Simspiration Post: Speak No Evil
Sim_spiration prompt: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.
This follows immediately after "Stage Fright" and "Six Impossible Things Before Dinner."
Speak No Evil
It seemed to be an accepted thing now that Laurence would come around to tea at the Goodytwoshoeses once a week and stay for dinner. He knew that there couldn’t possibly be THAT many leftovers every time, but if they were gracious enough to give him extra food to take back with him and too polite to mention it, the least he could do would be to let them think he hadn’t noticed either. He tried not to look too shabby, just in case they felt they also had to do something about that as well, and carefully avoided mentioning the times he skived off research.
Lytton asked Laurence for as many details about Puritania as he could remember, which wasn’t much.
“I asked my mother if she could send me some of the stories she used to tell me, but she said those stories were meant to be told, not written.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” said Lytton, nodding and pushing the plate of scones closer.
“Thanks, Mr. G. Well, I pointed out that Anon. wrote stories down, but she said plays were different and meant to be performed, not written down. So I asked if she didn’t want things written down, why did she want me to be a historian, anyway?”
Lytton made a sympathetic but non-committal sound. He’d heard him speak self-deprecatingly of his speech impediment, but Laurence had never heard it except for the nervous stammer when he’d been startled and dropped all of his papers when they first met.
“Anyway, I couldn’t really argue with that, because she’s right, but she also wants the history preserved some way, so she promised to tell some of the stories again when I go home next time. That might be a while-sorry. But she sent you these.” Laurence gave Lytton a box full of
Puritanian pastries-odd little things, flavored with honey and cinnamon.
When he wasn’t asking unobtrusive questions, Lytton spoke of his own family, and Laurence noticed a pattern. He spoke fondly of a niece who had recently recovered from a long illness, but carefully never hinted at what the illness had been. He spoke proudly of a great-nephew who had accomplished a great deal and wistfully said that the great-nephew had been gone for some time, but never mentioned him by name or how long he had been gone, or why he had left, or when he would be back. He spoke freely of anything pleasant or complimentary, and when anything unpleasant or critical came up, Lytton sheared away and skirted the topic entirely. Laurence couldn’t really blame him.
Lytton invited Laurence upstairs and showed him the archive where he had stored every document he could find on the Goodytwoshoes family’s history, and then showed him the immense timelines and diagrams he had worked out over the years. What had begin as a simple genealogy had expanded and opened into the histories of Pleasantview and Weivtnasaelp, elided into the history of the Roman Empire at several key points, and intersected with the history and culture of many other lands. It was, in a small way, a history of the universe, and Laurence realized that Lytton had published only a fraction of his research.
“This is amazing, Mr. G,” said Laurence. “When did you start all this?”
“Oh, I must have been meant to be a historian since I was born,” said Lytton, placing a box carefully onto a shelf, and then removing his cotton gloves. “I was only seven when I began looking into the family history because. . . . because I was asked to.” He dropped the gloves.
That was the first time he’d heard a hitch in Lytton’s voice.
“Who was that?” asked Laurence. “Let me get that,” he added, trying to straighten the books on the long study table, which was pointless. Lytton was extremely neat: everything was already carefully squared off with the edge of the table. To his surprise, Lytton began picking up pens and moving them around, lifting sections of manuscript and putting them on one side of the table, then on the other, and then back where they had been in the first place.
“My-my eldest brother, Cecil. He’s . . . he is . . .he was. . . quite good at bringing out the best in people. I should say-finding-finding out what they do best. Inspiring. And then-putting it to good use. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, if . . . I do miss him sometimes.”
Where was Cecil, if Lytton missed him so much? Was he dead? He knew he couldn’t ask.
“It was Cecil who first asked me to research and write,” Lytton added. “I think, I think-I think we all knew he meant to do great things-or that he expected to-or in any case, I did. He once said to me, ‘and you shall be my off --my official biographer.’ Quite a compliment to - to a boy who wasn’t quite four, wouldn’t you agree? I always thought so.”
“Yes, I guess it is.” Who asks a four year old to be his biographer? How old was he when he asked, anyway? Lytton had stopped moving things around and was staring off as though at something in the distance.
