Lena Wrace by May Sinclair
(From The Dial)
She arranged herself there, on that divan, and I knew she'd come to
tell me all about it. It was wonderful, how, at forty-seven, she could
still give that effect of triumph and excess, of something rich and
ruinous and beautiful spread out on the brocades. The attitude showed
me that her affair with Norman Hippisley was prospering; otherwise she
couldn't have afforded the extravagance of it.
“I know what you want,” I said. “You want me to congratulate you.”
“Yes. I do.”
“I congratulate you on your courage.”
“Oh, you don't like him,” she said placably.
“No, I don't like him at all.”
“He likes you,” she said. “He thinks no end of your painting.”
“I'm not denying he's a judge of painting. I'm not even denying he
can paint a little himself.”
“Better than you, Roly.”
“If you allow for the singular, obscene ugliness of his imagination,
“It's beautiful enough when he gets it into paint,” she said. “He
makes beauty. His own beauty.”
“Oh, very much his own.”
“Well, you just go on imitating other people's—God's or
She continued with her air of perfect reasonableness. “I know he
isn't good-looking. Not half so good-looking as you are. But I like
him. I like his slender little body and his clever, faded face. There's
a quality about him, a distinction. And look at his eyes. Your
mind doesn't come rushing and blazing out of your eyes, my dear.”
“No. No. I'm afraid it doesn't rush. And for all the blaze—”
“Well, that's what I'm in love with, the rush, Roly, and the blaze.
And I'm in love, for the first time” (she underlined it) “with a
“Come,” I said, “come.”
“Oh, I know. I know you're thinking of Lawson Young and
“Well, but they don't count. I wasn't in love with Lawson. It was
his career. If he hadn't been a Cabinet Minister; if he hadn't been so
desperately gone on me; if he hadn't said it all depended on me—”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see how it would go to your head.”
“It didn't. It went to my heart.” She was quite serious and solemn.
“I held him in my hands, Roly. And he held England. I couldn't let him
drop, could I? I had to think of England.”
It was wonderful—Lena Wrace thinking that she thought of England.
I said “Of course. But for your political foresight and your
virtuous action we should never have had Tariff Reform.”
“We should never have had anything,” she said. “And look at him now.
Look how he's crumpled up since he left me. It's pitiful.”
“It is. I'm afraid Mrs. Withers doesn't care about Tariff Reform.”
“Poor thing. No. Don't imagine I'm jealous of her, Roly. She hasn't
got him. I mean she hasn't got what I had.”
“All the same he left you. And you weren't ecstatically happy with
him the last year or two.”
“I daresay I'd have done better to have married you, if that's what
It wasn't what I meant. But she'd always entertained the illusion
that she could marry me any minute if she wanted to; and I hadn't the
heart to take it from her since it seemed to console her for the way,
the really very infamous way, he had left her.
So I said, “Much better.”
“It would have been so nice, so safe,” she said. “But I never played
for safety.” Then she made one of her quick turns.
“Frances Archdale ought to marry you. Why doesn't she?”
“How should I know? Frances's reasons would be exquisite. I suppose
I didn't appeal to her sense of fitness.”
“Sense of fiddlesticks. She just hasn't got any temperament, that
“Any temperament for me, you mean.”
“I mean pure cussedness,” said Lena.
“Perhaps. But, you see, if I were unfortunate enough she probably
would marry me. If I lost my eyesight or a leg or an arm, if I
couldn't sell any more pictures—”
“If you can understand Frances, you can understand me. That's how I
felt about Dickey. I wasn't in love with him. I was sorry for him. I
knew he'd go to pieces if I wasn't there to keep him together. Perhaps
it's the maternal instinct.”
“Perhaps,” I said. Lena's reasons for her behaviour amused me; they
were never exquisite, like Frances's, but she was anxious that you
should think they were.
“So you see,” she said, “they don't count, and Norry really is
I reflected that he would be also, probably, the last. She had, no
doubt, to make the most of him. But it was preposterous that she should
waste so much good passion; preposterous that she should imagine for
one moment she could keep the fellow. I had to warn her.
“Of course, if you care to take the risk of him—” I said. “He won't
stick to you, Lena.”
“Why shouldn't he?”
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't say, “Because you're thirteen ears
older than he is.” That would have been cruel. And it would have been
absurd, too, when she could so easily look not a year older than his
It only took a little success like this, her actual triumph in
So I said, “Because it isn't in him. He's a bounder and a rotter.”
Which was true.
“Not a bounder, Roly dear. His father's Sir Gilbert Hippisley.
