by Iris Murdoch
‘I—got to know.’
‘I hope it’s not being talked about or made a thing of?’
‘You’re being very calm about it, Hilda.’
‘Why not?’ said Hilda. ‘It’s not in any way alarming, in fact it’s been very valuable. After all they’re both fairly sensible people and the difference in their ages—’
‘Hilda, you amaze me,’ said Julius. ‘I’ll confess now that I’ve always admired you. Now I reverence you.’
‘You’re beginning to worry me, Julius!’ said Hilda. ‘Have some more lemonade, no? Perhaps I ought to be more troubled. But I don’t see that anyone is going to be hurt—’
Julius let out a long breath. ‘Hilda you’re marvellous. So genuinely unconventional! And you aren’t just heroic, you’re probably also wise. After all as you say, two sensible people, these things blow over, if one has the sense just to wait and not to interfere, and of course it’s probably just a sort of kind-heartedness on both sides—’
Hilda laughed. ‘I don’t think it’s kind-heartedness on Peter’s side!’ she said. ‘I think poor Peter has really fallen a bit in love with his Aunt Morgan. But it’s just calf love and I know Morgan will deal with it sensibly.’
There was a silence. The silence lasted oddly long. Hilda turned to look at Julius. He was looking at her with a strange horrified expression. ‘What is it, Julius?’
‘Peter. I see. I’m sorry I—I thought we were talking of—something else—oh dear—’
‘What else could we be talking of?’ said Hilda, surprised.
‘Oh yes, yes, what indeed. Yes, Peter, of course. Dear me, how late it is. Hilda, I really must go.’ Julius rose to his feet.
‘But whatever did you think we were talking about?’ said Hilda. She rose too.
‘Oh nothing. A complete misunderstanding. I mean, yes, of course I was talking about Peter. Morgan told me all about it. Excuse me, Hilda, I must go. I think I should call on Morgan since I’m so near. Thank you for the lemonade.’
‘Morgan’s out of London,’ said Hilda. ‘She’ll be away for a week or two.’
‘Well, well, she told you that, did she? I mean, oh yes I see, out of London! Yes, yes, Hilda, I must run.’
They were at the front door.
‘You’ve confused me, Julius,’ said Hilda. ‘What did you mean just now when you said—’
‘Nothing, nothing. Just about Peter. Hilda, I—Forgive me, forgive me.’
Julius kissed her hand. Then he departed rapidly with a wave and began to run away down the sunlit shadowed street.
Hilda held the hand which Julius had kissed in her other hand. She was not used to having her hand kissed. She returned slowly into the drawing room. She felt completely puzzled. Then she began to feel frightened, as if her life was suddenly menaced.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I’VE PUT THE IRISES in the white art nouveau jug,’ said Simon. ‘I hope you approve.’
‘I defer to you in such matters, dear boy.’
‘But say you think they’re nice.’
‘I think they’re lovely.’
It was Axel’s birthday.
Simon had after all decided against the salmon trout. They were to start with whitebait and retsina. After that a cassoulet with rice and Nuits de Young. Then a lemon sorbet. Then a salad of chicory and cos lettuce with a light dressing. Then white Stilton cheese and special wholemeal biscuits from the shop in Baker Street, with a very faintly sweetish hock.
It was of course rather hot weather for a cassoulet but Simon especially enjoyed making this dish. Also it was an absorbing task and just now he instinctively tried to find himself one absorbing task after another. He had made a start on it yesterday evening, cooking the beans with careful additions of onions, garlic, thyme, parsley, basil, gammon and pieces of sticky pork rind. That afternoon, which he had taken off from the museum, he had roasted some mutton and half a duck while the beans were heating up again to simmer quietly. After that the big brown earthenware pot which they had bought in Besançon was packed with layers of beans followed by layers of duck, mutton and garlic sausage, followed by more layers of beans, followed by more layers of duck, mutton and garlic sausage, all the way up to the top. Then a slow oven until the upper beans were crusty. Stir the crusty beans in and let other beans get crusty. Stir these in. The climax had almost been reached.
