A Closed Eye

by Anita Brookner

  Miss Wetherby too was frightened. ‘I suppose you’ll be thinking of selling the house?’ she said. ‘Unless you decide to come back.’ All this time she had lived in fear that Harriet would put the house on the market, and then where would she go? She paid no rent, subsisted on various small pensions, could not afford to buy anything. A residential home, she thought, if I could find one. But would a home take the dog? There was her sister, in Somerset, but her sister lived in a tiny cottage, and on her last visit they had both been uncomfortable.

  Harriet came back to earth with a jolt. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I shan’t sell the house. This is your home. It is yours for as long as you want it.’

  Miss Wetherby’s face cleared. ‘I’ll take care of everything here,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ll come back?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think I’ll come back.’

  They sat in silence. Finally Miss Wetherby reached out a hand, which Harriet took. ‘You were so good to Imogen,’ said Harriet, for now the name had been spoken.

  ‘I go up there every day. Just to dust, and keep everything fresh.’

  ‘Yes. Please do that. I shall leave again tomorrow. I don’t think I can stay here now.’

  She slept fitfully, got up early, said goodbye to Miss Wetherby, and was gone. She hardly noticed the return journey. She was back in the Résidence Cécil just after lunch, which, as usual, she did not miss. The flat was warm, silent. Again she thought she caught the ghost of a scent, and then remembered that Irène had looked in to see her just before she left. She telephoned Monsieur Papineau, to let him know that she was back. Then she went out again, to get in some provisions, called in at the bookshop and bought more books, for how else was she to get through the coming months if not by reading? Immy’s ghost had receded from her: she could no longer bring her to mind. This tormented her. The long loving communion she had promised herself had not taken place. This was now her grief, as if her original grief had become even more grievous. Sometimes she thought she caught a glimpse of Immy’s face, and at such times she started up with a shock of delight. But these were fragments, and Immy’s face at such times seemed stern, closed. ‘My poor darling,’ she said at such times, and heard herself saying the words out loud. The sound of her own voice startled her. This way madness lay.

  Other thoughts worried her. I was not nice to Lizzie, she thought. When she came round, on that terrible evening, I was not nice to her. I made social noises, and then escaped to the kitchen. It was not her fault that I found her presence too much to bear. She did her best: I’m sure she always did her best. She was no match for Imogen, of course. Yet they kept in touch, even though Lizzie may have felt a little jealous. She was always such an odd girl, nothing like her parents. Tessa, that other ghost, crept back into her mind. I shall ask her to stay, she thought with surprise. I shall ask Lizzie to stay. It will be easy not to talk about Imogen, or rather it will not be easy, but I shall manage it. I shall warn her not to mention Imogen. For now she could not bear to share Imogen with anyone else. Imogen was too elusive, must be protected until she chose to manifest herself, as one day she surely must.

  Immediately, strangely comforted by the thought of something definite to do, she sat down and wrote to Lizzie. She wrote kindly, calmly, feeling stronger in herself now that she had someone young to think about again. Someone young! And she had lived so long among the elderly, her parents, her husband, Miss Wetherby, and now Monsieur Papineau. The sight of an unmarked face was so precious to her; when she saw a child she longed to reach out and touch it. Of course, Lizzie was now a stranger, but she had always felt a sympathy for the girl, looked on with a mixture of admiration and pity as Lizzie made her uncomfortable way in the world. Nothing had been easy for Lizzie, yet she had survived. And it was not kind to take no further interest. She would hate Lizzie to think her unkind, to be left with that impression of haste and withdrawal that she must have taken away with her. In her letter she included a simple warning that Imogen was not to be discussed. It would be exploiting Lizzie to ask her here for purposes of mutual reminiscence. And Lizzie had always had such difficulty expressing herself that it would be unfair to require her to talk when she so clearly preferred not to. A strange girl. She would leave her entirely free, let her come and go as she pleased. She might be lonely: Harriet knew nothing of her friends but imagined that Lizzie led a solitary life. She liked to walk, Harriet remembered. Well, there were beautiful walks to be had. She would cook meals again, invite Monsieur Papineau to dinner. The evenings might be dull for her, but she was a great reader. That Harriet remembered quite clearly. And now that she herself read so much they would have something in common, something to discuss.

