French Exit

“Susan’s eyes were the color of honey; it hurt Malcolm to look at them, so he didn’t. She watched him disappearing in his seat and wished to hit him, kiss him.”

This short quote sums up both the state of Malcolm and Susan’s relationship, and their individual essential issues with that relationship. Throughout the novel, Malcolm repeatedly refuses to engage with anything that has the power to hurt him, or even make him uncomfortable. Susan is caught in the position of feeling sympathy for Malcolm, and understanding the origins of his defenses, but also realizing that she can’t do anything to bridge the gap he so intentionally creates between them.

“Mr. Baker couldn’t rid himself of the notion that ruin was the object of the game for Frances. But was she herself aware of it? That is, was she perhaps attempting to distance herself from what could be considered dirty money? For what his opinion was worth, he thought her motivation was not linked to morality, but something smaller, something more personal, and bitterer.”

Mr. Baker has been watching Frances deliberately fritter her fortune away for years but is unable to understand her motive. While he attributes it, possibly, to the money’s source (Franklin’s morally bankrupt law practice), he comes closer to the truth when he speculates about ruin. According to Frances, all her life she has been figuratively, and sometimes literally, burning it all down, seeking to disrupt the entitled bubble of her existence, and to find where the boundaries are.

“Paris was not decided, but it began to look rosier, for it was viable, and as a plan it possessed at least a measure of style. They spoke of the city in youthful, romantic terms. They’d both been in love, and both had been loved, in Paris, France. Joan expressed jealousy at the thought of Frances’s moving there permanently or semipermanently and Frances accepted this at the start, but when it went on too long, she said it was beneath them, this banter, and that they should approach the event for what it was. ‘Which is what?’ said Joan. ‘What are we calling it?’ ‘Annihilation.’”

While Frances is not completely sold on Joan’s idea that she move into her friend’s apartment, the place that Paris occupies in her memories, and what it represents to her, makes the notion more attractive. However, when Joan starts to push the idea too hard, Frances forces them both to see the truth of her situation. She calls it “annihilation,” but it really amounts to exile from New York society, an end that Frances has pushed for as she drained her fortune over the years. However, this choice of word does foreshadow Frances’s eventual end.

“After Frances shut the door, Susan stood on the sidewalk staring up at the apartment. She was ill at ease to a degree that seemed outsized to what had occurred that night. An unknown voice spoke to Susan, and it said to her, Be careful. Frances appeared in the window; Susan walked away.”

Malcolm is understandably hesitant to invite Susan to meet Frances, but she pushes for the meeting, trying to move the relationship forward. After the dinner, Susan tries to tell herself that it isn’t uncommon for her boyfriend’s mother to hate her, but in this quote, she sees the truth of the matter. The source of her unease isn’t Frances’s dislike, it’s that she has fully realized, maybe for the first time, that her relationship with Malcolm can’t compete with Frances’s.

“Frances said, ‘I ran from one brightly burning disaster to the next, pal. That’s the way I was. Possibly you won’t like to think of your mother as the one who lived, but I’ll tell you something: it’s fun to run from one brightly burning disaster to the next.’”

Although Frances has always operated under the strict auspices of Manhattan aristocracy, she has plenty of scandal in her past, the “brightly burning disaster” she refers to here. This motif of fire as a representation of Frances’s inner emotion and passion runs throughout her life, from lighting her parents’ house on fire, to the red dress she wears when she dies by suicide. Frances’s resentment of the restrictions of her life manifest through these explosive fiery moments. DeWitt also lets the reader know that Frances has enjoyed her life ahead of revealing her decision to end it.

“Speaking lowly, and generally upward, she gave voice to her private, two-part plan. It was a relief to say the words, but also frightening, for the plan became suddenly concrete, and there was the sense of a countdown’s commencement.”

Frances is admitting, for the first time, the full extent of her plan to get rid of all her money, and then die by suicide. Although the second part of her plan isn’t clear until later, the seriousness of it is emphasized by this renewed commitment to the plan, made aloud in her favorite church in Paris. Immediately after making this commitment, she begins to put it into action, taking Malcolm shopping, showing Frances’s characteristic determination even in this.

“In his adult life, Malcolm had rarely thought of what it would look like to have male friendships; and he never pined for any. But to witness this camaraderie gave him a pang of an outlying jealousy, which embarrassed him, and which he pushed away.”

Malcolm observes the men in the park across from their apartment through his bedroom window. This position is characteristic of Malcolm, the distance between himself and the others preserved, and himself well-protected behind the window. This is one of the few instances in the book where Malcolm is up-front and aware about what a lack of relationship with his father has cost him.

“Small Frank had climbed onto the table, curling up at the base of the Christmas tree. In looking at its lights, Frances thought of her childhood, of her father in his robe carrying her up the stairs on Christmas Eve. He smelled of cigarettes and drink and aftershave, a combination of scents that she loved devotedly from this moment and through the span of her life. Franklin had emanated that same deadly troika when they’d met, before the alcohol had turned sour in him, and the smoke acrid.”

