The Philosopher's Pupil

by Iris Murdoch

  The other matter was the question of singing. Emma had not had the courage to say anything to Mr Hanway. He had decided to write to him a letter, but had not written. At last he rang up to cancel his next lesson, but still without giving any hint of the dreadful decision he was in process of taking. For it was, now he was so close up against it, a dreadful decision. He began to realize how deeply important his gift was to him, how connected with his confidence against the world. Mr Hanway was important, the guarantor of the well-being, the purity and continuity of his talent. He had sometimes thought of his voice as a burdensome secret, but it was also a valuable life-giving secret, so long as the question of giving it up, for so long vaguely present, did not seriously arise. Of course it was clear to Emma that it was his destiny to be a historian, that that admitted of no doubt was made plain by the merest flicker of the unreal hypothesis: give up history. He was to be, with all his intellect and all his nerves and his desires and all his energy and all his soul, a scholar, a polymath. He would, as a good historian must, know everything. Herein he could see and understand and emulate excellence. Such a dedicated life must preclude serious singing; and of unserious singing he had been irrevocably trained to be incapable. So … never to sing again? Never?

  Emma had intended to come to Ennistone to look for Tom, to walk in upon him indignantly, but the image of Pearl, which had certainly not been absent from his mind, began, upon the railway journey, to grow stronger. It was some time since Emma had kissed a girl, and he did not view lightly the matter of having kissed Pearl on the previous Saturday evening when rather drunk. In fact the event was remarkable. On the other hand he did not know what to make of it either. As the train approached Ennistone, the whole idea of coming to look for Tom began to seem rather stupid and dangerous. At the station, on the spur of the moment, he rang the Slipper House number which he found in the book under McCaffrey.

  At the Slipper House he kissed Pearl on arrival, and after her account of the recent happenings kissed her again. What happened after that surprised them both. It was less than satisfactory because of Emma’s lack of competence and Pearl’s determination not to risk pregnancy. It was momentous, however, and left them both a little dazed.

  Emma, sitting below her on the stairs, said, ‘Perhaps Hattie will come tomorrow.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’ll have gone tomorrow.’

  ‘Then she’ll write.’

  ‘No. And even if she writes - it will already be too late.’

  Pearl had of course not told Emma about her own feelings for John Robert or what she surmised of his for Hattie.

  ‘I can’t see why you think so. All right. John Robert said your job was at an end and said all those disobliging things, but he may change his mind after he’s calmed down and talked to Hattie. He can’t stop her from seeing you. And your relation with her is bound to change as she grows up anyway.’

  ‘I can’t be … related to Hattie … in any other way,’ said Pearl. This awful idea had only just occurred to her.

  ‘Why? I think that is nonsense. You think John Robert has really turned her against you?’

  ‘Even if he can’t persuade her that I’m a horrible person, he will have told her that she doesn’t need a maid any more, and that I am - just that.’

  ‘But she won’t think so!’

  ‘Oh - she - I don’t know, I don’t know.’ And Pearl began to cry. She had not cried all day. She put her head against the wall and cried into the wallpaper.

  ‘Oh don’t, don’t !’ said Emma. He knelt on the stairs and tried to put his arms round her, but she thrust him away. He said, ‘With Hattie - I feel sure - there isn’t any “too late”. Don’t cry. God, I wish there was something to drink in the house. Let’s go out to the Albert. Damn, it’ll be closed.’

  ‘You’d better go,’ said Pearl. She mopped her eyes on the hem of her dress.

  ‘Why can’t I stay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to be with you tomorrow. I’ll come back.’

  ‘Better not, whatever’s left for me - it’s in waiting alone.’

  ‘Yes - I see. But this, between us, is something.’

  ‘Oh, something. Anything is something.’

  ‘Well, you can’t make it nothing. I appear to have entered your life.’

  ‘There’s no such place. You’re just interested in this business.’

  ‘Well, it’s your business. I’m interested like in your green eyes.’

  ‘Don’t let’s have a stupid conversation. We aren’t anything to each other and can’t be.’

