Three
The first time that I saw Nick and Alix together, I felt as if I were witnessing the vindication of nineteenth-century theories of natural selection. In the persons of Nick and Alix, the finest had very clearly survived, leaving people like Olivia and me and Mrs Halloran and Dr Simek and Dr Leventhal to founder into unreproductive obscurity. So stunning was their physical presence, one might almost say their physical triumph, that I immediately felt weak and pale, not so much decadent as undernourished, unfed by life’s more potent forces, condemned to dark rooms, and tiny meals, and an obscure creeping existence which would be appropriate to my enfeebled status and which would allow me gently to decline into extinction.
I had been used, of course, to Nick’s hectic charm, his immense height, his generally golden quality. I had only to watch Olivia, and Mrs Halloran, for that matter, to see that his effect on women measured something very high on the Richter scale. How can I describe it? There was nothing particularly recondite about his careless endearments, which we had all grown used to; somehow, though, he managed to make one feel as if those ‘Darlings’ (Darling Fanny, Darling Olivia, Darling Delia) might one day be invested with significance. He seemed to prepare an atmosphere of affection for himself, yet I think we all felt that this was his natural climate. He was born to it; he was, or seemed to be, totally ignorant of the sad compromises and makeshifts, the substitutions and the fantasies, that constitute the emotional baggage of the average person.
We assumed that this diapason of love had followed him from home, that it had always been his natural element, that he had never lacked for it. If he used endearments it was because he had always heard them used towards himself. He struck one as a much-loved creature. Yet there was that restlessness, that urgency about him that reminded one, or perhaps brought to mind, made one conscious of, his undoubtedly intense sexuality. It was this particular dimension of his personality that made him so impressive. However spectacular and satisfying his life may have been in this respect, he always made one feel that he had the capacity for more, for other experience, for infinite fulfilment. He was a hunter. The combination of his golden and indiscriminate affection and his hard if random gaze at the women around him made one feel that possibly, and potentially, he might favour one. And it would have been a favour, of that there was no doubt. He was devoid of that element of need that makes some men, and rather a lot of women, unattractive in their desires; he was, in fact, desire in its pure state, but desire which was not necessarily active, desire which might awaken at unforeseen moments, in anyone’s company, a random impulse, a natural condition.
We loved him as a phenomenon, a model of how ideal a man might be. And men loved him too, and oddly enough, they loved him for the same reason. They wished to be that model, to have that hard random glance, that assurance of easy victory. They would even have applauded, or at least condoned, any actual infidelity or indiscretion on his part. But he never was unfaithful or indiscreet, from what I gather. He was, rather, the possibility, I might even say the promise, of these things. He intimated that lawlessness would not trouble him, that his will would be served. He reminded one of the unfairness of life, and excited one with the idea that one might, if he wished, become a part of that unfairness, always reserved for the beautiful, the strong, the imperious, the healthy, the decisive, leaving the meek to inherit the earth or rather to live on the promise of that inheritance. Nick, or his appearance, convinced one that unfairness is built into every system, that the Prodigal Son, despite his deplorable behaviour and his unedifying record, was embraced by his father simply because he had come back, because there had been such vacancy while he was away.
We all felt rather like that about Nick. His impromptu appearances, always hasty, always unfinished, made us aware of the dullness that had preceded them. When he left the Library, we cleared up his untidiness, we carried his piles of photographs upstairs to his room, we never reminded him of the way he was always overdue with his returns, some of which were needed by other readers; we took messages for him, and made excuses for him, and refused, ever, to criticize him. We felt that he was a protected species, an example of the very highest breed of human being. So intense was this aura around him that one did not immediately connect it with the privileges he had undoubtedly enjoyed since birth. His parents., his home, his looks, his prowess, his school and university and professional records were all impeccable, Yet we never thought that these things were causes. Rather, they were effects., which assured him confidence, but which were not directly responsible for that confidence. The fact that he always wore the right clothes, that he always went to the right barber, that he played the right games, these seemed to us to be explained by his munificent personality rather than by an enlightened use of the right instructions given from the very outset. We felt he was a natural leader of men. Yet his greatest gift to us was that intermittent speculative gaze, as if he might call one of us, from our dull safe places, to join him for an instant. He never did, of course. But the possibility, each. of us thought, was there. Each of us - and every woman he had ever met, except Olivia - was just as actively waiting.
When I first saw him with Alix, I understood that we had been waiting in vain. I understood that he was, quite simply, unattainable. Unattainable, that is, by the likes of anyone who was not Alix or her equivalent. Alix was the only sort of woman whom Nick’s sort of man would have chosen, and we were left with the distinct impression that there was only one example in each category: Nick and Alix. We were also left with the impression that they themselves knew and recognized this fact. It was when I saw them together, for the very first time, rejoicing in their complicity, their physical similarity, that I stopped any feeling I might have had towards Nick, other than the one I have already described. Instead, I fell in love with them both. Everybody did. They were used to it.
