by Iris Murdoch
‘Drinks for all, drinks for all.’
‘Thank you, Simon, but do dry yourself a little before you embrace me! Boy, could I use a drink!’
‘Sorry, Morgan darling.’
‘Peter, could I have a word with you?’
‘Certainly, Father.’
‘Then let’s sit over here away from the others.’
‘Morgan, what happened at Tallis’s?’
‘Nothing, Hilda. I collected my notebooks.’
‘But you saw him?’
‘Yes. What’s that orange muck on the rug?’
‘Sun tan lotion.’
‘I thought somebody’d been sick. Hadn’t you better clean it up?’
‘Oh later, later. And you tell me that nothing happened!’
‘Of course nothing happened. There was nothing to happen, was there? What a big handsome boy your son has grown into.’
‘Morgan, I am going to weave you a wreath of roses. May I pick some of the roses, Hilda, to weave a wreath for Morgan?’
‘Certainly, Simon, but you can’t pick them like that, you’ll need secateurs. You’ll find them in the kitchen drawer.’
‘I know, I know. Oh Axel, I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t given you a drink.’
‘Sit down, Morgan, for heaven’s sake, over here. Peter and Rupert are quite wrapped up in talk. What did you say to Tallis?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh stop it. You didn’t say anything about coming back to him?’
‘I said I’d come for the notebooks and I took the notebooks and I left.’
‘Was he upset?’
‘Not specially. I didn’t really notice.’
‘Would you like pink or white roses for your wreath, Morgan, or a mixture of the two?’
‘A mixture please, Simon.’
‘I think the pink and the white go well together, don’t you? Did you plant these ones, Hilda?’
‘No, they were here when we came.’
‘And are the white ones really called Little White Pet?’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘What a sweet name. I thought you’d invented it!’
‘It is pretty, isn’t it. Were you upset?’
‘Not specially.’
‘I don’t believe you. How did Tallis seem to you?’
‘Smaller.’
‘Let me fill your glass again, darling, before I start on your wreath.’
‘Thank you, Simon.’
‘You see, Peter, I’m getting a bit tired of writing evasive letters to your tutor.’
‘They’re called supervisors in Cambridge.’
‘All right, supervisor. You profess to despise the place but you think it worthwhile to correct me!’
‘I didn’t ask you to correspond with my supervisor. As far as I’m concerned the Cambridge business is over.’
‘But why? That’s what I can’t make out.’
‘All those values are false ones.’
‘What you need, my boy, is a little philosophical training. What do you mean by “those values” and “false”?’
‘All those values you’re writing that big book about.’
‘Come, come, be more precise. And let’s be more careful with our terminology, shall we? Propositions are true or false. Values are real or apparent. Now education is something which is genuinely valuable. Training your mind—’
‘That’s all hocus-pocus. It’s a sort of conspiracy. People read a lot of old authors without understanding them or even liking them, they learn a lot of facts without feeling anything about them or connecting them with anything that’s present and real, and they call that training their minds.’
‘But that’s just what education is about, connecting the past with the present.’
‘Then it isn’t going on at Cambridge.’
‘Now let’s start again, Morgan, and have the whole thing from the beginning. Simon and Axel aren’t listening. Axel’s sulking and Simon’s much too busy with the roses.’
‘What do you want to know? I’ve told you.’
‘You went down the street, you knocked at the door. Then what happened?’
‘I didn’t knock at the door. The door was sort of open, so I pushed it, and there was Tallis.’
‘And who said what?’
‘He said “Christ” or something. There was a lot of stuff on the kitchen table so I asked if he was having tea.’
‘You just don’t know how to tell a story! You’re in the kitchen already. How did you get to the kitchen?’
‘Walked, Hilda, do lay off. I’ll tell you later. Yes, Simon, those ones are lovely. Why don’t you fill Axel’s glass and offer him some of those funny-looking olives?’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t prompt Simon to look after Axel. You won’t be thanked.’
‘Oh Hilda, do stop being so damn sensitive. You’re getting on my nerves.’
‘So you are upset.’
‘Do you want me in tears?’
‘And if some people don’t understand and like what they read so much the worse for them. I understood and liked what I read at Oxford. It has travelled with me ever since.’