“I was -I was the youngest, you see. Well, everyone couldn’t be expected to remember that I was in my crib for what sometimes seemed like quite a long time, but of course it couldn’t have been, just the fancies of a little boy-and then of course Mother was so engaged looking after Father, who wasn’t-I-that is-he wasn’t quite-well.” He took a deep breath and cleaned his glasses. “And naturally everyone was quite busy and sometimes-well, they can’t have forgotten me, of course, that would be ridiculous, but I mean to say that Cecil did NOT forget me and always seemed to be awake at any hour of the night and took me out of my crib and watched me. It must be my first memory-Cecil taking me out of my crib and encouraging me. Do you know what he said to me? It was rather funny.”
Laurence shook his head, thinking that if this were in a play, and he knew in his gut that Anon. would have wanted to put it in a play, no one would believe this.
“He said-he said, ‘Lytton, do . . .d. . do you know the-the m, m, meaning of the word. . .of the word. . . acc-“
Lytton paused, struggling.
“-accomplice?’” He flushed. “I--I did mention. I don’t always-I don’t always seem to be able to--to be able to spit out the words. Good heavens, is that the time?” he said, pulling out a large gold watch and glancing at it nervously. “We must go down and help with dinner. RubyBlue has such ---such a way with roasts.”
Laurence agreed, and didn’t add that Mrs. Goodytwoshoes’ way with roasts seemed to be forgetting all about them and letting them incinerate, so it was probably a good idea to go down and check on dinner. They quickly finished tidying up. Before they went downstairs, Lytton paused again.
“Cecil was -is -have you ever met anyone-entirely brilliant? Because he is, you know. Absolutely. I think it’s fair to say that few would even dream to . . . I mean even I do not know where he is-has been-or what he has done-and he always, always means-or meant-things for the very-very best.” He took another deep breath, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and turned away, breathing deeply. “I do so miss him sometimes,” he added in a small voice.
Laurence waited. His mother had always said that if you couldn’t say anything nice, not to say it at all. Lytton Goodytwoshoes didn’t seem to be able to say anything that wasn’t nice at all.
This follows immediately after "Stage Fright" and "Six Impossible Things Before Dinner."
Speak No Evil
It seemed to be an accepted thing now that Laurence would come around to tea at the Goodytwoshoeses once a week and stay for dinner. He knew that there couldn’t possibly be THAT many leftovers every time, but if they were gracious enough to give him extra food to take back with him and too polite to mention it, the least he could do would be to let them think he hadn’t noticed either. He tried not to look too shabby, just in case they felt they also had to do something about that as well, and carefully avoided mentioning the times he skived off research.
Lytton asked Laurence for as many details about Puritania as he could remember, which wasn’t much.
“I asked my mother if she could send me some of the stories she used to tell me, but she said those stories were meant to be told, not written.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” said Lytton, nodding and pushing the plate of scones closer.
“Thanks, Mr. G. Well, I pointed out that Anon. wrote stories down, but she said plays were different and meant to be performed, not written down. So I asked if she didn’t want things written down, why did she want me to be a historian, anyway?”
Lytton made a sympathetic but non-committal sound. He’d heard him speak self-deprecatingly of his speech impediment, but Laurence had never heard it except for the nervous stammer when he’d been startled and dropped all of his papers when they first met.
“Anyway, I couldn’t really argue with that, because she’s right, but she also wants the history preserved some way, so she promised to tell some of the stories again when I go home next time. That might be a while-sorry. But she sent you these.” Laurence gave Lytton a box full of
Puritanian pastries-odd little things, flavored with honey and cinnamon.
When he wasn’t asking unobtrusive questions, Lytton spoke of his own family, and Laurence noticed a pattern. He spoke fondly of a niece who had recently recovered from a long illness, but carefully never hinted at what the illness had been. He spoke proudly of a great-nephew who had accomplished a great deal and wistfully said that the great-nephew had been gone for some time, but never mentioned him by name or how long he had been gone, or why he had left, or when he would be back. He spoke freely of anything pleasant or complimentary, and when anything unpleasant or critical came up, Lytton sheared away and skirted the topic entirely. Laurence couldn’t really blame him.
