Ivy Compton-Burnett - A Heritage and its History

“That hardly seems a necessary speech,” said Sir Edwin.

“We must take it as a brotherly one,” said Julia.

“Why is he not content with ordinary intelligence, as I am?”

“Because it is ordinary,” said Walter. “I am not as unusual as that.”

“Then I suppose I am the unusual one.”

“You are in some ways, my boy,” said his mother.

“Walter almost says openly that he is clever.”

“We must have some way of almost saying it,” said Fanny. “We are not allowed to say it quite.”

“Surely we do not all think we are clever,” said Julia.

“Many of us in one way or another,” said Sir Edwin. “Is there anyone here who does not?”

“Well, some kinds of cleverness may help us,” said Rhoda. “And we may need the help. To be wiser and kinder. To others and ourselves.”

“I could not be kinder to myself than I am,” said her sister.

“That may show a knowledge of kindness. It is better that it should be there.”

“How far do we understand it?” said Sir Edwin. “A little meets too much gratitude. And much does not meet enough.”

“It puts people in too humble a place,” said Fanny. “It is not altogether kind.”

“Ah, we have to be generous to be grateful,” said Rhoda. “One has oneself to be a giver.”

“Dinner is ready, ma’am,” said Deakin, to Julia.

“So Deakin has learned his lesson,” said Simon.

“He has not had one to learn,” said Rhoda. “Unless it was to learn that.”

Simon lingered behind with her, as the others passed.

“You cannot be so much of a giver. You must exist of yourself. This will serve as a beginning. But your nature remains your own. It must assert itself in time.”

“I am not here to be myself. I am here for the nearness to your uncle, the power to serve him. That is how I think of his claim on me.”

“Some women have seen him in that way. More would have, if he had known more. But he has wanted no one but his brother, offered little to anyone else. I have no great affection for him. It somehow seems a case for truth. I am myself dependent on a brother, but we can look outside ourselves. I welcome you and your sister into our life. And I am a better person than is thought. My habit of not editing myself has its own snare. You will have time to yourself. I hope I may share it?”

“You may have what is over from Edwin. It will give me a purpose for it. But I do not see him as you do. To me he is fitly austere and aloof. But you are right in one thing about him. He asks only for what he can use. I would not give him what is of no good. I would not have him contrive a need. I shall have something to share.”

“You have begun to talk in low tones,” said Walter, looking back. “That might be a good thing, if overhearing were not better.”

“The last is never wise,” said Julia. “We none of us talk to people as we do behind their backs.”

“Ah, saying things then! It has a poor name,” said Rhoda.

“And it is easy to see how it got it,” said Fanny, “and how it keeps it. Someone has heard what is said.”

“Some people are described in the same way to themselves and other people,” said Simon.

“I cannot think of a case,” said Fanny.

“What about Simon himself?” said Julia.

“He had come to my mind,” said Rhoda. “What more could be said of anyone?”

“Suppose we described ourselves to our faces!” said Fanny.

“Surely we do,” said her sister. “We live up to our idea of ourselves.”

“I should have thought we were afraid of living according to it.”

“You are silent, Uncle,” said Simon.

“Well, the talk is an exercise of wits, and mine are getting slow. But I listen to it.”

“You talk as if you were eighty, Uncle.”

“I talk as if I were seventy, which I am. And I think you do not underestimate it.”

“Ah, the time of fulfilment,” said Rhoda, “the time of harvest! When the sheaves are gathered, and have not begun to fade!”

“I suppose fading really begins at about forty,” said Simon.

“Then I have suffered thirty years of it,” said Sir Edwin.

“And I have suffered twelve,” said Julia.

“I was not thinking of either of you.”

“Perhaps you should have been, my son, as we were involved in what you said.”

“Do we think about age more than most people?” said Walter.

“Surely Simon does,” said Julia.

“Everyone thinks about it as much as possible,” said Simon. “What concerns anyone so much as the time he has to live?”

“Well, when that is over, nothing will concern him,” said Sir Edwin.

“To young people the future is still long,” said Rhoda.

“Young people forget the gains of experience,” said Julia. “If we went back to youth, we should give up a great deal.”

“What would it be?” said Simon. “What exactly are the gains?”

“An insight into motive,” said Sir Edwin, “a habit of expecting little, an estimate of what is much. Acceptance of fading away, and of other people’s acceptance of it.”

“I should not mind giving up most of that,” said Fanny.

“It is an advance towards the truth,” said Rhoda.

“Does it bear out the theory that beauty is truth?” said Walter. “What do you think, Deakin?”

“Well, not only beauty emerges as truth, sir, when you deal with those beneath you.”

“We are not supposed to see people in that way.”

“I do not know how we can shut our eyes to it, sir, when we have to contend with the difference.”

“We must not look down on our fellow-creatures,” said Julia.

“We can hardly avoid it in some cases, ma’am, if we look at them at all. The level involves it.”

“Ah, to know all is to forgive all,” said Rhoda.

“I confess I have not found it so, my lady. To forgive, it is best to know as little as possible.”

“Well, my day is ended,” said Sir Edwin. “And, Julia, yours should be. You are looking tired.”

“I will walk home with Fanny,” said Walter, “and prevent Simon from doing so. I must hear what she says about you all.”

“Well, you see what we are,” said Simon to Rhoda, “what we do and say, what you have before you. I will give you any help I can. I fear it will not be much.”

“I may need what it is. If I do, I will ask and take it.”

“There is something I must say to you, Walter,” said Simon. “And you will hear me in silence. You will not betray any feeling. You will not utter a word to exhibit yourself. You will make neither sign nor sound.”

Walter laid a hand on his lips and lifted his eyes to his brother’s. But there was a change on his face.

“Rhoda is going to have a child. And I am its father.”

There was a silence.

“Could it be Uncle’s?” said Walter.

“No. They have not led a married life.”

“Could they begin to lead one in time?”

“No. There is no question of it. And things have gone too far.”

“How did it come about?”

“You cannot need me to tell you.”

“When is it to be?”

“In a few months. It must soon be known.”

“Does anyone know yet?”

“No one but you. My uncle does not know. My mother does not. It is all before me.”

“We are in trouble, Simon. That is, as you are, I am. Do you want me to break it to Uncle?”

“I want to postpone his knowing. I do not dare to face it. I have hardly faced the truth that he must know.”

“Why did you not tell me before?”

“Should we have run with the news? I put it off, as Rhoda put off telling me.”

“I don’t understand it, Simon. She is so much older than you. She is bound to Uncle in every sense.”