The Present and the Past

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

  ‘It is a mole’s funeral,’ said Henry. ‘A mole is not a human being.’

  ‘It is the confusion between them that is my point.’

  ‘That is only in your own mind. It has not been in anyone else’s.’

  ‘What is that writing?’ said Cassius, indicating a piece of cardboard on the grave, and stepping near to it.

  ‘“My name is Mole.

  I lie here buried deep.

  I rest beneath this scroll

  And fold my hands in everlasting sleep.”

  Who wrote that?’

  ‘I did,’ said Megan.

  ‘What is its purpose?’

  ‘It is the inscription on the grave.’

  ‘Well, why not put it there openly?’

  ‘I did. I have just done it.’

  ‘There seemed to be something surreptitious about it.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything,’ said Henry.

  ‘People can’t be very open about poems,’ said Guy, with a flush. ‘Anyone who is a poet knows that.’

  ‘And you are a poet?’ said his father.

  ‘Not as good a one as Megan.’

  ‘Who helped you?’ said Cassius to the latter.

  ‘No one. Guy printed the words.’

  ‘So yours was the secondary part,’ said Cassius to his son. ‘It is a strange game.’

  ‘You seemed to think it was not a game,’ said Henry.

  ‘And so did all of you. You were as solemn as mutes over it. No wonder Toby was in a state of confusion.’

  ‘He was in a state of bliss,’ said Flavia, ‘the rare bliss of self-fulfilment. We will not grudge it to him. It will not come too often.’

  ‘Grudge it?’ said her husband, drawing his brows together. ‘Who would grudge anyone anything? What a strange idea!’

  ‘It is a very good poem for so young a child. And Guy has printed it beautifully.’

  ‘It is your own child who has done the intellectual part.’

  ‘As it happens on this occasion. It might not on another.’

  ‘Then would you draw so much attention to it?’

  ‘It was you who did that. No one else would have done so.’

  ‘That is what I thought. It seemed to be somehow surreptitious.’

  ‘It was quite open. That is how you came to see it.’

  ‘“My name is Mole”,’ said Cassius, turning again to the grave. ‘I might as well say “My name is Man”.’

  ‘The mole had no name of its own,’ said Henry. ‘It couldn’t be done as it would for a person.’

  Cassius repeated the lines to himself.

  ‘Again,’ said Toby, arrested by them.

  Cassius repeated them, and Toby listened in enjoyment.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘No, no. I can’t keep on saying them.’

  ‘Again,’ said Toby, with ominous urgency.

  Flavia repeated the lines, and the task was taken up by Bennet, as she carried Toby away. When her memory failed, Toby was able to correct her.

  ‘“My name is Joy”,’ said Cassius, frowning to himself. ‘I seem to remember something of the kind, something by some poet.’

  ‘Megan was not copying anything,’ said Guy. ‘She wrote the poem out of her head.’

  ‘Ah, ha!’ said his father. ‘So it was out of someone else’s, and I daresay the better for that. ‘I thought it was rather professional somehow; it struck me at once. And then it touched a chord of memory. I am not much of a hand at poetry, but I was equal to that. It came on me all in a flash.’

  ‘It may be an echo,’ said Flavia, ‘but it was probably unconscious. And it is a small matter.’

  ‘Well, we may as well be clear about these things. It is as well to take advantage of what we read and remember. I recognized it in a moment. I was not in a second’s doubt.’

  ‘Now has no one any sense of time,’ said Miss Ridley, approaching with an even tread. ‘And does no one hear a bell? And has no one any desire for tea?’

  ‘I heard the bell a long time ago,’ said Cassius.

  ‘Then why did you not say so?’ said his wife.

  ‘Well, why should I think everyone else was deaf?’

  ‘I wish you were my pupil, Mr Clare,’ said Miss Ridley, causing Henry and Megan to exchange a glance. ‘We seem to be in a class by ourselves.’

  ‘So you read poetry with them, Miss Ridley,’ said Cassius, certainly using a tone of fellow-feeling. ‘I daresay it is a good thing to do. I have read some poetry myself and remember it.’

  ‘Are you clairvoyant, Mr Clare, that you can tell what I do by looking at me?’