Lytton invited Laurence upstairs and showed him the archive where he had stored every document he could find on the Goodytwoshoes family’s history, and then showed him the immense timelines and diagrams he had worked out over the years. What had begin as a simple genealogy had expanded and opened into the histories of Pleasantview and Weivtnasaelp, elided into the history of the Roman Empire at several key points, and intersected with the history and culture of many other lands. It was, in a small way, a history of the universe, and Laurence realized that Lytton had published only a fraction of his research.
“This is amazing, Mr. G,” said Laurence. “When did you start all this?”
“Oh, I must have been meant to be a historian since I was born,” said Lytton, placing a box carefully onto a shelf, and then removing his cotton gloves. “I was only seven when I began looking into the family history because. . . . because I was asked to.” He dropped the gloves.
That was the first time he’d heard a hitch in Lytton’s voice.
“Who was that?” asked Laurence. “Let me get that,” he added, trying to straighten the books on the long study table, which was pointless. Lytton was extremely neat: everything was already carefully squared off with the edge of the table. To his surprise, Lytton began picking up pens and moving them around, lifting sections of manuscript and putting them on one side of the table, then on the other, and then back where they had been in the first place.
“My-my eldest brother, Cecil. He’s . . . he is . . .he was. . . quite good at bringing out the best in people. I should say-finding-finding out what they do best. Inspiring. And then-putting it to good use. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, if . . . I do miss him sometimes.”
Where was Cecil, if Lytton missed him so much? Was he dead? He knew he couldn’t ask.
“It was Cecil who first asked me to research and write,” Lytton added. “I think, I think-I think we all knew he meant to do great things-or that he expected to-or in any case, I did. He once said to me, ‘and you shall be my off --my official biographer.’ Quite a compliment to - to a boy who wasn’t quite four, wouldn’t you agree? I always thought so.”
“Yes, I guess it is.” Who asks a four year old to be his biographer? How old was he when he asked, anyway? Lytton had stopped moving things around and was staring off as though at something in the distance.
“I was -I was the youngest, you see. Well, everyone couldn’t be expected to remember that I was in my crib for what sometimes seemed like quite a long time, but of course it couldn’t have been, just the fancies of a little boy-and then of course Mother was so engaged looking after Father, who wasn’t-I-that is-he wasn’t quite-well.” He took a deep breath and cleaned his glasses. “And naturally everyone was quite busy and sometimes-well, they can’t have forgotten me, of course, that would be ridiculous, but I mean to say that Cecil did NOT forget me and always seemed to be awake at any hour of the night and took me out of my crib and watched me. It must be my first memory-Cecil taking me out of my crib and encouraging me. Do you know what he said to me? It was rather funny.”
Laurence shook his head, thinking that if this were in a play, and he knew in his gut that Anon. would have wanted to put it in a play, no one would believe this.
“He said-he said, ‘Lytton, do . . .d. . do you know the-the m, m, meaning of the word. . .of the word. . . acc-“
Lytton paused, struggling.
“-accomplice?’” He flushed. “I--I did mention. I don’t always-I don’t always seem to be able to--to be able to spit out the words. Good heavens, is that the time?” he said, pulling out a large gold watch and glancing at it nervously. “We must go down and help with dinner. RubyBlue has such ---such a way with roasts.”
Laurence agreed, and didn’t add that Mrs. Goodytwoshoes’ way with roasts seemed to be forgetting all about them and letting them incinerate, so it was probably a good idea to go down and check on dinner. They quickly finished tidying up. Before they went downstairs, Lytton paused again.
“Cecil was -is -have you ever met anyone-entirely brilliant? Because he is, you know. Absolutely. I think it’s fair to say that few would even dream to . . . I mean even I do not know where he is-has been-or what he has done-and he always, always means-or meant-things for the very-very best.” He took another deep breath, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and turned away, breathing deeply. “I do so miss him sometimes,” he added in a small voice.
Laurence waited. His mother had always said that if you couldn’t say anything nice, not to say it at all. Lytton Goodytwoshoes didn’t seem to be able to say anything that wasn’t nice at all.