by Iris Murdoch
So he now responded cheerfully enough to Randall, 'Lindsay and Emma? Yes, they are devoted, aren't they. Lindsay was so pleased to see Emma back that day I took her to Kent.
'Was she? said Randall. He laughed. He added, 'Emma's very attached, anyway. She depends dreadfully on Lindsay!
'I dare say, said Hugh unenthusiastically. And then, 'Lindsay is very beautiful, I must say!
'Yes I' said Randall, and sighed. 'Emma must have been very beautiful too when she was young. She has a fine face.
Hugh did not want to take this turning of the conversation, so he said nothing, and went to stand in front of the Tintoretto, absorbed instantly into its honeyed being. He stared into it and then touched it with his finger. It was strange to think that it was simply made of paint.
'May I have some more brandy? said Randall.
'Help yourself, help yourself'.
There was a distant murmuring which increased to a drumming and filled the room with its noise. It was the rain.
'That's the end of the warm weather, I suppose, said Hugh. 'Too bad. He reached behind the curtains to close the window and then gave himself some more brandy too. The rain was beating down, wrapping the room with its dim lamps and its glowing picture in a curtain of sound which made it solitary.
'But she was beautiful, wasn't she?
Hugh was annoyed at Randall's repetition of the question. He glanced quickly at his son and decided that he was more than a little drunk. He remembered thinking when Randall first arrived that the boy must have had a few somewhere else before coming along. If Randall now wanted a maudlin conversation about 'women we have loved' it would be time to turn him out.
Hugh said in an unencouraging tone, 'Oh yes, indeed, yes. He went to the window and jerked back the curtain. A flash of lightning suddenly revealed the gleaming dome of the Oratory and the car encumbered square running with water. Then after some moments the thunder rumbled distantly. 'I'd better order you a taxi to go home. He turned back to the room, leaving the curtains open.
Randall seemed not to hear him. He was slouched on the sofa, his head fallen back against the cushions, his eyes closed, the brandy glass tilting in his hand. His big large-nosed face was pale and slightly puffy, his curly dark hair, grown a little longish, fanned out above his head as he sank comfortably lower. He looked a harmless degenerate Dionysus with already the faintest touch of Silenus. Hugh looked at the plump cheeks. He wondered if his son had fallen into a drunken slumber.
When Randall spoke again however, although he did not open his eyes, his voice was clear and his tone positively careful, as of one who has for some time been thinking out what to say. What he did utter took Hugh's breath away. 'Are you sorry that you didn't go away with Emma in the old days?
Hugh was deeply shocked and immediately angry. He turned away again to the window and stood with his back to the room. The rain fell steadily, noisily, out of a dark reddish-blue sky.
Hugh's first feeling was of the unutterable impropriety of discussing his former mistress with his son. The shade of Fanny rose before him and his anger mingled with a deep painful distress. All this was nothing to do with Randall. But then at once he thought: yet it was, it is, to do with Randall. He knew about it, it must have some significance for him, some effect on him, since after all I am his father.
Randall then spoke again. 'Don't be angry. My imagination has worked on this matter. Inevitably. I couldn't not think about it.
This was true; and the word' imagination' suddenly touched Hugh to a further vision. What Randall had suffered as a child from what he could discover about his father's conduct Hugh would never know. But Randall as a man would have seen the thing with other eyes. He would have asked himself more objective questions. Randall the child had suffered from his father's temporary unfaithfulness; Randall the man must have meditated on the significance of his father's ultimate faithfulness. And it came to Hugh in a moment: he stands now where I stood then.
This, together with the tone of Randall's last remark, steadied Hugh, and he thought: he deserves the truth. Then he wondered: what is the truth? And before he could ponder further something wild and almost delighted in him spoke. 'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry. He turned— back to the room.
Randall was sitting up now, open-eyed, and as he surveyed his father he gave a sort of relieved sigh, such as an interrogator might give who has extracted the vital admission, perhaps in a garbled form, almost without the victim realizing it. There was another flash of lightning and the thunder nearer.