The first impression that one received was of a supreme married couple, matched in every way. The most obvious match was physical. They had a look of health and of exigence: one felt that no distant country would intimidate them, no contingency give them anxiety, no moment dare remain unfulfilled. One felt that the world was theirs, the physical world, that is, because it had been created for their diversion, and that if they wanted to feel the heat of the sun then they would quite naturally take off for Africa, rather than shiver and complain and wait for summer like the rest of us. ‘I am interested in absolutely everything’, I was to get used to Alix saying, and I did not question her, for with the entire universe open to her inspection, how could she not be? Whereas I tended to think in terms of the most obvious points of reference - neighbours, friends, colleagues, people in the bus queue - Alix and Nick would compare races, cultures, ethnic prototypes. What impressed me most about this was not only their breadth of view, but the fact that their lives contained no element of routine, that they would obey any summons, providing, of course, that it amused them to do so, answer any invitation, go anywhere, do anything. I thought them brave. They merely thought themselves sensible.
As they came through the door, that first afternoon, they appeared to walk with the same confident unhurried stride, and to look at each other rather than at their surroundings, as if the surroundings could wait, and were not, in any case, important enough to claim their attention. ‘Pictured here enjoying a joke’, as the captions said in those old copies of the Tatler that my mother used to pass on to Nancy and which are no doubt still in the kitchen cupboard somewhere. The Frasers’ joke was of the same elevated and exclusive variety. It was no mere affair of hilarity, no spasm of passing amusement; it was, rather, an area of collusion, a shared knowledge of some ultimate delight which they desired to keep to themselves. One could easily imagine them strolling with the same unconcern, the same gaze directed towards each other rather than around them, through every circumstance of life; one could imagine them transplanted to the remotest civilization, the most exotic and untested of climates, and they would still consider themselves to be of pri
mary and immediate importance.
I exaggerate, of course. Had I reflected for a single moment, on the occasion of that first meeting, I would have told myself that there is no such thing as a charmed life, although appearances may lead one to suppose that this phenomenon exists. And I have always been susceptible to such appearances. Once I followed a girl in the street simply because she looked so lucky that I could not tear myself away from her. Apart from her youth and her beauty, she had the sort of assurance that promised well for her, as if her expectations were so high, so naturally high, that she had set a standard for herself that others would be encouraged to reach. She seemed to await the best of everything, and I remember staring at her as if she had descended from another planet. Being an observer in these matters does not always help one. Sometimes the scenes and people one observes impart their own message of exclusion. And yet the fascination of the rare perfect example persists, and it demands that one lay down one’s pen and stalk it, study it, dissect it, learn it, love it. That was how I felt when I first saw Alix with Nick. I knew that I could never learn enough about them, but also that I might never understand what I learned. Therefore I watched them with particular care.
After that first impression of royal expectation, of perfect balance of forces, of mutual satisfaction, came a second impression, equally strong, and, to me, much more persuasive. At some level of my consciousness I recognized that they were impervious, that one could not damage them, that they would not founder through shock or deteriorate through neglect. They could not be hurt, except possibly by each other, and they were so clearly in accord that there was no division between them and thus no likelihood of a wound being inflicted. They were allies, partners, accomplices, moving at the same speed, liking and disliking the same things, possessing the same reserves. One could, if one wanted to, treat them roughly (though this was inconceivable); one would, in turn, want to be treated gently, for their greater strength was never in any doubt. The only danger to be feared from them was that they might find one insufficiently amusing, that they might be bored, that they might pass one over. It occurred to me that children might feel this way about superior parents, although I had never had such feelings about my own who were modest gentle people, greatly concerned for each other’s tranquillity. With my sharp tongue I had had to be very careful not to hurt them, and they, of course, had never hurt me. But I had never had to try hard to please or divert or entertain them, either, and I think I longed to use my sharp tongue and to be restless and critical and amusing, even if it was at other people’s expense. To me in those days it seemed like freedom not to have to care for anybody’s feelings if I didn’t want to. I hated every reminder that the world was old and shaky, that human beings were vulnerable, that everyone was, more or less, dying. I had lived with all this for far too long.
I needed to know that not everyone carries a wound and that this wound bleeds intermittently throughout life. I needed to be taught that life can put on a good turn of speed and bowl one along with it. I needed to learn, from experts, that pure egotism that had always escaped me, for the little I had managed to build up, and which had so far only gone into my writing, was quickly vanquished by the sight of that tremulousness, that lost look in the eye, that disappointment that seemed to haunt me, to get in my way, even to obtrude on my consciousness, when I was busy building up my resources of selfishness. I had only to see the dry, dyed hairs thickening in Mrs Halloran’s comb as she prepared herself for her evening visit to the Feathers, or Dr Simek buttoning his old-fashioned gloves at the wrist, or to remember Nancy’s stern but trusting blue eyes looking up at me, for the whole edifice to crumble. And this process would go on, despite my injunction to myself to ignore it. It would erupt in the form of images, which is appropriate, I suppose, since I deal with them all day, but they would irritate me as much as something obscuring my natural field of vision would irritate me. These tiny fugues are extremely random and unpredictable; they swim up from some area which I cannot control and which I should dearly love to forget about. Sometimes I see, sometimes I hear, forgotten episodes from my real life, and I always try very hard to invent a new life for myself so that I can get away from the old one, although to all intents and purposes that old life, which I had hitherto lived precariously and with a resignation mixed with impatience, had been very easy. It had been so easy that I was not satisfied with it. I suppose that is why I write, in order to recompose events, to make them sharper, funnier, than they really were. Above all, funnier. I write to be hard. I do not intend to spare any feelings, except, of course, my own.
