Ivy Compton-Burnett - The Present and the Past

‘Are you not yourself today? Or are you too much so?’

‘We are all too much ourselves at breakfast,’ said Cassius, looking round the table to encounter proof of this. ‘I don’t think there are exceptions.’

‘No, no, you are a person apart.’

‘I have felt that for a long time.’

‘We all have to get used to it,’ said Flavia, ‘and it has its own comfort.’

‘We live at such different levels,’ said her husband.

‘But always at a deep one ourselves. When someone else is bereaved, we always say how easily he has got over it.’

‘I think of my mother every day,’ said Cassius; ‘my dear mother whose sympathy flowed from her. Perhaps she taught me to expect too much.’

‘She did so,’ said Mr Clare, ‘and you learned it from her. A woman with one son may serve him in that way. It was a simple case.’

‘I don’t know why you want so much sympathy,’ said Flavia.

‘No?’ said Cassius, resting his eyes on her.

‘You are not an unfortunate man.’

‘No?’

‘Upon my word I don’t know what the trouble is,’ said Mr Clare.

‘There is no trouble,’ said Flavia, ‘and we should not make, one. There are enough and to spare.’

‘A truism,’ said her husband.

‘They are generally true.’

‘They sometimes have a modicum of truth. I suppose that is what you mean.’

‘No, I meant what I said. That is what you mean yourself.’

‘I have never had to make troubles,’ said Cassius. ‘My share has come to me.’

‘So you have been spared the pains,’ said his father. ‘And I do not know why you should take them.’

‘I have had rather trials than troubles,’ said Flavia.

‘You must be glad of that,’ said Cassius, in a cordial tone. ‘And we are glad for you.’

‘Trials have a way of being more continuous. They are more involved in ordinary life. They stand less by themselves.’

‘They are woven into life,’ said Cassius, dreamily, ‘a part of its warp and woof. You would not be prepared for that. We must not look for experience from those who have not had it.’

‘Is mine any good to you this morning?’ said his father. ‘I have had enough, and it is at your service.’

‘I shall be glad to be with you when my work is done. Flavia has her companionship.’

‘What do you know about my plans for the day?’ said his wife.

‘Know about them?’ said Cassius, looking up with a faint frown. ‘There is nothing to know, is there? They are stereotyped.’

‘And in what way?’

‘Well, either you will go to your friend or she will come to you. Is there any alternative?’

‘Are you speaking of the boys’mother?’

‘Flavia, that is going too far,’ said Cassius, almost laughing.

‘There are other people in my life.’

Her husband raised his brows.

‘You forget that I have children myself.’

‘I may sometimes do so, now that there is less to remind me of it, now you are focused on one point.’

‘You know less about me than you think.’

Cassius sent his eyes over her and did not endorse this.

‘I do not claim to know everything about you.’

‘Well, no, I suppose not,’ said Cassius, with a faint sound of amusement.

‘And I should have thought you were the easier to judge.’

Cassius laughed outright.

‘People talk of our seeing ourselves as others see us,’ said Mr Clare. ‘It is the way we ourselves do so, that should concern them.’

‘Especially when we make it clear,’ said Cassius, looking at his wife with another tremble of mirth.

‘This is not sincere talk,’ she said.

‘Is it not?’ said her husband. ‘It is honest of you to admit it.’

‘You are a sophist, my boy,’ said Mr Clare.

‘Well, is breakfast at an end?’ said Cassius, rising from the table, and seeming to chance to push his full cup into view. ‘If so, I will go to the library.’

‘Breakfast has not begun for Cassius,’ said Flavia, as the door closed. ‘But what are we to do?’

‘Nothing, my dear. Nothing can be done. We are helpless in the matter.’

‘I wonder how much he suffers in these moods.’

‘We can only know what we do. We can learn no more.’

‘I always feel I ought to be able to prevent them.’

‘I have felt the same. But we rank ourselves too high. We cannot be of use.’

‘What Cassius needs is a perfect wife. I see what it would do for him. But perfection might do a good deal for many of us. It may be too simple a view.’

‘It is not only the complex that is true. We all need perfection in other people, and might be the better for it.’

‘I attempted the impossible in marrying him. Or do I mean something beyond me?’

‘You may mean them both. Cassius stands as what he is. He offers no revised version of himself.’

Cassius had gone to the library, sat down at the desk and rested his head on his hands. Once or twice he raised it and drew some papers towards him, but soon relinquished them. Ainger entered, laid the list of wine before him, and withdrew in one swift movement. Cassius looked up at him as he reached the door.

‘So it is thought that wine matters, Ainger. What is your feeling about it?’

‘Well, sir, in our ordinary life ordinary things have their niche.’

‘I somehow feel I am no longer living it. There has come a change for me of late. I hardly know how to express it.’

‘I should suggest you have not been yourself since your illness, sir.’

‘That is a kind way of putting it, Ainger. It holds a kind thought. Everyone’s thought of me is not so kind. I have to get used to hostile eyes.’

‘Would it not be truer to say “disapproving”, sir? There is no hostility in any glance I have seen cast upon you.’

‘Disapproval is a cheerless companion. It throws a cold shadow on one’s path. I may have invited it, but it dogs my steps. I ask myself if I shall always be followed by it.’

‘Not if you give it time and make no more place for it, sir.’

‘Ah, you too think the less of me.’

‘I think the more about you, sir, and with no less feeling,’ said Ainger, as he went to the door.

Cassius looked at the list of wine as if he did not follow it, took up an envelope and put the two together, but seemed unable to connect them, and remained with them in his hands.

An hour or two later Ainger came to Mr Clare.

‘We are in trouble again, sir. I hesitate to tell you. I hardly like to employ the words.’

‘Well, make up your mind. Either use them or tell someone else to do so.’

‘The master again, sir. He is lying on the sofa, as before. And it is not two hours since we exchanged a word. What course are we to follow? Making much of it defeats its purpose.’

‘I will come with you and see him.’

‘It is what I hoped you would suggest, sir.’

The two men went to the library and Mr Clare stood by his son.’

‘Yes, the same thing again. A second time. I suppose breakfast was leading up to it. I see now that it was.’

‘It did strike a warning note, sir. But we could not forecast this. We have had breakfasts of that kind before.’

‘What is our life to be, if we are to fear it? We cannot live under the threat. It would be not to live at all.’

‘If you will be advised, sir, you will do nothing. Notice feeds the desire for prominence and has the outcome. Neglect is sometimes wholesome. Our seeming to become inured may prevent recurrence. It would have to be done without reward, if you understand me.’.

‘It seems little reward in itself,’ said Mr Clare, looking at his son. ‘Well, he recovered by himself before; the doctor did nothing. We may leave it to happen as it did then, as no doubt he relied on its doing. And we will not have the after-scenes. That was our mistake.’