by Iris Murdoch
Jackson moved forward into the dim room, ‘Can’t I stay?’
Benet now moved back. Jackson, taller, dark, seemed, perhaps Benet had set this up later, like a huge dark slash, a dark thing, something in a dark picture, a monk with a cowl.
Benet said, ‘No. Will you go away, please. I will — later — will you just go - somewhere— ’
The apparition faded away. Benet, after standing motionless for some time, emerged from the drawing room and ran quickly up the stairs into his bedroom, closing the door. He lay down on his bed. So Jackson, who had belonged to Tim, was now to be the property of Benet? Well, did he not owe this to Tim?
So it was that Jackson was at last allowed to inhabit the summer-house, later on called the Lodge, acting as guardian, cooking and shopping, looking after the house, and being always there.
FOUR
Marian and Rosalind Berran had lost their father when they were young. Their Canadian mother, left with a considerable amount of money, had despatched them to a boarding school in England. Later, after their mother had ‘taken on’, though not married, a ‘new husband’ in Canada, the girls, now nearly ‘grown up’, had spent most of their summer holidays in England, acquiring a flat in London and renting a cottage at Lipcot, just outside the village. Occasionally Ada, alone, joined them there. The connection with Lipcot came through the, now so vaguely remembered, father, an architectural engineer who had somehow met with Uncle Tim in Delhi, and had somehow or other died in an accident when designing a bridge over a river. Tim had only briefly met the engineer, but he had soon made contact with ‘the girls’ then at school and later with Ada. So there followed visits at Penndean when Tim was there, later when he was not, and later still when he had retired.
Rosalind was certainly considered the more scholarly one of the two, destined she hoped for a career in art. Always busy with exams, she had stayed on in her London flat (now each girl had a flat) and her ambition was to study art history and if possible also be a painter. Meanwhile Ada appeared at regular intervals, providing money and instructing them to get work and acquire rich husbands. Rosalind was happy as a ‘swot’. Marian was the wandering one, leaving school at eighteen and going abroad, once in France then in Italy, where she acquired (which Rosalind already had) a knowledge (less thorough than Rosalind’s) of the two relevant languages. Rosalind meanwhile staying at home had also learnt German. Marian wanted to see the world, she went away on tours to parts of Europe. She tried to write a novel, but postponed this activity for later. The girls were handsome, friendly, happy, and very fond of each other, though someone (a friend of Owen’s) declared that Marian had become jealous of Rosalind because Rosalind was ‘really going somewhere’ while frivolous Marian was not! Meanwhile, from far back, how far it was not certain, Tim, and also Benet, had decided that when the time came, one or other of those girls was going to marry Edward Lannion.
This was when the bets in the Sea Kings began. Rosalind was pretty but boyish, she was also a sort of a ‘scholar’, which might count for or against her. Marian was prettier (perhaps it was a matter of taste), while Rosalind was bookish, though perhaps more ‘intelligent’ if that were counted a ‘good thing’. Bets were also laid about whether they were still virgins, when and who was the first boyfriend, or, more wildly, were they actually lesbians and in love with each other! The ultimate union of Marian and Edward was at last, by a small margin, established, though some declared that she was still wild and quite likely to run away with the ‘raggle-taggle gypsies oh’. Then when at last the awful news of the vanished bride spread through the village on that morning, many women shed tears, but there was also a considerable amount of lively conjecture, and the ‘raggle-taggle’ faction were soon crying ‘We told you so!’.