It was, therefore, to my very great annoyance, that on the morning of the day of my first meeting with Alix Fraser, the day of that royal progress through life, that easy relegation of phenomena not found attractive, that I was haunted by the spectre of Dr Constantine. Dr Constantine was my mother’s doctor, a small leathery man with a face like a nut and bandy legs. He looked more like a jockey than a doctor, and his strong Dublin accent reinforced this impression. I doubt if anyone took him seriously as a doctor; he was too shy, too full of awkward jokes, some of which were inaudible, to impress one with his superior knowledge. He could do very little for my mother except keep up her spirits, which he did by calling to see her every Saturday of her life. This was a visit which went according to a prescribed pattern. He would stay for exactly three-quarters of an hour, nursing a glass of whisky, which my mother would nod at me to pour out, and tell her all about the affairs of the neighbourhood. Small matters: the young man they were thinking of taking on as a partner, his receptionist’s daughter’s new baby. That sort of thing. He would take her pulse as he spoke and wind up by saying,’Ah, you’re doing fine.’ She would say, ‘Thanks to you, doctor’, and he would blush, and my mother would add, ‘And to my darling here.’ Nancy and I would wait for him at the door and he would say again, ‘She’s doing fine’, but he would never meet my eye. And one day… One day I was summoned home by Nancy, who telephoned the Library, and when I got there it was to find my mother having an attack and Dr Constantine crouched over the telephone in the hall, his face red, his composure gone. ‘I’m begging you, Matron,’ he was saying. ‘Find me a bed. Ah God, Matron, I can’t deal with it here.’ He was despairing, distraught, his small brown eye searching, somewhere beyond my head, for succour. Yet he dealt with it, because there was no bed free in the hospital, and in the end she died at home, and he was not there, and he apologized to me. He would have wept if I had not been very polite and formal and kept it short, that apology. I felt nothing. In any event, I felt less than he did.
He was not there. But I was.
So that on the morning of the day that Alix came to the Library it was extremely annoying to have vividly in my mind’s eye the image of Dr Constantine crouched over the telephone, his face red, his small eye vacant and despairing, and to have in my mind’s ear the sound of his voice. Begging. Without resource.
Also, and for no reason that I can identify, I saw a cigarette box that belonged to my father, made of rosewood, with a marquetry inlay. I used to play with it as a child, during the long silent afternoons when my mother was resting, and only now do I see how badly it was made, for the edge of the border was rough and slightly raised and it should have been as smooth as silk.
When I am in these moods, the best person to be with is Olivia, whose moral strength never falters and in whose company I steady myself, perhaps for the next onslaught, perhaps for the germ of an idea that I can write about when I get home in the evening. She is my only critic. But I think she condemns my hard-won frivolousness.
As I have said, I felt intrigued, excited, by the awesome match between Nick and his wife. They came in carelessly, laughing and absorbed, and at first sight, and indeed on further understanding, they seemed to me to be a single phenomenon. It was only later that I saw Alix as separate, and when I first perceived that she had a personality of her own I also perceived that this personality was not only anterior to her life with Nick but
superior to it as well. In our dark and serious room, like a nursery for grown-up children, Olivia and I were drinking coffee out of mugs with suitably juvenile decorations. Women in their places of work frequently give way to these domestic impulses and festoon their offices with pot plants and alternative shoes and the odd cardigan: Miss Morpeth, my predecessor, had her own bone china cup and saucer and a padded velvet coat hanger, and I put these details into my story, which Olivia thought was rather tasteless. Being unmarried and childless, and still living in our parents’ houses, Olivia and I don’t go so far as to create a home away from home; we limit ourselves to our Mickey Mouse mugs, over the rims of which our eyes scan the Library and each other, meeting in a mutual warning gaze when anything disruptive or subversive seems about to happen. It was in such a gaze that our eyes became locked when we heard that laughter outside our door, presaging our introduction to Alix.
She was not beautiful but she had such an aura of power that she claimed one’s entire attention. She was tall and fair, with rough streaky hair and rather small grey eyes which disappeared when her magnificent mouth opened in one of those laughs that I came to know so well. The mouth, and everything about it, was her most important feature: the long thin lips, the flawless teeth, the high carrying voice. We saw and understood Nick’s delight when he inspired her to laughter and the head went back and the mouth stretched and the sound, which was in fact rather swallowed and restrained, rewarded him. The brilliance of that laughing face, with the careless hair and the rapacious teeth, was the exact complement to Nick’s roving unplatonic gaze, indicating immense reserves of appetite and pleasure. She left one in little doubt that it would be an honour to engage her attention.
Look at Me Page 4
