by Iris Murdoch
Austin rushed down the stairs. He fell over Dorina’s suitcase which she had left behind on the floor. He tugged at the front door which seemed to be jammed, then dragged it open. The hot inky night air puffed sullenly into his face. He could hear the high echoing pit-a-pat of her running steps. He reached the pavement, staggered, and began to run after her.
There seemed to be nobody about. He could still hear her steps, but now the orange lamplight dazzled in his eyes and showed him nothing. He choked in the thick air, choked upon her name and found no voice, and his footsteps dragged as if soft rubbery rings enclosed his ankles. He reached a street corner and gripped at railings, swinging himself round. Still the light dancing steps tapped away before him into the distance.
‘Dorina! Wait!’
He began to run again.
Then suddenly just above him the darkness congealed. Something huge and awful rushed out of the dark and seemed to sit upon his head. Austin ducked, cried out in fear, stood with uplifted arms staring about him. There was nothing but the purple lamp-dazzled night. Then again an approaching flurry in the air and he was struck violently from above. Pain travelled across his brow and he staggered dazed with the violence of the blow. Terror possessed him. What avenger was this? Was he in nightmare that his own thoughts should haunt him as a night-demon? He began to run, then stopped again as he saw it, a dreadful mask rushing toward him face to face. He saw a pale flat oval visage, a hooked nose, luminous terrifying eyes . . .
Just beside him now, revealed in the sickly light, was a rubbish tip full of bricks and stony fragments. Keeping his right hand before his face, Austin seized a brick and raised it. The creature had wheeled over him and now came at him again, full at his head. Austin swung the brick upward.
A great screeching sound filled the dome of the night. A car, breaking violently, swerved to a halt beside the rubbish tip.
‘What is it?’ cried a frightened voice.
Suddenly there were people there.
‘I hit something.’
The driver of the car was standing in the road.
‘It’s some sort of bird.’
‘Thank God, I thought it was a child.’
‘It’s a pigeon.’
‘No it isn’t, it’s huge, it’s an owl.’
‘Oh Lord, it’s our owl, that beautiful tawny.’
‘You’ve run over our owl.’
‘It wasn’t his fault, that man killed it with a brick.’
‘It’s whole breast is broken.’
‘Don’t I can’t bear to look.’
‘That owl was a menace, it attacked a girl.’
‘They’re like that at nesting time.’
‘That bloody man killed our owl with a brick.’
‘That man’s a murderer.’
‘Oh look, how beautiful, I can’t bear it.’
The dead owl lay on the pavement under the lamp. Someone carefully spread out one wing to display the exquisite glossy feathering.
Austin sat down on some steps and began to sob.
Matthew, just back from a meeting of the Royal Ceramics Society, was arranging his collection. He had mercifully forgotten Norman Monkley about whom he had been worrying all day. He had bought two large mahogany display cases into which he was now putting some favourite pieces. He had removed two semicircular tables and fitted the cases into the alcoves in the hall. It did not look too museum-like. The Sung and Ting dishes were all in a crowd on the drawing-room table. He had decided to make a selection of a number of favourites to keep with him and to lend the rest to the Fitzwilliam Museum for the present. The selection was proving very difficult. He stood holding a famille noire teapot tenderly by the spout. Of course Ming and Ting were greatest and Sung doubtless greatest of all, but for a weightless charm which was perfect without being sublime it was impossible to better Ching.
Someone was urgently ringing the front door bell. Matthew frowned and put the vase into the case and closed the case. Who could be ringing in this peremptory manner at this hour of the night? Gracie and Ludwig were away in Ireland, it could not be them.
He went with rather deliberate slowness to the door and opened it just as the fierce ringing was starting up again. He peered out into the dark.
A young woman was standing there. He saw her eyes staring wide with amazed fear. He recognized Dorina.
‘Come in, my child.’
Matthew had not seen Dorina for a great many years. He remembered her as a shy thin girl, almost a schoolgirl, with a short plait of light-brown hair. She stood before him now, scarcely changed, with her little plait and her short brown mac and her bare legs, clutching her handbag and staring at him with amazement. Behind her a small quiet rain was falling.
