The Green Knight

by Iris Murdoch

  Mir began the conversation. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Well, I used to do various things, I was a social worker, a civil servant, now I do nothing.’

  ‘I congratulate you.’

  ‘I’m waiting to go into a religious order.’

  ‘I congratulate you even more.’

  ‘Only I don’t know whether they’ll accept me. I want to be a hermit, I want to wall myself up. But of course I’m not worthy. I just can’t live an ordinary life, I can’t pass the time. I can’t organise myself, I don’t have ordinary motives any more. I can’t even manage my body, when I go to bed I don’t know where to put my arms.’

  ‘That can be a problem.’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘You see, I’m not mad, I suffer from depression. It’s not like ordinary misery. It’s like dying of boredom. It’s black. But you must know all about this being an analyst. Really – it just occurs to me – I think that you could help me – ’

  ‘I have given up my work, as I said, I can’t do it any more. I just live from day to day, I value every day that I see the light of the sun.’

  ‘But you could help me, if you just talk to me. I sometimes see a priest, a monk, I write letters to him, but it’s not the same. I have a feeling about you.’

  ‘But you have friends – ’

  ‘Yes, but they can’t help me, they can’t understand, they haven’t got what you have.’

  ‘This is most gratifying, Mr James. I wonder if you would like something to eat, a sandwich for instance?’

  ‘No, no. I’m so glad just to be with you, it’s like being with a king. With you I can always tell the truth, I will have to tell it. Please do something for me, I want to bare my breast to God and let Him smite me, please enter my life, you can, like a great beating of wings, like an angel – oh send me a sign, send me a significant dream – let me be with you – I need help – ’

  ‘I am very touched, I am sorry, perhaps once I could do such things, perform such miracles, but now I cannot do them any more. Perhaps rather there is something that you can do for me. Tell me, how well do you know Lucas Graffe, let us call him the Professor.’

  ‘I know him well, indeed very well.’

  ‘And do you believe he is capable of intending to murder his brother?’

  Bellamy swallowed some more lager. He said after a pause. ‘Actually I think he is capable of anything.’

  ‘So if he is capable of anything he is capable of that.’

  Many things which Bellamy had seen and heard over many years seemed now to be rushing together. He said carefully, ‘No, that’s impossible – I mean – Lucas, the Professor if you like, is a very strange man. He is the bravest person I know – ’

  ‘You like him.’

  ‘I admire him. I love him. He lives absolutely outside ordinary conventions.’

  ‘Including ordinary morality.’

  ‘He is very truthful – ’

  ‘But prepared to deceive.’

  ‘I mean he’s honest, he sees the terrible things, he doesn’t try to cover them up or imagine them away – the evil of the world, the senselessness of it all, the rottenness of us ordinary people, our fantasy life, our selfishness – ’

  ‘You seem to want to see him as a saint.’

  ‘In a way I do – I mean a sort of counter-saint – I mean he’s above, beyond – ’

  ‘Beyond good and evil.’

  ‘You are a psychoanalyst, you must have met – ’

  ‘You know the circumstances of his childhood?’

  ‘Being adopted and – yes, of course.’

  ‘Do you not think it possible that such circumstances might lead a man to build up a murderous hatred for his brother?’

  ‘He loves his brother! Of course it is conceivable – ’

  ‘That he also hates him.’

  ‘No, I meant in the case of some other person this might be conceivable, but not in this case! He is a very unusual man.’

  ‘I think you believe what you said was impossible.’

  ‘Look,’ said Bellamy, who was beginning to feel a little estranged from himself by the lager, ‘it’s not like that! You are bringing in this dream of yours that Lucas tried to murder Clement! All this psychological stuff is simply irrelevant – he happens to love Clement but even if he hated him it would be irrelevant – Clement wasn’t there!’

  ‘Clement was there. Clement lied.’

  Bellamy was trying unsuccessfully to think clearly. Another glass of lager had appeared as if by magic. ‘How could he – he just wanted to stop you from telling us your dream! Anyway, what are you up to, why did you fix up that business this evening?’

  ‘I wanted to make the acquaintance of those ladies, whom I have observed from afar and for whom I feel esteem. I also wanted to persuade your very unusual friend Lucas to exhibit some of the truthfulness with which you credit him. I thought it possible that it was the sort of thing he might suddenly do. He may be an evil man and a murderer, but there might have been a streak of nobility, I thought he would not be willing to lie. However, he chose to leave the lying to his brother. I am disappointed in him. I am disappointed in the brother too, but that doesn’t matter, he is a silly weak man. The Professor may be, as you said, brave. We shall see.’

  ‘I don’t understand – ’

  ‘I was giving him a challenge, more precisely a chance. He refused it. His refusal leaves me with no alternative, it precipitates another less amusing phase of our relationship.’

  ‘What do you mean, what do you want?’

  ‘If I may emulate the ruthless frankness of the Professor, I want his death.’

