by Iris Murdoch
‘I’m not.’
‘Well, I am, looking at you.’
‘I say, there’s George.’
Emma, who had put his umbrella up, put it down again.
George, dressed in black swimming-trunks, was standing absolutely still on the edge of the pool. He was looking into the distance and thinking. He had woken up this morning and once again heard the birds uttering human speech. Then he had thought it was Stella, speaking outside on the stairs, only there was no one there. He went into the garden and saw a fish swimming in a tree, only it was a memory of a dream which had somehow got loose. He rang up the Ennistone Rooms and found out that John Robert had engaged a room. He went to the library to find out exactly what had happened to Schlick, but he could find no book about Schlick.
As he came out to the pool he had seen Diane, seen her see him, and seen her turn away slowly and go. He wanted, in a way, very much to go to Diane, to be in that familiar room, to smell her cigarettes and hold her hand, just that. But he was afraid to go to her. He must not, now, make himself weak, gentle, consoled. He almost felt he could have wept in that room holding her hand. There was in George something that was not himself, something puny, even pathetic, a little miserable bedraggled animal which disturbed him with its whimpering. He would, if he could, kill that mean frightened little animal. Against it now he summoned up his world-resentment, his sense of cosmic injustice, his hatred of his enemies, and his old valuable contempt for women. The rain beat down upon his hair, making it even darker and flattening it in to his head. The rain rolled over his brown body, brown as all the heliotropic Ennistonian swimmers were. The rain studded his body with bright points.
Valerie Cossom, looking at him from across the grey pitted water, constrained her heart with her hand, and stiffened her mind by trying to think about the party line. She had never spoken to George. She wondered if she ever would.
‘Introduce me to George.’
‘No.’
‘You’re afraid.’
‘Oh Emma —’
‘I shall introduce myself, now.’
‘You don’t know - stop - oh all right.’
Tom, nearly naked, and Emma, fully clothed and getting very wet since he had not reopened his umbrella, advanced along one side of the pool, then set off along the next toward George, who was standing by himself, the rain, now sharp and biting, having driven most of the swimmers back into the water.
George became aware of an approach, then of Tom, and very slightly turned his head.
‘George - hello — ’
George kept his head slightly turned, his wide-apart eyes slewed round toward his brother but not looking at him. Tom had an odd impression, rather like a memory, of a madman in a cupboard. He felt intensely, what he had in the past more vaguely felt, George’s uncanny quality, unpleasant like the smell of a ghost.
Tom went on, ‘George, I’d like you to meet my friend, Emmanuel Scarlett-Taylor.’
George said nothing. He moved his body. Tom flinched. Then George, still without looking directly at Tom, took hold of Tom’s adjacent arm, squeezed it for a moment extremely hard, then pushed him away with the palm of his hand, turning as he did so to his previous posture of contemplation.
Tom moved back, cannoned into Emma, turned smartly and led Emma away.
‘Damn you.’
‘Sorry — ’
‘You see what he’s like. Or rather you don’t.’
‘Well, what is he like?’
‘Oh fuck him. I’m getting bloody cold. I’m going in to dress.’
Tom, hurrying to the changing-rooms and now shuddering with cold, could feel his arm burning from George’s vicious grip. He could also feel the flat sensation of the palm of George’s hand upon his shoulder. As he turned into the door he saw farther down, just entering the Promenade, the back views of Anthea Eastcote and Hector Gaines. He found the key which would release his clothes from the locker, and felt, for a moment, a storm of emotion inside his peace-loving breast.
On the Promenade Anthea Eastcote and Hector Gaines were drinking coffee. Anthea had put on her round tinted glasses. She was really rather short-sighted, and skilfully concealed the fact. She had however seen Tom smile and had pretended not to. She felt upset about this now. She was very fond of Tom, whom she had known since they were tiny children, not of course in love; it was just that sometimes he seemed a little too cheerfully at home with the prospect of never possessing her.
