Parents and Children

  Ivy COMPTON-BURNETT

  PARENTS AND CHILDREN

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter 1

  ‘I Suppose my thoughts are nothing to be proud of,’ said Eleanor Sullivan.

  ‘Then they are different from the rest of you, I am sure, dear.’

  ‘I always mean what I say, Fulbert.’

  Mr Sullivan did not make the protest of himself.

  ‘If you reveal the thoughts, I will give them my attention,’ he said, leaning back and folding his arms with this purpose.

  ‘It is the old grievance of spending my best years in your parents’ home.’

  ‘It would be worse not to spend them in a home of any kind.’

  ‘You must turn everything into a joke, of course.’

  ‘I should be hard put to it to manage it with that. You would have a right to your long face.’

  ‘We should do better in a cottage of our own, than as guests in this great house.’

  ‘No chance of it with nine children. The cottage would not contain them. And I am not a guest: I am a son of the house.’

  Fulbert uttered the words with an expression of his own, as if the position were a rather surprising one. He had a tendency to unction in speaking of himself, and the death of an elder brother had given him a place to which he had not been born.

  ‘And what am I?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘The son’s wife and the mother of his children,’ said her husband, completing his picture.

  ‘That is what I am. And it is not so very little. But if you are to go abroad, I shall have to be a good deal more.’

  ‘That will be enough. The family can get along on it.’

  ‘Is it necessary that you should go?’

  ‘The old man insists upon it.’

  ‘Is that the same thing?’

  ‘Under this roof, my dear, as you give signs of knowing.’

  ‘Your father believes in his divine right.’

  ‘Well, there is a certain reason in it. His position will pass to others in their turn.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can go beyond you. The money will come to an end. This place is not part of the essential order of things. And though it is your old home, it is not mine.’

  ‘Where your treasure is, there must your heart be also,’ said Fulbert, in his deliberate, strident tones.

  ‘That is true. No woman is more fundamentally satisfied.’

  ‘Well, the deepest experience is known to be hidden, my dear.’

  ‘I may be a murmuring woman. But I shall not feel the house is my home while your parents are alive. And that is not a generous thought.’

  ‘It has no claim to be,’ said Fulbert, throwing up his voice.

  ‘I must try to conquer myself,’ said his wife, with the sigh natural to this purpose.

  ‘As you only have your own power to do it with, it sounds as if it would be an equal struggle.’

  ‘Heaven helps those who help themselves.’

  ‘It sounds grudging of Heaven to stipulate for its work to be done for it.’

  It would have been clear to an observer at this point that Eleanor held the accepted religious beliefs, and that her husband held none.

  ‘I wish you would not take that tone, Fulbert. It shows me how poor my example is.’

  ‘Well, you have not been recommending it, my dear.’

  ‘I know you do not like me to talk of my religion.’

  ‘People are not at their best, doing that, and it is wise to accept that as the truth.’

  ‘I suppose actions speak louder than words.’

  ‘I find no fault with silence.’

  Eleanor followed the hint and changed her tone.

  ‘This is an odd little room to give us for ourselves.’

  ‘Not according to your preference for a cottage.’

  ‘If we live in this house, we may as well have the benefit of it.’

  ‘The dozen rooms allotted to us upstairs constitute our advantage,’ said Fulbert, spacing his words as if they had a certain merit.

  ‘I still think we might be happier, living on our own small income.’

  ‘A family as large as ours is nothing under such conditions.’

  ‘After all, our children are your parents’ grandchildren.’

  ‘That is their claim upon them, which is fortunately recognized.’

  ‘You think you have a clever tongue, Fulbert.’

  ‘You have hinted at advantages of your own, my dear.’

  ‘I do not dispute it. I only meant you were conscious of it.’

  ‘I have yet to meet the man unaware of his endowments. I have met many a one sensible of some that are not his.’

  ‘And to which class do you belong?’

  Fulbert rested his eyes in quizzical acceptance on his wife. His reasons for not mentioning women in connexion with endowments was not that he thought they would not have them, but that he saw little connexion between such things and their lives. He had a full respect for the woman’s sphere, but was glad it was not his own. It seemed to him that his peculiar attributes would have little exercise in it.

