by Iris Murdoch
‘So that cuts that out. What about religion, God?’
‘I’ve never understood religion. My mother was a Christian Scientist, but Dad never let her talk about it.’
‘Do you like any art?’
‘Do I like what?’
‘Any art. I mean, do you enjoy music or reading or—’
‘No.’
‘You could learn.’
‘I’m not clever. Henry won’t understand that. I’m like lots of people really. You make it sound as if I don’t enjoy anything, but I do. I like animals and sunshine and places like this and—’
‘Look at that enormous bumble bee, he’s like a flying puppy dog.’
‘He’s gone into the ivy.’
‘ “He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy bloom, Nor heed nor see what things they be, But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality.”’
‘Did you write that?’
‘No. I wish I had.’
‘I liked some poetry when I was at school, but I’ve forgotten it now. It’s nearly lunch time. Gerda won’t let me help in the kitchen.’
‘You go on up. I’ll wait here a little. I can’t go fast up the steps.’
Stephanie tripped away and Lucius watched her go. She had changed in his eyes since his first vision of her as a mysterious plump charmer. He thought now that she was one of the most purely simple-minded beings with whom he had ever conversed at length and one of the most touching. With what experience, what abysmal innocence. He felt curiously proud of his ability to communicate with her so easily. He had never so chattered with anyone. There was something rather absurd and precious about her. He pitied her, and he saw Henry doing so. Gerda saw Henry’s love for Stephanie as perverse, almost weird. But Lucius understood.
He sat quiet on the wooden seat, staring across the lake at the grove of willows and red dogwood on the other side. He dreaded the steps now. He was so hurt that Gerda had not asked him to stay near her. She seemed to take it for granted that he would just go away. She had ceased to talk to him or to show him any of her heart. Perhaps he thought, she is suffering too much and wants no witnesses. She was always a proud woman. Oh, if only I could comfort her! But against that judgment there was no appeal. He was to go to Audrey’s. That would not serve; and anyway, and perhaps it was just as well, Rex would never let him settle down there. I shall go to London, he thought, and find myself a little room in Soho, and sit every day in the literary pubs, there must still be some. And he pictured himself there, a venerable picturesque white-haired figure in a large black hat, sitting in his accustomed corner and writing, pointed out to visitors. Henry had offered him money, but it was not enough. Surely someone will support me, he thought. The Royal Literary Fund? The Arts Council?
He looked across the lake and resolutely thrust away the panic that was always close to him now. Wakeful at night he saw himself destitute, abandoned, old. If only, he thought, art does not finally fail me. If I can only go on writing something I shall be all right. Perhaps I could write my political autobiography as an epic poem? God, how the time has passed. How can a whole life time pass so quickly with so little done? I thought I would achieve wisdom in the end, and now it is the end and I am still a fool. Well, there’s life in the old creature yet. He took out his notebook and wrote.
The old grey heron
Seeks among the streams of his youth
For one pure source.
Henry rang the bell. A man opened the door.
It took Henry a substantial number of seconds to recognize Cato. What he saw at first was an elderly man in a dirty white open-necked shirt and dark trousers with a round rather puffy blotchy face and staring eyes.
‘Oh—come in—’
‘I see you’re in mufti,’ said Henry desperately, trying to account for his amazed look.
‘Oh yes. That’s all over. Brendan’s at the college. What can I do for you?’
‘I hope you didn’t mind my ringing up?’
‘No, no. What can I do for you?’
It was midday on the day following Henry’s meeting with Colette. Once the task had been laid upon him he had felt unable to put off seeing Cato. He was glad that she had asked him, but the gladness was also a source of pain, and he wanted to finish with the bond which this duty established between him and the girl. He would send his report promptly in a letter. After that, thank God, America. He had not told Stephanie about his visit to Colette or about his mission to Cato, but had made another excuse about going to London. To spare himself anxiety he had not tried to think too much about Cato beforehand and about the awful thing that had happened to him. But now looking at that staring unsmiling face he saw what Colette had meant when she feared that her brother might go mad. Cato looked, in some way which was hard to define, very ill. His face looked swollen and greasy and there was a dark purplish ring round each eye. He kept opening his mouth, then closing it, then pursing his lips and wrinkling his nose in a quick nervous movement. His eyes roved constantly, avoiding Henry.
The sitting-room of Brendan Craddock’s flat was rather narrow and dark with one window which looked out onto a wall, and even though the sun was shining outside the room seemed almost in twilight. Cato made no move to put on a light, probably not noticing the gloom. Books lined the walls. There were some black velvet hangings and rather too many rugs. Henry sat down gingerly on some sort of embroidered chair. Cato stood leaning against the books, took a pace or two carefully brushing them with his sleeve, then leaned again, gazing at the window. After his query he seemed to have forgotten Henry.
‘I wondered how you were,’ said Henry.
‘Oh, all right.’ Cato moved along the bookshelves, skirted the window and returned along the shelves on the other side, keeping his arm against them as if this contact were necessary to his safety. He reached the door, then returned using the other arm, now pursing his lips up with an air of scrupulous exactitude.