‘In trying to glimpse Heidegger’s path or state of mind after Sein und Zeit and to trace his thinking about the “things themselves” it is useful here to study his romanticism, the more emotional and intuitive aspects of his mind, in especial his interest in poetry and his particular interest in Hölderlin.’ Benet was in his study at Penndean, sitting at his wide-open window. Outside, scattered high up like dots, the swifts were circling in the pale morning sky. At a lower level a large hobby hawk was also circling below them. Benet looked at what he had written and sighed. What did that mean? Was not romanticism deep deep in Heidegger’s soul right from the beginning, why mention it now? Had not Heidegger declared his romanticism from the start simply by taking over the Greeks? As for the Greeks, they didn’t care, they were gods! And Hölderlin was a god, something quite separate, a great poet, something which transcends the anxious little pawings of philosophers. Not that he, Benet, was a philosopher, not a real philosopher, and would never be. Why did he not, from the start, dedicate himself to poetry? Not of course to be a poet, but to live with great poetry all his life and understand and love it. English poetry, French poetry, German poetry, Russian poetry, Greek poetry. His Russian was far from good, but Pushkin had aided him and lifted him up. He had tried to write poetry. Should not he try once more? His heart was heavy. He had picked up Heidegger now to distract himself from misery. There was still no news of Marian. It was almost as if those who loved her, and should have been grieving and weeping and searching, had now returned to their daily lives. But what could they do, was he not returning to his? Oh this terrible waiting, the phone call from the police, the body found ... Benet felt, though everyone denied it, that it must have been his fault. Yes, he had tried so ingeniously to bring her and Edward together. How could he know, how much could he see? Oh poor Marian, oh poor Edward, they would never forgive him, Edward would never forgive him, and Marian would not - if she lived. How am I fallen, this base thought was also in Benet’s mind. I had to be King, even when Uncle Tim was alive I was King. Now they will all pity me. Oh God, I am thinking about myself. He stood up, pushing the chair back. A black ball of utmost despair was in his breast. He moved into the drawing room and started walking to and fro.
Benet increasingly felt that all sorts of people were looking towards him and expecting him to act. But how? He had telephoned Ada in Canada on the day of the wedding, though putting the matter rather vaguely. He knew that Rosalind had of course telephoned then and also later. But should he not ring Ada again now, or should he wait for her to ring him? How much could he say, what did he know? He did not fancy long talks with Ada. He was in daily contact with the ‘wedding guests’ and other close friends, but there was simply no news. Would Marian suddenly turn up? Was it his duty to stay at Penn, or to return to Tara? He desired very much indeed to talk to Edward, but it appeared that Edward was ‘not there’. He had telephoned of course, and several times driven as far as the door of Hatting, only to be told by his ‘staff’, speaking with an air of truth, that they had no idea where he had gone. Mildred, from London, had told him that she had rung Edward’s bell, and in fact watched his house for some time, and there seemed to be no one in. Benet was also upset by a communication which he had received a little later from Anna, saying that she had actually driven down to Lipcot with Bran, she did not say when, but had alas found he was out. Oh God, where was Marian now? Where was Edward? Where was Benet’s sanity? He looked at his watch. He decided that he would return to London.
Anna Dunarven was glad to be back in her London house. She had left it, with her son, some time after her husband had died. The horror of his death, so unexpected, so young, had been too much. She fled to France, taking Bran with her. The rich Scottish family who had rented the house during those years and cherished it so well had been ‘very nice about it’, having their eye in fact upon an even grander house. Anna was well off too, though she made no fuss about it. Lewen, a distinguished scholar, had left her a moderately rich woman. Her flat in Paris, and her house in Provence, though comfy were not large. Now Anna’s life was changing. Was it not, she wondered as she gazed down her summer garden, absolutely in the balance? She had returned with a positive aim in view. It was time for Bran, now aged twelve,
to go to an English boarding school, and he had indeed been accepted by the one where Lewen had been a pupil; he was to go there in the autumn. This sally, getting him into the school, had involved Anna in several brief incognito visits earlier on. Previously Bran had attended an excellent Lycée in Paris, was an ardent and intelligent pupil, good at mathematics, passionate about history and literature, and, beyond English and French, fluent in Italian, good at Latin and now at Greek. Thus far Bran’s plan was clear. But what about Anna’s plan? Was she to stay on in London looking up her old friends and going to picture exhibitions? She had friends and pictures in Paris. Was she going to retain her Paris flat, her home in Provence? Or if she were to keep only one, which one should it be? Should she buy a cottage in the Cotswolds? She had seen several attractive ones on her recent tour. Or should she, following Lewen’s life and work, buy a residence in Ireland - perhaps in Dublin, perhaps on the West Coast, or perhaps both? She couldn’t do all these things, and surely London was now essential.
