There must be something in heredity. She thought: “If there is I’d rather face it. It’s cowardly not to.”
Lindley Vickers had told her what to read. Herbert Spencer she knew. Haeckel and Ribot were in the London Library Catalogue at Greffington Hall. And Maudsley: she had seen the name somewhere. It was perhaps lucky that Mr. Sutcliffe had gone abroad early this year; for he had begun to follow her through Balzac and Flaubert and Maupassant, since when he had sometimes interfered with her selection.
The books came down in two days: Herbert Spencer’s First Principles, the Principles of Biology, the Principles of Psychology; Haeckel’s History of Evolution; Maudsley’s Body and Mind, Physiology and Pathology of Mind, Responsibility in Mental Disease; and Ribot’s Heredity. Your instinct told you to read them in that order, controlling personal curiosity.
For the first time in her life she understood what Spinoza meant by “the intellectual love of God.” She saw how all things work together for good to those who, in Spinoza’s sense, love God. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Charlotte and Lindley Vickers she might have died without knowing anything about the exquisite movements and connections of the live world. She had spent most of her time in the passionate pursuit of things under the form of eternity, regardless of their actual behaviour in time. She had kept on for fifteen years trying to find out the reality—if there was any reality—that hid behind appearances, piggishly obtuse to the interest of appearances themselves. She had cared for nothing in them but their beauty, and its exciting play on her emotions. When life brought ugly things before her she faced them with a show of courage, but inwardly she was sick with fear.
For the first time she saw the ugliest facts take on enchantment, a secret and terrible enchantment. Dr. Mitchell’s ape-faced idiot; Dr. Browne’s girl with the goose-face and gooseneck, billing her shoulders like a bird.
There was something in Heredity. But the sheer interest of it made you forget about Papa and Mamma and Aunt Charlotte; it kept you from thinking about yourself. You could see why Ribot was so excited about his laws of Heredity: “They it is that are real. …” “To know a fact thoroughly is to know the quality and quantity of the laws that compose it … facts are but appearances, laws the reality.”
There was Darwin’s Origin of Species. According to Darwin, it didn’t seem likely that anything so useless as insanity could be inherited at all; according to Maudsley and Ribot, it seemed even less likely that sanity could survive. To be sure, after many generations, insanity was stamped out; but not before it had run its course through imbecility to idiocy, infecting more generations as it went.
Maudsley was solemn and exalted in his desire that there should be no mistake about it. “There is a destiny made for a man by his ancestors, and no one can elude, were he able to attempt it, the tyranny of his organisation.”
You had been wrong all the time. You had thought of your family, Papa and Mamma, perhaps Grandpapa and Grandmamma, as powerful, but independent and separate entities, in themselves sacred and inviolable, working against you from the outside: either with open or secret and inscrutable hostility, hindering, thwarting, crushing you down. But always from the outside. You had thought of yourself as a somewhat less powerful, but still independent and separate entity, a sacred, inviolable self, struggling against them for completer freedom and detachment. Crushed down, but always getting up and going on again; fighting a more and more successful battle for your own; beating them in the end. But it was not so. There were no independent, separate entities, no sacred, inviolable selves. They were one immense organism and you were part of it; you were nothing that they had not been before you. It was no good struggling. You were caught in the net; you couldn’t get out.
And so were they. Mamma and Papa were no more independent and separate than you were. Dan had gone like Papa, but Papa had gone like Grandpapa and Grandmamma Olivier. Nobody ever said anything about Grandpapa Olivier; so perhaps there had been something queer about him. Anyhow, Papa couldn’t help drinking any more than Mamma could help being sweet and gentle; they hadn’t had a choice or a chance.
How senseless you had been with your old angers and resentments. Now that you understood, you could never feel anger or resentment any more. As long as you lived you could never feel anything but love for them and compassion. Mamma, Papa and Aunt Charlotte, Dan and Roddy, they were caught in the net. They couldn’t get out.
Dan and Roddy—But Mark had got out. Why not you?
They were not all alike. Papa and Uncle Victor were different; and Aunt Charlotte and Aunt Lavvy. Papa had married and handed it on; he hadn’t cared. Uncle Victor hadn’t married; he had cared too much; he had been afraid.
And Maurice Jourdain and Lindley Vickers had been afraid; everybody who knew about Aunt Charlotte would be afraid, and if they didn’t know you would have to tell them, supposing—
You would be like Aunt Lavvy. You would live in Morfe with Mamma for years and years as Aunt Lavvy had lived with Grandmamma. First you would be like Dorsy Heron; then like Louisa Wright; then like Aunt Lavvy.
No; when you were forty-five you would go like Aunt Charlotte.
XII
Anyhow, she had filled in the time between October and
