by Iris Murdoch
‘But aren’t such people under a terrible strain, without any privacy, and all that compulsory homeless travelling – ?
‘And I could get out of London, London is terrible, full of dangers and punishments. Compulsory travelling, perhaps that’s what I need, like being a prisoner and walking to Siberia. One would become depersonalised and ego-less. Sorry, I’m talking nonsense. I just feel I’m losing my nerve, I ought to be imprisoned. I’ve been on a high wire long enough.’
‘You mean looked after. You feel Lucas’s absence.’
‘Oh damn it all. What are the girls singing now?’
‘ “Santa Lucia”.’
‘It sounds so sad.’
‘I forgot to say, they want you to teach them “Porta Romana”.’
‘I’ll teach them “Porta Romana”. I’ll teach them anything – how’s Aleph, is she – ’
‘Is she what?’
‘Oh happy, all right, upset about Harvey, anxious about her studies, going to stay with the Adwardens – ’
‘All that. You’ll see her before you go, you’ll see them all. Sefton will stand on her head in your honour.’
‘And Moy – ’
‘I wanted to talk to you about Moy – ’
‘I don’t lead her on!’
‘I know, my dear – it’s just that, as she’s growing older, she simply mustn’t settle down to imagining that she’s in love with you! I don’t want it to become a sort of problem, a situation. People could notice and make jokes – I think they do already.’
‘Am I then to be distant, detached, unkind? I can’t do it.’
‘Not unkind – just rational.’
‘Rational! Louise, you know I can’t be rational! All right, all right, I’ll try. I’ll watch my step!’
‘Won’t you eat something? You starve yourself.’
‘No, no, I must go. I’ve got to read a script. We’ll just look in on the girls.’
‘You go alone, they like that.’
The trouble with Clement was that he had been in love with Louise. He had fallen in love when he had first set eyes on her, when Teddy Anderson had introduced her as his fiancée. Clement’s instant thought had been it’s too late, oh if only I had met her first, before she met Teddy, it might have happened, it could have happened, she would have loved me, we are made for each other, and now she’s lost forever! Had he succeeded in concealing his feelings? Had he imagined that he saw in her eyes some special understanding, some kinship? Of course he did not dare to think that she too had thought ‘if only – ’ What he saw might have been her pity for him, her sympathy. Or perhaps just her kindness, the way in which, ever after as he watched her, she instinctively made all things better, speaking no evil, disarming hostility, turning ill away, making peace: her gentleness, which made her seem, sometimes, to some people, weak, insipid, dull. ‘She’s not exactly a strong drink!’ someone said. So secretly did she work in her courtesy.
They had met in an empty theatre. Clement had come early for a rehearsal and was standing contemplating the stage, observing what was wrong with the way it had been (not by him) arranged. He was expecting Teddy. Teddy arrived with a girl. Clement held her hand for a moment; knowing that after that moment the darkness would begin. Of course he had survived. He had loved the ladies of the theatre, and other ladies too, including more than one very much his senior. As for Louise, of course he never told his love, to her or to anyone. His evident merry life with various charmers discouraged any suspicion of a secret attachment. Louise was a jewel locked away; and after the first ‘if only’ period had passed and Clement had got used to ‘Mrs Anderson’, he felt that his love for her had not faded, but had suffered a sea change into something special and unique, causing a special and unique and much valued, pain. Later still he just settled down to thinking that, though he would always love her, he was not exactly in love any more. Then Teddy died. Teddy’s unexpected death caused a great deal of grief and disarray in the small group which had in one way or other been his ‘family’. He had also, it became evident, been a highly regarded friend of numerous colleagues and clients who thronged his funeral. Bellamy was deeply affected, so were Lucas and Clement. Clement mourned sincerely, but could not help having other thoughts as well. His instinct was to run straight to Louise and offer her every sort of help and support, in the course of which he would, in some natural manner, declare the love of which he now felt sure she must be well aware. The children loved him. He was a favourite visitor at the house. But somehow just this facility made him hesitate, as if his sudden presence or closeness might be unfair, unfair to her in her desperate and vulnerable state. He hesitated. Meanwhile Bellamy had moved in with spiritual, and Lucas with financial, first aid. Here was another ‘if only’ – if only he had acted quickly, spontaneously, throwing ‘tact’ and ‘good form’ to the winds. Just then she had needed him, and he had failed. This