mark out the finished man: a fine house, fine children, honourable and amply rewarded work, considerable affluence, and the sort of health rarely achieved by those whose lives were plagued by anxiety or unhappiness. His ability to maintain an even body temperature in all weathers seemed to me to be part of this endowment: I myself began to shiver as soon as summer was over, and could, if I let myself, lapse into depression. Edmund, however, seemed untouched by such vagaries, untouched too by the melancholy which comes with the turn of the year and the approach of Christmas. He seemed, quite simply, impervious to any messages his nerves and susceptibilities might prompt, and thus gained an equilibrium that would no doubt be the envy of those not similarly favoured, myself included.
“ I'm sorry for your trouble, ” I said awkwardly, aware that this sounded quaint. “ I expect you'll miss her. ”
“ Well, she was very old, and she died in her sleep. The best thing that could have happened, really. We shall all go up again to look over the house, see what needs to be sold. We'll probably keep it, though. ” There was a pause. “ The children were very fond of her. ”
“ And you? How are you? ”
“ What? I'm fine. ” Another pause.
“ Are you free? ”
“ Yes, of course. ” But this sounded wrong too. I was being too simple, whereas I knew, from appreciative comments in the past, that what he preferred was a certain trickiness, a certain savoir-faire. I suspected that he preferred women who were as appropriately situated as he was himself, and from whom he need expect no sarcasm, no criticism, certainly no recriminations. It was all part of the bargain, a bargain which separated the initiated from the uninitiated. How one passed this particular test I was unsure, for I had thought ardour a worthy substitute for experience. Now I realized once again that my own experience was limited. What partners I had had in Paris were remembered with a certain discomfort, or indeed not remembered at all. That was why, like Emma Bovary, whose story does indeed seem to touch the lives of most women, I had been moved to exclaim, “ J'ai un amant! J'ai un amant! ” when undergoing the rite of passage that distinguishes true joy from mere acquiescence. That such pleasure had to be paid for was a notion that belonged to the Dark Ages. Or did it? Women of my generation were at last profiting from the freedoms of the 1960's and had not yet been punished for so doing.
One likes to think in terms of rewards and deserts, or at least I did. I was aware that my conduct was reprehensible, and yet I had only to remember the loneliness I had endured in Paris (and indeed since then) to reassure myself that certain indulgences were permitted. And that even if they were not (here doubt persisted) I was willing to pay the price. That there was a price to be paid I had read too much, and had been too indoctrinated to ignore. But part of Edmund's gift to me had been to make me seem so fortunate that I might escape the penalties altogether. In short he had lent me some of his own glamorous freedom from the pangs of conscience, and I took this as further proof that I had matured in a way that had not hitherto been possible.
If I regretted anything it was that our time together was too brief, that there was too little conversation. I should have liked to ask questions, not only about his wife, his children, but about his antecedents, his childhood, his loyalties. While enslaved by the outward man it was only the inner man who would have satisfied my curiosity. The death of his mother might have furnished a pretext for such an enquiry, might have provided the answer to many questions, but I knew that I was duty bound to observe my rightful place in the gallery of his acquaintances. This would have been a slight torment if I had allowed it to develop into something like a grudge. Being obliged to keep my place I was aware of the inequalities of
“ I'm sorry for your trouble, ” I said awkwardly, aware that this sounded quaint. “ I expect you'll miss her. ”
“ Well, she was very old, and she died in her sleep. The best thing that could have happened, really. We shall all go up again to look over the house, see what needs to be sold. We'll probably keep it, though. ” There was a pause. “ The children were very fond of her. ”
“ And you? How are you? ”
“ What? I'm fine. ” Another pause.
“ Are you free? ”
“ Yes, of course. ” But this sounded wrong too. I was being too simple, whereas I knew, from appreciative comments in the past, that what he preferred was a certain trickiness, a certain savoir-faire. I suspected that he preferred women who were as appropriately situated as he was himself, and from whom he need expect no sarcasm, no criticism, certainly no recriminations. It was all part of the bargain, a bargain which separated the initiated from the uninitiated. How one passed this particular test I was unsure, for I had thought ardour a worthy substitute for experience. Now I realized once again that my own experience was limited. What partners I had had in Paris were remembered with a certain discomfort, or indeed not remembered at all. That was why, like Emma Bovary, whose story does indeed seem to touch the lives of most women, I had been moved to exclaim, “ J'ai un amant! J'ai un amant! ” when undergoing the rite of passage that distinguishes true joy from mere acquiescence. That such pleasure had to be paid for was a notion that belonged to the Dark Ages. Or did it? Women of my generation were at last profiting from the freedoms of the 1960's and had not yet been punished for so doing.
One likes to think in terms of rewards and deserts, or at least I did. I was aware that my conduct was reprehensible, and yet I had only to remember the loneliness I had endured in Paris (and indeed since then) to reassure myself that certain indulgences were permitted. And that even if they were not (here doubt persisted) I was willing to pay the price. That there was a price to be paid I had read too much, and had been too indoctrinated to ignore. But part of Edmund's gift to me had been to make me seem so fortunate that I might escape the penalties altogether. In short he had lent me some of his own glamorous freedom from the pangs of conscience, and I took this as further proof that I had matured in a way that had not hitherto been possible.
If I regretted anything it was that our time together was too brief, that there was too little conversation. I should have liked to ask questions, not only about his wife, his children, but about his antecedents, his childhood, his loyalties. While enslaved by the outward man it was only the inner man who would have satisfied my curiosity. The death of his mother might have furnished a pretext for such an enquiry, might have provided the answer to many questions, but I knew that I was duty bound to observe my rightful place in the gallery of his acquaintances. This would have been a slight torment if I had allowed it to develop into something like a grudge. Being obliged to keep my place I was aware of the inequalities of
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