The Flight From the Enchanter

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘You’ve come bloody early!’ said Miss Casement.

  ‘Oh, have I?’ said Rainborough. ‘I’m so sorry. I mislaid my invitation. The party’s at seven-thirty, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Casement shortly, ‘at eight. Come in, though.’

  ‘I can easily wait outside or go away for a while,’ said Rainborough, coming in eagerly and sitting down on a sofa.

  ‘You’re sitting on my dress I’ said Miss Casement. She pulled away from under him an armful of flame-coloured silk.

  Rainborough looked about him — and at once he realized that Miss Casement’s flat consisted of one room only. It was a small room whose faded velvet curtains and plump shabby plush furniture exuded a dusty smell which mingled with the odour of gas and face powder. The place was stuffy and overheated. In a narrow grate, surmounted by bright green tiles, a gas-fire, turned full on, burnt with a low shrieking sound. In front of it was a gas-ring, and a number of saucepans, some of which were clean. The floor and most of the furniture was covered with underclothing and silk dresses, the latter no doubt the record of Miss Casement’s earlier indecisions. The dressing-table was stacked with creams, powders, rouges, lipsticks, tonics, fresheners, varnishes, removers, cleaners and other kinds of cosmetics. Above the divan bed, which was covered with small lacy items, was a small shelf which held a dozen Penguin books. None of this surprised Rainborough. It had only not occurred to him, although he knew that some unfortunate people had to do it, that Miss Casement lived in one room. He turned to look at her, and at once began to feel ashamed of his little plan, which was succeeding even beyond his expectations.

  Miss Casement was standing irresolutely, holding her dress up against her and clutching the neck of her dressing-gown. Her hair was tightly done up in curlers and covered by a net. Her face, deprived of its usual crenellated frame, was also bare of make-up. Miss Casement looked paler and older. Her nose glistened and the skin was drawn tight about her eyes. Rainborough felt pity for her and turned his glance away. Among scent-bottles on the mantelpiece he noticed some animals made of glass and wood. In a moment he would begin to find Miss Casement’s room rather touching.

  ‘You’d better have a drink,’ said Miss Casement grimly. She produced a sherry bottle from behind the dressing-table. A box of powder leapt to the ground and spilled on the carpet.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ said Miss Casement, and kicked it into a corner, where it overturned into a pile of pink silk things. She poured out a glass of sherry.

  ‘Shall I go away while you dress?’ asked Rainborough, now genuinely anxious.

  ‘No,’ said Miss Casement, ‘stay where you are.’

  She went out carrying the dress and banging the door savagely behind her. There was a sound of running water in an adjoining bathroom. A moment later she returned wearing the dress, but still without stockings or make-up. Rainborough knew that he was upsetting an established routine. He sipped his sherry and watched. Miss Casement tied a towel awkwardly round her neck and began to smooth cream on to her face. Another woman, Rainborough reflected, might have turned the tables on him and found some way of turning the situation to her advantage. Not so Miss Casement, whose character in this respect he had judged rightly. With even a little grace in her person there was some intimacy, some complicity, which she might have drawn out of the scene; but she was still rigid with annoyance. How stupid she is I he thought to himself, and began to feel better.

  ‘You could make yourself useful,’ said Miss Casement, whose voice still sounded a little high-pitched and odd, ‘by drying those stockings for me.’ She pointed to a pair of stockings which lay across the fender. ‘Hold them up a bit closer to the fire. That’s right.’

  Rainborough drew his chair nearer to the gas-fire and dangled the damp stockings to and fro in the heat. As he did so, he looked up at Miss Casement. She was putting powder on her face with an enormous puff. The familiar surface was beginning to appear. She threw her head back. Then she removed the hair-net and began to take out the curlers. Rainborough watched the transformation fascinated. A cloud of powder was floating across the room. It reached him and enfolded him, suffocating, sickly, synthetic. Through mouth and nostrils Rainborough drank it in. Miss Casement was shaking out her hair. The dark curls sprang to their stations. In a moment the whole mass had been released, not to ripple freely down Miss Casement’s back but to protrude stiffly in predestined undulations. Miss Casement, who was now feeling better too, turned a little towards Rainborough. She took a hand-mirror, and parting her lips drew a thin red outline about them which she then proceeded to fill in. Her mouth, which was small, but failed to gain in width what it lost in length, opened at last to reveal a number of teeth. Lost in the detail of Miss Casement’s face, it took Rainborough a moment to realize that Miss Casement was smiling at him. With a start he hastened to respond.

