The Present and the Past

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

Nine years after his divorce, Cassius Clare receives a letter from his first wife Catherine: 'I cannot be parted longer from my sons... I am coming back to my home.' As the hours pass till the moment Catherine enters the Clares' house, so feelings and human values are analysed and redefined, not only in the Clares' drawing room, but in the children's nursery and the servants' quarters.
Cassius and his second wife Flavia have brought up their own family and the two sons from the first marriage without pretence. Their honest response to Catherine, added to Flavia's increasing friendship with her, cause Cassius to experience a sense of neglect and failure, which intensifies and erupts in his attempted suicide.

Genres: Fiction, British Literature, Literature, Humor, 20th Century, Female Authors, Literary Fiction

171 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1953

About the author

Dame Ivy Compton-Burnett, DBE was an English novelist, published (in the original hardback editions) as I. Compton-Burnett. She was awarded the 1955 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for her novel Mother and Son.

Reviews

[Orsodimondo · Rating 4 out of 5]

IL RITMO EGUALE E SENZA SCAMPO DI CHI SA DOVE ANDARE


La foto di Clarence H. White, The Orchard (1902), sulla copertina.

La storia si ripete! E ha già cominciato: funziona sempre nello stesso modo. E la vita familiare, nella sua essenza, non cambia mai. I fatti che racconto non sono affatto straordinari; anzi, molto più frequenti di quanto non si penserebbe. E la vita che descrivo non è affatto anacronistica: sopravvive in larghe zone, specialmente fuori Londra, e credo che si estenderà in futuro, perché moltissima gente desidera vivere così… i rapporti umani sono sempre gli stessi!
Così rispondeva Miss Ivy a chi le chiedeva perché continuasse a scrivere storie improbabili di sessant’anni addietro.


Foto di Clarence H. White, 1896.

Un altro dei fulminanti romanzi della Grande Signorina.
Fulminanti perché scoppiettano di battute di dialogo incalzanti – al punto che ci sono pagine e pagine di solo dialogo, nessuna descrizione, neppure didascalia – fulminanti perché battute dialogo e ritmo sono taglienti.

Come sempre è un nucleo familiare che Compton-Burnett mette al centro del racconto: un luogo chiuso, casa villa magione, una famiglia più o meno allargata, la servitù.
Forse dopo il successo di “Downton Abbey”, sarebbe il caso di rispolverare i romanzi di questa grande scrittrice.


Foto di Clarence H. White.

Chiacchiere, e parole, che sviluppano la trama ridotta all’osso, chiacchiere e parole che man mano sembrano perdere di senso e significato, diventare qualcosa d’altro, riempimento sonoro di uno spazio per svuotarlo, contemporaneamente, dei suoi contenuti. Si parla ma non si comunica, si parla tanto per dire poco. I personaggi di Compton-Burnett dicono cose del genere:
Meno si dice, meglio è, afferma Josephine, per velare quello che ha bisogno di essere velato e salvare la faccia di chi ha bisogno che gliela si salvi. È una questione di decoro.
Oppure:
Mi sento a disagio con la gente la cui vita è un libro aperto. Ho tanto in me da dover nascondere.

Qui il non senso è accentuato dal fatto che i bambini di tre anni parlano come gli adulti, i domestici come i padroni, gli uomini come le donne.


Meredith Frampton: A Game of Patience. Tate Modern, Londra

In Il presente e il passato (anche i titoli scelti da Ivy Compton-Burnett tendono ad assomigliarsi fino a confondersi) è vero che a tre anni i bambini celebrano il funerale di una talpa come se fosse una cerimonia funebre di adulti: ma, almeno all’inizio, la famiglia appare felice.
Se non che qualcuno emerge dal passato per entrare nel presente, si scopre che papà è bigamo, e quindi ci sono più fratelli e sorelle, ma soprattutto si possono avere due madri e si sa che
quante più madri si hanno, meglio è di certo; di una cosa buona non se ne ha mai troppo.

“Il ritmo eguale e senza scampo di chi sa dove andare” è come Natalia Ginzburg ha descritto la prosa della scrittrice inglese da lei molto amata e ammirata.


