by Iris Murdoch
‘Please - ’
‘It concerns my father and my grandfather. It is a story that my father told me. It was when the war was already on. Many people, our people, for a long time did not realise what terrible danger they were in. Many stayed till the last moment. Many stayed too long. My grandfather was a lucky one to escape - to escape by an ordinary train, to pass a frontier, to board a boat and to come to Britain. My father described to me the fear, the terror, of those last moments in that train - my grandfather, my grandmother, my father and his sister - Time was passing and the train was still. My father was then fourteen, his sister was twelve. His sister had been crying because, when hurrying away from the house, they had left the dog behind. My grandfather explained that they couldn’t take the dog, and anyway they couldn’t go back now, when the train was leaving at any moment. Our house, abandoned, was quite close to the railway station. Then suddenly his sister pushed her way through and jumped onto the platform and began to run. My father tried to run after her and stop her, but my grandfather violently took hold of him and wouldn’t let him go. My father kept crying, I’ll stop her, I will, I’ll bring her back, but my grandfather just gripped him, holding him violently, while the train was still. The time, the terrible time was passing, and my grandmother kept crying, surely by now she will be back. Then suddenly the train began to move. My grandmother was hysterical. My grandfather and my father looked out of the window. ‘She is here, she is here!’ But already the train was moving too fast. The last my father saw of her was his sister standing on the platform with the dog in her arms.’
Rosalind was crying. ‘And of course -?’
‘And of course they never saw her - they never found a trace of her again - my father told me - he never told my mother - my father said to me, he said more than once, that he could have stopped her and brought her back, if his father had let him. And then he blamed himself. “When she jumped down and started to run away along the platform, I could have got free and run after her. I could have seized her and pulled her back to the train. Only my father would not let me, he held me so violently!” ’
Rosalind had covered her face with her handkerchief.
‘So, Rosalind, you see - and that - that was - and is - with me. And more - and more and more I think of her, I think of them — millions, tens of millions - how can there be such evil, it must be held up before the whole world forever. My little story is nothing. Now do stop crying.’
‘I am sorry, it’s so much - but can I not love you and be with you all the same - will it not be better for you, I mean -’
‘No, no - ’
‘Perhaps you want to marry a Jewish girl -’
‘Not that. I just can’t - I must carry it, for my father and my grandfather and all - that burden, forever, that pain - the whole thing - I’m sorry - that’s why I cannot marry - anyone - I am so sorry. Well, I know you can’t understand - ’
‘Perhaps I could -’ said Rosalind. ‘Perhaps something, I think I might - but let us just wait a while - I am so - taken away. Just let me recover. I can come to you - in a little while - please - ’
‘I am very sorry, I didn’t want you - to have any illusions. I know you will say nothing of this to anyone.’
‘Have you told anyone else?’
‘Well, yes. I have told Jackson - now I have told you - foolishly - it must stop here, it must stay with me. Please, dear Rosalind, go away - your being here torments me. Please.’
He went to the door and opened it. Rosalind picked up her jacket and her handbag and went out through the door.
Owen opened the door. He stared at Jackson and at the suitcases.
‘What’s up? Come in! Are you going on a cruise?’
‘No — I hope you don’t mind looking after this stuff while I’m away.’
‘Certainly, bring them in, gosh they’re heavy, are there bombs in? Just shove them there. What’s that taxi doing?’
‘I don’t want to bother you, I’ll be away for a while — I must go now - ’
‘Oh no, you won’t! I’ll get rid of the taxi, just sit down in that chair.’
Jackson sat down. He closed his eyes. Owen paid the taxi and returned and shut the door.
‘Now get up and we’ll go and sit in the drawing room and you’ll tell me everything. Lean on my arm.’
Jackson had, he was sure, not intended to stay with Owen longer than was necessary to leave the luggage. But the thought of ‘sitting down’ overcame him and he weakened, feeling that at any moment he might fall down and go to sleep. He followed Owen into the drawing room. They stood opposite to each other. Jackson reached out one hand to hold the edge of the marble fireplace.
‘You look dead beat,’ said Owen. He reached out, seizing Jackson by the shoulders, detaching him from the marble and shaking him, then guiding him gently to an armchair. Jackson sat down.
‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to park that stuff, I’m most grateful, I really want to go on -’
‘Where to? I won’t let you go. Has Benet kicked you out?’
