The sun was high as he left the surgery, though he knew it would soon decline into a beautiful greenish dusk. He was in no hurry to reach home. He lingered in the street for as long as he could, gazed unseeing into shop windows that he passed every day, was unable to fend off sad thoughts as the light faded. In the supermarket he bought his frugal supplies, smiling at the children, at the mothers, at the hovering manager. Few smiled back, too intent on the meals to be prepared, the business to be transacted before the day’s end. The people he encountered in the mornings were more forthcoming. But then they were mostly old, and, like himself, had little else to do.
In the flat he made tea, disinclined to watch the news programme. At this juncture the outside world had little to say to him; his head could only encompass thoughts of his immediate dilemma. Even this bored him. He would have welcomed an opportunity to discuss it with someone on a purely human basis. Bernard Simmonds had been disapproving, had, though too polite to express his frank opinion, regarded Herz as woefully impractical, and worse, reprehensible, since he had not asked for advice at the appropriate time. There had been exasperation in the way he had expedited his food, had not asked permission before he lit his cigarette. Herz felt cast into the role that had been assigned to him. That another, and that other a friend, saw him as inept was a further cause for sadness. He drank his tea slowly, conscious of his slightly shaking hands. When his doorbell rang he reacted with a shock, would have expressed alarm were he not too schooled to do so. When he opened the door to Sophie his heart was still beating heavily. If he behaved like this when disturbed by a simple interruption how would he fare on a journey which would be all noise, all confusion?
‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That’d be nice.’
He watched her as she sat, politely drinking her tea. There were changes that were perhaps visible only to himself, used as he was to dwelling on her. Her hair had worked its way loose from its knot; a strand lay against her cheek. Her lips had lost that adventitious colour that had so enlivened them, and looked dry. From time to time she chewed the inside of her mouth.
‘You’re tired,’ he said gently. He was filled with a protective love for her.
‘Yes, well, plenty to do. I came about the flat.’
‘Yes, I imagined you had. I thought Matthew was still in New York.’
‘He rang me last night. He wondered if you had come to any decision.’
‘We agreed that nothing would be decided until he got back. He said he was away for a month.’
‘Only he’s getting a bit anxious. Well, very anxious.’
‘I wonder he doesn’t move in with you.’
‘No room. And he wants his own place. You can understand that.’
‘Will he be ringing you again?’
‘I suppose so.’ She looked dejected, made an effort to sit up straight, as no doubt instructed long ago, and placed her teacup on the table.
‘You’re fond of him?’ asked Herz, still gently, so as not to offend her.
‘You could say that.’
‘And he of you?’
‘Maybe. I know he has a girlfriend in the States. They were engaged once, he told me, but she broke it off. They still see each other.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you. Nobody starts with a clean slate. It would be nice to think so, I know.’ He thought back to that shock of recognition he had witnessed, wondered how the directness, the unavoidability of that moment had deteriorated into considerations of loyalty, of sentiment, all the baggage that had somehow obscured the earlier truth. He wanted to tell her that it was absurd to squander such moments, so rare in themselves, on notions left over from some catechism of the past. He had no doubt that there had been the usual discussions, the laying of cards on the table, the enquiry into both past and present relationships. And with every frank confession would come increased anxiety, such as was affecting Sophie now. It was apparent that she was more anxious than her lover, whose splendour might have armoured him against the suspicion that there were others in the field. Herz marvelled once again at the strain of obtuseness to be found in every classical hero, whose noble looks are left to profess his superiority to the world. In the theatre that was quite in order. In life that unawareness would provide grounds for suspicion.
Sophie was alert to her own misgivings, though perhaps not in a position to quantify them. The ease with which the young man had gone to New York, without acting on the moment, or perhaps without acknowledging the strength of this new tie, forged in a single encounter, would have acted against him, have opened the door to doubt. Sophie’s pale mouth, her normally inexpressive eyes wide open as suspicions crowded in, indicated unhappiness. Her normal obduracy would have served her better, Herz thought. He could not say this, and in any case wondered if the same rules applied today as had applied in his youth. He was not there to give advice, was in any event thought incapable of giving advice, rendered insensible by age, with only a dim memory of former feelings. He could have told her, but would not, of the permanence of such feelings, of the longing for love that persisted beyond the canonical age, of those other appetites which made their inconvenient voices heard until death put an end to all feeling, all appetite. It would in any case have made no sense to her to hear this. She was young enough to be enormously sophisticated about relationships, as they called them these days, yet at the same time unused to this particular test. All this he wanted to say to her, knowing that she would regard it as presumptuous, would have bridled, would have retreated into the iciness he had provoked on one unfortunate occasion about which he preferred not to think. He tried to adopt an air of benevolence, but failed. The situation was too serious for that, too serious for Sophie to have estimated his own courage, his own forbearance.
‘You must be guided by your feelings,’ he said instead. ‘If you waste your time in worry, which is probably needless in your case, you will lose something precious.’
What he did not say was already enshrined in any number of clichés, all of them to hand. It offended him to think of her sitting by the telephone like any other woman, she who had so much scorn at her disposal. Rather more powerful was his need to tell her of the multiple disappointments of those who stopped to evaluate their feelings, who wanted to be fair to others, who took a false pride in their sensitivity. Act only on the moment, he wanted to tell her; consult only your own wishes. The rest is poetry, and has no place in love.