  The Saturday after Peter Mir’s appearance before the esteemed ladies Moy had agreed to visit an art school to talk to a teacher there, a Miss Fox, who was a friend of Moy’s art teacher at school, Miss Fitzherbert. Miss Fitzherbert had fixed this visit for Moy, saying of course it was not an interview, just a matter of learning a few facts and picking up a few tips. Moy did not inform her sisters and her mother, but slipped quietly away. (This was a usual procedure.) She did not bring Anax with her, as the journey would involve a long bus ride, and she did not like to take him too far afield for fear of being somehow separated from him. She was constantly haunted by fears of losing him; and also worried that he did not get enough exercise. She was carrying with her a big portfolio containing paintings and drawings.

  Sefton and her mother, especially Sefton, were constantly impressing upon Moy that, whether or not she were going to be a great artist, she must acquire some sort of academic status, pass some serious exam or exams, before leaving school, as such titles might always come in useful later. They had exhorted her to work hard, it need only be for a short time after all, at ‘dull school subjects’, such as English, French, History and Maths. Moy, who hated these with the possible exception of English, had decided some time ago that she would not work at these horrid subjects, would not take any of the beastly exams, and would leave school as soon as possible. She occasionally tried to communicate this decision to her family, but they simply refused to listen. Now she was beginning to be more fully aware of the gamble she was making with her life. Suppose she never got into art school, suppose she was not a painter after all? Suppose the talents which others had persuaded her she possessed were to abandon her overnight, or turn out to have been unreal all the time? Suppose she had to take a typing course or live with a word processor? I would die, she thought, I would kill myself or make myself die of grief. Already there was one great deep grief in her life.

  The meeting with Miss Fox was not a success. Miss Fox was clearly very busy and had obviously only agreed to see Moy to please her friend or acquaintance Miss Fitzherbert. Their conversation took place in a mean little room, an office, into which other people constantly intruded. Miss Fox glanced perfunctorily at Moy’s offerings, made no comment on them, but said if Moy wanted to go to art school she should show up with so
mething really original, something striking and strange, not just tame copies from nature. A lot of girls, Miss Fox told her, thought they were artists because they could do a watercolour of a daffodil, and regarded art as a pleasant occupation to dabble with while waiting to get married. Such people had better not apply, Miss Fox said, the study and practice of art was difficult and arduous, and required absolute dedication, as well as of course considerable talent, which very few people possessed. She added that anyway it was extremely difficult to get into art schools as hundreds of applicants were chasing very few places. Moy, who felt the tears rising in her eyes, thanked Miss Fox and left hurriedly.

  She realised that she had been very stupid, she had deliberately chosen her more ‘accomplished’ and ‘traditional’ paintings to show to Miss Fox, figurative paintings of (yes) flowers and trees, the pagoda in Kew Gardens, Anax asleep. She ought instead to have brought her wilder more outrageous work, crazy unfinished sketches, dotty fetishes, one of the masks, even one of her stones! Well, there was one art school where she would not be admitted, Miss Fox would damn her from the start. Clutching her paintings, which kept sliding away from under her arm, she walked at random, unwilling to go straight home, and after a while found herself beside the river. There was a fuzzy grey mist over the Thames, the tide was out, the narrowed stream looked dull and sluggish, like thick grey oil oozing along. Moy came to some steps, then saw, looking down, that there were some stones upon the muddy beach at the foot of the steps. She went down, stepping carefully upon the wet surfaces. She propped up her handbag and her portfolio against the stone wall of the embankment, and began to examine the stones. They were disappointing, shapeless and mud-coloured. As Moy felt a personal obligation to any stone which she picked up, or even noticed, after guiltily discarding some with a murmur of apology, she felt obliged to pocket some of the senseless stones. She walked down over the sticky mud to the water’s edge and saluted the river by dipping her hand into it. Here the sound of traffic had become a woodland murmur, remote from the calm pace of the eternal Thames. Moy still felt tearful and tried to calm herself by standing very still and gazing at the fuzzy mist which was motionlessly pendent above the water.

  Then she became aware of a disturbance, the sound a little distance away of violent splashing. She moved, trying to see through the mist. Some horrid fight seemed to be going on in the water. Moy hated to see animals fighting each other, she rushed at feuding birds to stop them, and shouted at aggressive dogs and cats, once trying to separate two snarling dogs she was bitten by both. Something very improper now seemed to be taking place in the water involving a swan, and something else, some creature whom the swan was attacking, a dark squirming thing, perhaps a large rat, perhaps a little dog. He’s trying to drown it, Moy thought with horror. The little dark thing kept coming to the surface, to be violently thrust under again by the swan. The bird was leaning forward, its long neck doubled, its wings spread and beating, using its great distended breast as a weapon, battering down the little black creature, pressing it under water and frustrating its repeated attempts to rise. Meanwhile the swan was uttering a terrible fierce loud hissing noise.

  ‘Stop that!’ cried Moy. ‘Stop it at once! Leave him alone! Stop, you wicked bird!’ She took one of the senseless stones from her pocket and threw it toward the swan. It missed the bird, and Moy did not dare to throw another for fear of hitting the poor victim. She cried out again, ‘Oh stop, please stop!’ The swan continued to clap its wings, which made a loud cracking sound as they struck the water. It continued to hiss and to press its great white breast down upon the black struggling thing.