  She telephoned Monsieur Papineau and invited him for an aperitif. Already she felt more purposeful. ‘Joseph,’ she said. ‘I am having a young friend to stay. You must help me to entertain her.’ For she did not doubt that Lizzie would come. They planned a series of events, anxious that the visitor should not be bored. That evening, poring over maps and restaurant guides, they were animated. He noted with relief that she had colour in her cheeks. When he stood up to go she gave him her letter to post. Then she took up her position at the window. Oh, Imogen, she thought, come back to me.

  But Imogen did not come back. Instead images of closure came and went. When she caught sight of Imogen’s face it was as if the girl had a finger to her lips, constraining her to silence, constraining them both to silence. Something was missing, some knowledge. In the latter part of her life Imogen had been unknowable: there were secrets which had never been told. Freddie, she knew, had been suspicious, but she had indignantly refuted his suspicions, which she had castigated as unworthy. Unless she lived in perfect trust how could she live at all? Yet she was surprised to note that she was now impatient for Lizzie’s arrival. The spare room was ready. She made a list of things to buy, noticed at last that she was eating very little, vowed that this would now change. I could telephone her this evening, she thought. But no, that would be precipitate. I must be patient and let her make up her own mind. She always hated to be hurried.

  In the end it was Lizzie who telephoned. Solitary, as Harriet suspected, she had had to make hard decisions about holidays, was always non-committal when they were discussed in the office. She had announced, since it seemed to her to be expected, that she was going walking in the mountains, as she half supposed she then must do. Harriet’s letter relieved her, since it meant that she need not tell a lie. She still found this a problem, was so anxious not to fall into error that she usually kept her mouth shut. At meetings, when asked if she agreed to something the others had decided, she usually cleared her throat and said ‘No’. ‘Thank you, Lizzie,’ said the head of her department, amid general laughter. ‘Now we know where we stand. All right, everyone, as we decided. Begging Lizzie’s pardon, of course.’ The ensuing scraping of chairs, as everyone stood up to go, usually brought on the discussion of holidays. Now at least she would have something to tell them. She was aware that they thought her odd, a poor mixer. Extremely good at what she did: that was the consensus. They liked her, even liked her intransigence. Some found her attractive, with her straight light-coloured hair and her wide impassive eyes, but no one asked her out for more than a drink. This did not worry her. She had a boyfriend, a man she had met at Oxford, who had stayed on to do his D.Phil. He had hopes of a fellowship. They saw each other rarely, but wrote immensely long letters. This was how she usually spent her evenings. But he was spending the long vacation in America: another reason to accept Harriet Lytton’s invitation. On the telephone she asked if she might come the following week. Harriet, surprised, said, ‘Of course, dear, come as soon as you can. I will express your ticket to you.’ ‘There’s no need,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘I’ve got plenty of money.’ Harriet, with a sigh, reminded herself to expect this. So unlike Imogen, she thought. Yet at the same time came another thought: Lizzie is incorruptible.

  Unwelcome, this, as if it cast a differen
t light on Imogen. She closed her mind to it, and went to bed.