She had indeed returned to London, her London, Lewen’s London, as to an expected chaos. She had come of course bringing Bran to his new home, also, as it happened, to see Edward’s wedding, where she hoped to meet friends and acquaintances, perhaps even meet new people, other people, all sorts of people. Her father (a solicitor) had run away to America when she was very young, and her mother died when Anna was twenty. Anna’s mother had been a promising pianist, but had given up her ambitions when she married a totally unmusical man. After his (welcome to both of them) disappearance, her mother resumed her piano, hoping that Anna, who had kept up her playing at school, might now indeed become a concert pianist. However this was not to be, and Anna married another unmusical, though otherwise angelic, man, Lewen Dunarven, a distinguished scholar in the history of Ireland. Anna had met Lewen through Benet, and Benet and Uncle Tim through Elizabeth Loxon, who wrote short novels under various names, and was a friend of Mildred’s.
Anna, looking down the garden, sighed deeply — then, aware of someone in the room, turned round. There were two people, one of them Bran, the other Jackson. Bran ran to her and buried his face in her dress, then stood before her solemn, slightly frowning, narrow-eyed, a familiar look. She ran her fingers through his long curly tumbling amber brown hair and then drew her hand back over his brow. Over his shoulder she looked at Jackson. Bran pulled his head away like a recalcitrant horse, moved away from her and stood staring out of the window. Jackson was there, with Benet’s permission, to pin up against the brick wall, at the end of the garden, a rambling vine which had fallen to the ground. This task had now been performed. Anna could not immediately think of another task, but she was sure she would soon be able to. She was very touched and pleased by the speed with which Bran and Jackson had established a rapport. Now Jackson was about to leave. He smiled at Anna and advanced to accept the envelope which she reached out to him. His smile was gentle, humorous, mysterious. Anna, who had many strange thoughts, wondered if she might somehow capture Jackson and take him away with her to Ireland. In this drama the idea of his being anything other than a servant did not figure. In answer to Anna’s thanks Jackson gave another smile and a bow. Bran left the window and pulled at Jackson’s coat. They left the room together and she could hear them talking and laughing in the hall.
Anna turned back to the window, where she could see, at the end of the garden, the piece of the brilliantly green vine up against the glowing red brick wall. Her thoughts reverted again to Marian. Had she run to another man? Could she be dead? Surely not. Anna returned to her own urgent problems. She thought, after all I am alone in this, I must not expect to find any help, any help at all.
Edward, so much sought for, was indeed hard to find. Was he dead? Had he lost his mind? Had he discovered Marian and murdered her? After all, had he not always been a bit deranged? Perhaps he had already left England?
Edward had spent the first night, the ‘wedding night’, at Hatting, and then on the evening of the next day returned to London, where he spent a following day and a night lying low, gaining his information only from the police. Then, rising early, he had left London and spent a day and a night at a hotel with which he was familiar in Salisbury. The day he spent sitting in his hotel room thinking. On the next day he drove down to Dorchester where he paused. The sun was shining from a pale blue sky. He had taken very little food in the hotel. He ate now, ravenously, bread and butter, eggs, coffee at a small ‘tea room’ which he remembered. He sat there quietly for a while, keeping in touch with the police. Rising and leaving Dorchester he set off, taking a coast road, then descending through a labyrinth of little lanes, towards the sea. He motored on, slowly now, looking downward and looking upward. Now at last, very slowly, he was able to drive the car out onto sandy shingle as near as he could to the sea. He got out, locked the car, and began to walk, looking back at intervals, over dried-up grass, trampling down the dry wild flowers, onto the stony sandy earth to where the earth ended and the stones began. Stumbling a little he went on walking upon the stones in the direction of the sea. He came at last to where the heaped up stones bordered the large now curling now retreating waves. He turned for a moment behind him to check a distant landmark. Then he sat down upon the stones, already made dry by the friendly warmth of the sun. He sat, blinking his eyes, looking out into the glittering chaos of the sea, so many mirrors lifting upward to the sky. His hands picked up the stones, large and small each one so perfect, so smooth, pale grey, dark grey, often streaked, criss-crossed, ringed with white. He sat upon the dry stone heap, looking down upon the lines of the advancing waves, hearing the crash as they destroyed themselves against the stones, dragging them downward in an ever-falling wall. He heard the fierce scooping hiss of the undertow. The sun was shining upon the wide huge empty theatre of the beach where there was no one to be seen.
