The Rules of Engagement by Anita Brookner

whatever inner darkness he managed so successfully to conceal merely added an intriguing complexity to what was in reality a series of aberrations, to which no one meeting him for the first time could have access. There was a dreadful pathos in all this. I thought of the boy and his toy boat, giving him parity with the other children watched over by mothers in the peaceful afternoons. Simply put, it had taken him a lifetime to recover from childhood and he had not managed the process, had in fact abandoned it, had perhaps had a moment of lucidity and known himself to be inadequate to the task. Whereas Betsy had not accepted that her circumstances had been unfavourable, and had only revealed her longing for love and friendship in a sometimes misplaced enthusiasm. That eagerness had now gone, replaced by something that was not yet maturity, was perhaps merely the dawning realization that all her efforts, her acceptance, and even the happiness she had known in the early days of her love affair, were all aspects of a reality, a complexity with which she had not reckoned, simply because it was not in her nature to look beyond the truth she sought, and had so far managed to find. That truth had revealed itself as unpalatable, and this constituted a moral problem. There was evidence of this in the way she had rubbed her forehead, as philosophers do in the statues of old. Enlightenment would not be altogether welcome. But then it so rarely is.
    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.