‘Doesn’t the smell of this make you almost faint with joy?’ said Simon to Axel. ‘I must say, I’m terribly hungry. We must be careful not to eat too much whitebait.’
‘I thought you never liked eating a fish if you could see its eyes. Perhaps whitebait’s eyes are too small to be accusing!’
‘Axel, please, this is no moment for sentimentality! I hope you followed my instructions and had no lunch.’
They were both in the kitchen holding glasses of sherry in their hands. Simon was wearing a very long plastic apron with pink and white daisies upon it.
‘I thought it was rather quaint to be forbidden to have lunch on my birthday!’
‘But in a cause like this!’
‘I had a light lunch.’
‘You don’t take food seriously!’
‘Isn’t cassoulet a bit rich for this weather?’
‘It’ll make you perspire and then you’ll feel cooler.’
‘What a lot you’ve made. We’ll be eating it for days.’
‘It’s delicious cold.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t take food seriously,’ said Axel. ‘I’m very puritan really.’
‘A fact which we’ve discussed in other contexts, darling!’
‘Eating reveals the characteristic grossness of the human race and also the in-built failure of its satisfactions. We arrive eager, we stuff ourselves and we go away depressed and disappointed and probably feeling a bit queasy into the bargain. It’s an image of the déçu in human existence. A greedy start and a stupefied finish. Waiters, who are constantly observing this cycle, must be the most disillusioned of men.’
‘Really, Axel, in the presence of my cassoulet! I think it would be delicate to retire to the drawing room.’
They went up to the drawing room. The picture of the kouros, briefly in eclipse, was back in its accustomed place. Simon began to rearrange the irises. They were tall bearded irises in a number of unusual colours, purples which were almost black, oranges which were almost brown, and extremely metallic luminous bright blues. They had cost Simon a large sum of money at Harrods.
‘You do like your tie, don’t you, Axel?’
‘Yes, delightful.’
Axel was wearing a rather dark and discreetly flowery tie which Simon had given him and which seemed rather like a piece of background from a pre-Raphaelite picture. The problem of Axel’s taste in ties remained obscure. When Simon had first known him, Axel tended absently to wear the same tie every day, an extremely dreary darkish blue affair with white spots on it. Simon, in an effort to educate his friend, had at first made, as he now realized, the mistake of applying shock tactics. About ties Axel was impeccably polite and mysterious. He accepted with exclamations of pleasure the Matisse-like offerings with which Simon had hoped to enliven his sense of colour. However Simon observed that these gifts were very rarely worn and that the white spotted monstrosity tended, after a short interval, to reappear, until one day Simon quietly purloined it and dropped it into a waste basket outside Barons Court underground station. Later on, more tactful and with deeper knowledge of his subject, Simon conceived a special style for Axel, something darkish yet rich in colour, intricate and yet not startling in design. Like someone studying an animal on a new diet, Simon watched Axel’s tie behaviour. After a considerable repertoire had been built up Simon was even able to compile statistics and thus to discover the point at which his own taste and Axel’s tended to converge. The birthday tie was, in Simon’s opinion, bang on.
‘And you like your shirts?’
‘Yes, yes, just the right ones, thank you, my dear.’
That was rath
er a dull present. Axel had insisted on instructing Simon exactly which shirts to buy him. This was, it is true, in the light of one or two rather expensive failures in the past. Axel was indeed not at all an easy man to give presents to. He tended to say, ‘But I’ve got one of those,’ when some carefully selected and uniquely designed garment was presented to him. Simon mooted the possibility that his friend was colour blind. Now I’m awfully easy to give presents to, thought Simon. There are so many many things that I like and want. He fondled the royal blue cravat with emerald green acanthus leaves upon it which he was wearing tucked into the neck of his palest of pale green shirts.
‘You’ve got a new cravat, Simon. You are an extravagant boy.’
‘I’m always allowed to buy myself a present on your birthday. It’s a tradition. The house gets a present on your birthday too.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve noticed. You’ve bought another piece of that expensive Irish cut glass. Do be more prudent, my dear creature, we aren’t made of money.’
