The Flight From the Enchanter

by Iris Murdoch

  The idea of growing up had always been for Annette the idea of being able to live at her own pace. It had been no better when Nicholas was old enough to act as her chaperon. This had occurred at an early age, since Annette’s parents, christened by Nicholas ‘the Olympians’, held that children ought to be independent, which meant that they ought to grow up as quickly as possible and fit intelligently into the adult world, which after all was the world in which they lived. Nicholas, who had hated his public school almost as much as Annette had hated Ringenhall, had soon decided that Paris, where he was now completing his studies at the Sorbonne, was his spiritual home. Annette had had to spend many evenings there in the company of Nicholas and his friends, listening to endless conversations which went on into the morning hours until the air was so thick with abstractions that she fell, half stifled, into a comfortless sleep. The very general nature of the subjects and the very finished quality of the remarks seemed to make it impossible for Annette to enter these conversations, though she was never sure whether it was herself or her brother’s friends, or the French language that was to blame. ‘Moi, j’aime le concret!’ she had cried out, waking up suddenly at the end of one of these sessions, ‘Le concret! C’est ce qu’il y a de plus abstrait!’ her brother had replied smartly. Everyone laughed and Annette burst into tears.

  To the young women at Ringenhall Annette had said, ‘I have no homeland and no mother tongue. I speak four languages fluently, but none correctly.’ This was untrue. Her French and English were perfect. But Annette liked to think of herself as a waif. Even her appearance suggested it, she noted with satisfaction. She would sit sometimes looking into the glass and trying to catch in the depths of her large restless eyes the flicker of a tragic discontent. Annette had never been in love, although she was not without experience. She had been deflowered at seventeen by a friend of her brother on the suggestion of the latter. Nicholas would have arranged it when she was sixteen, only he needed her just then for a black mass. ‘You must be rational about these things, Sis,’ he told her. ‘Don’t build up an atmosphere of mystery and expectation, it’ll only make you neurotic.’ Since that time Annette had had a number of adventures, attended by neither delight nor grief. But if Nicholas had hoped by this training to dispel for her that mystery which seemed to him so far from hygienic, he had certainly not succeeded in his aim. The mystery was displaced, but it remained suspended in Annette’s vision of the future, an opaque cloud, luminous with lightning.

  Annette got up swiftly. She had decided to change her clothes. She kicked off her skirt and petticoats, drew on a tight pair of black trousers, and admired herself in the glass. She was pleased with the figure she cut in male attire, looking like a very young dandy just starting out on a career of dice and women and champagne. She had silk shirts of every colour with silk handkerchiefs to match. There were times when Annette felt that nothing really interested her except clothes: clothes, and her jewels. Annette had taken it into her head at an early age to collect unset precious stones: and this expensive hobby had been, in the opinion of some people, shockingly, indulged by wealthy relatives and diplomatic acquaintances in various parts of the world. She now had a remarkable collection, which to the despair of her father and the insurance company she insisted on keeping not only with her, instead of as her more sober advisers urged in the bank, but even exposed to view upon a blue velvet cloth which she had spread out at present on top of her chest of drawers. Annette’s mother, Marcia Cockeyne, appealed to in the controversy of Annette’s jewels, had laughed and said that the only justification for spending so much money on precious stones rather than investing it in railway shares was that precious stones gave to some people a very special kind of pleasure, and that she would have been disappointed in her daughter had she been willing to have such possessions and to keep them in the bank. That closed the matter.

  Annette did not keep her whole collection exposed, but only a selection from it which she altered from time to time. The stones which were on view she rearranged every day, sometimes putting them in a symmetrical pattern, sometimes laying them out in constellations, and sometimes just scattering them at random over the cloth. Annette’s most valuable stone was a ruby, which had been given to her when she was twelve by an Indian prince who was in love with her mother. But this was not her favourite. The stone which she liked best was a white sapphire which had been given to her when she was fourteen by an aeroplane manufacturer who was in love with her brother. She held this stone now in the palm of her hand and looked into it as into a crystal. Its radiance was not white or blue but golden, a golden lustre refined almost into a transparent light. The present moment was narrowed down into a single point of fire. She looked into the heart of it.

