Under the Net

by Iris Murdoch

  I stood still in the middle of the pavement. Why was this absolutely unbearable? Why should it matter to me so much that Jean Pierre had pulled it off? I went to a café and ordered cognac. To say that I was jealous was to put it too simply. I felt an indignant horror as at some monstrous reversal of the order of nature: as a man might feel if his favourite opinion was suddenly controverted in detail by a chimpanzee. I had classed Jean Pierre once and for all. That he should secretly have been changing his spots, secretly improving his style, ennobling his thought, purifying his emotions: all this was really too bad. In my imagination I was already lending the book every possible virtue, and the more I did so the more I felt a mingled rage and distress which drove every other idea from my mind. I ordered another cognac. Jean Pierre had no right to turn himself surreptitiously into a good writer. I felt that I had been the victim of an imposture, a swindle. For years I had worked for this man, using my knowledge and sensibility to turn his junk into the sweet English tongue; and now, without warning me, he sets up shop as a good writer. I pictured Jean Pierre with his plump hands and his short grey hair. How could I introduce into this picture, which I had known so well for so long, the notion of a good novelist? It wrenched me, like the changing of a fundamental category. A man whom I had taken on as a business partner had turned out to be a rival in love. One thing was plain. Since it was now impossible to treat with Jean Pierre cynically it was impossible to treat with him at all. Why should I waste time transcribing his writings instead of producing my own? I would never translate Nous Les Vainqueurs. Never, never, never.

  It was striking ten before I remembered Madge. I took a taxi to her hotel, and as I went my rage was curdling inside me and turning into a sort of rash vigour, which hardened my sinews and lifted my head. I did not slink into the Hotel Prince de Clèves as I would normally have done. I strode in, making receptionists and porters cower. They did not need to affect to ignore, for I think they truly did not see, the leather patches on my elbows, such is the power of the human eye when it darts forth its fire. I commanded to be led to Madge; and in a moment or two I was at her door. The door opened, and I saw Madge reclining on a chaiselongue in an attitude which she had clearly taken up some time ago in expectation of my arrival. The door was closed softly behind me as behind a prince. I looked down at Madge; and it came to me that I was more pleased to see her than I had ever been before. Under my look her dignity dissolved, and I could see unfolded in her face how deeply moved, relieved, and delighted she was to see me. With a whoop I fell upon her.

  Some time later it was necessary to start talking. I had been struck as I came in, only the impression had been submerged at once, by a further alteration in Madge. Now as she powdered her nose I sat and took this in. Her clothes were quieter and sleeker and desperately well cut, and her coiffure was completely transformed. The undulating English perm was gone, and her hair fitted her now like a scalloped cap. She seemed slimmer and more piquant; even her movements were more gracious. Clearly somebody new had taken Madge in hand, somebody far more expert than Sammy. She watched me out of the corner of her eye as she blocked in the tenderly proud mouth of a woman who knows that she is desired; and as I went to kiss her she turned her head and offered me with a regal movement the perfumed and artificial bloom of her cheek. It was unnerving to see someone transforming herself so rapidly: like seeing the stars moving or the world turning.

  ‘Madge, you are beautiful,’ I said. We sat down.

  ‘Jakie,’ said Madge, ‘I just can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I just can’t tell you. You’re the first human face I’ve seen for ages.’

  I was already beginning to wonder what sort of faces Madge had been seeing lately; there would be time enough, however, to get this out of her. We had a great deal to tell each other.

  ‘Where shall we start?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, darling!’ said Madge, and threw her arms round me. We put off starting for a bit longer.

  ‘Look,’ I said at last, ‘let’s begin by establishing what we both know: for instance that Sammy is a scoundrel.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Madge, ‘I was so miserable about Sammy!’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  Madge plainly wasn’t going to tell me. I could see her selecting an evasion. ‘You don’t understand Sammy,’ said Madge, ‘he’s an unhappy muddled sort of person.’ This is a standard remark made by women about men who have left them.

