The Nice and the Good

by Iris Murdoch

  Very carefully Jessica folded back the coverlet of the bed and drew down the bed clothes. She put her face close to the pillow sniffing attentively. She had taken care to wear no perfume herself that day. Her pale streaky hair fell forward on to the pillow. How unfortunate that she suffered from hay fever. She interrogated her sense of smell. There was a faint cosmetic odour but it might have been shaving cream or even disinfectant. Inconclusive.

  Leaving the bed she moved to the wastepaper basket. It contained a screw of Kleenex, a toothpaste carton, an empty cigarette packet, half a comb and a good deal of human hair. Jessica picked out the ball of hair and began straightening it out and sniffing it. It was all dark brown and looked like Ducane’s hair. After a moment’s hesitation she stuffed the hair into her pocket. She opened the wardrobe. The neat line of Ducane’s sombre suitings confronted her in the darkness like so many shrunken male presences. The wardrobe smelt of wood and man. It was like a little enchanted house or the ark of some unfamiliar faith. Jessica stood in awe before it. Then, frowning with determination and courage, she began quickly to go through the pockets of the suits. Ducane’s pockets were full of entities, papers of all sorts, parking tickets, cloakroom tickets, more hair, coins, several combs and numerous sea-rounded pebbles. There were two letters, but one was from the telephone company and the other from a plumber.

  Jessica left the wardrobe and transferred her attention to the chest of drawers. Here, although there was much to make her gasp and sigh—neckties remembered from happier days, cuff links which she herself had given him—there was nothing at all in the way of ‘evidence’. There were no contraceptives. There was nothing feminine. Jessica, now in a flurried rush, slid into the bathroom. There was an indeterminate smell of bath essence. A black silk dressing gown covered with red asterisks hanging behind the door had masculine handkerchiefs in its pockets and smelt of tobacco. The bathroom cupboard revealed no perfumes, no face creams. The bathroom wastepaper basket contained a detective novel.

  Jessica ran back into the bedroom. There must be something to find, she thought, and I must find it. Certainty was so much better than doubt, and with certainty would come power, the power to hurt and astonish, the power to create again, however perversely, a bond of living emotion. Jessica began to look into corners, to search the floor. Some tiny thing, a bead, a button, a hairpin, must be hiding somewhere in the carpet. She lifted the skirts of the bed-cover and crawled underneath the bed. There as she lay full length, feverishly combing the carpet with her fingers, she became aware that the room had darkened. Then she saw two male feet and two lengths of trousered leg which had come close up beside the bed. Jessica crawled out.

  “You know, what you told me just now can’t be quite true.” The speaker who uttered these words rather apologetically was the small white-haired man who had let her in.

  Jessica was so relieved that it was not Ducane that she sat down on the bed for a moment and just stared. Then she said, “I was just checking the power points.”

  “To begin with,” the man went on, “I have been looking them up in the telephone book and there is no such firm as Payne and Stevens, and secondly Mr Ducane has just lately had new curtains fitted in this room. And thirdly why have you taken the bed to pieces. That will do to begin with.” The small man took a chair, placed it in front of the closed door, and sat down on it expectantly.

  Jessica looked at Ducane’s bed, with the bedclothes pulled down and the pillows disarranged. She looked at the chest of drawers, with every drawer open and ties and shirts hanging over the edge. Whatever was she to say? Jessica was not afraid of being sent to prison, she was afraid of being trapped by Ducane, of being kept there by force until he returned. She thought, any moment now I shall burst into tears.

  “You see,” the small man went on in a gentle slightly foreign voice, “I can’t just let it go, can I? I mean, you might be a burglar, mightn’t you? And I have to defend my friend’s belongings, with which I must say you seem to have been making rather free.”

  Jessica found her voice. “You’re not the—butler, chauffeur?”

  “No. It’s the butler chauffeur’s afternoon off. I’m someone else. But that doesn’t matter. I’m still waiting for you to explain yourself, my dear.”

  “I’m not a burglar,” said Jessica in a small voice.

