They stared up at him, hushed. It was part of his magnanimous sense of his own glory, teaching. He rose before a class and presented himself and all he knew, and facing him, in the cloudless morning sunlight of his presence, his students basked, warmed themselves, and grew.
Which is all very nice, unless you happen to be the wife, Margaret thought. I am the wife.
I dwelled on happy thoughts of Rameau's niece and our imminent reunion. Barely registering my surroundings, I realized I was headed directly toward a secluded spot to which my pupil and I had often come, a lovely corner of the garden little frequented by anyone but us.
I heard a rustling, perhaps of skirts, and my heart leapt. Could it be she? Here, in our own corner of the garden, our own private place of study? Had she sensed I would return that day? Had she gone there to await my arrival, knowing I would repair there directly in search of her?
I reached the place and, oh! that I had lengthened my trip, or that the horse had thrown a shoe, or that I had rested, a long and sound sleep, or changed my clothes, dressing slowly and meticulously, before seeking Rameau's niece. For indeed she was there, my pupil, in that spot where I expected her. The skirts that rustled were hers. But she was not alone, and her skirts rustled not from the breeze, nor as they brushed against a shrub, but as they were lifted and arranged by her companion, pushed here and there as her companion sought their most expeditious disposal.
Her companion was clearly a man of low birth. He was in fact, the gardener, and I at first assumed this meeting was not of my pupil's choosing; but one look at her face, her gentle, untroubled expression, convinced me otherwise. She was sighing, breathing heavily. Through her half-open eyes she saw me then, and with an effort, she sat up, her clothes draped in disarray, and pushed the gardener from her. A robust young lad with an appealing aspect, he had caught my eye more than once as he toiled in the kitchen garden. But now I looked at him not with admiration, although what I saw of him now was robust indeed as he stood stupidly before me, his breeches below his thighs, his shirt rolled up under his vest. Then, in an instant, he was gone, running, as well he should have, pulling up his breeches as he went.
I turned to my pupil, now rearranging her skirts, smoothing her bodice. I waited, expecting her to hurl herself at my feet, to beg my forgiveness, trembling, with downcast eyes. Instead, she looked at me, evenly and without embarrassment. And, to my further astonishment, she smiled.
Margaret woke up each morning in a groggy panic. Often she had been dreaming of the Frenchman, and as she opened her eyes she wondered where she was. Then, as the feel of his skin against hers receded further, she would see the Venetian blinds and hear Edward humming in the bathroom. What time was it? What was she forgetting? she wondered. What had she neglected while dreaming of a man she didn't even know? What meeting? What phone call? What bill to be paid? What was she working on? What brilliant ideas had slipped her mind while she slept?
Restless and disgusted, Margaret tried to console herself with this romantic formulation: To forget is to live in a world of shadows, of unreality. A forgetful person was the only authentic person, for life made no sense and so confusion was the only truth!
No cigar, Margaret. Try again?
Forgetfulness is an absence of humanity, of concern for one's fellow man. To forget is to negate. Forgetfulness is nihilism.
Or perhaps forgetfulness was escapism? Or a sign of purity, an inability to be tainted by the worldly horrors of existence?
Forgetfulness was insensitivity! Forgetfulness was sensitivity, openness to anything new! Forgetfulness was antipathy! Forgetfulness was sympathy, an embrace of life unencumbered by prejudices!
Was forgetfulness discretion, the ability to filter out what didn't matter?
No. Margaret knew the real answer. Forgetfulness was never knowing what mattered. To judge was to compare? Then forgetfulness was an inability to make judgments based on information because of an absence of information. Forgetfulness was stupidity. Margaret shuddered.
Edward was singing now, and listening to him crow splendidly, Margaret felt anger and disappointment wash over her. I am angry at Edward. Therefore, she thought in an attempt to meet this difficulty in a useful and rational way, Edward must be doing something to make me angry at him. What, though?