Leaving Home

by Anita Brookner

  The question of Paris seemed hardly to arise. It was now quite clear to me that what I had fashioned into a simulacrum of a home had been taken over and that I had no choice but to accept my flat as a form of permanence for which I had no taste. That this was perfectly irrational did nothing to allay my fears. Theoretically I was free to come and go as I pleased, to alight in one temporary refuge after another, if that was what I really wanted. And it seemed as though that was what I really did want: it was permanence that frightened me. I could and did appreciate that shifting and shiftless population to which I had become accustomed, and perhaps preferred it to any other. The troubadour inheritance brought with it a grace that was evident even in destitution. The best of those wandering scholars would turn into the very real scholars whose grey heads, bent over their work, I had observed morning after morning in the library. It had been there that Françoise, the earth mother, had functioned as an alternative mythology, which they now honoured from a certain distance. It was in that role that she flourished, was at her best. Divorced of her iconic status she was simply another woman, whose tastes and activities allied her with the real world, and whose power games with her mother belonged to a lesser mythology, to fiction, the sort of fiction for which the French are renowned. Better, I thought, to remain in one’s most becoming manifestation than to enter into lesser forms of competition, of possession. What did it matter if the house changed hands? It was the house that would outlive its inhabitants, whose quarrels would be forgotten as soon as they had gone, leaving the light of changing seasons to illuminate its façade, perhaps for the benefit of other visitors delighted to have it in their sights.

  And yet characters like Françoise are life-giving: they broaden one’s outlook. Even their stratagems and deceits are instructive; one can observe them, marvel at them, even as one disapproves. I could imagine how she would have conducted the evening that had just passed: bold questions, a little mockery, an expectation that money would be spent, a predictable conclusion. She would have formed a more or less accurate assessment of his social position, his income, and treated him accordingly, perhaps in a way that most men would understand. I knew nothing about him beyond what he had told me, or was willing to tell me, choosing to remain discreet about what he was determined to conceal. In comparison I had talked too much, and at the same time said nothing of interest. This was not a useful way to proceed.

  It had grown dark without my becoming aware of it and the streets were quieter now. I turned back towards the flat, though I had no desire to be there. Its emptiness, its silence had once appealed to me; the fact that I was its undisputed owner had been, but was no longer, persuasive. I wanted, almost all the time, to be away from it, anxious to join others, if only symbolically. My work benefited from this, but my assiduity had less to do with my researches than with a desire to be significantly occupied, as if I were performing a task on someone else’s behalf, fictively, among the wage earners, or rather among those other vague researchers, like myself. The company of the latter was illusory: locked into our various obsessions we merely occupied similar desks, exchanging few words, our heads bent at the same angle. This was work that the normally constituted would neither undertake nor understand. It was no wonder that I made such a poor showing when in the company of others, still less that I should admire, to the point of extravagance, characters of such decisive boldness that nothing that they ever did could undermine my regard for them.

  There were few lighted windows in Jubilee Place. It was Friday, and many people had left for the weekend. I knew some of these people by sight: we nodded pleasantly to each other, but no more than that. The onset of the weekend was problematic in other ways: I could no longer take it for granted. Those silent, or almost silent walks with Michael, in settings which did not seek to impress, were not likely to be repeated: we had almost certainly lost touch. Those suburban gardens were in truth dearer to my heart than the grander counterparts to which my attention was directed, yet part of the attraction was the mild air of compatibility that united the strolling families, that peaceable kingdom. And maybe it had suited us both to be in that company. It would be difficult to convey this to anyone not of the same mind, most difficult of all to convince the self-sufficient, self-regarding characters I so admired.

