The pulled curtains revealed another brilliant day, the mountain, with its thin seams of snow, as clear as if it were a few metres distant. Traffic seemed to be in abeyance; a different sort of activity was under way. Outside, in the garden, waiters in clean white jackets placed small chairs and tables beneath the glass awning of the terrace and were even now discussing the advisability of drawing down the orange blinds to palliate the heat of the sun, already palpable through the glass. Somewhere in the distance a toneless bell struck. Sunday, she thought with surprise.
Contingency plans, of the sort at which she had become adept, were called for. Perhaps she could simply sit in the sun and read. She was not likely to be disturbed. Contingency plans were no doubt at that very moment being perfected in other rooms: she imagined the conversations. Mrs Pusey and Jennifer would be ordering the car to take them out somewhere, perhaps; she imagined a scenic drive, culminating in a gourmet lunch. The men from Geneva would get together for some sort of excursion, perhaps across the lake, to Evian. Mme de Bonneuil would be one of the few to stay, reading and silent, as usual. The tall thin beauty with the dog was never visible in the daytime and it was impossible to imagine her doing anything except eating ice cream and smoking, like a child on an exeat from school. Edith thought it entirely probable that she would have the day to herself, a prospect which she almost welcomed. Embroiled in her fictional plot, the main purpose of which was to distance those all too real circumstances over which she could exert no control, she felt a weariness that seemed to preclude any enthusiasm, any initiative, any relaxation. Fiction, the time-honoured resource of the ill-at-ease, would have to come to her aid, but the choice of a book presented some difficulties, since when she was writing she could only read something she had read before, and in her exhausted state, a febrile agitation, invisible to the naked eye, tended to distance even the very familiar. Words became distorted: ‘pear’, for instance, would become ‘fear’. She dreaded making nonsense of something precious to her, and, regretfully, disqualified Henry James. Nothing too big would do, nothing too small would suffice. In any event, her attention was fragmented. In the end she picked up a volume of short stories, the beautifully named Ces plaisirs, qu’on nomme, à la légére, physiques. Colette, that sly old fox, would, she trusted, see her through.
Silence reigned on the terrace although it was not empty. At one end sat Mme de Bonneuil, wearing a beige dress and jacket, slightly stained in the front, and a battered beige hat. Her stick planted between her legs, she kept her eyes fixed on the road, a large brown bag placed in readiness on the table beside her. At the other end, entirely silent, stretched out on a chaise longue, and immobile behind very large dark glasses, lay the woman with the dog.
The beautiful day had within it the seeds of its own fragility: it was the last day of summer. Sun burned out of a cloudless blue sky: asters and dahlias stood immobile in the clear light, a light without glare, without brilliance. Trees had already lost the dark heavy foliage of what had been an exceptional August and early September and were all the more poignant for the dryness of their yellowing leaves which floated noiselessly down from time to time. Stepping out from the salon, M. Huber rubbed his hands with pleasure. There would be many occasional visitors for lunch and tea today. But at the moment all was quiet. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the occasional fall of a chestnut.
The man in grey, dressed today in something paler and even more elegant, with, Edith was delighted to note, a panama hat in his hand, stepped out into the garden and surveyed the scene. Catching sight of the woman with the dog, he went across to her, bent over her supine body, and made some apparently jocular enquiry: a weak raising of a very white arm and a long limp hand were his answer. Nodding to Edith and also to Mme de Bonneuil, the man in grey departed on business of his own, his occasional and secret smile once again in evidence.
As he rounded the corner the woman with the dog shot upright, leaned in Edith’s direction, and whispered urgently, ‘I say! I say! I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. Could you be an angel and come and sit with me? I don’t want that man round me again today and I simply can’t put him off without making a scene, which I’ve half a mind to do, I can assure you.’
Obediently, and with only the mildest of lingering regrets, Edith closed her book and moved along the terrace, placing herself on a small chair at the head of the chaise longue. Such a lovely peaceful day, she thought. Oh, well. At least she hasn’t got the dog with her.
‘Monica,’ said the woman, extending her narrow, boneless hand.
