by Iris Murdoch
The larger stones had remained upon the floor against the walls. She looked with particular contrition toward the conical stone, still covered with runic scrawls of yellow lichen, which she had removed from the wild hillside near Bellamy’s cottage. It had been embedded in a grassy dell, just showing its noble greenish golden head, and seeming to look toward the solitary rock, other denizen of the dell, the grey rock criss-crossed with little cracks, which in some other even older language must have had meaning too: hidden in the dell, the only stone, the only rock, rising up from the long grass. Moy had quickly seized the beautiful stone, pulling it up out of its hole in the earth, and putting it gleefully into her stone bag. Coming down the hill she had met Bellamy who took her heavy burden from her. It was only when he was putting the bag into the car that Moy was stricken by the sense of having committed a crime. She wanted passionately to take the stone back to where it belonged, with its friend, the two of them together upon that remote stoneless hillside. But would she be able to find her way? Now the conical stone with its yellow message was exhibited, dusty as in a museum, in a little rainless room, among other random captives. How unhappy it must be. And she thought of the grey rock far way, lonely in the night and the day, the sun and the storm. Tears came into her eyes.
She rose and went to sit upon the side of her bed. The wound with which she travelled vibrated within her. She thought, I shall never have what I desire. I shall become bitter and defeated and dim, and I shall never really paint, I am a freak, a crippled animal, something to be put down, put to sleep, put out of its misery. I am like the little maimed dragon of Carpaccio – except that the dragon was innocent. From now on my life will become defiled, it cannot be otherwise. How does evil begin in a life, how can it begin? Well, I shall soon know.
Sefton, lying on the floor in the Aviary, was not idly resting, she was reflecting. Where did the Romans come from? If Augustine had not discovered Plato would things have been different? What things would have been different? The Renaissance for instance? When she rose and descended the stairs she missed Clement’s departure and also failed to see Harvey, who had by now secreted himself in Aleph’s bedroom awaiting her return. As Sefton reached the foot of the stairs the second post arrived, depositing upon the floor a scatter of advertisements, a letter in Joan’s handwriting addressed to Louise, and another letter lying face downwards. Sefton piled the advertisements upon the hall stand, setting Louise’s letter apart. She turned over the other letter. It was addressed to herself. As she instantly recognised the writing she stood for several moments very still. Then breathing deeply she moved into her bedroom and closed the door. She sat down on the bed, opened the envelope, and read the letter through carefully. The letter ran as follows:My dear Sefton,
I wonder if you could come and see me on Thursday morning about ten? If you cannot, perhaps you would drop in a note to that effect by hand. Otherwise I shall expect you.
Yours,
Lucas
‘What did you dream about last night?’
‘A tiger.’
‘Burning bright?’
‘No. What did you dream about, Harvey?’
‘The tower of Siena cathedral.’
‘Tiens!’
‘Tiens nothing. It was made of marzipan. Then it turned into a picture by Mondrian.’
‘Marzipan, Mondrian. I envy you your aesthetic dreams.’
Aleph had at last arrived, finding Harvey waiting for her. They sat as usual facing each other, Harvey on the bed, Aleph on the chair.
‘You’re using your old stick, the hospital one. What’s happened to your smart one?’
‘This one is less smart but more useful. Are the Adwardens back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Rosemary and Nick and Rufus?’
‘Yes. And, yes, I’m going to Yorkshire with Rosemary. I shall sleep in that four-poster bed. Then we are going to tour the dales and cross the Scottish border. The others are staying in London.’
‘I wish they’d invite me. I think Nick and Rufus are against me.’
‘No one is against you.’
‘My mother is. She wants me to take a job to support us.’
‘Why don’t you run away to Italy, why don’t you just go?’
‘Would you come with me? All right, that’s a joke. Anyway I have to stay here with the doctors.’
‘But you’re studying, aren’t you, you’re working? I wouldn’t mind living in Emil’s flat.’
‘That’s another thing. Emil and Clive are coming back, I have to move. Sorry, I’m becoming a little misery and I know you hate little miseries. I feel so trapped. Eternel retour. I still don’t know what it means, but it’s what I feel. I saw an awful thing, a woman crying, I mean terribly crying.’
‘Anyone we know?’
‘No. Oh hell.’
‘This house is full of crying women.’
‘Surely Sefton never cries.’
‘She was crying last week over the death of Alexander.’
‘Aleph, don’t you cry. I don’t want you ever to cry, I want you to be happy eternally, I want you to be your own perfect self forever. I feel so terrible before you, so wrecked, so broken, so vile, I’ve never felt like this before, I’m not worthy, I’m under a black cloud, I’m a faithless knight, I ought to be punished, I ought to be sent away for seven years to be some awful person’s servant.’
‘You think I’d still be there after seven years? Come, now I’m joking!’
