The Philosopher's Pupil

by Iris Murdoch

  The evening at the Slipper House had already been mercifully worked upon by the chemistry of memory, and even his defeat at the hands of the singers appeared with a difference. He retained most vividly an impression of Hattie, her breathing closeness to him, her fragile crushability, her crunchability. He recalled too with appreciation her large gesture at the window. And he remembered the running, the escaping pursued by a crowd. This image was now not displeasing. To hear the vulgar outcry and outrun it and then to be alone: that was a picture of life. The histrionics beside the canal made no sense and had dropped into oblivion. The recent past appeared as a kind of show, an interlude, unconnected with the pressing duties which now composed the significance of his life.

  So it was that on Monday afternoon George sat down at the polished but dusty table in the sparsely elegant dining-room in Druidsdale, ‘he was still living downstairs, he had not gone upstairs since his excursion to find the netsuke) and wrote as follows:

  My dear John Robert,

  I have been thinking about you. I feel I have been ungracious and unfair and I want to apologize. I know you care little about apologies and other such ‘posturing’, a word which you used, years ago, to describe a similar demarche on my part. I know too that you understand the strategic psychological purpose of an apology, which is to put the apologizer once more upon a level with his adversary, the offended person! My aim, as it has always been, is clarification, one which you surely share. We have known each other a long time and have been more than once in the place we are in now; a consideration which makes me the more confident in addressing you. There are various ways in which our relationship might be pictured, but fundamentally it is that of teacher and pupil, a relation which, prima facie at any rate, imposes a lasting obligation upon the teacher. You must know from experience how lively and how durable such a connection can be, and it is not your ‘fault’ any more than it is mine that we are in this way eternally connected. It is because you are a great man and a great teacher that this is so. These are facts in the light of which my being ‘a nuisance’ or ‘impolite’ must show as superficial. You know that my ‘tiresomeness’ is an expression of love, and one which perhaps at a deep level you would be sorry to be without. You know also, and I need not stress it, how I crave for your kindness. This may sound servile, but I offer it as another fact, and in no spirit of servility. You know me well enough to know how little I am given over, even where you are concerned, to any form of slavery.

  I have been reflecting about philosophy of late, in a somewhat ‘existential’ mood (sorry, I know you loathe that word, but it has its place), and it has occurred to me (not actually for the first time) that you and I are alike. How is that? you will ask. I will tell you. We are both free men. I remember you said once (my God, how many sayings of yours are stored up in my head!) that the idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ was and could only be a vulgar illusion. I think we had been discussing Dostoevsky. All right. Those who claim to be ‘beyond’ this familiar dualism are lying cynics or irresponsible victims of semi-conscious will, or eccentric or perverted enthusiasts who elevate some virtue (courage, for instance) so far above the other virtues as to make these invisible. Or if one attempts to draw a more spiritual picture, is not this simply morality itself at a more intense level? The adept who ‘prefers knowledge to virtue’ is either a vulgar magician or else a kind of ‘scholar’, whose selfless application we may admire, while we deplore his neglect of simpler duties! I seem to hear the echo of your voice here! (Did you not also speak later on, I seem to recall the phrase of a possible ‘conceptual dissolution of morals’? Perhaps that is part of the secret doctrine!) But, John Robert, is there not a much less arcane sense of this ‘freedom’, closer to home, closer anyway to our home? Do we, you and I, fall into any of the categories I have enumerated? I think not! We have simply ‘cut free’, and what we have done is not really so mysterious (or so grand) after all. There are many aspects to our freedom. One is certainly an absence of vanity (I speak of course in a neutral sense, and not as claiming a merit) which expresses itself as a complete indifference to ‘what people say’. We are outside the power of censure, as I believe very few people are. Schopenhauer says somewhere that virtue is simply an amalgam of prudence, fear of punishment, fear of censure, apathy and a desire to be liked! Can we not simply proceed by eliminating these one by one? And when they are all gone, have we not reached a place which some deny exists? Not by a dramatic leap, or by the development of some narrow specialized super-virtue, but by a simple movement of escape, like an eel slipping out of a trap. We are outside, you and I, and are we not, in this unpopulated open space, to shake each other’s hands? I think you understand me.

  I would like to talk to you about these and other matters. I won’t try to see you just yet. Indeed, I don’t mind whether we talk here or in California. But we will talk. I feel, I cannot express to you how I know it, sure of that. We are bound together. I have sometimes behaved to you like a vulgar fool and I am sorry for it. But I know that you know that I am not a vulgar fool. Between now and the end, I am to be reckoned with.

  I want in this letter to make peace with you. The sense of our being ‘at odds’ has troubled me. Let there be peace, John Robert, for both our sakes. Don’t trouble to answer this, but receive it, think about it please, let it be in your mind. I will communicate with you again. Ever, indeed forever, your devoted pupil,

  George McC

  George wrote the letter rapidly, straight out, in a state of excitement as if inspired. When he sat back and read it through he felt relieved, almost happy. It was wise not to suggest a meeting, better to indicate a vague future which, being peaceful, would in its due time bring forth a meeting. George felt sure that this letter would charm the philosopher. At worst it would amuse him. But George meant every word of the letter and hoped that its seriousness would impress. The sending of it would be a magic act which would restore to its tormented writer peace, and time.