  Lizzie, emerging from the airport at Geneva, thought that Harriet must have married again, for she was in the company of a small eager-looking man in a curious velvet beret. At the same moment Harriet saw her, a thin slight figure, wearing what looked like, but could not be, the same denim jacket and jeans, a nylon holdall slung over one shoulder. ‘But she is a little girl!’ exclaimed Monsieur Papineau. ‘No, she is the same age as my daughter,’ said Harriet absent-mindedly. How curious, she thought. I said that without a qualm. But I must be careful not to burden Lizzie with comparisons. ‘Here you are, dear,’ she said cheerfully. Monsieur Papineau was surprised at the change in her voice, which had become artificial, he thought, as he relieved Lizzie of her holdall and led the way to the car. Harriet felt indifference creeping over her, as if the impulse behind her original invitation had died, leaving behind only the prospect of effort and weariness. She felt her age, of which she had previously been hardly aware, wanted only silence and her bed. Yet here was Lizzie, to be entertained for an entire fortnight, and she doubted whether she had the energy to sustain her presence for another minute. Everything goes, she thought, tolerance, patience, even emotivity. I am fond of her, wanted her to come, and now I wish she had stayed at home, as I half expected her to. How on earth are we to keep her amused? But Lizzie was looking with interest and a mild degree of pleasure at the passing landscape. ‘I thought we’d eat at home this evening,’ said Harriet. ‘And then we’ll take you out and about. I expect you are out a lot at home?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Lizzie. ‘Anyway, I like to go to bed early. I’ve always liked going to bed.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Harriet. ‘So have I. And you’ll find the air here will make you sleepy.’

  That much agreed on, with some relief on both sides, they settled down to tolerate each other’s company.

  Cautiously, in the days that followed, they admitted that things were not too bad, were even going rather well. Lizzie departed each morning with a packed lunch, and made her way by train to Les Pleiades, so that she could at least go home and report that she had walked in hills, if not in mountains. This much inaccuracy she could allow herself, but no more. She arrived back at around teatime, to find Harriet in the kitchen, consulting cookery books.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’ was the usual enquiry, to which she inevitably replied, ‘I usually have some cheese and an apple.’

  ‘So do I. But we shall have to do better than this tomorrow. Joseph is threatening to make his crêpes Suzette.’

  The evenings were quite companionable. They watched the news, viewing the weather forecast as if it were a dramatic performance they could not afford to miss. After this they settled down with their books.

  ‘Such a strange novel I’m reading,’ Harriet said. ‘Stendhal. I don’t know if I like it.’

  ‘An acquired taste,’ agreed Lizzie, who had acquired it, and was a lifelong convert.

  ‘So glad you’ve kept up your French.’

  ‘Well, the grandparents,’ Lizzie replied.

  They conversed in brief telegraphic sentences, as if they had been together for ever.

  So far each had been successful in avoiding Imogen’s name. It was a relief to both of them that this had been possible. One night, however, Harriet had been woken by a nightmare, in which Imogen had played a prominent part. She struggled to remember it, but on waking felt only shock and disquiet. She thought that the dream had taken place in Wellington Square, that it was evening, that she had been sitting with Freddie in the drawing-room, that Imogen had come in white-faced, as if ill. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she had said in the dream, and had disappeared. So insistent was this image that she thought it might even be a memory, that all this had really happened. Yet casting her mind back she encountered only a closed door, the closed door of Immy’s bedroom. All that day she was troubled, vaguely sick. She was grateful for Lizzie’s absence, and, when she returned, for her silence. She thought the girl looked stern again, or was this her imagination?

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Nothing more was said that evening.

  They took her out to lunch, to dinner, anxious for her to enjoy her holiday. They went to Lausanne, to Montreux, to Evian. Lizzie was moderately pleased by all this, cautiously allowed that she was enjoying herself. She had turned a delicate pink, even filled out a little. When they looked at her they nodded to each other with satisfaction. They could not bear the prospect of her leaving. Monsieur Papineau was delighted with her. Yet Harriet was aware of something that remained to be done.

  On Lizzie’s last evening she summoned her courage, and said, ‘I know I can trust you, Lizzie. You were always such a fine character. I want you to tell me the truth. Was everything … Was Immy happy, do you think?’

  Lizzie lost something of her colour.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to upset you, dear. I know I said we wouldn’t talk of this. Only she haunts me so, what I can see of her. She never confided in me. And as you were such a good friend … Those weekends she spent with you, when you went up to Oxford. I never questioned her, of course, but she spent such a lot of time with you, I wondered … “I’ll be at Lizzie’s”, she’d say, if Freddie asked her where she was going. Why, she even came back with one of your cardigans, do you remember?’

