Two Worlds and Their Ways

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

  “We have an old box at home that was made in the reign of Charles the Second,” said Miss Tuke, not feeling it necessary to enlarge on this light on her lineage.

  “What are those things?” said Esther, indicating some linen in Miss Tuke’s hands. “Underclothes?”

  “Now what do you think they would be,” said Miss Tuke, shaking them out.

  “I don’t know,” said Verity, in a low tone, as though good manners deterred her from going further.

  “Little window-curtains,” said Esther, in a tone of suggestion. “The kind that hang by those windows that open like doors.”

  “I fail to see any resemblance, Esther,” said Maud.

  “It must be a lot of trouble to press and iron them like that,” said Esther, in a manner of making some atonement.

  “I don’t think anyone would do it for me.”

  “Who does it for you, Clemence?” said Verity, with the idle note that seldom veiled her mind.

  “I do not know. I suppose someone must do it.”

  “Indeed someone must. That is quite true,” said Miss Tuke.

  “Don’t you really know?” said Gwendolen.

  “Now why should she?” said Miss Tuke.

  “She must know, of course,” said Esther.

  “I don’t think I do. Perhaps it is Adela. Or perhaps they are done in the village.”

  “Well, why should we want to know?” said Verity, giving a yawn, or causing herself to give one.

  “I cannot tell you,” said Clemence, “but you evidently do want to. I have never wanted to know so much about anyone as you want to know about me.”

  “That is right, Clemence. Show spirit,” said Miss Tuke, putting some pins into her mouth with no further apparent purpose for them.

  “Why do people eat pins?” said Gwendolen. “No wonder children swallow them, with the example always before their eyes. Do they taste nice, Miss Tuke?”

  “I have not three hands,” said the latter, continuing to use the two she had.

  “I hope they are wholesome,” said Gwendolen. “Dressmakers have a habit of eating them.”

  “Hasn’t she any dresses?” said Esther to Miss Tuke.

  “Now what do you suppose? You might as well ask if she has any shoes.”

  “Well, has she? I don’t see any. Have you, Clemence?”

  “I expect they were put in, those I am supposed to have here.”

  “Don’t you have all your things here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. No, I don’t suppose quite all of them. This is only school, after all.”

  “So it is Clemence,” said Miss Tuke, in a tone of absent but warm approval.

  “I have things bought for me especially for school, that I should not have, if I were at home,” said Esther, covering with rapid lightness what seemed to be an extreme admission.

  “I have one or two things kept at home, that are supposed to be too good to wear here,” said Gwendolen. “They are just stored up and go out of fashion, and they are the things that suit me best.”

  “Dear, dear, that is the way of the world,” said Miss Tuke.

  “I wear all my things both at home and at school, or I should not have enough,” said Verity, lifting her shoulders.

  “Fortunate people that you are, to have everything arranged for you!” said Miss Tuke.

  “What do you do, Maud?” said Verity.

  “I had not thought, Verity. I may not always do the same thing. Is it such an interesting subject?”

  “Yes, of course it is,” said Gwendolen. “It throws light into all sorts of shadowy corners. I am fascinated by it.”

  “We must learn to look things in the face,” said Verity. “We are the future women of England.”

  “Now what nonsense next?” said Miss Tuke.

  “Well, what is the subject?” said a rather deep, dry voice. “It seems to be one of great interest.”

  “It is of the greatest interest, Miss Chancellor,” said Gwendolen, turning at once to the door. “Clemence Shelley does not bring her clothes to school because they are too good to wear amongst people like us. What do you think of it?”

  “I do not think of it at all, Gwendolen. The clothes are not my province,” said the new-comer, adjusting her glasses in a manner that suggested others, as she regarded the scene with steady, moderate interest. “So this is Clemence Shelley? How do you do, Clemence?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” murmured Verity, as though this would be Clemence’s natural rejoinder.

  Miss Chancellor appeared not to hear, and continued with her eyes on the latter.

  “I think you are the only addition to my form this term.”

