The Black Prince

by Iris Murdoch

  The little street in Notting Hill where we had lived in our more recent previous existence had become a good deal lusher since those days. I had, of course, avoided it always. I saw now as I ran along the pavement that the houses had been glossily painted, blue, yellow, dusty pink, the doors had fancy knockers, the windows cast iron decorations, false shutters, window boxes. I had dismissed the taxi at the corner as I did not want Christian to see me before I saw her.

  The sudden recrudescence of the far past makes one dizzy even when there are no ugly features involved. There seemed to be no oxygen in the street. I ran, I ran. She opened the door.

  I think I would not have recognized her at once. She looked slimmer and taller. She had been a bunchy sensuous frilly woman. Now she looked more austere, certainly older, also smarter, wearing a simple dress of mousy light – brown tweed and a chain belt. Her hair, which used to be waved, was straight, thick, longish, faintly undulating, and dyed, I suppose, to a reddish brown. Her face was more bony, a little wrinkled, the faintest wizening effect as on an apple, not unpleasant. The long liquidy brown eyes had not aged or dimmed. She looked competent and distinguished, like the manager of an international cosmetic firm.

  The expression of her face as she opened the door is hard to describe. Mainly she was excited, almost to the point of idiotic laughter, but attempting to appear calm. I think she must have seen me first through the window. She did in fact laugh, in a suppressed burp of merriment as I came in, and exclaimed something, perhaps ‘Jesus!’ I could feel my own face twisted and flattened as if under a nylon stocking mask. We got into the sitting – room which was mercifully dark. It seemed to look very much as it had used to look. Huge emotions like gauze curtains made the place breathless, perhaps actually made it dark. One cannot at the time name these (hate? fear?), only later can one press them away and give them names. There was a moment of stillness. Then she moved towards me. I thought, rightly or wrongly, that she was going to touch me, and I moved back towards the window, behind an armchair. She laughed, in a sort of crazy wail like a bird. I saw her uncontrolled laughing face like a grotesque ancient mask. Now she looked old.

  She had turned her back on me and was fiddling in a cupboard.

  ‘Oh Jesus, I shall get the giggles. Have a drink, Bradley. Scotch? I guess we need something. I hope you’re going to be nice to me. What a horrid letter you wrote me.’

  ‘Letter?’

  ‘There was a letter addressed to me in your sitting – room. Arnold gave it to me. Here, take this and stop trembling.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘God, I’m trembling too. Thank heavens Arnold rang up and said you were coming. I might have fainted otherwise. Are we glad to see each other?’

  The voice was faintly steadily American. Now that I could see her more distinctly among the dark blurry browns and blues of the room I realized how handsome she had become. The old terrible nervy vitality had been shaped by a mature elegance into an air of authority. How had a woman without education managed to do that to herself in a little town in the Middle West of America?

  The room was almost the same. It represented and recalled a much earlier me, a younger and yet unformed taste: wickerwork, wool – embroidered cushions, blurry lithographs, hand – thrown pottery with purple glazes, hand – woven curtains of flecked mauve linen, straw matting on the floor. A calm pretty insipid place. I had created that room years and years and years ago. I had wept in it. I had screamed in it.

  ‘Relax, Brad. You’re just meeting an old friend, aren’t you? You were quite excited in your letter. Nothing to be excited about. How’s Priscilla?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Your ma still alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Unwind, man. I’d forgotten what a bean pole you are. Maybe you got thinner. Your hair’s thinner but it’s not grey is it, I can’t see. You always did look a bit like Don Quixote. You don’t look too bad. I thought you might be an old man all bald and shambling. How do I look? Jesus, what a time interval, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Drink, won’t you, it’ll loosen your tongue. Do you know something, I’m glad to see you! I looked forward to you on the ship. But I guess I’m glad to see everything just now, I get a buzz from the whole world just now, everything’s bright and beautiful. Do you know I did a course in Zen Buddhism? I guess I must be enlightened, everything’s so glorious! I thought poor old Evans would never get on with the departure scene, I prayed every day for that man to die, he was a sick man. Now I wake up every morning and remember it’s really true and I close my eyes again and I’m in heaven. Not a very holy attitude is it, but it’s nature, and at my age at least you can be sincere. Are you shocked, am I awful? Yes, I think I am glad to see you, I think it’s fun. God, I just want to laugh and laugh, isn’t that odd?’

