The Green Knight

by Iris Murdoch

  There was a light downstairs, perhaps in the hall, Harvey could not clearly remember the interior of the house. He stood opposite to it. Other dark thoughts came to him but he banished them. He concentrated, imagining his entry into the house, his standing in the drawing-room among the books, standing before Lucas who would be sitting at his desk, smiling a mild sardonic smile. Oh let it be, he said to himself, holding his hand to his beating heart. He sighed deeply. Last leaves were falling from the plane trees and one of these, as a signal, lightly touched his cheek. Then, as he moved, his foot leaving the kerb, something happened. A person, a woman, had appeared in front of Lucas’s door, and then instantly disappeared. It had taken place so quickly that Harvey could even wonder whether he had actually seen anything. Perhaps another leaf had simply floated past his eyes. The door must have opened and closed in a second, so that she seemed to have dissolved into the door. After a minute or two he crossed the road. He stood outside the house on the pavement trembling, then leaning his brow against the wet cold railings and moving it to and fro. He thought, I mustn’t go mad, I must be sure, I must know. She cannot be in there, it must be an illusion, why should it be her, my mother, when it might be anyone or no one. Oh why have I let those awful thoughts come back, why did I go to Tessa’s house and find that miserable woman, it was like a curse – is she still crying there, afraid to go home to some violent cruel man? Now, yes, yes, I must search London, I must find out where she is, she mustn’t be here, she must be somewhere else, I must go everywhere, to Clifton, to Cora, to the flat, oh God if only I could fly like Ariel – oh how glad I shall be when I find her not here, how happy I shall be then! He was holding the railings and trying to shake them, he seemed to be tied to them, his hands glued to them, should he not be racing away? But the door – the door couldn’t have opened and shut so fast, so it must have been an illusion. Oh let it be an illusion. Then it came to him, of course the woman had not entered by the door, she had passed along the front of the house beneath the front windows and turned at the side to the gate into the garden. Instantly, picking up his stick which had fallen to the ground, he mounted the steps toward the front door, then stepped down into the paved space behind the railings. He paused, putting his hand against the wall of the house, he leaned his shoulder against the wet wall, listening to his rapid breath, and opening his mouth in silent grief – then levering himself away he walked with long strides along the frontage and round the corner toward the gate. He tried the gate, it was open. He passed on and emerged into the garden and came out on the lawn.

  He walked backwards a little, looking at the house. He murmured ‘maman’. If only he could know. But what was he doing, standing in this garden, underneath this tree? It was fate indeed, it was all part of the curse, part of his being lame, it was to do with Tessa, he ought not to have gone to Tessa, she had despatched him to hell, through that little door to that doomed woman, and now here, to witness this phantom, this effigy, of his mother. He felt faint, it was as if a great terror were coming towards him through the darkness. Dropping his stick, he reached out to the trunk of the tree, opening his hand against it, if only he could remember what kind of tree it was. Was it a sycamore? Above him the wind was moving among the branches with a clattering sound. There was something so very odd, so eerie, so awfully secretive, about the way that woman, if she existed at all, had vanished. Brushing his wet eyelids with his other hand, he stared at the house. No light, yes, there was a light, curtained, very dim, in an upstairs window, from the room which opened onto the balcony and the steps down to the garden. He walked now, taking long strides over the grass, and gripped the cold wet iron of the staircase. Open-mouthed and panting he hauled himself up, then stood holding his hand over his heart, containing it. A very narrow shaft of light from within, betokening a slit in the curtains, was laid out near to his feet. He moved, thrusting his head forward, trying to thrust his eyes forward. He could see into the room. A chest of drawers, a stretch of bare wall, then a bed. Lucas was sitting on the bed, his head turned sideways. A patch of colour, a piece of material, was draped upon the bed, next to him, touching his knee. It was, it must be, part of a woman’s skirt. As Harvey leant over a little more, Lucas suddenly turned his head.