‘Yes. He left a letter - ’
‘What— has he really kicked you out? I can’t believe it! What have you done - or rather what has he done? All this is madness! Thank heavens you’ve come to me. But really, you can’t have done anything wrong, it’s perfectly impossible, you don’t do wrong things!’
‘It’s all my fault,’ said Jackson. ‘He was fed up with my going round to do jobs in other people’s houses.’
‘Well. What were you doing in other people’s houses? Maybe he had a point! You’ve never done much here! No, no, I’m just teasing, how dare I tease you when you’re so terribly tired? I’m very surprised at Benet losing his temper. He’ll want you back tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think so. I messed things up. I really must go out, go on -’
‘Where to? Who to? I’ll go with you. I’ve often wondered where you were going! Let us go together!’
‘I don’t want to - ’
‘You are about to say you don’t want to be a nuisance and so on, but you must realise, you must be certain, that I am very glad to see you and I am going to hold on to you. Now sit quiet here. I shall bring some things to eat and to drink and we shall sit at this little table. You seem ready for a dead faint.’
Leaning back in the armchair Jackson experienced a strange though faintly memorable sensation coming as if from long ago as of being embraced by a huge warm watery substance which rose gently above his head, not death, not drowning, but coming as it were to his rescue. He let his head fall gently onto the back of the chair. He closed his eyes for a moment. He heard Owen’s voice far away. He went to sleep.
He woke up. Owen was looking down at him. He sat up. After a few seconds he remembered. He said, ‘I am so sorry. I think I slept.’
‘Yes, you did. I didn’t wake you. It’s just as well I pulled you in here. Time has passed. Now you shall eat and drink. Then I shall send you to bed.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Nine o‘clock?’
‘Yes, in the evening. I forgot to tell you about Mildred. She’s gone to India where they wear saris and squat on the ground. God or Krishna has sent you to me. Now let us eat and drink and be merry.’
Owen had laid out a little table with whisky and red wine and orange juice and ham sandwiches and olives and plums and cherry cake. Jackson stared at these. The whole business of Tara and Benet’s return came back to him. He felt sick with shame and grief. He hung his head. He also wondered whether Marian and Cantor were all right, and whether they were now far away. He drank a little orange juice, and some water which he asked Owen to bring. He ate a ham sandwich and an olive. He felt an extraordinary burden, like an animal clinging to his back and shoulders. He said to Owen, ‘I’m terribly sorry—’
‘I know, you want to go to bed. I can see - tomorrow you’ll tell me — I hope. Come, I’ll help you up, I’ll get you up the stairs, hold onto me, that’s right, come on,
just another flight up, we’re nearly there, I always keep this place ready, just in case, only no one comes, only you - that’s an omen, there’s the bathroom, can I get you - all right, all right — I’ll pull the curtains, it’s a huge bed you know - no I won’t, not yet anyway —I can’t tell you how glad I am that you have taken refuge with me. May I kiss you - will you kiss me - thank you, darling, I love you, goodnight, dear Jackson.’
Jackson woke up. He was lying in a bed, in a strange bed, in a huge bed in a strange room. Sunlight was coming in through slits in heavy curtains. His head was being lifted by a mass of big soft pillows. He breathed quietly, he tried to lift himself by his elbows, but fell back. Was he in hospital? No. He remembered yesterday, that terrible long day. Yet he had slept so much of it - why was he always sleeping? He remembered where he was, and Owen helping him up the stairs. Dear Owen. Then he remembered yesterday morning, when he was asleep on the sofa at Tara. Oh God, Tara — Benet. And the end of all that! He began to get out of bed. Where were his suitcases and things? He saw them in a corner of the room. Owen must have brought them up when he was asleep. What a wretched miserable furtive creature he was yesterday - and today. What could he do, where would he go, to what to whom could he now appeal? He loved Owen, but he could not stay with Owen.
He got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. The sun blazed in. He did not look out of the window. He opened one of the cases, then closed it again. He had been wearing his clothes in bed, except for his jacket and his shoes. Sitting on a chair he slowly put these on. What next? Nothing next? Everything seemed to be finished up. He got up to go to the adjacent bathroom. He opened the other case and found his sponge bag, his shaving material, his razor. He walked very slowly, like an old man. Well ... He cut himself shaving and left some blood on the towel. He came slowly back into the bedroom. He told himself to buck up with little effect. He sat on the bed. He could not stay, he must leave as soon as possible. He must make other plans, altogether other plans.
