The Black Prince

by Iris Murdoch

  I awoke to a grey awful spotty early morning light which made the unfamiliar room present in a ghastly way. The furniture was humped shapelessly about me like sleeping animals. Everything seemed to be covered with soiled dust sheets. The slits in the clumsily drawn curtains revealed a dawn sky, pale and murky, without colour, the sun not yet risen.

  I experienced horror, then memory. I began to get up, felt painfully stiff, and smelt some vile odour, probably the odour of myself. I swung myself to the door, heaving a stiff leg, hanging on to the backs of chairs. I listened at the door of the bedroom. Silence. I very cautiously opened the door and put my head round it.

  It was hard to see in the room: the granular dawn light, with the texture of a bad newspaper picture, seemed to obscure rather than promote vision. The bed was in some sort of chaos. I thought I could discern Julian. Then I saw that there were only tossed sheets. The bed, the room, was empty.

  I called her name softly, ran into the other rooms. I even looked crazily into cupboards. She was not in the house. I went outside on to the porch and ran all round the house and then out on to the level of the stony courtyard, and down to the dunes, calling her name, shouting now, yelling as loudly as I could. J came back and hooted the horn of the car again and again, making a ghastly tocsin in the empty absolutely quiet twilit scene. But nothing answered. There was no doubt about it. She had gone.

  I went back into the house, turning on all the lights, a doom – stricken illumination in the gathering day and searched the place once again. On the dressing – table was a pile of five pound notes, the change from the money I had given her to buy clothes, which I had insisted she should keep in her handbag. The handbag, her new one, which she had bought in the ‘shopping spree’, had gone. All her new clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe. There was no letter, no communication for me, nothing. She had disappeared into the night with her handbag, in her blue willow pattern dress, without a coat, without a word, creeping out of the house while I slept.

  I ran out to the car, searching my trouser pockets for the keys, ran back, scrabbled through my jacket. Was it conceivable that Julian had deliberately taken the keys of the car to evade pursuit ? Eventually I found the keys lying on the table in the hall. Outside the still sunless sky had become a clear radiant hazy blue, hung with the huge light of the morning star. Of course I could not start the car. Then at last it started and I jerked it away, scraping the gate post and bumping as fast as I could along the track. Now the sun was rising.

  I got to the road and doubled back towards the railway station. At the little toy station the platforms were empty. A railway man walking along the tracks told me that no train had stopped there during the night hours. I drove on to the main road and along it in the direction of London. The sun was shining coldly and brightly and a few cars were already about. But the grassy verges of the road were empty. I turned back and drove the other way, through the village, past the church. I even stopped and went into the church. Of course it was hopeless. I drove back and ran into the cottage with a desperate feigned hope that she might have returned while I was away. The little place with its open door and its ransacked air and all its lights on stood obscenely void in the bright sunshine. Then I drove the car to the dunes, running its bonnet into a dewy wall of wispy wiry grass and sand. I ran about among the dunes and down on to the beach, shouting ‘Julian! Julian!’ The climbing sun shone on to a quiet sea which without even a ripple drew its level line along the gently shelving wall of many – coloured elliptical stones.

  ‘Wait, Brad, better let Roger go first.’

  Christian was holding my arm in a firm grip.

  With his face stiff and his false soldier’s tread Roger marched self – consciously out of his pew and back towards the door of the chapel. The brocaded curtains had closed upon Priscilla’s coffin, now bound for the furnace, and the unspeakable service was over.

  ‘What do we do now, go home?’

  ‘No, we should walk around a bit in the garden, I think it’s customary, at least it is in the USA. I’ll just say a word to those women.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. Friends of Priscilla’s. I think one of them’s her char. Kind of them to come, wasn’t it?’

  'Yes, very.’

  'You must talk to Roger.’

  'I have nothing to say to Roger.’

  We walked slowly down the aisle. Francis, fluttering by the doorway, stood aside to let the women pass, sent a ghastly smile in our direction, then followed them out.

  'Brad, who was that poetry by that the man read?’

  ‘Browning. Tennyson.’

