My situation was not greatly different. I too
had given my trust to an unreliable partner.
Digby, an entirely honourable man, had
merely prepared the way. I thought, or thought I
knew, that it was the intensity of one's feelings rather
than any idea of merit that determined one's
choice. Therefore love is a matter of pure
solipsism. If that solipsism is in a sense
exchanged with that of another the results are
conclusive. Sentiment hardly enters into it, may
not even be regretted. I had found myself
entirely at home with this knowledge, and now barely thought
to question it.
When Betsy returned from the bathroom she
looked composed and refreshed, as if the
mere fact of being in someone else's home were
reassuring. Some people can deal with solitude
—
I
could myself
—
but not, I saw, Betsy. What she
wanted was to be cherished. Ideally she would have liked
to be integrated into a family, someone else's
if necessary, where she would have various roles and would do
her best to perfect them. On her own, in a
small flat, she would not do so well. She
seemed relieved to have delivered an account of
herself, persuaded that she need not offer it again, that it
had been dealt with, that I had evidently not
believed that she had made Daniel unhappy.
How could she? It takes a certain skill, a
certain determination to make a man unhappy if
one is frustratingly in love with him, and Betsy
lacked that skill, though she was capable of
determination, as her history to date had proved.
“
The main thing now,
”
I said firmly,
“
is
the flat. Tell me about it.
”
“
Well, it's small, though bigger than the
rue Cler. Oh, I don't like it. I don't
suppose I ever shall.
”
“
You can move again when you want to. Find
something more substantial.
”
She smiled again, again faintly. That occluded
smile was the only sign that she had survived a
major misfortune. Her original smile, the
one I remembered, had been open,
undisguised, in tune with her candid nature.
“
I don't see myself in anything more
substantial, as you put it.
”
“
You'll have the money,
”
I reminded her, but
it was clear that the money did not interest her.
“
And
you'll find something to do, make new friends.
”
This,
at the moment, seemed beyond her.
“
If I can
help,
”
I repeated.
“
Well, yes, I'd be grateful for some
advice.
”
She glanced appreciatively at
my pale green walls, a mistake, I
frequently thought, but pleasant enough.
“
You've
made it so nice here.
”
“
You'll have enough furniture, I take it.
Though you can get rid of it if it's not
suitable.
”
The smile faded.
“
Yes, all that stuff.
Father's desk
—
I never got rid of that. Mary
didn't want anything changed.
”
“
Change it now,
”
I instructed her.
“
You'll feel better with new things around you.
”
The sound of Digby's key in the
door brought us both to our feet.
“
Home!
”
he called, as he always did, and I went out into the
hall to greet him.
“
Tired?
”
I queried.
That too was habitual.
“
I have a friend with me,
”
I told him. Obediently he straightened his
shoulders and summoned a smile.
“
You remember
Betsy,
”
I told him.
“
She was at our
wedding.
”
Betsy held out her hand.
“
Betsy de
Saint-Jorre,
”
she said. She had
appropriated both the aristocratic name and the
married style. It was her one act of dissimulation,
and I thought it entirely permissible.
Edmund's voice on the telephone sounded
distant, patriarchal, as a voice does after an
absence. I had not seen him for six weeks, and
at times it had seemed to me that he had gone
away, perhaps on a longer holiday than I had
anticipated, or, worse, that he had gone
away of his own accord, leaving me without an
explanation, or rather with an explanation I was free
to divine for myself. The agreement, or rather the
agreement that had been imposed on me, was that we
were two strangers who met from time to time for a
specified purpose, but who did not otherwise
intrude into each other's lives. In order
to sustain my part in this bargain I had needed all
my hard-won pragmatism, and this, so far, had not
deserted me. What intimacy we shared was
rigorously controlled, confined to the flat in
Britten Street, and never referred to in a
wider context. This tacit collusion had excited
me from the start. Now, with the changes in the year
becoming advanced, and consequently the alteration in
my habits dictated by the colder weather, the
darker evenings, I began to see the advantages
conferred by a companionship that could be taken for
granted, a middle ground in which references could be
understood without explanation. This carefully contrived
neutrality was something one observed with strangers,
beyond the comfort conferred by true knowledge.
“
Are you all right?