  “Are you not sure?” said Esther.

  “No, I am not sure, Esther. I only know that there is one extra name on my list, and that it is probably that of Clemence,” said Miss Chancellor, on her way to Miss Tuke as the centre-point of the group. “How are you, Miss Tuke? I hope you are rested after the holidays. You set us an example by being at work so soon.”

  “Other people’s work cannot begin until some of mine is done,” said Miss Tuke, taking the pins from her mouth in rapid succession.

  “How do you do, Maud?” said Miss Chancellor, on an equal and cordial note. “Can you say that you are glad to be back at work again?”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Chancellor. On the whole I am very glad.”

  “Are you glad, Miss Chancellor?” said Verity.

  “Well, my feelings are mixed, Verity. I cannot quite emulate Maud’s wholeheartedness,” said Miss Chancellor, turning her glasses on Verity in a somehow unsparing manner.

  Miss Chancellor had bright, near-set, near-sighted eyes, a bony, irregular nose, with glasses riding uncertainly on it, and a suggestion about her of acting according to her conception of herself. She looked older than her thirty-six years, and seeing the circumstance as the result of weight of personality, was not without satisfaction in it.

  “When do we have tea, Miss Chancellor?” said Gwendolen. “I am beginning to think of nothing else.”

  “I do not know, Gwendolen. I had not thought. But I suppose at the usual time. You all seem to assign to me a good many provinces that are not mine. And I am far from being a person of general activities like Miss Tuke. I am rather a specialised individual.”

  “You have a high opinion of yourself, haven’t you, Miss Chancellor?” said Verity.

  “Have I, Verity? I do not know what I said to imply it. And I hope I have no higher a one than is healthy and natural, and gives me a standard to live up to. We are none of us the worse for that. I hope you are not without it yourself, and I should not have said you were.”

  “I suppose you think I am a conceited creature.”

  “So that was the idea in your mind,” said Miss Chancellor, with a laugh.

  “Things are different on the first day,” said Gwendolen. “I wish the bell would go. Don’t you want some tea, Miss Chancellor?”

  “Well, I shall be glad of a cup, Gwendolen, now that you speak of it,” said the latter, as though such a desire in herself were dependent on suggestion.

  “I shall be glad of a good deal more. I had luncheon early, and I was crying too much to eat.”

  “I can hardly imagine it, Gwendolen,” said Miss Chancellor with a smile.

  “I am longing for the plain and wholesome school fare.”

  “I am not,” said Esther. “I am dreading three months of it. The holidays are hardly long enough to recover.”

  Maud looked out of the window, as though a thing better not said were better not heard.

  “Are you tired after your journey, Esther?” said Miss Chancellor, as though seeking an excuse for something that needed it.

  “Yes, I am rather, Miss Chancellor.”

  “Poor Esther, she is easily tired,” said Miss Tuke, her eyes on a garment she was holding up before them.

  “Are you tired, Clemence?” said Miss Chancellor.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Wa
s your journey a long one?”

  “No, quite short. Only about an hour.”

  “Did your mother bring you?”

  “Yes. She has gone back now.”

  “Well, well, we can’t keep everyone with us,” said Miss Tuke.

  “Especially if you have as many people as Clemence has,” said Gwendolen. “Her mother and her governess brought her, Miss Chancellor. One person was enough to bring the rest of us, and Maud came alone. That shows that Clemence is twice as important as we are.”

  “And how many times as important as Maud? Really, Gwendolen, your method of estimating relative importance is an odd one. What do you think of it, Clemence?”

  “Well, of course it has not anything in it.”

  “It is usual to use people’s names, Clemence, when you are talking to people who are older than you, and who are going to teach you,” said Miss Chancellor, in an even, pleasant tone, that hurried towards the next words. “Is this your first experience of school life?”

  “Yes, Miss Chancellor.”

  “She will be the youngest in the form, Miss Chancellor,” said Gwendolen, urged to compliment by the reproof. “She is still under fourteen. Don’t you find yourself looking at her hair?”