Meredith Frampton: Marguerite Kelsey, 1928, Londra, Tate Gallery

[Violeta · Rating 4 out of 5]

I was introduced to Ivy Compton-Burnett by none other than John Waters, in his essay titled "Bookworm,” where he included the idiosyncratic author among his Role Models and favorite writers.

Upon finishing my first Compton-Burnett comedy of manners, I felt so drained of my powers of concentration that I will just copy Water’s description of her and her work. Except for the reference to her sex life, that there is no way of knowing if it was true, I agree down to the last word:

"Want to go further in your advanced search for snobbish, elitist, literary wit? Of course, you do, but I should warn you, you’ll have to work for it. Try reading any novel by ICB. She was English, looked exactly like the illustration on the Old Maid card, never had sex even once, and wrote twenty dark, hilarious, evil little novels between the years 1911 and 1969.



Pick any one of them. They’re all pretty much the same. Little actual action, almost no description, and endless pages of hermetically sealed, stylized, sharp, cruel, venomous Edwardian dialogue. “Once you pick up a Compton-Burnett,” Ivy commented about her own books, "it’s hard NOT to put them down.” Once you get the rhythm, the sparkle, the subtle nuances of family dominance in her characters’ words, you will feel superior to other people and how they struggle to speak in real life."

Well…I don’t exactly feel superior, but I do feel like I’ve cleansed my palate from overanalytical descriptions of feelings, places and faces; here was an author that strove to appeal to the intelligence of her audience, rather than their emotions. I think I will go back to her, but only when I’ll have gathered enough courage to face the ruthless, intelligent beast her prose is.
Here’s a tiny sample:

“Opinions are not much good when no one has the same,” said Megan. “They don’t tell you anything.”
“That again is not quite true. Many people have the same. There are different schools of thought, and people belong to all of them.”
“How do they know which to choose?”
“That may be beyond your range. It takes us rather deep.”
“What is the good of knowing things, when you have to get older and die before you know everything?”

To think that Megan is only seven!

[Bob · Rating 4 out of 5]

The few Ivy Compton-Burnett books I've read follow a fairly precise formula (down to their titles) but it is quite a distinctive one. Composed almost entirely of dialog and focused on domestic interactions, the characters exchange continual somewhat ironic "brittle" barbs. Some of them sound like utterances that some sort of robot chooses from a list of "things humans might say", (though the robot is also clearly a mechanical Turk). Other times, you have the impression that the conversation is an inversion of those sequences where people say one thing and what they are actually thinking is disclosed - in this case, they say out loud what most would only think.
As such, it is hard to sympathize with most of the characters - the children are most amusing as they spout their quite unchildlike remarks. The specific plot here concerns a self-pitying and emotionally ungiving father who has five children, two from a prior marriage, all being raised by his current wife. The former wife, having disappeared (partly at his behest) for nine years, returns in hopes of reconnecting with her children. As you can imagine, some tension arises. The family is also quite well-to-do, with half a dozen household servants, so there is a lot of upstairs/downstairs psychology in addition to the interfamilial interaction.

[Beth Bonini · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was my first Ivy Compton-Burnett novel, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it. I would give it a hesitant 3.5 stars, but I suspect that I might rate it higher on a subsequent reading. It's a subtle, sometimes quite funny, more often sharp, 'comedy of manners' in which nothing much happens. A lot of the dialogue feels like it would be delivered more naturally in a play: one of those plays in which the dialogue is clever, well-formed and far from naturalistic. The setting is presumably Edwardian: a large home, many children, many servants, and a father who doesn't work. There is a superfluity of many things - mainly mothers. The five children have a nurse, a nanny and a private female tutor, but the important thing that happens is that their father's first wife reappears and wants a role in the family again. (The two oldest children, both boys, are hers; and there are three other children from the marriage between Cassius Clare and his second wife Flavia.) The drama of the two wives meeting turns out to be no drama at all; they become friends and allies, and then it's Cassius's role to turn petulant and make an ill-judged attempt to put himself center stage again.

