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because his mother has encouraged him, that it was in fact Frederick’s mother who first gave him licence to misbehave at all. Frederick’s mother would, if she had ever heard it, react to this opinion with genuine amazement. Is it her fault, she might ask this hypothetical critic, if her elder son has inherited his father’s legendary way with women? This is a clever but uncalculated statement, in the way of all Sofka’s statements. In the first place it establishes the legend of a heroic line of charming and handsome men, the sort of men who make women conscious for the first time of their powerlessness. In the second place it establishes the superior power of Sofka herself, able to finesse this potent charmer into marriage. None of this is entirely true, of course; the commerce between the sexes is rarely so simple or so just. But the function of such an argument is to annul the criticism of the disappointed, the rancorous, the deceived. Sofka implies that there is little that women can do about such men. A look of distaste crosses her face as she contemplates the possibility of effort, of stratagem, of reproach. Sofka is such a lady, and such a mother. Her husband, the reprobate, almost vanished into thin air after he married her. Fortunately,his reputation was still there to sustain him. In the same way, his reputation now sustains Sofka. And if she looks with an indulgent eye on Frederick, it is because she sees in him his father’s disgraceful charm. And a mother is more susceptible to this sort of charm than a wife or a lover can ever be.
    When the telephone rings, and Frederick fears an importunate voice, he signals to his mother, and she gets up from her chair with the most extraordinary expression of girlish glee on her face. ‘I’m afraid Frederick is out,’ she will say in her soft grave voice, one hand to her mouth to subdue her smile. The voice continues in her ear, becoming plangent, and clearly audible to Frederick on the other side of the room, one hand wearily marking time to the reproaches. Sometimes, when Sofka is unable to terminate the conversation as briefly as decency tells her is necessary, Frederick sets his metronome going and his mother is obliged to bring her handkerchief up to her mouth to stifle a little laugh. Sofka loves this teasing relationship with her son and sees no reason why she should forgo it. It brings a little light-heartedness into her serious grown-up life. It makes her feel like a girl again. And no harm is meant by it. Harm may be done, but it is never meant.
    Sometimes Sofka will wait up for Frederick when he has been out in the evening. She will prepare a jug of iced lemonade and wait for him in the morning-room, sitting peacefully in the light of one shaded lamp. She looks very charming in repose. To Frederick she is an oasis of sanity in a world peopled by increasingly difficult women. He sighs thankfully when he reaches this haven, and after kissing his mother flings himself into a chair and allows Sofka to pour him a glass of lemonade. Sofka will often have a little embroidery to hand on these occasions: she somehow judges it necessary not to look at Frederick inorder to facilitate his confidences. Frederick is rueful, Sofka is smiling. It is the smile of a woman who understands men. Sofka does not know that women who understand men are unreliable allies. Her only allegiance is to her family, so the question does not arise. Sofka can see that something is wrong; her probing is almost imperceptible. Yes, says Frederick, he is rather tired. The evening had not been guaranteed to relax him. Why do women make fusses? In this way he rationalizes his delayed arrival, his straying attention, his glad recognition, across the space of the restaurant, of another girl. Tears, of course, in the taxi. Sofka smiles into her embroidery. ‘I can’t face her again tomorrow,’ says Frederick, assuming an expression of great nobility and weariness. ‘There’s only so much I can