The Sacred and Profane Love Machine

by Iris Murdoch

  With a sort of mindless stubbornness he held on to the idea of becoming a schoolmaster. Before Sophie’s death, though he had been in great pain (a pain which seemed like bliss compared with present pain) he had at least been able to think, and he had thought that it would be good for him thus to do an ordinary plain job. A complete change of world might even help him should he ever want to write again. He needed simple compulsory things in his life, to clothe himself in some humble serviceable role. Moments of vision suggested that to be forced to help people might be healing, might mysteriously make his long struggles with ‘it’ bear fruit at last, might at least help him to bear his (then future) bereavement without becoming in some way eviL For Monty well knew how untouched within him were certain dark things with which he could not ‘play’, as Blaise for instance played with his. Even Milo Fane, though certainly a product of the ‘dark’ things, was not really a part of them. Perhaps they had more to do with Magnus Bowles than they had to do with Milo Fane. Milo was a frivolity compared with them. Now that Sophie was dead the schoolmastering idea remained, drained of ‘interest’, but at least presenting a possible goal in a world without live ends, a way of countering this truly fearful self-absorption. The lack of ‘interest’ could even prove an advantage. Might not ‘it’ reward him for a motiveless decent act, if that was indeed what the school-mastering idea represented?

  However it was one thing to dream of a new and useful mode of life, quite another to get oneself out of a comfortable book-lined house in Buckinghamshire and into a masters’ common room. This was where, Monty had reluctantly to admit, Edgar Demarnay came in. Edgar had taken over the idea with enthusiasm and had begun to give it body. Monty could teach history and Latin, could he not? After all, he had taught history and Latin long ago, before Milo. And he could teach Greek when he had had time to brush it up a bit. How enjoyable. Edgar felt quite envious. Teaching a fine dead language to clever boys was surely one of the most delightful occupations in the world. As for a job for Monty nothing was easier. Old Binkie Fairhazel, Monty remembered Binkie from college, was now headmaster of a school called Bankhurst near Northampton, and had written to Edgar as soon as he had heard of Edgar’s appointment to ask him to look out for a classics master. Well, Monty’s Greek was rusty, but he could soon bring it up to scratch. Old Binkie would be delighted. No doubt, thought Monty, recalling the contemptuous way he had treated Binkie at college. He scoffed at Edgar’s idea but let a sense of destiny carry him nevertheless towards it. Must he not wait for ‘signs’ and was not Edgar one? Could he without help find himself a job before September? No. Where was he, will-less as he was, to go? Edgar pointed out that the Northampton school was not far from Oxford and was even closer to Mockingham. Would he, Monty wondered, ever sit once more upon the terrace at Mockingham, drinking brandy and smoking cigars with Edgar, and looking down at the river and the famous vista through the woods? He would need a few weekends off if he were to castigate himself to the extent of Binkie Fairhazel.

  He also reminded himself that he wanted to be out of Locketts before his mother arrived. He wanted to be able to decide to sell Locketts. Only something detained him, something interfered with all his plans, and that something was Harriet. He felt, he told himself, no dangerous degree of affection for Harriet, but he did feel affection and a sort of sense of responsibility for her. He also felt a considerably less pure-minded interest in her predicament and curiosity to see how it would develop. This mean little interest and curiosity were, in their way, a sort of mediocre consolation to him since they were a genuine distraction from his bereavement. Harriet was the only person in the world who now moved him in any way. Harriet, and of course David. Would it not be better to stay near them, even running the gauntlet of his mother’s visit, and let the schoolmaster idea drift for a while? Besides, if he let Edgar help him he would be that much more bound to that Old Man of the Sea.