The youngest child mostly provides comic relief, while the middle two - Henry and Megan - provide an ongoing philosophical commentary that is wise beyond their years. They, and Cassius's father Mr. Clare, were by far the most interesting and sympathetic characters to me. The oldest two children are mostly nonentities. More humour comes from the various exchanges between the butler and his staff. For instance, after the two wives meet for the first time, the butler Ainger is asked to give an account. Of course, a bit of drama is wished for. When asked about his own role, Ainger replies that he was "being a friend to them in my own way." One of the maids responds, "Well, be a friend to us in ours." In other words, spill the beans . . . and don't leave out the juicy details!

[Troy Alexander · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5 - I can’t say that I particularly enjoyed reading this book because of Compton-Burnett’s writing style but I can appreciate that some people would love it. From having read reviews and comments about her novels before reading The Present and the Past, I knew that she is considered to be a challenging writer and divides readers. However, The Present and the Past is an interesting story, in a claustrophobic domestic sort of way (a signature trait from what I can tell), and some of the dialogue (and the novel is mostly dialogue), is beautifully constructed. But a page-turner it is not. I'm glad that I finally read a novel by Ivy Compton-Burnett. Will Manservant and Maidservant sit on my ‘To Read’ shelf for the next ten years? Probably.

[Mary]

My initial impression of this slim novel is that it was a very slight upperclass English novel tragicomedy of manners. On further reflection, it is a very brilliant study of an emotionally stunted man. Cassius Clare has inherited a country home from a godfather and he lives there with his father, second wife Flavia, his 5 children the two elder sons are from a previous marriage, and a full staff of servants. Even though his first marriage was mutually unsatisfactory he would only divorce Catherine if she would have no contact with her two sons. The story is mostly told through dialogue, conversations held among the children, the servants, and the adult members of the family. Everyone understands Cassius is an immature bully including his children who have the most insightful comments to make. Catherine decides to return after 9 years and begs to have contacts with her sons. Cassius agrees thinking he will see an amusing cat fight but instead the women become good friends excluding Cassius. Cassius fakes a suicide to get attention ending in tragic consequences. Cassius is so self-centered he could only let Catherine go by punishing her and we see the emotional impact on the two boys. Flavia is kind to her children and there are many discussions as to what is a Mother vs Mater as the children address Flavia. Which is hilarious as there are three staff members to care for the children. It is interesting and a quick read.

[Alan · Rating 5 out of 5]

This, her first novel after the death of her companion Margaret Jourdain. Compton-Burnett writes her staccato prose, laden with interstitial tone and meaning, mostly dialog frosted with lies--lies in their infinite variety. Her "novels" are really plays, pared down to electric flashes as if crossing gaps, shorting out.
Considered in the large, they are comedy of manners. But these really are "manners," the veneer of class and personal division and aggression. Very English manners, and post-Victorian. Their inevitable stage, the large English country house, looms over the declining gentility.
Look at C-B's children. They often break upon the tight, closed scene with their unexpected flashes of unavoidable truths. In The Present and the Past there's a schoolroom of them presided over by Miss Ridley. She corrects the parents, too, walking in a field, who say things like, "Now we must turn towards home." "What is the word supposed to mean?" Miss Ridley corrects the men, too: "Come, come, no more of that."
But here's a three-year old conducting a funeral service for a dead mole: "O dear people we are gathered together. Let us pray. Ashes and ashes. Dust and dust. This our brother. Poor little mole! Until he rise again." "Why, you will make a proper parson, sir."
Then an adult, Cassius, "Miss Bennet, what is your view of this? A child of Toby's age conducting a funeral, with a knowledge that had to be seen to be believed."
"Fancy his doing a thing like that. It is quite natural. It does not mean anything."
The child and brother William, "It is Mr Fabian again, sir, preaching and play-acting together. There is a lot in common."(39-40)
By the end of the novel, Cassius is dying, and also attempting suicide, but perhaps with too few pills, and little Toby is recruited to defend him before the assaults of his family and critics, including two wives, one of whom is called in the Latin, Mater--as is Cassius called Pater.
Oh, it is a drama verging on, surrounded with death, and with vital sparks of intellect and character--or the lack thereof. A very human book, given English peculiarity. I'm tempted to parody H Bloom: Ivy Compton-Burnett and the Invention of the Human (gentry).

