MYSELF: But whatever be the difficulties that lie in the way of this inquiry, whatever it be that keeps us so much in the dark to ourselves—and to each other—I am nevertheless sure that all the light we can let in upon our minds, all the acquaintance we can make with our own understandings, will not only be very pleasant, very, very pleasant...
And here I sighed, and really I could not go on. As my voice trailed off, the other guests remarked with sympathy on the rigors of philosophy and suggested I take some wine, while Rameau's niece retreated silently from the room with a quick, shy glance at me that worked simultaneously as both cure for my sudden infirmity and the cause of a debilitating relapse, so that I felt it necessary to take myself weakly to my chamber for the restorative balm of sweet solitude and repose.
In the days following, Rameau's niece began to offer to me more of these slight glances, at first shyly, then with greater intensity and frequency, looks almost of tenderness, certainly of curiosity, until one evening after dinner, as she walked past me toward the card tables, I felt something pressed into my hand, and in my excitement at this undreamed-of felicity, I stuttered some words attesting to a headache and took to my room. There, I opened a note written hastily but in a beautiful hand. It said, "From the dim candlelight of these sad weeks, I long for daylight, for the sun to illuminate my way to greater understanding. It would be unpardonable to undervalue the advantages of knowledge, to neglect to improve understanding when given an opportunity to do so. You are my teacher, I see that now. And I? If you will have me, I am your student."
Margaret put down the manuscript and turned off the light. A teacher and his student, bound together, locked in the giddy embrace of pedagogy. Margaret sighed and remembered when she had first seen Edward teach, remembered sitting at a desk in the back of the room, listening; remembered a line from the Whitman poem ("Does not all matter, aching, attract all matter?"); remembered what he wore; remembered that one of his shoelaces had been untied, remembered a hazy space between his body and hers, a crowd of students and desks and chairs, none of which existed. Only Edward existed. Edward and Margaret and the words and the silence that ran between them.
She never went to hear Edward teach anymore. She was too busy, he told her everything he wanted to discuss ahead of time, at home, and it seemed undignified to follow one's husband around listening to him lecture when perhaps one ought to be lecturing oneself. But recalling the early days, when she sat before him, waiting and listening in the uncertain ecstasy of anticipation, she thought perhaps she ought to resume her studies with Edward.
Still, it was blissful to be alone sometimes, she thought. Like now, the whole bed to herself, the whole apartment to herself, no one blasting into the room with a new interpretation of an old dog of a poem. Edward was wonderful, it was true, but sometimes his wonder weighed heavily.
Where was he, anyway? It was past twelve. The reading was over at ten. Unlike him to be so late. They probably went out for a drink afterward. Still. She considered what she would do if Edward ever had an affair. Make him stop.