  ‘It was lovely, wasn’t it? So suitable. It made me cry.’

  Roger had arranged the cremation and had devised a terrible set of poetry readings. There had been no religious service.

  We emerged into the garden. A light rain was falling from a brightish brownish sky. The good weather seemed to be over. I shook Christian’s hand off my arm and put up my umbrella.

  Roger, looking responsible and manly and bereaved in smart black, was thanking the poetry – reader and another crematorium official. The coffin – bearers had already gone. Christian was talking to the three women and they were affecting to admire the dripping azaleas. Francis, beside me, was trying to get in under my um brella and was repeating a story which he had already told me, with variations, several times. He was whimpering a little as he spoke. He had wept audibly during the service.

  ‘When I went up I didn’t intend to stay. I met him in the court in the afternoon and he said why not come up for tea. And Priscilla seemed OK and I said I’m going up, just to the upstairs flat to have tea and she seemed OK and she said she was going to have a bath. And then when I got upstairs we had a drink and God knows what was in it, I think it must have been drugged or something, honest Brad, I think it was drugged. Christ I’m used to alcohol but that stuff just knocked me for six, and then, oh God, he started making passes at me, I swear it wasn’t my idea, Brad, and I was sort of laughing and drunk too I suppose and he said would I stay the night and, oh God, I saw how damn late it was, and I said I’d just go down and see how Priscilla was, and I went down and she was asleep, I looked into her room and she was asleep, she seemed quite ordinary and peaceful and so I went back up again and I spent the night up there with him and we did some drinking and – oh God – and I didn’t wake up till quite late in the morning, I must have been drugged, it wasn’t ordinary drink at all, and Rigby had already gone off to work, it was sort of horrible, I felt an absolute heel, and I went down and Priscilla was still asleep, and I let her sleep, and then a bit later something funny struck me about her breathing and I tried to wake her and then I rang the hospital and it took ages for an ambulance and I went with her, and she was alive in the ambulance and I waited and then they said she must have taken the tablets ages ago on the afternoon before and it was too late, and oh Christ, Brad, I can’t live after this, I can’t live, I can’t live – ’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was my fault.’

  ‘Oh Brad, forgive me.’

  ‘Stop whining like a bloody woman. Go away, will you? It wasn’t your fault. It had to happen. It was better like that. You can’t save someone who wants death. It was better so.’

  ‘You told me to look after her, and I – ’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Where can I go to, oh where can I go to at all? Brad, don’t drive me away, I’ll go mad, I’ve got to be with you, otherwise I’ll go mad with misery, you’ve got to forgive me, you’ve got to help me, Brad, you’ve got to. I’m going back to the flat now and I’ll tidy it up and I’ll clean it all, I will, oh please let me stay with you now, I can be useful to you, you needn’t give me any money – ’

  'I don’t want you in the flat. Just clear off, will you.’

  'I’ll kill myself, I will.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  ‘You do forgive me, don’t you, Brad?’
r />   ‘Yes, of course. Just leave me alone. Please.’ I jerked the umbrella away, turning my shoulder against Francis, and made for the gate.

  Flip – flopping rainy steps caught up with me. Christian. ‘Brad, you must talk to Roger. He says would you wait for him. He has some business to talk with you. Oh Brad, don’t run off in that awful way. I’m coming with you, anyway, don’t run off. Do come back and talk to Roger, please.’

  'He should be content with having killed my sister without bothering me with his business.’

  ‘Well, wait a moment, wait, wait, look here he comes.’

  I waited under the arty lych – gate while Roger advanced under his umbrella. He even had a black macintosh.

  'Bradley. A sad business. I feel much to blame.’

  I looked at him, then turned away.

  ‘As Priscilla’s heir.’

  I paused.

  'Priscilla left a will of course in my favour. But naturally I feel that family things, I daresay there are some, photographs and so on, should come to you. And any little keepsake you might care to have, just let me know, or I’ll select something for you, shall I? Some little thing she used to keep on her dressing – table or such.’