Now suddenly he could hear Owen running up the stairs. He stood up and tried quickly to make himself look tidy, look sane.
Owen burst into the room. ‘Oh, Jackson, you’re awake. You haven’t heard the wonderful news!’
‘What news?’
‘Marian! She’s alive and well, she really is alive and well, what a goosechase she has led us, Benet has told me over the telephone, he’s telling everybody, he’s so happy—’
‘How splendid!’ said Jackson. He sat back on the bed. ‘But where has she been all this time?’
‘The little minx, she has been in hiding with her lover, he’s an Australian—’
‘How amazing! She might have let us know sooner.’
‘Yes indeed! But what a relief, and what damned fools we’ve been!’
‘So now we shall see her, with this chap—’
‘Well, no, not yet I gather, they’re leaving for Australia today! The wicked teasers! Benet got the letter just this morning - and then the dear villains actually telephoned him from the airport!’
‘They telephoned him!’
‘Yes, both of them, I expect they’ll be airborne by now. No wonder they’re running away! They’ve caused such a bother - but somehow now we shall have to forgive them, won’t we!’
‘Yes,’ said Jackson.
It was the previous evening, before the Marian news.
Of course Rosalind had come back, how could she not. She came knocking late upon the door. This Tuan had expected and feared. Since she had left him he had been in anguish. He had stayed at home all day. He had not telephoned Benet, he had not telephoned anybody. He was quite unable to concentrate on his work. He employed himself by tidying up the house, cleaning the kitchen (though it was already clean), sorting the books (some of them were out of order), washing his shirts, and mending a tear in an old coat. Sometimes he walked up and down, he moaned and put his fingers in his mouth and bit them. What was he to do, what was he to do? He ought not to have told that hideous story to Rosalind - indeed having told it must suggest that he should never see her again. Even to tell it to anybody was a sin, why this one little story, when the whole thing was so eternally hideously immense. He, his presence, his being with her, was darkening everything for both of them. His having told it to anybody made it a thousand times more vivid, more violent. His father must have known that he should not tell that tale to his son, and he must have regretted it afterwards. Perhaps telling it had seemed to be some great necessary duty, some gruesome detail picked out of the black mountain. But what good had it done? - it had damaged Tuan, and now Tuan had damaged Rosalind. He thought, she will resent it, not at once, but later. Should he now leave London, leave them, return to Edinburgh for good? It was not a bad idea. There were things he might attend to there. He considered ringing up Rosalind - better than sending her a letter — to tell her that he was very soon going away.
He opened the door for her and she slipped through. He closed the door quietly and followed her into the sitting room. He said, ‘Have you any more news of Marian?’
Rosalind looked surprised, then distressed. ‘Oh no news. If there were Benet would ring up. Has he rung you?’
‘No. Why have you come here?’
‘I’m sorry — I want to see you again — let me stay, please.’
‘We have said enough.’
‘What do you mean? Can we not sit down? Please let me talk to you.’ She sat down upon the sofa.
Tuan stood, staring at her, his hands behind his back.
She said, ‘I am frightened of you. Do not look like that—’
‘I am going away. I mean going away for good. I am going to Scotland.’
‘If you go to Scotland I shall go with you, I shall go wherever you go, I love you.’
‘You hardly know me. Your love is a dream. And I am a demon. Oh Rosalind—’
‘You say my name.’
‘For the last time.’
‘Do not be cruel to me, do not hurt me, please — ’
‘Why are you wearing that dress?’
‘I thought — I just thought you might - well — like me - in this dress - ’
‘You think about that?’
‘Tuan, let me stay with you tonight.’
‘I saw you when you were sleeping.’
‘Then let me stay with you now, let me go with you wherever you go, I shall not be a burden, I shall work for you, I shall make money for us - you are not gay, are you, well, I know you are not—’
‘You are a fool. Oh God, I am not myself. Please go away. I ought not to have done it, I have damaged us both.’
‘Tuan, stop - just be quiet - let us both be quiet together, I love you, I have always loved you, you remember that evening at Penn - before that, what happened — I wanted so much to talk to you, to touch you—I was in love with you then—you say you saw me when I was sleeping - oh my dear love, let me stay with you. Please, in the name of Uncle Tim, who found you on the train, he said you were like a Greek boy, and he said you were so sweet and gentle like a dear lovely good animal, and then he gave you your name out of a book—’
‘A name of doom and death. That shadow will be upon me always, and now I have spoken it, it is heavier and darker. I am sorry, I am very sorry. Now please go away, Rosalind.’
