by Iris Murdoch
Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison, Christe eleison, Christe eleison. Can I not unriddle myself, thought Miles. Being in love, l’amour fou, is very like a spiritual condition. Plato thought any love was capable of leading us into the life of the spirit: perhaps because falling in love convinces so intensely of the reality and power of love itself which dulled life knows nothing of. But falling in love involves also an enlivening and magnifying of the greedy passionate self. Such love will envisage suffering, absence, separation, pain, it will even exult in these: but what it cannot envisage is death, utter loss. This is the vision which it will on no account tolerate, which at all costs it will thrust away, transform and veil. Miles struggled in thought: he said to himself, the key is somewhere here, but where? Do these fragments really fit together? I scarcely make sense to myself at all, I babble, I rave.
As if yielding to a pressure upon his shoulders he slid forward on to his knees. He had knelt down occasionally in churches in recent years, always a little self-consciously, well aware of satisfying an emotional need which had more to do with sex than with virtue. But now he scarcely noticed what he had done. Eros and Thanatos: a false pair and a true pair. In transforming Parvati’s death into something which he could bear to contemplate, and in using for this purpose the one talent which he held as sacred, he had acted humanly, forgivably; yet it somehow seemed to him now that this almost inevitable crime had set his whole life moving in the wrong direction. Of course he had really loved Parvati, he had loved her with the total and as yet unspecialised passion of a young man. But such a love could not be expected to fight it out with death, and the defeat had mattered. Why did it all suddenly seem so alive and so close and so important now? Was he being given a second chance? I am raving, thought Miles, I am raving.
He knew, and knew it in fear and trembling, that good art comes out of courage, humility, virtue: and in the more discouraged moments of his long vigil he had felt his continued failure to be simply the relentlessly necessary result of his general mediocrity, his quiet well-bred worldliness and love of ease. There was a barrier to be surmounted which he could not surmount, and the barrier was a moral barrier. Was it still possible somehow to cleave his heart in twain and throw away the worser part of it? Miles knew that such a thing could never be simple, could scarcely be conceivable. A human being is a morass, a swamp, a jungle. It could only come from somewhere far beyond, as a dream, as a haunting vision, that image of the true love, the love that accepts death, the love that lives with death.
Lisa, he thought, Lisa. I cannot and I will not give you up. But how, oh how, was it all to be lived, and could that vision ever come to his aid, could it reach out into the final twisted extremity of his need? Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison. Help me, help me, Miles prayed, pressing his hands desperately against his eyes. He did not feel at that moment that his cry was unheard. But he knew, with a deeper spasm of despair, that the deity to which he prayed was his own poetic angel, and that that angel was without power to help him now.
22
DANBY WAS WALKING down Kempsford Gardens. It was about ten o’clock on Sunday evening. The rain was pouring down, appearing suddenly in the lamplight, dense, sizzling, glittering like gramophone needles.
Danby walked in a state of abandon, his mackintosh unbuttoned, water soaking his hair and pouring down his neck. He had spent the day in a mounting frenzy, unable to eat, wanting to be sick and unable to be sick. He had been driven wild by missing Lisa’s last visit and he could scarcely hear the old man speaking so placidly about her without groaning. He had posted her two more letters. He had not seen Adelaide, the thought of whom now inspired both guilt and fear. He had felt relief at tapping on her door in vain. He had written her a note saying that he hoped she felt better, and later found it torn into small pieces on the stairs. In fact on both Saturday and Sunday, since Lisa had told Bruno she would not come, he had been absent almost all day, leaving early and returning late, wandering aimlessly about and spending every possible moment in the pubs. He was by now thoroughly drunk.
Sitting in the Six Bells in the King’s Road he had attempted to write a letter to Diana. He had written,
Dear Diana,
You will think me crazy but I am in love with your sister. I can’t explain this. It’s something absolute. Please forgive me for having played about. It wasn’t serious and it should not have happened. This other thing is serious. Forgive me and forget me.
Danby
He stared at the letter for some time, making rings upon it with his glass. Then he tore it up. He could not write thus to Diana. It sounded too shabby. He could not ask her to forget him, that was simply silly. Then something even more important occurred to him. Supposing Miles saw the letter? Miles already thought ill enough of him without this further intimation of Danby’s tendency to play about, and what is more to do so with Miles’s own wife. With any luck Miles might never know about that episode. Miles doubtless regarded Lisa as his sister, and would be just as opposed to Danby’s suit in this context as he had been in the earlier one, and for the same reasons. And he’s quite right too, thought Danby, he’s quite right; but I do love her and somehow that makes all the difference.
Yet what was the difference? His love could hardly make Danby more eligible, more presentable, more sober. How could he ever make it plain that it had cured him of frivolity? If only Lisa had not seen him kissing Diana! But in truth the letter to Diana sounded shabby because the facts were shabby. In an agony of humility Danby surveyed himself as he walked through the windy rainy streets waiting for the evening pubs to open. His impertinence in loving this girl was fantastic. He had no attributes which could possibly interest her. He had remained absurdly vaguely confident of his ability to charm long after even his more vulgar attractions had begun to fade. Because poor Adelaide had loved him he imagined that he could obtain all women by crooking his finger. He was an obese elderly man with white hair and a face coarsened by drink. He was ridiculous, he was pathetic, he stood no chance, his suit was meaningless, and by not admitting instant defeat he would merely prolong a useless agony.