Hippisleys of Leicestershire.”
“A moral bounder, Lena. A slimy eel. Slips and wriggles out of
things. You'll never hold him. You're not his first affair, you know.”
“I don't care,” she said, “as long as I'm his last.”
I could only stand and stare at that; her monstrous assumption of
his fidelity. Why, he couldn't even be faithful to one art. He wrote as
well as he painted, and he acted as well as he wrote, and he was never
really happy with a talent till he had debauched it.
“The others,” she said, “don't bother me a bit. He's slipped and
wriggled out of their clutches, if you like.... Yet there was something
about all of them. Distinguished. That's it. He's so awfully fine and
fastidious about the women he takes up with. It flatters you, makes you
feel so sure of yourself. You know he wouldn't take up with you
if you weren't fine and fastidious, too—one of his great ladies....
You think I'm a snob, Roly?”
“I think you don't mind coming after Lady Willersey.”
“Well,” she said, “if you have to come after somebody—”
“True.” I asked her if she was giving me her reasons.
“Yes, if you want them. I don't. I'm content to love out of
And she did. She loved extravagantly, unintelligibly, out of all
reason; yet irrefutably. To the end. There's a sort of reason in that,
isn't there? She had the sad logic of her passions.
She got up and gathered herself together in her sombre, violent
beauty and in its glittering sheath, her red fox skins, all her savage
splendour, leaving a scent of crushed orris root in the warmth of her
Well, she managed to hold him, tight, for a year, fairly intact. I
can't for the life of me imagine how she could have cared for the
fellow, with his face all dried and frayed with make-up. There was
something lithe and sinuous about him that may, of course, have
appealed to her. And I can understand his infatuation. He was decadent,
exhausted; and there would be moments when he found her primitive
violence stimulating, before it wore him out.
They kept up the menage for two astounding years.
Well, not so very astounding, if you come to think of it. There was
Lena's money, left her by old Weinberger, her maternal uncle. You've
got to reckon with Lena's money. Not that she, poor soul, ever reckoned
with it; she was absolutely free from that taint, and she couldn't
conceive other people reckoning. Only, instinctively, she knew. She
knew how to hold Hippisley. She knew there were things he couldn't
resist, things like wines and motor cars he could be faithful to. From
the very beginning she built for permanence, for eternity. She took a
house in Avenue Road with a studio for Hippisley in the garden; she
bought a motor car and engaged an inestimable cook. Lena's dinners, in
those years, were exquisite affairs, and she took care to ask the right
people, people who would be useful to Hippisley, dealers whom old
Weinberger had known, and journalists and editors and publishers. And
all his friends and her own; even friends' friends. Her hospitality was
boundless and eccentric, and Hippisley liked that sort of thing. He
thrived in a liberal air, an air of gorgeous spending, though he
sported a supercilious smile at the fioritura, the luscious
excess of it. He had never had too much, poor devil, of his own. I've
seen the little fellow swaggering about at her parties, with his sharp,
frayed face, looking fine and fastidious, safeguarding himself with
twinklings and gestures that gave the dear woman away. I've seen him,
in goggles and a magnificent fur-lined coat, shouting to her chauffeur,
giving counter orders to her own, while she sat snuggling up in the
corner of the car, smiling at his mastery.
It went on till poor Lena was forty-nine. Then, as she said, she
began to “shake in her shoes.” I told her it didn't matter so long as
she didn't let him see her shaking. That depressed her, because she
knew she couldn't hide it; there was nothing secret in her nature; she
had always let “them” see. And they were bothering her—“the
others”—more than “a bit.” She was jealous of every one of them, of
any woman he said more than five words to. Jealous of the models, first
of all, before she found out that they didn't matter; he was so used to
them. She would stick there, in his studio, while they sat, until one
day he got furious and turned her out of it. But she'd seen enough to
set her mind at rest. He was fine and fastidious, and the models were
“And their figures, Roly, you should have seen them when they were
undressed. Of course, you have seen them. Well, there isn't—is
And there wasn't. Hippisley had grown out of models just as he had
grown out of cheap Burgundy. And he'd left the stage, because he was
tired of it, so there was, mercifully, no danger from that quarter.
What she dreaded was the moment when he'd “take” to writing again, for
then he'd have to have a secretary. Also she was jealous of his writing
because it absorbed more of his attention than his painting, and
exhausted him more, left her less of him.
And that year, their third year, he flung up his painting and was,
as she expressed it, “at it” again. Worse than ever. And he wanted a
She took care to find him one. One who wouldn't be dangerous. “You
should just see her, Roly.” She brought her in to tea one day for me to
look at and say whether she would “do.”
