Providence by Anita Brookner Page A

complication. Even in the eighteenth century they knew that this might happen. Mme du Deffand asked Voltaire what he proposed to put in the place of the old beliefs, you remember. She sensed trouble ahead.’
    Mr Mills then objected that Existentialism could not be projected backwards into the nineteenth century.
    ‘Yes, it can,’ said Larter. ‘Existentialism is a Romantic phenomenon.’
    He then gave them ten minutes on Existentialism.
    ‘You may be right, in general,’ said Kitty. ‘But we have not yet reached the concept of the Absurd. The hero of
Adolphe
experiences pain through his conscience. He does not explain it as a general rule. What we have here is a moment of supreme morality. I would refer you once again to the words.’ She looked downat her text.
‘Imprudences. Règles sévères. Faiblesse. Douleur profonde
. I am, at the moment, picking these up at random.’ Under the table she glanced at her watch. ‘For next week, will you please bring a full list of such words. I think we shall arrive at a better understanding of the Romantic dilemma once we have them in front of us. That will do for now.’
    She closed the book in front of her, feeling pleasantly exercised. Such afternoons, once the initial nervousness had passed, gave her no trouble. She felt that she had left her onerous daily self behind, and with it all problems of nationality, religion, identity, her place in the world, what to cook for dinner, all thoughts of eventual loneliness and illness and death. She passed, at such times, into a sphere of pure meaning, derived from words written nearly two hundred years ago, and those very words, used for her enlightenment, did in fact enlighten her.
    Mr Mills took off his bifocals and put them back in their case. Larter stretched and yawned. The air was blue with smoke and stale concentration. Miss Fairchild released her hands and closed a notebook in which she had not made a single note. She never did.
    Kitty Maule, her manner and gesture precise, wished them good afternoon and waited until they were out of earshot. With their departure came silence, a friendless silence. I am not old enough for this way of life, she said to herself, and wondered why this had occurred to her. She would have liked to join them, to go on arguing, to have walked to the bus-stop with Mills and Larter. Ideally, she would have liked to travel home with someone, with Maurice, to be precise. She did not like going home. She did not like waiting on the station platform with the lights blurring in front of her tired eyes, her mouth stale with the taste of tea from the station buffet. She never managed to read on the train.
    On this particular day, at that dwindling hour between five and six, she was tired enough to allow herself to feel quite seriously down-hearted. She took a taxi at the other end with a sense of defeat, not of earned relaxation. As she put her key in the front door she wished there were someone inside the house. At the same time, she had to be pretty deft to avoid her neighbour Caroline, the divorcee. Caroline, always available for a chat, thought that others should be too. Caroline’s door would open seductively, and she would say, ‘Oh, Kitty, I’m so depressed. Do come and talk to me.’ ‘Just hang on a minute, Caroline,’ Kitty would say. ‘I must dump these books. I’ll ring you later.’
    Once inside her own flat, she put on the lights and telephoned her grandmother to see if she were all right. Papa answered the telephone as usual; she could hear the television in the background, blasts of sycophantic laughter, gales of applause. They always had it on too loud. And Vadim never told her exactly how things were. Everything was always for the best in the best of all possible worlds; Louise had had a good day, rain was forecast for tomorrow, so take an umbrella, they had had marvellous onion soup for lunch, and it was so easy to make – would Thérèse like him to come over and make some for