  Harvey fled, levering himself down the iron stairs in great leaps, then stumbling round the corner of the house. He fumbled with the gate, slithered out along the railings, climbed onto the front door steps, then leapt down them into the street where he continued to run. When he had reached the corner of the road he became aware of an acute pain in his foot. He also remembered, as he reached out seeking for it, that he had left his stick behind in Lucas’s garden.

  ‘Come,’ said Lucas, ‘there are disagreements which divide even the gods.’

  ‘They are always disagreeing,’ said Peter, ‘divine guidance is a matter of compromise. Have we not already come a long way?’

  They had indeed, it seemed, come a long way. Bellamy observed the scene, which he had himself in large part engineered, with amazement. They were in Lucas’s drawing-room. The room, full of dark shades, the dark Persian carpet, the dark reds and blues of the books from which Lucas always tore the paper covers, the dark brown walls, the big mahogany desk, the leather sofa, was now faintly illumined by the weak morning sunshine, which lighted up the English china dogs, the Italian casket, and the portrait of the Italian grandmother clutching her beads. Lucas was seated at his desk, with Clement sitting a little behind him on one side. Opposite to them sat Peter and Bellamy, Peter on the brown velvet chair with the coat of arms cushion, and Bellamy upon one of the leather-cushioned ladder-backs which he had brought forward from the wall. This set him at a slightly higher level than Peter who was visibly lounging, his long legs stretched out, in the softer chair. Bellamy shifted his own chair a little farther back. He thought, it’s like a law court, no, not quite, with Peter sitting like that. Anyway, who could be supposed to be trying whom? It’s just what Clement said, it’s a duel, and, yes, Clement is Lucas’s second and I am Peter’s second! When Peter and Bellamy had arrived punctually at nine-thirty on the doorstep, Clement had opened the door, turning away at once and going back to sit with Lucas with whom he had no doubt been conferring. Bellamy had hoped to have a word with Clement, at least an exchange of glances, but Clement had quickly, even pointedly, turned his back. Now, sitting behind Lucas like a secretary, his face was cold, and he did not look directly at the visitors.

  The impossible situation had been planned with surprising speed. Clement, after his last talk with Bellamy, had mentioned the idea of a ‘return to the scene of the crime’ to Lucas, who had been amused by it. Bellamy, whose only method of meeting Peter was hanging around The Castle, had asked his ‘principal’, who was now in a better temper, if he would meet Lucas to discuss it. Peter agreed. Lucas agreed. Clement however, when informing Bellamy of Lucas’s ‘invitation’, said grimly, ‘Your man comes at his own risk.’ Bellamy too had mixed feelings. He did not really believe in what Clement called the ‘re-run’, nor could he imagine what it could possibly be like. He simply trusted that another face-to-face meeting between the two adversaries might somehow cool the atmosphere and even bring forth some sort of understanding. He had urged Clement to beg Lucas to make some kind of concession, even the smallest conciliatory gesture might do some good.

  However, sitting stiffly upon his stiff chair and facing the pair behind the big desk, Clement grim and Lucas sardonic, it seemed to Bellamy that it had all been a great mistake. He thought, they hate each other, that’s what it comes to, in coming here each of them is hoping to find out how to destroy the other. If they agree to go back there it will end in catastrophe, the whole idea is crazy. Still, Clement had said that Lucas was ‘amused’, and Peter was apparently collected and relaxed. He looked, Bellamy thought, bigger, sturdier, his abundant curly hair a glowing brown, his rounded cheeks pink from the cold, his ample lips slightly pouted as if with satisfaction and presence, as he gazed about the room. He was neat, a
s usual, with a suit, complete with waistcoat, of soft dark grey tweed, and a dark green tie. Lucas was wearing, over shirt and trousers, a loose brown smock-like garment which usually appeared at this time in the winter. His dark straight oily hair, tucked back, framed his face, his thin sharp nose, his black slit eyes. His thin lips were parted slightly showing his long white teeth in what was perhaps a smile, while he stroked his eyebrows thoughtfully with one graceful hand. He looked like an official in some foreign place, some eastern place, a consulate maybe, or indeed like a judge or less formal dispenser of laws or fiats, presiding over a court-martial or people’s court. Bellamy and Clement, as subordinates, scribes or junior officers, were more simply attired, Bellamy in his usual black jacket and trousers, and white (not altogether clean) shirt, and Clement in jeans and a blue jersey from the top of which his shirt rather carelessly emerged. Bellamy tried in vain to catch his eye.