‘I love you, I want us to be together forever, I can’t bear the idea of being separated from you, you won’t be away long, will you, I want to talk and talk and talk to you, I want to look at you, you are so beautiful, you are the most beautiful creature in the world, I wish you weren’t going away, I want to say so much and to say it right – I shall say it later, only don’t leave me.’
‘You mean it’s as if we are in a fairy tale, and there’s something we can’t say, some word we can’t utter, some riddle we can’t answer – and if we did say it or answer it we would die, or be in paradise together.’
‘Yes, Aleph. Only I’m filthy and guilty and worthless, I’m under a spell, I’m under a curse.’
‘Harvey, you are asleep. You will awake.’
‘You will wake me, you will, won’t you – ’
‘But we have to be noble, both of us, don’t you think?’
‘You mean wonderful, like people in Henry James?’
‘No, noble, heroic, straight-backed, like people in Shakespeare.’
‘You mean good brave people in Shakespeare. Yes, we are both under a spell, we are paralysed because we have been so perfectly together all our lives. And so we are – unlucky – anyway I am – ’
‘Harvey, please don’t go on, unless you want to see another woman crying! You know all this is a sort of nonsense.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘All right, I know it isn’t. But do buck up, brace up, as Sefton would say, pull your socks up!’
‘I think we are really talking to each other, we are really being with each other, we are being each other. I shall always love you, Aleph, remember that. Let me hold your hand, this is a special moment after all, our special moment in time, as if the gods were near, as if we were really going to be released. Wait, Aleph darling, lovely one, let us just be quiet together, it’s like prayer, it’s like salvation.’
‘Yes, yes. But don’t be so tragic, dear Harvey. It’s lunch time. Louie is downstairs in the kitchen, and I heard Moy go down. Let’s just dry our eyes and go down together. You’ll stay to lunch, won’t you? Louie will be so pleased.’
‘Lunch? Aleph, don’t be daft!’
My dear Father,
I have abstained from writing to you for some time, according to your ordinance, and I hope that you will forgive this communication, which comes without your blessing. I need your advice, I need your prayers. I spoke to you in my last letter about an angelic personage who has entered my life, a man wronged and fighting righteously f
or justice. I have now become, reluctantly, involved in a fiercer and more dangerous phase of this struggle. I say reluctantly because our (mortal) foe is someone whom I also love. Can one say – I have met with anti-Christ and I love him? The situation is in fact almost infinitely complex, visible in all its aspects only to the eye of God. I have attempted in this, alas one must now call it, feud, to act as a mediator and peace-maker, but in vain. I fear extremely for my angel and for his adversary. May I not now visit you? There is little time left. Those here below must be forgiven. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Please excuse this thoroughly confused letter. I am in a deadly dilemma and do not know what I should do. At least – I think – nothing here is my fault. Yet how can one say that? Blessed is the peace-maker, for he shall be called the child of God. And he who tries and fails to be a peace-maker may ever after reproach himself for not having had the courage to prevent what he could not control. I cannot explain this in a letter. I beg you to reply to this and let me come at once to talk to you before these two men destroy each other. The sight of your calm holy face would I am sure endow me with the necessary wisdom and courage.
Your loving and faithful disciple,
Bellamy
P.S. You said pray at every moment. I have been unable to do that, but I have tried to pray often, sometimes using words which I have heard you use. But I have had a curious sensation as if my prayers were becoming fat. Can prayers become fat? It sounds idiotic, but I could explain the image. I am not, I hope, going mad. I tell myself that God accepts any prayers, even false ones, if you see what I mean.
My dear Bellamy,
Your letter has been forwarded to me from the monastery. As I was about to let you know, I have left the Order, and the priesthood, and the Church. I have, as the saying goes, lost my faith. I can no longer believe in the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob or indeed in any personal God or supernatural (I use this word advisedly) divinity, or in the divinity of Christ or in eternal life. I do not believe in what I once took to be my lifelong mission, the abnegation of the world and the saving of souls. I have no more authority and no more wisdom and I have for some time now felt myself to be a liar as I spoke to humble penitents who possessed a faith which I lacked. I am sorry to have to tell you this, destroying or damaging perhaps some structure in you which I seemed to be erecting and you seemed to desire. However, it would be foolish pride on my part to imagine that you will, after some brief dismay, feel that you have in truth lost anything of great value. You are a natural (to use that somewhat silly but here soberly apt term) seeker, and you will find out your own way. As I now have to do for myself. I give no address since I do not want you to (should it occur to you to do so) come and find me. Frankly, you would be unwelcome, and I would be, for your purposes, worthless. Please do not write to me. Any letters sent to the monastery will be, at my behest, destroyed there, so pray do not send any. Bellamy, I am sorry. I hope you will find goodness and happiness – I feel that you are a person to whom both might naturally belong. Be happy yourself and make others happy. You should stay with Christ, that presence need not fade, it can be an icon. But do not be miserable seeking for moral perfection. Remember Eckhart’s advice (for which he was deemed a heretic): do not seek for God outside your own soul. My more worldly advice to you is as follows. Leave your hovel in the East End, which by now even you must see to represent a preposterous falsehood. Do not seek solitude. Return to some small flat near to your friends, and get a job (not unlike the one you left) wherein you can be extremely busy every day relieving the needs and sorrows of others. And do, as a sign of sanity, go back to your dog!
