Ivy Compton-Burnett - A Heritage and its History

“And it is to go on all Simon’s life,” said Walter.

“His changes may be good, or good to him. But the time for them is not yet. There is still a life in the way.”

“I hoped it would not be, Uncle. I hoped you and I might make some improvements together. There are some that need to be made.”

“Simon, your father and uncle would have made them, if they had seen them as such,” said Julia. “I cannot think what has come to you. Your position is not altered. And if it was, it would be too soon to act upon it. You would hardly choose today.”

“I was not thinking of the day. I was just saying what came into my mind.”

“You can do that too much and too often. And some people would feel you might be thinking of the day.”

“I usually suppress what comes into mine,” said Walter. “And as for just saying it, I did not know that was ever done.”

“I may be the better of the two,” said Simon.

“I see no reason for thinking so,” said his mother.

“Walter has suggested a reason.”

“Have I?” said Walter. “What was it?”

“That my ideas were of a kind to be revealed.”

“I am sure I did not suggest that, Simon.”

“I see that difference between them,” said Sir Edwin. “Simon is the more likely to expose himself. And that may imply that he has not much to hide.”

“Uncle, pray do not hint things about me,” said Walter. “I am such a defenceless person.”

“I do not believe in this self-exposure,” said Julia. “I think we have had enough.”

“Would you like to be exposed, Deakin?” said Walter.

“Few of us would care to be completely, sir. We might be surprised ourselves.”

“And that might not be the only consequence,” said Julia. “Other people might be surprised, and show it!”

“I don’t think they would be so surprised,” said Simon, laughing. “Though of course they would not show that.”

“Well, I should be glad for the self-revelation to cease. It goes further than you know.”

“We always meet as much as is useful,” said Sir Edwin.

“Edwin, that is how you spoke to Hamish. For a moment I felt I had you both with me again.”

“I fear it was not for longer. And that it will not often be so.”

“Simon,” said Julia, “I wish you would not talk so often to Deakin. He will get into such odd ways.”

“Oh, he has been with us so long. And he only answers when he is spoken to. He never enters into the talk.”

“He can hardly do one without the other. And it is you I am criticising, not him.”

“Well, cease your criticism. I am tired of it. I seem to hear nothing else. You often talk to Deakin yourself. He is your intimate friend.”

“He is a good friend to us all. I am the last to deny it. But that does not alter what I said.”

“It was Walter who spoke to him this last time.”

“My dear boy, you cannot think that makes a difference.”

“Deakin,” said Simon, as the former returned, “do you like the position of that bookcase in the hall? Would you not rather see it behind the stairs?”

“I should not see it there, sir. It would not strike the eye. And I feel it has a claim to its place. It is like the appeal of a dumb animal.”

“Why are animals called dumb?” said Walter. “No one thinks they can speak.”

“They can anyhow move,” said Simon, “and the bookcase cannot. It looms before one like a cloud. We seem to be cultivating gloom.”

“It is not a moment when we should be so cheerful,” said his mother.

“You know what I meant. Why do you pretend you do not? You misjudge me on purpose. It is a second-rate thing to do.”

“I must sometimes judge you, my son. You rather lay yourself open to it.”

“Just because I want the house as cheerful as I can have it. As you imply, we have no other kind of cheer.”

“It is not for you to take the lead. Your uncle will suggest any changes he wishes.”

“But he will not wish for any, even those that cry out to be made. We shall go on and on in the same way.”

“It is what we shall do,” said his uncle. “If you can call it the same.”

“There it is again. You give my words a wrong meaning. You should be ashamed of it.”

“I was confusing the kinds of sameness, it is true. I am not at my best.”

“And Simon is not at his,” said Julia. “I think he is upset by the day in his own way.”

“It is not in anyone else’s.”

“And my Walter is silent. We are none of us ourselves.”

“Simon seems somehow to have come into his full self.”

“When a part is always better,” said Walter. “And he should be upset by the day in other people’s way.”

“Well, you know the worst about me now,” said his brother.

“And we do not about them. You see their way is best.”

“Shall I take coffee into the drawing-room, ma’am?” said Deakin.

“Perhaps Sir Edwin would like his alone in the library.”

“No, I must ask more of you. I cannot be alone. And I am fit for nothing else.”

“I am glad you have asked something. I was wondering if you ever would. And I am afraid a good deal has been asked of you. We will all have coffee in the library, Deakin, as Sir Edwin likes that room. Simon, will you see that your uncle’s chair is in its place?”

Simon did so, waited for his mother to take the opposite one, and when she did not do so, took it himself.

“Simon, would you sit there?”

“Why not? We do not want the place empty.”

Julia glanced at her brother-in-law.

“It does not matter. Nothing matters or alters the truth. Nothing can press it further home to me. But I should have thought the place was yours.”

“To me it is Hamish’s. I would rather sit here. And I should have thought it would be his to Simon too.”

“Well, I represent him now,” said her son. “He cannot have it himself. And we do not want chairs empty, as if they were occupied by ghosts.”

“I could almost feel that your father’s spirit was there.”

“Well, I suppose it might be, according to your belief.”

“Julia, will you take the chair?” said Sir Edwin. “And may it be yours in future?”

“Well, I daresay my father would rather share it with her than with me,” said Simon, as he relinquished it.

“Simon, I don’t know what has come to you,” said Julia.

“What has come to us all. My father’s death. He has no place any longer. In losing his life he has lost what it held. Nothing can affect him. Nothing can be his. You must really know it.”

“His wife’s heart is his,” said Julia.

“That is saying the same thing in a different way.”

“I agree that it is different,” said Walter.

“I might say that my heart is his,” said Simon. “I had a sincere feeling for him.”

“But do not say it, Simon,” said his brother.

“I shall always think of my early years with him. But a show of sentiment has no meaning.”

“I think it may have a great deal,” said his mother. “I never believe much in things that are not shown. If we are left to imagine them, they may be imaginary.”

“My uncle is not showing so much.”

“Simon, you know better than to say that. I wonder you can utter the words.”

“What is it? I did not hear,” said Sir Edwin, turning his head.

“It was not worth your attention,” said Julia.

“Those books are covered with dust,” said Simon, who was walking about the room. “They cannot have been done for days.”

“Your father dusted them himself. The bindings are old and delicate. He did not like the servants to touch them.”

“I will do them,” said Simon, taking out a handkerchief.