by Iris Murdoch
Her argument, if it was one, was designed merely to reach a conclusion which she had already reached on other grounds. Stefan had come from a place far outside the world of rules and reciprocal concerns and considerations in which Rosa mostly lived. Stefan did not belong to human society. This was why Hunter was powerless against him. The children of society could only be seared by such a contact. Nor could Rosa herself summon up the kind of strength required to do battle with such a being. Only some spirit which came out of the same region beyond the docility of the social world could do this work for her. Rosa knew that she must go and see Mischa Fox.
Rosa was not surprised at the inevitability of this conclusion. Like all emotional rationalists she had in her nature a certain streak of superstitious fatalism. At certain moments she was prepared to let go and allow herself to be carried by a stronger force; and if she later demanded of herself an account of these surrenders there was usually a selection of labels ready made to bring the violence of the spirit under some clinical and domestic heading. In this case, however, the demon of unreason did not come to Rosa wearing a psychological disguise but bearing the name of a friend. Where Mischa was concerned, Rosa was prepared to believe anything. When she felt that she had to go to Mischa she was quite ready to acknowledge herself to be under a spell. It was as if the climax was come of perhaps years of preparation: and suddenly all the force of those years was to be felt in the pull which drew her in spite of herself towards him. She knew that even if at that moment Mischa were oblivious of her existence, yet he was drawing her all the same. She was reminded of stories of love philtres which will draw the loved one over mountains and across the seas. She rose from the breakfast table.
‘Hunter, stop looking so wretched!’ said Rosa crossly. ‘Shall I give you some brandy?’
‘I don’t want any brandy,’ said Hunter without looking up.
Rosa shook him gently by the shoulder and then went to put her coat on. She opened the front door. The morning blew in upon her, rather warm and perfumed with earth and trees. Rosa suddenly began to feel strong. She drew the door slowly to behind her and began to walk along the pavement. She turned the corner into the sunshine. As she walked, she saw something out of the corner of her eye which seemed for a moment like her own shadow. Then looking down she saw that it was Nina the dressmaker who was running along between her and the railings, a pace or two behind, not quite decided how to attract her attention. Rosa looked at her with surprise. She usually saw Nina indoors and was struck now by the oddness of her colouring, the gold of her dyed hair and the profound darkness of her eyes. Dusky roses were upon her cheeks, but across the crown of her head there was a black line where the new hair was growing at the base of the golden poll. Nina is neglecting her appearance, thought Rosa. She smiled down.
‘Miss Keepe,’ said Nina, still dodging along by the railings, ‘might I speak to you? Have you a moment?’
‘I’m going somewhere just now,’ said Rosa, ‘but do walk along with me if you like.’ They waited at a kerb and crossed a road.
‘By the way,’ said Rosa, ‘I wonder if you’ve seen Miss Cockeyne lately?’
‘I haven’t seen her for a long time,’ said Nina. ‘I hope she is well?’
‘So do I!’ said Rosa, turning to bow to Mrs Carrington-Morris, who was passing at a slow pace in a Rolls Royce. Rosa was beginning to feel astonishingly cheerful. I am driven to it! she kept saying to herself, I am driven to it! And this, instead of being a cry of despair, turned out to be a song of hope and delight. She wanted to laugh out loud. They were descending towards Kensington High Street.
‘She is still with you in London?’ asked Nina.
‘Who? Oh, Miss Cockeyne, yes,’ said Rosa. At that moment she caught sight of Miss Foy with a shopping basket on the other side of the road. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ said Rosa, and dashed across.
Miss Foy’s hair was standing on end rather more than usual and a smile was creased across the wrinkles of her face.
‘How is Mrs Wingfield?’ asked Rosa.
‘Perfectly well, Miss Rosa, perfectly well,’ said Miss Foy, ‘but perverse, you know, difficult and perverse. Just keep on calling, you know. She likes you to call. Yesterday you didn’t call and she was quite disappointed. She kept asking, hasn’t that girl come yet?’
‘Would she have seen me yesterday?’ asked Rosa.