”
I asked, aware that my
voice had betrayed an unwanted eagerness.
“
My mother died. We had to go up to Scotland
for the funeral.
”
“
Oh, I'm so sorry.
”
Again, this was too
heartfelt. But surely the death of
one's mother was a tragedy? I felt that it might be
a tragedy for others, although the warring tendencies of
my own parents had made their absence a blessing rather
than something to be regretted, as I rather suspected
their eventual deaths would do. Parenting
responsibilities had long since passed to my
husband, in whose care I remained safe. But I
assumed that for a man who had had the confidence
to establish a family of his own, while continuing
to live as freely as he chose, such ties would
inevitably be stronger. In fact it pleased me
to view Edmund as a member not exactly of a
class but of a caste, a man in possession of
all the certainties that had come to him at birth and
had never had to be relinquished. His assurance
derived not simply from his untroubled physical
expectations but rather from the conviction that he had obeyed
all of life's norms, that he measured up to some
ideal standard which he had never thought to doubt. His
behaviour would remain unquestioned by those whom it
affected, simply because there were no questions to ask, or
perhaps because it was a matter of form not to ask them.
Privately it had occurred to me that such
behaviour might cause anguish, bitterness, but
from these dilemmas Edmund seemed inviolate.
It was perhaps part of his natural endowment, this
ability to please himself. He had given himself
permission to do so by virtue of the fact that he had
observed and paid the dues he owed to society, that
he had acquired all those attributes that mark
out the finished man: a fine house, fine children,
honourable and amply rewarded work, considerable
affluence, and the sort of health rarely achieved
by those whose lives were plagued by anxiety or
unhappiness. His ability to maintain an even
body temperature in all weathers seemed to me
to be part of this endowment: I myself began to shiver as
soon as summer was over, and could, if I let
myself, lapse into depression. Edmund, however,
seemed untouched by such vagaries, untouched too
by the melancholy which comes with the turn of the year and the
approach of Christmas. He seemed, quite
simply, impervious to any messages his nerves
and susceptibilities might prompt, and thus
gained an equilibrium that would no doubt be the
envy of those not similarly favoured, myself
included.
“
I'm sorry for your trouble,
”
I said
awkwardly, aware that this sounded quaint.
“
I
expect you'll miss her.
”
“
Well, she was very old, and she died in her
sleep. The best thing that could have happened, really.
We shall all go up again to look over the house,
see what needs to be sold. We'll probably
keep it, though.
”
There was a pause.
“
The children
were very fond of her.
”
“
And you? How are you?
”
“
What? I'm fine.
”
Another pause.
“
Are you free?
”
“
Yes, of course.
”
But this sounded wrong
too. I was being too simple, whereas I knew,
from appreciative comments in the past, that what he
preferred was a certain trickiness, a certain
savoir-faire. I suspected that he
preferred women who were as appropriately
situated as he was himself, and from whom he need
expect no sarcasm, no criticism,
certainly no recriminations. It was all part of the
bargain, a bargain which separated the initiated from the
uninitiated. How one passed this particular test
I was unsure, for I had thought ardour a worthy
substitute for experience. Now I realized
once again that my own experience was limited. What
partners I had had in Paris were remembered with a
certain discomfort, or indeed not remembered at
all. That was why, like Emma Bovary, whose story
does indeed seem to touch the lives of most
women, I had been moved to exclaim,
“
J'ai un amant! J'ai un amant!
”
when undergoing the rite of passage that distinguishes
true joy from mere acquiescence. That such
pleasure had to be paid for was a notion that belonged
to the Dark Ages. Or did it? Women of my
generation were at last profiting from the freedoms of the
1960's and had not yet been punished for so doing.
One likes to think in terms of rewards and
deserts, or at least I did. I was aware that
my conduct was reprehensible, and yet I had
only to remember the loneliness I had endured in
Paris (and indeed since then) to reassure myself that
certain indulgences were permitted. And that even if
they were not (here doubt persisted) I was willing
to pay the price. That there was a price to be paid
I had read too much, and had been too
indoctrinated to ignore. But part of Edmund's
gift to me had been to make me seem so
fortunate that I might escape the penalties
altogether. In short he had lent me some of his own
glamorous freedom from the pangs of conscience, and
I took this as further proof that I had
matured in a way that had not hitherto been
possible.
