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Authors: Anita Brookner
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reflected how glad she was to have an opportunity of doing some substantial cooking again, having restricted herself to stark single items of nourishment for far too long; her attitude to her own well-being was largely functional, without indulgence, easily despatched.
‘And yet I manage to keep quite well,’ she said toBarbara, later that morning. ‘There is no need to worry about me as you do. Worry about yourself instead. And drink a little more of this coffee. It is so good for you, whatever they say. Such a heavenly smell. It will soothe your poor head, and make it think of better days.’
‘I can’t smell a thing,’ said Barbara. ‘Take it away. But you are very kind, Blanche. I had forgotten what a kind woman you were. I suppose it is because you don’t pretend to be kind, as so many people do. Have you noticed? It is difficult to know how to deal with such people, the sort who say, “If I had known you were ill I should have done something.” And yet you would never let them know because it would be tactless, a sort of intrusion. You would not assume them to be available.’
‘Perhaps you should never assume that people are available,’ said Blanche, removing cups and plumping up pillows. ‘Why should they be? But you are right about kindness. Genuine kindness is actually rather rare, more rare than one would imagine. I think it ought to be a cardinal virtue, and yet you don’t see too much of it. Not in the past, certainly not in painting. I have been thinking about this a lot. You know I go to the National Gallery quite a bit?’
‘Too much,’ said Barbara, blowing her nose. ‘Nobody needs to go that much. It is becoming an obsession with you.’
‘Well, but you see, I am trying to decipher all those expressions. They are held up to one as standards of excellence, to be always admired, and yet there are many terrible lessons there. One realizes that even the Holy Family didn’t have a lot of time for the rest of creation. We will not even speak of the Crucifixion, if you don’t mind. And all the martyrdoms. Those poor saints, throwing away their lives, the only possession they could really call their own. And the cruelty of their tortures. All so that they could be shown in painting, resurrected, in perfect form, with merely a toweror a key or a wheel as a dainty allusion to their sufferings. As if the realm of painting were taking its lead from the kingdom of heaven. I worry about that a lot.’
‘Well, then, don’t look at these things if they upset you.’
‘There is actually worse to come, if you turn to the pagans. They recline on clouds absolutely impervious to everything and everyone. No kindness there. No begging for mercy from the ancient gods – they would laugh. They obey a different code, and it is exceedingly difficult to know what it is. It fascinates me. You are wrong to say that I shouldn’t study these things. It is quite harmless, and it is very instructive. I am learning a lot. Only it is rather difficult at the moment to work out exactly what I am learning. That is why I keep going back.’
‘Will you go there today? You don’t have to stay here, you know. I shall probably sleep this afternoon, now that I don’t have to worry about Jack’s dinner.’
‘I’ll look in this evening and put it in the oven for him. And you can have a little soup then, if you want to sleep now.’
‘Don’t go to the National Gallery, Blanche,’ said Barbara. ‘It is bad for you to wander about on your own like this. Isn’t there something you could …’
‘Why, no,’ said Blanche, in some surprise. ‘There is nothing sinister about my visits. I am not deranged, you know. And I have always wandered about on my own, even when I was married.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll look in this evening. Take care.’ She bent to kiss Barbara, then left the house, closing the door quietly behind her.
The street was blessedly normal, after the rigours of the
‘And yet I manage to keep quite well,’ she said toBarbara, later that morning. ‘There is no need to worry about me as you do. Worry about yourself instead. And drink a little more of this coffee. It is so good for you, whatever they say. Such a heavenly smell. It will soothe your poor head, and make it think of better days.’
‘I can’t smell a thing,’ said Barbara. ‘Take it away. But you are very kind, Blanche. I had forgotten what a kind woman you were. I suppose it is because you don’t pretend to be kind, as so many people do. Have you noticed? It is difficult to know how to deal with such people, the sort who say, “If I had known you were ill I should have done something.” And yet you would never let them know because it would be tactless, a sort of intrusion. You would not assume them to be available.’
‘Perhaps you should never assume that people are available,’ said Blanche, removing cups and plumping up pillows. ‘Why should they be? But you are right about kindness. Genuine kindness is actually rather rare, more rare than one would imagine. I think it ought to be a cardinal virtue, and yet you don’t see too much of it. Not in the past, certainly not in painting. I have been thinking about this a lot. You know I go to the National Gallery quite a bit?’
‘Too much,’ said Barbara, blowing her nose. ‘Nobody needs to go that much. It is becoming an obsession with you.’
‘Well, but you see, I am trying to decipher all those expressions. They are held up to one as standards of excellence, to be always admired, and yet there are many terrible lessons there. One realizes that even the Holy Family didn’t have a lot of time for the rest of creation. We will not even speak of the Crucifixion, if you don’t mind. And all the martyrdoms. Those poor saints, throwing away their lives, the only possession they could really call their own. And the cruelty of their tortures. All so that they could be shown in painting, resurrected, in perfect form, with merely a toweror a key or a wheel as a dainty allusion to their sufferings. As if the realm of painting were taking its lead from the kingdom of heaven. I worry about that a lot.’
‘Well, then, don’t look at these things if they upset you.’
‘There is actually worse to come, if you turn to the pagans. They recline on clouds absolutely impervious to everything and everyone. No kindness there. No begging for mercy from the ancient gods – they would laugh. They obey a different code, and it is exceedingly difficult to know what it is. It fascinates me. You are wrong to say that I shouldn’t study these things. It is quite harmless, and it is very instructive. I am learning a lot. Only it is rather difficult at the moment to work out exactly what I am learning. That is why I keep going back.’
‘Will you go there today? You don’t have to stay here, you know. I shall probably sleep this afternoon, now that I don’t have to worry about Jack’s dinner.’
‘I’ll look in this evening and put it in the oven for him. And you can have a little soup then, if you want to sleep now.’
‘Don’t go to the National Gallery, Blanche,’ said Barbara. ‘It is bad for you to wander about on your own like this. Isn’t there something you could …’
‘Why, no,’ said Blanche, in some surprise. ‘There is nothing sinister about my visits. I am not deranged, you know. And I have always wandered about on my own, even when I was married.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll look in this evening. Take care.’ She bent to kiss Barbara, then left the house, closing the door quietly behind her.
The street was blessedly normal, after the rigours of the
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