  The coarse style was new, transatlantic in origin I assumed, though I had imagined her life there as very genteel. The way she used her body and eyes was not new, was however more conscious, as if taken up into the amused ironical persona of an older and more elegant woman. The older woman flirts with a self-controlled awareness which can make her assaults much more deadly than the blind rushes of the young. And here was a woman for whom to be conscious was to flirt. Her ‘attack’ now was hard to describe, it was so generalized throughout her being, but there was a steady emanation of pressure, generated by slight swaying movements, the angle of the head, the darting of the eyes, the trembling of the mouth. Expressions such as ‘ogling’ would be far too crude to suggest these lures. The effect was of watching an athlete or a dancer whose quality is evident even in what appears to be complete repose. There was invitation which was also mockery, even brilliant self – mockery, conveyed in her poses. When she was young there had been simpering, involuntary silliness, in her coquetry. This was quite gone. She had mastered her instrument. Perhaps it was all that Zen Buddhism.

  As I looked at her I felt that old fear of a misunderstanding which amounted to an invasion, a taking over of my thoughts. I tried to stare at her and to be cold, to find a controlled tone of voice which was hard and calm. I spoke.

  ‘I came to see you simply because I thought that you would annoy me until I did. I meant what I said in my letter. It was not “excited”, it was just a statement. I do not want and will not tolerate any renewal of our acquaintance. And now that you have satisfied your curiosity by looking at me and had your laugh will you please understand that I want to hear no more of you. I say this just in case you might conceive it to be “fun” to pester me. I would be grateful if you would keep away from me, and keep away from my friends too.’

  ‘Oh come on, Brad, you don’t own your friends. Are you jealous already?’

  The jibe brought back the past, her adroit determination to retain every advantage, to have every last word. I felt myself blushing with anger and distress. I must not enter into argument with this woman. I decided to repeat my statement quietly and then go. ‘Please leave me alone. I do not like you or want to see you. Why should I? It sickens me that you are back in London. Be kind enough to leave me absolutely alone from now on.’

  ‘I feel pretty sick too, do you know? I feel all kind of moved and touched. I thought about you out there, Brad. We did make a mess of things, didn’t we. We got so across each other, it spoilt the world in a way. I talked about you with my guru. I thought of writing to you – ’

  ‘Good – bye.’

  ‘Don’t go, Brad, please. There’s so much I want to talk to you about, not just about the old days but about life, you know. You’re my only friend in London, I’m so out of touch. You know I bought the upper flat here, now I own the whole house. Evans thought it was a good investment. Poor old Evans, God rest his soul, he was a real bit of all – American stodge, though he understood business all right. I amused myself getting educated, or I’d have died of boredom. Remember how we used to dream of buying the upper flat? I’m having the builders in next week. I thought you might help me to d
ecide some things. Don’t go, Bradley, tell me about yourself. How many books have you published?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Only three? Gosh, I thought you’d be a real author by now.’

  ‘I am a real author.’

  ‘We had a literary chap from England at our Women Writers’ Guild, I asked about you but he hadn’t heard of you. I did some writing myself, I wrote some short stories. You’re not still at the old Tax grind, are you?’

  ‘I’ve just retired.’

  ‘You aren’t sixty – five, are you, Brad? My memory’s packed up. How old are you?’

  ‘Fifty – eight. I retired in order to write.’