  His umbrella touched mine and I took a pace back. I could see Christian’s live eager face just beyond, watching, with the avid curiosity of the unhurt. She had no umbrella and was wearing a dark green raincoat and a smart black macintosh hat with a wide brim, like a small sombrero. Francis had gone back to the azalea ladies.

  I said nothing to Roger, just looked at him.

  ‘The will is very simple, there should be no problem. I’ll let you see a copy of course. And perhaps you wouldn’t mind returning to me any things of Priscilla’s which you have, those jewels for instance, they could be sent by registered post. Or better still, perhaps I could call for them this afternoon at the flat, if you’re going to be in? Mrs Evandale has very kindly said I may call for the things Priscilla left at her house – ’

  I turned my back on him and walked away down the street.

  He called after me, ‘I’m very upset too, very – but what’s the use – ’

  Christian was walking beside me, having got in underneath the umbrella, taking my arm again. We passed a small yellow Austin which was parked at a meter. Inside at the wheel sat Marigold. She bowed to me as we passed, but I ignored her.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Christian.

  ‘Roger’s mistress.’

  A little later the Austin passed us by. Marigold was driving with one arm thrown round Roger’s back. Roger’s head lay on her shoulder. No doubt he really was very upset, very.

  ‘Brad, don’t walk so fast. Don’t you want me to help you? Don’t you want me to find out where Julian is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But do you know where she is?’

  ‘No. Could you take your hand off my arm, please?’

  ‘All right – but you must let me help you, you can’t just go off by yourself after all these horrors. Please come and stay at Notting Hill. I’ll look after you, I’d love to. Will you come?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  'But, Brad, what are you going to do about Julian ? You must do something. If I knew where she was I’d tell you, honest I would. Shall I get Francis to look for her? It would do him good to do something for you after this business. Shall I tell him to search?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But where is she, Brad, where can she be, where do you think she is? You don’t think she’s killed herself, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said. 'She’s with Arnold.’

  ‘Could be. I haven’t seen Arnold since – ’

  ‘He came and took her away in the night against her will. He’s got her cooped up somewhere, lecturing her. She’ll soon give him the slip and come back to me, like she did before. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘We – ell – ’ Christian peered up at me, peeking from under her black sombrero. 'How do you feel, Brad, generally in yourself? You know, you need looking after, you need – ’

  ‘Just leave me alone, will you. And keep Francis at Notting Hill. I don’t want to see him. And now if you’ll excuse me I’ll take this taxi. Good – bye.’

  It was perfectly simple of course, what had happened. I saw it all now. Arnold must have come back while I was asleep and either cajoled or forced Julian to get into the car with him. Perhaps he had asked her to sit in the car to talk to him. Then he had driven off quickly. She must have wanted to hurl herself from that car. But she had promised me not to. Besides, she wanted no doubt to convince her father. Now they were somewhere together, arguing, fighting. Perhaps he had locked her into a room somewhere. But she would soon escape and come back to me. I knew that she could not simply have left me like that without a word.

  I had been to Ealing of course. When I had driven back to London I went to my flat first in case there was a message, then on to Ealing. I parked the car opposite the house and went and rang the bell. No one came. I went and sat in the car and watched the house. Then after about an hour I started walking up and down on the opposite pavement. I could now see Rachel who was watching me from the upstairs landing window. After a bit more of this she opened the window and shouted 'She isn’t here!’ and closed the window again. I drove away and returned the car to the car hire firm and went back to my flat. I decided now to remain on duty at the flat since that was where Julian would come to when she escaped. I had only emerged to attend Priscilla’s funeral.

  When I got back there now I lay down on my bed. Francis let himself in with a key. He tried to talk to me, said he was making me lunch, but I ignored him. Later Roger called and I told Francis to give him the few things of Priscilla’s which were still with me. Roger went away. I did not see him. Towards evening Francis tiptoed in and put the bronze buffalo lady on the chimney piece in my bedroom beside A Friend’s Gift. I started to cry. I told Francis to leave the house, but an hour afterwards I could still hear him doing something in the kitchen.

