A God and His Gifts

  Ivy Compton-Burnett

  A God and his Gifts

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  A Note on the Author

  Chapter I

  “I will ask you once more. It is the last time. Will you or will you not?”

  “I will not. It is also the last time. It must be the last.”

  “You will not give me your reasons?”

  “I will give you one. You have too much. Your house and your land. Your parents and your sister. Your sister who is also your friend. Your work and your growing name. I like things to be on a moderate scale. To have them in my hands and not be held by them.”

  “That is not the only reason. There must be a deeper one.”

  “There is. And it may be deep. I do not want to marry. I seldom say so, to be disbelieved.”

  “You don’t feel that marriage would mean a fuller life?”

  “I don’t want the things it would be full of. Light words are sometimes true.”

  “Then there must be a change. I do want to marry. I want to have descendants. I want to hand down my name. I could not keep up our relation under a wife’s eyes. It has escaped my parents.”

  “Your father I daresay. What about your mother?”

  “I am not sure. It is hard to know.”

  “It has not escaped her, or you would know. Silence has its use.”

  The speaker’s indifference to convention appeared in her clothes, her cottage, and her habit of looking full at her companion and voicing her thought. She was a short, fair woman of about thirty, with a deep voice, a strongly cut face, and calm eyes that were said to see more than other people’s, and sometimes did. Her companion was a large, dark man, with solid, shapely features, heavy, gentle, nervous hands, strong, sudden movements and a look of smouldering force. He ignored convention in another way, and in one that was his own. A consciousness of being a known and regarded figure showed in his dress and his bearing, and was almost undisguised. The breach of family tradition involved in his leading a writer’s life in addition to a landowner’s, enhanced him in his own eyes and supported his conception of himself.

  “Well, this is a last occasion. It becomes one. It is what you choose.”

  “And what you do. I think you will be happy. And I hope she will. That is where the question lies.”

  “If I marry her, she should be. I will do my part.”

  “It will be easier than hers. I wonder if you know it.”

  “Hers cannot be what yours would be. I am helpless there.”

  “So am I. I am not fitted for an ordinary domestic life.”

  “So I must live with someone who is. And I shall not see the life as ordinary. None is so to me.”

  “How do you see your own life? It is even less so to you?”

  “It is as it is. As I am what I am. I know I am a man of full nature. I know I am built on a large scale. I am not afraid to say it.”

  “It is true that most people would be. If I thought it of myself, I should. So you can’t know if I think it. But do you know anyone who thinks he is built on a small scale?”

  “I know many people who are. It is part of their interest to me.”

  “But not of their interest to themselves. Do they know on what scale they are?”

  “I am to marry someone who is on a moderate one, and who knows it.”

  “Then I guess who it is. There is someone of whom it is true. And there would not be anyone else.”

  “My father perhaps?”

  “But you can hardly marry him, Hereward.”

  “In effect I have done so. We are all wedded to each other. My wife must fit into a human framework. It is a demand I have to make.”

  “And you feel you can make it. You know the woman who is to meet it. You are not in doubt.”

  “I am not. I have my own knowledge of Ada Merton. Her qualities are many. I would not marry a woman I could not depend on and trust. I know I have had my early time. But in her own way she has had hers.”

  “Well, there is the attraction of opposites. Though I never quite believe in it. It is safer to depend on qualities held in common. What will your parents feel about your marriage?”

  “They will be glad to hear of it. They will welcome the thought of grandchildren. It is the natural, usual thing.”

  “What of your sister? There is the touchstone. I will not speak of her scale. We do not question it.”

  “She has always helped me. She will help me now. I have imagined her as your sister. I thought she would be.”

  “But then I should be a sister too. And I have not a sister’s qualities. I don’t even know what they are. No doubt you can tell me.”

  “I can, and they are great ones. I have seen some of them in you.”

  “If you and I were married, think of the scale of our children! With both of us on such a considerable one. A house with such a brood! It could not stand.”

  “It would have stood. But it was not to be. I wonder if you will regret it. People may see you as a disappointed woman.”

  “They will. And I shall wish they knew I was not. I may be on a small scale after all.”

  “You may be, Rosa. You are,” said Hereward with sudden force. “You are content with too little. My wife will have more than you. To have a thing we must accept it. You could be the first person in my life. You choose to be nothing, and it is what you will be. I cannot play a double part.”

  “Not with me. But I should have thought you could. I fear you will, and I think you fear it. I know you, and you know yourself.”

  “I do. I wish I did not. I know the forces within me. I know they may rise up at any time. As you have found, they have sometimes risen. I don’t exhaust them on my work. They are not easily spent. The effort seems to give them strength, to set them free. You have been my safeguard. You could always be.”

  “No, the forces would be there. You are not for the single path.”

  “Rosa, I shall be a good husband.”

  “You may be what you mean by the words.”

  “I will see that Ada finds me what she should.”

  “In time she must find what you are. There is no escape.”