‘I should enjoy your friendship, without worrying your head about previous attachments,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. Just don’t waste too much time thinking. If you do you may spend the rest of your life regretting a lost moment. And you know it never pays to hang back in these matters. If you do you may find yourself truly unhappy.’ He heard his voice break, hastily cleared his throat, manufactured a cough. ‘Tell Matt,’ he said, ‘that I’ll have an answer for him when he comes home. That’s what we agreed, after all. Now, are you all right? No more worries?’ But here he had gone too far, had overstepped the mark, and was punished with a guarded look from her once more closed face. ‘Shall I make some more tea?’ he enquired gaily. ‘Or are you in a hurry to go out?’
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘What shall I tell Matt if he rings?’
‘What I’ve just told you. I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Keep in touch, Sophie. Oh, and have a pleasant evening.’
When it was properly dark he tried to telephone Josie, thinking they might exchange some message that would see them both through the night, but there was no answer. He tried again later, listened with painful concentration, as if it were a message in itself, as the telephone rang endlessly through an empty house, and would, he imagined, ring without response for as long as his efforts to reach out continued.
17
Fanny’s second letter was as bulky as her first, but this time correctly addressed. Herz sat down at his desk to read it, as if dealing with some mildly disagreeable b
usiness matter. Before briefly scanning and counting the number of pages (five) he noted that the handwriting was becoming fainter, as if the writer were on the point of expiring, or, more probably, as if her pen were running out. This would be a complaint, he thought, along the lines of those sung by minstrels accompanying themselves on some early stringed instrument. He had once attended such a recital at the Wigmore Hall, and had not much appreciated it.
‘My dear Julius,’ he read. ‘Your letter was most welcome, and it reached me at a time when I had need of kindness. I had just returned from Bad Homburg, and was so badly affected by my visit that I was obliged to stay at home for a couple of days until I felt well enough to go out and face the world. When Lotte Neumann invited me to join her party I accepted almost eagerly, though I have always found her a rather tiresome woman. What I did not realize was that I was expected to pay for myself. This led to what has become a routine humiliation. I had to promise to send a cheque from Bonn, which I managed to do, though it has led me to wonder how I shall face the future. This fear has dogged me all my life, and it is one from which Mother tried to protect me. Now that she is gone and I am obliged to fend for myself I find that I lack the wisdom and the practical help on which I had come to rely. Yet I am forced to encounter this embarrassment day by day, and can only regret that I was not better trained to face hard times. This is strange, since hard times have been my lot since leaving Berlin, and even more since leaving Nyon.
‘I relied on Mother’s experience to guide me through, and for a time it was sufficient. We left Berlin with just enough money to tide us over, but when Father was killed it ran out altogether. It was Mother who encouraged Mellerio, who was in the habit of meeting business acquaintances at the Beau Rivage for dinner or a glass of champagne. It pains me to say this now but I disliked her way of showing me off, almost of proposing me. I had never needed a sponsor to attract men, and the looks that I intercepted from some of the people in the hotel offended me. Fortunately Mellerio, who was twenty years older than myself, was a courteous man and a gentleman: I believe he sincerely wished to put an end to my discomfiture. And of course I was very pretty. He was also pleasant to Mother, for which I was grateful. I could not blame her for her manoeuvres. She thought she was making provision for my future. I thought I was making provision for hers.
‘When Mellerio died he left enough money for us to live quite comfortably at the Beau Rivage for a few years, though not enough to live there when Mother became unwell. I was older, and that was my tragedy. I had thought that my looks would last me all my life, and this is perhaps an illusion from which women suffer, until they look in the glass one day and see that some sort of fading has taken place, as if a veil had obscured the original brightness that no amount of added colour will restore. Your visit to Nyon occurred just before I had had such a revelation. I was still confident, you see, confident enough to wait for a better offer. Does that shock you? It shocks me too, though at the time I was thinking only in practical terms. I knew little of your circumstances; your mother’s letters were full of false assurances that did not convince us. We remembered you as difficult people, who rarely shone in company. In our company, that is. And the antagonism between the two sisters was difficult to forget. As a small child I remember disputes which ended in noisy tears. I was for that reason somewhat prejudiced against you, despite your excellent appearance. Life at the Beau Rivage was endurable, even pleasurable. I knew that sooner or later something or someone would turn up. And so I sent you away. I have regretted it ever since.
‘My second marriage was brought about in the same way as the first had been, but this time there were no alleviating circumstances. Alois Schneider was an unattractive man whom we both thought wealthier than he actually was. In fact although he had inherited a printing business from his father and grandfather he was something of a speculator and made a series of unwise decisions about the future of his firm. I came quite quickly to dislike him, but once again I had Mother to think of. At least I managed to look after her, but at a price. I hated my husband to touch me, which he did at every opportunity. I simply could not respond. Perhaps I never have. And yet I have always longed for love, romantic love, the kind of love that strengthens a woman against misfortune. I am convinced that with another man I would have had the courage to accept my situation. As a girl I was envious of those of my friends who became engaged, and who were nothing like as good-looking as I was. Perhaps that is why I have never enjoyed the company of women. As the only daughter of an adoring father I had got used to the idea that I should always be favoured. You were the one whose attitude most resembled his, but remember, I had so many choices in those days. Such choices ended pitiably, in two husbands who failed to bring me to life. As for you and me, we should have been lovers in Berlin, when we were young and perfect.
