The Mighty and Their Fall

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

“Thank you, Uncle, I will.”

  “I will not come often at first,” said Ninian.

  “No, you must earn your welcome.”

  “I am Lavinia’s father.”

  “So you are learning it. Come when you have done so.”

  “You talk as if I were a stern father. Lavinia has not been dealt with hardly. She has to learn right from wrong. Indeed she knows it.”

  “There are many kinds of wrong, as has been said.”

  “If Lavinia were your child, you would feel as I do.”

  “We cannot be sure. I hope I should feel as I do now.”

  “Unmarried people’s children are always the best managed.”

  “If that is true, take a lesson from one.”

  “I may come with Egbert to see Lavinia?” said Hugo.

  “Yes, as often as you please.”

  “And I too?” said Teresa.

  “Yes, yes, as often.”

  “I don’t see much good in her leaving home, if she is to be followed by everyone,” said Ninian.

  “Not by everyone,” said Ransom. “And not to her home.”

  “Ransom, I am glad from my heart to welcome you. And grieved to my heart by the news of your health. I hope my girl will be a comfort to you. I may be allowed to say that.”

  “I hope so too. I have thought of it. I shall serve myself.”

  “You will not take a light view of the trouble? It is the last thing for her at this time.”

  “I take none. At this time, as you say. She has her own knowledge of it.”

  “Well, I can do nothing,” said Ninian.

  “No, you have done what you could. We say that no one can do more. And that may be fortunate, considering the conditions under which it is usually said.”

  “You talk in a strange way. Lavinia has been my dearest child.”

  “Has been? What is she? What is she to be? You needed a companion and used her as one. And threw her away when you chose another. It had to lead to something, and it led to this. It means nothing.”

  “Did Miss Starkie tell you all this?”

  “She answered my questions. She did not know what she told me. She is used to teaching with her mind astray”

  “The letters have come, ma’am,” said Ainger at the door, his eyes wavering from Selina to Teresa in an uncertainty he had not resolved. “Will Miss Lavinia sort them?”

  “She is going to stay with Mr. Ransom,” said Ninian. “I will sort them for her. And in future I will do it myself.”

  “What is behind it, Cook?” said Ainger in the hall. “There is something beyond even me.”

  “Well, is your sphere so wide? And complacence occurs as we go downwards.”

  “Then you can look for it in me,” said another voice. “And expect to find it.”

  “I do not look for anything in you, James. The idea not having struck me. And is the hall your place?—And when I speak, I await reply.”

  “You didn’t speak to me.”

  “Oh, there is this trouble with the name, Cook,” said Ainger, idly. “He is one thing to himself and another to everyone else.”

  “I am myself and no other person,” said James, with a heat the words hardly seemed to warrant.

  “And is it so much to be?” said Cook. “That you claim it in the face of everything? The self you refer to is known as James, to those who are aware of it.”

  “I am myself and not the last boy.”

  “It is a good thing you are not both. But whichever you are, you hear who speaks,” said Ainger, perhaps hardly avoiding the resented confusion.

  “Yes,” said James, more faintly, glancing at Cook.

  “Yes—?”

  “Yes, sir,” said James, as he disappeared.

  “Not a penny of mine for his thoughts,” said Ainger. “They are not worth it.”

  “They are hardly my concern, his actions happening to suffice.”

  “But I am glad I am not under anyone.”

  “We are all under Someone, Ainger. I am myself,” said Cook, in full humility.

  “Are you indeed? Is it a piece of news? You would hardly be the Someone, I suppose?”

  “I should not,” said Cook, gravely. “You are right to suppose it. It not being a matter for doubt.”

  “I sometimes wonder how much doubt you have of it.”

  “I am silent, Ainger, the words not calling for reply.”

  The speakers moved aside, as Lavinia came downstairs, and Selina and her sons and grandson entered the hall. Ninian’s glance went to his daughter’s coat, swept over the pocket and withdrew. Hugo and Egbert followed it and dropped their eyes.

  “Good-bye, my child,” said Selina. “Be careful of yourself and my son. I am glad to feel you are with him.”

  “Good-bye, my daughter,” said Ninian, stooping to her gravely and saying no more.

  “I will not say good-bye,” said Teresa. “I shall see you too soon.”

  “Anyone can see her, who wants to do that,” said Ransom.

  The uncle and niece went together from the house, seeming in their different ways to lean on each other. Ninian waited for the carriage to start, and turned away. Selina sat down in the hall and sank into tears.

  “What is it, Mother?” said her son.

  “So you need to ask? You cannot need to know.”

  “It is Ransom. But we hope for the best. Anyhow you have seen him again.”

  “When I might have had him always! How little I have had! How little!”

  Ninian led her away and the others followed them.

  “If anything else happens,” said Egbert, “I shall not be conscious of it. I can’t be alive to any more. But I hardly think anything can. It has all done so.”

  “We must take our courage in both hands. If we take it in one, perhaps we cannot use it. There are still things to come. Ransom will die; Lavinia will return; your father will sort the letters. There will only be one change from the past, but what a change!”

  Selina sat down on a lower chair than usual, looking smaller than usual herself. She spoke as if continuing her words.