  ‘Was that why you made him a present of my translation?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, that!’ said Madge. ‘I did that for your sake, Jakie.’ She kept me at bay with her big eyes. ‘I thought if anything came of it Sammy could help you. But how did you know he had it?’

  I then gave her a highly selective version of my own recent adventures. I could see Madge hated the bits about Sammy and Sadie.

  ‘What a pair of crooks!’ she said.

  ‘But surely you knew about Sammy’s plan?’ I asked her.

  ‘I had no idea until two days ago,’ said Madge.

  This was clearly false, since she must have known more or less what Sammy was up to when she gave him my typescript; but at that time she had doubtless been under the impression that it was herself and not Sadie who was to be the woman in the case. Indeed, perhaps Sammy had thought this too, to begin with. On the occasion of our sporting afternoon he had certainly manifested what had appeared to be a genuine interest in Madge. That Sammy was muddled was possible after all. Whether he was unhappy I neither knew nor cared.

  ‘Well now, suppose you tell me a few things,’ I said. ‘What’s this important talk you wanted?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Jake,’ said Madge. She poured me out a drink, and then stood looking at me reflectively. She had the withdrawn feline look of a woman who is conscious of power and seeing herself as Cleopatra. ‘Would you like to earn three hundred pounds down and a hundred and fifty a month for an indefinite time?’

  While I considered this I contemplated Madge in her new role. ‘Other things being equal,’ I said, ‘the answer is yes. But who is the paymaster?’

  Madge walked slowly across the room. Her sense of drama was acute enough to electrify the whole atmosphere. She turned quietly to face me, with the quietness of somebody who knows that quietly is how they are turning.

  ‘Oh, cut it out, Madge,’ I said, ‘and come clean. This isn’t a screen test.’

  ‘A person,’ said Madge, choosing her words with care, ‘who has made a great deal of money out of shipping or something in Indo-China, is proposing to put this money into the creation of an Anglo-French film company. It will be a very big enterprise. The people who are to control it are looking round for talent. Naturally,’ she added, ‘all that I say to you now is in confidence.’

  I stared at Madge. She had certainly been to school since I had last seen her. Where could she have picked up words like ‘enterprise’ and ‘in confidence’?

  ‘This is very interesting,’ I said, ‘and I hope that the eye of the talent-spotter has lighted favourably upon you; but where do I come in?’

  ‘You come in,’ said Madge, ‘as a script-writer.’ She poured out a drink for herself. The timing was perfect.

  ‘Look, Madge,’ I said, ‘I appreciate this. I appreciate all your kind efforts on my behalf. But one can’t just walk into a job like that. Script-writing is highly technical — I should have to learn it before anyone in their senses would pay me the sum you mentioned. Anyway,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure that it’s the sort of job I’d care for. Ce n’esi pas mon genre.‘

  ‘Stop acting, Jake,’ said Madge. She had obviously been stung by my earlier remark. ‘You’re panting for that money. Let me just tell you what you have to do to get it.’

  It was true that I was not unmoved. ‘Give me another drink,’ I said, ‘and tell me how you propose to drag me in.’

  ‘You don’t need to be dragged in,’ said Madge. ‘You come in quite naturally because of Jean Pierre.’

  ‘My God!’ I said
, ‘what has Jean Pierre got to do with it?’ I seemed to be up to my ankles in Jean Pierre that morning.

  ‘He’s on the board of directors,’ said Madge, ‘or he will be when everything’s signed. And just guess what our first production will be,’ she said, with the air of someone whipping out a conclusive argument. ‘An English film based on his latest book!’

  I felt sick. ‘You mean Nous Les Vainqueurs?’ I said.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Madge, ‘the one that got the what-not prize.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘the Prix Goncourt, I saw it in a shop as I came along.’

  ‘It would make a marvellous film, wouldn’t it?’ said Madge.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I haven’t read it.’ I sat looking at the carpet. I felt more like crying than I had for a long time.