‘Edith,’ said Edith, shaking it cautiously. Better not get in too far, she said to herself.
‘I’ve been wondering about you,’ said Monica. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you but you’ve always been with Ma Pusey and I can’t stand the sight of her.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Edith, wishing that the other would lower her voice. She half expected Mrs Pusey to materialize, clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, to restore her own sense of order and hierarchy, and also to inaugurate the day’s legitimate distractions.
‘God knows. At least they can’t be out buying knickers today. Oh, I beg your pardon. Lingerie.’ She pronounced the word with an exaggeratedly French accent. ‘Although I wouldn’t put it past her to wake someone up and get them to open the shop just because she happened to have a couple of thousand spare francs about her.’
‘There does seem to be a great deal of money,’ murmured Edith, in what she hoped was a neutral tone. Servants must feel like this, she reflected, gossiping below stairs.
‘Loaded,’ said the other. ‘Trade, of course. Darling Daddy left them a packet. Wine,’ she added, responding to Edith’s curiosity. ‘He was a sherry importer. And the funny thing is, the old girl can’t stand the taste of it. She only likes champagne. Well, who doesn’t?’
Edith, remembering the last occasion on which she had drunk champagne, shuddered.
‘Anything wrong?’ asked Monica.
I am tired, thought Edith. I must be careful. I am not going to confide in this languid and luxurious woman, who would in any case be bored if I did. Light conversation is all that is called for.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘But where is Kiki?’
Monica’s face fell. ‘In disgrace. Locked in the bathroom. Well, you can’t expect a little dog like that to behave as well as he would with his own things around him. And the Swiss hate dogs. That’s what’s wrong with them, if you ask me.’
‘Have you been here long?’ asked Edith.
‘Ages,’ sighed Monica. ‘I’m here for my health.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Have you been ill?’
‘No,’ replied the other. ‘Look, let’s have some coffee, shall we?’ She summoned a shadowy waiter with an imperious hand, it’s so nice to have someone to talk to,’ she said. She seemed to be recovering a long-lost animation by the second, and when the coffee arrived, poured it out largely and carelessly, although she took only one sip from her cup and almost immediately lit an immensely long cigarette with a lighter that sprang into a two-inch flame. Everything about her seemed exaggerated: her height, the length of her extraordinary fingers, her carrying voice, her huge oyster-coloured eyes, today slightly bloodshot, Edith could see, behind her dark glasses. A breakdown, she decided. A bereavement. Tread carefully.
Monica nodded towards the cigarette. ‘Forbidden, of course. Strict instructions. To hell with it.’ She inhaled deeply, as if about to submerge in several fathoms of water. After a few seconds, two plumes of smoke emerged from perfect nostrils. A patch on a lung, perhaps, thought Edith, revising. And how beautiful she is. I had not thought so before.
The sound of wheels on gravel brought their heads round. Mme de Bonneuil, her pug face creased into a smile, was struggling to her feet. A car door banged, and a man walked jauntily into the garden, followed by a woman in a red dress, the spikes of her high-heeled sandals plunging into the lawn. ‘Eh bien, maman,’ cried the man, falsely cheery. Kisses were exchan
ged.
‘Poor old trout,’ said Monica, her tone very slightly lower. ‘She lives for that son. She’d do anything for him. And he comes to see her once a month, takes her out in the car, brings her back, and forgets her.’
‘Why is she here?’ asked Edith.
Monica shrugged. ‘His idea entirely. He considers her manners too rustic for her to be allowed to live under the same roof as that frightful wife of his who, incidentally, started life as a hairdresser before snaffling her first husband. This one’s her second. Mme de Bonneuil had a beautiful house near the French border: it’s quite a good family, incidentally. Naturally, the daughter-in-law wanted the house to herself. So the old girl had to go. She can’t stand the wife, of course. Despises her. Quite right. She lives here because she doesn’t want to see the son unhappy.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Edith, startled and impressed.
‘She told me,’ said Monica, inhaling from another cigarette.
‘I’ve never heard her say a single word,’ mused Edith.
‘Well, it’s difficult for her.’ To Edith’s enquiring glance Monica replied, ‘She’s stone deaf. What a life.’