  It was Wednesday morning. Tom, who had of course not returned to London, was ringing the bell at number sixteen Hare Lane. He had received by the first post a letter which read:

  Dear Mr McCaffrey,

  I shall expect you to call on me at Hare Lane at 10 a.m. on Wednesday.

  J. R. Rozanov

  John Robert opened the door and made a gesture toward the back room. Tom entered past him. The day was cloudy and overcast and the room was dark, but Tom saw a copy of the Ennistone Gazette open on the table.

  Rozanov came in and shut the door. He said in a husky voice, clearing his throat, ‘Have you seen this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you explain it? There’s a report here too.’ He slapped a copy of The Swimmer down on the table with a violence which made Tom shudder.

  Tom had already thought out his speech which would consist simply of telling the truth. He said, ‘It’s horrible, I felt sick when I read it. But you know what gossip columns are. It’s all lies — ’

  ‘Oh, is it?’

  Tom was standing with his back to the window, Rozanov against the closed door. Tom realized that the philosopher was actually trembling and that there were frothy bubbles on his lips. Tom drew a deep breath. He was beginning to tremble too. He said, ‘Wait, listen, I’ll tell you exactly what happened, it was all perfectly innocent, not like that - I was at those rehearsals at the Hall, then we all went to the pub, to the Green Man, and then when it closed I went to Belmont and they all followed me, I didn’t want them to, I didn’t invite them — ’

  ‘Were you going to see Harriet?’ John Robert was controlling himself, Tom could hear his slow deep breathing and the expulsion of his breath between his teeth.

  Tom hesitated, then said, ‘Yes - but — ’

  ‘So late at night? Had she invited you?’

  ‘No - it wasn’t all that late - I mean — ’

  ‘The Green Man closes at ten, ten-thirty?’

  ‘Well, all right, I wasn’t going to call on her like, I ju
st wanted to - to go there — ’

  ‘To go there?’

  ‘I don’t know what I wanted, I was drunk.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Then all the others followed, they thought there was a party.’

  ‘Had you arranged a party?’

  ‘No— ’

  ‘Why did they think there was a party?’

  ‘Because I said so — ’

  ‘You said so — ’

  ‘Yes, but only sort of to put them off, to get away - I pretended I had to go to a party - and then - well, then there was a party - I didn’t intend it - and once they were there I couldn’t get them to leave. It wasn’t my fault. I’m very sorry indeed about it all. I’ve been writing a letter of apology to Miss Meynell — ’

  ‘Why are you apologizing if it wasn’t your fault?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it was my fault because it was offensive but not intentionally — ’ Awful unclarified feelings of guilt had been confusing Tom’s mind. He seemed somehow to have brought about, and yet how, an absolute mountain of complicated events. He had wanted to run to see Hattie but did not dare to. He had been trying to compose a letter to her but found it too difficult. He was indeed only at that very moment realizing the full enormity of the situation.

  The familiar process of question and answer had made Rozanov less agitated. At first he had hardly been able to speak. He said, ‘You brought George there, you introduced him into the house.’

  ‘I didn’t, I swear it! I don’t know how George came into it, he must have arrived by accident.’

  ‘Were you in the house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he was.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know how he got in - then we - we shouted at him and made him go.’

  ‘And were all those people there, Mrs Sedleigh and men dressed as women?’

  ‘Yes, well, one anyway, but it was just a lark — ’

  ‘A lark? Are you in your right mind?’

  ‘I know it’s awful but it wasn’t my fault, all that other stuff was made up by the paper.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that they simply invented the idea that — ’ John Robert leaned back against the door and opened his wet frothy mouth like an animal.

  Tom was now almost crying with fear and distress. He said, wailing it out, ‘I did nothing wrong!’

  Rozanov said with difficulty, ‘Are you suggesting that the newspapers invented the idea that I had - said that you might - that you and Harriet might - that I wanted you to be together?’

  There was something pitifully awfully sad in the utterance of those words; and it was only at that moment that Tom fully realized what a terrible position he was in. He had been facing the philosopher, but now lowered his head. He mumbled, ‘I don’t know what made them say that.’

  ‘Don’t you? You told somebody - what I told you not to tell — ’

  ‘No-’

  ‘You told somebody.’

  ‘Well, yes I told one person.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My friend Scarlett-Taylor, but — ’

  ‘You said - you promised - not to tell anyone — ’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m very very sorry, if you knew how sorry you would be less angry with me - I don’t know how it got around - it can’t have been him - perhaps they really did make it up — ’

  ‘Do you realize the terrible harm you have done to Harriet and to me, terrible irreparable harm?’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Tom. ‘This is some stupid impertinent rubbish in a local paper, people will laugh at it.’

