by Iris Murdoch
‘Sorry, Hilda, please don’t touch me.’
‘Sorry, darling.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Shall I go away?’
‘No. Just stay here and be quiet.’
There was silence in the room, through the open window a sound of bird song and a murmur of voices where Rupert and Axel and Simon were still talking in the garden.
Hilda had got up and was walking about. Something was thrust against Morgan’s hot cheek. It was a large clean handkerchief. Morgan fumbled to unfold it. More tears, more tears, more tears.
‘Hilda.’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Could I have a large Scotch on the rocks?’
‘On the—? Oh yes, with ice. I’ll get it at once.’
‘I couldn’t drink—down there—with them.’
‘I won’t be a moment. Would you like anything to eat with it? A little cold lamb? Or aspirins or anything?’
‘No, no, nothing else. Bring the whole bottle, would you. And a jug of water. And two glasses.’
‘Yes, yes, I think some whisky would do me good too!’
As soon as the door closed Morgan sat up abruptly. She sat on the edge of the bed and mopped her face over with the cool handkerchief. The tears were less. She went over to the wash basin and soaked her burning eyes with cold water and dried her face on a crisp starchy embroidered face towel. She put on her glasses and went over to close the window. She returned and looked at herself for some time in the mirror above the basin. She would have liked to say something to herself, something apt, something bracing and encouraging, something witty perhaps; but she could not formulate it and she looked at herself in silence. Then when she heard Hilda’s steps again upon the stair she returned quickly to her prostrate position upon the bed. That moment of self-regard had strengthened her, as she knew it would.
Hilda drew up a low table for the tray and sat down again upon the upright chair. Morgan pulled herself up, arranging pillows.
‘Is this how you like it, sweetheart?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. No water, not at the moment. Just ice. Thanks.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want to rest, to be alone?’
‘No, I want to talk to you. I feel mad, Hilda, mad.’
‘Take it easy, child.’
‘Whisky’s good. Could you lend me a comb? Thanks.’
‘You’re looking beautiful, Morgan.’
‘I feel a wreck. You’re looking fine, Hilda. You’ve put on weight a bit. You don’t mind my saying so? So has Rupert.’
‘We’re getting old.’
‘Nonsense. So Simon and Axel are still together?’
‘Yes.’
‘No sign of a crack? I wondered if that thing would last.’
‘They seem to be getting on all right.’
‘I’m rather sorry Simon went that way. I suspect Axel doesn’t like me.’
‘He’s just shy.’
‘I remember when we were children you would never admit that anyone disliked anyone! It does happen, you know. Do you have a cigarette?’
‘Yes, I have. Here. Your luggage is following by boat?’
‘Yes. It’s mainly books. Well, some clothes and things. And notebooks and so on. I may not have mentioned it in my letters, but I did quite a lot of work at Dibbins.’
‘Good. Your letters weren’t terribly informative, actually! They moved from the curt to the enigmatic to the frantic. I haven’t really got a picture.’
‘Christ, do you think I have? I don’t know who I am, Hilda. Maybe you’ll have to tell me. It may take some time.’
‘Well, let us have that time, my darling. You will stay here, won’t you, and not go away? Do feel that this is your home.’
‘I have no home. God, your house is elegant, Hilda. Just look at those black and white toile de Jouy cushions and that yellow china dog and that set of lustre jugs and that stripey French urn thing, I remember that, into which, if you had known I was coming, you would have put three perfect roses!’
‘Darling, you’re just the same! You always used to mock our domestic arrangements.’
‘Envy, Hilda, pure envy. I’d give my ears for a house like this and a husband like Rupert. A husband that works. Functions, I mean. Could I have some more whisky?’
‘I’m afraid the ice is melting.’
‘Haven’t you got a portable ice box? I must buy you one. Except, damn, I haven’t any money.’
‘Don’t worry about money, Morgan. I do want to tell you that. You’ve got enough troubles and it’s silly to worry about money if it isn’t necessary. Rupert and I have plenty and you can stay on here—’
‘Well, I’m not totally destitute and if I pick up the old threads I expect I can get a job in England.’