‘Seen you? Oh, dear me, no!’ said Miss Foy. ‘But she wanted you to call. She will see you, Miss Rosa, just be patient. She’s an old woman.’
Nina had followed Rosa across the road. ‘May I introduce,’ said Rosa,‘ Miss — er — Nina, Miss Foy.’ Rosa could not always remember Nina’s surname at short notice.
‘We met at your house once. I remember this young lady,’ said Miss Foy kindly.
‘Oh, did you?’ said Rosa. ‘Good! Well, now I must be getting along.’
She strode on down the hill, followed by Nina. Now they were almost at the High Street. Everything will be all right, thought Rosa, everything will be all right. She had a vision of herself, Hunter, and the Artemis all somehow encircled by a beneficent power. Without thinking what she was doing, she began to run. Nina ran behind her.
‘I’m so sorry!’ said Rosa. ‘I just forgot for a moment.’ They had arrived at the High Street. It took them some time to get across the road.
‘How are you getting on, Nina?’ asked Rosa, when they were on the other side. She struck down a side street in the direction of Mischa Fox’s house. She felt almost ready, with power and impatience, to fly through the air.
‘I have some problems,’ said Nina. Rosa was now walking so fast that Nina had become quite breathless with the task of keeping up with her.
‘Life is a series of problems!’ said Rosa merrily. Proceeding slowly towards them along the pavement, she saw the lady with the hearing-aid who had been able to make so little of the events of the shareholders’ meeting. Rosa saluted her with an elaborate series of flourishes of the hand, beginning some ten yards off and continuing until they passed each other. The lady with the hearing-aid, who had not recognized Rosa, turned round in puzzlement and then went on, shaking her head.
Rosa laughed. ‘She doesn’t know who I am!’ she said to Nina. They negotiated another busy road.
‘The traffic in London just seems to get worse and worse, doesn’t it?’ said Rosa.
‘Yes,’ said Nina.
Now they were almost at Mischa Fox’s house.
‘How are you getting on, Nina?’ asked Rosa. ‘Oh yes, I asked you that, didn’t I. I do hope these problems aren’t really bad ones. If I can ever be of any assistance — ’
‘Ah, yes!’ said Nina breathlessly from behind Rosa’s elbow. ‘I would like to ask your advice!’
‘Never be afraid to ask advice,’ said Rosa. ‘People try to be far too independent of each other. I’m just going in now to ask Mr Fox’s advice.’ They stopped on the pavement.
‘Mr Fox — ?’ said Nina. For the last ten minutes Nina had been seeing nothing but the sleeve of Rosa’s coat. Now she looked up and saw Mischa Fox’s house towering above her, window upon window.
‘Some other time — ’ said Nina. ‘I’ll call again.’ She turned about and bolted away down the street.
Rosa looked after her in surprise. Then she turned and looked at the door of the house. She forgot Nina completely. She mounted the steps.
Now that Rosa was face to face with the door of Mischa’s house, she felt her exultation beginning to fade away. What remained behind was an iron resolution and a longing to see Mischa so strong that she felt she would have been able to walk through a wall. She rang the bell. In a moment or two a servant appeared. He threw the door wide open and Rosa stepped into the hall. The servant asked for her name and her business. Rosa had the feeling that she was both recognized and expected. Yes, it turned out that Mr Fox was at home and would see her at once. It was only then that it occurred to Rosa how very improbable it was that either of these things should have been the
case.
As she followed the servant she had to hold her two hands to her breast to stop her heart from starting through her flesh. They walked from room to room. In one of the first rooms, which seemed to be a kind of small drawing-room, Calvin Blick was reclining upon a settee reading a book. He nodded amiably to Rosa as she passed through, as if her appearance were the most ordinary thing in the world. At last they reached a door at which the servant knocked cautiously. Then he opened it for Rosa to go in. She entered. The door closed behind her.