‘Dorina, come in, come in out of the rain.’
Matthew, like an old soldier, like an old diplomat, was unruffled and smoothly calm.
‘Matthew!’
‘But of course, why not. Come on in, child.’ He stretched a hand towards her.
Dorina stepped back as if about to flee, then entered precipitately, glancing behind her and dodging his hand. Then she ran into the drawing-room and turned to stare at him as he followed.
‘Matthew.’
‘Yes, I’m not a ghost am I? I’m so glad you’ve come to see me.’
‘But I haven’t —’
‘Yes you have!’
‘I mean, I didn’t know you were here.’
‘Well, I am, as large as life. Gracie let the Villa to me. Sit down. Let me take your coat.’
‘But where’s Charlotte?’
‘Didn’t you know? Charlotte’s over at your place. Austin has rented the flat to Charlotte. Didn’t anyone tell you?’
Dorina let her mackintosh fall to the floor. She sat down in an armchair. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Austin told me. But — I completely — forgot — I was very — upset — I came here — to find Char — I thought — oh I didn’t know you were here — I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t —’ She rocked her body and began softly and rhythmically to cry.
Matthew sat down and looked at her. Of course she would not know that he was at the Villa, no one would have mentioned his name to her. He felt protective love, pity, fear, terror. She looked older to him now and yet still absurdly childish, her hair coming undone, her little green dress smudged with dirt.
‘Why, you’ve cut your knee.’
‘Yes, I was running and I fell.’
Her legs were bare and brown. There was a grimy mess of dirt and blood on one knee.
‘I’ll wash it for you. Stay where you are.’
Matthew went out to the kitchen and filled a bowl with hot water and disinfectant. He found a clean napkin. He stood quiet for a moment at the kitchen window, which was wide open, and listened to the soft hot rain sizzling down. He wondered what he was going to do with Dorina and his heart melted into a vagueness of compassion. Why could no one really help that child? Why had she run out into the night and fallen over and hurt her knee? He went back to the drawing-room where Dorina was sitting motionless now and still crying with large tears which she did not wipe but allowed to fall down on to the bosom of her dress which they had stained a darker green.
As Matthew drew up a chair she shrank back. ‘Now, Dorina,’ said Matthew, ‘don’t be silly. If I’m to help you you mustn’t behave like a child.’
‘I’m not —’
‘I know. I mean, you must try to be rational and see ordinary things as ordinary. I’m going to bathe your knee.’
He dabbed at the mass of grit with the napkin. Dorina winced, gazing down fascinated at the reddening linen.
‘There, that’s quite clean. I’ve got a clean hankie here. I’ll just dry it. Better leave it open to the air.’
He withdrew his hand from the smooth warmth of her leg and looked at her. He pulled a chair near. Dorina was staring at him now, very large eyed, her lower lip trembling in a convulsive and startling manner. He thought, she is going into hysterics, I must do something immed
iately.
Matthew said, ‘Look, Dorina, I am going to put my arms round you and you are not going to scream or struggle but just to rest upon me, to rest at last without any fear. Come.’
Matthew tried to perch himself on the corner of the armchair. It was too difficult, he was too large.
‘Come, get up.’ He pulled her up, holding her wrists, and settled his bulk squarely into the chair. Then he drew her down again on to his knee and felt her stiffened body relax against him as she buried her wet face in his shoulder and he felt her brow hot against his neck. She was trembling. He held her, not violently but firmly, and waited for the trembling to cease. It ceased at last and she gave a deep sigh.
Dorina seemed asleep. She lay there quite still, her breathing quiet, her head heavy against him, one hand nestling in his. And Matthew sat there and looked away into the room over the tangle of loosened brown hair, looked at hovering ellipses of creamy white where almost invisible flowers meandered in a translucent depth of iridescent milk. He held her as he might have held a magic talisman or a sacred relic or the Grail itself. He felt a strange sense of triumph and certainty as if for once in his life an innocent love had imposed upon him its infallible and radiant will.