  As he moved a sudden ball of agony collected in his right hand and shot violently up his arm. With a loud cry of pain Rainborough sprang to his feet. One of the stockings had come too close to the fire and the flammable nylon had leapt in one great tongue of flame into the palm of his hand. He hurled the burning remnants into the fireplace, dropped the other stocking, and danced about the room hugging his hand under his left armpit.

  ‘Oh, you fool!’ cried Miss Casement. ‘Those were my best stockings!’

  ‘Damn your stockings!’ said Rainborough, arresting his dance and trying to examine the damage. The pain as he opened his hand was considerable. He closed it again and put it in his pocket. He glared at Miss Casement. ‘I’m badly burnt!’ he said.

  Miss Casement looked at him with exasperation. Then for a moment it seemed that she was going to laugh. But all she finally said was, ‘What does one put on burns nowadays?’

  ‘Oh, never mind!’ said Rainborough. ‘There’s nothing one can do with a burn. For heaven’s sake let’s get out of here.’ He sat down heavily on the divan and nursed his hand.

  Miss Casement left the room. She returned a few moments later fully dressed and swathed in an expensive fur cape, which Rainborough immediately felt sure she had borrowed for the occasion. They looked at each other. Miss Casement’s look expressed hostility, determination, and expectation: Rainborough’s hostility, irritation and negation. They walked down the stairs together. The taxi could be seen waiting outside.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Casement, ‘the taxi’s been waiting all this time!’

  Rainborough said nothing. They got in.

  The taxi-driver turned round. ‘You did say eight-fifteen to come back, didn’t you, guv?’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d got it right.’

  ‘That’s quite right,’ said Rainborough.

  The engine started. Miss Casement turned upon him a cold pitiless look of understanding. Rainborough did not trouble to invent an answering glance. His hand was very painful indeed.

  Fifteen

  MISCHA Fox’s house was brightly lit. Every window was blazing. A carpet had been laid upon the steps, and there were flowers on either side of the door, metallic blue and red in the crystalline light from the doorway, and swaying slightly in the evening breeze. A number of onlookers had collected. The outer door was open, and through the glass of the inner door two footmen could be seen standing in the hall. The time was 8.30 p.m. Already the onlookers had been rewarded by the arrival of two famous personages, accompanied by a train of conspicuously dressed women.

  Mischa Fox’s abode, as was well known, had certain curious features. Mischa had had the fantasy of buying four houses in Kensington, two adjoining in one road, and two adjoining in the next road, and standing back to back with the first two. He had joined this block of four houses into one by building a square structure to span the gap. Within this strange palazzo, so rumour said, the walls and ceilings and stairs had been so much altered, improved and removed that very little remained of the original interiors. By now, it was reported, there were no corridors and no continuous stairways. The rooms, which were covered with thick carp
ets upon which the master of the house was accustomed to walk barefoot, opened directly out of each other like a set of boxes; and the floors were joined at irregular intervals by staircases, often themselves antiques which had been ripped out of other buildings. The central structure, which, it was noticed, had few windows, excited yet wilder speculation. Some people said that it housed a laboratory, others that it contained a covered courtyard with a fountain, and others again that it was a storehouse for art treasures which had been procured illicitly by Mischa and which were so well known that his possession of them had to be kept a secret. The more accessible parts of the house were known to be crowded with objets d’art of all kinds alleged to be worth a quarter of a million. This maze of splendours was described by Mischa’s foes and acquaintances, according to taste, as ‘mad’, ‘sinister’, ‘vulgar’, or ‘childish’.