  “Well, if I may make a personal remark, it is very pretty. I hope she will take care of it. Do you manage it yourself, Clemence?”

  “I have not done it yet. But I think I could learn. I am supposed to be careless with it.”

  “Dear, dear, we must have an end of that,” said Miss Tuke. “What a confession!”

  “I am sure you could learn a good many things, Clemence,” said Miss Chancellor.

  “Twelve weeks of term!” said Esther, sinking into a chair. “Shall we, any of us, survive?”

  “Yes, I think I may say you all will, Esther. Anyhow your having done so several times is a reasonable ground for supposing it. And this happens to be a short term. Christmas is not so far away.”

  “Three months to plum pudding,” said Gwendolen, “and I am ravenous already.”

  “Really, Gwendolen, the unvarying line of your thought!”

  “She is growing, poor child,” said Miss Tuke.

  “I wish it was not necessary to be educated. Why is it, Miss Chancellor?”

  “Now I do not think you expect that question to be answered, Gwendolen.”

  “If it were not, our parents could have the advantage of us. And mine find me a great pleasure. I think being educated is rather selfish.”

  “Well, it has that side, Gwendolen,” said Miss Chancellor, in an unbiased tone. “It is true that it has. But the result should give you more for everyone in the end.”

  “If we were not being educated, Miss Chancellor would not have to be here—would not be here,” said Esther, rapidly. “She would be as glad as we should.”

  “Well, it would have its bright side, Esther,” said Miss Chancellor, in a dispassionate tone. “But there are compensations in every life, if we look for them. I have always found them in mine and been grateful for them.”

  “You want compensation for being with us, Miss Chancellor. That is a cruel thing to say to hungry and helpless children,” said Gwendolen. “The tea-bell! The sound that cheers so much that it almost inebriates!”

  “That is an individual turn to the expression, Gwendolen,” said Miss Chancellor, turning her instinctive movement to the door into a smiling advance towards her pupil.

  “Are you going out, Miss Chancellor?” said Maud, pausing in the doorway.

  “Thank you, Maud. I suppose we must obey the summons,” said Miss Chancellor, leading the way with another adjustment of her glasses.

  “What would happen to Miss Chancellor’s spectacles, if she did not keep on attending to them?” said Gwendolen.

  “They would fall off, Gwendolen,” said Miss Chancellor, turning with some liveliness. “That is what would happen. My nose is the wrong shape for glasses, and my eyes the wrong kind for doing without them. And they are glasses, not spectacles.”

  “Would spectacles interfere with your personality?” said Verity.

  “Yes, in the sense that most people would see them as you evidently do, Verity.”

  “Miss Chancellor is really as eager for food as any of us,” said Esther, in a whisper, or what she intended to be such, breaking off as she observed a modification of Miss Chancellor’s bearing.

  The latter paused, threw back her head, and emitted a little peal of mirth.

  “Well, really, Esther, what a way of expressing yourself! I hope we all have good appetites, and shall satisfy them to the extent of keeping well and being equal to our work. I never heard that an appetite was a thing to be ashamed of. Indeed, I was taught that that kind of refinement belonged to another sphere.”

  “Yes, Miss Chancellor,” muttered Esther, glancing at her companions.

  “And I am quite content to do my duty in that station of life to which—to which I am called,” said Miss Chancellor, adapting the quotation to the lightness of the moment, and taking her stand in readiness for grace, with her eyes held above the board, as though disregard of food were natural in certain conditions.

  Lesbia came to the table and looked at its supplies before she bent her head. Meals were a welcome break in her routine and she did not disguise it, thinking it a healthy view of them.

  Gwendolen murmured to her neighbour as she took her seat.

  “There was an old woman and what do you think?

  She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink.”

  “What did you say, Gwendolen?”

  “I said that—we lived upon nothing but victuals and drink, Miss Firebrace.”

  “Well, have some of both, Gwendolen. I am sorry we can offer you nothing else.”

