by Iris Murdoch
There followed the court case, the charge of ‘undue force’, the ‘unworthy suspicions’, Lucas’s brief fame for ‘having a go’ at an enemy of society, then the news that the ‘assailant’ had died without regaining consciousness, then silence. Lucas continued to be ‘disappeared’, thereby causing much anxiety to those well-wishers who regarded themselves as his ‘family’.
‘Why was it meant to happen?’
Lucas said coolly and without hesitation, ‘You know perfectly well why. Why did Cain kill Abel? Why did Romulus kill Remus? I have always wanted to kill you, ever since the moment when I learnt of your existence. Do not let us waste time on that.’
‘Yes, but wanting isn’t doing – it’s not my fault that I existed – I’m not your enemy, I’ve always done what you wanted, I mean I’ve always tried to please you – I like you, I love you, you’re my brother.’
Lucas said, ‘Of course you have an impulse to utter these empty words. Forces infinitely deeper and more ruthless and more real than your superficial blarney brought about that which was intended but did not happen. All right, it was necessary between us to mention it, now let us consign it to silence.’
‘How can we, I must understand, all right, there are “forces” though I don’t see why one should give way to them – but I don’t understand the whole thing, I mean the thing as a happening, I don’t know what happened, what did you do after I left, why did you stay there – Imean – ’
‘You are crude and naive. Can’t you think? The man was alive. I was responsible. I had to see that he got prompt medical attention.’
‘You could have just run out and told someone you’d found a man – ’
‘I tell you I was responsible – I had to look after him.’
‘All right – but you didn’t tell anyone, well, about me and – ’
‘Of course I didn’t. Why should I? That was my affair. I did not propose to suffer a double penalty!’
‘Double?’
‘Yes, having failed to kill you, being accused of the murder of someone else.’
‘You said you hit him with your umbrella – but you weren’t carrying an umbrella.’
‘No, but you were.’
‘I thought I’d left it – oh heavens – so you faked it, you pretended – you told me to take the bat away – ’
‘I knocked the umbrella against a tree and stained it with blood. Remember, you were not there.’
‘And – oh Luc, how awful – all right I understand – but what was he doing, why did you hit him?’
‘He was a witness. He interfered with me at one of the most important moments of my life, perhaps the most important moment. I think I hit him out of sheer exasperation. Naturally I didn’t mean to kill him, I just happened to have that thing in my hand. Thank you for bringing it back, by the way. Thank you for removing it, if it comes to that.’
Lucas was undoing the brown paper parcel which Clement had laid on his desk. Clement moved forward. What now lay revealed was a baseball bat: the very same bat which had played a major part in the game of ‘Dogs’, a considerably more ferocious game than was dreamt of by their mother, to whom Clement did not dare to show his bruises. Looking back, Clement saw the game as being, of course, simply an opportunity for Lucas to torture his younger brother. At the time however it had seemed like a game, and had at first the charms of secrecy. Lucas made the rules, under which he was officially batsman. On rare occasions when Clement held the bat a different set of rules prevailed. At one point Lucas decided to improve the bat by hollowing out a hole in the head and pouring in some molten lead, obtained by melting Clement’s toy soldiers. Soon after this, as Clement was at last nerving himself to refuse to play, Lucas decided to put an end to ‘Dogs’, possibly because serious damage to his brother might endanger the myth of their mutual affection which Lucas had his own prudential reasons for preserving. In fact, as Clement later saw it, and as is the case in many human situations where such ‘myths’ play a part, that which was feigned could not have been successfully so if it had not contained some truth. Something mutual was involved. Clement persisted in admiring and indeed loving his remarkable brother, and Lucas, perhaps because this was so, moved, as it were, into the space which Clement thus made for him. He enjoyed (and not only in childhood) bullying Clement and seemed to appreciate the intelligent nature of Clement’s response. So it seemed to Clement; who also told himself that their relationship was a mystery which he, at any rate, proposed to respect. Now, Clement and Lucas looked down in silence at the murder weapon. Then they looked at each other. Lucas sighed. Clement turned back toward the darker end of the room. He sat down on his chair against the books.