Yet love has never for a second lent an ear to arguments of this kind, and Danby’s humility coexisted strangely with a lusty confidence. Danby could not but feel himself, especially after the evening pubs had been open for an hour or two, at the beginning of a wonderful and hopeful adventure. This sense of adventure, heightened by yet more drinks, had now led his feet in the direction of Kempsford Gardens.
Danby stood in the rain swaying slightly while he checked and rechecked the number of the house. There were no lights on in the front. They could hardly have gone to bed. He was a little vague about the time, but the pubs were still open so it could not be very late. He went up the steps to the door and laid his hand upon it. Now that he was actually here fear and emotion sobered him a little. What in the world did he think he was doing? He stooped down and peered cautiously through the letter box. There was a line of light somewhere ahead from a closed-in lighted room. Danby straightened up and began to stroke the smooth painted surface of the door. He lifted his hand but could not bring himself to touch the knocker.
He thought, I think I won’t try to talk to her after all. I’m too drunk. I would just disgust her, appearing like this. Besides, there’s Miles and Diana. More deeply he thought: let her have a little more time to reflect about me. I’ll wait until she has answered my letters. More deeply still he thought: as things are now I can still hope and imagine. If I see her she may kill hope. He turned away from the door. But the sense of her proximity arrested him magnetically like a jerked-upon rope. He would not talk to her. But he could not go away. He stood a moment in puzzlement. If only he could see her without being seen.
The houses in Kempsford Gardens formed a terrace with no gaps between. Danby began to retrace his steps toward the Old Brompton Road. There must be some way round the back. He walked down beside some garages and surveyed the back of the terrace,
scattered with lighted windows, curving away into the flickering rainy dark. The walled gardens ran down to meet their opposite numbers in Eardley Crescent. There was no pathway, were no back gates. Danby gauged the height of the nearest wall. At the next moment he was on the top of it. As he felt just then he could have swarmed up the side of St. Paul’s. He slid rather muddily down, tramped across a dark garden and got himself up on to the next wall. He sat astride it for a moment. What was he supposed to be doing? Oh yes. But he ought to be counting the houses. He had lost count already. Somebody behind him opened a window and he fell down into some extremely thick and prickly foliage in the next garden. He pulled himself out, hearing his trousers ripping quietly. A long thorn seemed to be imbedded in the soft flesh of his thigh. He blundered clear and stood for a moment retrieving his sense of direction. Straight on, where an uncurtained window lighted a tract of green rain-beaten grass, another wall, or was it two walls, three walls.
An increasing amount of bricks and rubble seemed to be coming off the tops of the walls and weighing him down, lodged in his shoes and in his pockets. Stumbling forward his leg came into contact with something which as it keeled over and subsequently broke he recognised to be a leering red-capped gnome. That couldn’t possibly be in Miles’s garden. Where was he? Panting now a little he negotiated the next wall, taking off from a stout branch of wistaria which cracked loudly under him. He was suddenly feeling very weak and tired and the St. Paul’s sensation had quite gone. There was a throbbing pain in his left knee which he must have knocked rather badly without noticing it. He stood in the middle of the lawn, breathing deeply and trying by sundry jerks and wriggles to dislodge the thorn which still seemed to be piercing the inside of his thigh. Then in the dim light from the next door house he recognised the yew archway, the humpy mounds of small shrubs, and the gleaming expanse of wet pavement. The thorn came away.
The French window, outlined in light from within, was well curtained. Danby, who felt that up to a moment ago he must have been making a great deal of noise, moved forward as quietly as he could, stepping from the grass on to the pavement. The soles of his shoes seemed to stick to the wet pavement from which they detached themselves with a soft sucking sound. But the steady hissing of the rain absorbed the little noise. The two sides of the window showed no chink, but there seemed to be a tiny gap left in the middle where the curtains just failed to meet. Danby’s questing hand touched the glass and he shuddered at its brittle feel and steadied himself on wide-apart legs. Leaning forward from the waist, his eyes trying to grow out of his head on stalks, he attempted to look through the gap. He took another cautious shuffle forward and now he could see into the room. It was a peaceful scene. Miles, Lisa and Diana were all curled up with books. Miles and Diana sat in armchairs on either side of the fireplace where a very small wood fire was burning. Lisa sat a little way back on the sofa, facing the window. Danby controlled his breathing and with a strong hand contained the acceleration of his already violently beating heart.