  The taxi containing Rainborough and Miss Casement drove up to the door. A footman handed them out. Rainborough paid the fare. The crowd watched. ‘What’s he tip you, mate?’ someone asked the driver.

  Miss Casement stood by uneasily, not knowing what to do with her eyes. They turned to go in. Miss Casement tripped over her dress and seized Rainborough’s arm. ‘Drunk already!’ said the crowd.

  They got into the hall. Rainborough was ushered one way and Miss Casement the other to leave their coats. Then they were led over silent carpets through a series of rooms and up a silent flight of stairs which rose directly out of one room and gave directly into another. They did not speak, and it was as if their feet did not touch the ground. Rainborough cast a quick glance at Miss Casement. Her lips were parted and he had never seen her eyes so wide open. He noticed, without surprise, that he was holding her hand. His heart was beating violently. A final door opened and they found themselves in a long room which was full of low and heavily shaded lights. There was suddenly a subdued murmur of talk. Rainborough let go of Miss Casement.

  A figure came forward to greet them. It was Calvin Blick. In evening-dress he looked like a mixture of Baudelaire and de Tocqueville. He leaned towards Rainborough, whose eyes were just becoming accustomed to the dim light, and held out an arm which seemed to embrace Miss Casement and draw her closer to her escort’s side.

  ‘Ah, you’ve both arrived!’ said Calvin.

  Rainborough, who was not concerned to dispute this, and was anxiously looking about to find Mischa, did not reply. Mischa was not in the room. Someone gave him a drink, Calvin’s hand was on his arm, and he was moving forward towards two men of Austro-Hungarian appearance who were standing near by, with attendant women who seemed to be all jewellery and no faces. Calvin introduced him and Miss Casement to the group. The men were apparently called Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern, or else Rainborough had misheard. One of them made a polite remark to Miss Casement. Rainborough began to study his surroundings.

  The room, as yet, was empty except for the small group to which he was attached, and one or two unrecognizable persons whom he could descry at the far end. It was an extremely long room and already rather stifling. The reason for this was not far to seek. Three of the walls were hung with tapestries which completely covered all the windows. Only the door through which they had come was revealed, the tapestries on either side being drawn well apart at the base and meeting to a point above the doorway. Rainborough looked at these hangings. He judged them to be French work of the fifteenth century. They were profusely covered with leaves and flowers among which ran, flew, crawled, fled, pursued, or idled an extraordinary variety of animals, birds, and insects. No human figures were to be seen. Rainborough noticed in a glance a hound loping amiably in pursuit of a rabbit, an astonished encounter of a hawk and a pigeon, and a unicorn holding a conversation with a lion. Then he shifted his eyes to the fourth wall, where a large gilt mirror towered above a fireplace where a log fire was burning. A white mantelshelf was covered with French paperweights and small ivory figures. On frail tables along the walls the lamps were burning at regular intervals, revealing in circles of light the golden pallor of the Aubusson carpet. Half-way along the room in a large round bowl of green glass, surmounted by a coronet of lights, tropical fish swam idly to and fro.

  Rainborough turned round and found himself face to face with Annette, who had just come through the door. Annette’s eyes and mouth were open, as Miss Casement’s had been. The first thing that she saw on entering was Rainborough, and she kept her gaze upon him, still gaping, while Calvin murmured greetings and handed her a drink. She walked towards Rainborough, who was discreetly detaching himself from Rosenkrantz. Guildenstern was still holding forth to Miss Casement, who was casting nervous glances towards Rainborough and Annette and was hardly able to answer him civilly. Rainborough turned and struck out boldly across the room to the fish-bowl, and Annette followed him with the docility of a young duckling which is supposed to follow the first thing that it sees.

  Rainborough had not met Annette since the day when she she had visited his house. He looked at her now. She was wearing a sea-green three-quarter-length evening-dress, extremely decolletee. He peered at her breasts and her ankles; and he felt a sudden protective tenderness towards her. They leaned against the glass.

  ‘Well, Annette,’ said Rainborough, in the tone of a Victorian father coming upon one of his eleven children at her innocent play.