If I regretted anything it was that our time
together was too brief, that there was too little conversation.
I should have liked to ask questions, not only about his
wife, his children, but about his antecedents, his
childhood, his loyalties. While enslaved by the
outward man it was only the inner man who would have
satisfied my curiosity. The death of his mother
might have furnished a pretext for such an
enquiry, might have provided the answer to many
questions, but I knew that I was duty bound to observe
my rightful place in the gallery of his
acquaintances. This would have been a slight torment
if I had allowed it to develop into something like a
grudge. Being obliged to keep my place I was
aware of the inequalities of the relationship. This was
one of the many unfairnesses visited on women
by men, particularly resented by women of my generation
whose anger had at last been given free rein.
I had no desire to indulge in accusations, or
even suggestions; instinct, or was it fear, had
prompted me to apply only the lightest of
touches. But a light touch can be a heavy burden.
Only the satisfaction of desire, the confidence
of shared pleasure, can mitigate the inevitable
suspicions and dissatisfactions that come to the
surface between opportunities for meeting. And
sometimes those opportunities seemed too
slender. I had managed my own domestic
responsibilities as if by magic in my
eagerness to make the greater part of my time
available. Now I was prompted by a wish that
Edmund would do the same, while conscious of the need
not to voice this. So far he had managed to please
himself without any hint of remorse. It was his lack
of remorse that was his most perversely
attractive feature.
Our meeting was perhaps more brief than usual.
As I watched him dressing, with a rediscovered
briskness, I thought he seemed preoccupied.
Questions of the nature of
“
Are you all right?
”
were, I had the wit to know, both clumsy and
fussy, like the ardent
“
How are you?
”
offered
to mere acquaintances.
“
Are you very busy?
”
I
ventured, suddenly regretting that I had no job
other than that of looking after Digby. I longed for
an office, an enterprise that would absorb me and
my daytime thoughts; I had observed, with respect,
the girls on their way to work,
briefcase in hand, one arm flung up to hail a
taxi. I could see myself as a humble typist, a
loyal secretary, anything so long as it gave a
structure to my day and obliterated the long hours
of waiting. Indeed I should have been more balanced, more
reasonable, if I had had to compile an annual
report, or
—
an even greater temptation,
this
—
take part in meetings. Such activities would
have palliated my isolation, and the loneliness which had
survived my marriage and now threatened to disturb
my love affair.
“
Yes, very busy,
”
he said, in answer to my
question.
“
And we may be going to move.
”
“
From that lovely house?
”
“
What? Oh, yes, you came there once or
twice, didn't you? Well, it's too big now
that all the children are away. And there's a surprising
amount of noise from the traffic. My wife finds
it exasperating.
”
My wife. Not Constance. A major error.
“
Where will you go?
”
I said lightly.
“
I've got a man looking out for me.
We'll stay in the neighbourhood, I think.
Probably move further inland, nearer Sloane
Square. I really don't know at the moment.
Look, I must go. I'll see you soon. Or
at least I'll give you a ring. All right?
”
“
Of course,
”
I said, smiling. I was too
imbued with the joy of seeing him again to be conscious
of a desolation which had more to do with the threatened
disappearance of cherished landmarks than with a sense of
change. A feeling of displacement on my own
behalf might increase not only any potential
difficulties but also my ability to deal with them.
I depended on a wholly artificial stasis:
I liked to know, or to think I knew, where
Edmund was, even if this were pure delusion. I
did not care to think of him acting without reference
to myself, enjoying a freedom that was somehow denied
me. Even the fact that he had
“
a man looking
out
”
for him contributed to an air of suzerainty that
was in his gift, as if it were entirely normal that
he should have agents to do his bidding. I felt poor
in comparison, quite literally so, as if my own
naturally careful habits compared unfavourably
with his largesse. I had genuinely admired my
husband's departure from his usual thrift in his
attempt to divert me with expensive holidays,
and it had been with a sense of gratitude that I
repaid him with my household management
and the skills I had perfected in my
erstwhile
career. Now I felt as though these skills
merely established me as ineluctably middle
class, not dashing enough to ensure the continued interest
of a man surely accustomed to grander associations.