Incidents in the Rue Laugier by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anita Brookner
than immaculate. This matter of washing, however, created a note of uncertainty, which nothing in the manners of the house did much to disperse. His host, for example, decamped from time to time from the bedroom he shared with his wife and occupied another, seemingly at random. His hostess, her voice hoarse with feigned enthusiasm which she was at pains to maintain, almost gave the impression that she wished the house were empty, not only of guests but of her husband as well. If she longed for a different life from the one she had once so eagerly embraced she gave no hint. Only her wildly rolling eyes, as her husband embarked on yet another anecdote at the dinner table, betrayed an impatience which had neatly translated itself into pathological states: rheumatism, headaches, the peculiar hoarseness of her voice. Only by commiserating with those less fortunate than herself did she maintain her equilibrium, and indeed maintain the upper hand which was such a comfort to her.
It was somehow allowed that her husband should enjoy the favours of a mistress, in a room which he rented for purposes of business, in the rue de la Pompe in Paris, just as it was somehow allowed that Charles, the manservant, was permitted to avail himself of both Marie, the cook, and her daughter, Suzanne, the maid of all work. From time to time one of the women would absent herself from the room she shared with the other, go to Charles’s room, return after an hour, and resume her place without a word being said. The visitor soon got used to this activity on the floor above his head, and understood that he should forbear to comment on any nocturnal disturbance. He realised that deprived of their habitual privileges the servants would leave, that it would be difficult to engage others, and impossible to persuade them to stay. By the same token he grew used to the slightly sinister intrusion of Charles into his bedroom in the morning, and the stealthy noise of the fire being built up, the windows having remained tightly shut all night, as recommended by his hostess. His shoes would disappear with Charles and, while he was waiting for them to be returned, a clatter of hooves might give him a pretext to open the window and to lean out, taking a great gulp of the forbidden air, and to give a wave to Xavier, who sometimes went out for a solitary canter before breakfast. This—coffee and bread only—the guest was able to enjoy in the morning-room, the other members of the household having got up earlier and dispersed. He would not see them again until lunch, and then again at dinner, at which Charles officiated in a slightly grubby white jacket and a pair of frayed cotton gloves. Under those cotton gloves the guest could imagine the hands that had handled the sticks and paper in his fireplace that morning, and may even still have been unwashed. He would hastily persuade himself that the bathing facilities on the attic floor were none of his concern, although it might occur tohim that the hands which had provided the food he was now eating were not above suspicion. But the food was generally so excellent that the guest soon abandoned his finicky city preoccupations and settled down to an appreciation of country life.
When the sun came through the windows onto the same black and white tiled floor of the upper storey, Maud, on previous visits, had lingered, out of range of her aunt’s commands, of her mother’s ambitions, of her cousin Xavier’s courteous questions, of the visitors’ unexpected entrances and exits, and for a few minutes had stood quite still and perfectly quiet, enjoying the fall of the light onto the grey walls, onto a small Louis XVI table, which some ancient vandal had cheerfully painted white without lessening its charm, onto the glass of a picture whose subject was hidden from her by the dazzle of the afternoon glare, in this, the hottest month of the year, which she was always condemned to spend in the isolation of the countryside, in
It was somehow allowed that her husband should enjoy the favours of a mistress, in a room which he rented for purposes of business, in the rue de la Pompe in Paris, just as it was somehow allowed that Charles, the manservant, was permitted to avail himself of both Marie, the cook, and her daughter, Suzanne, the maid of all work. From time to time one of the women would absent herself from the room she shared with the other, go to Charles’s room, return after an hour, and resume her place without a word being said. The visitor soon got used to this activity on the floor above his head, and understood that he should forbear to comment on any nocturnal disturbance. He realised that deprived of their habitual privileges the servants would leave, that it would be difficult to engage others, and impossible to persuade them to stay. By the same token he grew used to the slightly sinister intrusion of Charles into his bedroom in the morning, and the stealthy noise of the fire being built up, the windows having remained tightly shut all night, as recommended by his hostess. His shoes would disappear with Charles and, while he was waiting for them to be returned, a clatter of hooves might give him a pretext to open the window and to lean out, taking a great gulp of the forbidden air, and to give a wave to Xavier, who sometimes went out for a solitary canter before breakfast. This—coffee and bread only—the guest was able to enjoy in the morning-room, the other members of the household having got up earlier and dispersed. He would not see them again until lunch, and then again at dinner, at which Charles officiated in a slightly grubby white jacket and a pair of frayed cotton gloves. Under those cotton gloves the guest could imagine the hands that had handled the sticks and paper in his fireplace that morning, and may even still have been unwashed. He would hastily persuade himself that the bathing facilities on the attic floor were none of his concern, although it might occur tohim that the hands which had provided the food he was now eating were not above suspicion. But the food was generally so excellent that the guest soon abandoned his finicky city preoccupations and settled down to an appreciation of country life.
When the sun came through the windows onto the same black and white tiled floor of the upper storey, Maud, on previous visits, had lingered, out of range of her aunt’s commands, of her mother’s ambitions, of her cousin Xavier’s courteous questions, of the visitors’ unexpected entrances and exits, and for a few minutes had stood quite still and perfectly quiet, enjoying the fall of the light onto the grey walls, onto a small Louis XVI table, which some ancient vandal had cheerfully painted white without lessening its charm, onto the glass of a picture whose subject was hidden from her by the dazzle of the afternoon glare, in this, the hottest month of the year, which she was always condemned to spend in the isolation of the countryside, in