bitter reflection positively, for a time, hindered his strange friendship with Louise, he avoided her almost to the point of boorishness, almost deliberately seeming to have lost his interest and his affection. The pain of his ‘might have been’ led him instinctively to devalue his loss, make it not a loss but something inconceivable and nil. This stage passed however, and he returned to her, was welcomed, as he really knew he would be, and found himself playing a role in her life which was somehow special, unlike that played by Bellamy, or by Jeremy Adwarden who was generally known to have an old tendresse for Louise. Yet, as more time passed, her kindly acceptance of him and the innocent harmless ease of their friendship began to sadden him. He was becoming used to ‘things as they are’ – was he still in love? Surely this wasn’t being in love? He had occasional affairs with the ‘charmers’, now less often, recently not at all. He could not find anyone he wanted to marry. It seemed he simply did not want to marry. Gradually, Clement began to feel that his strange sadness with which he had lived so long was very faintly colouring his old friendship with Louise, as if there were now a tension between them, an awkwardness, a bond which vibrated with a significant melancholy. Clement connected this with the growing up of the girls, and of Harvey, whom Louise loved so much and regarded as her son. Of course Clement and Louise had, as the years went by, talked endlessly about the children. They still talked, but some topics were avoided. The problems were too evident, they sat together eyeing them in silence. The stage now belonged to the young people, there would be happenings. Yet nothing happened; and Clement felt as if a magic spell had paralysed them all – and in that paralysis he felt at times the realisation, between him and Louise, that really they were brother and sister.
Nothing happened; yet there were disturbing signs and portents. Some while ago Joan upset him with a joke about his being ‘too young for Louise and too old for Aleph’. Clement had become aware that he found Aleph attractive. Well, everybody found Aleph attractive. Louise, later, had said, in random conversation with Clement, that she thought Aleph needed an older man, but, and, she was afraid of her marrying someone unsuitable. Reflecting on this afterwards the crazy idea occurred to Clement that Louise, who was always insisting how young Clement was, wanted him to marry Aleph! But this was totally insane, the notion made him sick and giddy! Then he found himself pondering upon Louise’s question, which he had scarcely noticed at the time: ‘You do, then, fall in love?’ Was not that ‘then’ suggestive? But now he was dreaming, he was wildly imagining things. Nothing like that could be thought of seriously. Perhaps, in connection with him, nothing could be thought of seriously; he had played the ape and the jester too long, he was supposed and expected to play the fool, he was essentially a self-dramatising entertainer, who turns over twice in the air and fears that next time he will break his neck. He had spent too long up on the high wire. Now something else was increasingly troubling Clement: his relation with Joan. Of course, although he had sometimes flirted with her, he had no relation with Joan. The episode in the rue Vercingetorix was a matter of one drunken evening. But who would believe that if Joan a
sserted otherwise? He could not say that nothing had happened. A little shame-facedly he had asked Joan not to talk, and so far as he knew she had not talked. Hints that she might were uttered jokingly. Now, as he increasingly reflected, the note had become more sinister: she had a secret which gave her power over him. This surely was blackmail. Or was it just the same old nonsense, the nonsense within which he lived his clownish life? Anyway, did it really matter? Except that he would rather Louise didn’t know. He had once overheard Joan, talking to Louise, mention him with a droll air of ownership. Clement dreaded the idea of having to deal with an inflated rumour. There was a potential mess, a blot upon the unblemished, almost holy, nature of his friendship with Louise. Of course it was, was it not, really something trivial, minor. Louise had surely never worried about Clement’s affairs with the ladies of the theatre, people whom Louise did not know. Joan was too near home. Suppose Joan said he had proposed to her? In fact Clement had always been fond of Joan, he got on with Joan, when younger they had even had some vague feeling of being ‘scallywags’ together. He must now distance himself from her. There was such a sad meanness about it all. Anyway, as he was now reflecting, he had even darker troubles in his mind, problems quite unconnected with Joan and Louise, which would occupy him entirely as he walked home.