Miles, who had his back half turned to Danby, was raising his head from his book. He looked first at the bowed head of Diana and then at the bowed head of Lisa. As Diana began to raise her head Miles returned his attention to his book. Diana looked first at the bowed head of Miles and then at the bowed head of Lisa. As Lisa began to raise her head Diana returned her attention to her book. Lisa looked first at the bowed head of Diana and then at the bowed head of Miles. As Miles began to raise his head again Lisa returned her attention to her book. Profound silence reigned. Danby stared at Lisa. Her legs were half tucked under her and her heavy dark sweep of hair drooped down to brush the pages. She was wearing a sort of navy blue shift dress with a shirt collar and a green scarf tucked in at the neck. It occurred to Danby that it was the first time he had seen her without her brown mackintosh on. It was the first time he had seen one of her dresses. It was the first time he had seen the tension of her body inside her clothes, observed the silky sweep of her stockinged knees, contemplated her legs. She was wearing soft blue and green check bedroom slippers. Danby apprehended the curled weight of her body, the thrust of her breasts against the navy blue dress, the sleek stretched curve of the hip, the bony slimness of the ankle, and what it would be like to kneel down and very quietly take one of those softshod feet into his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he realised that Diana was looking with a startled expression straight at the gap in the curtain.
Danby swung round and sidled quickly away from the window, trampling upon soft earth and springy wet vegetation. He stumbled back off the pavement on to grass, and with long quiet strides retreated down the garden. The yew hedge loomed up and he passed through the black space in the middle of it into the little enclosure between the hedge and the wall. He blundered through a heap of wet clinging stuff which might have been the remnants of a bonfire. Lighted windows of houses seemed to be all around him now, vague blank accusing eyes. A little diffused light showed him the wall, the outline of roofs and chimney pots and trees, the faint lines of the rain against the reddish-black London sky. He began to fumble at the wall. It seemed to have grown higher. He tried to pull himself up but his arms were as weak as putty and he fell violently back into the heap of sticky ash.
A figure materialised suddenly very close to him.
‘Danby, is it you?’
‘Diana!’
‘Sssh. The others didn’t see you.’
‘Diana, I’m terribly sorry–’
‘Whisper, don’t shout! However did you get in here?’
‘I came over the walls.’
‘Well, you’d better go back over the walls!’
‘Yes, of course, Diana. I was just trying to climb up when you arrived.’
‘You are an absolute fool. You shouldn’t come here at night like this.’
‘Diana, I’ve been meaning to write to you–’
‘Thank God Miles didn’t see you. Now for God’s sake go quietly. Can’t you get up?’
‘No, it’s a bit difficult. The thing is this, Diana, I meant to write–’
‘Don’t write, you idiot. You can easily see me during the day. All you’ve got to do is telephone.’
‘Diana, I want to explain–
‘I couldn’t think what had happened to you. I thought you’d got cold feet, or something. And now this!’
‘Diana, I must–’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, get out. Darling Danby, I’m not really cross with you. All right. You suddenly felt desperate. You felt you had to see me. I quite understand. Only now for heaven’s sake go!’
‘Diana, I–’
‘I don’t want any fuss, Danby. Just go.’
‘All right. I just feel all weak. I can’t get up the damn wall.’
‘You’d better have something to stand on. There’s a wooden box here somewhere. Wait a minute.
‘But how will I get out of the next door garden?’
‘I don’t care a damn how you get out of the next door garden. I want you out of this garden.’
‘Would you mind if I took the box with me?’
‘Oh Danby! Here–’
‘Sssh. Diana, I thought I heard someone moving just over there.’
‘There’s no one. They didn’t see me coming out. Could you help me with the box?’
Danby leaned forward. He could see the harlequin arm of the wet mackintosh close to his. The box seemed to be half embedded in the earth. It came away with a squelching sound and a rattle of stones.
‘Sssh!’
Danby fumbled the box and placed it on end against the wall. He began to mount.
‘Oh Danby, this is all so mad.’
‘I’m afraid it’s madder than you know, my dear.’
‘Do be careful. Don’t break your ankle, will you?’
‘You’re getting soaking wet, Diana. Better go in. I’m all right now.’
‘Where’s your hand?’
Danby stretc
hed out his hand in the darkness and felt it gripped violently by Diana’s two hands. He returned the pressure and drew quickly away.
A bright light suddenly flashed in the archway of the hedge and focused upon Danby, who was in the act of lifting his leg to the top of the wall. ‘What on earth is going on here?’ said Miles’s voice.
Diana stepped quickly back. Danby withdrew his leg, but remained standing on the box. He covered his eyes which were dazzled by the beam.
‘What is this farce?’ said Miles. ‘What the hell are you doing in my garden?’
Danby got down slowly off the box. ‘Would you mind not shining that torch in my face?’
The torch was lowered, revealing lines of rain drops, a circle of ragged grass, and a scattering of earth and bonfire ash. Danby could now make out the figure of Miles, very upright underneath a large black umbrella.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Danby.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said Miles. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I just wanted to see–’
‘You mean you were spying?’
‘No. You see, I hadn’t the nerve to knock on the door, so I got over the wall and–’
‘Blasted bloody cheek, climbing on our wall, breaking down our roses!’
‘And then Diana saw me and–’
‘Where did Diana see you? What are you talking about?’
‘He was looking in through the drawing room window, through a chink in the curtain,’ said Diana in a clear cool voice. She had retreated and was standing in darkness near to the other wall.
Miles swung the torch in her direction, revealing dark splashed stockings and muddy bedroom slippers.
