close quarters, and to dismantle it, if possible, before it was too late.
And it had been said that the father was away all the time. Blanche immediately assumed him to be in prison. Was this, then, a form of hunger strike, a waiting, such as she knew from her own experience, for some impossible return? In that case, why was the mother, Mrs Beamish, so light-hearted? And so well-dressed? If there were something like prison in the background there might be money difficulties, for surely the little girl’s impediment could be better served by private treatment rather than haphazard visits to a crowded hospital department. And if there were money difficulties Blanche could see a way in which she might be of help. Her status as an almost wealthy woman, a woman, moreover, who spent very little on herself but would be veryhappy to spend her money on someone else, would make that entirely possible.
The more she contemplated her life as it was, the more hopeless she found it to be. A sterile round of almost unmotivated activities, the evenings long and drawn out with waiting, the silent vigils by darkened windows that preceded her nights, were not enough to sustain a life, however gallant and determined. And her odd demeanour, she knew, had worn out everybody’s efforts at comprehension, for she was aware that she was seen as obstinate, unassimilable, refusing to join groups of people like herself for purposes of travel or instruction, in which activities she might be supposed to involve herself honourably, thus leaving the world with no obligations towards her. Blanche knew that there was a limit – very soon reached, in her case – to the efforts one can make on one’s own. It is the sign from outside oneself that delivers such beleaguered lives, lives immersed in the quicksand of their own dolorous reflections, and for some mysterious or even superstitious reason she saw her encounter with Elinor and her mother as embodying that sort of sign. Why this should be she did not know. It was simply that on this particular afternoon at the hospital she had sensed an intensification of her usually abstracted energies, had begun to think of the child, and now indeed of the mother, with something like a creator’s imagination. Her business with them was not over, she thought. In fact it was just about to begin.
The evening was overcast, with a grey blanket of cloud that would simply darken imperceptibly, bringing with it the inevitable rain. There was no point in hurrying home, for home was untenanted and unattractive, therefore no longer home. Bertie would certainly not look in this evening after his visit yesterday: he liked to retain the option of staying away for unpredictable lengths of time, not wishing to witness too frequently Blanche’s immaculate recitation of
non sequiturs
. In the intervals between his visits Blanche thought with envy of his fearless involvement with the messier side of life, and even of his labours in Mousie’s chaotic kitchen, feeling herself too monumental ever to commit an untidiness. She practised a scrupulous avoidance of any reference that might be construed as malice or unkindness. When Bertie had told her that he was leaving her for Mousie, she had merely said, ‘Yes, I rather gathered that you might be,’ with a ghastly smile, the blood draining from her cheeks. She now thought that she had been spiritless and disappointing. But she was aware that Mousie, whom she knew to be a type of emotional gangster, given to hijackings and other acts of terrorism, was in fact uncomfortable with her own particular style of endurance, and feared an outbreak of lawlessness for which she must be on her guard. Bertie’s visits were licensed, Blanche thought, so that Mousie could be prepared if necessary to counter any opposition that might be forthcoming; Mousie, and in her train, Bertie, could not quite give Blanche credit for her unnerving good behaviour, which they saw as having a natural term. They
And it had been said that the father was away all the time. Blanche immediately assumed him to be in prison. Was this, then, a form of hunger strike, a waiting, such as she knew from her own experience, for some impossible return? In that case, why was the mother, Mrs Beamish, so light-hearted? And so well-dressed? If there were something like prison in the background there might be money difficulties, for surely the little girl’s impediment could be better served by private treatment rather than haphazard visits to a crowded hospital department. And if there were money difficulties Blanche could see a way in which she might be of help. Her status as an almost wealthy woman, a woman, moreover, who spent very little on herself but would be veryhappy to spend her money on someone else, would make that entirely possible.
The more she contemplated her life as it was, the more hopeless she found it to be. A sterile round of almost unmotivated activities, the evenings long and drawn out with waiting, the silent vigils by darkened windows that preceded her nights, were not enough to sustain a life, however gallant and determined. And her odd demeanour, she knew, had worn out everybody’s efforts at comprehension, for she was aware that she was seen as obstinate, unassimilable, refusing to join groups of people like herself for purposes of travel or instruction, in which activities she might be supposed to involve herself honourably, thus leaving the world with no obligations towards her. Blanche knew that there was a limit – very soon reached, in her case – to the efforts one can make on one’s own. It is the sign from outside oneself that delivers such beleaguered lives, lives immersed in the quicksand of their own dolorous reflections, and for some mysterious or even superstitious reason she saw her encounter with Elinor and her mother as embodying that sort of sign. Why this should be she did not know. It was simply that on this particular afternoon at the hospital she had sensed an intensification of her usually abstracted energies, had begun to think of the child, and now indeed of the mother, with something like a creator’s imagination. Her business with them was not over, she thought. In fact it was just about to begin.
The evening was overcast, with a grey blanket of cloud that would simply darken imperceptibly, bringing with it the inevitable rain. There was no point in hurrying home, for home was untenanted and unattractive, therefore no longer home. Bertie would certainly not look in this evening after his visit yesterday: he liked to retain the option of staying away for unpredictable lengths of time, not wishing to witness too frequently Blanche’s immaculate recitation of
non sequiturs
. In the intervals between his visits Blanche thought with envy of his fearless involvement with the messier side of life, and even of his labours in Mousie’s chaotic kitchen, feeling herself too monumental ever to commit an untidiness. She practised a scrupulous avoidance of any reference that might be construed as malice or unkindness. When Bertie had told her that he was leaving her for Mousie, she had merely said, ‘Yes, I rather gathered that you might be,’ with a ghastly smile, the blood draining from her cheeks. She now thought that she had been spiritless and disappointing. But she was aware that Mousie, whom she knew to be a type of emotional gangster, given to hijackings and other acts of terrorism, was in fact uncomfortable with her own particular style of endurance, and feared an outbreak of lawlessness for which she must be on her guard. Bertie’s visits were licensed, Blanche thought, so that Mousie could be prepared if necessary to counter any opposition that might be forthcoming; Mousie, and in her train, Bertie, could not quite give Blanche credit for her unnerving good behaviour, which they saw as having a natural term. They