  “Do I not offer a good deal?”

  “What do you ask? Your home is your father’s. She will not be its mistress.”

  “I did not know you considered such things.”

  “I may not. We are not talking of me.”

  “She is a good daughter and sister. She does not ask much for herself.”

  “But now she may ask more. Will she marry to have the same?”

  “She will have what I give her,” said Hereward, again with force. “She will take it and be content. What is the good of your rejecting me yourself, and bringing all this against my marrying someone else? You know the way to prevent it.”

  “There is nothing against your marrying her. There is everything in its favour. I was saying what there was against her marrying you. Does she know what it is?”

  “She knows nothing. She will know nothing. And there may be nothing to know.”

  “Let there be nothing, Hereward. Let there always be nothing. It will help you both. And there are many of you, and there may be more. It will help you all.”

  Chapter II

  “My wife, there may be trouble coming. We will meet it with a brave heart. We have
faced too much together to fail in these our latter days.”

  “What have we faced, Michael? I don’t think I can remember anything.”

  “Ah, Joanna, our home is in danger. This old roof over our heads. It has sheltered our fathers, and may not pass to our son. Hand-in-hand we came in, in our youth and hope. Hand-in-hand we would go out, depending on each other, and the knowledge that we had harmed no one. Ah, no one is the worse for our downfall. That must be our stay. Without it we were poor indeed.”

  “It sounds as if we should be poor with it. And some people must be the worse, if you mean we are in debt.”

  “Ah, debt presses on us, Joanna. And the creditors have no pity. The old words mean nothing to them: ‘Blessed are the merciful’. But our courage will not fail us. If our home passes to other hands, we will witness it, dumb and dry-eyed. If strangers cast on it appraising eyes and utter belittling words, we will stand aside and be silent.”

  “Are they really as bad as that? When the house was in danger before, they said such nice things about it. And about what they would make of it, when it was theirs. I hardly knew its possibilities. I was quite sorry they could not have it.”

  “Well, I was not,” said Sir Michael Egerton. “I was glad we could keep it. Because what would happen to us without it I am at a loss to say. It would be the end of our world.”

  The old house in question was large and beautiful and shabby, but only the last to any unusual degree. It had the appeal of a place where lack of means had prevented the addition of new things, and ensured care of the old. The land about it stretched to a fair distance, and in the past had provided its support.

  “The end of the world never comes. And there are always people who expect it.”

  “Well, it may not come, my wife. Matters may adjust themselves. They have done so before.”

  “I don’t think they have. It has had to be done for them. It will be done for them again. I can’t say that Hereward will do it. It might seem that I was taking it as a matter of course.”

  “I hope we are not, Joanna. I hope we have not sunk so far. What would you say, Galleon? I know you have not missed a word.”

  “Well, Sir Michael,” said the butler, who had not done so, “would it not be giving credit where credit is due?”

  “Rendering to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. Well, I suppose it would. It has come to be our part.”

  “And it must be nice to be Caesar,” said Joanna. “I think Hereward must like it. I am sure I should.”

  “Ah, Joanna, I am forced to lean where once I led. It goes against the grain. It would be at once better and worse to have no dear ones.”

  “For us it would be worse. I don’t know what to say about them. I suppose we are their dear ones. We have to assume we are. Well, they say that all love has its sad side.”

  “Ah, ha, well, I suppose it has. We are looking to them, I admit. Well, we must be worthy of them. We must not bring faint hearts to the stress of life. We must face our indebtedness, shoulder the burden and carry it with us. We will not bend beneath it, heavy in its way though it be. Is not that our own victory?”

  “Yes, it is. We can be sure it would not be anyone else’s.”

  “What would you call it, Galleon?”

  “I can hardly say, Sir Michael.”

  “Ah, the humble part is the hard one. Gratitude is the rare thing to give. In a sense it is a gift. If we can give it, nothing is beyond us. To render it is the way to be unvanquished by it.”

  “It must be difficult to be vanquished,” said Joanna. “I hardly see how anyone could be.”

  “Ah, you can smile to yourself, Galleon. That is always your line. You don’t know the cost of some of the stresses of life. I can only think you have escaped them.”

  “These would hardly arise in my situation, Sir Michael.”

  “They come from things that are common to us all.”

  “It is the degree in which those are held, that is not common to us, Sir Michael. But I have no claim to them. It falls to me to observe them in other hands. And I think there may be news of some of them. The post is here, and, if I am right, a lawyer’s letter. I am familiar with their aspect.”

  “Yes, no doubt you are. And so am I. I am sure I wish I was not. You are right. I wish you were wrong. It is a lawyer’s letter. And from Messrs Blount and Middleman, names that strike a chill to my soul. Middleman! It is the right word. Something between ourselves and human good. Now what a profession to choose! One that brings trouble and anxiety to innocent people. And does little else as far as I can see. Except cause threats and mysteries where there is none. It must be an odd man who wants it. I would rather bring a little peace and goodwill myself. Well, Messrs Blount and Middleman, and what have you to say? Is it my fault that tithes and rents fall, and expenses rise? What have I done to cause it? Nothing but lead a simple life and harm no one. Well, let us read your letter. The courage it needs! I declare I am without it. Strong man that I am, I have not enough to open it.”

