Ivy Compton-Burnett - The Last and the First

“You could offer a different one. And one that might serve us all. But you will have what you ask. Hermia will be lifted above us; your daughter and not mine; after all our years together! It is true that you are asking much.”

“I am not asking that. We must not think of what we should ask there. It is a loss we share.”

“Well, we will leave it there. That is how it is. We go forward together, you on the easier way. I am used to taking the harder one. And now there are things to understand. I am in the dark. Is Hermia to take her old place or to have another? Tell me how it is to be. And do we know the amount of the money, or how she will deal with it, and deal with you? She does not understand how the place is run. She will be as dependent on you as you are on her.”

“I don’t need to know,” said Hermia’s voice. “There is not to be any change. The income will pass from my hands to Father’s, and the matter will end for me there. I am not altering my place or seeking to modify it. If the legal holding of the money is a safeguard, it may be a wise one. You thought it was, and I knew your thought, and knew what was behind it. We both have our memories of the past. That is all that need be said.”

It was a relief that the door opened and another voice was heard; and Hermia left them under its cover.

“You will excuse me, my lady. There is a general message of congratulation. And I am entrusted with it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Duff. I am glad to have it. So your news is up to the moment.”

“It has come through, my lady, and been confronted. The old regime to be continued.”

“You will say how glad we are that no one is to leave us.”

“Yes, my lady. There is no other idea for the present, as far as I know.”

“We all share one relief. That we are not banished to the other house.”

“Well, my lady, there were compensations. But we are inured to this one.”

“I have not heard of those. There has been no mention of them.”

“There are points of convenience, my lady. As it were, the hand of the future instead of the past.”

“The rooms are very low and small compared with these.”

“Yes, my lady, as a lodge would suggest. But the effect was homelike.”

“I hope our family uncertainty has not been unsettling.”

“Well, my lady, that was the essence of it. And not so unnatural to us. It is the badge of all our tribe.”

“In the old days people had to stay in a place for a certain time,” said Eliza, accepting the remedy for this.

“Well, my lady, in those days they were hanged for stealing a sheep,” said Mrs. Duff, instancing a parallel injustice, as she withdrew.

Eliza was silent for a moment and then left the room with her husband. They met their son and daughter, and she simply made way for them to take her place. Her day was at an end.

“I must ask a question, Roberta,” said Angus. “What is your feeling to Hermia? Can you sustain the burden of gratitude?”

“I must. I can only be glad of the cause of it.”

“So must I. So we will carry it together. Everything that is shared is halved. And perhaps half our rightful gratitude will not be too much.”

“There is something else for us to share. The creeping family uneasiness. Mater will have to show honour to Hermia, and not as to the weaker vessel.”

“Well, it can be shared and halved. What a merciful thing it is! I don’t think I could have lived through to-day if the feelings had had to be whole ones.”

“‘The want of occupation is not rest.

A mind that’s vacant is a mind distressed,’” said Madeline, handing sheets of paper to her guests. “It is so kind of you to be with us, that we must find something to occupy your minds and save them from distress. And pencil and paper games will serve the purpose and not demand too much.”

“They can demand enough,” said Angus. “Questions tend to occur in them. And then our minds may indeed be vacant and distressed.”

“I am ashamed to say that I thought a want of occupation was rest,” said Osbert.

“It is the only kind there is,” murmured Amy, smiling to herself. “Grannie’s mind is often occupied. And it is then that it seems to be distressed.”

“There are people whose minds are never vacant,” said Eliza, giving her a smile. “I belong to them myself; and I am sure your grandmother does.”

“I will belong to them too,” said Angus. “Nothing but the word seems to be needed. And no one would doubt my word.”

“You need not chatter, Amy,” said Jocasta. “It is kind of Lady Heriot to have you here. You can be quiet and listen to what is said.”

“The want of occupation is not to be rest,” said Hermia. “Though it may be better than having to think of something natural to say.”

“I never do that,” said Madeline. “I just say what comes into my mind. It is best to be oneself under all conditions.”

“Best?” said Angus. “I think you must mean most honest. And what if nothing comes into your mind?”

“Then I should say nothing. I see no harm in silence. And I think many people would agree.”

“I am sure they would,” said Eliza, in a neutral tone. “Talking for its own sake has nothing to be said for it.”

“Except when it may be seen as a duty, Mater.”

“When there is less than nothing to be said,” said Roberta. “It is so awkward when people see their duty. There is always the risk that they will do it.”

“I should always like to see it done,” said Madeline.

“Have you ever seen it?” said Osbert. “I should not dare.”

“There are cases in which it is done all the time.”

“It is true that there are,” said Eliza. “I live in hope of a respite, and never meet one.”

“Self-praise is no recommendation, Mater,” said Madeline, with a smile.

“I think it is a great one,” said Erica. “Who would dare to indulge in it without conspicuous cause?”

“Well, what of my paper games?” said Madeline. “Here is the first of those I had in mind.”

“The first?” said Angus. “There are to be more than one? It is true that a mind may be occupied and not distressed. May it be true of us all.”

“One of us writes down the first line of a poem, folds over the paper and passes it on. Just as you see me doing now. And the rest of you do the same, until the paper is filled.”

“Do we have to make up the line?” said Angus. “I love to show my hidden gifts. It is so sad that they are hidden.”

“Would it be cheating just to write the line we are to use?” said Amy.

“You have not to make up anything,” said Madeline. “Just write the first line of any poem in print.”

“Oh, I can do that,” said Angus. “I know some of those. And I should never be drawn to the unprintable.”

“And when we have all done it,” said Madeline, “one of us reads out the result, and we all laugh at it.”

“Do we?” said Roberta.

“A game is what it is,” said Eliza. “There is no reason to be serious over it.”

“It seems there must be,” said Erica. “People are always serious over games.”

“No one can win this one,” said Amy. “That is why it is different.”

“We don’t play to win,” said Madeline, gently. “We play for the pleasure of the game.”

“But it is when people win that they feel pleasure.”

“And then they must not show it,” said Osbert. “No wonder they are serious.”

“What is it we are to do?” said Jocasta, rousing herself from inattention.

“Just write the first line of a poem, Mrs. Grimstone,” said Madeline, “and turn down the paper as you see us all doing.”