In other areas of the novel, Frances indicates that her father, though benign, wasn’t home very often when she was a child. She suffered the same neglect that Malcolm did, and this is the only direct and positive memory she shares about her father. In it, she draws a direct connection between her father and Franklin, giving some indication of why she marries Franklin in the first place.

“‘You don’t believe in the supernatural?’ asked Mme Reynard. ‘What is there to believe in? Fear and guilt and sorrow; such motivations as these will bring us to the very strangest and most obscure places in our minds. I have no faith in this story.’ ‘Your faith isn’t required,’ Frances pointed out.”

Dr. Touche objects to Frances’s revelation that Franklin’s spirit resides in Small Frank on scientific grounds. In the world that deWitt has created, however, the supernatural is a reality; Dr. Touche might normally represent the voice of reason in this conversation, but his view is too narrow for the book’s reality. As Frances rightly responds, Dr. Touche’s belief isn’t necessary in order for something to be a reality.

“Frances described the second part of her private, two-part plan for Joan, concluding the note with words of devotion and love. I’ve always admired your heart. Your heart is the rightest of all. She called for the check, and in the time it took to receive it she decided she could never send the card.”

Frances’s postcard, the one that brings Joan from New York, features a bizarre observation about the number of penises she’s seen in Paris, followed by these heartfelt sentiments about Joan. Frances’s discomfort with vulnerability is an issue throughout the book, and something that she gradually, and to a certain extent, conquers. Even though Joan is her closest friend, Frances still feels the need to undercut authentic emotion with a trivial and crude observation, lessening the feeling of vulnerability that it creates.

“The man was smiling. Blood cascaded down his face at an angle, resembling parted hair. He spit at the police; he taunted them. He menaced them with lunging motions and waved for them to advance. He was not afraid; he looked possessed, grand. Frances thought he was beautiful, and he was.”

Frances has spent a lifetime restraining herself from emotional displays—the only indication of her passion is fire, and the color red. Her admiration of the man stems from his overt passion and engagement with life, something that frightens her, and that she doesn’t know how to accomplish. She admires not only his passion, but also his fearlessness, as she hides from the vulnerability of emotion behind her beauty and wealth.

“Franklin Price learned that an animal cannot commit suicide, this due to its survival instinct, which overrides emotion and will. He limped away from the tower, taking bitter solace in the thought that he would likely die from malnutrition in the near future.”

In life, Franklin, and others, saw him as powerful and in full control of his life. In his current incarnation as a cat, Franklin has no power, a considerable shift in his relationships with Frances and Malcolm. He doesn’t even have the power to end his life, as his body and instinct take over to preserve it, overriding his decision and emphasizing his lack of control.

“Frances told him, ‘But you didn’t get away with it, did you?’ ‘I got away with a lot. More than most, anyway.’ ‘Yes, but look at you now.’ Franklin was silent for a while. The candle flame flapped, then pulled itself taut. ‘Fuck you,’ he said, and the flame snuffed itself, and all at the table sat contemplating the drift of smoke.”

Although now dead and trapped in the body of a cat, Franklin remains self-satisfied about what he accomplished in his life, and in his words, what he got away with. Even after death, he doesn’t question his anger, or the morality of his choices while he lived. When Frances confronts him with the immutable fact of his mortality, and the indignity of now being a cat, Franklin behaves as the rest of his family would—he stops communicating, and turns away from a truth that makes him uncomfortable.

“He located the winning orange and peeled it on her behalf. ‘Hold out your hand,’ he instructed, and she did, and he laid the sphere in the dell of her palm. Gravely, he asked, ‘May I have some of your orange, please, madame?’ They shared the orange. It was a pleasant moment for the both of them, and they were happy to’ve met.”

Throughout her life, Frances’s relationships have mostly been transactional, and so when she admires the man in the park, her first thought is to give him money. When he offers her a gift, however, he upends the power dynamic of their transaction, making her briefly uncomfortable, and she refuses. When she does accept, the man focuses on the small ritual of choosing, peeling, and sharing the orange, and for maybe the first moment in the novel, Frances falls into the simple pleasure of sharing an orange, a stark contrast to the flavorless plum she ate alone in the Four Seasons in the beginning of the novel.

“You’re supposed to spend it all. That’s the object of the game.”

Frances is out with Joan, spending the last of her money to have a party. Although Joan is aware of Frances’s intention to die by suicide, she doesn’t seem to understand the significance of spending the last of her money as a part of the plan. This is as close as Frances ever comes to explaining the way she has, over the years, single-mindedly drained her wealth—even with this, she maintains the policy of not explaining.

“‘You get older and you don’t even want love. Not the love we believed in when we were young. Who has the energy for that? […] I was shocked because I suddenly understood that the heart takes care of itself. We allow ourselves contentment; our heart brings us ease in its good time.’ […] Frances flicked her cigarette away. ‘It hasn’t been my experience.’”