‘I want to sleep with you tonight.’
‘How can you say that when Marian may be dead? Will you now go away, please.’
Rosalind was gone. Tuan sat motionless until late in the night. Then he lay down for a long time in the darkness with open eyes. On the next morning he was awakened by Benet joyously announcing that Marian was absolutely safe and well, had talked to him on the telephone, and was going to Australia with her fiancé! Tuan considered ringing Rosalind, but of course Benet must have done so. He turned off his telephone.
After Owen and Jackson had had breakfast, Owen became calmer.
‘I’ve never had a day like this in my life. No, I’m a liar, of course I’ve had all sorts of quaint days.
But this is a thoroughly odd one. What could be odder than you turning up — we belong to entirely different worlds, a different ether, a different planet - we do all sorts of different things - but now we shall be able to explore each other - don’t be afraid - we shall be amazingly creative - we’re awfully alike just now, you know - he’s chucked you out, and she’s chucked me out! We are now to recover - to the devil with them - we shall enter a new life - maybe we’ll talk of other people too, not them of course - and exchange all sorts of secrets. I bet you won’t though. You’ve always been an absolute clam. I shall try to prise you open. Or like an oyster - yes, an oyster, and there’s a pearl inside, I know that. You shake your head. But how can you be sure? The oyster isn’t sure. It’s something that grows in you without your knowing. Mildred said something about you, damn her I forget what, something nice of course. You shall teach me wisdom, I shall teach you painting, that’s all I can teach - perhaps you will become a great painter, far better than me. I think you’ve got a quest, isn’t that so, Benet was a dead end, now you are free, look now, I’m serious, I can set you free, well, that’s boasting, you’ll set me free, anyhow you’ll become your real self, you’re rather weird you know, and you’ve got so many trades, probably secret ones too — and you’re silent — let’s go somewhere together, but not yet outside the house, I won’t let you outside the house, not yet anyway, like a dog or a cat who might run away and get lost, I’ll show you my cat upstairs, cats, that is, in pictures of course — how old are you by the way? - you are an avatar with a broken wing, you may be two hundred years old for all I know - never mind, we’ll get very drunk - but now we’ll be free, we’ll do over the house like magic housemaids.’
Jackson listened carefully to every word, feeling a deep affection for Owen, his huge head and pale face and thick pouting lips, his often watery blue eyes, his big nose and dangling black, probably dyed, hair. Jackson, tired, was content for that time to be Owen’s captive, his magic housemaid. Owen’s ‘doing over’ consisted first of all in climbing to the very top of the house, past the spare bedroom to the attic, where there was another bed standing upright, just visible, amid a mass of heterogeneous things which thickly covered the invisible floor: old moth-eaten clothes, broken articles of furniture, dusty filthy broken-backed books, stones of various sizes, ancient trunks and suitcases, broken glass, old photograph albums falling to pieces, useless lampshades, smashed up china of every description, boxes crammed with innumerable small objects, ancient newspapers in faded yellow piles, broken toys. Into all these Owen waded, kicking them aside with his large feet clad in shabby canvas shoes. He said to Jackson who was cautiously following, ‘I call these my entities, children of Odradek ha ha, little gods, arcane sources of my inspiration, slaves of disorder. Sometimes I pick one up at random and bring him down, a privileged one, don’t you know, like this, he can bring good luck.’ He picked up a small bronze tortoise with one foot missing and put it into his pocket. ‘Now look at this.’ He kicked his way to the window. ‘See, beautiful London under a clear blue sky, the Post Office Tower, what a vista, handy for suicide, the Natural History Museum tower, jolly good tower that, the Albert Memorial, the Albert Hall, a dozen Kensingtonian spires, Kensington Palace - let’s go down, mind the broken glass, hold onto me going down, there’s your bedroom, I see you’ve made your bed, a good omen, now let’s look at the Horrors, I’ll put the light on, all right, you’re not amused, I live by their dark passions, those deformed entities, never mind, let’s go down and look at my four-poster bed, and then some real pictures, here in the studio, these are the versions of the Japanese cat, I can see you are tired. I’ll dig you out some old friends and then I’ll stop, here is Mildred when young. Edward with his father, here with his brother Randall, you know that ghastly story, no wonder poor Edward, yes, all done by me, I’m not all that young, that’s Anna with Bran as a baby, how sad that Lewen never lived to see his son...’