‘I’m so relieved you’re staying—’
‘God, what’s that noise outside?’
Hilda got up. ‘Simon has just upset the tray with the champagne glasses on it. I’m afraid they’re all broken.’
‘Dear Simon. He hasn’t changed. Except that he’s better-looking than ever and more grown-up looking.’
‘Married life evidently suits him.’
‘Come back here, Hilda. Don’t touch me, but I want you near. I want to look at you. Sometimes in America I’ve longed for you.’
‘I’ve longed for you. I’ve felt so happy since I knew you were coming back.’
‘You must think very ill of me.’
‘I love you, you fool.’
‘I don’t think I could bear it if you really condemned me in your heart. I think I should die of it.’
‘I don’t condemn you, idiot. Of course I don’t understand. But when I do understand—I won’t condemn you—ever.’
‘Ah, you think you will understand—I wonder—’
‘Morgan, did you know that Julius—?’
‘Yes. I saw it in the evening paper. I bought the Standard at London airport and there was Julius’s picture.’
‘It’s odd, isn’t it.’
‘Uncanny. We might have travelled on the same plane. It was nice to see the old Evening Standard again, though I’m a bit out of date with the strip cartoons. Have they still got Modesty Blaise and Billy the Bee—?’
‘Morgan, Morgan, Morgan—’
‘Where’s that bloody handkerchief?’ Morgan took off her glasses and covered her face with the handkerchief. There was silence for a moment.
‘You had no idea Julius was coming to London?’
‘I didn’t know where Julius was. I knew he’d left Dibbins.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Oh months and months ago. It seems like years ago. Absurd, isn’t it. When I got onto that aeroplane I thought I was going away from Julius, away, away, away. And now here he is at the other end. Perhaps it’s fate.’
‘Fate—Morgan, did you leave Julius or did he leave you?’
‘I suppose that question has been much canvassed?’
‘I’m afraid so, my darling.’
‘Well, literally I left Julius, but spiritually he left me. It was complicated and—awful. Awful, awful, awful.’
‘Have things entirely broken down between you?’
‘Yes. Broken down, broken off. We haven’t communicated since, oh, nearly the beginning of the year, when I just cleared out of Dibbins lock stock and barrel and abandoned all my students and all my classes and everything.’
‘I remember. You didn’t write for some time. Then you wrote from that address in Vermont.’
‘Yes. I stayed with a nice old German philologist and his wife up there. They didn’t understand a thing. Well, neither did I. I was practically insane. I still am. More whisky please. Those damned ice cubes have all melted.’
‘I’ll get some more.’
‘No, no, don’t stir. I suppose Julius won’t turn up here?’
‘Rupert will head him off. Do you think Julius will try to see you?’
‘No, he won’t. But he won’t try not to either. He’
ll do what he’d do anyway.’
‘Do you want to see him?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll see to it that you don’t meet.’
‘It’s hot, isn’t it, Hilda. It’s almost as hot as New York.’
‘It is hot.’
There was silence. Morgan rearranged her pillows. The two women stared at each other. Morgan replaced her glasses and frowned, narrowing her eyes intently. ‘Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you, Hilda.’
‘I’m sure you should eat something.’
‘No. I’ve given up eating. I live on Bourbon and aspirins. Now it’ll have to be Scotch and aspirins. Where’s all my stuff, by the way?’
‘Your stuff—You mean, clothes and books and—?’
‘I was thinking mainly of the manuscripts. The stuff on theoretical linguistics which I was working on when I went to that extremely consequential conference in South Carolina.’
‘I’m afraid it’s still with—’
‘I rather hoped you’d have collected all my belongings.’
‘I tried to. But there was opposition.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing at the moment. I just want you to exist quietly near me while I discover who I am and what the purpose of life is. What is the purpose of life, Hilda?’
‘I think loving people.’