I wasn't sure—what can you be sure of?—but I could see why Lena
thought she would. She was a little unhealthy thing, dark and sallow
and sulky, with thin lips that showed a lack of temperament, and she
had a stiffness and preciseness, like a Board School teacher—just that
touch of “commonness” which Lena relied on to put him off. She wore a
shabby brown skirt and a yellowish blouse. Her name was Ethel Reeves.
Lena had secured safety, she said, in the house. But what was the
good of that, when outside it he was going about everywhere with Sybil
Fermor? She came and told me all about it, with a sort of hope that I'd
say something either consoling or revealing, something that she could
“You know him, Roly,” she said.
I reminded her that she hadn't always given me that credit.
“I know how he spends his time,” she said. “How do you know?”
“Well, for one thing, Ethel tells me.”
“How does she know?”
“She—she posts the letters.”
“Does she read them?”
“She needn't. He's too transparent.”
“Lena, do you use her to spy on him?” I said.
“Well,” she retorted, “if he uses her—”
I asked her if it hadn't struck her that Sybil Fermor might be using
“Do you mean—as a paravent? Or,” she revised it, “a
“For Bertie Granville,” I elucidated. “A parachute, by all means.”
She considered it. “It won't work,” she said. “If it's her
reputation she's thinking of, wouldn't Norry be worse?”
I said that was the beauty of him, if Letty Granville's attention
was to be diverted.
“Oh, Roly,” she said, “do you really think it's that?” I said I did,
and she powdered her nose and said I was a dear and I'd bucked her up
no end, and went away quite happy.
Letty Granville's divorce suit proved to her that I was right.
The next time I saw her she told me she'd been mistaken about Sybil
Fermor. It was Lady Hermione Nevin. Norry had been using Sybil as a “
paravent” for her. I said she was wrong again. Didn't she
know that Hermione was engaged to Billy Craven? They were head over
ears in love with each other. I asked her what on earth had made her
think of her? And she said Lady Hermione had paid him thirty guineas
for a picture. That looked, she said, as if she was pretty far gone on
him. (She tended to disparage Hippisley's talents. Jealousy again.)
I said it looked as if he had the iciest reasons for cultivating
Lady Hermione. And again she told me I was a dear. “You don't know,
Roly, what a comfort you are to me.”
Then Barbara Vining turned up out of nowhere, and from the first
minute Lena gave herself up for lost.
“I'm done for,” she said. “I'd fight her if it was any good
fighting. But what chance have I? At forty-nine against nineteen, and
The face was adorable if you adore a child's face on a woman's body.
Small and pink; a soft, innocent forehead; fawn skin hair, a fawn's
nose, a fawn's mouth, a fawn's eyes. You saw her at Lena's garden
parties, staring at Hippisley over the rim of her plate while she
browsed on Lena's cakes and ices, or bounding about Lena's tennis court
with the sash ribbons flying from her little butt end.
Oh, yes; she had her there. As much as he wanted. And there would be
Ethel Reeves, in a new blouse, looking on from a back seat, subtle and
sullen, or handing round cups and plates without speaking to anybody,
like a servant. I used to think she spied on them for Lena. They were
always mouthing about the garden together or sitting secretly in
corners; Lena even had her to stay with them, let him take her for long
drives in her car. She knew when she was beaten.
I said, “Why do you let him do it, Lena? Why don't you turn them
both neck and crop out of the house?” “Because I want him in it. I want
him at any cost. And I want him to have what he wants, too, even if
it's Barbara. I want him to be happy.... I'm making a virtue of
necessity. It can be done, Roly, if you give up beautifully.”
I put it to her it wasn't giving up beautifully to fret herself into
an unbecoming illness, to carry her disaster on her face. She would
come to me looking more ruined than ruinous, haggard and ashy, her eyes
all shrunk and hot with crying, and stand before the glass, looking at
herself and dabbing on powder in an utter abandonment to misery.
“I know,” she moaned. “As if losing him wasn't enough I must go and
lose my looks. I know crying's simply suicidal at my age, yet I keep on
at it. I'm doing for myself. I'm digging my own grave, Roly. A little
deeper every day.”
Then she said suddenly, “Do you know, you're the only man in London
I could come to looking like this.”
I said, “Isn't that a bit unkind of you? It sounds as though you
thought I didn't matter.”