  The flat was dark and chilly, as it so often was. I did not immediately switch on lights or tidy the kitchen, but stood at the window, gazing out into the greater dark. Now it was possible to believe in autumn, even in winter. Tomorrow was Saturday ; I should pretend to be domesticated. On Sunday I should walk, out of habit. A window across the street was suddenly, violently illuminated; if anything it emphasized the darkness. My bed in Paris had looked out on to a busy street. All night cars passed, footsteps sounded. I could hear voices in the hotel, taps running. Here I faced a small blank space between two unidentifiable buildings. The temporary euphoria of buying this flat had quite evaporated. In bed—expensive, comfortable—I waited with the usual trepidation for the onset of sleep. It was not wakefulness that disturbed me; it was sleep itself, that descent into the unfathomable, the unknown, the element that threatens us all. Here the silence seemed to possess its own threat. I regretted that Philip Hudson had not returned, as I had half hoped he would. A stealthy patter of rain, surprising after so fine an evening, would be my accompaniment through the dark hours. In the morning I would adjust my outlook to taking comfort where and when it was indicated.

  14

  THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WERE A HOT BLANK OF STIFLING days and steadily darkening evenings. With everyone away there seemed no incentive to work, to pursue my humble routine, and yet I progressed, settling down in the early morning to writing a page or two, before the superb light summoned me out of doors to fill the day as best I could. This I managed by returning to my task from time to time, so that the work—the book?—became my only activity. At the same time a certain caution inhibited me from too much assiduity, for this activity would have to see me through the winter and I knew that it would be unwise to anticipate an early conclusion. I had no authorial ambitions, but I did see that what I was doing was not entirely redundant: the work was on the whole honourable, if of no great interest to those who had not shared my experience of walking through those deserted gardens in inhospitable months, or searching for clues in old prints and ancient accounts, with only the sight of a decisive perimeter, of a harmonious crossing point, where two paths met in a conclusive right angle, to reawaken my belief in underlying principle—for that was the raison d’être of the whole undertaking.

  I perceived the beauty of study itself, the process rather than the result, and once I put down my pen I felt regret, as though abandoning a friendship. The rest of the day seemed improvised, and it was sometimes difficult to find a reason to do anything else. The nights were even more of a problem, alleviated only by the occasional company of my unlikely friend, Philip Hudson. Neither of us talked much, as if by mutual consent, but his presence was easy to accept, based as it was on a decision to go no further than the occasion warranted. In this way an understanding was reached that seemed to suit us both, though this, again, was never openly discussed.

  In fact my work was the only area of my life in which I could exercise my own will. This may be the reward for those who undertake such a solitary occupation. But if I felt that I possessed autonomy in this matter I was also aware that such autonomy generally failed me in the company of others, when I felt habitually at a loss. I envied Philip his straightforward occupation, as I saw it, and respected him for it, as must all those whose lives he saved. He probably regarded my work as the equivalent of embroidering a sampler, yet when I doggedly continued to amass my so far few pages he was rather kind, en-joining me not to tire my eyes, not to neglect proper exercise or meals. I was grateful for this, grateful too that no discussion of its merits would take place, and on the whole content with my life, which if not exactly interesting was not contentious or tiresome, and which was certainly as restful to me as it
may have been to others.

  This almost becalmed interlude was interrupted by a letter from Françoise reminding me of her mother’s lunch party on the thirtieth. She had arranged for me to be driven down and back by a friend, M. de Robillard, who would collect me from the hotel at eleven-thirty and return me to Paris some time in the late afternoon or early evening. He would be with his daughter, Mme Mauvoisin, whom she was sure I would find sympathetic. She added that she was looking for a permanent flat in Paris—for the moment she was staying with her mother—and should be out of the hotel some time in the future. From this I deduced that I should have to find another room, and I was almost grateful to her for letting me know this in advance. She was so looking forward to seeing me, she said, and although there would be little opportunity to talk at the party we could arrange to meet once she had discharged her various duties. Her mother sent her best regards. Naturally she, Françoise, was anxious that the occasion should be a success, particularly as her mother had put a great deal of thought into it. She hoped that I would find it interesting. She herself could not wait for it to be over.