Simon loved that ‘we’.
This was the sort of moment when he should have been feeling very happy. And in a way he did feel happy. Since the incident in the Chinese restaurant Axel had been entirely restored to good temper. He was even exceptionally affectionate to Simon and seemed to have completely forgotten his annoyance about Morgan. What a proof of love this pardon was, thought Simon, and how joyful it would have made him if only it were not for this complication about Julius. Simon found himself thinking obsessively about Julius and about the curious situation in which Julius had involved him, without at all succeeding in understanding what that situation was. It was something bad and rather frightening and it involved telling lies. It was also something somehow deeply disgusting. Julius seemed to be trying to involve him in some sort of conspiracy, but with what purpose? If only Simon had not concealed from Axel that rather unpleasant scene at Julius’s flat. If only, for the sin went further back, he had not concealed from Axel that Julius had asked him to go to his flat. If Simon had only told the truth at the second stage, although he might have had a rough time it would all have been over by now. Like a criminal who asks for other misdemeanours to be taken into account, Simon could by now have unloaded the whole thing and be able with a clear and open heart to enjoy the latest proofs of Axel’s love. Was there not some moment when he could have told Axel everything? Should he not now perhaps tell him everything?
Simon was still in a condition of hurt shock about what he had been made by Julius to overhear at the museum. This particular secret was unutterably burdensome, and yet Simon felt forced to conclude that he must continue to carry it. The revelation would mean the telling of the whole story. And it was not just that he feared Julius’s threats. He did fear them, deeply connected as they were with the permanent nightmares of his life. It was also that if he told Axel this it would be a betrayal involving other people. Would it be wise to tell Axel at this stage? Julius had pointed out the problem. What would Axel do? Would he keep quiet or would he rush round to Rupert or even to Hilda? Axel disliked Morgan. Would he not blame her and wish to discredit her? And he hated concealments. There would be a terrible painful muddle, even perhaps a scandal. Simon was not helped to think clearly by his continued inability quite to believe that Julius was telling the truth. Had Julius really engineered it all, made Rupert and Morgan each believe that the other was in love? How on earth had he done it? And yet if he had not somehow arranged it how had he known where they would be meeting each other? Of course he might have intercepted a letter. This dreadful involvement of Rupert and Morgan might have happened quite independently of Julius, and Julius might have decided for obscure reasons of his own to mystify Simon about it. And if Julius really had started it could he also stop it, and stop it painlessly as he had boasted to Simon that he would? Could Julius at any point be trusted or believed? How could this tangle not have some agonizing dénouement? If only it were not these particular two people! Simon felt an awful confused jealous pain about it on his own account. He hoped that it would all somehow end quietly, so quietly that later on it would seem never to have happened at all. It was partly this hope which persuaded him not to open his heart to Axel.
Simon was haunted. But human beings get used to leading double lives. He avoided Seymour Walk and Priory Grove. And when he was with Axel these things faded, seemed not to matter too much, seemed quite likely to turn out all right after all. As Simon fussed about, rearranging the irises, patting the cushions, and pouring more very dry sherry into Axel’s glass, he felt quite relaxed and cheerful.
‘Oh by the way,’ said Axel. ‘I forgot to tell you. Julius rang up and asked if he could come round tonight.’
‘Oh no!’ Simon put the bottle down on the table with a loud clack.
‘I said that was O.K.,’ said Axel. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I thought it was rather brilliant of Julius to remember it was my birthday.’
‘Oh God,’ said Simon. He lifted the bottle and automatically wiped the wet ring off the table with his handkerchief.
‘You don’t mind, do you, Simon? What is it?’
‘I thought it was going to be just you and me,’ said Simon. ‘I was so much looking forward to it.’
‘Don’t be childish. After all we dine tête-à-tête a good many evenings in the year. Why worry so much about this one?’
‘This one’s special. Oh Axel, I do think you might have consulted me.’