  ‘Do you imagine that I like being laughed at? Do you think that I lightly ignore the fact that you have made a fool of me, a laughing stock? That something so very private has been made into a vulgar joke —?’

  Rozanov took a step forward and Tom flinched toward the corner of the room - standing in the corner, he leaned back against the wall. He said, ‘I am very sorry, I’ve said that. What more can I say? It’s a piece of nonsense.’

  ‘My grand-daughter’s name dishonoured in public and you call it nonsense?’

  ‘I don’t see that it can harm Hattie in any way.’

  ‘Do not call her Hattie!’

  ‘Well, Harriet, Miss Meynell, whatever you like, I dare say it hurts you - your - your self-esteem - but you’ll soon recover - and it needn’t bother her, it’s all temporary — ’

  John Robert lunged out one hand, picked up a small china dog from the sideboard and smashed it with tremendous force into the grate. The fragments flew about the floor. He said, ‘Have you read those two articles?’

  In fact Tom had not seen the article in The Swimmer at all and had not read the Gazette article with close attention. He had read it through with horror and disgust and then torn it up in case he should be tempted to distress himself further by looking at it again. He said, ‘I sort of read that, not carefully - I haven’t seen the other one — ’

  ‘Well, read them now please. Sit down at the table and read them. Sit down.’

  Tom sat down on a chair beside the table. He read the Gazette article. It took him some time to do so because he found that he could not see, the print was fuzzy and unclear and he had to keep blinking his eyes and reading each sentence twice over. He then read the article in The Swimmer which Rozanov had spread out beside him. When he had first read the Gazette Tom’s eye had passed over the bit about ‘professorial prompting’ and he had vaguely understood it but without taking in the accompanying innuendo. His appalled reaction had been to the account of ‘a drunken riot’ and he had winced at the connection of his own name with those of Hattie and Rozanov. But even on that he had not reflected fully. He had thought, it’s only a piece of blatantly shameless gossip in a local paper, no one will take it in or understand it, they’ll simply think it’s crazy, and I don’t imagine John Robert will even see it. His thoughts had fled at once to Hattie and what on earth he was to say to her after that horrid scene. But now … He read the other article. He put his hands up to his blazing hot face. He said, ‘I hadn’t fully taken it in. I see now. But it’s all a lot of lies and inventions. It’s such awful stuff - can’t one do anything, can’t we make them say it isn’t true —?’

  While he was reading, John Robert had sat down opposite him at the table, watching him. ‘No, of course we can’t do anything. I hope you see now the extent of what your treachery has done, to her, and to me, what hurt, what distress, what irrevocable damage you have brought about.’

  Tom said feebly, not looking up, ‘I do assure you nothing was given away through me. They must have invented it all. Of course it’s horrible - but no one will believe it - and later on it’ll all blow away and be forgotten - nobody cares these days about things like that anyway.’

  ‘You speak with a foul tongue,’ said Rozanov. ‘I should have realized that you are like your brother, a filthy-minded self-obsessed cynic and a pitiful idiot. And you appear to be his drinking companion and lieutenant.’

  ‘I’m not, don’t connect me with George. I mean we’re not close like that at all.’

  ‘The details don’t matter. It is all sufficiently bad to be fatal. You have made a fool of me, and I don’t forgive that.’

  Tom looked up with his flaming face and sustained Rozanov’s glare. ‘You frighten me and I can’t think clearly. I just meant people will forget, and it’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘And to have your brother’s name brought into this. And to think that he went into that house. Whether you introduced him there — ’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Is immaterial. I think you tell lies and I don’t want to talk to you any more. You say nobody cares now. No, “nobody cares” about sexual honour and decency and chastity and right conduct. But I care. And I - I chose you - because I thought - you cared. I should have kept clear of your vice-tainted clan.’

  Tom felt tears coming into his eyes. He said, ‘I’ve said some stupid things - I didn’t mean it like that. But surely you - I don’t unders
tand - you don’t think that Hattie did anything wrong?’

  John Robert stood up and Tom rose quickly and moved to the fireplace ready to dart for the door. John Robert said, ‘You are a foul-minded fool. But you need not be afraid of me. I only called you here really for one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have broken one promise. I shall require of you now, after all the harm you have done us, not to break another. You are not ever again to see my grand-daughter or to communicate with her in any way.’

  ‘But — ’

  ‘You will not see her again ever. Any approach to her now would be an unforgivable offence, an outrage. I believe you live in London. Go there today and stay there. Do not dare to show your face in Ennistone. If you do I will - I will do everything I can to harm you as you have so unpardonably harmed me. Go away and stay away. I shall soon take Harriet back to America. It was an accursed mistake to bring her here. And the fault, the curse, is yours, son of a profligate father and a runaway mother, corrupted by your evil brother. And to think that I trusted you with - something so precious — ’