  Like most of Françoise’s exchanges this left a great deal unsaid. There was no word, for example, of the American lover, whose presence in Paris might or might not be her reason for staying in the same place. Equally there was no word of her feelings for him, though I had reason to believe that these were genuine. What did he do? Where did they meet? What were his feelings for her? Naturally I could not put these questions to her: she would only tell me if she felt inclined to do so. My role, as ever, was to be discreet. It was my discretion that commended me, as it may have done to her mother. I was destined to be a listener, not even an observer, one from whom no adverse comment, no untoward question could be expected. My very tact had a certain social value: I could be relied upon to be agreeable, to mingle without making a strong impression. Part of me was resigned to this; it was a role I knew well and could discharge automatically. Long silence had accustomed me to such behaviour, and allowed me to reach my own conclusions without undue prompting. And in any case I should be among strangers. On reflection it was kind of them to have invited me. And possibly there was some acknowledgement on Françoise’s part that she was in a way—always vague, always unspecified— in my debt, quite literally so, as she was living at my expense. I now saw this as a perfectly natural arrangement. My presence at her mother’s party was her way of discharging this debt. I admired the thinking behind this, and reminded myself that I must adjust my attitude to the convention that had brought this about.

  I was tempted to write back with some excuse that I could not leave London, but I knew that this would be regarded as a grave breach of protocol. And although my presence would not be missed, would not even be noticed, I was bound by the strength of previous arrangements to attend, and to send a suitably appreciative letter of thanks once I was home again. Besides, I could think of no excuse that would pass muster, and, if anything, shared a distaste for such stratagems as would certainly be evinced by Mme Desnoyers. I knew two things simultaneously: that I was unwilling to disturb my present routine, and that I was permanently unwilling to give offence. I was almost used to my quiet days and to the evenings when I could look forward to Philip’s company, if he were free. I knew, almost superstitiously, that one should never go back, never retrace one’s steps in the hope that all would be as before, for it never is. I had planned to return to Paris at a much later date, possibly in January or February when I should have noted all the references that needed to be checked, all the errors or omissions that must be rectified. That would have to be an extended stay, possibly into the late spring, which would allow me time for a few more studies on-site. This would be fairly intensive work and would brook no interruption. This weekend visit was premature, badly timed, and by now so irrelevant that I had almost managed to forget it. It was clear that I was not expected to stay any longer than any of the other guests. My task would be to go home as rapidly as possible and write to convey my thanks at a safe distance. And I should do that, I thought, wholeheartedly, not giving any hint that I had been anything other than gratified by the invitation. The letter, I knew, would be appreciated far more than my attendance would be.

  ‘I have to go to France this weekend,’ I told Philip, placing before him a perfect omelette.

  ‘Where do you get this bread? It’s rather good.’

  ‘An Italian place up the road. Would you like me to get you a loaf?’

  ‘No, no. This is fine.’

  ‘I should be back on Monday. Or possibly Sunday night. I have no reason to stay.’

  ‘You won’t get much work done, then.’

  ‘Some friends to see. What will you do?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘I’ll see you next week, of course. You’ll still be here?’

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I need to know that I’ll find everything as I left it. I now have faintly superstitious feelings about going away, although I never used to. I think perhaps I have been reconverted to Englishness. And yet I know that as soon as I get there I shall be reconverted in the opposite direction.’

  ‘I never took to Paris myself, always wanted to press on to the south. Any south. I could never adapt to Parisians. I’m too dull, I expect.’

  ‘So am I, really. But one learns so much by just being there, how to eat, how to dress. Flair.’

  ‘It’s no doubt different for a woman.’

  ‘In fact I didn’t learn all that well. Oh, the superficial things, perhaps. But I haven’t the sort of temperament that adapts easily. Now I feel that the lessons are over, that I might have been too naïve to make the most of them, as if I had been a child when I first went there and have grown up since. And yet I know that when I get there I shall want to learn all over again. It’s an eternal apprenticeship, trying to be like the French.’

  I also knew that what was missing from our relationship was a festiveness, a cordiality that I had perhaps only absorbed at second hand, to be replaced by a feeling of safety that threatened to descend into acceptance. The scholarly disposition, to which I laid claim, is not necessarily innate; it develops in default of other aptitudes. I worried, as never before, that I might, almost certainly should, make a poor showing: I had misgivings not only about status but about worth. My friendship with Françoise now appeared to me lightweight, whereas I had thought to endow it with significance. This was also the verdict I now reached about my friendship with Michael. That had been the sort of friendship that children know, and although Philip did not appear to find me childish I knew that I had adapted too easily to his needs, without examining my own. The compliance that was my greatest weakness could only be alleviated by the illusion that I could suspend it whenever I chose. Now I saw that this was not the case. The solution was, once again, to leave home, and to learn whatever new lessons I was still capable of absorbing.