[David]

Featuring perhaps the least sympathetic of her many middle-aged 'tyrants' (which, for Compton-Burnett, is saying something), The Present and the Past explores the odd consequences of an ex-wife returning after 9 years (desiring especially to have some contact with her sons, who have stayed with their father). As is so often the case, the parallel but curiously related worlds of the masters and the servants are brilliantly displayed. I still feel that Compton-Burnett may be recycling a little too much--this one features another three-year-old who constantly speaks of himself in the third person--but the humour remains Saharan (extremely dry and immense) and assumptions are skewered with precision.

[June · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is an odd little book, its novel way of story-telling bamboozling my brain which makes reviewing it more difficult. How is it novel? Well, most of the narrative is dialogue. This is fine until you end up with several people in the scene (mostly children - one if whom is an exceptionally eloquent three year old); then it gets a little confusing.

This story doesn't do 'setting', it just busies itself with the conversations between Mr Clare Snr, his son Cassius, Cassius's second wife Flavia, the children, the servants, and Cassius's first wife, Catherine. It's a novel of a middle class family, possessions, and the importance they place on these possessions. Cassius was an insecure, childish, and slightly manipulative man - his character annoyed me. The three younger children spoke more like adults than children; another minor irritation.

It is a good book but it does require concentration to keep on top of who is speaking at a given time. The opening scene foreshadows the plot, so although it seems out of place in relation to what follows, it is important to notice what is happening.

I may read more Compton-Burnet books - one of them won my University literary prize in the 1950s. This one gets 3 stars from me.

[Dave Appleby · Rating 5 out of 5]

Flavia is the second wife of Cassius Clare and has done her best to bring up the two boys of his first wife as if they were her own, equal - except in that they are older - with her own three children. But this harmony is disturbed when Catherine, the first Mrs Clare turns asking for access to her sons. But it is the paterfamilias who has most to lose.

We are in classic ICB territory. The setting is a big house inhabited by a family supported by an independent income with no need to work and served by at least seven servants. The head of the household, Cassius, is a typical ICB domestic tyrant: demanding, self-pitying and manipulative.

The form is more or less what we would expect from ICB. It isn't in the least naturalistic. The plot is fast-paced, twisty and not very convincing. Plot devices, such as Mr Clare’s pills, are introduced just before they are needed. Unusually for an ICB book, there are paragraphs of description, such as: “Alfred Ainger was a tall, active man of forty, with a round, yellow head, a full, high-coloured face, very blue, bunched-up eyes, an unshapely nose and a red-lipped, elaborate mouth that opened and shut with a vigorous movement. His bearing carried an equal respect for his master and confidence in himself.” (Ch 2) But most of the narrative is carried by stiffly formal dialogue in which every character speaks aloud fully-formed thoughts. This allows the author to develop the characters while at the same time exploring the situation. She particularly enjoys questioning unthinking turns of phrase. For example, when an adult says, about the father, “He is devoted to you in his way.” one of the children replies: “I dare say a cat does the right thing to a mouse in its way.” (Ch 1) Or when Cassius tells his son: “It would do you good to have to face some real trouble.” and Henry (aged 8!) replies: “You know it would do us harm.” (Ch 1)

The servants form an echoing chorus, commenting upon the values held by the family from their perspective of dependent upon and yet essential to their masters if not betters. Some, like butler Ainger, value their albeit lowly place in the hierarchy. Others, like Halliday, who has been in service for nearly fifty years and never risen beyond ‘general man’, have reluctantly accepted their position. Still others, such as the Cook, maintain a core of anger that the idle family should be so much better off than they are. Why should the master attempt suicide? There is “no reason but discontent with a life that is better than ours.” (Ch 11)