  ‘I must not make claims if I do not live up to them,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Not if you want them recognized.’

  ‘I wish there were a little more sympathy and warmth about you, Fulbert.’

  ‘I wish you had a husband after your own heart, my dear.’

  Fulbert Sullivan was a spare, muscular man of fifty, with a sort of springy quality going through his frame, which gave him a suggestion of controlling superfluous force. As he was a man of considerable vigour and no less leisure, this may have been the case. The suggestion of pent-up energy appeared in his narrow, near-set eyes, in his long, unmodelled lips, and even in his solid brow and nose and chin. His strong, metallic voice had a sudden rise and fall, and his manner might have been self-conscious, if its deliberate confidence had been less real. There was a suggestion about him of being prepared to be criticized at sight, and of meeting the attitude with unprejudiced and rallying igoodwill. His wife was a tall, angular woman of forty-eight, with large, pale grey eyes, a narrow, shapely head, a serious, honest, somewhat equine face, and a nervous, uneasy, controlled expression. Her long, gentle hands and long, easy stride and deep, unaffected voice seemed less essential to her, than such attributes to other people. To those who knew her, all her physical qualities seemed to be accidental. To a stranger she gave the impression of being indefinite in colour, but very definite in everything else.

  ‘Mother,’ said a voice at the door, ‘can you bear with Graham for a moment? I am allowing him a break from work and there is no service that I require of him.’

  A youth led another into the room, deposited him in a chair and remained with his hands on his collar. Eleanor surveyed the pair as if the situation were familiar, and Fulbert watched with lively vigilance.

  The occupant of the seat leaned back with an almost obliging air. He was a tall, bony youth of twenty-one, with head and hands and feet too heavy for his yielding frame, prominent, pale, absent eyes, and features that were between the fine and the ungainly. He had a deep, jerky voice and a laugh that was without mirth, as was perhaps natural, as he was continually called upon to exercise it at his own expense. His brother, who was older by a year, resembled Eleanor except for his weight and breadth, and for a widening and shortening of the face, which resulted in a
look of greater power. He had a ready smile and an air of having the wisdom to find content in his lot. Eleanor surveyed her sons with affection, sympathy and interest, but with singularly little pride.

  ‘What ought you both to be doing? Are you not wasting your time?’

  ‘It is one of his worse days, Mother,’ said the elder son. ‘But a mother’s words may succeed when all else fails. And I can only say that it has failed.’

  Graham turned his eyes to Eleanor in automatic response.

  ‘Do you never take a holiday?’ said Fulbert, his eyes seeming to be riveted to his sons.

  ‘Their grandfather likes them to work in the morning, when they are not at Cambridge,’ said his wife.

  ‘Graham, how do you fulfil that trust?’ said Daniel. ‘Think of that old man’s faith in you.’

  ‘I believe it has not struck me,’ said Fulbert, with a laugh. ‘I wonder what will be the end of all this poring over books.’

  ‘Some sort of self-support,’ said Daniel. ‘Or that is accepted.’

  ‘You can’t both be ushers in a school.’

  ‘It is good to know that,’ said Graham.

  ‘There are good posts in the scholastic world,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Many more poor ones, my dear,’ said her husband.

  ‘I can imagine myself that accepted butt, a poor schoolmaster,’ said Graham.

  “When land is gone and money spent,

  Then learning is most excellent,”

  said Fulbert, as if the quotation put the matter on its final basis.

  ‘I wish we could follow in your steps, Father,’ said Daniel.

  ‘In what way, my boy?’ said Fulbert, with his eyes alight.

  ‘You toil not, neither do you spin.’

  ‘Your father worked hard as a young man,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘I did the work I could get, my dear. That was not often the word.’

  ‘Success at the Bar is always some time in coming.’

  ‘And in your servant’s case it delayed too long.’

  ‘You lost your patience too soon.’

  ‘I kept it for a good many years, though patience is not my point,’ said Fulbert, speaking as though he would hardly feel more self-esteem, if it were.

