Bensimon had predicted, and the bland domestic emotions of that new fictive day supplanted everything that had caused anguish and provoked insupportable shame.
As he left, retrieving his Panama hat from the hat-stand, Bensimon’s stern, bespectacled secretary appeared, an envelope in her hand. A receipt, he supposed, for last month’s fees.
‘Herr Rief,’ she said, not meeting his eye. ‘This was left for you.’
Lysander took it and read it on the stairs going down to the street. It was from Hettie.
‘Come next Wednesday at six pm. U is going to Zürich. Pack an overnight bag.’
Lysander acknowledged the irrepressible surge of excitement. He felt like a boy legitimately excused school in the middle of term – that sense of unlooked-for freedom, unexpected release. Then more reproachful thoughts intruded as he strolled homeward. It was all very well feeling grateful to Hettie for ‘curing’ him but he had been snared, after all, and had tumbled guilelessly into her trap – everything had been contrived to make what took place inevitable. In his conscience he could just about forgive himself – it had been a momentary fall, his honour tarnished but not irreparably – one moment of uncontrollable passion that could be consigned to history and forgotten. No one knew, no one had been hurt. But if he went back to her and spent a night or two then that was another matter. For the sake of his engagement, his relationship and future with Blanche he should write back and say no – it couldn’t happen again or he’d be lost, he knew.
He crossed the Ring by the Burg Theatre and was instantly reminded of Udo Hoff and his architectural recriminations. And with that trigger came the fizzing surge of elation at the idea of seeing Hettie again. He began to imagine what it would be like to spend a night with her in that narrow bed, to wake in the morning, sleepy and warm, thigh to thigh, to roll over and reach for her . . .
Back at the pension he sat down and wrote immediately to Blanche, breaking off their engagement. It was the only honourable course to take, even if the lies were fluent. He said that various consultations with doctors and psychoanalysts in Vienna had convinced him that any cure, if it were to work, would be lengthy and complicated. Furthermore, he was troubled by the depth and severity of his ‘mental agitations’ and therefore, under these circumstances, he felt it was only fair to you, dearest Blanche, to release you from your promises and vows. He begged her forgiveness and understanding and urged her to do what she wished with the ring he had given her – throw it in the Thames, sell it, bequeath it as an heirloom to a niece or a goddaughter – whatever seemed apt. He would remember her kindness and beauty as long as he lived and he was abjectly sorry that his ‘particular unfortunate circumstances’ forbade him from becoming her devoted husband.
He sealed the envelope with a mixture of emotions – guilt, sadness and exhilaration – also modest self-satisfaction at promptly ending the duplicity combined with a thrilling sense of liberation. He was a free man now – his wretched anorgasmia a horrible memory, a thing of the past. Who could say where this liaison with Miss Hettie Bull would lead? But he made a promise to himself not to look any further into the future than his next encounter with her. There was a real element of danger added to the excitement, of course – a cuckolded lover in the wings – not to mention Hettie’s own deep instabilities (he had witnessed them breaking through – he wasn’t ignoring them) but for the moment next Wednesday at 6.00 p.m. was all he could think about.
At dinner that night, Wolfram said to him, ‘You seem in excellent spirits this evening, Lysander.’
‘I am,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve realized that coming to Vienna was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Herr Rief,’ Frau K said. ‘I’ve
As he left, retrieving his Panama hat from the hat-stand, Bensimon’s stern, bespectacled secretary appeared, an envelope in her hand. A receipt, he supposed, for last month’s fees.
‘Herr Rief,’ she said, not meeting his eye. ‘This was left for you.’
Lysander took it and read it on the stairs going down to the street. It was from Hettie.
‘Come next Wednesday at six pm. U is going to Zürich. Pack an overnight bag.’
Lysander acknowledged the irrepressible surge of excitement. He felt like a boy legitimately excused school in the middle of term – that sense of unlooked-for freedom, unexpected release. Then more reproachful thoughts intruded as he strolled homeward. It was all very well feeling grateful to Hettie for ‘curing’ him but he had been snared, after all, and had tumbled guilelessly into her trap – everything had been contrived to make what took place inevitable. In his conscience he could just about forgive himself – it had been a momentary fall, his honour tarnished but not irreparably – one moment of uncontrollable passion that could be consigned to history and forgotten. No one knew, no one had been hurt. But if he went back to her and spent a night or two then that was another matter. For the sake of his engagement, his relationship and future with Blanche he should write back and say no – it couldn’t happen again or he’d be lost, he knew.
He crossed the Ring by the Burg Theatre and was instantly reminded of Udo Hoff and his architectural recriminations. And with that trigger came the fizzing surge of elation at the idea of seeing Hettie again. He began to imagine what it would be like to spend a night with her in that narrow bed, to wake in the morning, sleepy and warm, thigh to thigh, to roll over and reach for her . . .
Back at the pension he sat down and wrote immediately to Blanche, breaking off their engagement. It was the only honourable course to take, even if the lies were fluent. He said that various consultations with doctors and psychoanalysts in Vienna had convinced him that any cure, if it were to work, would be lengthy and complicated. Furthermore, he was troubled by the depth and severity of his ‘mental agitations’ and therefore, under these circumstances, he felt it was only fair to you, dearest Blanche, to release you from your promises and vows. He begged her forgiveness and understanding and urged her to do what she wished with the ring he had given her – throw it in the Thames, sell it, bequeath it as an heirloom to a niece or a goddaughter – whatever seemed apt. He would remember her kindness and beauty as long as he lived and he was abjectly sorry that his ‘particular unfortunate circumstances’ forbade him from becoming her devoted husband.
He sealed the envelope with a mixture of emotions – guilt, sadness and exhilaration – also modest self-satisfaction at promptly ending the duplicity combined with a thrilling sense of liberation. He was a free man now – his wretched anorgasmia a horrible memory, a thing of the past. Who could say where this liaison with Miss Hettie Bull would lead? But he made a promise to himself not to look any further into the future than his next encounter with her. There was a real element of danger added to the excitement, of course – a cuckolded lover in the wings – not to mention Hettie’s own deep instabilities (he had witnessed them breaking through – he wasn’t ignoring them) but for the moment next Wednesday at 6.00 p.m. was all he could think about.
At dinner that night, Wolfram said to him, ‘You seem in excellent spirits this evening, Lysander.’
‘I am,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve realized that coming to Vienna was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Herr Rief,’ Frau K said. ‘I’ve
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