  “Well, no, I didn’t really think you were. I reflected on you a little bit downstairs, after I’d looked up Payne and Stevens, and I said to myself that young lady is no burglar, However you must be something, you know, and I’m still waiting to hear what it is.”

  Jessica sat hunched on the bed. She felt frightened, guilty and wretched. Suppose indeed the little man were to keep her here until Ducane came back, suppose he were to lock her in? Why did loving so much lead to nothing now but misery and terror? Tears filled her eyes. She thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out the ball of Ducane’s hair which fell on the floor.

  “Oh come come come come come.” He came and sat beside her on the bed and handed her a big clean handkerchief in which she hid her face. “I’m not a monster, you know. I don’t want to frighten you. I won’t hurt you. But just imagine yourself being me! I must ask you some questions. And naturally I’m curious too. I simply can’t think what you can be up to. It is all a bit odd, isn’t it? There, there don’t cry. Just talk to me a little bit, will you?”

  Jessica stopped crying and rubbed her face over. She stared into the male darkness of the wardrobe. She felt full of misery and violence. The unexpected, that at least was something. She would impale herself upon it. She said in a hard voice, “You ask me what I am. I am a jealous woman.”

  Her companion whistled softly, a long melodious whistle. Then he said, “Wow!”

  “Mr Ducane and I used to be together,” said Jessica, “but then he dropped me. And he says he hasn’t got anyone else. But I’m sure that isn’t true. I saw a woman coming into the house one day. I just felt I had to know for sure. So I got in, as you saw, and I’ve been searching the room to see if any woman has been here.”

  “Found anything?” he asked in an interested tone.

  “No. But I’m sure—”

  “I don’t think John would tell a lie, even about that.”

  Jessica turned to face the small brown man. He was regarding her now with a kind of humorous glee. “Please will you tell me,” said Jessica, “do you know, has he got a mistress? Well, why should you tell me. This is all fantastic.”

  “But I adore what’s fantastic. No, I’m sure he hasn’t got a mistress. Is that enough for you? Will you go away happy?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing’s enough. Nothing.”

  “The demon jealousy. Yes. I know about it too. Tell me your name, my child, your first name only. We seem to be almost acquainted.”

  “Jessica.”

  “Good. My name’s Willy. Now listen, Jessica, will you forgive me if I ask you some more questions and will you give me truthful answers?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you John’s mistress?”

  “About a year.”

  “And how long since he dropped you?”

  “About two years.”

  “Have you seen much of him in the two years?”

  “Yes. We’ve been sort of friends.”

  “You’re still in love, and he’s not?”

  “Yes. And he says now he wants us not to meet any more. Because he wants me to be free. But I don’t want to be free.”

  “I can understand that. But jealousy is a dreadful thing, Jessica. It is the most natural to us of the really wicked passions and it goes deep and envenoms the soul. It must be resisted with every honest cunning and with the deliberate thinking of generous thoughts, however abstract and empty these may seem in comparison with that wicked strength. Think about the virtue that you need and call it generosity, magnanimity, charity. You are young, Jessica, and you are very delightful—may I just take your hand, so?—and the world is not spoilt for you yet. Th
ere is no merit, Jessica, in a faithfulness which is poison to you and captivity to him. You have nothing to gain here except by losing. You wish to act out your love, to give it body, but there is only one act left to you that is truly loving and that is to let him go, and to let him go gently and without resentment. Put all your energy into that and you will win from the world of the spirit a grace which you cannot now even dream of. For there is grace, Jessica, there are principalities and powers, there is unknown good which flies magnetically toward the good we know. And suppose that you had found what you were looking for, my dear child? Would you not have been led on from jealousy through deceit into cruelty? Human frailty forms a system, Jessica, and faults in the past have their endlessly spreading network of results. We are not good people, Jessica, and we shall always be involved in that great network, you and I. All we can do is constantly to notice when we begin to act badly, to check ourselves, to go back, to coax our weakness and inspire our strength, to call upon the names of virtues of which we know perhaps only the names. We are not good people, and the best we can hope for is to be gentle, to forgive each other and to forgive the past, to be forgiven ourselves and to accept this forgiveness, and to return again to the beautiful unexpected strangeness of the world. Isn’t it, Jessica, my child?”