  ‘It may have been the wisest thing to give up hope.’

  ‘It was the only thing. My income did not meet my expenses, and my family was increasing them.’

  ‘I do not mind a little pinching and scraping to keep out of debt.’

  ‘It did not secure the end. And it has little advantage in itself.’

  ‘Father,’ said a new voice at Fulbert’s elbow, where his daughter had been standing in silence for a time, ‘we should remember that Mother’s income went on our needs in those days. It is not fair to forget the source of so much of what we had.’

  ‘And who is going to do so?’ said Fulbert, turning with amused and tolerant eyes.

  ‘No one while I am here, Father. And it seemed to me that a reminder was needed.’

  Fulbert jumped to his feet, took his daughter’s face in both his hands and implanted a kiss upon it, and then threw himself back in his chair as if he had disposed of the matter.

  Lucia Sullivan was two years older than her brother Daniel. She was in appearance a cross between her parents, but was shorter and rounder in build, with more colour in her eyes and skin and a more lightly chiselled face. There was something solemn and almost wondering in her large, steady, hazel eyes, as if the world struck her as an arresting and impressive place. Her voice was full and deliberate; her lips moved more than other people’s; and her eyes seldom left the face of the person she addressed.

  ‘Father,’ she said, with these attributes in evidence, ‘Grandpa is by himself in the library. Grandma is doing the housekeeping. Ought he to be alone?’

  ‘He can join us at his pleasure.’

  ‘He never comes into this room, Father. He leaves it to you and Mother. He always waits to be asked.’

  ‘If I reward his delicacy by joining him, I do not see what I gain.’

  ‘I hardly agree with you there, Father. I can’t feel it would be the same thing, if he came in and out at will It is the intangibility of the distinction that gives it its point.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that is why it escapes me,’ said Fulbert, remaining in his chair, and then suddenly springing to his feet and running to the door.

  Lucia looked after him and quietly turned to her mother.

  ‘Mother, I don’t think Father much liked my saying that about your money. But it did seem a fair point to make. I should not have been at ease with myself, if I had not said it.’

  ‘It was a case for Father’s being sacrificed,’ said Daniel.

  ‘No, boys,’ said Luce, turning calm, full eyes on her brothers. ‘Dealt with as a normal, intelligent being. It is how I should wish to be treated myself.’

  ‘I should like all allowance to be made for me,’ said Graham, with his eyes on the window.

  ‘It is a good thing the boy is not embarrassed by the necessity,’ said Daniel.

  Luce threw a swift look at Graham and turned again to Eleanor.

  ‘Mother, there is another little doubt. Was it a welcome reminder about Grandpa? Or quite well received? But I do not feel it right for him to be too much alone.’

  ‘Your father agreed with you, my dear. He has gone to be with him.’

  Eleanor spoke with natural simplicity. She had the power of esteeming people for their qualities, and as Lucia had honesty and kindliness, she valued her for these. Moreover her daughter had the gift of appreciation, and used it especially upon herself. Many people were put out of countenance by her dramatization of daily things, but Eleanor was affected in this way by few things that were innocent.

  ‘Luce, you might make an effort with Graham,’ said Daniel. ‘A sister’s influence may do much.’

  ‘Mother is here, Daniel,’ said Luce, with quiet emphasis.

  Graham’s face did not change.

  ‘Will you be able to look at your grandfather and say you have done a morning’s work?’ said Eleanor to her sons, in an almost sardonic manner.

  ‘I acquired the accomplishment years ago,’ said Graham, absently.

  ‘Was there a hesitation in the lad, in spite of those hardened words?’ said Daniel. ‘Where there is any sign of feeling, there is hope.’

  ‘I shall not support you in what is not true,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘So our mother will fail us,’ said Graham, in the same absent tone.

  ‘Both of you away to your books,’ said Luce, making a driving movement. ‘I want to have a talk with Mother.’

  Daniel led his brother from the room, while his sister looked on with gentle, dubious eyes.

  ‘Mother, do you think it is good for Graham to be teased and made a butt? Because I really do not feel it is.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it does him much harm. He could stop it if he liked. He gives no sign of minding.’