‘Well, how could I, it would have seemed so rude. I had to say yes or no straightaway.’
‘You should have said no.’
‘Really, Simon! And suppose I rather like the idea of seeing Julius tonight?’
‘Then why don’t you go out and have dinner with him.’
‘Simon, stop it! You really must stop these irrational puerile bursts of jealousy, they spoil everything. Why don’t you think a little before you speak? You’re behaving like a child of three. Julius is an old friend, and I’m not going to give up my old friends just to humour your infantile possessiveness. I’m fed up with these sort of tantrums. You know perfectly well that I love you. I think you’re being damned ungrateful.’
‘Oh all right, all right, sorry. It isn’t that anyway. I mean I’m not jealous. It’s just—Sorry, Axel. But I did arrange everything so carefully, and now you suddenly spring this on me.’
‘Well, you can’t claim there isn’t enough to eat!’
‘There won’t be enough whitebait.’
‘You said yourself we shouldn’t eat much whitebait. Come, Simon, it’s my birthday, which you insist on celebrating. Don’t be cross with me. Maybe I should have told you sooner, but I just forgot. So you see it can’t have been all that important to me!’
‘Yes, yes. Sorry, darling. When is Julius coming?’
‘Now I come to think of it, he didn’t say. He just asked if he could drop in.’
‘So I suppose we’ll just have to wait for him indefinitely! The cassoulet will spoil.’
Simon went down to the kitchen and stared at the big brown earthenware pot which they had bought in Besançon. Everything was suddenly blackened and deadened. Oh if only he hadn’t ever started telling lies to Axel.
‘What ho, Axel.’
‘What what, Julius?’
‘What ho. Isn’t that what one says in England?’
‘Not any more I’m afraid. But never mind. What ho, Julius.’
‘Many happy returns.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hello, Simon, you’re looking very beautiful.’
‘Would you like a dry martini?’
‘No, thank you. I find my touchy and fastidious inside has proved grateful for a moratorium on dry martinis since I came to England. And I think my migraine is better too. Just a little whisky, if you please. May I sit here?’
The cassoulet was overcooked. Simon had refused Axel’s plea that as Julius was so late they should begin without him. He had insisted on waiting for Julius. It was now after nine o’clock.
&nb
sp; Julius was looking rather immaculate and clerical in a black suit of very light material. He had brought in with him and placed without comment beside his chair an extremely large box wrapped up in brown paper. From the way he handled it the box appeared to be fairly light. Simon eyed it with uneasy curiosity. Whatever could it contain? It must be a present for Axel.
‘What a very English interior this is,’ said Julius. He was sipping his drink and looking round the room with satisfaction.
‘What’s English about it?’ said Simon. He was feeling nervy, irritated and miserable. He had got into the mood when he wanted everything to be awkward, embarrassing and awful.
‘Oh just that calm confident multicoloured eclecticism! Americans are afraid of colours and afraid of muddling styles. The result is usually something dreadfully bare and ugly. One can’t be cosy in America.’
‘You’re looking very well, Julius,’ said Axel. ‘Life in England seems to be suiting you. I hear rumours of your settling down in London.’
Axel and Julius were in the two larger armchairs on either side of the fireplace, their legs well stretched out. They looked maddeningly relaxed. The reproachful smell of the cassoulet crept about in the background. Simon was agonizingly hungry.
‘Yes, I’m thinking of it. London is such a civilized city and so calming to the nerves. I don’t think I could live in Paris now, could you?’
‘No. I’ve never liked Paris much. I still imagine I could live in Rome, but it may be an illusion. I’ve always had a fantasy life in Rome.’
‘Have you really? Now isn’t that odd, so have I. Though I’ve never actually been there for more than a few weeks at a time.’
‘Neither have I. But it does haunt one. That coagulated mass of history. The way the buildings jumble together. It’s so gorgeously untidy, like London.’
‘Exactly. I love the village life of Rome.’
‘Those innumerable little squares.’
‘And the fountains.’
‘And the white statues among trees.’
‘And the ancient pillars built into Renaissance walls.’