They watched the man and his wife manoeuvring Mme de Bonneuil into the back of the car. A regrettable pair, thought Edith. The man was chunkily built, swarthy, with dark glasses. He looked like a croupier, off duty until nightfall. The wife was much younger, black-haired, voluptuous, expensive. She will marry yet again, thought Edith, as the car drove off. Then perhaps Mme de Bonneuil can go home. But it seemed unlikely.
Monica, she reflected later, as they strolled slowly along the lake shore, knows far more than I do; it is right that she resembles a sphinx. The morning had passed quite pleasantly in her company. But she was puzzled by Monica’s insistence that they visit the café for more coffee and cakes. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she protested. A fleetingly oblique look crossed Monica’s face. ‘Oh, come on,’ she begged. ‘It’s Sunday. And I’m sick of that awful fish.’
Watching Monica plunging a resolute fork into an éclair, Edith reflected, with some humility, that she was not good at human nature. She could make up characters but she could not decipher those in real life. For the conduct of life she required an interpreter. And this woman was very pleasant, very pleasant indeed. Although apt, she could see, to cause dissension. M. Huber had frowned when he saw her veer off in the direction of the café, Edith in her wake.
‘The one I can’t make out’, said Edith shamelessly, as Monica leaned back and sucked smoke hungrily from yet another cigarette, ‘is Jennifer.’
Monica’s fine oval eyes emptied of all expression. ‘Jennifer,’ she pronounced. And after a pause. ‘Jennifer, I asure you, is entirely straightforward.’
Edith, glancing at her watch, saw that it was nearly one o’clock, and, ‘We must go,’ she said firmly. Monica’s face dropped into its habitual lines of obstinate gloom. No dramatics, please, thought Edith. ‘Come,’ she said, stretching out her hand as the other sat there immobile, shoulders hunched. ‘You are much more beautiful when you smile. And it’s such a lovely day. Won’t you walk back with me?’ Slowly, reluctantly, Monica allowed herself to be led to the door, a small smile not quite brought to birth. A mystery here, thought Edith.
When they got back to the Hotel du Lac they found Mrs Pusey and Jennifer sitting on the terrace with the unknown man in the panama hat. A bottle of champagne lolled in a bucket on the table.
‘There she is,’ called Mrs Pusey in a musical voice. ‘Come and join us, dear. We’ve been looking for you.’ She ignored Monica who pursed her lips, donned her glasses, and flung herself disdainfully on to her chaise longue.
Edith, annoyed on behalf of her new friend, hesitated, but was saved by the appearance of waiters, napkins over their arms, in the doorways. Mrs Pusey (who was indeed in white) saw them and became intent on the business of levering herself out of her chair. The man in the panama hat offered his arm and, with Jennifer holding her mother’s jacket, they processed into the dining room.
‘Come on, Monica,’ urged Edith. But Monica pulled down the corners of her mouth, raised a limp hand again, and then to all intents and purposes fell asleep.
The afternoon continued golden and mellow. The beauty of this perfect day brought them all back to the terrace where Edith, to whom Monica presented a stony profile and tightly shut eyes, joined the Puseys and the man with the panama hat, who was introduced as Mr Neville. An hour passed quietly, for Mr Neville had procured English Sunday newspapers from some unknown source and had kindly passed them round. But Mrs Pusey, after flicking distractedly through the pages of the colour supplements, gave a sigh and said, ‘Such an ugly world. Greed and sensationalism. Cheap sex. And no taste. Not a sign. Run upstairs and get my book, would you, darling?’
‘Yes,’ she went on, as Edith and Mr Neville made polite but sustained efforts to ignore this interruption. ‘I’m afraid I’m a romantic’ With this pronouncement she smiled at them, as, reluctantly, they surrendered the Observer, the Sunday Times, the Sunday Telegraph. ‘You see, I was brought up to believe in the right values.’ Here we go, thought Edith, swallowing a tiny yawn. ‘Love means marriage to me,’ pursued Mrs Pusey. ‘Romance and courtship go together. A woman should be able to make a man worship her.’ Mr Neville inclined his head, giving polite consideration to this view. ‘Well, perhaps I’ve been fortunate,’ Mrs Pusey added with a little laugh, looking down to rearrange the bow of her silk blouse. ‘My husband worshipped me. Thank you, darling,’ she said, as Jennifer handed her a paperback with a straining Art Nouveau profile on the cover. ‘This is the sort of story I enjoy,’ she went on. She was able to talk even when she was reading, Edith noted.
