The Philosopher's Pupil

by Iris Murdoch

  There was a slight lull in the chatter when George appeared. Ennistone had few tourists in March, and the mothers had had the place to themselves that morning. Indeed fully clothed males always seemed out of place, and were duly shy. Most of the women knew who George was; but even those who normally felt a secret indulgent sympathy for him were here affronted. Some deep female solidarity drew them together against George as he lounged, staring. Nesta, who really hated George, sensed this communal emotion with satisfaction. George sensed it too, also with satisfaction. Nesta, tall and large-breasted in the midst of the bubbling cauldron of wet ample female flesh and slithery babies, glared at George. George, who knew her by sight and found her physique vaguely pleasing, did not meet the glare. He looked instead, with an amused thoughtful face, at the splashing infants and thought, How I’d like to drown the little beggars! He imagined pressing a large firm hand down upon those little pink faces.

  Alex had arrived with Ruby. Ruby could not swim, never had swum, never would swim, she hated water. However, she attended Alex to the Baths, and had done so ever since they were girls together, when (so remote were those days) she had come as a chaperone. Now she came because she always had, to see people and hear the gossip (she rarely uttered any herself) and to look after Alex’s clothes. The changing-rooms, strange wet slippery smelly places where people padded nervously, consisted of four areas: in the first one disrobed in a cubicle, in the second one placed one’s clothes in a locker, in the third one placed the key of the locker in a numbered cubby-hole, in the fourth one took a shower; then one emerged to swim. Alex, who never trusted the security of the system, preferred to put her clothes in a bag which she handed to Ruby waiting outside. This she did now as she came out, slim, handsome, wearing her green-skirted costume (she deplored bikinis) and no cap (caps were not worn at the Institute). The chill air coated her warm body and made her gasp. She tiptoed cautiously across the sparkling frosty pavement and dived gracefully into the cloud of steam which hid the pool. She swam beautifully in the warm kind water under the merciful white cloud.

  Diane had swum earlier and now, wearing a smart woollen jersey, a smart woollen cap, matching gloves, woollen socks pulled up over her trousers, an overcoat, scarf and boots, was sitting in Diana’s Garden. On the side farthest from the pool and separated by a fence were the Roman excavations, a few low walls and some holes, very significant no doubt but not picturesque. At one end of the garden was the little spurting hot spring known as Lud’s Rill, or ‘the Little Teaser’ which had caused such a scandal some time ago by suddenly hurling its jet of water high up into the air. The water of the Rill was extremely hot, at boiling point as it emerged, but its normal intermittent spittings were not dangerous since they only reached a height of about three feet, and the basin into which they fell was now surrounded by an unsightly railing which excluded the darting youngsters whom the Little Teaser used chiefly to tease. The basin was rugged and massive and unadorned, made of the brownish-yellowish local stone. It was about five feet in diameter and three feet deep, with a hole or crack in the middle where the scalding spitting water jetted up and ran away. The general belief was that the water came up ‘on its own’ from deep in the earth and was not ‘laid on’ from the main system. The official guide-book is, perhaps deliberately, unclear on this point.

  Beside the basin there were some wooden seats, and on one of these, having flicked the frost away with her copy of the Ennistone Gazette, Diane was sitting with Father Bernard and Mrs Belton. Mrs Belton was the ‘Madam’, now very old, who had inducted Diane many years ago into her present profession. Diane usually avoided her because she was a reminder of horrible things and because she affected a grand and irritating ‘knowingness’. She, like Diane herself, had risen in the trade. Mrs Belton, who had been good-looking and no fool, had indeed realized one of Diane’s former ambitions, and acquired a fine house where (so it was said) artists and intellectuals resorted for drink and talk. It was at one time the height of chic to go to Mrs Belton’s not for sex but for conversation. (However this may have been a myth; I never myself went along to see.) Mrs Belton’s glory was past, however, and even Diane could now feel sorry for her. After a police raid (there was talk of drugs) she had sold the fine house, and had now the air of a shaggy neglected old woman. Diane had sat in the garden hoping to catch a glimpse of George whom she was at that moment very anxious to see. George’s rule was that at the Baths they never spoke or gave any recognition sign; but he might now, she felt, break the rule if he saw her alone. However, Mrs Belton had promptly arrived, and then the priest.

