by Iris Murdoch
‘Well, that’s the story. It’s not without interest. Hilda has fled from Priory Grove and gone to the cottage in Pembrokeshire. Only she hasn’t told Rupert that. She told him that she’s gone to Paris. She doesn’t want him to follow her, you see.’
‘Surely she hasn’t really left him, she can’t have—’
‘Time will show. Meanwhile—’
‘But why?’
‘Because Hilda thinks that Rupert is having a love affair with Morgan.’
Tallis stared at Julius’s bland judicious face. Julius had the air of one explaining something to a pupil. ‘You said something about Morgan and Rupert when you were here last—only I didn’t believe you. I thought—naturally Rupert would want to help Morgan—it could be nothing important—I thought—’
‘And in a way you thought right,’ said Julius.
‘It’s impossible that they should be having a love affair.’
‘Here you are doubtless quite right. They are not having a love affair, I imagine.’
‘Then why—’
‘However they are certainly rather involved with each other, and from Hilda’s point of view—’
‘But what has happened? And why should Hilda—?’
‘Wait, wait, one thing at a time. I must admit it is rather complicated. Your picture of Rupert and Morgan is entirely just. And if they had been left to themselves there would have been no involvement, beyond the little bit of sentimentality which you so properly conjectured. Only they were not left to themselves. Someone intervened.’
‘Who?’
‘Me.’
‘Why?’ said Tallis.
‘You are jumping ahead. Don’t you want to know exactly what happened? Anyway you know why. As I say, it is rather complicated and it’s not easy to know exactly where to start.’
‘Go on, go on.’
‘You see, it all hinges upon letters.’
‘Letters ?’
‘Yes. Human beings should be awfully careful about letters. They are such powerful tools. Yet people will write them, in moments of emotion too, and other people will fail to destroy them.’
‘What letters? Whose letters?’
‘Don’t hurry me. It all started—well, I don’t know when it started—in a sense I suppose in South Carolina—but then where does anything start? It started in a more immediate sense when I was prowling round one evening by myself at Priory Grove. You know how they always leave the door open. Well, no one seemed to be in so I started exploring. I’m afraid I rather enjoy poking round people’s houses. You’d be surprised what one can find. Considering how nasty the human race is, it’s amazing how carelessly trusting it can be too. Anyway, I went into Hilda’s study, what she calls her boudoir. There were a few letters lying about and I read them. I always read any letters I find. Nothing of interest, all about her various charities and so on. I was rather idly wondering whether Hilda had any secret life. Most people have after all. And I began to search the desk. That sort of eighteenth century desk has always got a secret drawer, only it isn’t secret because they all have them and it’s usually not too difficult to find. I fiddled round and found the secret drawer in Hilda’s desk and sure enough it was full of love letters. Only they were from Rupert. Hilda’s secret life was her husband. Do you mind if I drink some water? No, don’t get up, I’ll just wash this cup under the tap.’
Julius resumed. ‘I put the letters back and smiled over Hilda’s virtue and then I strolled downstairs and there was Rupert, who had in fact been out in the garden, and we had a drink and started to talk about his book. And that I must confess rather annoyed me. I don’t suppose Rupert’s ever bored you with his ideas, I think he would probably feel that theorizing was quite out of place with you. But he always makes a dead set at me. Anyway the book was mentioned and then Rupert started to hold forth about goodness, and this sort of talk sickens me, as I expect it does you. And I couldn’t help wondering how old Rupert would stand up to a real test and what all this high-minded muck would really amount to in practice. You see what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Tallis. He was leaning tensely forward, the table pressing into his chest. The room was getting darker.
‘About the same time, or a little later, I began to get really bored with Morgan. Well, bored is the wrong word perhaps. I began to feel a sort of disgust. I imagined she’d have the sense to leave me alone, but of course she hadn’t. I kept stepping on her everywhere I went. Morgan has a remarkable capacity for making false images of people and then persecuting the people with the images. Well, you know that. Anyway she’d cast me in some sort of role as a liberating force and then she started talking some nauseating drivel about freedom. I expect she talked it to you too.’
‘Yes,’ said Tallis.