‘Has it? When did you last open a volume of Homer or Virgil?’
‘Well, I must confess, not for several years.’
‘So it’s not a part of your ordinary life at all.’
‘Yes it is, it’s been absorbed. It’s all part of a scale of values.’
‘What’s a scale of values?’
‘Knowing that one thing’s better than another.’
‘What’s better than what, for example?’
‘Shakespeare’s better than Swinburne.’
‘You just say that because everybody says it. You don’t know it in your own experience, you don’t really feel it. You stopped experiencing things long ago. When did you ever really compare Shakespeare with Swinburne? When did you last read a play by Shakespeare, if it comes to that?’
‘I admit, not for some time.’
‘I bet you’ve never even read the whole of Shakespeare.’
‘There are one or two minor plays possibly—’
‘I say, your roses are fearfully prickly, Hilda. Axel, could you lend me your handkerchief? Messing around with roses when practically naked is quite a hazard.’
‘Get dressed then!’
‘I think I will, Axel. Don’t disturb the roses. May I pinch some string from the kitchen, Hilda?’
‘Of course. So he was quiet and negative?’
‘He mumbled.’
‘And you were cold and business-like?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you afraid you’d suddenly weep and throw your arms round him?’
‘Beforehand, yes. When I was there, not.’
‘Why not?’
‘I suddenly saw him as unimpressive. You know, Hilda, Tallis used to remind me of blessed are the poor in spirit, but now he just reminds me of from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.’
‘I’ve often felt, my dear, that there isn’t such a great distance after all between those two texts!’
‘It was the memories that were awful really, not anything present.’
‘I wonder if you can be sure of that? Are you really out of it?’
‘Of course not. I’m just whistling in the dark.’
‘I’m afraid nowadays it’s you young people who are cynical and we middle-aged ones who are idealistic.’
‘We aren’t cynical. And you aren’t idealistic. You’re just a lot of self-centred habit-ridden hedonists.’
‘Well, maybe. But I’m inclined to think that it’s decent self-centred habit-ridden hedonists who keep this society going!’
‘Why should this society be kept going? The trouble is, you can’t see our morality as a morality.’
‘I confess I see it as a form of lunacy!’
‘Your morality is static. Ours is dynamic. What this age needs is a dynamic morality.’
‘Morality is static by definition. A dynamic
morality is a contradiction in terms.’
‘Nothing is real unless it’s felt and present. Your world is all elsewhere.’
‘Hello, Simon, you were quick. What a super shirt. I like the way the light pink strips contrast with the dark blue and the green.’
‘Thank you, Morgan, it’s Indian. I think it does rather suit me. The pink matches Hilda, doesn’t it. Got drinks, everybody? Why, Peter, you haven’t got a drink.’
‘Nothing for me, thank you.’
‘But you must drink something!’
‘I’ll have some water. There’s some in that jug, isn’t there?’
‘Here you are, you abstemious boy. You put us all to shame. Isn’t it funny how the young don’t drink nowadays. It makes one quite uneasy.’
‘It’s not the only thing about them that does that!’
‘But of course you’ll see Tallis again soon?’
‘I don’t know. It seems possible, likely. But I have no intentions at the moment. Thinking Tallis through is going to take a long time. And there’s something else I’ve got to do, something rather urgent, before I can even start on that thinking.’
‘Hilda dear, isn’t this a happy scene? Wouldn’t you say, dear?’
‘Yes, Simon, I hope so!’
‘So long as Peter and Rupert aren’t quarrelling. Can you hear what they’re talking about, Hilda?’
‘No, Morgan, but at least they’re talking. Peter hasn’t set foot here for ages. We have you to thank for this visitation.’
‘Morgan, I’ve finished your wreath. It’s a work of art. Look, everybody. I’ve finished Morgan’s wreath. I’m going to crown her Queen of Priory Grove.’
Everyone stopped talking. Peter and Rupert, who had been sitting on the teak seat just outside the drawing room windows, rose and joined the group beside the pool. Hilda and Morgan were sitting on the flagstones. Axel, in shirt sleeves, was sitting in a canvas chair beside the white cast iron table. Simon, dressed in light blue trousers and his striped Indian shirt, pirouetted about with the wreath and then with an elaborate gesture of obeisance laid it lightly upon Morgan’s dark hair.
