The Last and the First

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

  “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.”

  Chapter XI

  “‘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.”

  “Madeline spoke with a touch of forbearance,” said Erica.

  “Well, this is the end,” said Madeline, opening the paper. “Now who is to read the lines? I suggest one of the men.”

  “A task for the stronger sex,” said Sir Robert. “I can speak safely as I am disqualified by age.”

  “I am disqualified by awkwardness,” said Osbert. “I could not carry off any general embarrassment.”

  “I was thinking of Father,” said Madeline.r />
  “Well, nowyou must think of someone else,” said Eliza.

  “I am disqualified by my respect for letters,” said Angus. “In my previous life I was a governess.”

  “I wonder what I was,” said Eliza. “I should guess a general.”

  “Miss Heriot!” said Amy, with a touch of sharpness, as if the choice was obvious.

  “No, I have left the desk,” said Hermia. “And in my previous life I was not there.”

  “So all this comes from writing lines of poems!” said Eliza.

  “It seems that anything may come of that,” said Roberta.

  “What line did you write?” said Eliza with mild interest.

  “No, no, Mater,” said Angus. “Etiquette must be observed.”

  “You say you meet no respite from duty, Mater,” said Madeline. “So suppose you illustrate your claim and read the lines.”

  Eliza took the paper, as if almost unconsciously, and rendered the lines with justice both to them and to herself, making what she could of their lack of relation. There was some spontaneous mirth, a renewal of it that was less spontaneous, and a silence that perhaps had the best claim to the word.

  “Well, the game was a fair success,” said Madeline. “But I hope the next will do better. We all need sheets of paper this time, but I think we all have them.”

  “May I have another?” said Angus. “I made a rough draft of lines in the middle of mine.”

  “May I too?” said Amy, glancing at her grandmother. “I began to draw on mine by mistake.”

  “Your talent must be a natural one,” said Angus.

  Amy gave him an uncertain glance, and rapidly crushed the paper in her hand.

  “I must ask for another,” said Osbert. “I tore mine up under the mental strain.”

  “I gave mine to Father,” said Roberta, “because he had made his into a hat and could not get it unmade.”

  “And now I have lost this one,” said Sir Robert, looking bewildered. “And I have not moved from my place.”

  “It is the paper that has done that, Father,” said Madeline. “It is on the floor under your feet. It is too crumpled to use. You must both have fresh ones.”

  “I have preserved mine in its virgin state,” said Hermia. “I don’t know if I shall be believed.”

  “I have done the same,” said Erica. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “I have not done anything with mine,” said Jocasta, regarding hers as though struck by its blankness. “What ought I to have done?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Grimstone. Just what you have done,” said Madeline. “I wish everyone had followed your example. We shall be short of paper. I ought to have provided more.”

  “We ought to have wasted less,” said Erica.

  “You should not have wasted any,” said Jocasta.

  “Grannie has a right to speak,” said Osbert. “She took no risks with hers.”

  “There is paper in my desk,” said Hermia. “The desk by the window that I don’t often use. I keep it supplied in case of need.”

  “But that would be good writing paper,” said Eliza, looking up. “We keep odd sheets for the games, so that people can use them as they please. There are some upstairs. I can soon get them.”

  “No, no, Mater,” said Madeline. “Someone else will do that.”

  “There is a pile of odd sheets in the desk,” said Hermia. “I have never liked wasting paper.”

  “What have you liked wasting?” said Eliza with a smile. “I somehow don’t think very much. The desk is locked and the key has deserted it. I can fetch the paper in a moment.”

  “I see it as my duty,” said Angus.

  “Yes, so do I,” said his father.

  “The desk is not locked,” said Hermia. “I have not used it since I lost the key. Anyone can open it.”

  “But I hope no one does,” said Eliza, slightly raising her brows. “Well, of course, I am sure of it.”

  “Get the paper from the desk, my boy,” said Sir Robert.

  “No, no, we don’t go to desks,” said Eliza. “The rule is one to be obeyed. There is reason in it. Angus can run upstairs if I may not.”

  “I could open the desk myself,” said Hermia. “It seems I might have thought of it.”

  “Get the paper, my boy,” said Sir Robert, and said no more.

  “Here is a wealth of material,” said Angus. “Sheets of all sorts and shapes. I will bring a sheaf of them and hand them round.”

  “Yes, in a moment, to those who need them,” said Madeline. “I will just sort some of them first. Why, Hermia uses the desk more than she knows. There is an opened letter still joined to its empty half. And a recent one to judge by the date. I have not seen any further.”

  “Well, I suppose not,” said Eliza, with a faint laugh. “It is hardly a thing you would do. Why not tear off the written sheet and destroy it? Then there will be no need to trouble.”