  Cassius betrayed that he did not judge her by this method, by motioning her towards the grave.

  ‘Why, there is original work on foot. Now to whom do we owe this?’

  ‘To Megan,’ said Henry.

  ‘Well, well, we will not say to whom we owe it,’ said Cassius. ‘And I forget the name of the poet myself. It is the verse that I remember.’

  ‘Why, it is very nice, Megan,’ said Miss Ridley. ‘It is at once true and imaginative, and the lettering is very neat. Well, I think it is a fortunate mole to have such a funeral.’

  ‘You know it is not,’ said Henry.

  ‘Guy printed it,’ said Megan.

  ‘And who imagined it?’ said her father, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Well, we won’t worry about that. There is no end to the mole’s good fortune.’

  ‘Mr Clare, I should suspect you of sardonic intention, if I thought it was in character,’ said Miss Ridley. ‘Now there is the bell again, and I saw Toby being carried in some time ago. He was having some verses said to him. It seems that poetry is in the air.’

  ‘It was Megan’s poetry,’ said Henry.

  ‘There, you see, Megan, your work is already of use. You can go to bed tonight, knowing you have produced something that exists outside yourself. That is a great thing to feel.’

  ‘You have prevented her going to bed with different feelings,’ said Fabian, as he followed the governess.

  ‘Why are people’s feelings so intense when they are going to bed?’ said Flavia. ‘You would think they would be dying down.’

  ‘You might have said more to encourage Megan in her poetic efforts,’ said Cassius.

  ‘Do you mean you set me the example? What a speech to come from you!’

  ‘Not at all. You were in a position to praise her; I was not. I knew where the poem came; you took it as original. And Megan might have had the advantage of it. Children are sensitive about such things.’

  ‘You have forestalled what you deserve, but that shows you know you deserve it.’

  ‘Shall we leave this thing?’ said her husband, with a gesture towards the inscription. ‘Or would it be fairer to everyone to get rid of it?’

  ‘What do you think yourself?’

  Cassius glanced at it again, and as if thinking better of taking any trouble, lifted his shoulders and turned away. He gained on the children and Miss Ridley and walked behind them.

  ‘Is Father happy?’ said Guy.

  ‘He is often satisfied,’ said Megan. ‘You can see him having the satisfaction.’

  ‘There is a great deal about grown-up people that children cannot understand,’ said Miss Ridley.

  ‘And a great deal that they can,’ said Fabian. ‘That is where the danger lies.’

  ‘I don’t think there is much to understand about Father,’ said Megan. ‘When he is unhappy himself, he wants other people to be.’

  ‘You cannot judge human beings as simply as that,’ said Miss Ridley. ‘They are complex creatures with many conflicting qualities.’

  ‘Ah, your father never wants you to be unhappy, my little one,’ said Cassius, quickening his pace. ‘It is true that he is sometimes unhappy and uncertain, but he never wants to hurt his children. And it was a beautiful poem; it has made him proud of you. And if it shows you read poetry yourself, he is even prouder. But he has his own troubles. You must not expect him always to hide it. M
iss Ridley is right that we have different qualities.’

  ‘I think there is generally one chief one,’ said Megan.

  ‘Well, tell us the chief ones of the people you know,’ said Miss Ridley, in an easy tone.

  ‘Yours is wanting to learn all you can, as long as you do what is right. Bennet’s is kindness; I think that is the best. Mater’s is fairness to everyone and a sort of cleverness in herself. Fabian’s is anger because he hasn’t his real mother. I don’t think Guy has his yet. Toby’s is wanting the best of things for himself, and I think it always will be.’

  ‘And what is Megan’s?’ said Cassius. ‘A power of insight into the human heart?’

  ‘There was a lot that was true in what she said,’ said Henry. ‘And none of them is really a happy quality.’

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ said his father.

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, meeting his eyes. ‘That is what ought to be said. But people don’t like you to say it.’

  ‘If they did, they would get a good deal of pleasure from you. As it is, they get something else. There is not so much difference between you and me, if what you think of me is true.’

  ‘You should not have heard what we said.’