  “Perhaps her ladyship could be of help to you, Sir Michael.”

  “No, she could not. I should not ask it of her. I am not a man who talks about the courage of women. It is for a man to show courage himself. So here is the moment. My Joanna, be prepared. It is the last straw that may break us. But we will show our mettle. We come of stock that has it. Come here and read it with me. I can’t put a hand on my glasses.”

  “Your hand happens to be on them, Sir Michael.”

  “Yes, so it does. So I can read it myself. And I don’t care what it is. It cannot be laid to my account.—So the land by the river is sold. The piece that has been on the market. The figures of the sale are here. And the expenses and the agent’s commission. They would not be left out. Come and look at them, Joanna. Figures are out of my line. I have come to be afraid of them. Messrs Blount and the other have frightened me. I shudder at the thought of them.—What? Is that what it is? Money and a real sum of it! Enough to mean something! I don’t know how to believe it. I will not believe it for the time. I will let it soak in. I will savour it. I will have some moments of relief. They do not come too often. Well, if money is the root of all evil, it is the root of other things too. There is no evil here that I can see. This delivers us, Joanna. This opens up our path. Forward can be our watchword. Forward, with heads up, eyes on the future, strong in heart.”

  “If I may say so, Sir Michael, the money is capital, and should be seen and used as such.”

  “Well, you may not say so. Who do you think you are? Messrs Blount and Middleman? One example of them is enough. A douche of cold water is not what we want at the moment. You should know that at your age. A man of forty should be equal to it. And money is money, capital or not. You can’t get away from it.”

  “Is capital exactly money?” said Joanna. “If it was, it could be spent. It is a large amount, that brings in small ones without getting any less. And the small ones are spent; and their being so small leads people into debt. But it seems kind and clever of capital. We should not ask any more.”

  “True, my lady,” said Galleon. “We must not kill the thing we love.”

  “Do I love capital? I suppose I do. It is dreadful to love money. I did not know I did. But capital is so kind to us. I am sure anyone would love it. And it is sad if it is sometimes killed. It makes me love it more.”

  “Well, what I love is a little ease,” said Sir Michael, leaning back as if to enjoy it. “I am a man of sixty, and it is time I had it. And I want it for you as much as for myself. More, of course; I want it chiefly for you. And for all the people in whose debt we are. Ah, I have thought of them, Joanna. My mind has not been only on myself. I have pictured them in want of what was theirs. I have not been blind to their claims. Because what is owed to them is theirs in a way. I have recognised it.”

  “They have recognised it too. You and they seem to be alike. But it seems somehow inconsistent of them. Thinking it is theirs, when it is spent! They seem to love money
as much as I do. And not to be ashamed of it. It makes me quite ashamed for them. They might have behaved nobly, and they have not.”

  “Ah, we do not meet that, Joanna. We must not look for it, my wife. Self is what it is in their minds, self and little else. But they have been in mine. In it and on it, day and night. Sleeping and waking, I have had them in my thought. I have had to hold myself from dwelling on them. It was all I could do.”

  “Well, if you did all you could! It is known that no one can do more.”

  “Well, it is in the past. Our way is clear. My heart sings at the thought. It leaps for them and for ourselves. Let us celebrate it, Joanna. This renews the days when our yoke was easy and our burden light.”

  The pair moved together and executed movements reminiscent of these days, while Galleon’s large, pale eyes surveyed them from his large, pale face, his large, pale, skilful hands perhaps more usefully employed.

  Sir Michael and his wife were both grey-haired and dark-eyed, tall and upright and active for their age. They were distant cousins, and a likeness was sometimes discerned in them. Sir Michael’s broad features had a look of having failed to mature, while Joanna’s, of similar type, were strongly formed and marked with lines of mirth. His hands, inert and solid and somehow kind, seemed a part of himself; and hers, spare and active and also kind, had a life of their own. Their common age of sixty was acknowledged by Joanna openly, and would not have been owned by Sir Michael at all, if his wife could have been depended on.

  “Well, here is a scene,” said their daughter’s voice. “Shall we find ourselves equal to it? We have put away childish things.”

  “Come, it is too soon for such a pose. Come and join your mother and me. Try to be as young as we are. We are celebrating good news. Good for ourselves and others; that is the happy part. Joy for ourselves is not true joy for us. This is the real thing.”

  “Say what has happened,” said Zillah to her mother, as though taking the shortest line to the truth.

  “Some money has fallen in. Some land is sold. We could pay what we owe, if the money was not capital. Or if capital was money, as your father thinks it is. He feels so kindly to creditors. And people so seldom do. I never speak of them myself. It might sound as if we were in debt.”