‘About freedom and love and about loving without bonds or conventions like a noble savage, I forget how it ran. In a way it was a broken down version of Rupert’s stuff. And she seemed to want my imprimatur on this tosh, or rather she seemed to assume that she’d got it. Then I’m afraid I did rather lead her on.’
‘How, lead her on?’
‘I just wanted to make her make nonsense of her ideas, at least that was all I wanted at first. I wanted to see how far she’d go, without even noticing it, into frivolity and cynicism. I was amazed to see how readily she responded. I was talking about the frailty of human attachments and she was pretending to disagree and egging me on at the same time and I said that anyone’s faith in anyone could be broken in no time by the simplest of devices. She said No! all big eyes and lip-licking sophisticated superiority and bet me it couldn’t be done. So then we selected a victim.’
‘A victim? Who?’
‘Simon.’
‘Simon?’
‘Axel and Simon, that is. Morgan bet me ten guineas that I couldn’t detach Simon from Axel in three weeks.’
‘My God,’ said Tallis.
‘Yes. I was pretty disgusted. On reflection very disgusted. And then one day when I was thinking about Morgan, and then thinking about Rupert, and how in a way they were quite a pair, I suddenly decided that I might as well set them at each other.’
‘I see,’ said Tallis. ‘Go on.’
‘Morgan wanted a demonstration of the frailty of human attachments. I decided that she should provide the demonstration. I also wanted to get her off my back and it was a way of doing it. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘As for the method, as I said it all depended on letters, and when it came to it, it was surprisingly easy, as almost all attempts to beguile human beings turn out to be easy. There’s hardly any deception, if you choose it carefully enough, with which people will not co-operate. Egoism moves them, fear moves them, and off they go. Now I had kept all the love letters which Morgan wrote to me in South Carolina, when our thing was just getting going—’
‘You’d kept them?’
‘Yes. You mightn’t expect it, but I am rather sentimental. Anyway I had those letters with me. And there in Hilda’s desk was an excellent set of Rupert’s love letters to her. I went in quietly one afternoon and purloined them. I now had a splendid pack of cards and had only to play them with care. I went through the letters and crossed out any local references. Almost all the letters began “Darling” or “Angel” or something equally ambiguous. In fact the style of love letters in a certain class of society is remarkably similar. This is particularly true of women’s letters, even of intellectual women’s letters. I’ve had hundreds of them. That sort of ecstatic self-indulgent running on has an almost impersonal quality. And of course vanity blinds the reader. So it was not likely that the recipients would realize that the letters were not really intended for them at all. I set the whole machine going by sending off simultaneously a carefully selected love letter of Rupert’s to Morgan and a love letter of Morgan’s to Rupert. In each letter I appointed a meeting-place. It was quite easy to produce a scrawl, like a hastily written postscript, which looked sufficiently like the writing up above it
. People don’t examine writing carefully, especially if they know the writer and are reading something which titillates their vanity and their curiosity. They both came, of course, to the rendezvous. I had arranged to be a witness of this, and I took little Simon Foster with me. I won’t bother you with the details of my eavesdropping, which were ingenious. As for Simon, as I said he’s not important. I did torment him a little, I confess, but he was a side dish. I didn’t ever really intend to take him away from Axel. Well, Rupert and Morgan arrived, both bursting with curiosity and interest and excitement at having so unexpectedly inspired passionate love in the other one, and both resolved to carry the whole thing through with discretion, compassion, wisdom, the lot, this to be compatible of course with extracting the utmost fun from a fascinating situation. You follow me?’
‘Yes,’ said Tallis.