  ‘Of course I should. It was my duty to hear it. A father has to know his children, in order to make his plans for them. I shall have to think of mine for you.’

  ‘You are threatening to take revenge.’

  ‘Revenge? On whom and for what?’ said Cassius, throwing up his brows. ‘Oh, you are the object for it, are you?’

  ‘Now come indoors,’ said Miss Ridley. ‘You are too fond of the sound of your own voices. It seems that this afternoon will never end.’

  When Henry and Megan entered the nursery, their faces cleared at the sight that met them. Bennet and Eliza were seated at the table, and Toby, in his chair and reconciled to the position, was murmuring in a satisfied way to himself.

  ‘Ashes and ashes. Dust and dust. Poor little mole have dear little hands! Smaller than Toby’s; very small hands. Poor mole buried very deep. But very nice box and wake up again tomorrow. William come to church; yes, poor William! Bennet give Toby some first. Not Megan; Toby!’

  His voice rose to a shriek and Bennet supplied him at once, an order of precedence that his brother and sister did not question.

  Chapter 4

  AINGER strode across the kitchen and pulled his chair from the table.

  ‘Well, we have reached a parting of the ways. There is to be a crossing of our threshold.’

  ‘In what shape?’ said the upper housemaid.

  ‘Ah, Kate, that is asking a question.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Mrs Frost, the cook.

  ‘And do you expect me to answer it?’ said Ainger, leaning back.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Frost.

  ‘Well, I will not disappoint you. I will specify the shape, as Kate expresses it. It is to be that of the former mistress.’

  ‘So she is to be allowed access?’ said Kate.

  ‘That is the word,’ said Ainger, in sympathy with it.

  ‘And what a word!’ said the general man, finding himself less so. ‘So this is what education does for you.’

  ‘It might have done more for us,’ said Kate’s assistant. ‘We might be in houses of our own.’

  ‘The damp and cramp would be your own too,’ said Halliday. ‘They wouldn’t be anyone else’s. Look at Mrs Frost, presiding at her table as if she were under her own roof.’

  ‘Must you look at me?’ said the latter, with her eyes down.

  Mrs Frost was a short woman of fifty-eight, with a figure that expanded from shoulders to hips, a flat-featured, ruddy face, and large, shallow-set, hazel eyes, that seemed to fall before they revealed their expression. Thomas Halliday was a lean, wiry man over sixty, with a long, scraggy neck, cheeks at once leathery and pendulous, indignant, greenish eyes and a habit of throwing back his head in token of disgust. He had been in the household for nearly fifty years, and had advanced from page-boy to general man and advanced no further. There was something about him that disqualified him for personal attendance on the family. Mrs Frost had been asked if she knew what it was, and had replied simply that she did.

  ‘Your place was given you out of esteem for your parents,’ he said to the under-housemaid. ‘You were fortunate to get it.’

  ‘But was it a mark of esteem for me?’ said Madge.

  ‘Esteem may come,’ said Ainger. ‘Personally I have no complaint.’

  ‘And the family did not know you apart from any other lad.’

  ‘They did not, Halliday. But they know me now. I think they would say so.’ Ainger leant back in his chair and threw one leg over the other in the manner of his master.

  ‘I am content to be what I am,’ said Halliday. Would not you say the same, Mrs Frost?’

  ‘No,’ said the latter.

  ‘And a contented mind is a continual feast.’

  ‘And the only feast you will get,’ said Madge. ‘So it is as well to be satisfied with it.’

  ‘A continual feast,’ murmured Mrs Frost, glancing at the stove behind her. ‘I should have a contented mind.’

  ‘What more do I want?’ said Halliday.

  ‘You don’t want anything more,’ said Madge. ‘That may be why you don’t have it.’

  ‘What better work is there than ours? What kind is more respectable or accorded more respect?’

  ‘Most kinds,’ said Mrs Frost.

  ‘What kind accords more respect to other people?’ said Madge.

  ‘I do not grudge it,’ said Ainger. ‘If you think I do, you mistake my attitude.’

