Ivy Compton-Burnett - Parents and Children

‘Our experience has gone beyond our age,’ said Honor, who shared the belief.

‘Something has,’ said Miss Pilbeam, smiling.

‘Well, go on reading,’ said Gavin in a rough tone.

‘That is not the way to ask.’

‘I am not asking; I am telling you to go on.’

‘And something has not,’ said Miss Pilbeam, deciding to continue to smile and resuming the book.

Eleanor and her husband went on to the schoolroom.

‘Well, Miss Mitford, I have come to see you,’ said Fulbert, ‘and to give you proof that I am flesh and blood like yourself.’

Miss Mitford rose and shook hands.

‘It is kind of you to say so,’ she said.

Fulbert laughed though his tone had hardly been without the suggestion.

‘The situation puts you at a loss, does it?’ he said observing or rather assuming that this was the case, and accordingly regarding her with eyes of enjoyment.

‘Well, it is quite outside my experience.’

‘An experience need not be so narrow, that it does not include it,’ said Fulbert, giving encouragement, where it might be needed. ‘Yours has taken place within four walls, but some of the deepest has done that.’

‘Mine has not been of that kind,’ said Miss Mitford.

‘Well, well, some of us must deal with the smaller things of life.’

‘Education is not among those,’ said Eleanor.

‘Indeed it is not. These youngsters owe you a great deal, Miss Mitford.’

‘I am sure they realize it. Don’t you, James?’ said Eleanor, appealing to her son from force of habit, as his debt was less than his sisters’.

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you not at school, my boy?’

James felt that all the difficult moments of his life culminated in this one. He had accepted his father’s return to family life as too solemn an occasion for the personal interest of his own education to have a place, and had remained at home in a grave and quiet spirit, and was reading a book to which these terms would apply.

‘It is Father’s first day at home,’ he said, in a low, uncertain voice, that awaited his parents’ interpretation.

‘But not James’s,’ said Fulbert, in an amused, rallying tone, that gave his son his answer.

‘And how are the others spending their time?’ said Eleanor. ‘I see that lessons are not in progress.’

‘I am doing nothing,’ said Isabel, at once.

‘Is that the way to make the most of your holiday?’ said her mother, her last word showing James the extent of his misapprehension.

‘I daresay it is,’ said Fulbert, resting his eyes on his daughter. ‘People must relax when they have been wrought up too far.’

‘Well, what is Venice doing?’ said his wife.

Venice revealed a piece of embroidery, or rather took no steps to hide it.

‘You need not be ashamed of it, my dear. I am not such an advocate of doing nothing. Let me see it.’

Venice laid it out, appearing hardly to see it herself.

‘Sewing,’ said her father. ‘Another way of resting.’

Venice’s face cleared, and she looked at her mother for her opinion.

‘You are improving very much. I wish Isabel would learn to do a little needlework. As Father says, it would do her good.’

‘Did I say so?’ said Fulbert. ‘Well, if it would, I hope she will take to it. And how is James passing his time?’

James handed his book to his mother with a smile, feeling a reluctance to show it to the parent responsible for it.

‘That is a very nice book for today. I think James is developing, Fulbert.’

‘This continual process in James should take him far,’ said Isabel.

‘I won’t put him through his paces this morning,’ said Fulbert, looking at his son with his old, quizzical air.

‘The world is a different place to all of them,’ said Eleanor.

‘And to me it is the same place, and I would ask no more. Well, good-bye, Miss Mitford. It is good of you to let us intrude on your province.’

‘Now you will settle down to a life where you have nothing to wish for,’ said Eleanor, addressing her children at the door. ‘That is a pleasant thought for your mother and for you.’

There was silence after she had gone.

‘Nothing that could conceivably be realized,’ said Isabel.

Her sister looked at her, and for a moment they held each other’s eyes; then they suddenly rose and staggered to a distant sofa and fell on it in a fit of mirth.

James glanced up from his book, for once completely at a loss. Miss Mitford made a survey of her pupils and looked down with curiosity essentially satisfied. The two girls leant towards each other and spoke in tones audible to no one else.

‘Our imagination ran away,’ said Isabel. ‘It is so rarely put to the proof. People have never lost what they think they have. And if they recover it, the moment comes.’

‘Do you mind much?’ whispered Venice.

‘Not now the shock is over. In a way it is a relief. I can be at ease with everyone in the house. There is no one superior to me.’

‘I am not like you,’ said Venice.

‘I can always protect you,’ said Isabel.

‘Mother will always be here as well as Father,’ said James, closing his book.

‘It is a small price to pay for Father’s coming back,’ said Isabel, causing Miss Mitford to raise her eyes. ‘And she will be a great deal with him.’

‘She will at first,’ said James, and took up another book, as if he could leave the future.

‘We can’t have Father without his wife. And Mother has nothing contemptible about her.’

‘You talk like Honor,’ said James, in an absent tone.

‘She and I are said to be alike.’

‘I don’t think you are,’ said Venice.

‘No one is really like anyone else.’

‘That is true,’ said Miss Mitford. ‘We are struck by a little likeness because it is imposed on so much difference.’

‘Venice is not like anyone. She is almost a beauty,’ said Isabel, as if this precluded resemblance.

Venice fixed her eyes in front of her, while a great pleasure welled up within her, and James looked almost troubled by such an idea in connection with anyone so intimate.

Eleanor returned to the room.

‘Father is worried about you, Isabel. Are you really exhausted?’

‘No, only feeling a slight reaction, Mother.’

‘That is my good girl,’ said Eleanor, with surprised approval. ‘I heard all that laughing, and I did not think it sounded much like exhaustion.’

‘It was a schoolroom joke, Mother.’

‘I expect you have all sorts of nonsense among yourselves,’ said Eleanor, little thinking how much more worth her while such jests might be, than those she pursued downstairs.

‘Is Venice really a beauty?’ said James.

‘Who has been saying she is?’ said Eleanor, giving a deprecating look at Venice and suspecting Fulbert of the indiscretion.

‘Isabel,’ said James.

‘Oh, Isabel,’ said Eleanor, as if this testimony hardly counted. ‘Why, what a flattering sister to have! What has Venice to say about her in return?’

‘She often says she is clever,’ said James. ‘A lot of people do.’

‘Well, so she is,’ said Eleanor, thinking more easily of tribute along this line. ‘And what of James? Are people going to say the same thing about him?’

James was taken aback by this result of his generosity, though he should have been learning that most things gave rise to it.

‘Yes,’ he said, in a light tone.

‘And what grounds are they going to have for saying it?’

James could not refer to his choice of books for an occasion, as it had already been forgotten; or to the poems which to himself were proof of it, as he had revealed them to no one, and was postponing publication until his maturity; and merely made uneasy movements.