  ‘A long way?’ said Lucas in answer to Peter’s question. ‘I don’t think we have moved at all. What is it you want to talk about?’

  After a moment’s pause Peter went on, ‘You are a historian and will know of cases of men of power who, having hastily slain their enemy, or discreetly arranged his removal, have later blamed themselves for having forfeited the moral pleasure of forgiving him.’

  This seemed to amuse Lucas. ‘There are such cases but I think that what the men of power, as you call them, were sorry to have forfeited was nothing moral, but simply kudos, fame, renown. Anyway I cannot see this allegory as having any relevance to our arrangements. Perhaps it pleases you to indicate that you are able at any time to arrange my removal, which as far as I am concerned is not news. Please let us not mess around or play about, I am rather busy.’

  Peter, unhurried, leaning back in his chair and staring fixedly at Lucas, continued. ‘Perhaps it is indeed more gratifying, as well as more blessed, to forgive rather than to punish. It is a pleasure which God indulges in from time to time, we are told. As a Jew you will be familiar with the Psalms, the prayer of David – “Deliver me from blood guiltiness, oh God”.’

  ‘You evidently persist in thinking I am Jewish,’ said Lucas conversationally, ‘but so far as I know there is no evidence for this view.’

  ‘You are Jewish. You look Jewish. You think Jewish. I know you are Jewish. Heine said that being Greek is a young man’s game, one ages into becoming a Jew. I believe you are undergoing just this metamorphosis.’

  ‘You wish to establish a bond between us. I reject this bond. Let us not become sentimental. I gather that you expressed a wish to return to the place where, so unfortunately for both of us, we met.’

  ‘You say unfortunately,’ said Peter, who had been smiling during these exchanges, ‘that seems to me a hasty thoughtless remark. Three people met at that place. Unfortunately indeed for me. But for you and your brother I played the part of a saviour.’

  ‘This ground has been gone over, I think’, said Lucas.

  There was a silence, Peter staring at Lucas, Lucas leaning his head upon his hand and moving some paper upon his desk, Clement gazing at the picture of his grandmother. Bellamy, looking quickly at the door, thought, if this silence is allowed to go on Lucas will throw us all out. Not knowing what he was going to say he began, ‘I think – ’

  Peter interrupted him. ‘May I ask a question which has been troubling me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Exactly why did you want to kill your brother?’

  Lucas, without hesitation and looking mildly at Peter, said, ‘Because my mother preferred him to me.’

  ‘I see. I understand completely. I hope you will excuse my asking.’

  Bellamy said, ‘I think I should say here that – ’

  ‘I doubt if you understand completely,’ said Lucas to Peter. ‘You said you were a psychiatrist – or was it a psychoanalyst?’

  ‘The latter – ’

  Bellamy said, ‘I think I should say here that Clement has told me exactly what happened and I believe him.’

  There was a moment of almost embarrassed silence. Then Clement, suddenly staring at Peter, said in a cold voice, ‘I very much resent the way in which at that recent meeting you forced me to – ’

  ‘To tell lies?’

  ‘Who else have you told except for Bellamy?’ said Lucas to Clement, interested.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘I didn’t force you to do anything,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sorry I roughed you up a bit after the party. Never mind. Well, what does Lucas think about our idea of a re-enactment? It is several months, I think, a sort of anniversary.’