Hector Gaines, agonizingly aware of Anthea’s breasts, now safe and snug inside her tight mauve sweater, was telling himself that he was thirty-four and she was twenty-one, and that he had finished his work on Gideon Parke and ought to go to Aberdeen to see his mother, whose loving letters never complained about his infrequent visits.
Brian McCaffrey, also vividly aware of Anthea Eastcote’s breasts, came up to the counter to order his coffee and Adam’s special of pineapple juice and Coca-Cola. He greeted Anthea, whom of course he knew well since she too was a Friend, and Hector, whom he knew slightly.
He said to Anthea, ‘How’s your uncle Bill? Someone said he was a bit off colour.’
‘Oh he’s fine. Hello, Adam, what are you doing, being a tree?’
Adam, who was standing with his arms spread out, said, ‘No, I’m drying my wings.’
Brian and Adam retired a little way with their drinks, Adam, who never called Brian ‘Daddy’ or anything of that sort, said, ‘Why is the moon sometimes there at night and sometimes there during the day?’
‘Because it’s going round the earth while we’re going round the sun.’
‘But how exactly?’
‘Oh heavens - it’s - I’ll look it up.’
Brian sat down and banged his coffee cup on to the table. He had just heard that economies at the Town Hall were likely to bring his job to an end.
Hector said timidly to Anthea, ‘Shall we go and see the sculpture exhibition in the Botanic Gardens or the Ennistone Art Society in the Hall?’
Anthea said, ‘You go, I’ll join you there.’ She wanted to go and make her peace with Tom.
‘But which?’
‘Which what?’
‘Which exhibition?’
‘Oh, the Art Society, it’s still raining.’
Gabriel had arrived. She swept in, in dripping mac and black sou’wester, and plumped down at Brian’s table.
‘You’re late,’ said Brian.
‘She’s gone.’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘Stella. She disappeared while I was out shopping. She left a note just saying she felt she should go and not to worry.’
‘Well, she’s been with us long enough and we weren’t doing her any good.’
‘But where’s she gone to?’
‘If you don’t know I certainly don’t.’
‘She can’t have gone back to George!’
‘I don’t see why not. Anyway it’s none of our business.’
‘Suppose she kills herself?’
‘She won’t.’
Gabriel burst into tears.
‘Oh stop that! Come on, we’re going home.’
Vernon Chalmers, Director of the Institute, sitting in his office in the Annexe, was startled by a sudden uproar which seemed to come from the direction of Diana’s Garden. He thought at first that some sort of fight or riot must have broken out. Then he realized it was a sound of laughter. He got up from his desk and went to the window.
Tom McCaffrey, emerging clothed into the abating rain, heard the same sound. Anthea caught him up. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Anthea, what’s up?’
‘Let’s go and see.’
Tom took her hand for a moment and they ran along the edge of the pool.
A small crowd had gathered near Lud’s Rill. Tom, racing ahead, saw the following strange sight, Emmanuel Scarlett-Taylor, his clothes soaked and dripping, dancing about in helpless frustration inside the railing which surrounded the spring.
What had happened was simple. Emma,
disturbed by the memory of his dog, was filled with a sudden desire to approach the little fount and feel how hot the water really was. It was easy enough, stepping upon a nearby stone, to vault in. Getting out was another matter. There was nothing inside to step on, and the railings, breast high, had spiked tops curving inwards. Enraged at his own folly, and now provoked by the laughter of spectators, he ran from place to place, peering through his rain-spotted glasses, trying to find somewhere to put his foot, then attempting to draw himself up by placing his hands on top of the curving rails. They were too high, he was not strong enough. The encouragement of the spectators became more ribald. An authoritative figure strode forward: it was Nesta Wiggins in her bikini. She shouted, ‘Stop laughing, help him!’, which prompted more laughter. But there was nothing that Nesta could do. Emma refused her proffered hand. She ran off crying, ‘Get a ladder!’
