by Iris Murdoch
At that stage, and when that was clear, that change of some quite unauthorized kind was taking place, had taken place, Matthew felt with a blessed simplicity that it was time for him to leave off. Any further close interest or concern from him would be not only fruitless but intrusive and improper. Nature could now take its course in some soothingly vulgar way. There could be drifting apart. He could even allow himself to come, and he laughed suddenly at this, to detest Austin heartily. That was where his high purposes had got him, and the best they could apparently do. Oddly enough, Kaoru would have appreciated this. So it would drift on, London was quite large enough now to contain them both, and the quality of this failure would be the quality of his own final acceptance of an utter ordinariness of life.
But then, with the inner gasp of a man told by his doctor that he has a serious illness, Matthew realized how very much more awful the situation really was. Of course he had not minded Mavis looking after Austin, of course he had waited and understood. Of course Mavis was in some harmoniously inevitable way Matthew’s future. This was the resting place and this the end. Time had circled to this point. And when Matthew had swallowed the knowledge that there was nothing more he could ever do for Austin except let him alone, and that this would be quite adequate, he associated Mavis instinctively with this sense of defeat and the inception of a humbler more domestic sort of life quite devoid of the drama which he realized he had with a certain eagerness returned to England to find. The unexpected simplicity of his love for Mavis had even seemed to symbolize the modest enlightenment which he had achieved.
But at a certain moment, with the sudden alteration of quantity into quality which dialecticians speak of, he saw. One way of putting it was that Austin had simply stayed with Mavis too long and had contaminated her. Matthew felt stirrings of a sudden blind painful rage which made him feel, for the first time in his life, that he resembled his brother. With a strange precision Austin had taken his revenge for the pollution of Dorina. Of course Austin had not really done this ‘on purpose’. It had all been, like so many other things in the story, accidental. But it was too beautiful not to have been also the product of instinct. Of course too they were not, he supposed, in love with each other. They did not need to be in love with each other, any more than he and Dorina had needed to be. Nor had Mavis’s love for him swerved or faded. It did not need to fade, for everything to have become suddenly so dreadful. Naturally, Mavis had become fond of Austin, as women so often did become fond of Austin, sorry for him, maternal and so on. As Matthew had sincerely said in a letter, such plain affection was just what Austin needed at this juncture in his life. But then what? Mavis’s affection could not be treated like a sticking plaster and pulled off when the wound had healed.
Austin was cunning. And Mavis, it became increasingly clear, expected Matthew somehow to ‘deal’. She could not manage without an initiative from Matthew which would inevitably seem like a re-enactment of the past. Of course Austin was not ‘cured’, Matthew could now see, of course, the deep things were exactly as they had always been, and exactly as they would always be, whatever pious hopes the self-styled good might have about the matter. Mavis must be claimed or lost. Austin must be allowed once more to play the role of victim. This he expected and perhaps even wanted. The stage had been set again by whatever deep mythological forces control the destinies of men.
I am simply jealous, Matthew told himself, trying to find a simple brutal way to make sense of the misery he felt. He went to see Ludwig in Oxford to find distraction and to see if a look at someone else’s mess could enlighten him about his own. In a curious separated way he had thoroughly enjoyed talking to Ludwig. It was, he told himself with bitter jocularity, his most satisfying sexual experience since the boy in the Osaka airport bookshop. As their discussion battered on he had sometimes almost panted with emotion. His affection for Ludwig blossomed to an extent which surprised him. So, in the midst of horrors, there could after all be something new. And as he listened to Ludwig and replied to his arguments, and as he studied the dear head, so grave and beautiful in debate, he rehearsed what he would do, how at a certain point he would simply take Mavis away, take her for a while out of England, how he would again enact the fake murder of his brother, and how absolutely fake it would be, and how Austin would enjoy shedding his crocodile tears and rolling in his humiliation and hating his brother and sobbing out to the fates that it was all as it had ever been. Only as, once again, listening to Ludwig, Matthew imagined it, he realized that he would never do it. Ludwig was godsent. He would go away with him.
And when it came to it he did not even care too much whether Mavis understood or not. People could not always be understanding everything. He wrote her a sad ambiguous letter. Let her read between the lines if she could. He recognized that he felt resentment against Mavis and that this helped. Her carelessness and then her sentimentality had brought about the whole thing. She had acted stupidly, she had acted like a woman. And after all he had never needed women in his life. It had been no ephemeral mischance that he had failed her in a crucial way. She had been sweet about it, almost as if she was pleased. Perhaps she was pleased. Perhaps it makes a woman feel maternal. It matters less to a woman, women are vague. It had made him feel very sad and mortal. And remembering that failure now he thought how many awful irrevocable things had happened. He thought about the child lying dead in the roadway, Norman lying unconscious on the landing. These moments would be forever in his nightmares. And he thought about Austin and he felt horror and hatred and a desire to get away. He wrote a rather abstract account of the whole matter to Kaoru. Perhaps this is my ultimate spitefulness against my brother, he said in the letter. Kaoru did not reply. Kaoru never wrote letters. Leaving, when it came to leaving, was suddenly quite easy. Later, he would feel tenderness and regret and loss. Later still he might feel that he had done the right thing. Now he simply felt that he was escaping.