  Madge gave a laugh that seemed to be meant to be heard, and turned her eyes about her. Her large, blue eyes and full-coloured face seemed more insistent than herself, and she was more aware of them. Her figure was short and ungainly, but of this she did not allow herself to be aware. Her superior had a tall, trim form, small, in consistent features, small, round, dark eyes and an air of general acceptance of things. Madge was thirty and Kate forty-six, and both looked about their age. They were companions rather than friends, and would have parted without distress.

  ‘Well, has the master one wife or two?’ said Madge. ‘It seems that the higher you are, the more you can have. Solomon had hundreds.’

  ‘And was said to be the wisest man,’ said Kate, in a serious tone. ‘But I doubt if the master is wise in transcending the number.’

  ‘The higher you are, the more you can have of a good many things,’ said Ainger.

  ‘Always wanting more, more, more!’ said Halliday.

  ‘I cannot imagine you a wife, Mrs Frost,’ said Kate.

  ‘Neither can I.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever been one?’

  ‘You can see what I have been.’

  ‘Are you ashamed of not being one?’ said Madge, laughing.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Frost.

  ‘Mr Halliday ought to propose to you.’

  ‘Are you sure he has not done so, Mrs Frost?’ said Ainger. ‘Your secret would be safe with me.’

  A boy of fourteen entered the room, came to his seat and began at once to eat, as though to cover some consciousness.

  ‘Well, Simon,’ said Halliday, without expression.

  ‘Well, my lad,’ said Ainger, with one of authority and threat.

  ‘He has put on his page’s suit,’ said Madge, in a tone of mild excitement.

  ‘How long is it since you discarded it, Mr Ainger?’ said Kate. ‘The very same suit, if I remember.’

  ‘You do remember,’ said Mrs Frost.

  ‘Twenty-four years,’ said Ainger. ‘Ten years before the boy was born.’

  ‘So the world was prepared for his entry,’ said Kate, sighing.

  ‘He has polished the buttons!’ said Madge.

  ‘The only improvement he could make,’ said Ainger. ‘And 1 never thought it was one. It drew attention to the garb.’

  ‘It is comical,’ said Kate, in acquiescence.
‘But it suits Simon better than it did you. He looks more at home in it.’

  ‘That is what he is. He is born and bred for what it indicates.’

  ‘And what were you born and bred for?’ said Halliday.

  ‘I was bred for that, Halliday. I make no secret of it. I was born for something else, and I can feel I have attained it.’

  ‘Put into words what you have attained.’

  ‘Ah, it is difficult to do that for you, Halliday,’ said Ainger, leaning back with an appraising eye on his colleague.

  ‘Simon left school yesterday,’ said Madge.

  ‘It is not very difficult to leave something off,’ said Kate.

  ‘Did he find that knowledge was power?’ said Mrs Frost.

  ‘Money is power,’ said Simon. ‘And you get money by working.’

  ‘Not much for your kind of work,’ said Ainger.

  ‘It is the same kind as yours.’

  ‘Now remember this,’ said Ainger, leaning towards him. ‘You know nothing about my kind of work, and will always know nothing. It is hidden from your eyes.’

  ‘And from a good many people’s,’ said Halliday.

  ‘When Mr Ainger rises further,’ said Madge, ‘we shall remember that we sat at the same table with him in his humble days.’

  ‘And he will remember your doing so, Madge,’ said Ainger.

  ‘Will he return to claim one of us?’ said Mrs Frost.

  Madge looked towards the window with wide eyes.

  ‘Whomever I married,’ said Kate, ‘I should not forget my early associates.’

  ‘You would be too weighed down and worried to remember anything,’ said Halliday. ‘You are better as you are.’

  ‘Talking of marriages,’ said Kate, ‘the master’s situation invites inquiry.’

  ‘I can meet it,’ said Ainger. ‘I have his confidence. He feels that a mother’s feelings command respect. I am a confidential servant.’

  ‘For what that is worth,’ said Halliday.

  ‘It is worth something to the rest of us,’ said Madge, ‘as we are the other kind.’

  ‘Everyone is a servant in his way,’ said Halliday. ‘There is no essential difference.’

  ‘Only an actual one,’ said Mrs Frost.

  ‘It is hard to see how anyone in Mr Ainger’s situation can rise higher,’ said Kate. ‘If there was any method, we might all resort to it.’