‘Happy marriage jazz?’
‘No, I mean loving anybody, everybody.’
‘That’s Rupert’s line, isn’t it. I think love’s more difficult than he realizes. I love you. That’s certain. But I sometimes wonder if I’m capable of any other love whatever.’
‘You’re very tired, my darling. This isn’t the moment to decide who you are and what life is about. You just stay here with me and everything will slowly sort itself out.’
‘I hope you’re right. How’s Tallis?’
‘W ell—he’s—’
‘Does he know I’m in England?’
‘I don’t think so. You didn’t write to tell Peter?’
‘Peter? Oh yes, I couldn’t think for a moment who you meant. No, I didn’t.’
‘You see, Peter is living with Tallis. No, not like that you ass! He’s staying in Tallis’s house. You knew Tallis had moved?’
‘I know nothing about Tallis.’
‘He gave up the house in Putney just over a year ago.’
‘What did he do with the mortgage?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, he moved to Notting Hill and he rents the lower half of a house there, and he has his old father living with him, and now Peter too.’
‘My God, he’s got Leonard on his hands, has he. But why Peter?’
‘Peter’s been a bit peculiar lately. I told you some of this in a letter but I expect you’ve forgotten. He spent that year in Cambridge and then decided he wouldn’t go back, and he didn’t want to live here, and it seemed a good idea for him to stay with Tallis, and we hoped Tallis would persuade him to go back to Cambridge, only it hasn’t worked so far.’
‘I see. How is Tallis?’
‘He’s all right. He—er—’
‘Come on, Hilda, tell me. Do you know, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to utter his name?’
‘I know. It’s hard to tell you, darling, not because there’s anything special to tell, but really because there’s nothing to tell. He’s still giving those lectures on the Trade Union movement, and he works part-time for the Notting Hill housing department and he’s involved in some committee on race relations and of course there’s the Labour Party and he does a lot of other odd jobs. Honestly, I haven’t seen much of him lately, but he seems just as usual.’
‘What’s happened to the book on Marx and de Tocqueville?’
‘Rupert says he’s abandoned it.’
‘I knew he would. It’s all right, Hilda, I can still manage with this handkerchief. Oh Christ.’
‘Darling, I am sorry—I wonder if you should have more whisky?’
‘It’s all right. I’ve been crying whisky for the last six months. I think I must have undergone a chemical change. Is he happy? Idiotic question. When was Tallis ever happy?’
‘When he got hold of you perhaps! Oh, he seems reasonably cheerful. But he’s always terribly anxiety-ridden, as you know.’
‘Is there any woman hanging round him?’
‘Not so far as I know. Morgan, what are you going to do about Tallis?’
‘Do you mean am I going back to him?’
‘Well, yes. I’m sure that he’d—welcome you back.’
‘Welcome me! I’m not so sure. I really don’t know what Tallis would do if I proposed myself back.’
‘But are you going to?’
Morgan was silent for a moment, sniffing at her empty glass. ‘It seems ridiculous not to know, but it’s not that I don’t know it’s just that at the moment I can see nothing. I can’t see myself, I can’t see my marriage—’
‘Over there, you just forgot it?’
‘I couldn’t! I arrived as Mrs Browne and I had to stay Mrs Browne. When Julius was displeased with me he used to call me “Mrs B”.’
‘I mean, I imagine the thing with Julius must have rather effaced Tallis?’
‘Oh, the thing with Julius was fantastic. But really Tallis is ineffaceable. I used to see him, you know, all that time in America, I used to see those big light brown eyes looking at me, I used to see them at night in the dark when Julius was asleep—’
‘It sounds eerie. Do you feel guilty about Tallis? You mustn’t.’
‘Why not? I am guilty. No, it’s deeper than guilt, Hilda. His consciousness binds mine, even now.’
‘It sounds like an obsession.’
‘Yes. It’s something that I’ve always had about Tallis. And I must get rid of it. I thought at first that Julius would help me, but he didn’t much want to talk about Tallis, and when I tried to tell him what Tallis was like it was—impossible.’
