Read Online After Julius by Elizabeth Jane Howard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Jane Howard
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sometimes beautiful in that dark, restless, desperate manner which encouraged heroics, the classical dishonesties
arising out of situations which had been provoked by appearances rather than desire or experience. She looked as though she ought to be, had been, might be somebody’s major love, and for many
men who had earlier bitten off exactly what they could chew, this was an irresistible challenge. Her private means simply offered her a wider variety of opportunities, and the fact that she was a
– very minor – professional pianist meant that each man returning to, or embarking upon, the cud of married life could console himself with the fact of her Art – such a comfort,
so constructive. If it was not a solace it damn well ought to be.
For twenty years she seemed to herself continually to have been starting something, with the idea, the intention, the hope of it lasting, until sheer duration had become an abstract quality that
she applied instinctively, indiscriminately, to any new relationship. In the wake of her desire for an emotional structure, however rocky, she towed her career, feeling sure that it could only
fulfil the promises of her early dreams about it if all else was running smoothly (a man in love with her and with whom she was in love). When love failed her, she nearly always turned to music
(after a period of nightmare vacuum) and met the next man with the appearance of being committed to it. She would have been working steadily for weeks, months, occasionally even a year, and the
impression she gave was unintentionally quite false. An attractive, serious, dark girl with a pleasant talent, trying to make the most of it; unattached and with enough money for her lessons, a
beautiful instrument, and clothes of ravishing simplicity and elegance for recitals at the Wigmore Hall. Had been married; husband killed in the war. No children. Sad, but infinitely intriguing
– and convenient. Surely there must be a lover lurking about? Some cynical, selfish fellow who ruined sensitive intelligent girls by spending two evenings a week with them – preying
upon their finer feelings with anything from money, the right sexual touch to downright lies about the future? But there never was, for Cressy was passionately monogamous. So whoever it was took
possession, spent two evenings a week with her (and sometimes more, but they couldn’t be sure from week to week – they’d telephone anyhow so don’t go out: and, poor fool,
she never would), and preyed upon her feelings with whatever equipment they could bring to bear.
‘The world’s sucker,’ she thought standing by the window of her bedroom. ‘I believe everyone. There is absolutely nothing that any of them say that I don’t
instantly accept as the truth – only varnished a little because I also believe that they don’t want to hurt my feelings.’
She had remained where Emma had left her: her tears had stopped, and the urge to telephone had begun. It always started as a casual thought: ‘Why not ring him up? You’ll tell in an
instant by his voice how things are’ – and was always sharply dismissed: idiotic; lack of pride; taking things too seriously. Back it came: ‘I am lacking in pride; I always
take things too seriously – if this equates with being idiotic, that’s what I am.’ What harm could it do? He would be alone in his flat; never got to the office before ten. If she
was married to him, she would be making those delightful, domestic, little plans with him that she was certain married people (in love, of course) made with each other. Even when she had been married, she had not been able to make them. Occasionally, she and Miles had tried to imagine their life together after the war, but they had been large plans – deliberately
vague and grandiose. They had always been shy of each other – had never parted, she realized, without the distinct and real possibility of it being for the last time, and this fear –
arising out of situations which had been provoked by appearances rather than desire or experience. She looked as though she ought to be, had been, might be somebody’s major love, and for many
men who had earlier bitten off exactly what they could chew, this was an irresistible challenge. Her private means simply offered her a wider variety of opportunities, and the fact that she was a
– very minor – professional pianist meant that each man returning to, or embarking upon, the cud of married life could console himself with the fact of her Art – such a comfort,
so constructive. If it was not a solace it damn well ought to be.
For twenty years she seemed to herself continually to have been starting something, with the idea, the intention, the hope of it lasting, until sheer duration had become an abstract quality that
she applied instinctively, indiscriminately, to any new relationship. In the wake of her desire for an emotional structure, however rocky, she towed her career, feeling sure that it could only
fulfil the promises of her early dreams about it if all else was running smoothly (a man in love with her and with whom she was in love). When love failed her, she nearly always turned to music
(after a period of nightmare vacuum) and met the next man with the appearance of being committed to it. She would have been working steadily for weeks, months, occasionally even a year, and the
impression she gave was unintentionally quite false. An attractive, serious, dark girl with a pleasant talent, trying to make the most of it; unattached and with enough money for her lessons, a
beautiful instrument, and clothes of ravishing simplicity and elegance for recitals at the Wigmore Hall. Had been married; husband killed in the war. No children. Sad, but infinitely intriguing
– and convenient. Surely there must be a lover lurking about? Some cynical, selfish fellow who ruined sensitive intelligent girls by spending two evenings a week with them – preying
upon their finer feelings with anything from money, the right sexual touch to downright lies about the future? But there never was, for Cressy was passionately monogamous. So whoever it was took
possession, spent two evenings a week with her (and sometimes more, but they couldn’t be sure from week to week – they’d telephone anyhow so don’t go out: and, poor fool,
she never would), and preyed upon her feelings with whatever equipment they could bring to bear.
‘The world’s sucker,’ she thought standing by the window of her bedroom. ‘I believe everyone. There is absolutely nothing that any of them say that I don’t
instantly accept as the truth – only varnished a little because I also believe that they don’t want to hurt my feelings.’
She had remained where Emma had left her: her tears had stopped, and the urge to telephone had begun. It always started as a casual thought: ‘Why not ring him up? You’ll tell in an
instant by his voice how things are’ – and was always sharply dismissed: idiotic; lack of pride; taking things too seriously. Back it came: ‘I am lacking in pride; I always
take things too seriously – if this equates with being idiotic, that’s what I am.’ What harm could it do? He would be alone in his flat; never got to the office before ten. If she
was married to him, she would be making those delightful, domestic, little plans with him that she was certain married people (in love, of course) made with each other. Even when she had been married, she had not been able to make them. Occasionally, she and Miles had tried to imagine their life together after the war, but they had been large plans – deliberately
vague and grandiose. They had always been shy of each other – had never parted, she realized, without the distinct and real possibility of it being for the last time, and this fear –
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