Tom roared with laughter. Then he hurried on and, reaching the enclosures, knelt down, thrusting one sturdy knee through the railings. Emma ran to him, put one foot on his knee, gripped one of the rails at the top, and leapt to freedom. Clapping and cheers greeted his escape. Crimson with chagrin, Emma had already set off for the exit.
Tom ran after him. ‘You’ve left your umbrella behind. Shall I get it?’
Emma walked on in grim silence, and Tom followed him out, laughing again.
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘No.’
‘Come, anything counts as belief these days.’
‘No.’
‘So you’re an odd sort of priest.’
‘Yes.’
‘You reject God?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not enough to reject him, you must hate him.’
‘Do you hate him?’
‘I abominate the concept.’
Father Bernard said, ‘So do I,’ but in a whisper.
‘Why do you whisper, do you think he’s listening?’
‘I don’t believe in a personal God.’
‘You mean “God” isn’t a name?’
‘But I believe in a spiritual reality.’
‘What does “reality” mean here, what is “spiritual”, could you give examples?’
It was Tuesday and Father Bernard had called at Hare Lane at ten o’clock as instructed. He had avoided the Institute in the interim so as not to ‘spoil’ the meeting, to which he looked forward with a ridiculous excitement and alarm. (He never swam on Sundays as an act of abstinence. He once gave up swimming for Lent and suggested to his appalled congregation that they should do likewise.) On arrival at the philosopher’s house he had been dismayed to find John Robert all ready to go for a long walk. Father Bernard, who had lost the athletic tastes and talents of his youth, disliked long walks and could scarcely envisage having any sort of difficult conversation while in motion (he was slightly deaf). Now Rozanov was talking of going across the Common and out into the country. The priest marked his displeasure by asking for some safety pins and fussily pinning up the hem of his cassock. He was determined not to go out into the country, and hoped (rightly as it turned out) that once they were talking he could lead John Robert along an easier route. He therefore suggested that since he had to pay a brief pastoral visit at Blanch Cottages (a lie), they should go by West-wold and the Glove Factory and the Roman bridge and through Victoria Park and Druidsdale and thus to the Common and thus (as far as Father Bernard was concerned) back to Burkestown. John Robert agreed and they set off at first in silence, with John Robert walking uncomfortably fast, and had crossed the bridge when John Robert kindly remembered that the priest had forgotten to call at Blanch Cottages. Father Bernard, rather ashamed, went back to pay a pointless call on Miss Dunbury, leaving that blameless lady puzzled and scrutinizing her conscience. By now they had entered the outskirts of Victoria Park, walking at the slower pace which Father Bernard had resolutely imposed upon the philosopher.
‘For instance, are you saved?’
‘What does that mean?’ countered the priest.
‘Answer first.’
‘No, of course not!’
‘When I was young,’ said John Robert, ‘people used to ask me that, as if it were a simple question. I even thought I understood it.’
‘Did you think you were saved?’
‘No, but I thought my mother was. People meant salvation by magic, being totally changed.’
‘In virtue of a cosmic event, as explained by St Paul.’
‘The cosmos would have to shudder and shake to change a single man.’
‘So you think we can’t change?’
‘Paul, what a genius, to see that the crucifixion was the thing that mattered, what courage, to make the cross popular! The Gospels are so self- Important and pompous — ’
‘Pompous!’
‘“And he passed over into Galilee.” No! In Paul we hear the voice of a thinking man, an individual.’
‘A demon, I think.’
‘He had to invent Christ, that required demonic energy. I envy Paul. But don’t you believe in salvation without God? What do you offer to your flock? Or do you tell them lies?’
‘What indeed?’
‘Enlightenment and so on?’
‘When I think of such matters I feel humble and afraid.’
‘I don’t believe you. What do you do about it ?’
‘I pray.’
‘How can you?’