  ‘Why not, for heaven’s sake, because of class?’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’

  ‘Pearl, don’t be destructive, let’s just see.’

  ‘You’re in love with Tom McCaffrey.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but that’s just personal, subjective. I feel love for you.’

  ‘You don’t say you love me.’

  ‘I’m being curiously precise. I am grateful to you. And I do love you. And you are awfully interesting. And I want to protect you from all pains and terrors.’

  Pearl, who had been staring down into the hall, turned and looked at him. He had resumed his narrow rimless glasses which enlarged his eyes. His hair, still damp and darkened, streaked away down into the disordered collar of his shirt.

  ‘Don’t look so mournful, girl.’

  ‘Was that you singing that night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought it was. You have such a strange high voice - but beautiful.’

  ‘Yes. But what about us.’

  ‘I think I can only love my own sex. Like you. Not that anything has ever come of it.’

  ‘Do you love her - Hattie - like that?’

  ‘No. Hattie’s special. And what’s “like that” anyway? Everyone’s special.’

  ‘Exactly. Do you still want me to go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We won’t lose each other?’

  ‘I suppose not. I don’t know.’

  Ten minutes later Emma had left the house. But he did not go to Travancore Avenue. He spent the night in the Ennistone Royal Hotel and returned to London early on Saturday morning.

  What Brian McCaffrey later called ‘the family court-martial of George’ came about by accident.

  The funeral of William Eastcote took place late on Saturday afternoon. There is a Quaker graveyard, a touching ‘dormitory’ with low uniformly patterned headstones, next to the Meeting House, but this was filled up in the last century, and the old Quaker families now bury their dead with the rest of us in the municipal graveyard adjacent to St Olaf’s Church in Burkestown. The coffin was taken there privately on Saturday morning, and shortly before the burial the Friends gathered in the little all-purpose chapel to conduct their ‘funeral meeting’ which on such occasions, according to Quaker custom, is the same in form as the ordinary Sunday meetings. The gathering was not large. All the Ennistone Friends were there, and a few others including Milton Eastcote. No one was moved to speak. Any eulogy of the deceased was felt to be unnecessary and out of place. Many people wept quietly in the silence. The coffin was then carried to the grave by Percy Bowcock, Robin Osmore, Dr Roach, Nicky Roach, Nathaniel Romage and Milton Eastcote. As the Gazette put it, ‘Bill the Lizard was mourned by everyone in Ennistone.’ Certainly the universal respect and affection in which he was held was evidenced by the arrival at the scene of nearly two thousand people who stood in the graveyard and upon the grass slopes above it (beyond which is the railway). This crowd stood in complete and impressive silence through the duration (almost half an hour) of the meeting, and only pushed forward a little during the interment. Afterwards, and quite spontaneously (it is not known who started it) this large crowd sang Jerusalem, a favourite of William’s and a song which, for some reason, everyone in Ennistone knows. On this moving and memorable occasion I (N) was present. Also present were Alex, Brian, Gabriel, Tom and Adam McCaffrey and Ruby. Ther
e was a sensation when George was seen in the crowd accompanied by Diane Sedleigh: this was the first recorded occasion of George being seen in public with his mistress. There was a rumour that Stella McCaffrey, in disguise, had also been seen, but this was false.

  After the burial, and the spectacle, judged touchingly appropriate by her fellow citizens, of Anthea’s tears at the graveside, the mourners dispersed, some to go to the Institute, others to proceed to various public houses, there to reminisce about the good deeds of the deceased, and also to discuss the will, details of which had been broadcast by one of Robin Osmore’s clerks who had joined the considerable contingent who had repaired to the Green Man which was close by. William had left numerous bequests to friends and relations and to national and local charities. The Meeting House received a legacy ‘for maintaining the fabric’ large enough to dispel Nathaniel Romage’s anxiety for some time to come. Monies also went to the wasteland community centre, the Asian Centre, the Boys’ Club, the Salvation Army, and various other good causes and hard cases. However, a large slice of the cake, including the fine house in The Crescent, went to Anthea Eastcote; and for this partiality, the virtuous departed was soon being criticized by those who, while sincerely admiring him, were getting a little tired of hearing him praised.