‘The Sun at Midnight,’ pronounced Mr Neville gravely. ‘By Vanessa Wilde. Not a writer known to me,’ he said to Edith, watching her profile as she gazed distantly over the lake.
‘Although I don’t think this is one of her best,’ said Mrs Pusey.
Edith felt an author’s pang. I was actually quite pleased with that one, she thought. David was on his summer holiday, she remembered, lying fretfully on a Greek beach with his wife. I imagined him to be having a marvellous time and I wrote for ten hours a day to stop myself thinking of him. I was rather proud of myself. Three years ago, already.
As her colour faded and her eyes took on their haze of reminiscence (‘You need glasses, Edith!’ Penelope would say), Mr Neville leaned forward.
‘After I have ordered tea for these ladies,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would care to walk a little? It is too good a day to waste. We may not get another like it.’
Edith paused. ‘Yes, you go, dear,’ said Mrs Pusey in a remote voice, as if to signify the intensity of her reading. ‘I expect we’ll see you after dinner.’
A crowded day, thought Edith, grateful for the silence of her companion, as they walked slowly away from the little town, along the water’s edge. The castle, dour, grim, a rebarbative silhouette, a corrective to the dazzle of the water, occupied a spit of land which advanced into the lake as if to impede further progress. Soon it would obliterate the sun, and its massive shape would darken and seem to advance towards them. Instinctively they stopped, unwilling to witness this ritual extinction, and turned to the parapet, over which they leaned. The day was very slowly losing its colour, the blue of the sky whitening in that neutral hour which signifies the end of the afternoon. The sadness that comes with the approach of evening stole over Edith. Her companion glanced at her. ‘Shall we sit down for a moment?’ he suggested, guiding her to a stone bench. Crossing his elegant ankles, he asked her permission to light a small cigar.
‘Now, Mrs Woolf,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Philip Neville,’ he added calmly.
Edith shot him a sharp glance, for the first time registering his existence above ankle level and the profile usually presented to her as he gave his attention to Mrs Pusey.
‘Or may I call you Vanessa Wilde?’ he went on.
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For the first time in weeks Edith laughed. The sound, so long unheard, surprised her. Once started, she could not stop. Mr Neville surveyed her with a pleased expression as submerged gusts found their way to the surface. Finally, he joined in, his smile lingering while Edith wiped her eyes.
‘Now that, if I may say so, was a considerable improvement on your usual expression.’
Edith looked at him in surprise. ‘I wasn’t aware that anyone was interested in my expression,’ she said. ‘I rather thought I was useful as an audience, but only as a lay figure is useful to a painter: both can be put aside when no longer required.’
‘And you think of yourself as a lay figure?’
‘No. That is how others think of me.’
‘And you are required to be seen and not heard?’
‘I am required to listen and not speak.’
‘Then for someone who is not speaking, you are giving away volumes of information.’
‘I was not aware …”
‘How stately you are. I don’t mean that you can be seen to be mopping and mowing. I don’t imagine you do much of that.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Edith, suddenly sombre.
‘No, no. I don’t perceive you as a distracted being. I mean that if I were younger and more trendy I should probably say that I could deconstruct the signifiers of your discourse.’
Edith gave a grudging smile.
‘That’s better. I should say that you were rather bored.’
The mildness, the approximate kindness of this remark, brought a flush to her cheeks. She took a deep and steadying breath, then, her eyes brilliant, she nodded at him.
‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Quite. Then I suggest we go out one day soon. Do you know the hills to the south of us?’
She shook her head.
‘Wine-growing country,’ he said. ‘And there are some very good restaurants. I’ll telephone you, if I may.’
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