Hugh, his hands behind his back, looked at him for a moment with drooping head. As their eyes briefly met Hugh felt, almost shyly, the touch of an old deep attachment to his son. He felt too, as his gaze sought the Tintoretto, elderly and morose and sad.
Randall hitched himself up against the cushions, slopping his brandy, his legs stretched sideways on the sofa, his eyes fixed on his father. He said very softly, 'Thank yon. And then 'Shall I leave Ann?
Hugh turned away again with a gesture of irritation. He should not have let this conversation happen. It was totally unfair, and his own better judgement seemed to be deserting him to a degree which made him unfit to think about his own affairs, let alone anyone else's. He felt he had had his moment of irresponsibility and should now be left alone.
However, some urge which might have been as simple as curiosity made him say, 'You mean leave Ann — for Lindsay?
'Yes, said Randall slowly, still with the air of one choosing his words or giving vital instructions. 'Leave Ann completely and take Lindsay away, take her right away.
Something in the insistence struck Hugh and made him think; and there came to him a picture of the situation which he had already had in miniature, and which he had occasionally, as it were, popped out of his pocket to glance at guiltily. But now the picture presented itself to him blown up, huge, authoritative; and with its vast and as yet uncIarified implications it frightened him. If Randall abducted Lindsay, what would be left behind? A sad lonely defenceless Emma.
Hugh shook himself. He must close down this conversation. He felt a sort of panic, but managed to say coldly enough, 'Look, Randall, this is nothing to do with me. You really can't expect me to make comments or to encourage you. And now I think you'd better go.
Randall drew his legs towards him, curled gleaming-eyed in the comer of the sofa. He seemed powerful now, having got his foot through the door of his father's confidence. He said softly, 'So you think I should stay in the cage?
'I don't think anything about it one way or the other! said Hugh, flaring with anger. 'If the question is: ought you to leave Ann? The answer is no, and you know that as well as I do!
The rain drummed in the ensuing silence and the two men stared at each other.
Hugh was immensely affected' by the way Randall had put it.
Something in those words spoke so directly to him that he was immediately defensively angry as at a monstrously unfair appeal; though he could not at the moment see what had happened. Perhaps he was a little drunk too.
Randall said, holding his eyes, and with deliberation, 'But that is not the question.
Hugh's mind, working slowly, formulated what it had obscurely sensed a moment ago. It suddenly seemed to him intolerable that Randall should imagine that his father grudged him the freedom which he himself had not had the courage to take: that Randall should see him as enviously blocking the road, as unwilling to let his son have what he himself had failed to get, and which he had confessed to regretting. With what cleverness, it now occurred to him, had not Randall precisely made him confess it at the start of the conversation! The sense grew upon him of being interrogated, manipulated, and he felt both anger and curiosity, but with it still an overwhelming desire not to appear to Randall as an envious old man.
The lightning flickered again, and the thunder, still not very near.
The rain came down in thicker sheets, making the night darker. The reddish light was gone from the sky. Hugh said quietly, and giving cons
cious gaze for gaze, 'You know perfectly well that I don't necessarily think you should stay in the cage, as you put it. But why put it like that?
After a moment he turned away and went to the picture as to a shrine for refreshment. Randall's mention of a cage made him recall what he had only lately been thinking about his own astonishing sense of his freedom: and that in his heart which had replied so readily and so rashly to Randall's question about Emma now told him too that he wanted Randall to go. So far from grudging it to him, he wanted to see his son kick over the traces. And he wanted this, not for any possible advantage to himself: that existed too, but that was quite another matter. He desired, for its own sake, Randall's will to take what he wanted and damn the consequences. These were mad thoughts, but they rose with authority, and he knew that, quietly, they had been with him a long time.
'So you think I should go, then? said Randall behind him.
Hugh said impatiently, 'No, of course not. I don't think that either. Why do you press me for advice? You know perfectly well I can't give it. I can't make up your mind for you I'. He marched to the other end of the room. The lightning bashed more pale upon the dome, unnaturally close and clear, and lit up empty streets in other parts of London. It was very late. The rain seemed to, be abating a little. Hugh pulled the window up and let in a rush of warm fragrant air. He had no wish now to end the. conversation. With a curiosity which he felt to be depraved he wanted to hear what more his clever wicked son had to say.