  The McCaffrey contingent, who were (except for George) standing together, were all in different ways deeply grieved at the death of one whom they had always regarded as ‘an example of goodness’ and ‘a place of healing’. Tom and Alex both privately wished that it had occurred to them to expose some of their recent troubles to William. Brian thought he ought to have consulted William about what to do should he lose his job. Gabriel felt that a silent guarantor of the reality of goodness had been taken away from her vulnerable world. She loved William very much and now wondered why she had never seemed to have time to see him. Adam regretted that because of a cricket match he had refused an invitation to tea at 34 The Crescent. In spite of their grief, the various McCaffreys shared that curious energy, almost a kind of elation, which survivors, if not too terribly bereaved, feel after a funeral. So that when Alex suggested that they should all go and swim, and then come back to Belmont and have a drink, this seemed a good idea, and it turned out that they had all, in anticipation of just this period after the solemnity, brought their swimming costumes.

  When they reached the Institute they found the place in a turmoil. ‘Have you seen?’ shouted Nesta Wiggins running past them just outside. (She and her father had of course attended the funeral.) She did not say what, but they soon saw for themselves. The ‘Little Teaser’, or Lud’s Rill, had suddenly decided to change itself into a powerful geyser, sending a spout of scalding hot water up more than thirty feet into the air, ‘higher than last time’, it was gleefully reported. It was a cool sunny evening and a light wind was distributing the fallout over Diana’s Garden and the pavement which divided it from the pool. A plume of steam hung about the tall magical spout, around which, allowing for changes in the direction of the wind, Institute attendants had erected barriers on either side. The water, rushing up, made a fierce swishing sound like tearing silk which added to the uncanny frightening charm of the phenomenon.

  Behind the barriers a crowd had gathered, watching the antics of the great jet which played unevenly, eliciting ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ such as are to be heard at a display of fireworks. Alarming rumours were also rife. Some people were saying that scalding water was spreading through the whole Institute system, running into the baths in the Rooms and likely to drown unwary people bathing there as had, it was alleged, happened on the previous occasion of such an outburst. A number of swimmers had hastily emerged from the Outdoor Pool, having conceived or been offered the idea that the whole pool would soon be filled with boiling water, the influx of which they of course persuaded themselves that they could now feel. Others, more sceptical, continued to swim. Various speculations were also being eagerly discussed concerning the possible cause of the amazing phenomenon. Druids and poltergeists were mentioned. Someone had a theory about earthquakes, another that it was caused by the Russians, another that it was to do with a Flying Saucer which someone (a respectable youth, newly apprenticed to Dominic Wiggins) had seen two nights ago over the Common. It was recalled (wrongly) that Lud’s Rill had behaved in exactly this way on the occasion of the previous saucer, the one which William Eastcote had seen. It was then observed with triumph that the latest saucer had appeared exactly on the night that William died. All were agreed that the portent indicated that Ennistone was going to have another of its ‘funny times’, that this time had indeed already started, initiated some said by the recent weird goings-on at the Slipper House. Meanwhile Vernon Chalmers, the Director of the Institute, was walking about among the crowds and trying to reassure everyone, explaining that the scalding fount was on a quite different water system from that which served the pools and the rooms. (Vernon was also telling himself that really the Source itself ought to be open to the public, as it used to be before the first war, so that the people could see for themselves how everything worked and how safe and well-controlled the waters were. But certain prudential considerations operated against this idea; and in any case Vernon, who felt very possessive about the Institute with which he had been connected all his life since his father had been a water engineer, felt a certain reluctance to letting the common herd tramp into that sanctum sanctorum.) The citizens listened to his reassurances and then returned ardently to the most gruesome and ridiculous hypotheses.