  ‘What is the point of this celebration?’

  ‘I am afraid that my poor Bellamy, who believes in angels, thinks that somehow a wand may be waved, lies will become truth, war will become peace, all will be seen to be harmless and innocent after all, and we shall embrace each other. I myself cannot hope for a miracle – ’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’m not sure – a sort of rite of purification – a sort of mystery play – a gamble, a gesture – the intervention of a god – well, why do I not say God – ’

  ‘I do not understand you,’ said Lucas, ‘you begin to sound as mad as your poor Bellamy.’

  ‘But you also said – ’ Bellamy began.

  ‘Yes, yes, there is another thing. Ever since that – that first event – I have had difficulties in remembering – well, that is natural, after such a blow to the head. But I feel increasingly sure that there is something, some great thing, which that blow has annihilated, as if a huge part of my personality has been blotted out. I feel that if I could only regain it, draw it back to me out of the dark, this could help me – ’

  ‘The forgotten thing may be something terrible,’ said Lucas, ‘that you are better without. However, I understand your wish and your idea, as a psychoanalyst I daresay you have seen such cases. You might be able to resume your work. You might even imagine it into a symbolic revenge without bloodshed, something rather aesthetic and picturesque.’

  ‘I could not be more serious.’

  ‘You mean you are offering me an olive branch?’

  ‘Yes, what else do you think I have been doing since I arrived here?’

  ‘I have little notion of what you are doing, I did not invite you.’

  ‘There is another thing which I would like to ask.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could I see it again?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The – the – weapon – the murder weapon – ’

  The pale sunlight had faded and the room was darker, Lucas switched on the lamp. Then he drew the wooden club out of a drawer and put it on the desk where it rolled slightly, then lay, its smooth grainy surface shining, looking new. Lucas broke the silence that followed by observing to Clement, ‘Do you remember that game of “Dogs” we used to play in the cellar?’

  Peter said softly, ‘Another witness is now present. So, do you agree with what I am saying?’

  Lucas said, touching the club and rolling it to and fro, ‘I don’t know, you have said so many things. I am afraid you are a romantic and I am not.’

  Peter said, even more softly, ‘I must be satisfied.’

  Lucas, putting away the club, now looking at him and speaking in a patient tone, said, ‘I am afraid you are still suffering from a delusion. You used the word “murder”. There was no murder. I didn’t murder you. It was an accident, you were the victim of an accident.’

  ‘Your profound desire to murder him inspired you to murder me. You were mad with rage because your plan had been frustrated. Because of you I am only half alive. You have ruined my life.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But you are alive, you have recovered, you are better, you are well, I can see you are well, you even have a lively imagination. I have offered you money, you say you have plenty of money, that is good too, innumerable pleasures are at your disposal. I never intended to kill you, I had no motive to kill you, I did not kill you, you were there accidentally. I hit
you because you accosted me. How often must I say this? Please do not interrupt me, please concentrate, you said you had lost your power of concentration, but surely you can think enough to see that all your talk about restitution and revenge – and by restitution I think you mean revenge – can have no meaning, there is no place here for these concepts. I recognise no obligation to you, I have committed no crime against you, I see no reason why you should speak of forgiving me, the question simply does not arise. Do please look calmly at the matter, you can follow an argument if you try, and see the sheer rationality of what I am saying – and for heaven’s sake let your curious construction of sin and forgiveness and innocence and revenge and so on fall quietly to pieces. Why do you distress yourself so? Try to understand that you simply have the wrong picture. Since coming here you have spoken quietly, you have mentioned peace – did you not mention peace? At any rate an olive branch, and I agree with you that this is not a matter for shouting. I want to get on with my work and not be continually disturbed by you, and I am sure that when you have freed your mind of these fruitless obsessions you will find many attractive and valuable things to do with your life. Why torment yourself when you might be happy? You see, I wish you well. So let us part calmly and quietly and terminate this tedious discussion for good.’