  Harriet was the sort of ‘soft’ or ‘angelic’ woman whom Monty had always felt to be his kind of woman in the old days, in the days of his ‘frightfulness’. Harriet’s truthfulness, her unshadowed openness, her absolute obviousness, her naive untested goodness, her evident innocence calmed and cheered him a little, could do so even now. She was a gentle utterly harmless person who could make no one her victim. How was it that when Monty fell really in love he fell for a devious disloyal two-faced sharp-edged little monster like Sophie? Sophie’s nose was the reason, or there was no reason. Or her shoes. He had simply wanted that alien unjustifiable unassimilable being more than anything in the world. Harriet was a consoler though and the picture of her sweetness and harmlessness was a good one to be held up now in front of his face. Perhaps after all he would stay with Harriet And now he thought, as he listened to Edgar telling him about alterations he was planning at Mockingham and what the National Trust man had said and how he had seen a sparrow-hawk in the valley, it was nearly time for him to go to Harriet’s idiotic party for Emily McHugh. Monty had rather disliked Emily and suspected it was mutual. He saw clearly the sort of demoness that sat enthroned inside that vital blue-eyed ferocious calculating little being. But what so moved Blaise here repelled Monty. Now he must go to the party, be polite, pretend to be meeting Emily for the first time, and listen to Harriet talking, as she invariably did when she met him, about Magnus Bowles. At that moment David cried out.

  Monty, whose grief had no tears, gazed with sudden fury upon the blubbing boy. ‘Stop that at once, will you!’

  ‘Don’t be angry about it,’ said Edgar. ‘He’s got a lot to cry for. I think maybe I shall cry myself.’

  ‘You’re foully drunk.’

  ‘I’m not – yet. There, David, don’t cry, dear boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said David, rubbing the sleeve of his now filthy shirt across his eyes.

  ‘Introduce us, Monty,’ said Edgar.

  ‘Oh God. David Gavender, Professor Edgar Demarnay.’

  ‘Not professor now ac —’

  ‘David, are you coming to this Emily McHugh party of your mother’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better get meeting her over with? You need only stay for a few minutes.’

  ‘No. I can’t—’

  ‘You go,‘ said Edgar. ‘I’ll stay here and – hie – talk to David.’

  ‘Oh – hell - said Monty. He left them and walked quickly out of the house. He suddenly stupidly passionately did not want to leave Edgar alone with the tearful David. If only he had been by himself, a tearful David would have interested him, though he would have been angry all the same. Now Edgar would crawl over everything, interfering, misunderstanding, messing about, getting more and more in. He had to attend Harriet’s ghastly party, but he resolved to return home very soon and tell Edgar to go. As he turned into the front garden of Hood House Seagull snapped at his heels. Monty kicked him.

  ‘Are you the Professor Demarnay who wrote Babylonian Mathematics and Greek Logic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Empedocles as Poetry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Pythagoras and His Debt to Scythia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did that edition of the Cratylus?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t let’s go on all night, dear boy. Dry those charming tears and tell me all about it.’

  Monty had had several short drinks. With Edgar he had drunk slowly. Now he was drinking fast. So indeed was everyone else. There were some exquisite little sandwiches, but no one had eaten any. There was even about the strange gathering the semblance of a real party. No one seemed at a loss for words. There had been no disasters so far. Introduced by Harriet to Emily McHugh, Monty had bowed silently and so had she. Constance Pinn, introduced, smiled conspiratorially and seized his hand, scratching his palm hard with her index finger. Pinn had since then been trying to engage him in conversation and Monty had been determinedly avoiding any tête-à-tête. Pinn was handsome, dressed with ostentatious simplicity in her black dress with the lace collar. (Brussels l
ace, cast off by a girl at school.) Her sleek slightly domed auburn hair glowed wirily with health and confidence. Emily was handsome too and had got her clothes right for once. She was wearing a white blouse and the Italian cameo brooch with a blue velvet waistcoat and black trousers. She kept fingering her dark hair, which was newly washed and pleasantly floppy, and thrusting it back with boyish gestures. Her blue eyes were bright and brave, darting rather self-consciously about, observing furniture rather than persons. Harriet by contrast was pale and untidy, hairpins much in evidence and looking tired. She rarely wore jewellery, but had put on the silver-gilt bracelet with engraved roses which her father had given her. She kept clicking and unclicking its catch. The belt of her grey voile dress had come undone and trailed. She had whispered to Monty early on, ‘Stay till they’ve gone, won’t you.’ So in spite of the horrid possibility of a David-Edgar entente, it seemed that he had to stay. In any case, now that he saw Harriet with her tumbling hair and her nervous hands and her trailing belt he wanted to stay.