  ‘But, Mother, could he stop it? And don’t you think that things may hurt all the more, that they are allowed no outlet?’

  ‘I hardly think he seems to need any sympathy.’

  ‘Mother, do you think you are right?’ said Luce, sitting on the arm of Eleanor’s chair. ‘Don’t you think there are feelings that shrink and shiver away from the touch, just because they are so alive and deep?’

  ‘There may be, but those of boys would not often be among them.’

  ‘Mother, I believe a boy is a very sensitive thing. Almost more so in some ways than a girl.’

  ‘The sensitiveness of both is generally a form of self-consciousness. It does not relate to other people.’

  ‘But may not a thing that relates to oneself be very real and tormenting? The more so for that?’

  ‘No doubt, but that is not a reason for fostering it.’

  ‘Don’t you think that withholding sympathy may cause it to crystallize into something very hard and deep?’

  ‘They seem to pr
efer it to be withheld.’

  Luce went into slow laughter, with her eyes on her mother in rueful appreciation.

  ‘Mother, you and I are very near to each other,’ she said in a moment. ‘I always feel it a tragic thing when a mother and daughter are separate. And yet I suppose it is common.’

  ‘I wonder if I shall get on as well with my other daughters.’

  ‘You know, I think you will, Mother,’ said Luce, swinging to and fro on her chair, with her eyes turned upwards. ‘I think there is nothing in you that would repel the young, or send them shuddering into themselves.’

  ‘This youthful sensitiveness seems a problem,’ said Eleanor, rising. ‘I cannot say how far I am equipped to cope with it.’

  ‘I think you are qualified, Mother,’ said Luce, looking dreamily after her. ‘I should think there is that in you, that will carry you through.’

  ‘Your grandmother has gone into the drawing-room,’ said Eleanor, leaving the subject. ‘Perhaps we had better follow her.’

  ‘Do you know, Mother, you have quicker ears than I have?’ said Luce, remaining where she was. ‘I had not heard Grandma. As far as I am concerned, she might still be at her duties.’

  ‘She never takes more than an hour.’

  ‘I had not noticed that either, Mother,’ said Luce, slipping off the chair. ‘I had no idea of the time she needed. You are a sharper person than I am, more alert to our little, everyday attributes. And yet I do not think I am indifferent to people, or blunt to their demands.’

  ‘Your grandmother would not say so.’

  ‘I think she depends on me, Mother,’ said Luce, taking Eleanor’s arm. ‘And as long as she does, I hold myself at her service. It makes me dependent on her in a way. Well, Grandma dear, so you have finished your duties for the day.’

  Lady Sullivan appeared unconcerned by this limit placed to her usefulness. She was sitting in the chair on the hearth, where she sat throughout the year, as though her comfort depended alternately on a full grate and an empty one. She was a portly, almost cumbrous woman of seventy-six, with a broad, exposed brow, features resembling her son’s under their covering of flesh, pale, protruding eyes that recalled her second grandson’s, large, heavy, sensitive hands, and an expression that varied from fond benevolence to a sort of fierce emotion. Her name of Regan had been chosen by her father, a man of country tastes, and, as it must appear, of no others, who had learned from an article on Shakespeare that his women were people of significance, and decided that his daughter should bear the name of one of them, in accordance with his hopes. When Regan came to a knowledge of her namesake, she observed that the name must have been in use before Shakespeare chose it, or it would not have been a name; and did not reveal the truth to her father, who was not in danger of discovering it. When people said that the name suited her, she accepted the compliment from those who intended one, and smiled on the others, or smiled to herself with regard to them in a manner that preserved them from further risk. So the name brought her no ill result, and a good one at the time of Sir Jesse Sullivan’s approach, when the name in itself and the manner of her support of it determined his desired advance. Regan was a woman who only loved her family. She loved her husband deeply, her children fiercely, her grandchildren fondly, and loved no one else, resenting other people’s lack of the qualities and endearing failings of these. And it meant that she had loved thirteen people, which may be above the average number.