She stirred and sighed and began to make the motions of sitting up. Her body was still limply relaxed and very warm. Matthew felt, without any alarm, his physical desire for her as he eased himself away and let her slip from him into the chair. He stood up. The room was present to him again, suddenly vivid and detailed, as if he had been entranced or sleeping. He looked down at Dorina. She smiled at him a smile that belonged to the human world, wry, apologetic, humorous. A miraculous smile.
‘Good!’ said Matthew.
‘Thank you, Matthew.’
‘Look, Dorina, have you eaten anything? What a host I am! Let me give you something to eat and drink.’
‘No, no. Well, a biscuit or something. I am hungry, now I come to think of it. And yes, a little, all right, brandy with the — soda water — yes.’
Matthew ran to the kitchen. He felt boyishly happy and pleased with himself. He ran back with bread and butter and cheese and tomatoes and cherry cake.
‘A little milk too?’
‘No thanks, I don’t like milk.’
Dorina was eating the cheese and drinking the brandy. Matthew stood, took a glass himself, and looked down at her with stupefaction.
‘That’s right, child. Eat and drink. Then we’ll talk a bit. And I’ll ring Mavis and take you back home in a taxi.’
‘Oh no,’ said Dorina. ‘I can’t go back there.’ She spoke quietly, but with a return of the trembling lip. She thrust her plate away.
Matthew thought, I must keep very calm and make it all seem very ordinary and not at all important. It occurred to him that he did not know how or why she had left the Villa.
‘Mavis will wonder why you’re so late. Or will she assume you’re staying the night with Charlotte?’
‘I didn’t tell Mavis I was going.’
‘But then she’ll be worried, won’t she? Shouldn’t we telephone her to say you’re on the way back?’
‘She doesn’t know I’ve gone, she won’t know till tomorrow morning. I told her I was going to bed early. She won’t come to my room.’
‘But she might,’ said Matthew, ‘and she’d find you gone and she’d be upset.’
‘If she’d found me gone she would have telephoned you,’ said Dorina with composure.
She can think, she can even be shrewd, thought Matthew, looking at the thin long youthful face, calmer now but still tear-stained.
‘I haven’t been in long,’ said Matthew. ‘I rang her actually on the way home but got no reply.’
‘She was watching a television play. She and Mrs Carberry were laughing so much they wouldn’t have heard the telephone ring.’
There was an air of even precision about it all like a detective story. I must be gentle and calm, he thought.
‘I’m not going back there,’ said Dorina.
‘You think it’s too late tonight,’ said Matthew. He looked at his watch. To his surprise it was after midnight.
‘I’m not going back there. Mavis arranged for me to stay with the Tisbournes. It’s not Mavis’s fault. Clara Tisbourne was coming with the car. I can’t go to the Tisbournes. I know Mavis wants me to go, to be somewhere else. It’s not fair to Mavis if I stay. But I can’t go to the Tisbournes. And Mavis had arranged for me to go —’
‘Well, don’t worry so,’ said Matthew. ‘Nobody will make you do anything you don’t want. Look, I’ll take you over to Charlotte’s.’
‘No, no. I don’t want Charlotte to know — I was — with you —’
She is right, thought Matthew. Anyway better not to involve Charlotte. Dorina will want to go back to Valmorana tomorrow. He said, ‘Would you like to stay here?’ He was about to say, After all, why not. Of course you must. But he checked himself and left the question blank.
Dorina’s face contracted and she closed her eyes for a moment. She said, ‘I’ll go to a hotel. Only I don’t know what hotels cost now and I don’t know if I’ve got enough money.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Matthew. ‘You just stay here. After all, why not. Of course you must.’
‘No.’
‘We can’t start looking for a hotel for you at this hour of the night in the pouring rain, it’s ridiculous. Stay here, Dorina, just tonight, and tomorrow we’ll think what’s best to do. Ludwig is away. No one will know. You understand me. No one will know.’