‘I reach out to Christ.’
‘To Christ? He died long ago.’
‘Not mine. We know nobody as well as we know Jesus. A mystical being.’
‘Of your own invention.’
‘No - not invented - not like other inventions - really - just somehow there. That’s it in a way.’
‘It?’
‘Our problem now, the problem of our age, our interregnum, our interim, our time of the angels — ’
‘Why angels?’
‘Spirit without God.’
‘So you expect a new revelation?’
‘No, just to hang on.’
‘Until?’
‘Until religion can change itself into something we can believe in.’
‘Surely you don’t credit these historical dramas?’ said John Robert. ‘History is fictitious. To want, however modestly, salvation by history is to live a lie. All prophets are devils, vile peddlers of illusions.’
‘I was only hoping — ’
‘Anyway, when it comes to it, what do you want to save?’
‘Oh - I don’t know - certain images - certain rites - certain spiritual situations - the conception of sacraments - certain words even.’
‘Why call it religion?’
‘It certainly isn’t morality.’
‘True. But this mystical Christ of yours, do you talk to him, ask him things?’
‘I come to him. I live him and breathe him.’
‘Are you a mystic?’
‘No, that would be to claim merit.’
‘Never mind merit, are you a mystic?’
‘I believe in a spiritual world as if it were very close to this world, as if it were - well, I believe that it is - this world - exactly the same and yet absolutely different.’
‘You have an experience?’
‘Not like a vision. More like a vibration.’
‘Isn’t that sex?’
‘Well, isn’t sex everywhere? Is it not an image of spirit, is it not spirit itself? Can spirit, our spirit and there is no other, ever rise so high that it leaves sex behind?’
‘Death excludes sex. Its proximity kills desire. Wisdom is the practice of dying.’
‘Surely sex as spirit embraces death too.’
‘That old romantic stuff! I am surprised at you. Your spiritual sex is about suffering. Christianity is a cult of suffering.’
‘Not if Christ didn’t rise it isn’t. And it is essential that he did not rise. If he be risen then is our faith vain.’
‘That is good. Only don’t deny that it is the suffering that attracts you. If there is any
absolute it condemns our evil to death, not to purgation.’
‘What about redemptive suffering?’
‘Is there such a thing?’
‘Of course there is, we are surrounded by it — when someone loves another person and suffers for him, with him — this releases spiritual energy — like an electric charge.’
John Robert reflected. ‘Well — silent fruitless love there’s plenty of, and we would need a God to give any point to that. I don’t believe in your redemptive suffering. A delightful idea, like your mystic Christ — a lie. It’s self-flattery, illusion, like almost anything that pleases. Are you a homosexual?’
‘Yes, but I live chastely. I don’t mind what other people do.’
‘So you are a narcissist?’
‘Certainly, narcissists can look after others because they are content with themselves. They are creative, imaginative, humorous, sympathetic. Those who lack narcissism are resentful envious husks. It is they who try to give it a bad name.’
John Robert laughed, then frowned.
At that moment they were walking, at the modest pace imposed by the priest, along the road called Forum Way which bordered the end of the Belmont garden. Behind the wall could be seen the tall dramatic gawky form of the ginkgo tree, and the shallow green roof of the Slipper House shining from the recent rain. There was a glossy black-painted wooden gate in the wall. John Robert cast a glance towards the Slipper House, then at the gate.
‘You’re a Jew?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘Should it?’
‘Being a Christian, isn’t that treason, doesn’t it feel like a betrayal?’
‘No! I am a religious man. That at least my religion does for me.’
‘Frees you from guilt.’
‘From irrational guilt.’
‘But does it change you at all, does your Christ do anything for you?’
‘He stops me from doing things.’
‘That was what Socrates’s daemon did.’
‘But - it’s not difficult — ’
‘You mean you don’t make sacrifices?’
‘No.’
‘So there’s not much at stake for you then, with your Christ.’