‘Of course,’ said Julius, ‘the plan might have fallen to bits at the start if those two had been a little more down to earth, but it was of the essence of the business that they were away up in the air. No one said anything as crude as “Look here, I didn’t quite understand this letter of yours,” or “I am very dismayed to learn that you are in love with me.” They set off straightaway with delicate references to the situation and considering each other’s feelings and how each should be most chivalrous to the other and so forth and so on. I was sorry that I couldn’t overhear more than the beginning of the conversation, but it was obvious that they were well away. And one could be quite sure that a few days of this sentimental pussyfooting around would produce such a web of emotional confusion that they would soon no longer be in a position to verify anything. In the days that followed I sent off some more of the letters, choosing ones that looked as if they’d be suitable. It was really rather fun choosing the letters. Then after a while I stopped because I judged that by now they would both be quite capable of writing their own love letters. You see, since each thought that the other was bound, while they themselves were free, they could become thoroughly absorbed in the drama while feeling superior and even innocent. Mix up pity and vanity and novelty in an emotional person and you at once produce something very much like being in love.’
‘What about Hilda?’ said Tallis.
‘I’m coming to Hilda. I did not neglect Hilda. I know it sounds heartless, but my curiosity was aroused and I wanted to see how far everyone would go. You know, any woman can be flattered into doing anything. You just can’t lay it on too thick. Just flatter them outrageously, it simply doesn’t matter how outrageously, and they will lose their minds, like some birds and animals when they’re tickled in a certain kind of way. However I was, I confess, a trifle disappointed in Hilda. I don’t always care for easy successes and I expected Hilda’s case to present interesting difficulties. But a few hints soon made her suspicious. And by this time there really was something to be suspicious about. I brought the thing to a climax by a real master stroke. I had already discovered earlier on, during one of my little prowls, that Rupert’s desk contained a secret drawer, rather like Hilda’s. Rupert’s secret drawer was empty, rather dusty and obviously not in use. Hiding things in secret drawers is a female occupation. I took one of Morgan’s ecstatic missives, one written soon after she and I had first been to bed and full of more than suggestive references, and tucked it into the secret drawer in Rupert’s desk. Then I half suggested to Hilda that she might relieve her mind by searching her husband’s desk. Of course she indignantly denied that she would do any such thing, and of course she went straightaway and did it. And found Morgan’s letter.’
‘How do you know?’ said Tallis.
‘Hilda told me. She has been a very willing informant throughout. I must say, I do respect Hilda and I don’t blame her too much for getting lost. She is a very good-natured and kindly person who doesn’t think too much about herself. She’s not interested in herself, the way the others are. This is what makes her so restful to be with. She used to be a bit hostile to me, you know, but I’m glad to say she’s entirely got over it. I so much enjoyed talking to her and being with her. She’s entirely truthful and genuine, unlike her sister. In fact in other circumstances Hilda—There is something so relaxing—Well, I suppose I always did rather want a mother figure—However I didn’t come here to talk about myself.’
‘What’s happened now to Rupert and Morgan?’
‘I don’t know the very latest, but Hilda told me all she knew before she took off for Wales. Rupert is so tied up with guilt and damaged vanity and loss of face he can’t say or do anything straight. Morgan, with her eternal determination to have everything all ways and eat all cakes and have them too, has been appealing to her sister to go on loving her in the sacred name of childhood days. I must say, they have behaved predictably to an extent which is quite staggering. Indeed if any of them had been less than predictable the whole enterprise would have collapsed at an early stage. They really are puppets, puppets.’
‘You haven’t talked to Rupert or Morgan about it?’
‘I’ve kept clear of Morgan. I find her company very lowering, even the pleasures of curiosity have palled. I had a few words with Rupert. He was mainly concerned with the destruction of the big spotless Rupert-image which he’s been living by, and which he mistakes for some sort of vision of goodness. He was also rather down in the mouth because Peter had destroyed his book.’
‘Peter destroyed Rupert’s book?’
‘Yes. Tore it up into small pieces. And unfortunately it’s the only copy. Still, I don’t think the world has lost a masterpiece.’
‘But why did Peter—?’
‘Well, poor Peter’s always been in love with mama and lately he’s been in love with auntie too, and when he found out that papa was betraying mama with auntie it was a bit too much for the poor lad.’
‘How did he find out?’
‘I told him. He came round once when I was with Hilda and Hilda was in tears. I told her I’d see him off the premises and tell him some reassuring story. I told him in fact, in a curtailed version, the truth, and his imagination did the rest. He then set off to make a scene and doubtless caused much dismay. Maybe I shouldn’t have told Peter, it was just my instinct as an artist, it was entirely impromptu. And I suppose he would have found out anyway.’