  “I had rather he was well and away from me, than with me and near to his death. He is to lose everything. Others will have what is his. They will have what he has worked for. And they would rather have it than him. Their thought is on themselves.”

  “It is on their home and mine, as his has been,” said Ninian. “It is his wish that we should have it, and our descendants after us. Not to welcome it would show ingratitude, and be unworthy of us and him.”

  “Yes, you may be grateful. You must be. You will have everything and he will have nothing. And I shall not have my son.”

  “You have hardly had him for many years,” said Hugo.

  “As much as I have had you. I have looked for his letters and thought of him. And it is everything to hope.”

  “And you have valued him for his absence,” said Ninian. “You have imagined him more than himself. That is why his presence has failed you.”

  Selina turned away and sank into herself and silence.

  “So your future is safe, Ninian,” said Hugo. “Ransom is your benefactor, and you are humbled before him. But your mother would humble you too far.”

  “She may exalt him as much as she pleases,” said Ninian, in a rising tone. “A great burden is lifted off me, a threat from the lands of my fathers. I have lived alone with the anxiety. I will share the relief. As I realise it, I grudge him nothing. I grudge myself what I shall have, that should be his. I grudge myself my very gratitude. But it comes from my heart. I hope I shall be able to show it.”

  “I am sure you will. You seem to have a gift for it. And it is a rare one.”

  “How seldom people really rejoice!” said Egbert. “There is usually an alloy.”

  “There is one here,” said Ninian gravely. “It is nearer to me than to you. But my brother knows we would help it, if we could; that we will, if we can. And he will see the good that is to come. I will not disguis
e my debt.”

  “Debts do meet another fate. But will he be content with the reward?”

  “He will not deem it nothing. It is what he chose of what could be his.”

  “He may feel that nothing can be his. Most people would in his place.”

  “You are not my friend, my boy,” said Ninian, looking at him. “But it is your future in my mind as much as my own. Yours and your children’s children’s. I must not see you as a friend, but I am your father.”

  There was a pause.

  “I can only wish I could bear this moment for you, Egbert,” said Hugo.

  “Yes, I take less thought for my descendants than their great-grandfather does.”

  “Yes, turn it off easily,” said Ninian. “It is the thing to do. But I meant what I said.”

  “That is why it was so awkward,” said Hugo. “It sounded as if you did.”

  “We cannot be silent beyond a point. There could be no reason.”

  “Well, you were not. But we can be up to a point.”

  “You might both be boys,” said Ninian. “Your every word suggests it.”

  “I see it is my place. And Ransom is doing nothing about it.”

  “Your home will be safe as well as mine. My house is yours. But we are never grateful for a thing, when someone else has more of it.”

  “What a day it has been!” said Hugo. “There is material for an epic. The fall of Lavinia; the return of Ransom; the uplift of Ninian; the tragedy of Ransom; the escape of Lavinia; the lament of Selina. I hope there will be no more.”

  “And the lament of Egbert,” said Ninian, gently, looking at his son. “It has not been spoken, but it has not been unheard. My boy, I know what the day has been for you. I know how you felt to your sister.”

  “As I now feel to her, Father. She has not failed me.”

  “I wish I could feel the same and say it.”

  “I wish you had said it. She encountered forces too strong for her. And you know what they were.”

  Selina passed with a faltering tread, conscious of it, if not causing it. And as it died away another followed.

  “It is only me, Mr. Middleton. Only I, I should say. I am late in leaving the scene of my efforts today.”

  “That is what it has been, I fear. It is good of you to help us.”

  “It is good to be needed. That should be enough.”

  “Suppose I were in your place!” said Hugo. “And people needed me!”

  “Ah, you have your word, Mr. Hugo. But you are there in case of need. And you know what is said of those who only stand and wait.”

  “I do. And I feel I may suggest it. I suppose our fears about ourselves are always well founded.”

  “Ah, they are great words, Mr. Hugo,” said Miss Starkie, yielding to the didactic spirit, as she went to the door. “And they would be, even if we did not know from whom they came.”

  “And that is not true of all great words. How clever and disillusioned you are! I must remember to say it.”

  “Stay for a moment, Miss Starkie,” said Ninian. “We have our word to say. Our reluctance to say it shows it must be said. We make our judgement in order to forget it. It must be what it is.”

  “Yes, we must not evade it, Mr. Middleton. It is unworthy to shrink from the truth. If we faltered in our guidance, it is we who have failed. It is ourselves whom we judge.”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, I feel it indeed. The words might be mine,” said Ninian, accompanying her to the hall. “It is a thing in which we must be at one.”

  “So your father had to make a false claim,” said Hugo. “It seemed to come easily to him. How much practice has he had? Miss Starkie judged him by herself. His mind is a sealed book to her.”

  “I wish it was to me. Why isn’t it, when so many minds are?”

  “I hardly think Miss Starkie’s is. Anyhow she has unsealed it.”

  “I am given both a better and a worse character than I deserve,” said Ninian, returning in a manner at once absent and constrained. “I am neither so generous in shouldering blame nor guilty of so much.”

  “Why could you not say so?” said Hugo.

  Ninian just raised his brows.