‘I can’t decide —’
‘Then don’t decide yet. Just eat and drink a little more and talk to me a bit. Dorina, there’s nothing to be frightened of, you know that, don’t you.’
‘All right. Yes. Forgive me, Matthew, I’m sorry to be so helpless and spineless. I do feel — better — now —’
Good, he thought. If there was prayer he had prayed for her. But he must not waste what might be a unique chance of making her talk to him.
‘Dorina, forgive me and don’t answer unless you want to. Do you really want to go back to Austin? If you don’t wouldn’t it be better to make it clear and go away somewhere? Many people would help you. I’m not suggesting myself, of course, because, well, you know. But I could put you in touch with others who could help, people, perhaps, that you don’t know yet, new people.’
‘You mean doctors, clergymen — ?’
‘No, no, no, just people! Don’t feel yourself so presceuted! There are other places in the world, you don’t have to sit paralysed in this spider’s web! But you haven’t answered my question.’
They were sitting now close to each other. Matthew leaned forward and patted her arm, smiling. How wise he had been to embrace her. If they had not touched each other the tension now would have been unendurable. His desire for her was vague, diffused in benevolence and compassion and the simple liveliness of affection.
Dorina was drinking some more of the brandy and soda. Her rather gaunt cheeks were pinkly flushed. She regarded Matthew with grave deep evasive eyes. How strange it is, he thought, that I have Dorina with me in my house in the middle of the night and no one knows she is here.
‘I can’t leave Austin,’ she said. ‘I am married to him. He must be saved through me, and I through him.’
‘You are very solemn,’ said Matthew. ‘And your decision is probably right. I just thought you should realize and conceive of other possibilities.’ What a traitor Austin would think me, Matthew reflected, if he could hear these words. Yet all I want is for this hunted creature to feel a little free. No more than that.
‘There are none.’
‘All the same —’
‘Have you discussed me a lot with Mavis?’
Matthew hesitated. ‘Yes.’
Dorina was silent a moment. Then she said, ‘There are things I’ve never said, even to Mavis.’
‘Well, say them to me.’
‘I am afraid of Austin. And I am afraid for him. I can’t quite dis
tinguish these.’
‘I know.’
‘Matthew, Austin once told me that he murdered Betty, he drowned her.’
This, thought Matthew. He said at once, as coldly as he could, ‘He lied, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Dorina. ‘I knew it wasn’t true, of course. He said it to impress me, perhaps to frighten me. That is — what Austin does. Yes.’
‘Then — don’t worry —’
‘Yes. Except that I am frightened. And — haunted — but it’s not Austin’s fault — Oh, Matthew — I am so tired —’ Tears were coming again.
It was no good after all trying to talk to her tonight. ‘You’d better go to bed,’ said Matthew, ‘here. We’ll keep you a secret. Just rest now and I’ll fix your bedroom.’
He ran upstairs, turning lights on. The bed was made up in Ludwig’s room. He took off the counterpane and turned back the blanket. He laid out his own best silk pyjamas, pulled the curtains and hurried downstairs again.
Dorina was fast asleep.
Matthew looked down at her as she lay nestled into her spread and tangled hair, her lips parted, her body twisted, one sandal off. He undid and took off the other sandal. She had pretty feet. Then, speaking to her softly, as one might to an animal, he began to pick her up. She murmured faintly and took hold of his hand as he gathered her and jolted her well up into his arms. Her head was on his shoulder, once more. He mounted the stairs slowly and awkwardly, leaning his weight against the banisters. In the bedroom he tilted her carefully on to the bed and then found himself on his knees beside her. He kissed and released the hand that still so confidingly held on to his. He pulled the blanket loose and drew it up over her shoulder. He thought, Dorina, Austin’s wife. He remained on his knees a moment longer and directed a wordless prayer to whatever great and powerful heart might yet throb in the universe with some consciousness of good. Then he rose and turned out the light and went downstairs.