  ‘I just hate to think how old I am. You should have got out years ago. You’ve given your life to that old Tax office, haven’t you? You ought to have been a wanderer, a real Don Quixote, that would have given you subjects. Birds can’t sing in cages. Thank the Lord I’m out of mine. I feel so happy I’m quite crazed. I’ve never stopped laughing since old Evans died, poor old sod. Did you know he was a Christian Scientist? He shouted for a doctor when he got ill all the same, he got in a real panic. And they were organizing prayers for him and he hid the dope when they came round! There’s a lot in Christian Science actually, I think I’m a bit of a Christian Scientist myself. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Poor old Evans. There was a sort of kindness in him, a sort of gentleness, but he was so mortally dull he nearly killed me. At least you were never dull. Do you know that I’m a rich woman now, really quite rich, proper rich? Oh Bradley, to be able to tell you that, it’s good, it’s good! I’m going to have a new life, Bradley. I’m going to hear the trumpets blowing in my life.’

  ‘Good – bye.’

  ‘I’m going to be happy and to make other people happy. GO AWAY!’

  The last command was, I almost instantly grasped, addressed not to me but to someone behind me who was standing just outside the window, which gave directly on to the pavement. I half turned and saw Francis Marloe standing outside. He was leaning forward to peer in through the glass, his eyebrows raised and a bland submissive smile upon his face. When he could discern us he put his hands together in an attitude of prayer.

  Christian jerked her hand in a gesture of dismissal, and then distorted her face into a simulated snarl. Francis moved his hands apart gracefully, spreading the palms, and then leaned further forward and flattened his nose and cheeks against the glass.

  ‘Come upstairs. Quick.’

  I followed her up the narrow stairs and into the front bedroom. This room had changed. Upon a bright pink carpet everything was black and shiny and modern. Christian flung open the window. Something flew out and landed with a clatter in the road. Coming nearer I saw that it was a stripey sponge bag. Out of it tumbled an electric shaver and a toothbrush. Francis scrambled for them quickly, then stood, consciously pathetic, his little close eyes blinking upward, his small mouth still pursed in a humble smile.

  ‘And your milk chocolate. Look out. No, I won’t, I’ll give it to Brad. Brad, you still like milk chocolate, don’t you. See, I’m giving your milk chocolate to Bradley.’ She thrust the packet at me. I laid it on the bed. ‘I’m not being heartless, it’s just that he’s been at me the whole time since I got back, he imagines I’ll play mother and support him! God, he’s a real Welfare State layabout, like what the Americans think all the English are. Look at him now, what a clown! I gave him money, but he wants to move in and hang up his hat. He climbed in the kitchen window when I was out and I came back and found him in bed! Wow! Look who’s here now!’

  Another figure had appeared down below, Arnold Baffin. He was speaking to Francis.

  ‘Hey, Arnold!’ Arnold looked up and waved and moved towards the front door. She ran away down the stairs again with clacking heels and I heard the door open. Laughter.

  Francis was still standing in the gutter holding his electric razor and his toothbrush. He looked towards the door, then looked up at me. He spread his arms, then dropped them at his sides in a gesture of mock despair. I threw the packet of milk chocolate out of the window. I did not wait to see him pick it up. I went slowly down the stairs. Arnold and Christian were just inside the sitting – room door, both talking.

  I said to Arnold, ‘You left Priscilla.’

  ‘Bradley, I’m sorry,’ said Arnold. ‘Priscilla attacked me.’

  ‘Attacked you?’

  ‘I was telling her about you, Christian. Bradley, you never told her Christian was back, she was quite bothered. Anyway, I was telling her about you, you needn’t look like that, it was all most flattering, when she suddenly threw a sort of fit and jumped on me and locked her arms round my neck – ’

  Christian went into wild laughter.

  ‘Maybe I ought to have stuck it out somehow, but it was all—well, I won’t go into ungentlemanly details – I was just thinking it would be best for both of us if I cleared out when Rachel turned up. She didn’t know I was there, she was after you, Bradley. So I hopped it and left her holding the baby. You see, Priscilla wound her arms quite tightly round my neck and I couldn’t even sort of talk to her – Perhaps it was very ungallant — I’m terribly sorry, Bradley — What would you have done, I mean mutatis mutandis—’

  ‘You funny man, you,’ said Christian. ‘You’re quite excited! I don’t believe it was like that at all! And what were you saying about me, you don’t know anything about me! Does he, Brad? You know, Brad, this man makes me laugh.’

