And then that fortuitous concatenation of high and low
drama, of Racine and Hollywood, the lines
learned and declaimed to indifferent friends and
classmates, and the cinema on Saturday
nights, and the mystifying behaviour of those who
obeyed different codes, who knew about
calculation, and delay and how to defeat rivals!
The one must have warred with the other, yet the message
of both was that love was the true business of men and
women, particularly of women. She would have
rejected the amorous sleight-of-hand deployed
by the stars and allied herself with the tragic sincerity of
those other actors, those heroic players in the
eternal game of love and loss.
“
Dans
un mois, dans un an, comment
souffrirons-nous ar Que tant de mers
me
séparent
de vous ar Que le jour
recommence, et que le jour finisse ar
Sans que jamais Titus puisse voir
Bérénice
...
”
She had adopted such
behaviour as her standard, not knowing or not caring that it
was obsolete. Her belief, and it was almost a
religious belief, that such virtue as those
prototypes represented must find its
equivalent in human affections, and that she need
only maintain that belief for the ideal conclusion to be
reached, was what gave her fine eyes that strange
starry light, as if at any moment her
very own hero might materialize and escort her
to a future which would unite them both.
It was true that her looks had benefited from that
idealism. Her air of expectancy would appeal
to some, though it might be misconstrued by others.
Edmund no doubt had been amused and touched. His
prudence would protect him from a false step
until he was sure that she understood what was at
stake and even then might hold him back. At that
stage he would hand her over to Constance, whom
Betsy, if still unaffected, would embrace with
equal fervour. If she responded like a
normal woman she might, by the same token,
prove onerous, in which case Constance would perform her
usual function and Betsy would be carefully or
not so carefully dismissed. I saw as if for the first
time the dreadful dynamics of this couple, saw
too that I had had a lucky escape. But was it
so lucky? I had volunteered to leave, and in so
doing had deprived myself of a source of pleasure
of which I was now more in need than ever. I felt
drab, drowsy, as if some life-giving supply
had been switched off, leaving me almost comatose.
I had nothing better to do than to sit in this room
bearing witness to another woman's dawning
excitement, for we were separated by something more than
experience, even experience of the same man. Some
lingering decency kept me silent, though it would have
served my purpose to have uttered a warning. But
whereas I had never doubted Edmund's
duplicity, and had schooled myself to understand it, even
to accommodate it, I knew that Betsy was
entirely unacquainted with this particular quality.
Her loyalty to Daniel had no doubt been
prompted by the same idealism, whereas a normal
woman would have summed him up as a fantasist and
given him a wide berth. Therefore I must
respect what was in the kindest interpretation a form
of innocence that was unusual, indeed rare, in a
grown woman. The sad act of growing up is that
this quality is lost, worse, that it can lead one
astray, and worse even than that, be derided,
even be seen as a fault. Being good has no
virtue if it is grounded in ignorance, and I
could see from Betsy's apparent conversion (or was it
real?) to Edmund's passing favour that she was
ready to place her entire time at his disposal, and
to accept his overtures in the hope that they might
lead to the sort of inclusiveness that she had always
craved.
He might have seen something different in her
response to his offer, might have intuited a
fervour which it could be in his interest to explore. He
would have no truck with her ideals, but was astute enough
to be able to bypass them. My worst thought was that he
might even have been wryly impressed, might
indulge himself by feeling more than he should, might
even fall a little in love with her. But here, at this
critical point, my own hardheadedness prompted
me to reflect that he would know the risks involved.
That was the difference between Betsy and myself: I
preferred to know the truth, however bleak, and what
strength of character I had impelled me to look these
facts in the face, whereas Betsy might have been
created by Dickens. She was Little Dorrit, whose
goodness, even on the page, grows a little tiresome.
There were unusual intervals of silence in our
conversation, of which I think only I was aware.
Betsy had retrieved some kind of authority from
her recent turn of fortune, and I could see that in
some mysterious way our positions had become
reversed. Not that there was anything more than coincidence
at work here: I was quite sure that she had formed no
comparison, or no conscious comparison, between the
possibilities open to us. Yet I made no
attempt to hide from her, or from myself, that I had
reached the end of one particular road: I was a
widow, and it was proper to assume that my emotional
life was over. This was so true that I saw no
sense in disputing the fact. Whatever I might have
wanted from the future was now eclipsed by the very
obvious fact of my solitariness. I did not have
the courage to undertake new initiatives. My
recent decision to return to Paris was not after all
a decision, for I was incapable of putting it
into action, and in any event what would I do there?