  Harriet had told Emily ‘I hope David will come soon,’ but David had not come. She had asked Monty about Edgar and he had replied vaguely. No David, no Edgar, and Emily and Pinn, who had both drunk plenty, showed no signs of proposing to go. Blaise, red in the face, was all smiles, agreeing quickly with anyone who addressed him. Harriet kept touching his arm reassuringly, perhaps possessively. Pinn, who was now getting the giggles, kept staring at him and laughing. Emily resolutely ignored him. She also ignored Monty and Pinn and addressed her remarks exclusively to Harriet. Monty, evading Pinn, talked mainly to Blaise who though incapable of listening or of answering rationally could quite respectably babble. Monty was beginning to feel, with the effect of drink, a sort of exhilaration. It was not exactly that he wanted something scandalous to occur, he was just horribly interested.

  The Hood House drawing-room, a long narrow three-windowed room occupying the side of the house, had a bare bony look as of hallowed ivory, with its white walls adorned only by a quartet of water-colours and an oval mirror with a white porcelain frame. The room, a project of Blaise’s, had somehow never been completed and was not frequently used. The thick yellowish Indian carpet left by the previous occupier had not yet, owing to disagreements between Blaise and Harriet about its successor, been replaced, and the furniture had at the best of times a tendency to recede to the walls. Upon the unprotected central area the company were now standing in an awkward ring like people who, at the blowing of a whistle or the striking up of music, would initiate some game or strenuous dance. Blaise, breathing rapidly and audibly, kept smiling a tremulous fading and returning smile and looking from one to the other of the women, distributing bis attention, Monty noticed, equally between all three.

  Conversation, not difficult though a little distraught, had concerned the theatre.

  ‘The theatre is so artificial,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Don’t you like Shakespeare?’ said Emily.

  ‘To read yes, but on the stage it’s just tricks.’

  ‘I can’t think why people go,’ said Monty. ‘It seems to me a waste of an evening which might be spent in conversation.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Blaise, ‘quite so.’

  ‘You’re not serious, Monty?’ said Pinn.

  ‘I adore the theatre,’ said Emily. ‘It takes you out of yourself. I love those great glittering images that you remember for ever. But when can I ever get to the theatre with dear little Luca around?’

  ‘You could take him,’ said Harriet.

  ‘He’d hate it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’d hate it.’

  ‘You found someone to stay with him this evening.’

  ‘Pinn did. Some school kid. Who did you get, Pinn?’

  ‘Kiki St Loy.’

  ‘What a pretty name,’ said Harriet.

  ‘You said you’d get Jenny. You never said Kiki.’

  ‘Jenny couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Blaise could take you to the theatre sometimes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’d look after Luca.’

  ‘You’re kidding! Do a show. Well why not? Years since we did a show. Blaise is crazy about the theatre, aren’t you, Blaise!’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Blaise.

  ‘What a wet blanket I’ve evidently been!’ said Harriet laughing.

  ‘But are you serious?’ said Pinn to Monty.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About thinking plays a waste of time.’

  ‘The only great plays are in poetry, and I agree with Harriet I’d rather read them.’

  ‘Surely there are some good plays in prose?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never go to the theatre.’

  ‘Then aren’t you talking nonsense since you can’t judge?’

  ‘I don’t claim to be right. I only claim to be serious.’

  ‘You are a cynic ! Is it true your mother was an actress?’

  ‘Unsuccessfully. She taught voice production in a school.’

  ‘I wish someone would teach me to produce my voice,’ said Emily.

  ‘You have a very nice voice,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I mean my accent. Blaise professes to like my accent.’

  ‘I like it very much.’

  ‘So you admit I have one? Thanks a lot!’