She was in a big room with windows on two sides. She looked about in confusion, a little dazzled by the extra light Then she saw that Mischa was standing quite near her, leaning against a bookcase. Rosa leaned back against the door. Now that she was in Mischa’s presence, she felt a slow but steady relaxing of tension. She felt no need to say anything, no need even to look at him. She glanced about the room and then walked over to one of the windows. As she turned, she heard a strange sound. It was Mischa laughing. Then Rosa began to laugh too, a profound laugh of relief and pleasure. Suddenly she was unable to control the muscles of her face; she covered it for a moment in case it should tell of too great a joy. They walked towards each other and when they were a few feet apart they paused.
Rosa stopped laughing — but the great rift which their laughter had made remained open, and through it they looked at each other. What have I been doing all these years? Rosa wondered. She took another step and felt that her knees would give way. She saw Mischa’s face as if it were suddenly stripped; and she was sure that no one had seen this unprotected face of Mischa since the last time, many years ago, when she had seen it herself. She took a final step, and he caught her arm. Locked together, they turned about and fell to their knees and then sank slowly sideways on to the floor. For a moment her eyelid fluttered under his mouth like a bird. Then they were exchanging long kisses like people after an exceedingly long thirst who drink at last.
Mischa pulled her up to a sitting position. He sat beside her cross-legged. He looked small and gay, like a tailor in a fairy-story. ‘Well, Rosa?’ he cried.
Rosa drew her hand across her brow. ‘I’m lost,’ she said, ‘lost in a forest.’
‘Just go on a little way,’ said Mischa, ‘and soon you’ll hear the clop-clop of the axe. Then go on a little way farther and you’ll come to the woodcutter’s cottage.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘to the enchanter’s house.’
Rosa looked at him. It was like looking into a mirror. It was as if her own spirit had imprinted itself upon him as they embraced and now looked back at her wide-eyed.
‘How strange,’ said Rosa, ‘I never noticed before that we resembled each other.’
‘It is an illusion of lovers,’ said Mischa. He rose and helped her to her feet.
‘Mischa,’ said Rosa, ‘I need your help.’ They sat down close to each other in chairs. Rosa then noticed with surprise that she was in the room in which the party had been held. The furniture was the same, only the tapestries bad been taken away. She looked at the place where the bowl of fish had been and as she did so a seam of memories was uncovered in her mind, deeply buried memories of the grief which she had made for Mischa many years ago, and the grief which he had made for her.
‘Never mind it, Rosa,’ said Mischa. He was reading he face.
‘Look here,’ said Rosa, ‘let’s be business-like.’
Mischa laughed again. ‘How like you that sounds!’ He took her hand.
‘It’s very unpleasant,’ said Rosa. She had given some thought to the question of how much of the Lusiewicz story she should at this stage reveal to Mischa. She had decided beforehand to tell him the absolute minimum. Now, moved by his presence and startled by her own joy, she wondered for a moment whether she should not tell him everything. But caution returned to her like the renewed pressure of a cold hand, and she did not change her plan. She did, however, introduce one unpremeditated modification into her tale; she spoke only of Stefan. She did not mention the existence of Jan. In the story as she told it there was only one Lusiewicz. It was quickly told. Mischa watched her closely as she spoke, and Rosa wondered how much he was able to guess of the many things which she was leaving unmentioned. He asked no questions, and all he said when she had finished was,‘ Hmmm. May I use any methods I please?’
Rosa inclined her head. She felt as if she were selling herself into captivity. But to be at his mercy was at that moment her most profound desire. If there had been a fire between them she would have leapt into it.
‘Thank you,’ said Rosa. It was like the end of a very long discussion.
‘There is something I would like to talk to you about, since you’re here,’ said Mischa, ‘I see you so rarely.’
Rosa was aware of a change of atmosphere, a deep shift of situation. This too reminded her strangely of the past, and of times when week after week and month after month it was as if Mischa were dragging her by the wrist through hell. There was a demon in Mischa which she had never been able to know and which had never allowed them to be at peace. Always at the last moment and without apparent reason there would come the twist, the assertion of power, the hint of a complexity that was beyond her, the sense of being, after all that had passed between them, a pawn in Mischa’s game — and with that twist the structure of tenderness and of delight, ever so little shifted, would suddenly seem to her an altogether different thing. It was this demon which, in the past time, had defeated her, and from which she had in the end had the strength to flee. Now, with a shiver, she heard its voice again in Mischa’s apparently innocent remark. She felt, all the same, that she knew what was coming. But his next words surprised her.
