Camus’ text,’ she added.
Kitty thought. ‘It’s very difficult. The proposition is that man’s natural condition is inherently absurd because he constantly makes assumptions and these assumptions are usually incorrect. Beginnings do not naturally predispose one to good fortune or its opposite. There is therefore no sound basis for reassurance or optimism. All forces are indifferent. And if you don’t like the prospect of unlimited free will – and who does? – you can initiate your own sort of rebellion. You can be a “saint without God”, as Camus puts it. Though I don’t know. One of my students,’ she added, ‘thinksthat Existentialism is a Romantic phenomenon.’
‘Oh, but I never doubted it,’ said Mrs Bentley in a rather dry tone. She was exhilarated to find herself still ahead of the game. She had to be forcibly reminded twice by Pauline that they were going out that evening, and when she left the room on her daughter’s arm, she still had a small triumphant smile on her lips.
When they reassembled, they were on the whole pleased with each other. Pauline had changed into a light wool dress, obviously her best, and Mrs Bentley, rocking slightly in a pair of antique boat-shaped court shoes, wore a silk dress and jacket, into the pockets of which she had stowed her handkerchief and her tin. Pauline was instructed to take the dog next door to the Singletons and had to wake him up to do so. While they waited, Mrs Bentley felt for Kitty’s hand. ‘Look after my daughter,’ she said abruptly. ‘I can’t do much for her now. When I die I want her to go round the world. Away from this place. I want her to spend all the money at once. Will you see to that?’
Kitty squeezed the hand. ‘I promise you,’ she said.
The evening was a great success. The hotel was warm and subdued, the tables not too crowded, the windows open on to the deserted garden. Mrs Bentley was persuaded to drink a glass of wine, and whether because of the wine or because of Kitty’s promise, she became very animated.
‘Mother,’ warned Pauline, ‘you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘Who cares?’ cried Mrs Bentley, plunging her fork just beyond her apple charlotte and striking the table. ‘And if I’m not going to sleep I might as well have some coffee.’
They had coffee and brandy, for Pauline’s sake as much as anything, for Kitty was determined that Pauline should sleep. Pauline looked much younger, she noted approvingly; the candlelight flattered her and gave hermore colour. She looked, thought Kitty, very English. Shy but invincible. She will be all right, she decided. She will see the world, that I guarantee. She will marry a retired colonial official and settle down in Hong Kong. I shall hear from her once a year – a letter inside a Christmas card, ending ‘George joins me in sending his warmest wishes’. I see it clearly.
‘This is really very pleasant,’ said Mrs Bentley, igniting one of her cigarettes. ‘My husband and I used to come here when it was a private house. We knew a lot of people in those days. The Derings. The Granthams. The Bishops.’
Kitty’s heart speeded up. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said casually. ‘Maurice Bishop is in the History Department, of course.’
‘Maurice was the only son,’ mused Mrs Bentley. ‘So sad about that marriage of his. Margaret, his mother, was very cut up about it.’
Kitty said slowly, ‘You mean the marriage that didn’t come off?’
‘That’s right. Such a pretty girl, too. They were so devoted. We couldn’t understand it.’
‘Yes, it must have been sad,’ said Kitty, in a carefully uninflected voice. Pauline stole a glance at her. ‘I thought it was all hushed up.’ She meant, I thought it was a secret. I thought that Maurice told only me.
Mrs Bentley laughed rather coarsely. ‘That sort of thing never is. Neither of them was terribly reticent, as I remember. Henry Bishop thought it a lot of unnecessary fuss.’
Kitty, who felt suddenly stifled,
Kitty thought. ‘It’s very difficult. The proposition is that man’s natural condition is inherently absurd because he constantly makes assumptions and these assumptions are usually incorrect. Beginnings do not naturally predispose one to good fortune or its opposite. There is therefore no sound basis for reassurance or optimism. All forces are indifferent. And if you don’t like the prospect of unlimited free will – and who does? – you can initiate your own sort of rebellion. You can be a “saint without God”, as Camus puts it. Though I don’t know. One of my students,’ she added, ‘thinksthat Existentialism is a Romantic phenomenon.’
‘Oh, but I never doubted it,’ said Mrs Bentley in a rather dry tone. She was exhilarated to find herself still ahead of the game. She had to be forcibly reminded twice by Pauline that they were going out that evening, and when she left the room on her daughter’s arm, she still had a small triumphant smile on her lips.
When they reassembled, they were on the whole pleased with each other. Pauline had changed into a light wool dress, obviously her best, and Mrs Bentley, rocking slightly in a pair of antique boat-shaped court shoes, wore a silk dress and jacket, into the pockets of which she had stowed her handkerchief and her tin. Pauline was instructed to take the dog next door to the Singletons and had to wake him up to do so. While they waited, Mrs Bentley felt for Kitty’s hand. ‘Look after my daughter,’ she said abruptly. ‘I can’t do much for her now. When I die I want her to go round the world. Away from this place. I want her to spend all the money at once. Will you see to that?’
Kitty squeezed the hand. ‘I promise you,’ she said.
The evening was a great success. The hotel was warm and subdued, the tables not too crowded, the windows open on to the deserted garden. Mrs Bentley was persuaded to drink a glass of wine, and whether because of the wine or because of Kitty’s promise, she became very animated.
‘Mother,’ warned Pauline, ‘you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘Who cares?’ cried Mrs Bentley, plunging her fork just beyond her apple charlotte and striking the table. ‘And if I’m not going to sleep I might as well have some coffee.’
They had coffee and brandy, for Pauline’s sake as much as anything, for Kitty was determined that Pauline should sleep. Pauline looked much younger, she noted approvingly; the candlelight flattered her and gave hermore colour. She looked, thought Kitty, very English. Shy but invincible. She will be all right, she decided. She will see the world, that I guarantee. She will marry a retired colonial official and settle down in Hong Kong. I shall hear from her once a year – a letter inside a Christmas card, ending ‘George joins me in sending his warmest wishes’. I see it clearly.
‘This is really very pleasant,’ said Mrs Bentley, igniting one of her cigarettes. ‘My husband and I used to come here when it was a private house. We knew a lot of people in those days. The Derings. The Granthams. The Bishops.’
Kitty’s heart speeded up. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said casually. ‘Maurice Bishop is in the History Department, of course.’
‘Maurice was the only son,’ mused Mrs Bentley. ‘So sad about that marriage of his. Margaret, his mother, was very cut up about it.’
Kitty said slowly, ‘You mean the marriage that didn’t come off?’
‘That’s right. Such a pretty girl, too. They were so devoted. We couldn’t understand it.’
‘Yes, it must have been sad,’ said Kitty, in a carefully uninflected voice. Pauline stole a glance at her. ‘I thought it was all hushed up.’ She meant, I thought it was a secret. I thought that Maurice told only me.
Mrs Bentley laughed rather coarsely. ‘That sort of thing never is. Neither of them was terribly reticent, as I remember. Henry Bishop thought it a lot of unnecessary fuss.’
Kitty, who felt suddenly stifled,
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