'Can't you? said Randall. As Hugh turned again, he swung his legs off the sofa and reached out to help himself to more brandy. He sat a moment with head bowed looking into his glass. Then he said, 'I can't go, anyway. He drank some of the brandy and looked up at his father. 'Can I?
'What stops you?
'Money. Lack of'
Hugh wondered if he had seen this coming. No, he had not seen it coming. He was obtuse. He shrugged his shoulders and avoided Randall's eye. He felt that he was running helplessly to and fro before his son. He said, 'I can't discuss your plans, Randall.
'Ah, but you come into them, said Randall. He was rotating the brandy in his glass and looking up under his eyebrows with the cautious taut look of one who thinks that a quiet adversary may suddenly spring upon him.
Hugh replenished his own glass. He said, 'You want a loan? Randall was now completely still and the silence in the room told that the rain had stopped. He said, 'No, I don't want a loan, Father. I want a great deal of money, not on loan. Nothing else will do.
Hugh now looked at him steadily. He had rarely felt more strongly his connexion with his son, his identification, almost, with his son. And with that he felt for Randall at that moment something akin to admiration. Yet he felt too, with all his more customary responses, profoundly shocked. The conflict of feelings brought about a strange moment of coolness. He said, 'I'm sorry. I haven't got a great deal of money, Randall and if I had I doubt if I should let you have it. You must have some sense of moderation.
'It's not a moment for moderation, said Randall. He rose and put his glass on the mantelpiece.
'It can hardly be a moment for anything else, since I haven't got the money that you say you need.
'No. But you have — assets.
'Assets?
With a brief movement as of one perfunctorily acknowledging an altar, Randall turned for a moment towards the Tintoretto.
'Good God! said Hugh.
The silence continued, and Randall, suddenly relaxing as after great exertion, went to sit on the Ann of the sofa and rob his hand over his nose and back through his hair.
Hugh was made entirely speechless not only by the enormity of the proposal but by its unexpectedness. He saw now that this was the climax of the evening, this was the thing towards which Randall's carefully ordered conversation had been leading. He saw too that he was confronted by something so wide in its implications that he couldn't hope to take it in immediately. The twisted admiration of Randall which he had felt a moment since turned into a sort of gaping alarm as at one who has produced something monstrous and very large. But his main feeling was one of furious rejection, and he expressed it at once. 'No. Never, Randall, never. There's no good reason why I should do anything for you at all, least of all that! Don't delude yourself'
'I don't see the objections, said Randall, now speaking in a tired casual sort of way, not looking at Hugh, and still ruffling his hair. He had shot his bolt and was now sitting back helplessly to take the consequences.
'If you don't see them you must be morally blind, said Hugh. Then he asked himself: what are the objections, exactly?
'I don't see quite how morality comes in, said Randall. 'But I'm rather drunk, I think, and as morality seems to poke itself into most things I expect it's got in here too. I know you like the picture. But it isn't as if it would be a family heirloom. You know quite well I'd sell, before you were cold.
The ruthlessness of this chilled Hugh and dismayed him. He retorted, 'What makes you so certain it would be yours to sell?
Randall gave him a patient almost sleepy look. 'You mean you I might leave it to Sarah? Can you see Sarah and Jimmie hanging it on the wall of their tin shack? Sarah would sell it, and sell it foolishly, pour nourrir les cheres tetes blondes.
'And why should I esteem your little romance more highly than les cheres tetes blondes?
Randall withdrew his gaze and said nothing. The answer hung in the air as thick as cigar smoke. Hugh said 'Well —’ to close the gap into which if Randall had chosen to put a reply, Hugh would have felt ready to kill him.