  After a long pause Jessica said, “Who are you?”

  “My dear,” he murmured. “You learn fast. Forgive me.”

  “Good heavens,” said Jessica.

  Willy had kissed her.

  They were half facing each other now, with their knees braced together. Willy was holding her firmly by the wrist, while his other hand had strayed round her neck and was playing with her hair. Jessica had gripped the lapel of his jacket. They stared hard at each other.

  “You are very beautiful, Jessica, and you remind me—you remind me of what I have seen in dreams, embraced in dreams. Forgive me for touching you. Really wanting to touch and to hold somebody, this is so important, isn’t it? This is how we poor clay objects communicate, by looking thus, by touching thus. There should be few that you touch, and those the dearest ones.”

  “Please tell me who you are,” she said. “You are so strange. What is your second name?”

  “No, no. Let us just be Willy and Jessica. We shall not meet again.”

  “You can’t say that when you’ve just kissed me. You can’t kiss me and vanish. I shall ask John—”

  “If you ask John about me I shall tell him that you searched his room.”

  “Oh! And you were saying that we should be gentle!’

  “I am being gentle, my child. I am a murmuring voice a little bird on a tree, the voice of your conscience perhaps. And if there is anything else it is just a little nameless imp, or an imp called Willy maybe, who is quite momentary and has no real self at all. If I do you any little hurt may it simply make you toss your head and return again to the beautiful strange wide unpredictable world.”

  “But I must see more of you—you must help me—you could help me.”

  “Anybody could help you, Jessica, if you wanted to be helped. For now it is just you and me upon an island, a dream island of the unexpected, to be remembered like a dream, all atmosphere and feeling and nothing in detail. Oh, but you are beautiful. May I kiss you again?”

  Jessica slid her arms strongly round him and closed her eyes. She was roused by a sound which was Willy kicking off his shoes. She kicked off hers. With lips still joined they keeled over slowly into the unmade bed.

  Some time later as they lay heart to heart Jessica said softly, not anxiously, but curiously, “What are we doing, Willy, what is this?”

  “This is sacrilege, my Jessica. A very important human activity.”

  Twenty-four

  LIKE all true Earls Courters, Ducane despised Chelsea. The bounder would live in a place like this, he said to himself, as he turned into Smith Street and began to pass along the line of smartly painted hall doors.

  He was feeling far from jocular however. He had thought of Biranne as a man in a trap. But could the trap be sprung? Biranne was a strong man and not a fool. However much Ducane attempted to surprise him or even to bluff him he was unlikely to break down and confess or by any inadvertence to give himself away. There was nothing which Ducane knew for which some innocent explanation could not be garbled up. And if, with a cold eye, Biranne produced and stuck to these explanations what could Ducane do but apologise and retire, and if he apologised and retired what on earth could he do next? When Ducane reflected upon how little, in fact, he did know he was amazed at the strength of his certainty that Biranne was guilty, at least of something. Could this not be utterly mistaken? Tonight was a gamble, he told himself. But perhaps it was time for a gamble, since more prudent methods had produced mere intuitions, ranging from suspicion of murder to conjecture of total innocence.

  It was now nearly nine o’clock in the evening, and the dense dusty air, heavy with its heat, hung over London like a half-deflated balloon, stuffy and sagging. The yellow sunlight was tired and the shadows were without refreshment. Only at the far end of the street could be seen the blurred dark green of trees which hinted at the river. Ducane, too agitated to wait at his own house, had come from Earls Court on foot. He had taken an early supper with Willy, who appeared to be in a curious state of euphoria. After supper Willy had switched on the wireless and Ducane had left him dancing round the drawing-room to the sound of Mozart’s piano concerto in C minor. Ducane, who was relying on surprising Biranne, had dialled his telephone number from Earls Court, silently replacing the receiver as soon as the familiar high-pitched voice answered the ’phone.