She broke down on that. “Can't you see it's because I know I don't
any more? Nobody cares whether my nose is red or not. But you're not a
brute. You don't let me feel I don't matter. I know I never did matter
to you, Roly, but the effect's soothing, all the same.... Ethel says if
she were me she wouldn't stand it. To have it going on under my nose.
Ethel is so high-minded. I suppose it's easy to be high-minded if
you've always looked like that. And if you've never had anybody.
She doesn't know what it is. I tell you, I'd rather have Norry there
with Barbara than not have him at all.”
I thought and said that would just about suit Hippisley's book. He'd
rather be there than anywhere else, since he had to be somewhere. To be
sure she irritated him with her perpetual clinging, and wore him out.
I've seen him wince at the sound of her voice in the room. He'd say
things to her; not often, but just enough to see how far he could go.
He was afraid of going too far. He wasn't prepared to give up the
comfort of Lena's house, the opulence and peace. There wasn't one of
Lena's wines he could have turned his back on. After all, when she
worried him he could keep himself locked up in the studio away from
There was Ethel Reeves; but Lena didn't worry about his being locked
up with her. She was very kind to Hippisley's secretary. Since
she wasn't dangerous, she liked to see her there, well housed, eating
rich food, and getting stronger and stronger every day.
I must say my heart bled for Lena when I thought of young Barbara.
It was still bleeding when one afternoon she walked in with her old
triumphant look; she wore her hat with an air crane, and the
powder on her face was even and intact, like the first pure fall of
snow. She looked ten years younger and I judged that Hippisley's affair
with Barbara was at an end.
Well—it had never had a beginning; nor the ghost of a beginning. It
had never happened at all. She had come to tell me that: that there was
nothing in it; nothing but her jealousy; the miserable, damnable
jealousy that made her think things. She said it would be a lesson to
her to trust him in the future not to go falling in love. For, she
argued, if he hadn't done it this time with Barbara, he'd never do it.
I asked her how she knew he hadn't, this time, when appearances all
pointed that way? And she said that Barbara had come and told her.
Somebody, it seemed, had been telling Barbara it was known that she'd
taken Hippisley from Lena, and that Lena was crying herself into a
nervous break-down. And the child had gone straight to Lena and told
her it was a beastly lie. She hadn't taken Hippisley. She liked ragging
with him and all that, and being seen about with him at parties,
because he was a celebrity and it made the other women, the women he
wouldn't talk to, furious. But as for taking him, why, she wouldn't
take him from anybody as a gift. She didn't want him, a scrubby old
thing like that. She didn't like that dragged look about his
mouth and the way the skin wrinkled on his eyelids. There was a
sincerity about Barbara that would have blasted Hippisley if he'd
Besides, she wouldn't have hurt Lena for the world. She wouldn't
have spoken to Norry if she'd dreamed that Lena minded. But Lena had
seemed so remarkably not to mind. When she came to that part of it she
Lena said that was all very well, and it didn't matter whether
Barbara was in love with Norry or not; but how did she know Norry
wasn't in love with her? And Barbara replied amazingly that of
course she knew. They'd been alone together.
When I remarked that it was precisely that, Lena said, No.
That was nothing in itself; but it would prove one way or another; and
it seemed that when Norry found himself alone with Barbara, he used to
After that Lena settled down to a period of felicity. She'd come to
me, excited and exulting, bringing her poor little happiness with her
like a new toy. She'd sit there looking at it, turning it over and
over, and holding it up to me to show how beautiful it was.
She pointed out to me that I had been wrong and she right about him,
from the beginning. She knew him. “And to think what a fool, what a
damned silly fool I was, with my jealousy. When all those years there
was never anybody but me. Do you remember Sybil Fermor, and Lady
Hermione—and Barbara? To think I should have so clean forgotten what
he was like.... Don't you think, Roly, there must be something in me,
after all, to have kept him all those years?”
I said there must indeed have been, to have inspired so remarkable a
passion. For Hippisley was making love to her all over again. Their
happy relations were proclaimed, not only by her own engaging
frankness, but still more by the marvellous renaissance of her beauty.
She had given up her habit of jealousy as she had given up eating
sweets, because both were murderous to her complexion. Not that
Hippisley gave her any cause. He had ceased to cultivate the society of
young and pretty ladies, and devoted himself with almost ostentatious
fidelity to Lena. Their affair had become irreproachable with time; it
had the permanence of a successful marriage without the unflattering
element of legal obligation. And he had kept his secretary. Lena had
left off being afraid either that Ethel would leave or that Hippisley
would put some dangerous woman in her place.