  ‘Annette!’ said Rosa. Annette jumped and nearly dropped the sapphire. She replaced it hastily. Rosa disapproved of her jewels. Rosa looked tired, and her hands hung down, as she stood framed in the doorway, like the big hands of a statue. At such times her flesh hung upon her heavily in a way which inspired in Annette a mixture of pity and aversion. Rosa had arrived back from the factory to be met by Hunter with the story of Annette’s decision to leave Ringenhall and her encounter with Calvin Blick. Rosa, who was expected later that evening at Pimlico, was full enough of her own troubles. ‘So she’s left school,’ said Rosa. ‘Now the balloon will go up!’

  ‘Just what I thought!’ said Hunter, relieved that her anger was not falling on him.

  Rosa had been very fond of Marcia Cockeyne when they had been at school together in Switzerland, and later when they had shared a flat in London, and she did her best to be fond of Annette, not without some success. This was the easier, since Annette had never yet occupied very much of Rosa’s attention. Rosa, who was half charmed, half irritated by her kittenish ways, could not but compare her unfavourably with her memories of herself at that age. But such criticisms as she found herself obscurely tending to make of Annette’s deportment had never yet been formulated, and she had not troubled to ask herself whether they were just and reasonable or not perhaps the expression of a sort of envy of a younger and in some ways luckier woman such as Rosa knew herself to be well capable of feeling. She often enjoyed Annette’s company, yet the child made her nervous. She knew that Annette feared her sarcasm, and this made her but the more inclined to prick and bite her.

  She sat down now on Annette’s divan, not to be friendly but because she was tired out.

  ‘I hear you’ve decided to leave school,’ she said to Annette.

  ‘Yes,’ said Annette, standing rigid. ‘Rosa, do you mind?’

  Rosa stretched out her hand towards her, noticed how dirty it was, and withdrew it just as Annette was about to clasp it. ‘No, of course not!’ said Rosa. ‘And if I did, it wouldn’t matter.’

  She lifted her legs on to the bed, keeping her feet dangling clear and clasping her hands carefully together so as not to soil the counterpane. She lay there awkwardly, half turned towards Annette. ‘I never thought much of Ringenhall anyway. What are you going to do with your time now?’

  ‘I was learning nothing there,’ said Annette. ‘I have decided that from now on I shall educate myself.’

  ‘I asked what you were going to do with your time,’ said Rosa.

  ‘There are a lot of things I want to find out,’ said Annette vaguely. ‘I shall make a plan.’

  Lying on the bed, Rosa suddenly forgot all about Annette. A cloud of tiredness and depression came down and covered her like a bell.

  ‘May I unpin your hair?’ said Annette’s voice from a distance. She was crouched on the bed now beside Rosa’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, if you like,’ said Rosa. This was a customary ritual, and Rosa had no strength to move. She lifted her head, and in a moment her hair fell in a heavy dark cascade. Annette drew it away into her lap and caressed it; it was not quite like touching Rosa.

  ‘How beautiful it is!’ said Annette. ‘I tried to grow my hair once, but it got down to my shoulder blades and then stopped.
’

  Annette’s hair was brown and extremely short and curly. The curls were the creation of her hairdresser. Her brother’s hair, which lacked this attention, was thick and very straight, and fell in such a neat circle from the crown of his head that some people thought that he wore a wig. If Annette had worn her hair in this way, her resemblance to him would have been striking.

  ‘You mean you got tired of it and cut it off,’ said Rosa, thinking hard about something else.

  ‘Lie and rest now,’ said Annette. ‘Put your feet up properly.’

  Gently she pulled Rosa’s feet on to the bed and unclasped her hands. Rosa lay limp, smiling a little ironically, while Annette leaned over her, scrutinizing her like a lover.

  ‘You are a picture by Renoir,’ said Annette. ‘You have those very bright dark eyes.’