‘He is hard to describe. Darling, did you think of getting divorced and marrying Julius?’
‘I thought about it. But you know, somehow, this is hard to explain—everything with Julius was so high—it was higher than anything like marriage. It was a heroic world. It was like living in ancient Greece or something. The light was so clear and everything was larger than life. Do you understand at all?’
‘Yes, I think so, Julius is rather remarkable, isn’t he?’
‘Julius is extraordinary. He is wonderful and awful. Well, no, he isn’t awful. I’m awful. And I mustn’t exaggerate about him. I was just terribly in love.’
‘ “Was”?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know. I can’t think how I ever got away from him, how I got myself out of the house. It was torture. I felt he’d abandoned me in his heart and he was somehow willing me to go. Yet none of this appeared openly. Anyway it’s over now. And I’ve got this job, Hilda.’
‘Job?’
‘To find out who I am and what life means. And to stop worrying about Tallis. You see, in a way I can’t think about the real Tallis at all, and perhaps I never did. I’ve got to get rid of this blasted dream figure. I’ve got to go through—some ordeal—to set myself free—and then—’
‘Will you go and see Tallis?’
‘I don’t know. I hope to God he won’t turn up here?’
‘No. He never drops in. And I think it’s better if he just isn’t told that you’re here at all, for the present anyway.’
‘Yes, I agree. Oh I’m probably exaggerating about Tallis too. As soon as I decided to come back I started having nightmares about him. Now that I’m actually here it may all just blow away. He’s an unsolved problem, but in time one will see—’
‘Do you think you still love Tallis?’
‘Yes. No. In some curious way the question hardly arises.’
‘It must arise.’
‘You don’t understand. Marrying Tallis was a sort of—action. Just an action. I know you were always against it, yes you wer
e. But I simply felt he was somebody I could not leave. Well, we’ve seen. Some crazy incoherent tenderness led me to marry that man. It was like animals—’
‘Like animals?’
‘Yes. My feeling about Tallis was like one’s feeling about animals. I mean, that awful sort of naked pity and distress. Why is an animal’s pain so piercing? Some music affects one like that too, it’s awful. You remember when we were children we got so upset about stories about animals? We could quite cheerfully hear of human beings getting shot or starving to death, but if an animal was hurt we were in tears at once. Well, that’s what it was like with Tallis. Everything about him wounded me. I mean, through him I was vulnerable to the whole world. It was like grieving over an animal. And it wasn’t quite pity either, it was much more than that. Just by existing he tore my heart-strings.’
‘That sounds like love to me.’
‘I suppose it’s a kind of love. Oh, I knew all along that he was inconceivably different from me. I just didn’t foresee that I would ever feel that terrible—appetite. That I would ever want in the rapacious way that I wanted Julius.’
‘Of course Julius must have been dazzling—and I can imagine—different tastes.’
‘Oh, tastes. I think the only new taste I’ve acquired lately is a taste for big houses and money and drink. It’s not that Julius is worldly. In a way he’s very unworldly. But he’s mythical. Men have mythical fates. But Tallis has no myth. Julius is almost all myth. That was what took me.’
‘Life with Julius was fun?’
‘That’s a weak word. Julius and I lived like gods. I can’t convey it to you. You know, in some way Tallis is a sick man. He’s perfectly sane, but his sanity is depressing, it lowers one’s vitality. My love for him was always so sort of nervy, and he hadn’t the instincts for making things easy and nice. Tallis has got no inner life, no real conception of himself, there’s a sort of emptiness. I used to think that Tallis was waiting for something but later on I decided that he wasn’t. Sometimes his mode of being almost frightened me. He’s obscure and yet somehow he’s without mystery. Julius is so open and so clear, and yet he’s mysterious and exciting too. I wonder if you see what I mean? Julius turned me into an angel. Julius is all soul, all inner life, all being, and he filled me with being and made me solid and compact and real.’