  ‘You make me laugh too!’ said Arnold.

  They both began to laugh. The hilarious excitement which Christian had been holding in check throughout our interview burst wildly forth. She laughed, wailing, gasping for breath, leaning back against the door with tears spilling from her eyes. Arnold laughed too, without control, hands hanging, head back, mouth gaping, eyes closed. They swayed. They roared.

  I went straight on past them out of the door and began to walk quickly down the street. Francis Marloe ran after me. ‘Brad, I say, could I talk to you a minute?’

  I ignored him and he fell away. As I reached the corner of the road he shouted after me, ‘Brad! Thanks for the chocolate!’

  The next thing was that I was in Bristol.

  Priscilla’s endless lament about her jewels had at last conquered my resistance. With many misgivings and some disgust about my mission I had agreed to go to Bristol, let myself into their house at a time when Roger would be at the bank, and collect the longed – for baubles. Priscilla had then made out a long list of things, including some quite large ornaments and many articles of clothing, which she wanted me to rescue for her. I had reduced the list considerably. I was not at all sure of the legal position. I presumed that a runaway wife could be said to own her own clothes. I had told Priscilla that the jewellery was ‘hers’, but even of this I was not certain. I was definitely not going to remove any larger household items. As it was, I had engaged to bring away, besides the jewellery and the mink stole, a number of other things, to wit: a coat and skirt, a cocktail dress, three cashmere jerseys, two blouses, two pairs of shoes, a bundle of underwear, a blue and white striped china urn, a marble statuette of some Greek goddess, two silver goblets, a small malachite box, a painted Florentine work box, an enamel picture of a lady picking apples, and a Wedgwood teapot.

  Priscilla had been much relieved when I had agreed to go and fetch these objects, to which she seemed to attach an almost magical significance. It was agreed that after their abstraction Roger should be formally asked to pack up and send the rest of her clothes. Priscilla did not imagine that he would impound these, once her jewels were saved. She kept saying that Roger might sell her ‘precious things’ out of spite, and on reflection I felt that this was indeed possible. I had hoped that my really, all things considered, very kind offer of a salvage operation would cheer Priscilla up. But once this source of anxiety was alleviated, she started up again an almost continuous rigmarole of remorse and misery, about the lost child, about
her age, about her personal appearance, about her husband’s unkindness, about her ruined useless life. Uncontrolled remorse, devoid of conscience or judgement, is very unattractive. I felt shame for my sister at this time and would gladly have kept her hidden away. However someone had to be with her and Rachel, who had heard a good deal of these repinings on the previous day, agreed, dutifully but without enthusiasm, to stay with Priscilla during my Bristol journey, provided I returned as early as possible on the same day.

  The telephone rang in the empty house. It was office hours, afternoon. I was looking at my well – shaven upper lip in the telephone box mirror, and thinking about Christian. What these thoughts were I will explain later. I could still hear that demonic laughter. A few minutes later, feeling nervous and unhappy and very like a burglar, I was thrusting the key into the lock and pressing gently upon the door. I had brought two large suitcases with me, which I put down in the hall. There was something unexpected which I had perceived as soon as I crossed the threshold, but I could not at once think what it was. Then I realized that it was a strong fresh smell of furniture polish.

  Priscilla had so much conveyed the desolation of the house. No one had made the beds for weeks. She had given up washing dishes. The char had left of course. Roger had taken a savage satisfaction in increasing the mess and blaming her for it. Roger broke things deliberately. Priscilla would not clear them up. Roger found a plate with mouldy food upon it. He smashed the plate upon the ground in front of Priscilla in the hall. There it lay, with the pieces of broken plate and the muck spread upon the carpet. Priscilla had passed by with vacant eyes. But the scene as I came through the door was so different that I thought for a moment that I must be in the wrong house. There was a quite conspicuous air of cleanliness and order. The white woodwork shone, the Wilton carpet glowed. There were even flowers, huge red and white peonies, in a big brass jug on the oak chest. The chest had been polished. The jug had been polished.