‘Does it surprise you to hear me talking like this? It surprises me when I tell the truth, which I rarely do now that I have to keep up some sort of pretence. In fact I have been doing this for as long as I can remember. Now I am too tired to do so much longer. That episode at Bad Homburg convinced me that I must be wary of other women. I still attract enmity, notably that of my erstwhile sister-in-law and her terrible daughter. You may not know that women are natural competitors. Maybe you have never encountered women who will abruptly end friendships of long standing when a man is involved, not out of disloyalty but out of natural instinct. Perhaps I was not as lovable as I thought, though men found me so. But it is part of my sad inheritance to be loved only once, by Father, or perhaps twice, by you. If only you had been more forceful I might have relented, but that is what I tell myself today, when I am in such sad circumstances. Even the idea of seeing you again both tempts and frightens me. And the only way I could return to the Beau Rivage would be with a man at my side. Even then I know I might be subjected to side-long glances, for it seems that I still possess some elements of style. Or maybe I still have the manners and gestures of one who was once thought beautiful. You will find this too among women, a kind of natural confidence that causes envy, even resentment. And yet I never exploited my looks. It was Mother who did that for me.
‘Julius, I have no money. There was no lawsuit, merely a consultation with a lawyer who explained to me that although Alois theoretically made his assets over to me the document which was to have been the formalization of such an agreement lacked a witness and was therefore invalid. He must have known this. Certainly his sister knew it. We have not spoken from that day to this, and I cannot help but suspect collusion between Alois and his family on this point. Of course I have no proof. It was the daughter who perceived their advantage in this matter. Much good it has done them; there was little left. I think I said that Alois was not even good as a businessman, let alone as a husband. I have no hesitation in saying that I was glad when he died.
‘It seemed fated that I should end up with Mother as my only company, and now with no company at all. I wonder now at the cruel practicality of parents who seek to discharge their own duties onto a third party, or parties. I would guess that you, who were always faithful, were a faithful son, doing duty for your father, whom I remember as fatally mild, unable to sustain a household already riven by problems. There was a brother, I remember, whom I was not allowed to frequent. That was another maternal edict, on your side this time. It was thought that I would distract him from his music, but in fact your mother was jealous of anyone who approached him. What became of him? Did he marry? Somehow I think not.
‘What I am trying to say is that I should love to meet you again at the Beau Rivage, as you suggest. But you will have gathered from this letter that I am in no position to pay for myself. You may imagine how humiliating it is for me to write these words. At least I will have repaid some of the debt I owe you—you who were willing once to marry and love me—to make this clear. So yet again we are divided by money. You do not tell me whether you have done well in life; in fact you tell me nothing about yourself. It may comfort you to know t
hat I think back to the respect in which you once held me with genuine emotion. It would have given me great pleasure, enormous pleasure, to have seen you again. As matters stand you will not be surprised if I decline your invitation. I must accept the fact that the time for love is past, but this is very bitter. I can only end this letter by sending you my belated regards, not only for the compliment you pay me now in asking for a meeting, but for the compliment you paid me once before, in asking me to be your wife. No woman could ever forget such a compliment. Even now I am grateful. Fanny.’
Herz found himself so unsettled by this letter that he was obliged to go out, as if once again the company of strangers was the only panacea for his agitated feelings. So she had in some way cared for him, and did so even now, remembered his ardour as somehow precious, something of which she had never lost sight. That was the missing element in their relationship: her regard for him. He had acted and reflected like a jilted lover, so hurt that he had taken no account of the other, and in this way had lost all perspective. He had been ready to vilify her, to blame her retrospectively for disappointments in which she played no part, had seen her as the indifferent beauty whom he had failed to interest, whereas she was now changed from the girl whom he had once adored. What remained of her dazzling future was the bitterness of a woman who had been denied love, of the sort she had craved. Or had her mother denied it for her? There had been something perverse about those two sisters, his mother and his aunt; they were not given to sympathy, either towards each other or to their young and trusting progeny. There may even have been jealousy behind the iron closeness that united Fanny and her mother; neither was allowed to break their primitive agreement. He had even seen this in action in the course of his dinner at the Beau Rivage, the loving smiles that did not quite conceal Fanny’s furrowed brow, the sort of flirtatiousness she was obliged to employ when some activity of her own, however anodyne, presented itself. Staying within the parameters of her mother’s approval had become her only preoccupation. Without the need for that approval she might have had the courage to be free. Instead she had seen freedom as the most hazardous of enterprises, had sensed that without the chance to test that freedom she would never become fully adult, and, as her letter showed, had suffered from such an intuition but had borne the consequences of her choice because loss of the only love she knew was too tragic to be endured.
Making Things Better Page 21