Joan is sharing how her view of love has changed over the years, and the fact that she was surprised to realize that, according to the definition she now subscribes to, she and Dom have a successful marriage. She recognizes that part of being content is allowing oneself to be content, and is offering the observation to Frances as an oblique piece of advice. Frances, characteristically, brushes Joan’s observation aside, placing alongside her own experience with Franklin, which was quite different.

“Frances surprised the group and herself by volunteering to wash the dishes. She had performed the chore perhaps six times in her life and so the movements were both familiar and faraway. It was such a simple action, yet it felt almost religious, a gesture acknowledging something larger, more enduring than oneself.”

Like eating the orange, this is another example of Frances stepping outside of her established persona and enjoying the simple sensory pleasures of life. In addition, the mention of religion, and the symbolism of water as rebirth give this scene a solemn quality and sense of finality, as if Frances is bringing something to a close. The scene also shows how disconnected Frances is from everyday mundanities and pleasures because of her bubble of wealth and entitlement—this moment suggests it has robbed her of a richer experience.

“Tom’s expression grew steely, and for the third time the men joined hands. Julius set them off and Tom let out a war cry as he brought Malcolm’s hand crashing down on the tabletop. Malcolm hadn’t tried at all; Tom, panting, asked, ‘Wait a minute. What do I win?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Malcolm. ‘Everything is exactly the same as before.’”

Although Tom doesn’t appear in person until these late chapters of the novel, he effectively acts as Malcolm’s foil—he is stereotypically all-American, handsome and athletic, and immediately doesn’t fit in in Joan’s apartment. Arm-wrestling is a typical choice for his character as a way to compete with Malcolm for Susan’s love. Malcolm responds characteristically, refusing to compete at all, thus frustrating Tom into leaving. He is able to win without even trying, a skill he has developed to protect himself from vulnerability—if he doesn’t try, he can’t fail.

“He drew back his sleeve to remove his watch, which Susan recognized as her father’s, and which she hadn’t known he still possessed. He put it on her wrist and began tightening the band for her.”

The first time Susan meets Malcolm, he is stealing her father’s watch during a dinner party. The fact that she goes out on a date with him afterward, and allows him to keep the watch, shows how charming Malcolm can be. But the return of Susan’s father’s watch at the end of the novel, and the revelation that he has kept it all this time, betrays the depth of Malcolm’s feelings for Susan. When he puts the watch on her wrist, it echoes the similar act of placing a ring on her finger, and for the first time, Malcolm has extended himself to make a promise to, and show his love for, Susan.

“The assistant headmistress and groundsman did not warm to Malcolm. Actually they resented him increasingly as the days passed by, and though Malcolm tried to win their favor, this aways went badly; in clearing the table he dropped a dish; in pouring out water he missed the groundsman’s mug. After such attempts, Malcolm disliked himself. When he realized the same made him feel worse than their silence and meanness did, he quit trying, and simply endured.”

Malcolm’s parents’ abandonment has left him feeling deeply unlikeable, a feeling that is reinforced by his classmates, and very strongly by the headmistress and groundsman. Malcolm learns a lesson during his time alone at the school that he will carry for the rest of his life: trying and failing feels worse than not trying. This philosophy underpins most of his decisions and actions throughout the novel, and only toward the end does Malcolm make the first moves, with Susan, of trying again.

“But he soon came to learn that books were not the solution in entirety. They were about life, but they were not life itself, and he closed them up and put them away. Summer break was two-thirds passed.”

Unlike in many other novels, where a child finds books and falls in lifelong love with them, using them as escape, Malcolm likes but then tires of books. Malcolm is already beginning to learn to live as an observer, watching others rather than living himself, but doesn’t find books an adequate substitute. His established position as observer means that books are too far removed from real experience—although he doesn’t necessarily engage with life, he wants to be as close to it as he can.

“I’m telling you it’s a waste of your own time and that by hating him you’re only empowering him and giving him more credit than he deserves. Your father is an emotional moron, but he isn’t evil.”

When Madeleine contacts Franklin through Small Frank, Malcolm is finally able to achieve closure with his father, saying all the things he wasn’t able to say before Franklin died. This is the most emotion and passion that Malcolm shows throughout the novel, and it bothers Frances to see the depth of his hate. However, she clarifies that letting go of his hatred is not for his father’s sake, but for his own. For her, Franklin’s new status as Small Frank has rendered him powerless, and she wishes the same for Malcolm—that he sees his father’s true stature, rather than as superhuman.

“Malcolm stepped off the curb and walked in the street to avoid them. He had always, since the first time he visited Paris, felt he was invisible there. It was a feeling he loved very much.”

The anonymity of Paris is something that Frances has always loved as well, and finds comfort in it, as Malcolm does. Both characters feel the pressure of their social class and wealth, but also the deep sense that they don’t want their true selves to be seen or exposed. In a different city, they are freed of social expectations, but also of the possibility of recognition, derision, or even rejection.