  Sitting beside Diane and leaning across her to Mrs Belton, Father Bernard was trying to persuade the old woman to come to his church.

  ‘Come to service, Mrs Belton, it’s beautiful, you’ll see.’

  ‘I’ve never been in your church, well, I been in. It’s like a bazaar.’ Mrs Belton was a non-conformist.

  ‘You don’t go to your own church, come to mine. Come to the warmth and light. You are cold and your soul is dark.’

  ‘Who says my soul is dark?’ said Mrs Belton.

  ‘I do. Come where love is.’

  ‘It’s like a shop at Christmas time, all scarlet, not my idea of Church.’

  ‘Such precious goods, and all for free! Ask and you shall be given, knock and it shall be opened. Come to the bazaar! Scarlet for sin, and scarlet for redeeming blood. Wash in the blood of the Lamb, immerse yourself and swim unto salvation. You knew all these things once, recall them now, be as a little child, be born again, be justified, be saved.’

  ‘There’s nothing beyond the grave,’ said Mrs Belton.

  ‘The Kingdom of God is now,’ said the priest. ‘The mystery of our salvation is not in time. You need a magician in your life. You have one. His name is Jesus. Stand before him and say simply - help - help — ’

  While he was speaking, leaning ardently forward, Father Bernard, unseen by Mrs Belton, was holding Diane’s hand. He had got his own hand inside her woollen glove and was kneading her palm. Diane, though used to some of her pastor’s eccentricities, still did not know what to make of him.

  Mrs Belton got up. She said, ‘You got no right to think things about me, I know what you think, and set yourself up so. Leave meddling with others, get some help yourself, you’ll need it one of these days, from what I hear.’ To Diane, ‘Good-bye, dear. I’m going to swim.’

  As she moved away, stiff with the dignity of arthritis, George, in swimming-trunks, suddenly appeared at the edge of the pool. Diane wrenched her hand away, losing her glove to the priest. She wondered if George had seen. George dived into the pool and disappeared under the steam.

  ‘Silly old bitch,’ said Father Bernard, ‘I hope she drowns.’ He absently returned Diane’s glove. ‘I preach the good news. No one listens. Automatic salvation. No time, no trouble. Turn a switch and flood your soul with light.’

  ‘You don’t say that to me,’ said Diane.

  ‘You haven’t got simple faith. She has.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I am old, old — ’

  ‘You’re not — ’

  ‘Salvation is not in time. Did you see that apparition of George?’

  ‘Yes. Why apparition?’

  ‘Unreal. Made of ectoplasm.’

  ‘I wish you’d help George.’

  ‘Everyone wants me to help George. I can’t. If I laid my hands upon him, took him by the throat, I would hold only melting yielding stuff like toasted marshmallow. That is my damnation, not his.’

  ‘Don’t talk of damnation. Tell him about Jesus. Tell him something.’

  ‘If God brings him to me, God will give me words. Meanwhile he bores me. Come and see me, child. Come to the old scarlet bazaar. I’m going to swim now. It is the solution to all problems in this blessed town.’

  Diane thought, George is so alone, he has made himself alone. Perhaps that’s what Father Bernard means by saying he’s unreal. And she shuddered at the thought of her return now into h
er own solitude.

  In the vast expanse of the Outdoor Pool some people splashed quickly, privately, others swam about purposefully, looking for their friends, others systematically, obsessively, swam length after length, seeing nothing, their heads deep in the warm water. Alex, idling across the centre, ran into Adam. They seized each other, laughing. On land, their bodies could not communicate. Alex never kissed her grandson, never touched him. In the water it was different; they had new bodies, beautiful and free, warm and full of grace. Suspended, they dandled each other. They sometimes met like that, as it were in secret. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ ‘Yes.’ This simple praise of the waters was always exchanged as if this daily blessing always came as a surprise. ‘How’s Zed?’ said Alex. ‘Fine. How are you, are you all right?’ Adam always asked Alex if she was all right when he met her in the water. ‘Yes, fine. Lovely to see you.’ ‘Lovely.’ They parted and swam away.

