The Game by A. S. Byatt Page B

personal relations and such like which it’s much better to take with a bit of gay abandon as they come. All this about this sister you never see, and all these ominous murmurings about guilt. As anyone can see from your lovely books, my dearest girl, you’re a brooder, but you will positively
wear yourself out
if you take everything with this personal intensity,
really.
Try a bit of deliberate and
conscious
selfishness for a change. You’re an artist of sorts after all and artists have got to be detached and ruthless. And better if they admit it sincerely? When I get you on The Programme you are going to be splendidly sincere with your disturbing, diffident, bloody-minded straight-look-in-the-eye about
just what ruthlessness
is required to turn your life into a commodity so saleable and comforting. So be warned. And don’t try to be a sensitive plant. You’ve got a tough hide, sweetie, cultivate it, it’s an asset and there’s nothing wrong with it.
    ‘I don’t understand your obscure references to Simon Moffitt. Apparently teenage girls keep sending him understanding letters. I’ve not met him, but he seems a bit broody too, and not madly your sort of thing, love? though there’s no accounting for tastes. A bit obvious, S. Moffitt. But then, so are you, and it has its attractions.
    ‘You had better come home as soon as maybe and enjoyyourself a bit. Take care of yourself. I’ve got lots to tell you, as you may imagine.…’
    Cassandra’s letter was from Gerald Rowell.
    ‘My dear Cassandra, I was very touched that you should write to me so unexpectedly, and I was naturally distressed to hear of the death of your father. His work will be always remembered, and he himself will be remembered as a truly good man, and, in the deepest sense, a true Christian. I cannot believe that he did not die in peace, and better prepared to meet his Maker than most of us.
    ‘I am distressed that you should reproach yourself for your feelings. As I have had occasion to suggest to you before, you are too scrupulous and expect too much of yourself. You loved your father, and you love him now. A momentary revulsion is of little account beside a lifetime of love. A horror of dissolution, please believe me, is more commonplace than you suppose, and not usually of long endurance. You must offer your weakness to God, who is Infinite Charity, and rest in Him. You have also a duty to your mother, who will be in need of your comfort and support. As I have also said before, you must make your peace with yourself. I am sure you will find your way to it.
    ‘You are missed here; many of the ladies have asked me to convey their sympathy; also the Dean. I have prayed for you and for your family. Yours ever, Gerald Rowell.’
    Julia thought: I asked for sympathy and what I get is flirtatious malice. But she smiled to herself, and felt lightened at the thought of being back with people like Ivan, who took life with a bit of irony, liked people vulgar, self-centred and malicious, didn’t expect, or want, anyone to be perfect. Unlike the Quakers and Cassandra. The Quakers, if not Cassandra, would have denied indignantly that they expected people to be perfect. But they simply tolerated things that Ivan positively admired. Whereas Cassandra tolerated nothing and admired very little. Ivan had not understood her claustrophobia; she would have to explain it again. She was amused but worried by his description of her probable TV personality; she wasuncomfortably sure that she could achieve what he wanted. She began to read the letter again.
    Cassandra regarded her letter with slight distaste. It was a distaste already familiar, from moments of communication with Edwin Merton or with Simon himself. It seemed to her that she was capable of only two kinds of approach to men: a constrained dignity, and an overwrought and vague appeal for help of some kind. And her undignified outbursts produced, invariably, from those to whom she exposed herself, a