  The world is perhaps ultimately to be defined as a place of suffering. Man is a suffering animal, subject to ceaseless anxiety and pain and fear, subject to the rule of what the Buddhists call dukha, the endless unsatisfied anguish of a being who passionately desires only illusory goods. However within this vale of misery there are many regions. We all suffer, but we suffer so appallingly differently. An enlightened one may, who knows, pity the fretful millionaire with as pure an energy as he pities the starving peasant. Possibly the lot of the millionaire is more genuinely pitiable, since he is deluded by the solace of false and fleeting pleasures, while there may be a compulsory wisdom contained in the destitution of the peasant. Such judgements however are reserved for the enlightened, and ordinary mortals who feigned to utter them would rightly be called frivolous. We properly think it a worse fate to starve in poverty than to yawn in the midst of luxury. If the suffering of the world were, as it could be imagined to be, less extreme, if boredom and simple worldly disappointments were our gravest trials, and if, which is harder to conceive, we grieved little at any bereavement and went to death as to sleep, our whole morality might be immensely, perhaps totally different. That this world is a place of horror must affect every serious artist and thinker, darkening his reflection, ruining his system, sometimes actually driving him mad. Any seriousness avoids this fact at its peril, and the great ones who have seemed to neglect it have only done so in appearance. (This is a tautology.) This is the planet where cancer reigns, where people regularly and automatically and almost without comment die like flies from floods and famine and disease, where people fight each other with hideous weapons to whose effects even nightmares cannot do justice, where men terrify and torture each other and spend whole lifetimes telling lies out of fear. This is where we live.

  Does this background forbid refinement in morals? How often, my dear friend, have we not talked of this. And shall the artist have no cakes and ale? Must he who makes happy be a liar, and can the spirit that
sees the truth also speak it ? What is, what can be, the range of the sufficiently serious heart? Must we be always drying these tears, or at least aware of them, or stand condemned? I have no answer to give here to these questions. Perhaps there is a very lengthy answer or perhaps none at all. The question itself will remain, as long as our planet remains (which may not in fact be long) to bedevil our wise men, indeed quite literally sometimes to make demons of them. Must not the response to such a problem be demonic? How God must laugh. (Himself a demon.)

  This preludes, dear friend, my apologia, offered to you not for the first time, concerning this love story. The pains of love? Pooh! And yet: the ecstasy of love, the glory of love. Plato lay with a beautiful boy and thought it no shame to see here the beginning of the path to the sun. Happy love undoes the self and makes the world visible. Unhappy love is, or can be, a revelation of pure suffering. Too often of course our reverses are clouded and embittered by jealousy, remorse, hatred, the mean and servile ‘if onlys’ of a peevish spirit. But there can be intuitions even here of a more sublime agony. And who can say that this is not in some way a fellow feeling with those quite otherwise afflicted? Zeus, they say, mocks lovers’ oaths, and we may covertly smile even while we sympathize with the love – lorn, especially if they are young. We believe they will recover. Perhaps they will, whatever recovery may be. But there are times of suffering which remain in our lives like black absolutes and are not blotted out. Fortunate are those for whom these black stars shed some sort of light.

  Of course I felt remorse. Love cannot really tolerate death. Experience of death destroys sexual desire. Love must disguise death or else perish at its hands. We cannot really love the dead. We love a fantasm that secretly consoles. What love sometimes mistakes for death is a kind of intense suffering, a pain that can be endured and absorbed. But the idea of a real ending, that cannot be envisaged. (The false god punishes, the true god slays.) Indeed, in the language of love the concept of an ending is devoid of sense. (So we must go beyond love or utterly change it.) Of course Priscilla’s death was, in relation to my love for Julian, a dreadful and completely fortuitous accident. It was indeed my sense of its utter irrelevance, its almost – not – having – happened – ness, which made me able to commit the sin of concealment and delay which so much shocked my beloved. And this evasion was a mistake which resulted in as it were crystallizing the death of my sister into something very much harder for that alien love to assimilate. I saw all this very clearly afterwards. I ought to have trusted the future, I ought to have set everything directly at risk, I ought to have run to Julian and taken her with me back to London straight into the middle of that graceless and irrelevant horror.