Edward was in no hurry. Here he was, right above the waves, at the top of the tumbling cliff of stones which were perpetually falling and returning. He dug his boots into the fall of the stones, he felt them faintly shifting down below. The noise of the waves was deafening, like gun-fire, their strength terrifying, the droplets of their spray struck his face like pellets. The breaking waves looked grey and white. Further out the water looked blue, advancing, huge, fast, moving forward in order like galloping horses. Beyond, the line of the horizon was clear and dark as if drawn with a pencil. There were no boats. Ahead there was just the sea and above it the sky, a pale blue above the pencilled line, a few chubby white clouds lounging dreamily below a radiance of gold, but higher up the sky seeming to lose its colour altogether in a trembling stillness of pure light. It is a wonderful day, Edward thought. The stones were warm. A lovely day for swimming, he thought. Only Edward had given up swimming.
Edward and Randall had been on a bicycling holiday, in perfect weather, staying in little accidental inns, free, happy, just themselves. It was early in the season, in the spring. They were very fond of each other. Randall, the younger by two years, revered Edward. Edward lovingly protected his young brother. Their ages were now seventeen and fifteen. The death of their mother, now well in the past, was fadingly mourned by the children, still bitterly by the father. Somehow connected with that sad death was the fact, it was now clear, that the father loved the younger son more than he loved the elder son. All three, aware of this, watched it in silence. Edward certainly felt it as a faint but continuous scar. None of this however damaged his love for Randall, or Randall’s love for him. The boys had set out upon their cycling holiday with their father’s blessing and his command that they should be very careful and behave themselves. Earlier, and not for the first time, he had told Edward that he must be very careful and look after Randall.
There was a lot of laughing over their departure, at dawn, their rucksacks full of shirts and boots and bathing costumes and knives and forks and plates and fruit and sandwiches, their father and the servants waving them off. The weather was perfect, and they rejoiced as they rode steadily farther and far
ther away from Lipcot, southward, toward the sea coast. Of course they had gone on many such sallies before, but never quite so far and with quite so much money in their pockets. They were in no hurry. Their rucksacks, soon half-empty, were filled up again in grocers’ shops, and they even (contrary to their father’s orders) bought a bottle of wine. They were in a hurry to get to the sea, but somehow, it was as they meandered slowly south, still far away. Random nights spent at various small villages carried them to Bath, where they stayed two nights, then on to spiritual and exciting Glastonbury then another spiritual night at Dorchester, where they bought a book by John Cowper Powys, and lingered at Maiden Castle, then on to Weymouth where at last, together with numerous other people, they ran across the sand and leapt into the sea. They spent that night at Weymouth, and Edward suggested that they should stay there for another night. Randall however wanted to press on along the sea road, with its ups and downs and have their second swim in the ‘real sea’. Edward, who was now rather tired of cycling, reluctantly agreed. So they set off slowly, upon the main sea road, not without replenishing their rucksacks here and there, and not forgetting the wine which they had not yet opened. The main road was full of ups and downs, sometimes losing even a glimpse of the sea. The sun was now well up in a cloudless sky. The brothers, tired of pedalling or pushing their machines up hills (though it was fun shooting down) decided that they must now find some little road which would lead them to the water, where perhaps there might be another more modest road to follow. After all, as Randall said, it’s the sea that matters. They found such a little road, sometimes a track, running along, close beside the waves. The sun was blazing down, there was nobody about, slowing they selected a place for lunch, leaving their bikes chained up on the sandier inland. Then, putting down their rucksacks upon the stones, they decided that of course they must have a swim before lunch. Here the shore was composed of stones, beautiful stones, light grey, dark grey, smooth like eggs, large and small, their lovely forms covered with lighter criss-cross and speckled backgrounds of paler streaks and circles of pure white. Randall at once ran back and opened his rucksack and began collecting stones. How strange it was that, although the boys had had many holidays by the sea, they had never discovered this part of the coast, this perfectly magic place with nobody there!