  Moy stepped into the water, waving her arms and shouting. She stumbled, trying to lift her feet from the mud, and blundered forward. The water splashed about her, its shocking coldness clasped her. She saw now, in a sudden glimpse of the scene, that the creature which the swan was trying to drown was not a dog, but a small black duck. In that instant the duck became free, it leapt away, spread its wings, and rose from the water uttering a strange cry of terror, and flew away into the mist. Then as Moy steadied herself, the swan was upon her, she saw the great wings, unfolded and in the surface water the big black webbed feet trailing like claws, as the swan fell upon her, pressing her down with its descending weight, as it had pressed down the little struggling duck. Moy lost her balance and slipped backward seeing the heavy curving breast above her, the snake-neck like a rope of greying fur and for an instant, as if in a dream, eyes glaring in a mad face. As she felt the terrible weight upon her she tried to free a hand from the rising water to hold it away, trying to move her clogged feet and attempting to scream. The next moment it was over, the swan passed from her, beating the water violently with a loud sound with its wings, rushing away over the surface of the river, then rising into the silence of the gathering mist.

  Moy made her way slowly back to the shore, her shoes full of mud, lifting her feet with difficulty. It had all happened in a minute, perhaps two minutes. No one had heard, no one had seen. She slipped on sudden stones, crawled out of the water on hands and knees, and stood shuddering, uttering little moans. Her coat was heavy with mud and water and she managed, fighting with it, to pull it off and shake it. Dropping the coat, she stood there helplessly, weakly, trying to wring the water out of her skirt. She found herself crying and knew that she was crying because the tears were warm upon her cheeks. Trembling with cold she gathered her wet hair and thrust it in a tangled jumble down the back of her dress. She was thinking, as the tears flowed, I do hope I didn’t hurt the swan. She picked up her coat, realised she must wear it, and managed to haul it on again. Hanging her head she made her way to the steps and began slowly to climb them. When she neared the top she remembered her portfolio and her handbag which she had left propped up against the wall, and went down again. Her chilled muddied hands dropped water in upon the pictures. She climbed up again and began to walk along the embankment. People passed her, staring at her and looking back after her. Moy thought, I can’t go on the bus like this, but it’s too far to walk, what am I to do, oh what am I to do! She went on crying, her wet coat heavy upon her.

  ‘Why Moy, whatever has happened to you?’

  ‘Darling, what’s happened? You’re so late, we couldn’t think where you were!’

  ‘Oh dear, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Moy, tottering in through the door at Clifton and sitting down at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Why, you’re soaking wet, and muddy, oh poor thing, and – ’

  ‘So sorry,’ said Moy. ‘I had a fight with a swan.’

  She had at last nerved herself to get on a bus, where her plight occasioned various comments, some sympathetic, some hostile. Of course she did not venture to sit down, but stood as near as possible to the exit, drooping her head and hunching her shoulders. She felt like a mad person.

  ‘Quick, run a hot bath,’ said Louise to Sefton, ‘Now come upstairs, you must get those clothes off, no, better take them off here – ’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m making such a mess everywhere – ’

  ‘Shut the front door, Aleph, don’t let the cold in. Why on earth were you fighting with a swan, I thought you liked swans.’

  ‘It was – it was – trying to – to kill a little thing – ’ said Moy, as Louise now hurried her up the stairs, and she began to cry again.

  Moy had put on a special dress to visit Miss Fox, who already seemed to belong to the remote past. Now emerged from the bath, dressed in warm trousers and a woollen sweater, she was sitting in the Aviary telling the others the story of her adventure.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Then it turned upon me, it sort of sat upon me – by the way,’ said Moy, interrupting her narrative, ‘where’s Anax, I want him to hear it too!’

  ‘He’s probably up in your room,’ said Sefton, ‘I’ll get him.’ She came down a moment later, ‘No, he isn’t there, he must be in the kitchen or the garden.’

  �
��He was in the kitchen,’ said Aleph, ‘Sef was just making his breakfast. Sorry we forgot it earlier!’

  Moy leapt up and ran out onto the landing calling, ‘Anax, Anax!’ then hurried downstairs with the others.

  ‘He’s not in the kitchen, he must be in the garden. Of course, because he would have run to Moy immediately when she came in – ’ They ran out calling. But there was no sign of Anax.

  ‘Perhaps he’s asleep on someone’s bed.’ They hunted through the house looking into every room and every corner. They stood at last and stared at each other appalled. Anax was gone.

  ‘He must have run out just when Moy arrived,’ said Aleph. ‘Remember we left the door open.’

  ‘He’ll try to find his way to Bellamy’s old flat,’ said Sefton.

  ‘No, no, he’ll just be hanging about quite near,’ said Louise.

  They went out into the road, and into the nearby roads, and called and called – then returned miserably to the house. ‘At any rate,’ said Louise, ‘he’s got his collar on.’

  Sefton uttered a cry of woe. ‘I took his collar off! He’d got it all dirty digging in the garden. I was going to wash it. Oh God!’