rose-pink velvet, and either it is too loose or perhaps she has lost more weight; in any event, it does not fit her and her face is sad. But the sensation of the photograph is Betty who has come over from Paris for the wedding; in apricot crêpe, if you please, with a little turban of the same material. Roguishly, she clasps her mama’s arm and peers over her shoulder at the photographer. She knows that her presence at this wedding, and indeed her performance at it, are going to have to compensate for a lot of absence to follow.
The bride’s parents seem quite amiable; fattish people, he looking fat in striped trousers, she looking fat in pale mauve chiffon, with a hat in sweet-pea colours: a terrible choice. They have the dark complexion of people with a year-round tan, and in the photograph they appear to have arrived from another continent. No one has Sofka’s air of suffering majesty, but then the bridegroom’s mother may be forgiven this expression, seeing that she will shortly say goodbye to her elder son. But the bridegroom’s best man has made a very good impression on the visitors and the guests. Alfred, in tails, is as striking now as Frederick was at that earlier wedding. He is, of course, more handsome. Not only is he slimmer, straighter; he has a look of austerity about him, one might say nobility, that almost compensates for his brother’s imminent departure. Strange how dispensable Frederick has suddenly become. Strange how the younger son has grown to resemble his mother. Those clear open eyes, that unflinching gravity of expression. For the girls at the wedding, waiting for the dancing to begin, it is no longer Frederick who is the prize; Frederick has been led off, like atrophy, by the one who showed the most muscle and who stayed the course the longest. But he is not much missed. It is Alfred now who is the more interesting proposition.
7
B ETTY HAS taken so easily to her vagabond Parisian life that one is tempted to think that there is some validity in the theory of rootless cosmopolitanism which has been applied to her and her kind. Every morning she trips out of her one-room flat for milk and a roll and trips back again to make her breakfast. This is the only meal she has at home, for she cannot, of course, cook or housekeep, and in any event she has a passion for cafés, bars, restaurants: she would spend her day in them if she could, and frequently does. In the sharp air of that late November it is Betty’s delight to steal out in the early morning, buy the warm bread, and then steal back to bed, also warm, and lie there like a cat, dozing and stretching, until about eleven o’clock. Then it is time for her bath, and the long elaborate business of preparing herself for a day in the public eye. Seated before her dressing-table, with its light mist of peach-pink powder and the odd discarded necklace, Betty makes up her flawless young face with the expertise and the severity usually reserved for the middle-aged. Unsparing are the glances she directs at herself, noting a smudge in the lipstick or an uneven shading on one cheek-bone. Does she see the bluish shadows under the eyes which are a legacy of all her late nights and dozing mornings? Probably not; in any event, she looks marvellous.
The flat is a mess and Betty cannot always prevail on the concierge, Madame Mercier, to clean it. When she moved in, just before Frederick got married, it was because she was bored with the unyielding respectability of the Pension Mozart, and anyway it was too tiring to have to go round to the Hôtel des Acacias every night. She was lucky to find this place, for although it is small it is private and Frank can be here all the time when she wants him. Funnily enough, she quite likes being here on her own. It is not that Frank is not in love with her, but that he is too simply in love with her to satisfy Betty’s tastes. Frank is one of those artless men who fall in love and take this condition to be a licence
The bride’s parents seem quite amiable; fattish people, he looking fat in striped trousers, she looking fat in pale mauve chiffon, with a hat in sweet-pea colours: a terrible choice. They have the dark complexion of people with a year-round tan, and in the photograph they appear to have arrived from another continent. No one has Sofka’s air of suffering majesty, but then the bridegroom’s mother may be forgiven this expression, seeing that she will shortly say goodbye to her elder son. But the bridegroom’s best man has made a very good impression on the visitors and the guests. Alfred, in tails, is as striking now as Frederick was at that earlier wedding. He is, of course, more handsome. Not only is he slimmer, straighter; he has a look of austerity about him, one might say nobility, that almost compensates for his brother’s imminent departure. Strange how dispensable Frederick has suddenly become. Strange how the younger son has grown to resemble his mother. Those clear open eyes, that unflinching gravity of expression. For the girls at the wedding, waiting for the dancing to begin, it is no longer Frederick who is the prize; Frederick has been led off, like atrophy, by the one who showed the most muscle and who stayed the course the longest. But he is not much missed. It is Alfred now who is the more interesting proposition.
7
B ETTY HAS taken so easily to her vagabond Parisian life that one is tempted to think that there is some validity in the theory of rootless cosmopolitanism which has been applied to her and her kind. Every morning she trips out of her one-room flat for milk and a roll and trips back again to make her breakfast. This is the only meal she has at home, for she cannot, of course, cook or housekeep, and in any event she has a passion for cafés, bars, restaurants: she would spend her day in them if she could, and frequently does. In the sharp air of that late November it is Betty’s delight to steal out in the early morning, buy the warm bread, and then steal back to bed, also warm, and lie there like a cat, dozing and stretching, until about eleven o’clock. Then it is time for her bath, and the long elaborate business of preparing herself for a day in the public eye. Seated before her dressing-table, with its light mist of peach-pink powder and the odd discarded necklace, Betty makes up her flawless young face with the expertise and the severity usually reserved for the middle-aged. Unsparing are the glances she directs at herself, noting a smudge in the lipstick or an uneven shading on one cheek-bone. Does she see the bluish shadows under the eyes which are a legacy of all her late nights and dozing mornings? Probably not; in any event, she looks marvellous.
The flat is a mess and Betty cannot always prevail on the concierge, Madame Mercier, to clean it. When she moved in, just before Frederick got married, it was because she was bored with the unyielding respectability of the Pension Mozart, and anyway it was too tiring to have to go round to the Hôtel des Acacias every night. She was lucky to find this place, for although it is small it is private and Frank can be here all the time when she wants him. Funnily enough, she quite likes being here on her own. It is not that Frank is not in love with her, but that he is too simply in love with her to satisfy Betty’s tastes. Frank is one of those artless men who fall in love and take this condition to be a licence
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