Ivy Compton-Burnett: Mother and Son

“I would do anything rather than adapt myself to a single human being,” said Francis.

“Adapting oneself to human beings is the essence of usefulness,” said his aunt. “And you will have to be useful to earn your bread. There will be no money apart from a little for your sister. We have nothing except what comes from the place, and goes back into it.”

“That may not put it so far from Francis,” said Julius. “He comes into things after Rosebery.”

“And I am so likely to be a bachelor, Father, indeed am so far established in that character, that it is natural to nominate my successor. And I welcome my cousin as heir presumptive, and after him his brother. And I think we may say that our line is secure.”

“You may marry at any time and have a son,” said Francis. “You are not the type of man that is indifferent to women.”

“Rather would I say, Francis, that I am too little indifferent to them,” said Rosebery, smiling and then altering his tone. “I think almost any woman could find her way to my heart, indeed would find it open to her; and that might not be the safest road towards matrimony. And talking about my type, I belong to the one that is faithful to the one woman, and that the one who fills the earliest memories.” He smiled at his mother.

“So it is Adrian who will face the stress of things,” said Alice. “And he is not the most fitted for it.”

“I suggest that he should prepare himself for the secondary duties, that I now discharge for my father; and that he should moreover perform them with more success than his cousin.”

“He might do something less suitable,” said Julius.

“We cannot plan our lives on the basis of Rosebery’s remaining a bachelor,” said Francis. “He might marry after Aunt Miranda’s death. He would find his life lonely without her.”

“You need not concern yourself with his future,” said Miranda, her tone perhaps sharper for the allusion to her own.

“Francis, I must deprecate the voicing of that thought,” said Rosebery, in troubled remonstrance. “It is enough that I carry it with me. I should undoubtedly — perhaps I should say ‘shall’—find my life lonely without her; but it would not in my case constitute a reason for marrying. Rather should I walk with my loneliness as a companion.”

“I would rather have ordinary work,” said Adrian. “I could not be assistant to Francis. I should always know he was my brother.”

“I should feel the same about a cousin,” said Francis. “We should be too much on a level.”

“Your cousin is not on your level,” said Miranda. “He is thirty years older than you, and a weightier personality.”

“A weightier person perhaps we should say, Mother,” said Rosebery, with his slow laugh. “That will not be disputed.”

“The boys can do boys’ work for the present,” said Julius. “And it is not the easiest kind.”

“And work of any kind is a privilege,” said Rosebery. “I often regret that I am in a measure denied it.”

“You could do more, if you would,” said his father. “I thought it was your object to escape it.”

“I need his companionship until my own companion comes,” said Miranda. “I am doing my best to get her. I cannot help the low quality of people. They seem to be of a different order from myself.”

“She does not want one of the same order,” said Alice, aside. “She was explaining it to Miss Burke.”

“It grieves me, Mother,” said Rosebery, “that you should want a companion of any kind, when you have two able and willing men at your disposal.”

“That is why I want one. I am old and weak, and able men do not meet my need. I am twelve years older than your father, and I have resolved never to be a burden on him. The time has come to avoid it. I want someone who will adapt herself to me and accept my words and ways. It is not much to ask in return for what she will be given.”

“Can Aunt Miranda mean what she says?” said Francis.

“She should advertise for a martyr,” said his sister. “But I suppose she has done so. She wants a companion, and the two things are known to be the same.”

“What are you whispering about?” said Miranda. “You are too old to get into corners and snigger like stable boys. When you are given a home like this, the least you can do is to deserve it.”

“People seem to have to do a good deal for a home,” said Alice. “And it does not seem an unnatural thing to have.”

“You have a right to this one,” said Julius. “You are my brother’s children.”

“But not your own,” said Miranda. “They tend to forget that.”

“It is the last thing I want them to remember.”

“I did not know that stable boys sniggered,” said Alice. “They always seem so grave.”

“They certainly swear very earnestly,” said her brother.

“Francis, I have never heard it,” said Rosebery, on a note of consternation.

“They know what is fit for your ears,” said Julius.

“I do not disclaim the suggestion that I should be discountenanced by it, Father. Swearing and the like are no part of manliness to me.”

“We have seen they are the part of stable boys.”

“It seems that several things are,” said Francis.

Miranda did not look disturbed. She did not grudge the children their affinity with her husband, or resent its being greater than her son’s. It was the meaning of her life that Rosebery should belong to herself. Between the mother and son there vibrated an active emotion, that the children took for granted, and Julius met with dry acceptance. Rosebery poured out on Miranda all his feeling for womanhood, which was the thing that chiefly occupied his thoughts.

The last person to share them thanked him at the door, received his half-sorrowful disclaimer and went into the library. She was received by Bates in a manner equally suggestive of attendant and hostess.

“So you did not come to an understanding, miss?”

“Yes, we did and soon. Mrs. Hume said I should not suit her.”

“It is not everyone who would suit the mistress,” said Bates, standing with her rising nose and beetling brow seeming to glow with self-complacence, while her small, honest, black eyes actually did so. “It is not for me to judge, and what is not for me is omitted in my case. But having suited her since the year eighteen sixty, my words speak.”

“I did not suit her for as many minutes. And she did not suit me as long. I do not envy the thirty-seven years.”

“Oh, you will secure a position, miss,” said Bates, in recognition of this spirit. “I entertain no doubt. And if it was ordained, it was to be.”

“I wish I had known it was ordained, in time to be spared the interview. Happily it was short.”

“Short and sharp,” agreed Bates, as if she visualised it. “It was not prolonged.”

“Mrs. Hume thought I should profit by it. I think she even hoped I should. She seemed to wish me well in her way.”

“There is her bell,” said Bates. “I am used to exactions. I must leave you for the moment.”

She did so, and Miss Burke looked about her without curiosity. She seldom felt it, as she attached no importance to what she saw. She had learned that the setting of human experience was no key to itself.

Bates returned and continued, as if no break had occurred.

“There is another position in the neighbourhood, miss; as housekeeper to two single ladies; on a smaller scale, but not enough to be a detriment.”

“I would rather be with two women than with a married couple and a family,” said Miss Burke, as though the latter struck her as an abnormal situation, as possibly it did.

“One can feel among the superfluous,” said Bates. “Which is not as it should be, the truth being otherwise.”