He said, ‘Yes, but what was he doing – was he trying to assault you, to steal your wallet as they said in court – or what?’
‘He was trying to prevent me from killing you. He succeeded.’
‘Oh – my God – are you sure?’
‘Yes. He rushed forward and tried to grasp my arm. I think he even said “No, no!” ’
‘So he wasn’t a mugger or a thief, he was – But wasn’t he said to be carrying an offensive weapon?’
'I think my defence lawyer invented that. All I said was that he seemed to be about to attack me. I said it was possible that he did not intend to do so. The press, the public, and my spotless reputation carried the whole thing along. I had no visible motive for killing him. The suggestion that I had used excessive force was soon disposed of. Some doctor suggested that I couldn’t have caused so much damage with an umbrella but that was not taken up.’
‘Did they ask you what you were doing in that odd place? Did you say you were looking for glow-worms?’
‘I decided to leave glow-worms out of it. I said I was answering a call of nature.’
‘Perhaps he was too, poor fellow – oh poor innocent fellow – and he didn’t regain consciousness to tell his story – who was he anyway?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You mean you didn’t want to know. We didn’t either. We didn’t follow the case – ’
‘I appreciate your delicacy. Yes. I didn’t want to know, I was present as little as possible and I didn’t read about it. I believe he was some sort of shopkeeper. I recall no mention of his family.’
‘Yes. You blotted it all out. Don’t you feel regret?’
‘Don’t talk foolishly. Of course I feel regret.’
‘Well, where does all this leave us?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Luc, something absolutely terrible has happened. You say you feel regret, I won’t ask whether you feel remorse. I’m thinking now about how it all affects us, us two, what has happened and will happen to us.’
‘Do you mean do I intend to try again? No. I think – this may sound odd – but one man can die for another – all that hatred had to go somewhere.’
‘And it has gone? So he died for me?’
‘Don’t romanticise it.’
‘And this means that you forgive me – ’
‘What horrible terminology. No I just mean I don’t want to kill you. I did want to and I had to try – it was a burden I had long carried, like a duty – which I feel relieved of now.’
‘I’m – I’m glad to hear it – but – ’
‘Do you want me to swear that I won’t kill you?’
Clement hesitated. (What was the right answer?) ‘Yes.’
‘You disappoint me.’
‘Oh.’ (Wrong answer.)
‘Never mind. I swear by my integrity as a historian that I will not kill you or again attempt to do so. Will that satisfy you?’
‘Thanks. But I was wanting to say – to hope – that we can now – without all that bitterness and horror and – be – well – friends – better friends – ’
‘What ideas you have! You mean reconciliation, mutual forgiveness, peace, a new understanding? No.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know. What does it matter? I intend to go away
soon to America and I shall probably stay there.’
‘Lucas, don’t be so cruel.’
‘Really! I think I’m letting you off lightly.’
‘You letting me off!’
‘You wanted to “talk it over” and we’ve done so. I could simply have refused to see you. You wouldn’t have liked that, would you?’
‘Well, I don’t like this either. I can’t help feeling that you owe me something. I feel that we might at least try to salvage something out of this unspeakably awful business – Imean something like I said, we might become closer, like in bearing it together.’
‘Some sort of mutual penitence perhaps.’
‘I don’t think I can bear it alone. I feel so terribly sorry for that man.’
‘So we should meet at intervals to chat about it?’
‘No, no – and of course I can bear it, I mean I won’t ever speak of this to any other person ever in my life, you know that I shall keep my mouth shut – ’
‘You will be wise to do so.’
‘But – oh let me speak now – I want us to be more connected – we have changed each other, I know I hurt you, I must have done, not just by existing but in other ways – I do so wish that out of this evil some good might come which we could make to come about together – this is what I meant that you owed me – ’
‘I owe you nothing. You’re still alive. You asked me to swear not to kill you in the future and I have sworn. I hope you believe me.’
‘Yes, yes. But you would have killed me.’
‘It didn’t happen. Who knows – I might have changed my mind. An angel might have stayed my hand. By the way, let me return this to you.’
Clement came forward. Lucas, still seated, handed him something across the desk.