‘It’s about Peter Saward.’
Twenty-Three
ANNETTE had stayed in five different hotels in the last seven days and her powers of endurance were almost at an end. During the first two or three days she had telephoned Mischa Fox’s house at intervals of a few hours, for on reflection she had decided not to believe what Calvin had told her about Mischa’s absence. But on each occasion she had been politely told that Mr Fox was not at home. She had also sent three letters to Mischa, and a reply-paid telegram, but without any result. Then a hopeless apathy came upon her, and she sat in her hotel room all day in a stupor. She left each hotel only because she feared that the management might conclude that she was ill or mad, and either question her or try to communicate with her parents. She knew in her heart that Mischa did not want to see her; and she told herself that if this was so she did not want to live.
She stepped out on to the platform of a big London terminus carrying her suit-case. She walked slowly towards the exit. She had no idea where she was going. Indeed, she had nowhere to go. Annette felt that she had been driven in a small circle, and that now all her possibilities of movement were exhausted. She passed a telephone box. Annette believed in the telephone. She paused to look at it. It was warm and red and brightly lighted. It seemed to her suddenly like a little shrine. Like a traveller who casts himself in desperation before a saint at the wayside, Annette entered. She lifted the receiver as if she expected to hear from it immediately some message of hope. Then she knew what she must do. She was amazed that she had not thought of it earlier. She knew also that it was her last card.
She opened her bag and fumbled for Nicholas’s letter. It gave the address of the hotel in Cannes and a telephone number. She picked up the phone again and asked for Continental.
‘I want to make a call to Cannes,’ said Annette — ‘Cannes in France.’ As she said this it seemed as hopeless as asking to be put through to Valhalla. But the operator took it calmly. Yes, it appeared that it was quite possible for her to speak to Cannes; it would cost her nine shillings for three minutes.
Annette began to pour pieces of silver out of her handbag on to the floor of the box. Meanwhile, beside her ear a long corridor of sound was opening out telescopically, section after section, and the last piece was to contain the voice of Nicholas. English voices were spe
aking to each other in a space of sound — and now suddenly clear and crisp a French voice had joined the conversation. Annette imagined that she could hear the waves of the Channel breaking across the line. A voice in Paris was speaking to a voice in Provence. Annette waited. The intensity of her desire to speak to Nicholas was almost depriving her of breath. At last far away there was the sound of a telephone ringing, a French telephone, a telephone in a hotel in Cannes. A voice announced the name of the hotel. The intermediate voices turned about, speaking back again in the direction of Annette. ‘Vous avez la communication, Londres,’ said a distant voice.
‘Speak up, you’re through,’ said a voice close beside her ear.
‘Je voudrais parler avec Monsieur Cockeyne,’ said Annette. She found she was hoarse and had to clear her throat.
‘Avec Monsieur qui?’ said the French voice, rather impatiently.
‘Cockeyne,’ said Annette, and spelt the name out.
‘Ah, Cockeyne? said the French voice. ‘Attendez un moment. Qui est d I’appareil?’
‘Sa sour,’ said Annette. The pressure on her heart relaxed. She kissed Nicholas’s letter.
A moment later the voice was speaking again. ‘Monsieur est parti, il est parti ce matin. Non, il n’a pas laisse d’adresse.’
Annette put the receiver down slowly. She trailed out of the telephone box. She trailed along the street, touching walls and railings with her hand. Now at last she knew what she was going to do. Annette had been deeply impressed by the failure of her attempt to sacrifice her jewels. It had not entered her head to pursue Jan Lusiewicz or to attempt to retrieve her property from him, since she regarded him as the messenger of fate. Her symbolic gesture had been rejected. Annette left her suit-case at a cloakroom and then she took a taxi to Campden Hill Square. Her plans appeared suddenly small and clear and inevitable. Life had become simple again. She would kill herself.