‘I wondered if I could help in any way,’ said Henry. The words, in this scene, sounded flat and impertinent.
‘I don’t think so, thank you.’
‘I was—so awfully sorry—to hear about—’
Cato said nothing. He paused, scrutinized the books as if searching for something, then began to move again.
Henry said, ‘I had an awful time too, I waited at the Mission, you know, with the police, I waited all night, only nobody came—and—’
Cato was silent.
‘Well—so—you’re leaving the priesthood?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t see why you should be sorry,’ said Cato, frowning slightly, ‘seeing that you don’t believe in God.’
‘You don’t know what I believe,’ said Henry petulantly. He hoped that Cato, who had shown a faint sign of feeling at last, might reply to this, that some kind of conversation might begin; but silence followed. Cato gazed about, not at Henry. Henry turned round and contemplated the books behind him. The Summa Theologica. The complete works of Nietzsche in German.
‘Look, Cato, for Christ’s sake stop walking up and down. Is there anything to drink here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Henry got up and investigated a cupboard which was set in the bookshelves. There was a bottle of whisky, a decanter of sherry, glasses. Henry poured himself out some whisky.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
Henry sat down again. Cato paused again, studying the books, then gave a deep sigh, the sort of sigh which a man gives when he is alone.
‘Cato—please—talk to me. What are you going to do with yourself now?’
‘I have a teaching job in Leeds. I shall go there.’
‘Will you go back to Pennwood first?’
‘Only if I think I can tell lies.’ Cato selected a book, opened it and examined it intently.
‘Lies—what lies?’
&nb
sp; ‘Suitable ones.’
After a moment Henry said, ‘I saw Colette.’
‘Did you.’ A look almost of malevolence twisted Cato’s puffy face, but he continued to peruse the book.
‘She—she—seemed none the worse for her ordeal.’
‘None the worse. That’s good.’
‘Cato, do sit down, do talk properly, please.’
Cato, grimacing, turned the look of malevolence onto Henry. Then he dropped the book noisily onto the floor.
‘Did you ever think that perhaps I might marry Colette?’ He wanted to startle Cato into some real speech.
‘You? Marry Colette?! No!!’
Henry flinched at the quick force of spite in the reply. ‘All right I never wanted to—I mean—’
‘Colette will marry somebody distinguished and good. If she marries.’
‘Why shouldn’t she marry, or do you think she’ll become a nun?’
‘It’s up to her,’ said Cato, his voice blank again. He leaned back against the shelves and looked at his watch.
‘Cato, don’t be angry with me.’
‘I hear you’re marrying some whore.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘I am.’
‘And then, having vented your vindictive resentment on your mother, you are returning to America.’
‘That’s right. I know you were against the sale—’
‘Oh, I’m not,’ said Cato. ‘Not at all. I’m for it. Sell the place up, excellent. All those old houses are much better made into flats or bloody conference centres, and all those useless acres built upon. There’s a housing shortage here, you know.’
‘Cato—hadn’t you better see a doctor?’
‘Why did you come here?’ said Cato, staring at Henry again, speaking very incisively but softly.
‘I came out of affection for you.’
‘You came out of curiosity.’
‘I came because we’re old friends.’
‘You came as a tourist.’
‘Cato, stop.’
‘Did you ever kill a man?’
‘No.’
‘You should try it some time. It’s a funny feeling. It’s so easy to end a man’s life. Once you’ve done it you feel you might do it again. Why not go around killing people?’
‘Cato—is Brendan coming home soon?’
‘Are you frightened of me?’
‘No—but—I feel you shouldn’t be alone.’
‘Do you imagine I’ll kill myself?’
‘No, of course not—’
‘After one has committed a murder—’
‘But you didn’t!’
‘One realizes that there are no barriers, there never were any barriers, what one thought were barriers were simply frivolous selfish complacent illusions and vanities. All that so-called morality is simply smirking at yourself in a mirror and thinking how good you are. Morality is nothing but self-esteem, nothing else, simply affectations of virtue and spiritual charm. And when self-esteem is gone there’s nothing left but fury, fury of unbridled egoism.’
‘Cato—you’re suffering from shock.’
‘You came here as a tourist to view the ruins.’
‘I didn’t—Please—’
‘Sorry. Sorry. You’d better go. I’ll be all right. I don’t need a doctor. Please go away. And don’t tell them anything at Pennwood. I just hope and pray for you—may you never see what I see now, never know what I know now, never be where I am now!’
‘Cato—’
‘Oh get out, get out, get out!’
Henry fled to the door and half fell down the first stairs. The door closed behind him. He paused, and heard again that awful lonely sigh, now prolonged into a kind of quiet moan. He ran down the remaining stairs and out into the street and hailed a taxi. ‘National Gallery.’
Twenty minutes later Henry was sitting in front of Titian’s great picture. His violently beating heart was slowly calming a little. He kept his eyes fixed on the picture as in an activity of prayer.