  George, leaving the nauseating sight of the swimming babies behind him, and having instantly forgotten about Adam, had proceeded to the changing-rooms and was soon in the pool. He had walked along the side, looking for a space among the swimmers, before diving in, but he had not noticed Diane nor was he thinking of her. He was now, with his perfect effortless Ennistonian crawl, doing lengths, his head well down, his hand extended at each end to touch the wall lightly as he turned. His dark hair swirled about the crown of his head, looking like Brian’s hair. He breathed unobtrusively, mysteriously, deep in the water, as if he had indeed become a fish and the healing stream were flowing through his gills.

  Gabriel, who had had her swim and was now dressed, standing upon the edge of the pool, noticed George as he approached along his strong self-chosen line. (‘Doing lengths’ was a priority activity, and other swimmers kept out of the way of these blind fanatics.) She moved so that she was directly above him as, without raising his head, he curled and turned. She saw (as of course she had seen before) the way George’s hair grew, that it was like Brian’s, only this was obscured by George’s hair being combed from a side parting over the crown. This observation always gave Gabriel pleasure. She was pleased too by being able to watch him unobserved and by the way that George’s hand, touching the wall of the pool as he turned, was just below her feet. He disappeared almost instantly under the hanging cloud of steam. Gabriel waited for him to return. Brian, also now clothed, standing nearby, watched Gabriel watching George. He came forward.

  Gabriel said, ‘I just saw George. Don’t you think we should write to him to say that Stella is coming to us?’

  ‘Hasn’t she told him?’

  ‘She says not.’

  ‘Let the bugger find out.’

  ‘I think we should write to him. It seems so unkind not to.’

  ‘No.’

  For George the day had begun early with a sound of pigeons speaking in human voices. He had heard this before: the soft murmur of people speaking close to him, frightening intruders, people near him where no people should be. Burglars, police, intruders of some more terrible nameless kind. Perhaps it was just the pigeons.

  He was surprised, as he was every morning now, to find himself not upstairs in his own bed, but downstairs on the large drawing-room sofa where he had been sleeping ever since Stella left, or went to hospital, or whatever she had done. There was a downstairs lavatory and wash-place. He did not need to go upstairs any more. He and Stella occupied separate bedrooms, but her presence somehow lingered upstairs, not in smells (she used no scented cosmetics) but in other signs, clothes, the always disturbing sight of her bed. Downstairs was more open and anonymous and public. He had stowed away various objects, including ornaments and a picture. The kitchen was already chaotic, that of a bachelor. George could feel that he was camping or back in ‘digs’. He woke to this strange sensation of being in a new place. He also woke to the being of Stella, Stella’s world, her existence, her consciousness, her thoughts, still continuing. God, how alive she was.

  As he lay, listening for the voices which had now ceased, he became aware that his mouth was open. He closed it quickly. Several times lately, on waking with his mouth open, he had had a strange conviction. First, he had felt that in the night he had been dead. The mouths of dead people fall open. Then, as something connected with this, he had become aware (or imagined or remembered) that during the night something had crawled out of his mouth and rambled round the room and over the ceiling and had then returned into his mouth again: something like a large crab-like insect or claw-footed worm. This persuasion was extremely vivid and accompanied, as he now quickly closed his mouth, by the rising of a bitter gall in his throat. He wondered, sitting up, whether he had actually swallowed a large spider.