  Rosa, who knew that the brightness of her eyes was due to the proximity of tears, turned her head away.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Annette, pointing to a round scar on Rosa’s arm.

  ‘It’s a vaccination mark,’ said Rosa. ‘You’ve probably got one too.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Annette. ‘I was vaccinated, but it didn’t leave a mark.’ She rolled up both her silk sleeves to the shoulder. It was true. There was no mark.

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ said Annette. ‘I’d hate to have any mark on my body that was there forever, or to lose anything that wouldn’t come again. I’m glad I’ve never had a tooth out. And I’ve never had my ears pierced.’

  ‘You don’t lose any flesh when your ears are pierced,’ said Rosa. ‘The flesh is parted, but nothing is taken away.’

  ‘I know,’ said Annette, ‘but it would make a difference to my body and it would never be the same again. It would make me feel that it was getting used up and that there was no going back.’

  ‘It is getting used up and there is no going back,’ said Rosa. ‘What about wrinkles? Those are marks that come and are never rubbed out. Even you have some.’

  ‘No!’ said Annette. She unlaced herself from Rosa and ran to study her face in the mirror. Rosa studied it too. It was perfectly smooth and the skin was pale and transparent with the bloom of extreme youth.

  ‘There you are!’ cried Annette. She turned to Rosa, holding out her face as if for a kiss.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosa, ‘you are like a little fish. You are completely smooth. You should have been a mermaid.’

  Annette drew a hand down each of her smooth arms and held it out for display as if it were a priceless embroidery. Then she began to caper about the room doing high kicks and singing, ‘I am like a li — ttle fish, I should have been a mer — maid!’

  Lying now completely relaxed and entangled in her hair, Rosa had once again forgotten all about her.

  Six

  ROSA came through the front door of the house in Pimlico. It was always unlatched. She hurried up the stairs and entered the brother’s room without knocking.

  Jan was lying flat, balancing himself on one of the iron bars of the bed frame. ‘So do fakirs,’ he said, ‘like this. For years perhaps they lie so. Is it not? Then they know God.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Rosa. ‘I mean, that they know God.’

  She cast a glance towards the alcove. The old lady was propped up as usual, and her eyes turned to Rosa were like the eyes of a statue. ‘Good evening,’ said Rosa, a greeting which she always gave and to which she never received any response.

  At the far end of the room Stefan was fiddling with a curious machine made of straps and springs.

  ‘Whatever is that?’ said Rosa.

  ‘It is exercise machine,’ said Stefan. ‘We make it ourselves. We see one in shop and pretend we buy it. We look at it long time and then we make one the same. We take the pieces from factory. It is clever, no?’ He sat down on it, enlaced himself in the straps, and began strenuously to shoot himself to and fro, bending down and straightening out with a kind of rowing motion.

  Rosa went into a peal of laughter. ‘You’re mad!’ she said.

  ‘But so we get strong,’ said Stefan, getting up. ‘We get strong, until we are stronger than anyone else. If one of us is so, we are king. If both of us together, we are emperor.’

  ‘In Poland we make much sport,’ said Jan. ‘Stefan was champion boxer.’

  ‘And Jan champion cyclist,’ said Stefan.

  At this they both started madly to leap about the room, Stefan sparring and Jan agitating his legs in a cycling motion and bending over imaginary handle-bars. The din was tremendous. Someone in the room above began to bang on the ceiling.

  Rosa sat down on the bed frame, laughing till she wept. ‘Oh, do stop!’ she said ‘I’m so tired already. I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!’

  The brothers became quiet and approached her attentively. Their smiles hovered over her like two angels.

  ‘We give you supper now, you poor thing,’ said Stefan. ‘Come and sit here.’

  They set her on the mattress and spread out the things for supper. Rosa leaned back against the wall. She felt an immediate contentment in their presence which drove away all other troubles. Stefan was stirring something over the gas-ring. Jan stood looking down at her fondly.

  He touched her with his foot. ‘You are our sister,’ he said. ‘You belong to both.’ The brothers often said this. They repeated it every time she came, like a charm.