‘When did Hilda go to Wales?’ said Tallis.
‘The day before yesterday. I would have come to see you yesterday, only I had the most terrible migraine. Indeed, I might have told you all about it last time I came. I half intended to, only you started telling me about your father and then it seemed out of place to start on this rather peculiar story.’
‘Why are you telling me now?’
‘Oh you know why. And I didn’t really intend things to proceed quite so far. It all got rather out of hand. I expect you have this sort of experience too. And honestly I’m getting a bit tired of it and I don’t know what to do next.’
Tallis sat for a moment reflecting. Then he jumped up. ‘We must telephone to Hilda.’
‘You mean tell her all this?’
‘Yes. They must all be told. At once. Not the house phone, everyone hears every word. There’s a phone box down the street. Come on.’
‘Are you going to talk to Hilda?’
‘No. You’re going to talk to Hilda.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT WAS RAINING. The wind rattled the windows and bore down over the wet grass, flattening it, shaking it. Twilight was coming over the treeless land with a chilly brownish greenish autumnal glow, bright in the light rain.
Hilda had imagined that the solitude of the cottage would be a refuge, that it would provide a kind of freedom. She had imagined herself sitting there and steadily thinking things out. She had been careful to deceive Rupert into believing that she was going abroad. After two days however the loneliness and all sorts of physical fears which invaded her weakened organism had reduced her to such a state of panicky misery that she was quite incapable of thinking at all. She had never been alone at the cottage before.
There had always been Rupert’s strong, full reassuring presence, a completely effective bulwark against anxiety of any kind. The cottage made her miss him dreadfully in an instinctive way, and she wept. Day-time and night-time became equally terrible. Strange distant figures appeared on the horizon during the day, seeming to watch. Things disappeared from the outhouses. Windows opened and banged horribly. At night there were noises to which Hilda sat breathlessly listening. Bodies seemed to brush against the walls of the house. Latches were quietly lifted and bolted doors quietly pressed upon. There were sudden near sounds, rustlings and little murmurs, and mysterious distant incomprehensible booms. Hilda imagined ferocious animals, gipsies, murderers, and beings from beyond the bounds of the human world whose presence she even more indubitably felt as they detached themselves quietly from the heather and crept slowly towards the cottage. At night she sat by candle light and the light of the fire. There were oil lamps but she did not know how to light them. Rupert had always lit the lamps.
After the first night Hilda told herself that she must get out or lose her reason. But the weakness which attracted the terrors made her also unable to decide or move. This had seemed to be a safe place, at least it was familiar, it made some kind of sense to be here. Where else could she go, to whom could she go? Could she live in a hotel, sit in a bleak bedroom, take her meals alone in the dining room? If she went to stay with somebody she would be incapable of pretending, and there was no friend to whom she wanted to talk about the carnage which had taken place in her life. The only person she felt in any way inclined to see was Julius, him she even at moments craved to see, but it was an odd craving, as if for something unreal. A very few days of not seeing Julius had made him seem once more unapproachable and remote, and she had not had the spirit to telephone him, though she had written him a long letter just before she left London.
There had been no grand explanation with Rupert. In fact Hilda had avoided one. On the first evening Rupert had seemed quite dazed. Hilda had locked the bedroom door. Rupert had tapped on it late at night. From his voice it had sounded as if he were rather drunk. Next morning it appeared that he had drunk almost a whole bottle of whisky and had gone to sleep fully clothed in his dressing room. Hilda had left the house before he woke up and installed herself in a near-by hotel. For the moment she could not bear the sight of Rupert. Once the first shock was over jealousy inhabited her like a fever making her shake and sweat. She had to get away from the house where all the ordinary things did not yet know of Rupert’s faithlessness and where sweeping brushes and tea cups and cigarette boxes and little innocent unconscious knick-knacks told her at every moment the extent of her loss. Something very like embarrassment, only embarrassment potentiated into agony, made her anxious to shun her husband. She did not want to look into his guilty eyes and to see the man whom she had worshipped shorn, defeated, utterly at a loss.