  He rose and put on the rest of his clothes (he now slept in his underwear), shaved and drank some coffee standing up in the kitchen. He considered and rejected the idea that today he should ‘do something about Stella’. It was not that he wanted to, or felt that he ought to, do something about Stella. It was just that doing something (anything) would remove a certain discomfort. If he (for instance) sent her a postcard. He wanted to perform some kind of holding or postponing movement, something that would put Stella, for the moment, in cold storage, out of play. He did not want to see her, but neither did he like to think of her as active elsewhere. However, he could not think of anything to do and he dismissed the matter from his mind. He was, indeed, absolved from solving this problem. He himself was in cold storage; he was separated, waiting, as pure and as solitary as an anointed king awaiting coronation or a sacred victim awaiting the knife. This was the loneliness which Diane had sensed round about him, and which he himself felt rather as a frightful agonizing state of grace. It was as if now, in this interim, he could not sin.

  He washed up his cup and his plate and made his way by a roundabout route to the Baths, where he went first, as has been recounted, to the Indoor Pool. As he emerged later, ready to swim, from the changing-rooms, he noticed something disturbing. The number 44, which was the number of the cubby-hole where he left his key, was the same as the number of his house and was also the last two figures in the number of his car. It was also his age. Little things were significant. It was a portent and all portents now were frightening.

  Swimming, George did not see Diane, he did not see Brian and Gabriel, nor did he see Alex or Adam, all of whom saw him. He swam and swam, tiring himself, passing the healthful healing water through his gills, emptying himself in his solitude of the bitterness of living.

  At last, exhausted, he crawled out, hauling himself up the iron steps and moving away from the pool. The pavement beside the pool edge was wet and slightly warm, but a step away the stone was dry and still sparkling with frost. George set penitential feet upon the frost and walked a little, shivering inside his quickly cooling body and turning to look at the footprints made in the frost by his warm feet. He felt slightly giddy and dazed by the emergence not only into the cold air but into the bright light. While he had been swimming in the semi-dark of the merciful steam cloud the sun had come out. The sky was blue. He walked along beside the high beech hedge which protected the Ennistone Rooms garden, and then turned along the other edge of the pool, by the yellow glazed wall, in the direction of the stews. He saw ahead of him, standing at the water’s edge, the tall gaunt near-naked figure of William Eastcote. Eastcote was combing back and checking over with his fingers his thinning but persistent strands of wet hair. He was talking to a fat man whose swimming-trunks clung on almost invisibly beneath his paunch. The fat man had a big bony puckered face and stiff flat brush of grey hair which was evidently still dry. As he now turned his head George recognized John Robert Rozanov. Reaching the pool in three paces, George dived back again into the steam.

  Alex had also seen Rozanov. Walking along beside Diana’s Garden toward the stews, she stopped abruptly, then turned back. She did not notice Diane, who was still in the garden bursting to tell George that Rozanov, whom she recognized, was there. Alex’s heart swelled and contracted, warming he
r whole body with a rush of consciousness. It did not occur to her to walk straight on and greet him. With the first glimpse came the need to hide, to wait, not to know - to know what, what was there to know? Besides, trim and handsome as Alex looked in her green skirted costume, she did not want to meet Rozanov with her hair dripping and her makeup washed away. She hurried along the warm verge of the pool until she came to where Ruby was waiting outside the changing-rooms, holding the bag with Alex’s clothes. She grabbed the bag and whisked inside and pattered over the wet wooden duck-boards which gave out such an old melancholy exciting smell. She found a cubicle and sat down and peeled off her costume and sat there panting and holding her breasts until her face was calm and her heart was quiet. It was a great many years, she hated to think how many, since she had glimpsed Rozanov in the street, perhaps at the time when his mother died. But now, passing over all intermediate time, she recalled so intensely his monstrous handsome youthful face, how he looked when she might have reached out her hand to take him.

  Ruby, who had noticed John Robert some time earlier, as he emerged from the changing-rooms with William Eastcote, had no such coy misgivings. She waited dog-like for Alex to come back for her clothes, then, released, she went along the side of the pool looking for him. She noticed Diane in the garden but as usual they exchanged no sign. She found Rozanov standing talking with Eastcote at the place where, coming from the other direction, George had seen him, and she stood quite near, her feet apart, her hands clasped, staring at him. Several other people who had recognized the philosopher were also standing nearby, but not daring to come so close. John Robert did not see her, however, but still talking went with Eastcote down the steps into one of the stews.