A Closed Eye

‘My dear Lizzie,’ (she wrote),

‘No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me after all this time, and from such a strange place. Not that it is so very strange: indeed, it is extremely civilized, but you probably think of us still, if you think of us at all, in that house in Wellington Square which you once knew so well, though not perhaps in the happiest of circumstances. However, those days are now to be consigned to the past. I have had a great deal of time since then in which to reflect, and although I have reached no very firm conclusions I do know what courage is needed to see one through a life. You, my dear Lizzie, have always had that sort of courage. I was always impressed by you, even when you were a tiny child. But of course one does not say these things to a child.

‘The point of this letter is to ask you whether you would like to spend a little holiday here. I know how hard you work—my own short working life was frivolous in comparison—and
the air of this place would do you so much good. There are not many distractions for a girl of your age, but if you like to walk, the countryside is beautiful, and if you like to read, as I remember you always did, there is an excellent bookshop. Come at any time; there is snow in the winter, and the flowers are quite beautiful in the spring. And it is very pretty. I have grown quite fond of the place. I doubt if I shall ever go home now.

‘You see, we came to Switzerland when my husband’s health began to fail. He had enormous faith in the clinic here; one of his colleagues had benefited from similar treatment, swore he was a new man after a month’s stay. There was nothing really wrong with Freddie, but he was old and tired, and of course his heart was broken. In the first instance we only came for advice, but the moment he left Professor Lecoudray’s consulting room he said he felt better. He was not better, but it seemed only decent to help him to maintain that illusion. His final illness lasted six months; we found it convenient to take this rather nice flat, which Freddie liked, on a long lease. We both hated hotels. And there was room in the flat for Freddie’s nurse, Madame Irène. She stayed with me until he died, and still looks in from time to time. A nice woman, a good woman. And I have a very charming neighbour, Monsieur Papineau, so I am not at all lonely.’

(Such lies, she thought.)

‘Dear Lizzie, I am rather rich. There is no inoffensive way of saying this, but your holiday would be entirely at my expense. In addition to getting you away from London, I should like to spoil you a little. When we last met I thought you were looking very pale and thin (but you were always thin, even as a baby), and yet you seemed hardy. You singularly failed to take after your father, and you did not even look very much like your mother, although of course she was also fair, much fairer as a girl, when I knew her, than after you
were born. Her hair seemed to darken then; it often happens. She was my dearest friend. My more serious purpose in wanting to see you is to tell you what I remember of her. You were only a child when she died. How long ago it seems! We were dear, dear friends. I still miss her.

‘You would be entirely free to come and go as you pleased here. If you wanted to spend an evening at home with me I could tell you about those early days, when your mother and I were girls. It is important that you should think of her as a strong healthy woman, and not as you remember her. You see, I know you a little. I know the shock you had, and I don’t want it to have had a permanent effect.

‘You are young, and you have your future before you. Dear Lizzie, don’t let an impression of sadness dim your love of life, which is too precious to be wasted. I have always felt that you had it in you to be something remarkable, and I should like, if I may, to help you towards whatever you see as your goal.

‘So, all I need is a telephone call or a postcard to say when you are coming. I will send your air ticket (Geneva, terribly quick) and await you here with the most eager anticipation. Forgive this long letter: letter-writing is the exile’s main occupation. Dear Lizzie, do come soon.

‘There is just one thing I ought to say before we meet. One name must never be mentioned. I know that you, who were always so sensitive, will understand.

‘With love, as always,

‘Your old friend Harriet (Lytton).’