  The McCaffreys, after watching the irregular play of the huge steamy jet, quickly attired themselves for swimming and dived into the pool where the temperature was precisely what it always was, between 26° and 28° Centigrade. Tom swam across the pool and back and then got out and rubbed his long wet hair into a frizzy mop. He dressed and went back to the crowd beside the geyser and pushed his way forward to the barrier. Here by holding out his hand he could feel, at turns of the wind, scalding drops falling on to his skin like red-hot pennies. He felt unbearably restless and miserable. He had waited up for Emma at Travancore Avenue but his friend had not come. Tom felt abandoned and jealous and confused, all his emotions and nerves lashed and raw. He was embarrassed by his black eye which, although only slightly discoloured, was able to attract attention. Brian in his blunt way had said, ‘What’s the matter with you, been fighting?’ Tom said, ‘I fell and knocked my head on a chair.’ Brian said, ‘Drunk again, I suppose.’

  But what filled Tom’s soul, painfully expanding it as it were through sheer anguish to a size never attained before, was the question of Hattie, or rather the fact that there was no question any more. The thing was over. Tomorrow Tom would have to go back to London and resume his work, see his tutor, go to lectures, write essays, and go on in the old way as if nothing had happened. So much had happened which seemed like a bad dream. Yet also it was not a dream but a terrible overriding reality, the permanently changed reality of his unhappy being, tortured by yearning and remorse. They were gone, that demonic pair, and he would never set eyes on either of them again.

  But how could he return to his ordinary life, to his work, to the, as they now seemed, insipid childish pleasures of his London student world? He had been bewitched. For a short time he had lived with gods or fairies. He had been summoned to a destiny, presented with an ordeal, and he had dully, casually, failed to understand, failed to respond, failed to see. Even at the beginning, when it had seemed important, he had been only grossly excited, flattered and amused. He recalled John Robert’s huge bulk in that little room and how surprised and alarmed and gratified he had been when at last he understood the strange man’s purpose. And he had taken those facile emotions to be something remarkable in his life.

  The image of Hattie shimmered before him now, occupying its own space, radiating its own light. He saw her silver-white blond hair cunningly pinned up or descending in amazingly long plaits or as he had seen it at the sea spread out like silk over the back of her dress. He sa
w her pale white-mottled eyes, gazing sarcastically or else gentle and truthful. He saw her long legs and her stockings with darker-coloured tops. He thought, how can I have lost her, how did it happen? I behaved like an oaf, like a cad, like a bloody fool. At the same time he could clearly remember, though he could not feel or inhabit, the fact that he had actually considered Hattie, looked her over and rejected her! Dully and casually he had turned away, failing to see that the being confronting him was a princess.

  But she’s a false princess, he thought. I am in a state of temporary insanity, I must be. They are demons, both of them, wonderful and beautiful and not quite real. Rozanov is a magician who took me to his palace and showed me a maiden. But she was something that he had made, invented out of magic stuff, so as to ensnare me. And they have gone away and I am still ensnared, they’ve gone and I suffer. Oh how much I want to see her now, he thought, how much I want to tell her how it all came about. Yet how did it, what did I do wrong and when did I do wrong? How happy I could be if I could only see her and explain that I wasn’t so stupid and so oafish, or wasn’t any more, and that I was sorry and … But that’s impossible, I never will see her again. She has been removed into the invisible world, and because of her I shall be sick forever after.

  ‘Oh Tom, I forgot, I’ve brought Judy Osmore’s dress. Look what I’ve done. It’s not perfect, but it’s not bad.’ Gabriel brought out the dress and displayed it.

  They had removed themselves to Belmont and were sitting in the drawing-room having drinks. Adam, who had decided to run back to Como to fetch Zed, had not yet returned.

  Gabriel had done a wonderful job on the dress. The tears on the shoulders which had looked so awful to Emma were only split seams and were easily mended. The wine stain on the front was indelible. But clever Gabriel had managed to blend it in to the irregular blotchy pattern of the material by discreetly dyeing surrounding, and other, areas with different strengths of tea. The dress certainly looked a bit different, but the stain could now be accepted as part of the pattern. It might even be said to look nicer, Gabriel thought. She had taken a lot of trouble with the dress and was pleased with herself, happy to have been of service to Tom, and expectant of praise.