‘What – ? Why, it’s my wallet! I lost it somewhere that night – ’
‘I removed it from your pocket in the car.’
‘Why on earth – oh I see – to make it look like a theft – oh Luc – ’
There was silence in the room. The rain, carried now by a gust of east wind, was tapping on the window. Clement put the wallet away. He felt his knees weaken as if he was about to kneel and then lie prostrate face downward. He was overcome by a sudden wave of intense misery, a blackness of soul.
‘But that man died – I caused his death – I mean you caused his death – I feel we should do something – ’
‘What can we do? Leave it alone. Clement, please just go away now. I don’t want to see you.’
‘You mean you don’t ever want to see me again?’
‘Nothing so dramatic. Our paths have been diverging for some time. Now they will diverge more. We have had our talk and have nothing more to say to each other. Go away.’
Clement moved away from the desk. The rain was stopping. For one moment only a random shaft of sunlight fell upon the garden. Green leaves, washed with rain, glistened out there. The rain was lighter. He was appalled to find himself feeling so guilty, so touched by evil. He wanted from Lucas some reassurance, some liberation, some absolution. But what for? Of course for being so unkind to Lucas when they were little children. He must have been unkind. Of course he had been unkind for existing, for arriving, an outsider, an intruder, a spoiler, a wrecker, in that world of pure undivided love in which Lucas had first emerged in consciousness. What had happened had made him feel this wound. He must make sense of it all. He couldn’t just drift away. Now everything had become tragically desperately important. Had he uttered the word ‘evil’? He could not remember.
At that moment the front doorbell rang twice. There was something peremptory in the quickly repeated ring. Lucas scowled and uttered a sound of disgust. ‘Who the hell’s that? It’s one of them. Tell whoever it is to go away.’
The bell rang again, this time a long ring.
Clement ran out of the room and along the dark corridor leading to the front door. He thought, yes it’ll be one of the family, perhaps Louise. The idea was unpleasant. He opened the door.
A man, just folding his green umbrella, was standing on the doorstep. He was a tall man wearing a trilby hat. Clement recognised him. He was the man he had twice seen near his house, seemingly waiting for something.
The man, peering at Clement, said with a slight accent which Clement could not identify. ‘Does Professor Graffe live here?’
‘Yes – ’
‘I would like to see him.’
Clement said at once, ‘I’m so sorry, he is busy and cannot see anyone.’
‘I think he will see me. I shall certainly be glad to see him.’
Clement, feeling a strong distrust of the man, said, ‘I’m very sorry, it is not convenient.’ He began to close the door, but there was an impediment. The man had stepped forward and put his large booted foot in the doorway. He said, ‘Excuse me, I must enter.’
Lucas’s voice at the end of the corridor could be heard saying, ‘Who is it?’ Before Clement could stop him the man had pushed past and was hurrying toward the open door ahead. He entered the drawing-room where Lucas was still sitting in the light of the lamp. Lucas leaned forward peering into the obscurity at the far end of the room. ‘Who – ?’ Then he said to Clement, ‘Put on the light, would you?’
Clement switched on the bright centre light. The man advanced to the centre of the room. He took off his hat.
At that moment Clement, still at the door, was staring at Lucas. An extraordinary expression had distorted his face. Lucas became not exactly pale, but yellower. His mouth opened, his lips drew back revealing his long teeth. After a moment he rose to his feet and said in a low but steady voice. ‘So you are not dead, after all.’
The man, who had now folded up his umbrella and laid it together with his trilby hat upon a chair, came further forward, he said in an almost apologetic tone, ‘Well, I was dead, you know, but they revived me.’ He turned to Clement. He said, ‘I think you were there too. Weren’t you the third man?’ He held out his hand. In a daze Clement nodded and moved forward. They shook hands.