Yours most sincerely,
Damien Butler
P.S. I have been, let me say this to you in all honest humility, impressed and moved, even edified, by your ardent, though in some ways illusory, faith, and your, as it happened, impossible, desire to give up the world. You thought that I could teach you – perhaps it is you who have taught me. In taking leave of you I wish that I may, sincerely and without presumption, utter the words of Virgil as he takes his final leave of Dante:Non aspettar mio dir più nè mio cenno:
libero, dritto e sano e tuo arbitrio,
e fallo fora non fare a suo senno:
per ch’io te sovra te corono e mitrio.
When he received this letter, which he read sitting in his tiny cold room on the edge of his bed, Bellamy of course began to write a rapid, passionate, incoherent reply. But after a while his pen moved more slowly. Then he sat quiet for some time. Then he tore up his letter. He read Father Damien’s letter through again and folded it up carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he sat for a long time upon the bed, leaning forward with his face in his hands.
‘So it’s fixed for Friday evening, ten p.m.’ said Clement to Bellamy on Wednesday evening in Clement’s flat.
‘Friday evening. It sounds so normal, like a lecture or a dinner party.’
‘Whatever it is like, it will resemble neither.’
‘It may end in a joke or a fiasco.’
‘You are optimistic, my dear Bellamy.’
‘No, I’m not. What are we doing, are we mad too, can’t we stop it? Even now we could sabotage the thing.’
‘The result would be fatal, they would go it alone, they’re excited, they’re keen! We have to be there.’
‘Just to watch?’
‘No, we’ll have to control it, don’t you see, give it some intelligible order, something to keep them going, a beginning, a middle and an end. There must be a termination – ’
‘Like theatre – ’
‘Yes, like theatre. It’s got to be aesthetic – ’
‘You think you can charm them, drug them – ’
‘Well, you think there’ll be angels, a reconciliation scene – ’
‘Peter keeps speaking of a metamorphosis. I don’t know what he means. Oh dear – ’
‘What’s the matter with you? Look I’ve drawn a map.’
‘Do we need a map?’
‘Yes! We can’t go blundering about on the way to the spot! Remember, it will be pitch dark – ’
‘What about the moon?’
‘Oh bugger the moon, it’ll be behind the clouds as usual, anyway we’ll be in under the trees. I just hope it doesn’t pour with rain, they’re predicting storms. Don’t make a noise, and remember to bring a torch. We must synchronise our watches.’
‘So you’ve already been there – ?’
‘By daylight. Someone had to! It looks – never mind – ’
‘I can’t imagine what we’ll be doing, standing together under the trees.’
‘Holding hands! No, we must keep on mentioning what it’s supposed to be for.’
‘Well, what is it for?’
‘Oh Bellamy! So that your man can remember something which he’s forgotten! I bet it’s about a woman.’
‘He said more than that, he said it would be a rite of purification, a sort of mystery play, a gesture, a divine intervention – ’
‘Yes, yes, anything which will keep Lucas amused – ’
‘You seem to think it’s playing about,’ said Bellamy, ‘like your juggling and standing on your head.’
‘All right. Let’s be realistic. Think what we have witnessed, you and I, in the way of pure hatred. Your man is quite capable of bringing a little revolver along and shooting Lucas’s kneecaps off. Or he could kill Lucas and involve us as accessories. Or – ’
‘How awful. Do you think we should search them first?’
‘Don’t be silly! Your man is as strong as an ape, I told you, he nearly killed me once.’
‘Clement, I wish you wouldn’t keep calling Peter “your man”. Why can’t you use his name – ’
‘All right, Mir, Peter, as you like. I’ll tell you something funny. Lucas wants me to bring the bat along, you know the – ’
‘Yes
!’
‘He says the scene wouldn’t be complete without it! I’m to carry it, I’m his squire!’
‘But he’s joking, he doesn’t mean it.’
‘When Lucas makes a joke he means it.’
‘He really is anti-Christ.’
‘Well, your Peter is demonic too, a demonic psychoanalyst. All right, all right, it’s all Lucas’s fault. They are a couple of mad magicians. It may come to that in the end, a test of magic. Or call them archangels if you like, that’s more your terminology. A battle between two archangels, we must just see to it that they don’t destroy us.’
‘Clement, I don’t even know where the place is.’
