She knew it, of course; in fact she expected that he should spend nights at the brothel. Having banned him from her bed, she would be naïve to think otherwise. Besides, a sated halfwit was preferable to a frustrated husband demanding his rights. But tonight, it hurt. Tonight, when she had been willing to come to him, to humble herself before him for the sake of his company. It is most galling for the sensitive to be spurned by the brutish. Irina Cherkassova returned to her own bed, now cold, and lay stroking the half-formed thing inside her and considered masturbation. The face of Flapping Eagle formed in her mind’s eye and she rejected self-help. It was so much nicer to be helped, and it was time she was. Her decision comforted her into sleep.
After their single kiss, Elfrida resisted Flapping Eagle with a passion so intense it gave him hope. She would explain to him at great length why it was impossible, why they could never repeat what they had done, and certainly never progress beyond that point; but she never said the kiss had been anything but a pleasure. -It’s just that there’s Ignatius, she said, and though she hastened to add that it was her love for him that made her suitor’s proposition unacceptable, Flapping Eagle gained the distinct impression that she had meant, perhaps just for the fraction of a second, perhaps just for the time it took her to say the words, that her husband was in the way.
He began to ask her to accompany him on long walks around the fields of K; and though she promised him fiercely after each walk that she would refuse his next invitation, she never did.
They stopped, on the first day, by a well. An ox circled it slowly, attached to a long beam of wood that worked a system of pulleys which hauled water out of the well in a continual circle of buckets, water for irrigation, flowing into the field. Elfrida, watching the animal, said:
– Animals are the luckiest of us.
Flapping Eagle waited. She patted the beast on its flank as it passed them and continued: -They die.
– You’re unhappy here, said Flapping Eagle, and knew it was true.
– Rubbish, said Elfrida briskly. I’m perfectly happy. And, for the first time, she thought those words seemed hollow and untrue. She turned, abruptly, and walked away from the well. -I’m going home now, she said, as if a return to familiar surroundings would be accompanied by a return to familiar feelings.
The white witches weaving their spell, binding him in silken cords, circling, circling, moths to his candle.
The croquet lawn was a long way from being flat and the balls some way from being round, but Irina played with the concentration of a professional. Flapping Eagle found concentration difficult, but avoided disgracing himself.
– You learn quickly, she said. It must be the sadist in you taking over.
– I’m not nearly as good as you, he said.
– Practice makes perfect. She used her mallet to line up a daring long shot.
– You’ll never hit it, said Flapping Eagle. The lawn’s too bumpy.
She hit it.
– It’s just a question of allowing for the slope, she said. I have an unfair advantage: I know every inch of this ground.
She despatched his ball into the bushes.
– O dear, she said in open hypocrisy, I’ve gone and lost it for you.
He went to find it, and was hunting in the thick shrubbery that ruled the bottom of the Cherkassov garden when he heard the rustling behind him. He turned to find Irina stepping out of her dress.
– It might catch on something and tear, she said. I’m better off without it.
– Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Irina? he said.
– I’m helping you look for your ball, she said. You didn’t seem to be doing very well on your own.
Despite Flapping Eagle’s earlier qualms, their love-making was a consolation to them both.
Norbert Page, in the shed at the far side of the garden, thought he heard a cry. He came out to look, but saw nothing.
On their next walk, Elfrida allowed him to hold her hand. On the next she suffered it to be kissed. And on the next, amid a loud buzzing of bees, she permitted him- and herself-a second kiss. She wouldn’t go further for a while; but eventually she let him fondle her, his hands caressing her at first through her clothes and then snaking beneath them to raise her to unbearable pitches of desire.
But there she stopped him, driving him to distraction.
– What’s the point of stopping now? he cried. You’ve been quite unfaithful enough… why not enjoy it, at least?
– As you say, she replied unhappily, I’ve been quite unfaithful enough.
She wasn’t teasing him; she was just as frustrated as he was. But she would not take the final step, would not make the final betrayal. Something stronger than Elfrida prevented that. Flapping Eagle refused to believe it was morality.
– I love him, I love him, I love him, she repeated over and over again, through clenched teeth.
– No, you don’t, said Flapping Eagle. You were comfortable with him. You never found him attractive. You don’t love him.
– I do, she cried. I know I do.
Then he watched her as the self-control returned and the tears dried in their ducts.
The swing. Elfrida on it, Irina watching. There are moments, thought Flapping Eagle, when they could be identical twins. So alike, so unalike.
Irina Cherkassova, who found it easy to despise, found herself despising Elfrida. Foolish, giggling woman. Elfrida Gribb, in the meanwhile, was gripped by the beginnings of a more powerful emotion: jealousy.
They smiled at each other through their veils.
It was the night of the great ball at her own home and Irina was refusing to cry. Downstairs, the music and the braided gallants; upstairs, she lay dry-eyed and fevered. To be ill on this of all nights, in this of all years, when she had budded and blossomed out of childhood and had stood for hours upon end before a mirror naked with a book on her head pulling in her stomach and pushing out her chest. There would have been no pats on the head this year, no understanding mock-adult chatter, no tolerant amusement when she flounced irritatedly to her room before midnight on her mother’s command. This year she would have danced till dawn and beyond and breakfasted by the willows on the river with some adoring swain… she thought of fat, pimply Masha downstairs, glowing with triumph, the ugly sister become the belle of the ball, whirling round the dance-floor with bored young men wondering where pretty Irina was, and the anger drove away the tears.
– May I come in?
Patashin. Grigor Patashin, eminence grise of her mother’s salon. A large man, bearing what must have been nearly seventy years carelessly on his broad shoulders, so square he scarcely had a neck. Patashin with the wart on the point of his nose and the voice like a crushing of gravel. Patashin whose notoriety had increased with age.
– Come.
– Irina Natalyevna, he said, hitching up his ill-fitting trousers as he entered. The evening is absolutely ruined by your absence.
– Sit down, Grigor, she said, patting the bed, deliberately eschewing the title of “Uncle” which she had given him all her life. Sit and tell me about it. Is Masha very beautiful tonight?
– Can Masha ever look beautiful, I wonder, said Patashin, eyes twinkling.
– Old grizzly, said Irina, you are a master of tact.
– And you, Irina, he said, holding her chin gently in his hand, you are too wise and composed for your own good. I look into your eyes and see knowledge. I look at your body and see anticipation. You must learn to dissimulate, to show less worldly wisdom in your eyes and more of it in your limbs.
– And die an old maid, laughed Irina. I act as I am.
– Yes, mused Patashin. His hand still rested against her chin; he moved it to her cheek. She leant against it. It was cold.