But the real truth-telling is done by the children, especially Megan (aged 7) and Henry (8). Their comments are honest and direct and dissect the easy assumptions of the adults:
“What is the good of knowing things, when you have to get older and older and die before you know everything?” (Ch 1)
“It seems a pity ... that when two women agreed to marry Father, he did not like being married to either of them.” (Ch 3)
“I don't think there is much to understand about Father ... When he is unhappy himself, he wants other people to be.” (Ch 3)

Of course, these are unbelievably precocious but that is not the point. As I have already mentioned, ICB is not aiming at naturalism. And three-year-old Toby's dialogue is a delight: everything is referred to himself and he takes a simple pleasure in smashing things. After he presides over a funeral service for a mole, it is predicted he will become a parson.

I can understand why people might not enjoy reading an ICB novel. It isn't just that they are set in a world that has long since passed. The mannered style is Brechtian, alienating the reader so that suspension of disbelief and immersion in the story becomes impossible. The narrative is so densely told that you have to concentrate; a passage skimmed is a passage you will have to reread. Nevertheless, characters are created, family dynamics are explored and, believe it or not, considerable humour is extracted. I find them enjoyable and impressive and, along with nouveua roman French novelist Natalie Sarraute (author of Tropismes), I can't understand why ICB's work was undersung in her own time and why she is practically forgotten today.

[Chiara Pastorino]

Forse questo libro proviene dalla biblioteca del Perito? Non ricordo.
L'ho letto perché sto dedicando un po' di tempo ai libri che sono da tanto tempo sulle mie mensole ma che non ho mai aperto.

È stata una lettura positiva perché mi piace immergermi in un punto di vista che non avrei mai immaginato. E davvero, vite come quelle di questi personaggi sono difficili da immaginare. Non tanto per cosa accade loro, che non è né molto né particolarmente strano. Ma per tutto il libro ho continuato a pensare a quanto deve essere estenuante essere uno qualunque dei personaggi.
Poco importa chi, sono tutti, (bambini, adulti, padroni, domestici...) condannati a pressoché lo stesso modo di pensare e di esprimersi.
Ogni conversazione di queste povere anime da quando si svegliano la mattina fino all'ultimo punto dell'ultima frase della giornata è necessariamente un botta e risposta implacabile che, nonostante non ci sia un briciolo di conflitto e spesso neanche di contenuto, sembra una confrontazione ad armi spiegate. Tutti si parlano come se si dicessero la verità per la prima volta. Mi dispiace sinceramente per chiunque a cui sia capitata un'onestà del genere perché non posso immaginare come siete sfibrati.

Questo libro mi ha lasciato con una domanda.
Capisco che la lingua scritta non può riflettere appieno la lingua parlata, ma vorrei sapere se a un certo punto della Storia, in qualsiasi luogo del pianeta, sono vissute persone che parlavano in maniera paragonabile a questi personaggi. Voglio sapere se un'educazione da gentiluomo edoardiano, duelli dialettici giornalieri e nessun'altra preoccupazione oltre a passeggiare e fare colazione possono produrre un effetto così inverosimile nel modo di comunicare di un essere umano.
In attesa di una risposta, chiudo "Il presente e il passato" e passo avanti.

[John · Rating 3 out of 5]

Wasn't sure about this one, but wanted to try the author. ICB's (as I've seen her called) style certainly takes getting used to! Almost entirely dialogue, I felt as though I were listening to a staged reading of a play rather than a novel. Very strange chapters, indeed, starting with the opening scene of the childrens' reactions to the death of a hen, later a funeral for a dead mole conducted by the precocious three-year-old.

To get through the story, I had to treat it as deliberately absurd, not being able to take it seriously. The grandfather and wife were sensible enough, the father I found a tedious whiner. Partway through, the first wife shows up to claim visitation rights to her children (the older two of five), staying nearby with her brother and sister. All three of them annoyed me, speaking in a way no one I've run across in books or real life would, a childish person's idea of sophistication.

The oldest child (13) expresses a strong desire to bond with the birth mother (she renounced contact when she left nine years earlier), but it wasn't clear whether that was due to her re-appearance or whether he'd long felt that way?

