“I suppose not.”
“John could be so dull. Men do have the capacity for a monstrous dullness. So completely dull.”
“On occasion.”
“He was so fascinated with the ground as seen from his balloon. But down on the ground, he wasn't much of anything, was he? Is it horrible of me to say that? Down on the ground he wasn't much of anything at all.”
Chapter Ten
Paris in march was always dreary. I remember the grey afternoons in the drawing room, the clicking of Mother's knitting needles, the rattling of the window panes each time the wind beat against the house. Julie and I liked to sit near the fire and read. One carries the years of habit. Father often had an ill-temper. Mother was snobbish. We relished our silences. Might things have been different under a different spell? One never knows about different spells.
Julie and I often whispered together. We had our confidences. On occasion Mother showed her annoyance with our whispering. Mother refused exclusion from any aspect of life in the house.
Father liked to boast of the important people he knew. Figures in the Assembly. An occasional marquis. He never talked of their indiscretions. Only strangers were guilty of indiscretions. Father did not like to gossip. Mother would press him, but he would maintain his silence. He was a man who kept to his satisfactions. He was a man of long silences.
I had my moments of distress as a girl. I hated my life in that old house in Paris. I thought Julie's hands were prettier than mine. I hoped for a husband with plenty of money. I hoped I would not suffer disappointments. I wanted a life of refinement. I wanted the eyes of admiration when I attended church on the arm of my husband. I enjoyed a tight bodice. I conjured up a dashing past as the daughter of the Ambassador of Portugal. I conjured recollections. I conjured triumphs at elegant balls.
One day Edward appeared as a distinguished suitor. Father was uninterested: he yawned. But Mother whispered to me. She said the Englishman had a substantial income. She said he cut a handsome figure. She said I would know the love of a man of substance. She talked of the sentimentality of long engagements. None of it mattered to me except the promise of escape to an interesting life. A life of comfort and a plentitude of servants. I wanted a luxurious garden. I wanted a large house. I was impatient to have command of things. Edward and I went for long walks in the Tuileries. He talked of the London season. He talked of the furniture we would buy. He talked of the pleasures we would share. I tasted a life of satisfactions. How joyful it would be to be free of Paris. Sometimes Edward stroked my arm. We smiled at each other through afternoons of quiet intimacy. He promised my life would be an unending series of elegant amusements. He was so distinguished. A man of worldly experience, my mother said. She was in high spirits. She planned the announcement of the engagement. Julie pouted in a fit of envy. She pretended a crisis of melancholy. I withdrew from it all into a perfect propriety. Now I had to be a deliberate woman. What a splendid life I would have. Edward was an only son and all his family's estates had passed down to him. Mother made a play at sadness at the prospect of my leaving her. Father said nothing. I think he disliked Edward. I think he was annoyed that Edward seemed so completely at ease. Father withdrew. He made no attempt to interfere with Mother's management of things. Mother bustled in her management. She complained of an arthritic hand as she made her lists. Her nose pushed and pointed and insisted. She took great delight in snubbing certain acquaintances. She said I should have a glorious wedding. Truly glorious, she said. Edward's family will be impressed. We must make a very good impression. She said I must understand the realities. She said it was futile to convince people of anything, but impressions always mattered. I had moments of burning doubt. Then the doubt would vanish as I fussed with my trousseau. I ignored Mother's pretentions. She had the ability to provoke a swooning despair, an agony of despair. I felt a great hatred for her. I wanted control of my life. As Edward's wife I should have a new power. I should escape those stupid evenings staring at the Seine. Was I too thin? I would not listen to any coaxing. My father's eyes seemed glazed with his tedium. And I had my own tedium. The engagement seemed interminable. Edward was such a lazy suitor. Restrained. No more than idle touchings in the park. Flowers and sweets. He presented me with what he said was the purest diamond in Paris. Mother showed such eagerness as she examined it. She wagged her head at my father, chiding him for his indifference. I remembered the time Julie and I had watched them at the farm. Mother bending. Mother upon her knees and Father behind her. Her broad white bottom in Father's hands. Now she sat sniffing in her pretended primness, her knitting needles clicking as she spoke with sarcasm of my father's family.
Julie was not happy at my betrothal. She was envious. I delighted in her envy. She accused me of whispering to my friends about her. She said we were sisters and I ought not to whisper about her. She hated the attention I received. Mother chuckled in her amusement. She said I was too undisciplined. She said my future husband would teach me the English ways. She said I ought to have the right frame of mind when I went to England. What a lovely chance I had! She talked of all her years in the bosom of Paris.
Julie and I had our secrets. I was envious of Julie's hair. Now my sister is in my life again. She sleeps in a room next to mine. In my husband's house. Edward talks in the drawing room. We all talk. I must listen beyond the babble of the talking. I must learn the intentions. It's much too dangerous to be oblivious to things. There are two of them in the house now. How does he do it to her? How does he take her? I want to see it. I want to see her bent like a maid. I want to see Edward's cock in my sister's quim. I want to see the doing of it. Does she suck him? I want to see his knob in her mouth. Her stretched lips. His thrusting tool. I think of them. I imagine them. I suppose he buys her presents. Edward is a man who likes to buy his women presents.
I ought to be furious at them. Must I be angry? One ought not to tolerate deception. How deceiving she is. She parades with an air of simply gaiety, but how deceiving she is. And Edward is so dull. A woman always understands her husband better than she understands any other man. Edward pleasures himself with my sister. In his dullness. One imagines his dull eyes as he does it. I am his wife. Am I his wife? In truth, I have no connection to him beyond the vows. My husband. Without his money, what would he be? What would he be to me? They sit at the dinner table each evening with duplicity in their eyes. Edward's lying eyes. How stupid of them to believe I do not know. How surprising that Julie hasn't guessed. Is she bemused by him? He's not that clever. I know Edward well enough to know how clever he is. Julie is the clever one. A woman must be clever to bring off such a thing in the house of her sister.
In the beginning I wanted to be a dutiful wife. I wanted to be an admirable wife. I thought it only fair to give something in exchange for the comforts. What a poor fool. A poor foolish girl from the other side of the Channel. I never understood why Edward had to go to France to find a wife. Does he find French women more appealing?
What will happen? They can't go on forever. They can't continue it. Sooner or later Edward will tire of her. Or her of him. The titillation will be gone.
I will not be a prisoner here. I will not allow it. She wants to rule here, but I will not allow it. One must never surrender to the obvious. I will not allow them to disturb the balance of things. One must control one's destiny. I hate the smugness in her eyes. I hate Edward's pompous face. How cheap it is. How awfully, awfully cheap.
I am sipping sherry in Walter Bramsby's sitting room. He wears a checked sack suit and a high turned-down collar. He looks uncertain. He always looks uncertain when we're together. As if he can't believe that I'm actually sitting here in his flat. All these silly seascapes on the walls. I don't understand what men like about the sea. I think the paintings are ugly. His flat is ugly. So much like his checked suit. Each time I visit him, I'm appalled at the ugliness. He looks at me with such pleading. Does he remember everything? Does he have a full remembrance of all the things we've done together? His maids are not at all appealing. One can tell a man's taste by the maids he chooses to serve in his house.