  As Ducane came near to the house he was almost choking with anxiety and excitement, and had to stop several times to get his breath from the thick air, which now seemed devoid of oxygen. He stopped finally a few paces away, shook himself or perhaps shuddered, straightened his back and walked briskly to the door. It was open.

  Ducane stood frozen upon the step, his hand half raised toward the bell. He lowered his hand. To his wrought-up nerves any unusual thing, even of the simplest, had an air of sinister significance. Was he after all expected? Had Biranne understood the meaning of the telephone call? Had Biranne seen him coming? Ducane stood and pondered. He decided that the open door was a matter of chance. Then he decided that he would not ring the bell. He would just walk in.

  As he stepped cautiously on to the thick yellow hall carpet, however, he felt more of the sentiment of the hunted than of the hunter. He looked about quickly, guiltily, half turned to retreat, paused, listened. The silence of the unfamiliar house composed menacingly about him. He became aware, buried in it, of a ticking clock, then of his own heart beating. He stood still, his eyes moving, seeing in the goldenish evening penumbra a marquetry table, an oval mirror, a recession of glittering stair-rods of lacquered brass. An open doorway, some distance straight ahead revealed, brighter, what appeared to be a billiard room. Attempting to breathe normally and not to tiptoe Ducane opened the door upon his right. The front room, evidently the dining-room. Empty. A great many bottles on a Sheraton side-board. He moved back, breath held in, and reached for the next door. He pushed it open. The room was darkened by Venetian blinds upon which the sun fell slanting, dazzling a little along the long hairlike slits of the almost closed blinds. Ducane blinked into the semi-darkness of the room. Then, on the far side, he saw a standing figure. A remarkable figure, the figure of Judy McGrath.

  “Hello, Mr Honeyman. Didn’t I tell you that we’d meet again?”

  What was remarkable about Judy McGrath this time was that she had no clothes on.

  Ducane came slowly on into the room and closed the door behind him. Collecting himself he looked about with deliberation. There was no one else present.

  “Good evening, Mrs McGrath.”

  “You must excuse my déshabille. It’s so hot this evening, isn’t it.”

  “Exceptionally hot and stuffy,” said Ducane. He sat down in an armchair and stared at Judy. He sa
id softly, “Helen of Troy”.

  “I knew you’d find me out, Mr Honeyman, you’re so clever. Have a cigarette? Or one of Richard’s cigars?”

  “No thanks.” Ducane felt, this is a moment outside my ordinary life, a moment given by a god, not perhaps by a great god, and not by a good one, but by a god certainly. It had never fallen to his lot to contemplate a naked woman in quite this way before.

  Judy stood in front of him with a slight awkwardness. The human body, even that of a beautiful woman, cannot easily stand in complete repose. She stood half turned away from him, one knee bent, one shoulder hunched, her chin jutting as if to see him she had to peer over something. Her body lacked the authority of its beauty and wore a little shame, the shame of what is usually hidden from the air and which greets it a little self-consciously. However used Mrs McGrath was in her spirit to taking her clothes off, her body was yet a trifle less forward. Half consciously Ducane noted this and it touched him. The sunlight dazzled in streaks along the shutters and filled the room with a thick powdery half-light, a warm golden-brown air, in the midst of which Judy McGrath’s body rose up, moved slightly, a pillar of honey with a fleeting lemony radiance. The warm light caressed her, revealed her, blended with her. Her black hair, dusted over with a sheen of brown, seemed a slightly greenish bronze, and the shadow between her large round slightly dependent breasts was a blur of dark russet. Judy’s eyes, brooding slits now, were almost closed. She swung her body slightly, revealing the curve of the buttock, outlined in a thin arc of fuzzy phosphorescent fire.

  Ducane breathed deeply and swallowed his breath before it could become a sigh. He said, “I came here to see Mr Biranne, but you will do just as well.”

  “If you have a use for me, Mr Honeyman, I’m yours.”

  “Why did Radeechy kill himself?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Honeyman. Mr Radeechy was a strange man with strange habits, who got strange ideas into his head.”