of me," she apologized, seating herself in a high-backed chair where she looked as tranquil and as much assured as one of the classic busts eyeing infinity above the books. "But seriously the Taylor girl is a pretty little thing, and if Edward is not imprudent there is most surely no harm in a few kisses."

"Helen, your remarks border on cynicism," said Sir Richard. "I know that you have always maintained your right to discuss matters which in England I think we have reason in not encouraging women to discuss; but really when your advanced views are applied to your own children I think it is time for me to protest. After all, if you had a French mother, my dear, you are quite definitely and unmistakably English yourself. But please do not

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 let us cover up Edward's behavior with side issues. You know how much I have deplored his laziness, how much I have objected to his spending most of his time here, and how necessary it is for him as a younger son to supplement with a profession any allowance I am able to give him in the future from my own savings. I repeat, you know all this, and yet when I discover that the reason for his continually living with his parents is not the pleasure of their society, but a low passion for the granddaughter of one of his father's tenants, it becomes obvious that Edward's behavior can no longer be tolerated. Of course he has headaches if he behaves like this," Sir Richard went on indignantly. "Of course he finds the air of Pump Court too stuffy in June. You must remember, my dear, that Edward is twenty-eight. We are not discussing the calf love of a schoolboy."

"Well, all I beg is that you will handle him tactfully," said Lady Flower. "Now, if I could only persuade you to let me talk to him...."

"Certainly not. On such a subject most certainly not," Sir Richard shouted.

"But if you jump down his throat and treat him like a schoolboy, he may do something really serious." She paused to sniff a silver vinaigrette, while the suggestion buried itself like an arrow in the heavy ground of her husband's mind.

"Really serious?" he echoed in a moment's perplexity. "Good God! you are not suggesting that

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 he might want to marry her? That would indeed be the end of everything."

"That is precisely what I am trying to tell you," said his wife. "That is why I am trying to hint that you should not take too high a moral tone."

"Good heavens, my dear, what outrageous remarks you do make. And yet on this occasion I really believe you are justified in making them."

The baronet sank down into a chair opposite his wife and allowed her to lean over and pat his cheek as if he were a disconsolate boy.

"Don't you think it would be wiser for me to carry through this scene?" she pressed.

He waved the suggestion aside. "No, no, my dear. I appreciate your desire to spare me pain, but what I have to say to Edward must be said as from a man to a man. Hark! I hear his horse coming up the drive. Leave us together, my dear, leave us, I beg you...."

Lady Flower hesitated for one moment longer, but perceiving that her husband was not to be moved from his resolve, acquitted herself of all responsibility with a gesture of her white hands, and without a backward glance of entreaty floated from the room.

Edward Flower resembled his mother in features and complexion, but in figure he was tall and slim like his father. He seemed to divine that the interview to which he had been summoned was likely to be disagreeable, for he waited by the door of the

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 library when he had closed it behind him as if he hoped that he had made a mistake in thus intruding.

"Bates told me you wished to speak to me, sir."

"I did. I do. Don't let us beat about the bush. And come into the room! I can't shout what I have to say."

However discreetly hushed the baronet's voice was going to be when he attacked his son upon the situation in Taylor's orchard, it was loud enough at present.

"I am at your service, sir," said Edward quietly, taking the chair in which a few minutes ago his mother had been sitting.

"I started out this morning to ride round the estate," Sir Richard began. "On my way I passed by Taylor's orchard." He paused with a stern glance at his son. "Well, sir?" he demanded.

"And I'm glad you did, papa," said Edward eagerly. The character of this interview drove him back unconsciously to childhood's manner of address.

"You're glad I did?" the baronet echoed. "By gad, sir, you're a cooler hand at this game than I gave you credit for. I'm thankful I did not allow your mother to speak to you on this subject."

"Did my mother wish to speak to me?" Edward broke in. "Ah, she would understand, and I fear that you, sir, may be prejudiced by the humble station of the dear girl I am going to marry."

"Marry!" the baronet shouted. "This is not a

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 moment for levity, sir. I sent for you to say that I won't have you philandering with the females on my estate. You know I disapprove of the manner you idle away your time here when you should be working at your profession. But if you do stay here, by God you shall stay here like a gentleman and a Flower, with respect for the domestic happiness of your father's tenants. We've never yet had a scandal of that kind in our family, and if my son brings such a scandal about I'll disown him."

"I have already told you, sir, that the young woman will shortly become my wife. There is no question of scandal. I love her passionately, devotedly. She gives me all and more in return. She is a modest and beautiful girl. I am old enough to know my own mind. I am sorry to seem disrespectful, sir, but nothing that you can say will alter my resolve.”………………………………………………………..