There was no change in Ethel, except that she looked rather more
subtle and less sullen. Lena ignored her subtlety as she had ignored
her sulks. She had no more use for her as a confidant and spy, and
Ethel lived in a back den off Hippisley's study with her Remington, and
displayed a convenient apathy in allowing herself to be ignored.
“Really,” Lena would say in the unusual moments when she thought of
her, “if it wasn't for the clicking, you wouldn't know she was there.”
And as a secretary she maintained, up to the last, an admirable
Up to the last.
It was Hippisley's death that ended it. You know how it
happened—suddenly, of heart failure, in Paris. He'd gone there with
Furnival to get material for that book they were doing together. Lena
was literally “prostrated” with the shock; and Ethel Reeves had to go
over to Paris to bring back his papers and his body.
It was the day after the funeral that it all came out. Lena and
Ethel were sitting up together over the papers and the letters, turning
out his bureau. I suppose that, in the grand immunity his death
conferred on her, poor Lena had become provokingly possessive. I can
hear her saying to Ethel that there had never been anybody but her, all
those years. Praising his faithfulness; holding out her dead happiness,
and apologizing to Ethel for talking about it when Ethel didn't
understand, never having had any.
She must have said something like that, to bring it on herself, just
then, of all moments.
And I can see Ethel Reeves, sitting at his table, stolidly sorting
out his papers, wishing that Lena'd go away and leave her to her work.
And her sullen eyes firing out questions, asking her what she wanted,
what she had to do with Norman Hippisley's papers, what she was there
for, fussing about, when it was all over?
What she wanted—what she had come for—was her letters. They were
locked up in his bureau in the secret drawer.
She told me what had happened then. Ethel lifted her sullen, subtle
eyes and said, “You think he kept them?”
She said she knew he'd kept them. They were in that drawer.
And Ethel said, “Well then, he didn't. They aren't. He burnt them.
We burnt them.... We could, at least, get rid of them!”
Then she threw it at her. She had been Hippisley's mistress for
When Lena asked for proofs of the incredible assertion she had
her letters to show.
Oh, it was her moment. She must have been looking out for it, saving
up for it, all those years; gloating over her exquisite secret, her
return for all the slighting and ignoring. That was what had made her
poisonous, the fact that Lena hadn't reckoned with her, hadn't thought
her dangerous, hadn't been afraid to leave Hippisley with her, the
rich, arrogant contempt in her assumption that Ethel would “do” and her
comfortable confidences. It made her amorous and malignant. It
stimulated her to the attempt.
I think she must have hated Lena more vehemently than she loved
Hippisley. She couldn't, then, have had much reliance on her
power to capture; but her hatred was a perpetual suggestion.
Supposing—supposing she were to try and take him?
Then she had tried.
I daresay she hadn't much difficulty. Hippisley wasn't quite so fine
and fastidious as Lena thought him. I've no doubt he liked Ethel's
unwholesomeness, just as he had liked the touch of morbidity in Lena.
And the spying? That had been all part of the game; his and Ethel's.
They played for safety, if you like. They had had to throw
Lena off the scent. They used Sybil Fermor and Lady Hermione and
Barbara Vining, one after the other, as their paravents. Finally
they had used Lena. That was their cleverest stroke. It brought them a
permanent security. For, you see, Hippisley wasn't going to give up his
free quarters, his studio, the dinners and the motor car, if he could
help it. Not for Ethel. And Ethel knew it. They insured her, too.
Can't you see her, letting herself go in an ecstasy of revenge,
winding up with a hysterical youp? “You? You thought it was you? It was
me—me—ME.... You thought what we meant you to think.”
Lena still comes and talks to me. To hear her you would suppose that
Lawson Young and Dickey Harper never existed, that her passion for
Norman Hippisley was the unique, solitary manifestation of her soul. It
certainly burnt with the intensest flame. It certainly consumed her.
What's left of her's all shrivelled, warped, as she writhed in her
Yesterday she said to me, “Roly, I'm glad he's dead. Safe
from her clutches.”
She'll cling for a little while to this last illusion: that he had
been reluctant; but I doubt if she really believes it now.
For you see, Ethel flourishes. In passion, you know, nothing
succeeds like success; and her affair with Norman Hippisley advertised
her, so that very soon it ranked as the first of a series of successes.
She goes about dressed in stained-glass futurist muslins, and contrives
provocative effects out of a tilted nose, and sulky eyes, and
sallowness set off by a black velvet band on the forehead, and a black
scarf of hair dragged tight from a raking backward peak.
I saw her the other night sketching a frivolous gesture—