As for Ludwig’s troubles, he found them thoroughly exhilarating. He did not now at all try to analyse, as he would have done even a few years earlier, his love for the boy. It was enough that it was love and that its light fell a little way into the future. He would stick by Ludwig through whatever unpredictable trials lay immediately ahead. ‘I’ll be asked what I represent.’ ‘Yourself.’ ‘They’ll ask me about pacifism, they’ll ask me about God.’ ‘Deny everything.’ ‘What am I then?’ ‘A solitary conscientious American.’ And a very good travelling companion to have, thought Matthew. He felt at the moment that he would willingly spend the rest of his life with the young man. But he was too old to worry himself with looking ahead and at least wise enough to know that it was useless. What would be would be. There was America to come and beyond America lay Japan. Perhaps he would end his days sweeping up azalea leaves after all.
Matthew, ensconced in an armchair in the upper lounge, was not in fact now thinking about the past or the future. He was reflecting that he had not really answered Ludwig’s crucial question. Or was what he had said the answer? It was no use asking Kaoru. Kaoru would only laugh and offer him a cup of tea. Of course Ludwig did not need to know. It was marvellous how little Ludwig needed now that he was launched. Matthew felt that he was lucky to be with him even as a spectator. And then he recalled, with a poignant sense of connection, the scene in the Red Square, and the solitary conscientious Russian who had walked over to join the protesters and to shake their hands and who had possibly in that one instant wrecked his entire life. Was it not enough to have these as one’s heroes, and to recognize and imitate them without otherwise knowing why? What Kaoru thought about it all he would never really know. He would never be able to share in Kaoru’s mind. From the good good actions spring with a spontaneity which must remain to the mediocre forever mysterious. Matthew knew with a sigh that he would never be a hero. Nor would he ever achieve the true enlightenment. Neither the longer way nor the shorter way was for him. He would be until the end of his life a man looking forward to his next drink. He looked at his
watch and drifted down to the bar.
‘Darling, our very first party!’ said Gracie, now nearly two months pregnant, to her husband.
The drawing-room in the Villa was looking charming. Mrs Monkley, who came to do, had been cleaning and polishing all day, and everything glowed and shone. The creamy Sung vase which Matthew had given them for a wedding present occupied the centre of the mantelpiece. The room was full of small fat William Morris cushions, some placed upon the floor in case guests subsided. The many lamps were soft. It was already dark outside. On the table dozens of glasses glittered besides dozens of bottles. It was the moment of quietness before a big party when the host and hostess survey their lovely home and wonder why they have been such fools as to invite all those people.
Garth was wearing a dark suit of silkily light tweed. His hair was shorter and sleeker. Gracie was in peacock blue Thai silk. They were a handsome pair. Garth looked proudly at his bright little wife. ‘Moggie, you look lovely.’
‘New dress.’
‘That’s right. I want everything you wear to be new. I want to feel that I invented you the day before yesterday.’
‘You did.’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘Are you sure you don’t? I might be your Frankenstein.’
‘I saw happiness passing and grabbed it.’
‘And you don’t feel that you ought to be having a destiny of deprivation and struggle?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t mind our being rich?’
‘No.’
‘And you think being happy is a proper occupation for a lifetime?’
‘Yes.’
The bell rang. It was their first guests.
‘I conveyed Ma and Austin in Kierkegaard,’ said Patrick. ‘Hello, love birds.’
‘Gracie, darling girl,’ said Austin, kissing her.
‘Dearest Austin —’
‘Mavis is coming later.’
‘Darlings, you’ve got the new curtains up,’ said Clara.
‘What a manly little fellow your brother is!’ said Garth.
‘Don’t tease him!’
‘I think you are three very handsome men,’ said Clara.
‘We are all handsome,’ said Austin. ‘We are beautiful. We are a very good-looking family.’
Patrick, blond, fluffy-haired, plump, smooth, rosy-complexioned and six foot tall, punched his brother-in-law amicably.
Clara was now wearing her hair straight and rather short. She looked radiantly juvenile. So did Austin, his copious golden locks flowing down on to his collar. He never wore glasses now. His contact lenses were a great success.
The door bell began to ring again and the hired butler went to attend to it. Outside in the kitchen Mary Monkley kicked off her shoes and sipped a tiny sherry. Norman was so kind to her these days, like a nice child. But she missed the bad old Norman whom she would now never see again. Funny, wasn’t it. And if she had been still alive Rosalind would have been eight today.
‘Gracie, such a pretty room.’
‘Garth, what super reviews of your book.’
‘What a lovely idea with the cushions.’
‘Wasn’t that Kierkegaard parked outside?’
‘Gracie, what a pretty dress.’
‘I was saying to Gracie, what a lovely idea with the cushions.’
‘Oliver has sold Kierkegaard to Patrick.’
‘There’s one born every minute.’
‘Clara dear, my spies tell me you will soon be Lady Tisbourne.’
‘Ralph, how nice to see you. Patrick is in the kitchen doing the ice.’