One is not supposed to drink while driving, but with ICB, perhaps drinking while reading might be advisable? I have another book of hers in print edition, which I hope won't be like reading a play script, not being a fan of those. We Shall See ...

[Banbury · Rating 3 out of 5]

There are brilliant moments in this novel, but it suffers from not really being a novel. It is almost all dialogue, and it is not always clear which character is speaking. Other than the three year old, no character has a distinctive voice or way of speaking. It explores issues of how much (or little) we can know other people, or even ourselves; how much our own character is dependent on others' reactions to us, and how much is innate; and just how often what we set in motion with a certain goal in mind gets out of control and ends tragically. However, it often has a feel of interwoven abstract thoughts better suited to essays rather than a novel with fully realized characters. That said, it does have significant novelistic virtues. It has a plot, and a truly unexpected ending, and the ideas it expresses are profound.

[Pauline McGonagle · Rating 2 out of 5]

I found this dialogic novel tedious and the language most peculiar. I still can't work out what ages the children were as they all sounded so odd and indeterminate.
I was expecting the great mystery of the first marriage failure to be revealed or did I miss it? One of the strangest books I have read.

[Rich Gwynn · Rating 3 out of 5]

My first novel by this author. Found some of the dialogue rather reminiscent of Greek tragedies, such as Antigone, no doubt due to her classical background. Liked some parts of the book but found other parts a bit boring.

[Sue Corbett · Rating 2 out of 5]

The plot sounds unlikely enough but add in pretentious ideals and ignorant devoted staff, Rey precocious children and a very childish Cassius. The end is the worst bit though - money not even thought of. Terrible book.

[Ginevra · Rating 1 out of 5]

Rubbish. Almost completely dialogue, none of the characters have any particular voice, it reads like a monologue and the whys and wherefore strike the modern ear as pathetic ramblings...

[korga · Rating 5 out of 5]

'Why are we talking in this way?'
'It is to stave something off.'

[Nicopsetzer · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ivy Compton-Burnett’s whirlwind account of a disconsolate family man is bleak and hilarious.

[Suzi · Rating 4 out of 5]

So glad Cassius died. He was a dick.

[Justin Griffiths-Bell · Rating 3 out of 5]

There's little in the novel to situate the action in a specific place or time, so I had the house on a huge space station and the characters, looking like extras from a 1980s Visage video, all shiny make up and ridiculous hair, standing on hovering platforms that moved forward every time they wanted to speak, which they did in a monotone (think Queen Amidala in Star Wars). It worked very well, better than if I'd had them walking around in Hertfordshire. It's that sort of novel.
The book is essentially a list of very wise aphorisms, spoken by a bunch of pricks wanting their ears boxed. Why the three stars? The aphorisms are very wise indeed.

[Carolyn · Rating 4 out of 5]

She holds nothing back. Each character through the novel like a play speaks the actions and spirit of their inner being. No mystery hidden. We get to know each character deeply and yet somehow when a character tells lies in the constant dialogue we still see through the deceptions via the words of their mouths. I will be waiting impatiently to get my hands on more books by Compton soon. I didn't even know her work until a stranger introduced her books to me in a library book sale. Thank you stranger!

[Jeanie · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is her only work that I've read so far. The story was quick and to the point. The characterization of the children and their voices are really amazing. Unreal, even for that era of English history, but very interesting. I shall have to check out Wikipedia to see if her other books are similar.

[Lucy · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of the darkest, most closed of her novels, with no-one outside the usual two families and their servants. Elton and Ursula are among the best of her brother/sister pairings, and Toby must be the most percipient of her small children. But ultimately, this is actually a very tragic, brittle story of misunderstanding and loss. As with all her work, I'd give it six stars if I could.

[Matthew Lawrence · Rating 4 out of 5]

Read while on a recent vacation. Getting used to the writing style is something (it's almost entirely dialogue, there are always seven or eight people in the room at any given moment...) but ultimately I liked it quite a bit.

[Bill FromPA]

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[Kathleen]

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