He thought, I can never tell that to Colette, or to anyone. I’ve somehow run myself into hell. There must be many entrances. I won’t write to Colette. I’ll send her a little air letter saying nothing, from Sperriton. Oh God, he thought, three weeks from now I shall be home in Sperriton and I shall be married and this whole nightmare will be over. I shall be with Russell and Bella—and Stephanie. And my life will be simple and I shall have simple duties: to make Stephanie happy, to live at peace, to teach my pupils, to drink martinis with my friends and tear along the freeway in my automobile. All the violence will be over. I shall be back again with the innocent ones, in the land of innocence, thank God.
He stared at the picture and his heart became quiet. How different it is, violence in art, from the horror of the real thing. The dogs are tearing out Actaeon’s entrails while the indifferent goddess passes. Something frightful and beastly and terrible has been turned into one of the most beautiful things in the world. How is this possible? Is it a lie, or what? Did Titian know that really human life was awful, awful, that it was nothing but a slaughterhouse? Did Max know, when he painted witty cleverly composed scenes of torture? Maybe they knew, thought Henry, but I certainly don’t and I don’t want to. And he thought of Cato now with a horrified pity which was a sort of disgust, and he gazed into the far depths of the great picture and he prayed for himself— May I never see what he sees, never know what he knows, never be where he is, so help me God!
‘I’ve decided to write my autobiography in the form of an epic poem.’
‘Any furniture you want to keep can go into the barn with my trunks.’
‘Just the table and the chest of drawers.’
‘I’ll tell the men.’
‘I can’t believe it’s all ending.’
‘Look about you, doesn’t it look like the end?’
‘Who’ll look after me when I’m old?’
‘You are old. We are old.’
‘Audrey I suppose. Except Rex won’t let her.’
‘You said you wanted to live in London, you said you felt caged here.’
‘Gerda, don’t send me away. You cared about me once.’
‘You loved me once. You wrote poems for me. Now there’s nothing left but “Clump, clump, the old girl”.’
‘Can’t we start again?’
‘We are starting again.’
‘But together? Can’t I live with you at Dimmerstone?’
‘There isn’t room.’
‘You’re just punishing yourself, you want to pull everything down, you don’t want me at Dimmerstone because you don’t want me to see you defeated.’
‘I wouldn’t mind you as a witness any more than I’d mind Bellamy’s dog.’
‘I am your dog. Gerda, don’t abandon me, I feel death is near. Let’s stay together.’
‘You never helped me, never supported me. Don’t start crying now.’
‘I love you, I’ve always loved you. Gerda, marry me. Let’s spend our last days together. It isn’t too late, darling, is it? Marry me, Gerda.’
‘If you’d said this long ago it might have meant something, but you didn’t. Now you just want a room and a nurse.’
‘But I did say it long ago.’
‘You may have thought it but you didn’t say it.’
‘I did—You mean you would have married me?’
‘Oh, I daresay.’
‘Gerda, I shall go mad!’
‘If you had really loved me you would have insisted on marrying me and I would have consented. You just didn’t love me enough, Lucius. And nothing is more absolute than that. One gets justice from life really.’
‘You mean you loved me?’
‘As far as I remember.’
‘But Gerda, if you loved me then you can love me now. Forgive me and marry me, you must. Let us salvage something, don’t let it all be lost. Don’t just refuse me now out of pique.’
‘Pique! Oh you are a fool.’
‘Gerda, darling, forgive me, marr
y me, I love you with all my heart, everything there is of me is yours, I’ve given you my life, it’s all yours. You can’t be so ungrateful as to reject me now.’
‘You rejected me.’
‘I asked you to marry me, I’m sure I did!’
‘You didn’t. Never mind.’
‘Then it must have been because you made it clear you didn’t want me.’
‘If you had been more passionate you might have been more successful. You only cared about yourself. Did you want me to run after you and beg you?’
‘So it was just pride then. And it’s just pride now.’
‘Oh Lucius—Never mind.’
‘I am a passionate man, I am, I am! I’m not going to leave you, I won’t, I won’t!’
‘All right, call it pride. I do want to be alone at last and without witnesses. You belong to the past, Lucius, as far as I’m concerned you’re a ghost. Oh you are so stupid! You are stupid, so is Henry, so was Sandy, so was Burke. Oh God, why was my lot cast among such stupid stupid men!’
‘Do you mind if I sit with you, Mother?’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’
Henry perched himself astride on the club fender. It was late in the evening and the log fire in the library had subsided into a mobile mound of twinkling glowing embers, resembling a hill city at night. The carpet had been removed and some of the furniture, including the round table, had gone to the ballroom on the way to Sotheby’s. The room echoed. Gerda, who had pulled an armchair up near to the fire, was sewing a button on to her tweed coat.
‘How quiet it is. Except for the owls.’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose this is sort of the last sort of moment.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What was Lucius so bothered about this morning?’
‘He’d just proposed to me,’ said Gerda.
‘For the first time?’
‘Yes. He thought he’d proposed before but he hadn’t.’
‘A muddled man. Did you ever love him, Mother?’
‘Oh yes, I think so. He was a charming and romantic figure when he was younger.’
‘I remember him. All that wild hair. Did you accept him?’