  Madge watched me as I sat there with my head drooping. ‘What’s the matter with you, Jake?’ she cried. ‘Aren’t you well?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Go on telling me things.’

  ‘Jake,’ said Madge, ‘everything has worked out wonderfully. You just haven’t seen it yet. This is better than anything we ever dreamed up in Earls Court Road. That it should be Jean Pierre! It’s all come out in a beautiful pattern.’

  I could see that it had come out in a pattern. ‘Madge,’ I said, ‘I’m not a script-writer. I know nothing about the cinema.’

  ‘Darling,’ said Madge, ‘that’s not the point, and it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I rather thought it wasn’t the point,’ I said.

  ‘You haven’t understood,’ said Madge. ‘It’s all fixed. The job’s yours.’

  ‘Is this job in your gift?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Madge.

  ‘I mean, can you give it to anyone you like?’

  We looked at each other. ‘I see,’ I said, and settled back into my chair. ‘Fill up my glass, would you?’

  ‘Jake, stop being difficult,’ said Madge.

  ‘I want to have things clear,’ I said. ‘You’re offering me a sinecure.’

  ‘I’m not sure what that is,’ said Madge, ‘but I expect it’s that.’

  ‘A sinecure is when you get money for doing nothing,’ I said.

  ‘But isn’t that exactly what you’ve always wanted?’ said Madge.

  I looked into the amber depths of my glass. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want it now.’ I wasn’t sure if this was true. It remained to be seen whether it was true.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Madge, ‘it won’t be for doing nothing. You may have all kinds of things to do. There’s translating the book, which you’d do anyway.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that that’s another matter,’ I told her.

  ‘You must be jolly glad,’ said Madge, ‘that he’s written a decent book at last. Everyone says it’s marvellous. Particularly since it got the what-not prize.’

  ‘I shall translate no more books for Jean Pierre,’ I said.

  Madge stared at me as if I were mad. ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘At Earls Court Road you were always complaining at having to waste your time translating such bad stuff.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I told her, ‘but the logic of the situation is odd here. It doesn’t follow that I would regard it as less of a waste of time to translate better stuff.’

  I got up and went to look out of the window. I could hear Madge following me across the thick carpet.

  ‘Jake,’ she said close behind my ear, ‘stop this. You’ve got the chance of a lifetime. Maybe at first you wouldn’t have much to do, but later it would be different. And you must drop this nonsense about Jean Pierre.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I said. We turned to face each other.

  ‘Your girl friend’s gone to Hollywood,’ said Madge after a moment’s silence.

  I took hold of Madge’s limp and unresponsive hand. ‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘I wish you wouldn’t refer to Anna as my girl friend. We haven’t met for years, except for one time last week.’

  Madge said, ‘Oh!’ rather sceptically.

  ‘Anyway,’ I added, ‘she hasn’t gone to Hollywood.’ It wasn’t till that moment that I felt absolutely certain of it. ‘You don’t know that she has, do you?’ I asked Madge.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ said Madge, ‘but I’m told she has. And everyone goes to Hollywood if they can.’

  I made a gesture expressive of contempt of a world in which this was so. But I had already displayed too much emotion and I wanted to change the subject. ‘How will this company of yours relate to Bounty Belfounder?’ I asked.

  ‘Relate to it?’ said Madge. ‘It’ll wipe it off the face of the earth.’ She spoke with cruel satisfaction. I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘And don’t pretend,’ said Madge, ‘that that matters tuppence to you. In fact, you’ll be doing a great service to your friend Belfounder. There’s nothing he wants so much as to lose all his money.’

  This startled me. Madge had evidently been moving in circles where Hugo’s character was discussed. ‘He can do it without my help,’ I said, turning away.

  I felt a sort of confused lassitude. I was being offered a great deal of money; and it was not at all clear to me why I was refusing it: if what I was doing was refusing it. What was more important, I was being offered the key to the world in which money comes easily, and where the same amount of effort can produce enormously richer results: as when one removes a weight from one element to another. As for my conscience, I could catch up with that in a few months. In time I could earn my keep in that world as well as the next man. All I had to do was to shut my eyes and walk in. Why did the way in seem so hard? I was in anguish. I seemed to be throwing away the substance for the shadow. What I was preferring was an emptiness of which I could give no intelligible account whatever.