  ‘Do you want to walk back with me?’ he was saying.

  ‘No, not tonight. I think I might leave in the morning. Yes, that might be best. I’ll see you next week.’

  ‘You seem anxious to be rid of me.’

  ‘I’m only anxious to get there and back. If I stay much longer I might never move again.’

  The desire to stay was threatened by the need to get away. The journey would be filled with a strange anxiety which I had not previously felt, as if I feared some ambush. I regretted Françoise’s absence, she who had offered me protection of a kind. Or maybe I feared absence itself, an existential absence to which only philosophers have the key. In any event I was ill-equipped for a formal social occasion at which any kind of awkwardness would be unacceptable. I looked, once more, to Paris to supply me with certainties that I did not possess. The night was too long for me. By five a.m. I was out of the flat and on my way to Waterloo.

  I took another room at the hotel, unwilling to engage in further discussion. There was a call for me, from a Mme Mauvoisin. Would I call back? This I
did in the hope that the whole arrangement had been cancelled. Mme Mauvoisin’s voice was brisk and decisive, but her assurance seemed to waver when she heard who I was and finally to collapse. She would be only too willing to drive to L’Ermitage, she said, but she ought to warn me that she would have to leave early, as soon after lunch as was decently possible. She would be accompanying her father who was very old and in poor health; also she was anxious to get home to her husband who was also not well and who disliked being left alone. I glanced out of the window at the brilliant day and wondered why these invalids thought fit to give this occasion priority over their own comfort, but this was to underestimate the social cohesiveness of the French bourgeoisie. I assured Mme Mauvoisin that I was more than grateful, not only to be driven down but to be returned to Paris as expeditiously as possible. This, if anything, caused her more concern, or perhaps she was pursuing her own line of thought. Her father, she went on to say, was an old friend of Mme Desnoyers, but she doubted his ability to mingle with strangers. He had occasional lapses of memory and she would have to keep a close eye on him. But as he hardly got out at all these days she felt she could not deny him this pleasure. She would be delighted to make my acquaintance and was grateful for my understanding. No questions were put to me but I felt obliged to explain that I was a friend of Françoise, at which her voice seemed even more doubtful. I thanked her, in advance, as it were, as if few words were to be wasted on the return journey, and said that I should be ready at the appointed time on the Sunday and assured her once again that I was more than happy to fit in with her plans. I did this for her sake as well as my own: clearly the subtext was one of polite reluctance on both sides.

  It was a relief to get out into the street, where I was immediately revived by all the sights and sounds that had recently been missing from my life. The sun was high after a morning mist which had signalled autumn, and it was warm: at midday it would be hot. I drank my coffee in the bar next to the hotel and was gratified to be recognized by the owner. I was questioned about my absence: bonnes vacances? I enquired after his family and was assured that all were well. This minimal social exchange was so reassuring that I was encouraged to believe that I was not entirely a stranger here, rather less so, it seemed to me, than I was in London, where such salutations were more superficial. Almost automatically I set out for the library, although there was not much point in doing so, as I had left all my material in the flat. But I wanted to see if all was as before, if those obedient heads were still bent over their work, if the same peaceful atmosphere still reigned. I had nothing to do: I thought for conscience’ sake I might look over an account of Fouquet’s commission to Le Nôtre, and then, when I had satisfied myself that this had not changed since the last time I checked it, I might go to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs for another sight of those obelisks and fountain designs before issuing out into the brilliant day and restoring my sense of optimism, which had in fact been in place, tentatively at first and then with increasing depth, ever since I arrived, smelt the coffee and the cigarettes, sidestepped the water thrown in an arc to sluice the morning pavements, bought my newspaper, and appreciated once more a lack of obligations, but also of recent attachments, that impressed me as the freedom I might allow myself to enjoy and which had been in eclipse for far too long.