Ivy Compton-Burnett - A God and His Gifts

“Do not give a sigh of relief,” said Reuben to Merton. “We should have to hear it.”

“I have lost an old and dear friend,” said Alfred. “Your husband has lost his father. And his mother has the greatest loss. What else is there to be said?”

“Nothing, Father. But it is a help to hear you say it. It becomes simple and natural, coming from your lips. It seems to lose its mystery and threat. And his mother is true to herself. I cannot tell you to what height she has risen. It leaves us impressed and silent.”

“Don’t say it has not done the last,” said Reuben. “Again we should have to hear.”

“And now, Aunt Penelope, something from you. We are not to be without it.”

“I will say it to the one with the greatest loss,” said Penelope, moving to Joanna.

“Ah, right again. Your instinct never fails. You cannot do better than follow it.”

“We know no one wants us, Ada,” said Emmeline. “But we felt we wanted everyone. So we have come with nothing to say and no help to give.”

“But with a touch of the old charm,” said Ada, caressing her cheek. “I don’t mean it is not often there. But it must become intermittent, with the other echoes of youth. We are grateful for any return of it. We are having all we can.”

“I am not,” said Hereward to Viola. “Where is the chance for us to have anything? Our relationship is seen as a reason for keeping us apart. It is an unusual view of it.”

“It is the relationship that is seen as unusual. But in the end it will be accepted. We will go slowly and not expect too much. And gradually expect more and more.”

“And in the end expect the whole,” said Hereward, in a distinct tone, glancing about him. “I will have what is mine.”

“People feel it strange that life goes on, when someone has died,” said Zillah. “But does it go on? There seems to be little sign of it.”

“You notice the pause more than I do,” said Salomon. “So much of my life is pause.”

“Now are we accepting the pause too much?” said Ada. “Is there an element of self-indulgence in it? We must be on our guard against the temptations of grief. They exist in that state as in any other.”

“I wish I knew what they were,” said Joanna. “So that I could yield to them.”

“Mamma, through everything you remain your original and immutable self. You are a beacon in the darkness, something to point our way. You remind me of a lighthouse, solitary itself, but sending forth light. Now do you not all agree with me? Is there a dissentient voice?”

“It would be a bold one,” said Merton.

“And a wicked one,” said Reuben.

“It would be both,” said Salomon. “Of course it is noble to endure grief. Not being able to help it makes it nobler. It would be different if we chose it.”

“Zillah, you did not mind my taking the office of eulogist upon myself? It might be held to be the part of the daughter. But feeling took hold of me, and I was carried away. And I know I have your support.”

“You have. And I am going to ask for yours. I am about to adopt the character myself. Not on behalf of my mother. That has been done. On that of my brother and your husband. Is there not a beacon there, a light to point our way? Something solitary itself, sending forth light? If his failings are on the scale of himself, on what other scale should they be? Has not the time come to know him, to see him as he is? To see ourselves as we are, and in our dealings with him. I will not ask for an answer. There is none, as there is only one. I will say your own words to you. I have taken the office of eulogist upon myself. It might be held to be the part of the wife. But feeling took hold of me, and I was carried away. And I can echo you again. Is there a dissentient voice?”

“There should not be one at all,” murmured Reuben. “Suppose it was dissentient?”

“How father’s failings add to him!” said Merton. “I join in the respectful admission of their scale. I am ashamed of my own petty faults.”

“I don’t think I have any,” said Reuben. “Or I can’t think of them. They must be on a scale too mean to gain my attention.”

“I can only think I am perfect,” said Salomon. “People say how trying a perfect person would be. And we see they are right.”

“Well, I have my part to play,” said Hereward. “We are grateful for tribute, and our gratitude is sincere. But I have had to thank my sister for too much, to thank her further now. It is not for me to agree with her, or to presume to disagree. I will say I have done my best. And my worst, if it must be said. I can hardly wish I had done more. I wish some things were undone. But they have brought their good.”

“Father, is your silence to persist?” said Ada. “It may seem to you natural, even fitting to-day. But your voice is always welcome.”

“You hardly encourage me to use it.”

“Now you know what I mean. I do not think feelings should be hidden. I have never subscribed to that school of thought. Anything that is there must give its signs. Anything does, as far as I have seen. But we will accept your silence as a sign, if that is what it is. Aunt Penelope will represent you.”

“I will ask for silence to serve me in the same way.”

“I am nervous,” said Reuben. “Lest I should be giving signs.”

“I am nervous lest I should not be giving them,” said Solomon. “I can only half-hope I am.”

“I am nervous lest everyone should begin to give them,” said Merton. “I hardly dare to see and hear.”

“And now, Hereward?” said Ada. “You can’t have nothing more to say.”

“There is nothing more to be said. The part of an echo is not mine.”

“Hereward, that is unworthy of you. You know what you would make of all this, if you were conceiving a book. You are an adept at letting things grow under your hand and become larger than life. It is held to be your strong point.”

“Life is enough in itself to-day. It does not need my service.”

“Oh, there it is again! My words are misinterpreted, and my thought with them, I had better be silent.”

“A safe choice,” murmured Merton.

“Now why?” said his mother, turning to him. “Would it do for everyone to be mum and mute, and self-indulgent in the way that goes with grief? Ah, every state has its snares, and we should remember them. And saying nothing may mean that people have nothing to say.”

“Then it is hard to see how they can see it.”

“Well, they don’t, my dear, as we can see. But the excuse does not apply to your father. Even this argument could be material for him.”

“You said I was expert at making things larger than life,” said Hereward. “I should have to depend on the gift.”

“You might make it smaller than life,” said Merton. “So that it could reach vanishing point.”

“Now I knew you could talk, if you liked. Not that your speeches had so much to recommend them. Mamma, you have not made one.”

“No, and she will not,” said Hereward.

“Of course she will not, if she does not wish to. What a tone to take over something that goes without saying! Do you suppose that pressure would be brought to bear on her? Salomon, say a word to your father to bring him to a state of reason.”

“Here is one that is workaday enough. I am doing the accounts, and some of the rents have not come in. Two of the farmers’, and one other. They are a good deal behind with them.”

“I know the men you mean,” said Hereward. “I have waived the rent of one, and given the other more time. These are not easy days for them. Rosa Lindsay’s rent comes through me. I must give it to you.”

“Rosa!” said Ada. “Oh, yes, the name! Yes, of course. Rosa Lindsay. Is she not an old tenant?”