As he rose to go and held Louise’s hand and gazed at her he felt for a moment his old love for her taking possession of his whole being. They looked at each other. I feed upon this looking, thought Clement, but does she? I don’t know, and I cannot ask. I am terrified of saying something which would wound our whole precious relationship. We are well as we are. I love her, that’s all, that is my drama.
As he released her hand and picked up his coat from the bed there was a sudden loud noise from downstairs. Someone was banging upon the front door, hammering it violently with a fist or stick.
‘My God, what is that?’
‘Louise, you stay here, I’ll go – ’
‘No – ’
Clement began to run down the stairs. The noise continued. Doors flew open. Anax was barking in the room above. The light had been switched off on the stairs and Clement nearly fell. He passed Sefton and Aleph who had emerged from the Aviary and moved out onto the landing behind him, looking down into the hall. Someone turned on a light. Clement was conscious of Louise now touching his shoulder. Someone had bolted the door and he struggled with the bolts. Louise was saying, ‘Wait, wait, put the door on the chain!’ But Clement had already opened the door wide.
A figure with an umbrella was standing outside. It was Bellamy.
‘You dolt, what do you mean by knocking like that!’ He called to the girls above, ‘It’s Bellamy.’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t find the bell in the dark.’
‘What on earth is the matter?’
‘Lucas is back.’
Clement exclaimed.
Louise said, ‘Oh Bellamy, do come in, come in out of the rain.’
Bellamy said, ‘I can’t really, I – ,’ but stepped into the hall. Clement closed the door.
Louise said, ‘Is he all right?’
‘Yes, I think so, but – ’
‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Clement.
‘Well, you see I got a letter, someone forwarded it, I just found it now, I’ve got a taxi, I thought – ’
‘Do take your coat off and come upstairs and tell us – ’
‘Louise, I can’t, the taxi is waiting, I’m going to see him – ’
‘Going to see him?’ said Clement.
‘Yes, I was so staggered, I rang him up, I asked him if I could come and see him at once, he didn’t seem to fancy it but then he said “All right, come, it may be a good idea.” So I rang Clement’s number, then I got the taxi, and then I thought maybe Clement was here, and I wanted to be the first to tell him, and anyway why shouldn’t you come with me, Clement – Lucas must have been ringing you to say he’s back – why not come along with me now, we’ll both go, I feel a bit nervous – ’
‘But what did he say?’ said Louise.
‘Just that he was back, you know how he hates the telephone.’
‘You go with him,’ Louise said to Clement.
Clement said, ‘No, he won’t talk to two of us.’
Bellamy said, ‘Shall I tell him – ?’
‘Don’t say anything, I’ll communicate with him tomorrow.’ Clement turned away as if to go back up the stairs.
Louise checked him, tugging at his jacket. ‘Clement and I will wait here, you could telephone us when you leave Lucas, let us know how he is and what happened.’
‘I must go home,’ said Clement, ‘I’m just going to fetch my coat.’
Bellamy called after him, ‘I’d give you a lift home in my taxi, only I can’t keep Lucas waiting – ’
When Clement reached the landing Moy, who had darted up the stairs, gave him his coat.
Clement, coming down again, said, ‘Thanks, I’ve got my car. Off you go.’
A strange terrible wailing sound came from above, a high-pitched howl, then another, then another.
Louise said, ‘Oh heavens, it’s Anax, he heard your voice.’
Bellamy disappeared, the taxi door slammed.
Clement occupied the open doorway, the taxi had gone, the howling continued.
‘Clement dear, please stay, I’m so upset – ’
‘Sorry, I must go.’