‘Karen and Sebastian have brought a Spaniard back from their honeymoon.’
‘Not ménage à trois?’
‘No, no, he’s a cook or something.’
‘Gracie has got a treasure.’
‘Isn’t she the mother of that child who —’
‘Sssh. Hello, Austin. You’re looking a picture. Where’s Mavis?’
‘She’s coping with the decorators.’
‘Garth, what marvellous reviews of your book.’
‘Here come Mr and Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Ann, how delicious you look.’
‘I say, have you seen the reviews of Garth’s book?’
‘Sure to be a best-seller.’
‘Mollie Arbuthnot is crazy about Karen’s Spaniard.’
‘Geoffrey is furious.’
‘Oliver Sayce is buying a bookshop in Oxford.’
‘Charlotte Ledgard is living with a weight-lifter.’
‘I can’t quite see Char reposing on a hairy bosom.’
‘My dear, it’s a female weight-lifter.’
‘What a charming idea with the cushions.’
‘Isn’t it a charming idea.’
‘Patrick is going to read history at Balliol.’
‘George and Geoffrey are discussing the crisis.’
‘Isn’t Austin gorgeous.’
‘He nestles in the bosom of the Tisbourne family.’
‘He always was a friendly little viper.’
‘Gracie adores him.’
‘Mavis is furious.’
‘Oliver and Andrew have borrowed Richard’s yacht.’
‘Richard is charging them the earth.’
‘Isn’t Ann looking happy.’
‘How long for though.’
‘Andrew is spending his sabbatical term studying Oliver.’
‘Matthew is making another million in New York.’
‘Mollie Arbuthnot has paella for breakfast every day.’
‘Ralph is going to read history at Balliol.’
‘There’s Dr Seldon.’
‘He looks as if he’s got something.’
‘Doctors are so infectious.’
‘People ought not to invite doctors.’
‘I hear that chap’s in prison.’
‘What chap?’
‘That American chap.’
‘What was his name? Lucas Leferrier or something.’
‘Where is he in prison?’
‘In America.’
‘Oh, in America.’
‘Wasn’t he the chap that used to dangle after Gracie?’
‘Sssh. Hello, Gracie, what a lovely party.’
‘What lovely reviews of Garth’s book.’
‘There isn’t any ice.’
‘Patrick and Ralph are still out in the kitchen.’
‘Do you think Austin is wearing a wig?’
‘I wouldn’t blame anyone for wearing a wig these days.’
‘What’s he in prison for?’
‘Drugs or something.’
‘I do hope they don’t take drugs at Balliol.’
‘Matthew has gone into a monastery in Kyoto.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Mollie Arbuthnot is learning the guitar.’
‘Charlotte has gone native near Midhurst with a female acrobat.’
‘Clara will soon be Lady Tisbourne.’
‘Mollie will soon be Lady Arbuthnot.’
‘Aren’t we all getting grand.’
‘Anyway, we’re still socialists.’
‘That fat man must be a gate-crasher.’
‘No, his name’s MacMurraghue, he’s Gracie’s pet.’
‘Richard is buying a house in Eaton Square with an indoor swimming pool.’
‘Matthew is staying with the parents of that chap.’
‘What chap?’
‘That American chap.’
‘Hello, Karen darling.’
‘Hello, Gracie darling.’
‘Hello, Sebastian darling.’
‘Look at Gracie and Karen locked in each other’s arms.’
‘Patrick has visited Charlotte, he says it’s a hoot.’
‘Won’t somebody go and talk to Mr Enstone?’
‘I don’t think people should invite clergymen.’
‘Matthew is opening a Protest Bookshop in New York.’
‘How ghastly.’
‘My dear, he’s coining money.’
‘Oliver has gone into partnership with Matthew.’
‘There’s big money in Protest.’
‘Look at Gracie and Sebastian locked in each other’s arms.’
‘Garth is a cool customer.’
‘Garth is a great man.’
‘Like father like son.’
‘Mavis and Austin are turning Valmorana into a hotel.’
‘Mavis will do all the work.’
‘Austin will chat with the guests in the bar.’
‘Austin is a caution.’
‘One can’t help admiring him.’
‘Austin is like all of us only more so.’
‘He gets away with it.’
‘We’d all like to.’
‘Everybody is justified somehow.’
‘Mollie Arbuthnot is discussing Spanish tummy with Dr Seldon.’
‘Patrick has visited Charlotte, he said it’s awfully touching.’
‘Matthew has gone to Hollywood.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Have you seen the super reviews of Garth’s book?’
‘Garth is going to write best-sellers under the name of Norman Monkley.’
‘Where’s Mavis?’
‘She isn’t coming.’
‘She looks just like Dorina these days.’
‘She’s got that pale haunted look.’
‘Austin would give anybody a pale haunted look.’
‘George and Geoffrey are still discussing the crisis.’
‘Patrick and Ralph are still out in the kitchen.’
‘MacMurraghue is sloshed.’
‘Penny Sayce has cancer.’
‘My dear, she can’t have, it’s impossible.’
‘Gracie’s expecting.’