  “No, give it to me,” said Hermia. “I don’t understand what has happened. I can’t use a desk without knowing it. And I have not touched this one for weeks. I suppose there will be an explanation. But I can’t think of one.”

  “Is it a letter that matters?” said Sir Robert, reminded as Hermia sat with her eyes on it of an earlier scene.

  “Well, it should have been read and answered, as is the case with most letters. And I have not seen it before. Was there an envelope with it?”

  “I think there was. I will get it,” said Angus. “I assumed it was a used one that meant nothing. I suppose that is what it is.”

  “It is what it must be,” said Eliza. “There can be no meaning in an envelope. Though I hope the letter still has its point. We will not make a mystery out of nothing.”

  “It is not what we are doing,” said Sir Robert. “The mystery is here. I hope there will be a solution.”

  “There may have to be a confession,” said Eliza, just shaking her head. “And that may not come very readily.”

  “Here is the envelope,” said Angus, “addressed of course to Hermia. There is something in it, this little paper-knife of Mater’s. The culprit had no scruple in using what lay at his hand. We all know that knife is sacred.”

  “He had not much to do with scruple,” said Eliza. “The knife is one of the few things that are really my own. It proves he was not one of the family. Not that it needed proof. Well, I daresay no harm is done.”

  “I hope no great harm,” said Sir Robert. “Does anyone know anything?”

  “I should say what I know,” said Osbert, rising. “I can guess what letter it must be. It is one I wrote to Hermia myself. Anyone can know about it. It is the last thing I could be ashamed of.”

  “It almost seems we were led to the desk,” said Madeline.

  “Someone might have been led away from it,” said Eliza. “But everything is as it should and would have been.”

  Osbert met Hermia’s eyes and raised his own towards Sir Robert; and she turned and gave the letter to her father. He read it, glanced from her to Osbert and looked away.

  “Whatever is it?” said Eliza. “Let us hear and be at peace. We are being teased without any reason.”

  “It is an offer of marriage,” said Sir Robert, “dependent on an answer within a given number of days. It has not been answered, and a refusal is implied which of course means nothing.”

  “Yes, it is true,” said Osbert. “That is how it is. I worded the offer as you say, so that, if Hermia did not accept it, she need send no reply. I had none, and assumed it was not accepted. Now I don’t know what to say or think.”

  “You need do neither,” said Eliza. “It is all as if it had not been. You stand as you were before this odd little episode.”

  “I hope not quite. Hermia had not seen the letter. She has seen it now. I hope there is a difference.”

  “I am going to offer a solution,” said Madeline. “Of course I can only hazard it. Someone opened the letter by mistake, felt guilty and said nothing, but put it where Hermia would
find it. He might not even have seen what was in it.”

  “He probably had not,” said Eliza. “A person who opened a letter by accident—and there go we all—might be the last who would read it. His feeling so guilty about it points that way.”

  “Are we sure of the culprit’s sex?” said Angus. “Does it have to be mine?”

  ‘I seem to feel it is. I am somehow sure of it. It may be reluctance to attribute the trouble to my own.”

  “Then it must be someone we employ,” said Madeline. “Though one hardly likes to suggest it.”

  “I think we will not suggest it,” said Eliza quietly, “of someone helpless and not here. Now would you all like to return to the games? They may be a protection for those who need it. They would give them cover.”

  “Is not the moment for them past?” said Jocasta, who had heard in silence, and now turned to say a word to her grandchildren. “Nothing is certain and we will say nothing. Our words might neither add to hers nor become us as guests.”

  “Grannie has risen on a dead self to higher things,” murmured Osbert. “The self we saw earlier to-day was a stepping-stone.”

  “If Hermia married she would need her income for herself,” said Erica. “And might withdraw it from her family. And it applies to other people. Of course there were reasons, and the ruse held no risk. Madeline’s solution would have served. But they do not serve me.”

  “Osbert would surely have tried again,” said Madeline.

  “He might not,” said Hermia, “when a refusal was almost recommended, and for which he had paved the way.”

  “I was being selfless,” said Osbert. “I thought it might strengthen my case.”

  “Hardly an object to result from selflessness,” said Erica.

  “I am leaving you for a moment, to give you full freedom of speech,” said Eliza. “It seems to me a case for it. You can think or say anything, and even more, say what you think. You can begin with me as the possible culprit, and hold to me if you choose. That would be successful thought and bring credit.” She gave a little laugh. “So I leave you to your situation.”

  There was a pause.

  “Only one of us has told us it was she who did it,” said Amy gravely. “And we seem to pass it over.”