‘It’s raining, is your car near?’
The sound above changed into desperate hysterical barking, combined with repeated thuds as the dog hurled himself against the door.
‘Wait, take an umbrella – ’
‘No, I’m OK. Goodnight.’
Clement set off walking, then running. Louise watched him from the door until he turned the corner. As she went slowly up the stairs the dreadful noise diminished, then ceased. There was another softer rhythmical keening, the sound of Moy sobbing.
2
JUSTICE
Bellamy’s hand had trembled as he paid the taxi driver, a lot of coins had fallen onto the floor of the taxi, others onto the wet pavement. Bellamy hurried to the door. He rang the bell.
Lucas’s house in Notting Hill was the house which had belonged to his parents and in which he and Clement had grown up. It was a detached house with an iron railing in front and three steps up to the door. There was a pleasant garden at the back with a cast-iron staircase running up to the first floor and vistas of many trees in other gardens. There was a capacious cellar (where the game of ‘Dogs’ had been played) and a large drawing-room with doors opening to the garden.
Lucas opened the door cautiously, a slit only. When he saw Bellamy he opened it a little more and went back through the unlighted corridor to the drawing-room. Bellamy followed, closing the door behind him. The drawing-room was also unlighted. Lucas switched on a green-shaded lamp upon the large desk which stood at the far end of the long room. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the glass doors which led to the garden. The room was quiet, all the windows in the house were double-glazed, Lucas hated noise. There was a very faint scarcely audible sound of rain.
Lucas had seated himself on the desk, thrusting aside a pile of books. Bellamy closed the drawing-room door behind him and advanced halfway down the room. They looked at each other.
Once Bellamy was installed in Lucas’s presence he felt calm, his heart beat less violently, he was able to feel a simple pleasure and relief at Lucas’s return. Bellamy in fact knew Lucas a good deal better than he allowed ‘the others’ to realise. This secretiveness was instinctive, perhaps an insurance against the possibility, constantly envisaged, of Lucas suddenly ‘taking against him’. He took off his mackintosh and dropped it with his umbrella behind him on the floor. As Lucas seemed intent on saying nothing he said, ‘Lucas, are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Lucas was dressed, over shirt and trousers, in a yellow silk dressing-gown. He had very dark narrow eyes, very dark straight hair framing his face, a n
arrow aquiline nose, a thin red-lipped mouth, and a smooth sallow complexion. He had dark thick eyebrows and long very white teeth. He was not hump-backed but often, because of his stooping attitudes, seemed to be. In fact he had grown slowly as a child and had a habit of crouching. He had small hands and feet. He was said by some to ‘look Chinese’.
He spoke slowly in a precise authoritative voice which, to those unused to it, could sound affected. He wore narrow rimless spectacles for reading.
‘But where have you been all this time?’
‘Why do you ask me in that tone?’
‘I’m sorry – it’s just that we’ve all been so worried – ’
‘Why?’
‘Well, in the circumstances, why not – we thought you might – we wondered whether – after all that – ’
‘I was in various places, in Italy, in America. I don’t usually tell people where I go.’
‘No, of course not. We were silly to worry! And you – now that you’re back – well – I suppose it’s business as usual!’
Lucas did not reply to this awkward jocularity.
‘Clement has been terribly worried about you. He’ll be glad to see you!’
‘I find all this “worrying” rather impertinent.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, we weren’t to know. I saw Clement this evening, I mean I went to tell him you were back. I went there in the taxi, I mean to Louise’s place, he was there, to tell him.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was very relieved.’
Lucas said nothing so Bellamy went on again. ‘Have you heard about Harvey?’
‘No.’
‘He fell, in Italy, he was walking across a bridge, I mean up on the parapet, and he fell, not over the edge of course, but he jumped down and broke his ankle, so he can’t go to Florence, you remember he was going to Florence.’
‘No.’
‘Nothing else has happened really, no births, deaths, or marriages. I told you I was going to retire from the world. That’s still on. You remember that.’