  “People used to instructing cannot accept instruction. It would have been to waste words. But it is no tribute to anyone to shift the just blame.”

  “But it lessens what does not take the form of tribute.”

  Ninian moved his brows again and turned to find Teresa at his side.

  “What does my wife think about it?”

  “I liked what Miss Starkie said. Even if it is not the whole truth.”

  “Ah, that would lead us into perilous ways. There would be danger for my poor Lavinia.”

  “Not of a kind that mattered. Not compared to her losing her feeling for her father.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that danger is very great,” said Ninian, with easy candour. “It was in that feeling that the danger lay.”

  “You don’t take your daughter as seriously as you took her trouble.”

  “I am advised by Miss Starkie that she is not responsible. I am not allowed to take her as I would choose. But perhaps I may be persuaded. I should naturally like to be.”

  “I can’t understand why she felt so much for you.”

  “Come, come, who should understand it but you? And why the past tense? Has she lost the feeling? Oh, no, I don’t think so. And all this is to be forgotten. And the feeling will return as we both forget.”

  “I don’t follow this lighter treatment of a thing you took with such solemnity.”

  “The solemnity was disapproved. And I don’t wonder, if that was the word. It was not, as you know. My trouble was real and remains so.”

  “It seems to be less,” said his wife.

  “Well, we do not cling to a sense of someone’s sin. We let it fade in its day. We will leave it and have an hour with my mother. Other things have a claim.”

  “What things?” said Hugo, as the door closed. “Or rather what thing? Are you too sensitive to frame the thought?”

  “I must be, because I dismissed it. Are you going to put it into words?”

  “It is the promise of Ransom’s money. Everything pales beside it. And it is also a promise for you, and so for Lavinia.”

  “For the distant future. It does nothing for her youth or mine. Nothing for her after my uncle’s death. What does she feel about living with him?”

  “It is the alternative to being here, and being with her father. And to being with you and me. We did our best. And no one can do more. But that is a great pity.”

  “If only we could identify ourselves with what she did!”

  “Yes, we failed her there. And it was not a failure that was greater than success. And she did not think so.”

  “What hours those have been! I shall welcome an ordinary day.”

  “I shall not. I should have to make a habit of it. It is a pity so much has happened on one. It could have gone much further.”

  “If it had not been for this, Uncle Ransom would have lived alone. That may have influenced him.”

  “Yes, I saw him being influenced.”

  “You see so much,” said Egbert.

  “Yes, it has been my life work. And I can feel I have done it well.”

  “Will Uncle Ransom leave anything to you?”

  “I have asked myself that, as I could not ask him. No one thinks of my wanting anything. I never speak of it, as it is humbling to have needs that are not fulfilled. And people would wonder what I should do with money, if I had it. And I have had no chance to learn.”

  “To learn what?” said Ninian, returning to the room.

  “What to do with money. It is a thing you know.”

  “I know it well. Its uses are indeed defined. There is none over.”

  “I don’t dare to voice my thought.”

  “No, do not voice it,” said Ninian, in a grave tone. “It is not mine. Ransom is my younger brother. It is his ri
ght to outlive me. I hope he will. If not, the disposal of what is his, is a question for him alone.”

  “He has answered it, Father,” said Egbert.

  “He can give it any other answer. If he does, we shall see it as the right one.”

  “I admire nobility,” said Hugo. “But it is a pity for it to be wasted. You can accept the truth.”

  “I cannot, for the reasons I have given. It is not the truth to me.”

  “I suppose he might leave everything to Lavinia,” said Egbert, lightly.

  “I suppose nothing.”

  “Or divide it between all of us.”

  “I suppose nothing,” said his father.

  “What do you feel about Lavinia’s being with him?” said Hugo.

  “A young girl with an ageing man in uncertain health? It is late to ask me what I feel. What good would it be to say?”

  “He is not as old as we are. And our age does not matter any longer. It will soon be said that we get younger with every day.”

  “It will not be said of Ransom,” said Ninian, still gravely.

  “He is fortunate to have Lavinia,” said Egbert. “And he showed that he thought so.”

  “Yes, the help is not only for her. May they both have it. I wish it from my heart. Now I must return to your grandmother. I came to fetch something for her. Other people can need help.”

  “Why cannot we like people in lofty moods?” said Hugo. “I suppose it is their being so unnatural to them. It produces discomfort.”

  “And they like themselves so much,” said Egbert. “Father is ennobling himself enough to balance his dealings with Lavinia. Or can he really be what he suggests? People’s views of themselves may not be always wrong.”

  “It is when they express it. Or why should they need to? They must know there is no evidence for it.”

  “Would you dare to express yours?”

  “Well, I should have to ennoble myself,” said Hugo.

  CHAPTER IX

  “A good home, a good girl, good people in the house,” said Ransom, leaning back in his doorway. “A free past and a short future. It is the last that brings the balance down.”

  “You feel no better, Uncle?”

  “Feebler each day. It will go on and bring the end.”

  “The end of what I have,” said Lavinia.

  “Another beginning. I will see that it is. My own end is eased for me. One besides my mother will regret me. It is more than I looked for. I find it much.”