If I were to live the life of an exile I could
do so much more comfortably by remaining where I was,
surrounded by familiar possessions, my position
unambiguous. I had undergone some further rite
of passage, from the experiences that pertain to youth
to the anticipation of ageing, when one becomes
fearful of having one's habits and customs
disturbed. This new vulnerability was brought about not
only by Digby's death but by the removal of
pleasure. I was able to mourn both Digby and
Edmund in equal measure, disloyal as this might
seem. One huge loss, which encompassed them
both, seemed to be my lot, and I could see that
unless I were very careful I might end up
mourning for myself.
For I had certainly been reduced, as I had
never thought I should be. Even in Paris I had
maintained a certain inviolability. In
London, at home, I might unthinkingly
conform, as my mother had done, despite her
frustrations. And I should have to assume a dignity
which would be porous, made worse by the more successful
lives of others. I should be useful as a
confidante, an invidious position which I had no
means of avoiding. For I could never recapture
the kind of eagerness with which Betsy had outlined her
useful future, the one now being devised for her.
I could see only idleness for myself. No plans
had been made for me; whatever I did or did
not do was entirely in my gift. Yet the courage
it would take to remove myself from this position was for the
time being beyond me. I was only partly restored by the
look of sympathy in Betsy's eyes.
Sympathy was the last thing I wanted.
“
You've let your hair grow,
”
I said
quickly, to furnish one of those silences which we had
occupied by carefully drinking coffee and eating
biscuits.
“
Oh, I couldn't be bothered with it. Does it
look all right?
”
“
It suits you. In fact it suits you rather
better.
”
She had tied it back with a black ribbon, and the
new nakedness of her face added to its appeal.
She still had an air of having recently returned
from abroad, in her deft movements, in her new
confidence. I could see that she was very attractive,
that the latency from which she had previously suffered was
at an end.
“
It was really a bit of luck, our meeting like
that. Though of course it was a very sad occasion.
”
“
Meeting Edmund, you mean?
”
“
Yes. Did you know him well?
”
“
He was a friend of Digby's.
”
I got up
from one of her uncomfortable chairs.
“
I must
go.
”
“
I'll walk with you a bit. I want to know
how you really are. I can't believe I've been
talking so much about myself.
”
She gave a little
laugh, as if better to convey her disbelief.
“
I do so want us to keep in touch. After all,
we've been friends for most of our lives. And now
that I'm so near ... You must let me help in
any way I can. If you feel ... you
know. If you want to talk.
”
It was kindly meant, I am sure. Yet
once again a discrepancy had made itself felt.
I belonged to the past. Suddenly, and quite fiercely,
I wanted Edmund back for myself. In the next
moment I saw that I had ruined my chances, and,
worse, given up without a struggle.
We left the flat, with its witheringly subdued
light, and issued out into another beautiful morning.
So far this had been a poignant autumn, a
gift to the more poetic kind of journalist. I had
taken to reading the newspapers very carefully,
addressing myself to the facts, and I had been
surprised by the unexpected soulfulness displayed in
this matter. This gave me a moment of pleasure every
day, for the weather is a democratic institution in
which everyone has a vote, and in any case it
made a change from the Business News, which I
also read carefully in an effort to understand my
financial position. This, as far as I could make
out, was comfortable. I could, if I cared to,
distribute largesse on my own account rather than
respect those who were able to do so in a frivolous
manner which, finally, had nothing to do with me. I had
no desire to acquire property or to own
anything that was not legitimately mine. I did not
intend to keep different houses for different
purposes. Of the whole affair this was what most
offended me. The flat in Britten Street was a
symbol of calculation that perhaps only a man could
make. I could see now how perverse its appeal
had been. More than the flat I regretted the
garden and the afternoons I had spent sitting there. That was
a pleasure of which I need not feel ashamed. I
did not think I should ever go there again.
This particular morning seemed more significant
than most, as if it marked the decline of one
life and the resurgence of another, as if in fact
I was sending Betsy off to a brighter future than
any she could have designed for herself. I took
careful note
—
of that sunlit patch of brick, of
those late roses in a bucket outside the
greengrocer's, of that damp butt of a cigar lying
on the pavement. This was now the currency I might
exchange with others, free from ulterior motive,
free from personal concerns. I was aware of
Betsy walking beside me in equable silence, as if
she too were under the spell of the beneficent weather,
but when I stole a glance I could see that her
colour was still high. A kind of mutism
prevented me from talking confidently or
persuasively, although it might have been in both our
interests if I had done so. I did not do this because
although we were both silent, and although there was matter
there that might have been discussed, she had not quite
intuited what that matter was. If she
suspected prior knowledge between Edmund and myself it was knowledge
of a purely social nature: I had known him
in my capacity as a married woman, and was thus
disbarred from intimacy. She was disposed to pity me for
what were certainly legitimate reasons, but I
was not inclined to receive the sympathy she so obviously
felt.