My dear son,
Please excuse a brief reply to your long letter. You say your reading in critical historical books which are outside our faith gives you the impression that Christ is being ‘stripped’. You should not be appalled by this image, but should rather embrace it. Christ is indeed ‘stripped’, stripped for the cross, and it is for us to follow Him into that ultimate place of our faith. The blank space you speak of is God, is Christ. This could be a theme for prayer and meditation. I think you would indeed be wise to clarify your ideas, and put your more ambitious plans, if I may put it so, on ice. You ask if the ‘mystical Christ’ is ‘enough’. The mystical vision is the reward of a long ascetic pilgrimage and not to be compared with the emotional experiences to which you refer. The full reality of the acceptance of Christ is hard and plain, it is bread and water, the way is a way of brokenness. Your ‘yearning for holiness’ and ‘giving up the world’ are still, I fear, mere expressions of feeling, fancies which give you a ‘thrill’. You think of the dedicated life as a form of death, but you will be alive and crying. The false god punishes, the true God slays. Sins must not be kept as stimulants, one must attempt to kill the evil in oneself, not simply punish and torment it. (I indicate a form of masochism to which many well-intentioned people are addicted!) You do not tell me whether you are attending Mass and availing yourself of the sacrament of confession. Your letters to me are not a substitute. It is not clear to me how you are spending your time. You should certainly find some regular work in the service of others; keeping in mind the possibility that this may, in the end, prove to be your whole true way of serving Christ. Do not sit all day reading Eckhart! Later you may meditate upon what he means when he says seek God only in your own soul. Please perceive the love which prompts all these, as they may seem discouraging, words! Sorry this in haste, yours in Christo,
Fr Damien
P.S. The ‘descent into hell’ signifies the universal nature of Christ’s love and mercy.
My dear Father Damien,
Thank you for your enlightening and loving letter. I have been to Mass and will go to confession. I recall your advice of some time ago that it is often better to find a confessor at random, than to ask for a recommendation or (worse still perhaps!) go to a friend. The priest speaks not as an individual but as the voice of God. (Sorry, this is not well put.) I also note what you say about Eckhart. You spoke earlier of my troubles with Our Lady, and how I shouldn’t worry, and I don’t. I know that innumerable sinners, unable (in the words of Claudel) to endure the stern gaze of God, run to fall at the feet of His Mother. (Se blottir was the French term, so expressive! Thank you for introducing me to Claudel.) I have no such instinctive wish. I certainly understand an unwillingness to face that stern gaze! But is it not enough to run to the incarnate Son? (I still cannot really understand the Trinity.) I keep using that word ‘enough’ as if I grudged the complete giving up of myself – well of course I do – but must hope, etc. May I in this context ask a question which I have hesitated to frame hitherto? What about angels? Does not the Orthodox Church represent the Trinity as three angels? Must that not have a deep meaning? If one is thinking of ‘mediators’ other than Christ (and Our Lady) may not these beings also be invoked to aid our stumbling steps? You spoke earlier of pure and holy things which are lights and guides. Are not angels everywhere in Holy Writ acting effectively as such guides and inspirations? I once had a remarkable dream in which an angel stood at the foot of my bed. I’m not saying that angels are to be worshipped, the Angel at the end of Revelations positively forbids St John to worship him, but can’t they be thought of as it were as supportive elder brothers? (Does the Bible say somewhere that angels once consorted with the daughters of men? I hope that didn’t happen!) Of course one cannot help being influenced by our great European painters: angels at the Annunciation, at the birth of Christ, at His death, at His resurrection, at the Last Judgment, embracing sinners in that heavenly picture of Botticelli. I myself feel an especial affinity with St Michael, blessed Michael Archangel. (Perhaps when I say angels I mean archangels?) I know that he can be rather ferocious, but are not his military characteristics meant for us as a spiritual lesson? I must admit I also love and venerate those old Byzantine images of the beardless Christ holding a sword and looking so wonderfully like a young soldier! Is not the soldier an icon of our human pilgrimage? Soldiers are rightly admired. ‘Who would not sleep with the brave.’ Excuse these spontaneous thoughts, of course I am not thinking of any form of idolatry. I understand what you say about regular work and am investigating this. By the way, is it true that Eckhart’s excommunication was only revoked in 1980? I will, if I may, write to you again soon. I feel myself to be in the dark, yet moving, stumbling. I bow before you and send you my love, your infinitely grateful,