Randall got up and began to pull on his coat. He said, 'Never mind. I'm sorry. I've got a bit drunk. Think it over. Never mind. Don't bother to ring for a taxi. I'll pick one up. It's stopped raining. Thank you for dinner and all that. I'll let myself out. Good night. He drifted out of the room.
Hugh sat down and covered his race. Without yet understanding entirely why, he felt appalled, degraded, defeated. The freshened warm night air blew into the room and the night had cleared to reveal a star. Like a poised angel, the golden Tintoretto beamed down upon the scene.
Chapter Nineteen
WHEN Hugh telephoned Mildred Finch and asked her in agitated tones to come round and see him at once she hardly knew what to expect. It was only ten o'clock in the morning, so she felt it must be something urgent. She could not help being pleased to be summoned, and she smoothed down her fluffy hair and put on her smartest hat as for some delicious outing.
It was a dark morning. The hot weather had broken with the thunderstorm of last night, and a light warm drizzle fell from an overcast sky. The stairs at Brompton Square were positively twilit, and when she reached Hugh's drawing-room she found it quite like a cavern, one lamp glowing and the light turned on above the picture. Hugh rushed forward at once and seized her hand.
'My dear Mildred, he said, 'how frightfully good of you to come! I felt very foolish after I'd telephoned you, but I did feel I needed to see you.
'My dear Hugh, said Mildred. 'I need to see you all the time. I'd like to have you on a slow boat to China!
'Dear: said Hugh vaguely. 'Now do sit down. Would you like a drink or something? Well, I suppose it's too early —’
'I'll have some whisky' said Mildred firmly. 'Whisky and soda. One never knew what lay ahead.
Hugh got the whisky, absently, his face puckered up. He looked very tired and haggard. He put the siphon, decanter and glass beside her and stood back, looking down at her with his round brown eyes full of apologetic solicitude. He looked like a big podgy elderly faun. He said, 'I know this is a monstrous imposition on you, Mildred. But one must use one's friends, mustn't one? When one's old and ridiculous anyway one may as well do as one pleases in this respect.
'But I'm dying precisely to be used! said Mildred. 'I refuse to say we're old. And I could never see you as ridiculous. How adorably ridiculous he is, though, she thought. 'What's it about? I'm all agog.
'Ah, said Hugh, shaking his head, in a tone whic
h implied that their cheerful opening was sadly out of key with what must follow. He turned away from her and went to his customary place in front of the picture. Then he took to pacing. He said, 'I'
‘I’ve had a rotten night. I'm sorry', said Mildred when he failed to follow this up. 'The thunder was something dreadful.
'Not the thunder, said Hugh. 'I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked you to come. I feel feeble and stupid and mad.
He said this with such vehemence that Mildred felt an immediate alarm and concern, together with the thrill of being appealed to at such a level. She felt she must have her wits about her. She put her glass down. 'What is it, Hugh?
Hugh paced a while in silence, head hanging. He said, 'I must sound off to somebody. It isn't that I want your advice. Or do I? No I don't think so. I just must sound off.
'Sound away, said Mildred. She was tense with caution.
'It's about Randall.
'Ah —’ said Mildred. She relaxed a little and suddenly with breaths of fresh air all sorts of green prospects hazily opened. Perhaps, after all, Randall was off.
'Randall has put to me — the — most — extraordinary — proposition. What? said Mildred. She felt alert and brisk now.
'Well, wait a minute, said Hugh. He looked out of the window at the ragged drizzle and then started back. 'Perhaps I'd better give you a bit of background.
'Perhaps you had.
'I don't know whether you know that Randall has been having an affair with a gal called Lindsay Rimmer, who is Emma Sands' companion. Perhaps it's common knowledge?
'It's not common knowledge, said Mildred, 'but I know. Go on.
'Well, to put it shortly, Randall has decided he wants to leave his wife and go off with this girl Lindsay.
Mildred let out her breath slowly. 'I thought he had left his wife' she said. She wanted no lacunae in the conversation. She must have something very exact to report to Felix.
'Well, no, said Hugh. 'I don't think at present he quite knows whether he has left her or not. I think he would regard himself as officially not having left her.