  Madge watched me with increasing distress.

  ‘Madge,’ I said, just for something to say, ‘what will happen about the Nightingale?’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ said Madge. ‘Someone from Sadie did approach Jean Pierre about it, but he put them off. And now our company has got the film rights of all his books.’

  This was cool. I smiled at Madge, and saw her smiling too with relief. ‘So Sadie and Sammy have had it,’ I said.

  ‘They’ve had it,’ said Madge.

  I began remembering how sorry I’d felt for Madge, and then it occurred to me that Madge had probably started double-crossing Sammy even before she knew that Sammy was double-crossing her. It takes time to make the Hôtel Prince de Clèves. This was so funny that I began to laugh, and the more I thought of it the more I laughed until I had to sit down on the floor. At first Madge laughed with me, but then she stopped and said sharply, ‘Jake!’ I recovered.

  ‘So Sammy will have to make animal pictures after all,’ I said.

  ‘As for that,’ said Madge, ‘Sammy’s been sold a pup there too. Or rather he hasn’t been sold a pup.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Phantasifilms cheated Sammy,’ said Madge. ‘Do you know how old Mister Mars is?’

  A sad finger touched my heart. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How old?’

  ‘Fourteen,’ said Madge. ‘He’s on his last legs. He could hardly get through the last film he made. Phantasifilms were going to retire him anyway. Then Sammy got interested in him, and they sold him without telling his age. Sammy ought to have looked in his mouth.’

  ‘You can’t tell a dog’s age by looking in his mouth,’ I said.

  ‘So Sammy’s one down there too,’ said Madge.

  I didn’t care. I was thinking about Mars. Mars was old. He would do no more work. He would not swim flooded rivers any more, or scramble over high fences, or fight with bears in lonely places. His strength was waning and his intelligence would avail him nothing. He would soon die. This discovery completed the circle of my sadness; and with it my resolution crystallized.

  ‘I can’t do it, Madge,’ I
said.

  ‘You’re insane!’ said Madge. ‘Why, Jake, why?’

  ‘I don’t know very clearly,’ I said. ‘I only know it would be the death of me.’

  Madge came up to me. Her eyes were as hard as agate. ‘This is real life, Jake,’ she said. ‘You’d better wake up.’ And she struck me hard across the mouth. I recoiled slightly with the sudden pain of the blow. We stood so for a moment, and she sustained my gaze while the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. Then I received her into my arms.

  ‘Jake,’ said Madge into my shoulder, ‘don’t leave me.’

  I half carried her to the settee. I felt calm and resolute. I knelt beside her and took her head, brushing her hair back with my hand. Her face rose towards me like a lifting flower.

  ‘Jake,’ said Madge, ‘I must have you with me. That was what it was all for. Don’t you see?’

  I nodded. I drew my hand back over her smooth hair and down on to the warmth of her neck.

  ‘Jake, say something,’ said Madge.

  ‘It can’t be done,’ I said. Madge was lancée; nor could I know after describmg what parabola she would finally return to earth. There was nothing I could do for her. ‘There is nothing I can do for you,’ I said.

  ‘You could stick around,’ said Madge. ‘That would be everything.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Look, Madge,’ I said, ‘let me be simple. I might tell you that I cared for you too much to be willing to stand by while you go to bed with the men who can help you to become a star. But that wouldn’t be true. If I cared for you a bit more perhaps I should want to do precisely that. The fact is that I must live my own life. And it simply doesn’t lie in this direction.’

  Madge looked at me through real tears. She played her last card. ‘If it’s Anna,’ she said, ‘you know that I wouldn’t mind. I mean, perhaps I’d mind, but that wouldn’t matter. I just want you near me.’