  ‘Wife is nothing,’ said Jan. ‘Where is this thing is wife. But mother is much and brother is much. Always can be made a new wife. But brother is only one. And sister too. You belong to both of us. It is enough.’

  Rosa looked up at him quietly, allowing herself to be spellbound. His words seemed to come more and more softly, as if he were trying to make her fall asleep.

  ‘Tonight we tell you a story of our village,’ said Jan. ‘The story of the first woman!’

  On most evenings when they met, one or other of the brothers would tell a story about Poland. The stories would always begin with the words. ‘In our village …’ Rosa never tired of hearing these stories. What they conjured up for her was something very remote yet crystal clear, like a vision procured in a fairy-tale. She could see it all, down to the blades of grass and the door handles and the shine on the windows; and she could see the brothers passing along the street, now small children, now growing towards manhood. It was very detailed yet very delicate and frail, and she found that she never wished to ask herself whether it was true.

  Once she begged the brothers to show her on a map where their village was; but when the map was before them they differed so much about its position and became so angry with each other that Rosa had never asked again and contented herself with the image which their stories had conjured up.

  Another time she had said, dreaming aloud, ‘I wonder if you will ever go back there.’

  And Jan had replied, ‘Why we go back? They are stupid in our village. They not know even what is university. They think it is mechanic school. They know only of school of mechanic. When Jan and I make our semesters they think it is that. They are peasants.’

  ‘Also,’ said Stefan, as a kind of afterthought, ‘it is no more. Hitler break it. Shoot at it, then burn it. Nothing left. Perhaps we not find it, not remember where it is. All is flat land now.’

  When supper was done, Stefan began the story. ‘In our village,’ said Stefan, ‘there was school. Not proper school, like in England, but peasant school. All children come there together in big room, big children and little children all together. Was much noise. Children sit in groups and teacher go round, so that some get lesson while others do work for themselves. It was so. Jan and I, we go to that school since we are seven. We not have to go, but we want to go. I say to Jan when we are little, we learn much, read, write, so we become strong, not like peasants. So we go. At first was schoolmaster with long beard, so. Very old, and big fool too. I say to Jan, “We stay a while. He soon die.” We learn to read, write a little. Then schoolmaster die. We wonder, what is now? In Poland is not
like in England. Not everyone is schoolmaster. The village ask, what is now?

  ‘Then from town comes schoolmistress to our village. Never is before schoolmistress. At first all are surprised, suspicious. She is young, pretty girl. Can such pretty girl be schoolmistress? We laugh. First day, all village come to school to watch. All children go in, then all village is outside, at doors, at windows, watching. Schoolmistress is there, very red, very pretty. We all laugh. But soon we see she is really schoolmistress. She know all, cannot be joked at. We see our mothers, fathers, at doors looking in, and we want to laugh and play. But she make us be silent. She take off her shoe and bang it on desk, so, rat tat, and we are silent. She wear town shoes with long heels. Suddenly we all feel afraid. Then she turn to door where is our mothers, fathers, looking in to see if so pretty girl can be schoolmistress. She say, “If you want lesson, come in, if you not want lesson go away from here.” Now is their turn to be red. They go away, so, creeping foolishly. After that no one make joke at schoolmistress, not in school, not in village.

  ‘We stay at that school and we learn much things. We are best pupils, far far best. We are big boys now, Jan and Stefan. Our family have much money, so we not work in fields. Schoolmistress is pleased with us, teach us much, more than to the others. She want that we go to university when we grow up. We think so too. But one day she make big mistake with us. We are thirteen years, or I thirteen and Jan is twelve. She strike us, so, upon the face. Why she strike us I not remember nor Jan remember. But she strike us both, first Stefan, then Jan, and all children see and laugh. In Poland, in village people do not so to strike in that way. Is not to be forgiven, such a blow. I am silent and Jan is silent — but each of us think then in his heart, we never forget this, and when we are big we have that woman, and so we revenge on her. Each of us he think this, but he not say to the other.