  Lizzie, willing her face to impassivity, as she had so far managed to do, remembered Imogen’s only visit to her, in Judd Street, when she was working at the bookshop, remembered the chattering teeth, the odour of blood, remembered the cardigan she had draped round Imogen’s shoulders, remembered, with eternal shame, running to the door in terror. So much blood, which she had cleaned, working half the night. She had vowed never to see Imogen again, and had never done so, had hoped to bury the scene for ever. And now this.

  ‘I know you’ll tell me the truth,’ said Harriet, the tears rising. ‘You always told the truth. Was she happy? Was it a happy friendship? Did you love her?’ she asked, breaking down at last.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Lizzie, tears of outrage in her own eyes. But it was herself she despised, not for the lie, but for the difficulty it caused her.

  ‘So silly of me,’ wept Harriet. ‘But I know how you must miss her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Go to bed, dear. I’ve upset you. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Lizzie, clearing her throat.

  ‘I’ll bring you a hot drink. Oh, I’m so glad we’ve had this talk.’

  When she went in later to Lizzie’s room, with a glass of warm milk and honey, she took her book in with her. She was calm now. ‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘Your French is better than mine. Tell me how you would translate this. It is important to me.’

  She opened her book, and read.

  ‘ “Mais Madame la Duchesse, la mort est un mot presque vide de sens pour la plupart des hommes. Ce n’est qu’un instant, et en général on ne le sent pas. On souffre, on est étonné des sensations étranges qui surviennent, et tout à coup on ne souffre plus, l’instant est passé, on est mort …” ’

  ‘Death is a meaningless word for most people,’ Lizzie translated. ‘It is only a moment, and generally one does not feel it. One suffers, one is surprised by the strange sensations that arrive, and all of a sudden, the moment passes, one is dead.’

  ‘ “Ah! Monsieur,” ’ Harriet went on. ‘ “C’est le moment de la mort dont je ne puis supporter I’idée.” ’

  ‘It is the moment of death that I dread.’

  She remembered the passage. It was one of her favourites.

  ‘ “Mais, Madame,” ’ Harriet went on, with rising conviction. ‘ “Ce moment est occupé par une douleur quelquefois bien peu vive. On la sent encore, et par conséquent, l’on vit, on n’est pas mort, on n’est encore que dangereusement malade. Tout à coup, on ne sent plus rien, on est mort. Donc, la mort n’est rien. C’est une porte ouverte ou fermé
e, if faut qu’elle soit l’un ou l’autre, elle ne peut pas être une troisième chose.” ’

  ‘But Madame,’ said Lizzie. ‘That moment is taken up with a little pain. One still feels it, and therefore one is alive, one is not dead, only mortally ill. Suddenly one feels nothing, one is dead. Therefore death is nothing. It is a door which is either open or closed, it must be one or the other. There is no third way,’ she finished.

  Harriet closed the book. ‘Thank you, dear. Thank you. No third way,’ she repeated, and smiled.

  They saw Lizzie off the following day. ‘Goodbye,’ they said. ‘Goodbye. You’ll come back?’ they enquired ardently.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, for a third time. This time it was not a lie. ‘My father,’ she said. ‘I telephoned him to say I was coming. He said to send you his love.’

  Jack Peckham. Another lifetime.

  That evening Harriet, standing at the window, saw the sun descend majestically into the lake. Turning, she surveyed the empty room. My life, she thought, an empty room. But she felt no pain, felt in fact the cautious onset of some kind of release. Vividly, she caught sight of Immy’s face. She drew in a deep breath, laughed. There it was again, Immy’s face as it had always been. She laughed again, at the image of Immy’s laughing face. Sinking on to the sofa she let the tears rain down. Never to lack for company again. All will be as before, she thought, as she wept in gratitude. When my little girl was young.