Ivy Compton-Burnett: The Present and the Past

‘There is a letter for you. What do you think of that as a threat to our lives? Catherine sneaking in and out of our home, and none of us knowing whether to accept her or not! And an atmosphere of discomfort and uncertainty over everything.’

‘She would hardly do that,’ said Flavia. ‘I know her only by hearsay, but enough to know that.’

‘Yes, stand up for her. Put yourself in her place. I might have foreseen this. Two women against one man, when two men against one woman would be the better match! And two mothers for those boys! What a state of things!’

‘I hope both mothers will be real ones. And I see no reason why they should not.’

‘Well, I do. From what I know of you both I see no hope of it. Oh, I am not a stranger to either of you. And I don’t see you working together, and there is the truth.’

‘There should not be any problem, if there is goodwill on both sides. And there is no reason against it.’

‘No reason? Well, you are a simpler woman than I thought you. So you can honestly say that. Well, I believe you are simpler. I believe you put a veneer on yourself and deceive us all. I believe people often do that.’

‘It is an example that might be followed,’ said Mr Clare.

‘Your willingness to let her see the boys puts the matter on its foundation,’ said Flavia.

‘My willingness? Who said I was willing? I tell you I am not. I don’t want to have her in my home, looking as if she would penetrate into the heart of things, and as if she were too sensitive to look at them when she had done so. Oh, she has her own view of herself. Just as you have, for the matter of that. Women think much more of themselves than men.’

‘Well, that does no harm,’ said Mr Clare, ‘if it leads them to live up to it.’

‘Well, it casts an atmosphere of falseness and consciousness over everything,’ said Cassius, in an easier tone. ‘And now I suppose I am to answer this letter. And say — well, say what I can. Just to accept what she says would make me cut a poor figure. Or is that what I am to do? Can’t either of you utter a word, or have a thought, or give me any kind of help? What is the good of feminine insight and the experience of seventy years, if they can’t be turned to account?’

‘You have only to write what is in your mind,’ said his wife.

‘I have told you what that is. So I am to write that, am I? Well, I will do so and let you see the result,’ said Cassius, rising with an air of reckless purpose.

‘Why be in such a hurry, my boy?’ said his father. ‘It is not a case for eagerness.’

‘Eagerness? No, it is not. So I will do nothing and see what comes of that. Though I have not much hope that the matter will rest there. I know the woman I am dealing with.’

Cassius took a deep breath as his wife and his father left him, and then squared his shoulders and addressed the butler, who had been waiting on them, or ostensibly doing so.

‘Well, Ainger, have you gained an idea of my position?’

‘I have caught a word here and there, sir,’ said Ainger, looking up in an incidental manner.

‘You remember your former mistress?’

‘Five years of my life were spent under her sway, sir. It can hardly have escaped me.’

‘She is returning to my life after nine years, or that is the suggestion.’

‘I did not gather your decision, sir,’ said Ainger, contracting his brows as in an effort of recollection.

‘I have no choice in the matter. It is out of my control.’

‘It seems that a mother’s feelings command respect, sir.’

‘So you heard the whole thing. I thought you did.’

‘It recurs to me, sir, as an undercurrent to my work, as I cast my mind over it.’

Alfred Ainger was a tall, active man of forty, with a round, yellow head, a full, high-coloured face, very blue, bunched-up eyes, an unshapely nose and a red-lipped, elaborate mouth that opened and shut with a vigorous movement. His bearing carried an equal respect for his master and confidence in himself.

‘Well, you may soon be opening the door to your former mistress.’

‘I shall know what is required of me, sir.’

‘I hope I may say the same, Ainger. I hope I shall be able to support one wife and receive the other, and do a man’s part by both.’

‘The young gentlemen should be a help to you, sir.’

‘Yes, it is they whom she is coming to see. I do not flatter myself it is anyone else. I do not wish to do so. But I shall have to meet the several claims and forget my own. I hope I shall be equal to it.’

Bennet set Toby down at the dining-room door and constrained her charges to enter. They advanced and stood about the table, as seats for them were not supplied. Toby went on to the window-seat, disposed some playthings upon it and entered into communication with them.

‘Is my baby coming to his mother?’ said Flavia. ‘I have not seen him today.’

Toby said nothing except to his possessions.

‘Come and have a word with your grandfather,’ said Mr Clare.

Toby paused for a moment and then ran towards him and displayed his knees.

‘You have grazed the pair of them. So you had a fall.’

‘Henry push him,’ said Toby, in a tone of suggestion.

‘No, he did not,’ said Megan. ‘Toby fell when Eliza ran after him to take him to bed.’

‘Run fast,’ said her brother. ‘Toby too.’

‘We should say what is true,’ said Flavia, stroking his head.

‘A plate,’ said Toby, with a giggle, looking round the table.

‘A plate was broken and made him laugh,’ said Henry. ‘He can still be happy easily.’

‘Oh, dear! Who broke it?’ said Flavia.

‘Eliza did,’ said Toby, soberly.

‘No, he broke it himself,’ said Megan. ‘He threw it on the ground.’

‘You must know that you broke it,’ said Flavia to Toby. ‘And poor Eliza, who is always so kind!’

‘Oh, yes. Very kind. Not mean to run too fast.’

‘Suppose she said what was not true about you?’

‘No,’ said Toby, on a note of protest.

‘Did you not know when you broke the plate?’

‘Very good boy,’ said Toby, in a tone of taking precaution before admission.

‘Yes, if you say what is true. Say you broke the plate yourself.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Toby solemnly. ‘Throw it down. Poor plate!’

He returned to the window and resumed his monologue.

‘Does he often say what is not true?’ said Cassius.

‘He doesn’t know that words are connected with truth,’ said Fabian. ‘He is confused by having stories told him.’

‘Nothing must be told him but actual facts. I have wondered if tales should be told to young children. And here is the answer.’

‘It would not be natural,’ said his son. ‘And it would not make any difference. The infant mind invents stories. All infancy is the same. In the infancy of the race tales were invented.’

‘Have we been wrong in deciding on a home education?’ said Flavia, smiling at her husband.

Cassius made no reply.

‘Toby doesn’t know that things as they are, are all there is,’ said Henry. ‘He can still believe anything and be happy.’

‘And your knowledge of life is too much for you?’ said his father.

‘It must get more and more. How can it be helped?’

‘You were the hero of one of Toby’s inventions,’ said Mr Clare. ‘Does fiction owe anything to fact?’

Henry did not reply.

‘Answer your grandfather,’ said Cassius.

Henry was silent.

‘Flavia, will you support me?’

‘No, all the children are good to Toby. Henry knows it goes without saying.’

‘I admit I had not studied them,’ said Mr Clare.