  Annette shot him a dark look. ‘Where’s Mischa?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rainborough. ‘He hasn’t appeared yet.’

  Annette studied the fish, and Rainborough studied Annette.

  ‘Do you know anything about fish?’ Annette asked after a moment.

  ‘No,’ said Rainborough. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Annette. They were silent.

  Rainborough swallowed his drink quickly and someone refilled his glass. A few more people had arrived, amongst whom Rainborough recognized a well-known composer and two potentates from Fleet Street.

  ‘Who is that girl who’s staring at us?’ asked Annette.

  ‘That’s a Miss Casement,’ said Rainborough. ‘She works in my office.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Annette. ‘Is she a friend of Mischa’s?’

  ‘No,’ said Rainborough. He felt unable to develop this, so they were silent again. Rainborough experienced a profound and anxious need to communicate with Annette. He wanted to say something which would be wise and reconciling, which would bind up all wounds and draw the child to his heart. He began to search for words.

  ‘Annette,’ he said, ‘as one grows older one realizes that life has a great many random elements. One result of this is that there are a great many ways in which we can hurt and startle other people to whom we wish only good. For beings like us, patience and tolerance are not virtues but necessities.’

  ‘When I’m patient,’ said Annette, ‘I’ll be dead.’

  This quick answer surprised and pleased Rainborough, who was trying to think of a rejoinder when there was a commotion at the doorway. They both turned. Mischa Fox came in, accompanied by Peter Saward. Rainborough saw that Mischa was holding Peter Saward’s arm, and he felt a sharp thrill of jealousy. A wave of attention undulated through the room and everyone was looking towards the door. The conversation paused and then resumed. Rainborough could see from the corner of his eye that Annette was standing rigid, holding on to a fold in the tapestry. Miss Casement, who undoubtedly recognized Mischa from his photographs in the paper, turned crimson, to the astonishment of Rainborough, who had never seen her blush.

  Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern were advancing with cries of joy and addressing Mischa in German. Mischa answered them in English, and presented Peter Saward, Rainborough noticed that Mischa treated Peter as if he were a celebrity. Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern noticed it too and received Peter with an attitude of reverence. Rainborough felt extreme irritation. He knew that this was the moment at which he ought to go forward and introduce Miss Casement, but he thought: he invited her, he can deal with her; and detaching himself from Annette, Rainborough sat down i
n a nearby chair. As he turned, he noticed Calvin Blick, who was leaning against the mantelpiece at the far end of the room, his gaze moving to and fro between Mischa and Rainborough, like a spectator at Wimbledon.

  Then Rainborough saw that Mischa, leaving Peter Saward in the hands of Austria-Hungary, was turning towards Miss Casement. He shook hands with her, drawing her skilfully aside as he did so, with the words, ‘You must be Agnes Casement. I’m so glad that you managed to comel’

  ‘Confound it!’ thought Rainborough. ‘He even knows her Christian name!’

  Mischa introduced Miss Casement to Peter Saward. Then he turned and surveyed the rest of the room. Rainborough made no movement. In a minute or two Mischa began to saunter lazily towards the fireplace, speaking to various guests on the way. He was wearing a velvet smoking-jacket and looked very much at his ease. Rainborough looked to see how Calvin would greet his master; but Calvin had disappeared. He must have gone through a doorway concealed behind the tapestry in the far corner of the room.

  Mischa came up to Rainborough. ‘John!’ he said, ‘Hello!’ His eyes were gleaming with gaiety.

  Rainborough resisted an impulse to rise to his feet. ‘Mischa,’ he said, ‘you old rogue!’

  Mischa sat down on the floor. Rainborough remarked the relaxed grace of his posture and the extraordinary flexibility of his feet and ankles. The human foot, which is usually a stiff and jointed object, quite unlike the smoothly bending limbs of an animal, appeared in Mischa to have lost its rigidity. Rainborough, an agile man, but even in his youth robust rather than lithe, looked down at Mischa with envy as he sat, his legs tucked under him and the soles of his shoes turning upward, like an oriental sage.