‘Charming,’ cried Hilda. ‘Darling, you could wear that to Ascot!’
The wreath, densely woven out of profusely flowering branch-lets of Albertine and Little White Pet, formed a rather high pink and white crown, laced with glossy apple green leaves and translucent red stems. It gave Morgan a curiously formal and dressed up appearance, as if she were indeed bound for Ascot or a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
‘You must see yourself!’ cried Simon. ‘I’ll get a mirror.’
‘Here’s one in my bag,’ said Hilda.
Morgan surveyed herself. There were smiles, some of them a little forced.
‘Simon, you really are an artist.’
‘Now you’re Queen of the May, darling, except that it’s July, and—’
‘And I hardly qualify technically as a May Queen. Ooh, it’s rather prickly, Simon.’
‘Odd thought,’ observed Axel to himself. ‘The original crown of thorns might have been a crown of roses.’
‘I think Peter ought to wear it,’ said Morgan, ‘that would be much more suitable. I’m not guessing about your sex life, Peter! But you’re obviously the youngest and least corrupted person present! Come here.’ She began to scramble to her feet.
A little sulkily Peter bowed his large blond head and let Morgan perch the pink and white confection on the top of it. It was too small for him and looked extremely absurd. It was suddenly evident how very big Peter was, plump and burly, broad-shouldered, larger than his father. Everybody laughed.
‘Oh, Peter, you do look a scream!’ said Hilda. ‘You make it look like a pre-Raphaelite bird’s nest! All it needs is an enormous white dove sitting on top to complete it!’
‘I think it looks lovely on him,’ cried Simon. ‘Peter, you look enchanting. Like a young woodland god. A sort of male Flora.’
‘In that case I think you should wear it,’ said Peter. He pulled it off rather roughly and gave it to Simon.
‘You’ve scratched your forehead, Peter,’ said Morgan. She touched his brow and her hand came away with a smear of blood.
Simon had put the wreath on. It fitted him perfectly. The tall crown of roses extended the thin lines of his features and lent a sudden ambiguous elfin beauty to his now rather flushed and laughing face. ‘Oh Hilda, I must see myself. I do look rather marvellous, don’t I, Axel? Who am I? Puck? Ariel? Peaseblossom? Mustardseed?’ He began to dance lightly about on the hot flagstones.
‘I understood that even they were males,’ said Peter.
‘Don’t be so nasty, Peter,’ said Hilda, laughing.
‘I must be going,’ said Peter.
Simon stopped dancing.
‘Please don’t go yet, Peter,’ said Morgan. ‘Stay here for dinner. There’d be plenty, wouldn’t there, Hilda.’
‘Of course there would.’
‘Oh let him go if he wants to,’ said Axel. ‘Look, I think we must be going too. We’ve got a dinner engagement.’
‘No we haven’t!’ said Simon. ‘We’re entirely free—Oh yes, I’d forgotten, of course, we have a dinner engagement.’
‘Simon and I must go, Hilda.’
‘Well, you needn’t offer me a lift,’ said Peter.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Axel. He began to put on his jacket.
‘Do let’s all have one more drink,’ said Simon. ‘Peter, do drink something, not just water. It would do you good.’
‘What sort of good? You people all drink in order to escape from reality. I happen to like reality. I’m staying with it, not taking off for the land of make-believe.’
‘Don’t be so censorious, Peter!’ said Rupert.
‘You are hard on us!’ said Simon.
‘Well, I’m going to have another drink anyway,’ said Morgan. ‘What about you, Hilda?’
‘Come on, Simon,’ said Axel. ‘Get moving.’
‘Oh please not yet, Axel. We were all so much enjoying ourselves a moment ago.’
‘Pity you all have to get drunk to enjoy yourselves, isn’t it,’ said Peter. ‘I suppose that’s the result of higher education.’
‘A little higher education in good manners would do you no harm,’ said Axel.
‘What you people call good manners is just hypocrisy and buttering each other up. I happen to prefer the truth.’
