The Tree of Heaven | Page 5

on and on.
That was Anthony's view of England's parliament and of her imperial
policy; and it was Mrs. Anthony's. Politics, Anthony said, had become
static; and he assured Frances that there was no likelihood that they
would ever become dynamic again--ever.
Anthony's view of politics was Mrs. Anthony's view of life.
Nothing ever really happened. Things did not change; they endured;
they went on. At least everything that really mattered endured and went
on. So that everything that really mattered could--if you were given to
looking forward--be foreseen. A strike--a really bad one--might
conceivably affect Anthony's business, for a time; but not all the strikes
in the world, not all the silly speeches, not all the meddling and
muddling of politicians could ever touch one of those enduring things.
Frances believed in permanence because, in secret, she abhorred the
thought of change. And she abhorred the thought of change because, at
thirty-three, she had got all the things she wanted. But only for the last
ten years out of the thirty-three. Before that (before she was Mrs.
Anthony), wanting things, letting it be known that you wanted them,
had meant not getting them. So that it was incredible how she had
contrived to get them all. She had not yet left off being surprised at her
own happiness. It was not like things you take for granted and are not
aware of. Frances was profoundly aware of it. Her happiness was a
solid, tangible thing. She knew where it resided, and what it was made
of, and what terms she held it on. It depended on her; on her truth, her
love, her loyalty; it was of the nature of a trust. But there was no
illusion about it. It was the reality.
She denied that she was arrogant, for she had not taken one of them for
granted, not even Dorothy; though a little arrogance might have been
excusable in a woman who had borne three sons and only one daughter
before she was thirty-two. Whereas Grannie's achievement had been
four daughters, four superfluous women, of whom Anthony had
married one and supported three.

To be sure there was Maurice. But he was worse than superfluous,
considering that most of the time Anthony was supporting Maurice,
too.
She had only known one serious anxiety--lest her flesh and blood
should harbour any of the blood and flesh left over after Morrie was
made. She had married Anthony to drive out Morrie from the bodies
and souls of her children. She meant that, through her and Anthony,
Morrie should go, and Dorothea, Michael, Nicholas and John should
remain.
As Frances looked at the four children, her mouth tightened itself so as
to undo the ruinous adoration of her eyes. She loved their slender
bodies, their pure, candid faces, their thick, straight hair that parted
solidly from the brush, clean-cut and shining like sheets of polished
metal, brown for Dorothy, black-brown for Nicholas, red gold for
Michael and white gold for John. She was glad that they were all made
like that; slender and clear and hard, and that their very hair was a thing
of clean surfaces and definite edges. She disliked the blurred outlines of
fatness and fuzziness and fluffiness. The bright solidity of their forms
helped her to her adored illusion, the illusion of their childhood as
going on, lasting for ever and ever.
They would be the nicest looking children at Mrs. Jervis's party. They
would stand out solid from the fluffiness and fuzziness and fatness of
the others. She saw people looking at them. She heard them saying:
"Who are the two little boys in brown linen?"--"They are Michael and
Nicholas Harrison." The Funny Man came and said: "Hello! I didn't
expect to see you here!" It was Michael and Nicholas he didn't expect
to see; and the noise in the room was Nicky's darling laughter.
Music played. Michael and Nicholas danced to the music. It was
Michael's body and Nicky's that kept for her the pattern of the dance,
their feet that beat out its measure. Sitting under the tree of Heaven
Frances could see Mrs. Jervis's party. It shimmered and clustered in a
visionary space between the tree and the border of blue larkspurs on the
other side of the lawn. The firm figures of Michael and Nicholas and
Dorothy held it together, kept it from being shattered amongst the steep

blue spires of the larkspurs. When it was all over they would still hold
it together, so that people would know that it had really happened and
remember having been there. They might even remember that Rosalind
had had a birthday.
* * * * *
Frances had just bestowed this life after death on Mrs. Jervis's party
when she heard Michael saying he didn't