Muriel Spark - The Complete Short Stories

Even on her first visit Sybil knew definitely there was something wrong with the marriage. She thought of herself, at first, as an objective observer, and was even amused when she understood they had chosen her to be their sort of Victim of Expiation. On occasions when other guests were present she noted that the love scenes did not take place. Instead, the couple tended to snub Sybil before their friends. ‘Poor little Sybil, she lives all alone and is a teacher, and hasn’t many friends. We have her here to stay as often as possible.’ The people would look uneasily at Sybil, and would smile. ‘But you must have heaps of friends,’ they would say politely. Sybil came to realize she was an object of the Westons’ resentment, and that, nevertheless, they found her indispensable.

Ariadne returned from Cairo. ‘You always look washed out when you’ve been staying at the Westons’,’ she told Sybil eventually. ‘I suppose it’s due to the late parties and lots of drinks.’

‘I suppose so.

Désirée wrote continually. ‘Do come, Barry needs you. He needs your advice about some sonnets.’ Sybil tore up these letters quickly, but usually went. Not because her discomfort was necessary to their wellbeing, but because it was somehow necessary to her own. The act of visiting the Westons alleviated her sense of guilt.

I believe, she thought, they must discern my abnormality. How could they have guessed? She was always cautious when they dropped questions about her private life. But one’s closest secrets have a subtle way of communicating themselves to the resentful vigilance of opposite types. I do believe, she thought, that heart speaks unto heart, and deep calleth unto deep. But rarely in clear language. There is a misunderstanding here. They imagine their demonstrations of erotic bliss will torment my frigid soul, and so far they are right. But the reason for my pain is not envy. Really, it is boredom.

Her Ford V8 rattled across country. How bored, she thought, I am going to be by their married tableau! How pleased, exultant, they will be! These thoughts consoled her, they were an offering to the gods.

‘Are you comfy, Sybil?’

She sipped her gin and lime. ‘Yes, thanks.’

His pet name for Désirée was Dearie. ‘Kiss me, Dearie,’ he said.

‘There, Baddy,’ his wife said to Barry, snuggling close to him and squinting at Sybil.

‘I say, Sybil,’ Barry said as he smoothed down his hair, ‘you ought to get married again. You’re missing such a lot.’

‘Yes, Sybil,’ said Désirée, ‘you should either marry or enter a convent, one or the other.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Sybil said, ‘I should fit into a tidy category.

‘Well, you’re neither one thing nor another — is she, honeybunch?’

True enough, thought Sybil, and that is why I’m laid out on the altar of boredom.

‘Or get yourself a boyfriend,’ said Désirée. ‘It would be good for you.’

‘You’re wasting your best years,’ said Barry.

‘Are you comfy there, Sybil? … We want you to enjoy yourself here. Any time you want to bring a boyfriend, we’re broadminded — aren’t we, Baddy?’

‘Kiss me, Dearie,’ he said.

Désirée took his handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed lipstick from his mouth. He jerked his head away and said to Sybil, ‘Pass your glass.’

Désirée looked at her reflection in the glass of the french windows and said, ‘Sybil’s too intellectual, that’s her trouble.’ She patted her hair, then looked at Sybil with an old childish enmity.

After dinner Barry would read his poems. Usually, he said, ‘I’m not going to be an egotist tonight. I’m not going to read my poems.’ And usually Désirée would cry, ‘Oh do, Barry, do.’ Always, eventually, he did. ‘Marvellous,’ Désirée would comment, ‘wonderful.’ By the third night of her visits, the farcical aspect of it all would lose its fascination for Sybil, and boredom would fill her near to bursting point, like gas in a balloon. To relieve the strain, she would sigh deeply from time to time. Barry was too engrossed in his own voice to notice this, but Désirée was watching. At first Sybil worded her comments tactfully. ‘I think you should devote more of your time to your verses,’ she said. And, since he looked puzzled, added, ‘You owe it to poetry if you write it.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Désirée, ‘he often writes a marvellous sonnet before shaving in the morning.’

‘Sybil may be right,’ said Barry. ‘I owe poetry all the time I can give.’

‘Are you tired, Sybil?’ said Désirée. ‘Why are you sighing like that; are you all right?’

Later, Sybil gave up the struggle and wearily said, ‘Very good,’ or ‘Nice rhythm’ after each poem. And even the guilt of condoning Désirée’s ‘marvellous … wonderful’ was less than the guilt of her isolated mind. She did not know then that the price of allowing false opinions was the gradual loss of one’s capacity for forming true ones.

Not every morning, but at least twice during each visit Sybil would wake to hear the row in progress. The nanny, who brought her early tea, made large eyes and tiptoed warily. Sybil would have her bath, splashing a lot to drown the noise of the quarrel. Downstairs, the battle of voices descended, filled every room and corridor. When, on the worst occasions, the sound of shattering glass broke through the storm, Sybil would know that Barry was smashing up Désirée’s dressing-table; and would wonder how Désirée always managed to replace her crystal bowls, since goods of that type were now scarce, and why she bothered to do so. Sybil would always find the two girls of Barry’s former marriage standing side by side on the lawn frankly gazing up at the violent bedroom window. The nanny would cart off Désirée’s baby for a far-away walk. Sybil would likewise disappear for the morning.

The first time this happened, Désirée told her later, ‘I’m afraid you unsettle Barry.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Sybil.

Désirée dabbed her watery eyes and blew her nose. ‘Well, of course, it stands to reason, Sybil, you’re out to attract Barry. And he’s only a man. I know you do it unconsciously, but …’

‘I can’t stand this sort of thing. I shall leave right away,’ Sybil said. ‘No, Sybil, no. Don’t make a thing of it. Barry needs you. You’re the only person in the Colony who can really talk to him about his poetry.

‘Understand,’ said Sybil on that first occasion, ‘I am not at all interested in your husband. I think he’s an all-round third-rater. That is my opinion.

Désirée looked savage. ‘Barry,’ she shouted, ‘has made a fortune out of passion-fruit juice in eight years. He has sold four thousand copies of Home Thoughts on his own initiative.

It was like a game for three players. According to the rules, she was to be in love, unconsciously, with Barry, and tortured by the contemplation of Désirée’s married bliss. She felt too old to join in, just at that moment.

Barry came to her room while she was packing. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘We need you. And after all, we are only human. What’s a row? These quarrels only happen in the best marriages. And I can’t for the life of me think how it started.’

‘What a beautiful house. What a magnificent estate,’ said Sybil’s hostess.

‘Yes,’ said Sybil, ‘it was the grandest in the Colony.’

‘Were the owners frightfully grand?’

‘Well, they were rich, of course.’

‘I can see that. What a beautiful interior. I adore those lovely old oil lamps. I suppose you didn’t have electricity?’

‘Yes, there was electric light in all the rooms. But my friends preferred the oil-lamp tradition for the dining-room. You see, it was a copy of an old Dutch house.