‘The truth is the reward of a hard discipline,’ said Rupert. ‘You’ll understand that when you’re older. It can’t be just snatched up with a careless gesture.’
‘Peter, please don’t pick a quarrel with us,’ said Hilda. ‘It’s been such a joy to see you here.’
‘You all drink every day, don’t you,’ said Peter. ‘You drink at lunch-time and you drink all the evening. You never go to bed sober. It’s an addiction. You couldn’t do without it. How many drinks do you have a day, mother?’
‘Peter!’
‘Civilization, Peter, is based on not saying what you think,’ said Axel. ‘It’s based on inhibiting one’s impulses. You’ll learn that in time. Come now, and don’t be so cross with us.’
‘Peter, please don’t spoil things,’ said Simon.
‘Well, you started it. I think you’re a lot of hypocrites.’
‘Peter, Peter,’ said Hilda. ‘That’s just silly abuse and doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘Doesn’t it? You all pretend to like each other but you don’t really. You say the most spiteful things behind each other’s backs. You pretend to admire my father but you say his book is rotten. You don’t say that to him of course, oh no! I at least—’
‘Peter, please—’ said Hilda.
‘Enough, enough!’ said Rupert.
Peter, who was still holding his glass of water, had retreated as far as the drawing room windows. Hilda hovered near him, making little impulsive movements as if she would have liked to dash and seize him, perhaps to hustle him away before worse happened. Axel, beside the white tab
le, was going through the ritual of imminent departure in slow motion, with a bored expression on his face. Simon, still wearing the rose crown, was looking distractedly from Peter to Axel and even more distractedly into his empty glass. Rupert, standing by the wall, was nervously adjusting a spray of pink roses which Simon had pulled out of place. Showers of pale petals fell suddenly onto the stiff spires of dark blue delphiniums. Rupert seemed apart from the scene. Simon quickly filled his glass with gin. Morgan, feet wide apart, was watching it all with amusement. ‘At ’em, Peter, at ’em!’ she cried.
‘Oh God, it’s so hot,’ Hilda moaned.
‘Simon and I are going,’ said Axel. ‘I think this little drama can proceed better without us.’ He removed the glass from Simon’s hand and began to move towards the drawing room door.
‘And why don’t you tell the truth!’ said Peter. He pointed a long arm at Axel, who stopped in his tracks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You keep your relationship with Simon a dark secret, don’t you! Oh you let us know because we’re your so-called dear friends and we’re discreet. You can rely on us to tell lies on your behalf. But you’d die if everyone knew. You’d be ashamed!’
‘I would not be ashamed!’ said Axel, in a voice electric with anger.
‘Peter, please come inside, come with me!’ cried Hilda.
‘Why do you lie about it then? Why don’t you tell everyone in Whitehall that you live with another man? Are you afraid of losing your precious job? Afraid of being called a pansy? Why don’t you tell the truth to the world?’
‘Peter, stop that!’ cried Rupert. He tore himself away from the wall, opening his arms helplessly.
Axel was silent for a moment. Then he said in a cold voice, ‘My private life is my own affair. And would be if I were heterosexual. Why should I tell Whitehall whom I sleep with? I don’t reject this society. I live and work in it and make my own judgements about how this is best to be done. You accuse us of hypocrisy. All right. Very few human beings are innocent of that. But I think you should also consider your own case. Let me suggest this. Why do you refuse to continue your education? Not for the reasons which you so loudly profess. But because you are afraid to compete intellectually with your peers, you are afraid of measuring yourself against other people, you are afraid of turning out to be third rate. So you decide not to compete at all. You retire into your dream world of drugs and layabouts and fuzzy fragments of Eastern philosophy about which you really understand nothing, and you call that reality. If you want to change our society, and I agree it needs changing, you must first learn how to think, and that requires a kind of humility which you show no sign of possessing. You imagine you’ve stepped out of society. You haven’t and you can’t. You’re nothing but a symptom of corruption, a miserable little scab upon the body politic. You’re a part of the thing and you seem to prefer to be a powerless and unconscious part. If you really want to get out of it you’d better emigrate or commit suicide.’
