reminiscences in a subordinate capacity, wondering how Sally had had the money for this hedonistic life when she was now so obviously in need of it. The answer, as far as she could see, was with the absent Paul, who had obviously spent all he had on her, and, the money having gone, had been forced to take up this curious position with the American, Demuth.
‘When is he coming home?’ asked Blanche in a carefully neutral tone.
Sally shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she said.
They were seated as usual in the basement. Blanche assumed matters to be serious, as Sally had actually telephoned and asked her to come round. Once she had done this, however, she seemed to have as little as usual to say, although she managed to indicate that Elinor would be staying with her grandmother for some time, or at least ‘until we can work something out’. Her phrases habitually had a vague but modish air, explaining nothing. Blanche had done some shopping on the way, suspecting that the telephone call had been inspired by indigence, and on the pretext of putting something in the kitchen had left fifty pounds under the teapot lid. She had no way of knowing whether this was too much or too little. Judging by herself she supposed it to be enough, but then, although she was a woman of some means, she was both frugal and methodical, and all too prudent in her needs. But Sally, she could see, had higher expectations, and her original gifts of little clothes for Elinor had been met with a ‘Sweet of you, but you shouldn’t’ and a particularly disappointed smile.
The prospect of pulling Sally into shape, which Blanche now saw as the task before her, presented some difficulties. The original animation that Sally had shown in the OutpatientsDepartment only flashed back into life when past activities were being reviewed. The holidays, the parties, the dinners, Sally implied, were of such a superior nature that she could not be expected to put up with anything less, and it was therefore only natural that she should spend these listless though intent waking hours waiting for pleasure to be renewed. She appeared to have no ability, or no inclination, to be anything but a recipient. Her passivity seemed to mark an interval in her expectations, and in that sense to be seen by her as entirely appropriate. Where Blanche would arrive in the keen expectation of hearing definite news, or at least some plan of action, Sally, by contrast, seemed to be emptying her mind of everything apart from the memory of past activities. When these came into the conversation, as they did to an increasing extent, she would recover her lost animation; her features would sharpen, her eyes light up, and preoccupied laughter would escape her, as if the peculiar essence of these incidents could not possibly be conveyed but would be known, like a code, to those similarly advantaged. Her encompassing boredom with the present included Blanche, as Blanche could see. What was worrying was not only Sally’s increasing abstraction, her removal from the dilemma of the present, as Blanche saw it, but the fact that these reminiscences seemed to be quite disparate, not anchored in real time, and above all unconnected with her husband. Sally’s past life, the only one she cared to talk about, was surrounded by a crowd of people known to her only by their Christian names: who they were, what, if anything, they did, where they lived when not staying in hotels or villas – all this was outside the boundaries of her interest. It was as if they had been her companions in some mythic time when they had all moved weightlessly from party to party, resort to resort. It was a diet of hedonism, from which the fibrous content of real life had been removed.
Blanche saw, in Sally, how occasions of pleasure had bred indifference to anything less, how a continuous level of excitement had led to expectation of more, and how gratification had merely intensified her scorn for lives
‘When is he coming home?’ asked Blanche in a carefully neutral tone.
Sally shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she said.
They were seated as usual in the basement. Blanche assumed matters to be serious, as Sally had actually telephoned and asked her to come round. Once she had done this, however, she seemed to have as little as usual to say, although she managed to indicate that Elinor would be staying with her grandmother for some time, or at least ‘until we can work something out’. Her phrases habitually had a vague but modish air, explaining nothing. Blanche had done some shopping on the way, suspecting that the telephone call had been inspired by indigence, and on the pretext of putting something in the kitchen had left fifty pounds under the teapot lid. She had no way of knowing whether this was too much or too little. Judging by herself she supposed it to be enough, but then, although she was a woman of some means, she was both frugal and methodical, and all too prudent in her needs. But Sally, she could see, had higher expectations, and her original gifts of little clothes for Elinor had been met with a ‘Sweet of you, but you shouldn’t’ and a particularly disappointed smile.
The prospect of pulling Sally into shape, which Blanche now saw as the task before her, presented some difficulties. The original animation that Sally had shown in the OutpatientsDepartment only flashed back into life when past activities were being reviewed. The holidays, the parties, the dinners, Sally implied, were of such a superior nature that she could not be expected to put up with anything less, and it was therefore only natural that she should spend these listless though intent waking hours waiting for pleasure to be renewed. She appeared to have no ability, or no inclination, to be anything but a recipient. Her passivity seemed to mark an interval in her expectations, and in that sense to be seen by her as entirely appropriate. Where Blanche would arrive in the keen expectation of hearing definite news, or at least some plan of action, Sally, by contrast, seemed to be emptying her mind of everything apart from the memory of past activities. When these came into the conversation, as they did to an increasing extent, she would recover her lost animation; her features would sharpen, her eyes light up, and preoccupied laughter would escape her, as if the peculiar essence of these incidents could not possibly be conveyed but would be known, like a code, to those similarly advantaged. Her encompassing boredom with the present included Blanche, as Blanche could see. What was worrying was not only Sally’s increasing abstraction, her removal from the dilemma of the present, as Blanche saw it, but the fact that these reminiscences seemed to be quite disparate, not anchored in real time, and above all unconnected with her husband. Sally’s past life, the only one she cared to talk about, was surrounded by a crowd of people known to her only by their Christian names: who they were, what, if anything, they did, where they lived when not staying in hotels or villas – all this was outside the boundaries of her interest. It was as if they had been her companions in some mythic time when they had all moved weightlessly from party to party, resort to resort. It was a diet of hedonism, from which the fibrous content of real life had been removed.
Blanche saw, in Sally, how occasions of pleasure had bred indifference to anything less, how a continuous level of excitement had led to expectation of more, and how gratification had merely intensified her scorn for lives
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