  A thin, dark, grey-haired woman at Lesbia’s hand, who was a partner in the school, turned absent, grey eyes on the newcomer.

  “Clemence Shelley? Your little cousin, Miss Firebrace?”

  “Yes,” said Lesbia, in an audible tone of saying what was of sufficient, but not excessive interest. “Or my little connection by marriage. She is to be in Miss Chancellor’s form and so will be with you for some subjects.”

  Miss Laurence smiled at Clemence in automatic, kindly interest, and appeared to sink into abstraction, a state that so often claimed her that it had come almost to be required of her, and tended to be less complete than it seemed.

  “I think she is adapting herself easily to her new surroundings,” said another voice, as the third partner smiled at Clemence. “And that is a great art.”

  The number of partners in the school was in excess of its resources. It had been necessary to bring it into being, and was still so, to maintain it in this state. Lesbia drew a veil over it, and tended to pass over her partners’ existence, when they were not there to establish it.

  Miss Marathon’s upright figure, pronounced nose and prominent, expressionless eyes gave her a somewhat forbidding aspect, that was hardly borne out by her pupils’ demeanour towards her. She sat among them and supervised their needs in a. manner at once precise and kindly, critical and tolerant. Miss Laurence was recognised as too intellectual for tangible affairs, and remained aloof and did nothing, thereby both creating and fulfilling a part. Her pupils regarded her with affection and fear, or merely with the latter. Miss Marathon they regarded with neither, and with no other particular feeling.

  Miss Chancellor sat by Miss Laurence, and seemed to identify herself with her aloof attitude, and indeed with any other that she displayed.

  “Clemence, do have some victuals and drink,” said Gwendolen. “I hope you do not feel as if every mouthful would choke you. Clemence feels that every mouthful will choke her, Miss Chancellor. And it is not reasonable when she is not taking any mouthfuls.”

  “It sounds as if you were right to urge her to modify her course, Gwendolen.”

  “All the attention will be for Clemence now, I expect,” said Esther.

  “What did you say, Esther?” said Lesbia,
in a tone of according interest to everyone’s utterance.

  “Nothing, Miss Firebrace.”

  “Then it is of no good for us to pursue it. But how you managed to observe something and say nothing, I do not know.”

  “An answer unworthy of your years, Esther,” said Miss Chancellor.

  “Did you enjoy your holiday, Maud?” said Miss Marathon, going on to safe ground with a safe companion.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Marathon. I have never enjoyed a holiday more. But I find I am glad to get back to work again.”

  A sighing sound, as of incredulous consternation, went round the girls, and Lesbia turned her eyes on them.

  “Now which of you is acting in accordance with her real convictions? Or is ‘acting’ the right word in another sense? Do you really feel such an objection to being educated, Gwendolen?”

  “Yes, Miss Firebrace.”

  “Do you, Esther?”

  “Well, Miss Firebrace, it is not the pleasantest part of the year, and it is two-thirds of it.”

  “And you, Verity?”

  “Well, I do not agree that our schooldays are the happiest time of our life, Miss Firebrace. Or anyhow I hope they are not.”

  “Neither do I agree, Verity. I hope that will not be the case. I hope there are fuller and more useful—yes, more useful, Verity—times ahead of you, more useful to other people. But the foundations of them have to be laid. I should have thought you were old enough to realise that. We may not always be enough in ourselves to come to our own fulfilment without help.”

  “I don’t expect people ever realise that the times they are living are foundations of other times,” said Clemence.

  Miss Laurence and Miss Marathon smiled towards her, welcoming her entry into the talk, faintly deprecating any advance upon the freedom of it.

  Lesbia remained grave.

  “We must beware of presenting ourselves according to some rule of our own, and not in our true colours,” she said, as she rose from her seat. “That is at best a mere lip-service to convention.”

  There was silence, and Miss Laurence and Miss Marathon raised their eyes.

  “And at its worst a simple acting for effect,” said Lesbia, leaving the table.

  Her partners looked at their pupils almost in sympathy for the consequences of their heedlessness.