  ‘Would you turn the lights on, Blaise, it’s suddenly got so dark,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I used to want to be an actress,’ said Pinn to Monty. ‘I’ve written this play. Would you read it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to sit down, Harriet?’ said Monty.

  ‘No – I think – standing is – better.’

  ‘Why are the dogs yapping so?’ said Emily. ‘It’s like a bloody wolf pack.’

  ‘You could criticize it as harshly as you like, I’d want to know what you really thought.’

  ‘There’s someone at the garden door,‘ said Monty. ‘It must be -’

  ‘It’s David!’ cried Harriet. But instead of following Monty into the kitchen she went to the side of the room and sat down. The dogs continued in a frenzy.

  Monty went through into the kitchen followed by Blaise. A figure just entering from the garden turned out to be Edgar. The hysterical barking was shut out by the closing door. Monty saw with surprise that the garden was darker, though the clouded sun still attempting to shine had given the scene the bedimmed vividness of a picture by Vermeer.

  Edgar’s bulky figure seemed to tilt. Then he reached the table, leaning there with his hands fiat upon the red cloth. It was apparent to Monty, and also evidently to Blaise, that Edgar was very drunk.

  ‘You deal, will you,’ said Blaise, and was gone back to the drawing-room.

  ‘Why come this way?’ said Monty. ‘Oh, I see, you came over the fence. You are a damn fool. And you’re drunk. You’d better sit down.’

  ‘I wanted to see – Harriet,’ said Edgar, very carefully and clearly, rather loudly. ‘I have something – to tell her.’

  ‘Sit down. You’ve torn your jacket. And you’re filthy. You must have fallen.’

  Edgar stared down intently at a long tear reaching from his jacket pocket to the hem. The pocket sagged, showing its lining. Edgar’s trouser leg was thickly encrusted with earth. ‘Yes, I think I fell. I must have. I’ve got to see Harriet. No, I will not sit down.’

  ‘Is David coming?’

  ‘No. Oh he cried so. And now – I’m just going to —’

  With a surprising turn of speed Edgar lurched past Monty and on into the drawing-room where there was already an expectant silence. He stopped in front of Harriet, who was sitting against the wall. ‘Oh – Edgar- said Harriet rather faintly, trying to smile. Emily giggled. Pinn said ‘Ha!’ Blaise smiled malignantly and poured himself another drink.

  ‘Your son,’ said Edgar swaying and exclusively addressing Harriet, ‘has been in Monty’s house for some time crying his eyes out.’

  ‘I’ll go to him at once,’ said Harriet, but without rising. Edgar’s bloodshot eyes and slightly
dribbling lower lip seemed to hold her fascinated.

  ‘Better not,’ said Monty. ‘Edgar, you come with me, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘That however?’ Edgar went on. ‘That however was not what I came here to say. I have come, Harriet, to offer you my protection.’

  ‘Really!’ said Blaise.

  ‘I have a house, Monty knows it well, a beautiful house called Mockingham, which I offer to you, to be of service, myself being absent, my housekeeper would, I think you should withdraw, into a kind of retreat, some kind of austerity, so as not to condone, there are things one cannot, without involving a falsity, some new wrong done, I must testify, I must testify —’

  ‘I don’t think you should testify,’ said Monty. ‘I think you should come home with me.’

  ‘Offer you, as I say, my protection, not meaning by this anything, a household has been dishonoured, it is not so simple to decide, how to treat this awful thing —’

  ‘No one has suggested that it is simple,’ said Blaise, who was evidently fairly drunk himself.

  ‘Who is this comical man, please?’ said Pinn.

  ‘Don’t answer him,’ said Monty to Blaise. ‘He’ll stop in a minute and I’ll remove him.’

  ‘Dear Edgar -’ said Harriet.

  ‘Don’t Dear Edgar me, you would have been kinder to me if you had not been so kind, I too have emotions, I too have needs, I am flesh and blood am I not, you let me hold your hand, of course you laughed at me, I can be laughed at, beautiful women have laughed at me –’