Nuns and Soldiers

by Iris Murdoch

  Gertrude smiled, then looked at him intently, then looked away. She began to play, but less absently, with the bread crumbs on the tablecloth.

  What is happening to me, thought Tim. A kind of thought, or was it a thought, what was it, had come to fill his whole mind, like a fast approaching comet which suddenly fills up the whole sky. In a moment there would be some kind of crash or cataclysm, the end of the world. The thought, or event, was that he had got to, he had simply got to, reach out his hand across the table and take hold of Gertrude’s hand. Some vast cosmic force was compelling him. Its strength, present in him, made him feel that he was about to lose consciousness. He reached out his hand across the table and took hold of Gertrude’s hand.

  Breathing very deeply Tim looked down at the red cloth, at the fragments of bread just beyond his plate. Now that he had got hold of Gertrude’s hand the terrible pressure had, for the moment, abated. He had done what he had to do, what the cosmos had to do, he was not even responsible. He had moved like a gentle automaton. He felt almost impersonal, like an engineer who, alone in a great engine room, has, as a matter of routine, pulled some vastly important lever.

  Gertrude looked with surprise at her hand which lay like a small captive animal in Tim’s firm grasp. She looked at the brilliant lively red hairs on the back of Tim’s hand, and at a smear of blue paint on the unbuttoned cuff of his shirt. For a moment she could not think what to do. Then she drew her hand back and the two hands separated. Then Tim and Gertrude both sat up straight and stared at each other.

  Tim clasped his hands together on his knee. His right hand which had held Gertrude’s felt as if it were on fire. He contained it carefully within his left hand. He looked straight at Gertrude with an amazing calm. He felt as if his eyes had become enormous like great calm lamps. He had done what he had to do and now whatever happened nothing could touch him. His substance was changed, he had become something else. He felt his mouth relax, his whole body relax. His gentle complicit hands relaxed. He almost smiled. He stared at Gertrude.

  Then in a remote detached way he began to think, but so slowly, so calmly, poor old Gertrude, she’s embarrassed. But it had to happen and in a wonderful way it doesn’t matter. I’m so happy. In a moment or two I’ll have to start apologizing, saying I was drunk or something. But it doesn’t matter.

  Gertrude frowned and looked down. Her hand was at her neck again, fiddling with her collar. She looked flushed, almost frightened.

  Tim said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I’m most awfully sorry. I hope I didn’t startle you. It came over me all of a sudden.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gertrude.

  It will go away, thought Tim, it will get lost forever. At least, it won’t go away, because it is eternal. But this long long moment will end. And then I shall be lost. ‘I apologize,’ he said.

  ‘Please,’ said Gertrude. ‘I realize it was -’ She shifted her chair slightly.

  Tim groaned and put his hands to his eyes.

  There was another moment’s silence.

  What is it, thought Gertrude, why do I feel in a state of shock? I feel cold and sick, I feel faint. Has there been an earthquake tremor? Something uncanny is happening. How blue his eyes are and how awfully he stares at me. I must do something, but what must I do?

  ‘I am very stupid,’ said Tim, ‘and you must forgive me, but before you say good night I must just tell you that I think I’ve fallen in love with you. I mean it’s not just drunkenness or anything. I really do apologize.’ I had to say it, he thought. I had to say it like something one might die for saying but which has to be said, like a sort of bearing witness. But I am stupid and I am drunk and how terrible it is all going to be. The glory has passed already in a sort of atomic flash. It was brief enough. Now there’s nothing left but the pain. I’ve fallen in love. Nothing could be more certain than that. He said, ‘I think I’ll go to bed now, Gertrude.’

  ‘Don’t go yet. Have some more wine.’ Gertrude poured some wine into his glass. She held the bottle with both hands, even then some wine spilt onto the cloth.

  Tim could not resist the sight of the full glass of wine. He drank. He thought, I’ll just sit quietly for another minute or two, then I’ll go. He moved his chair slightly back and looked down at the floor, examining the grain of the wood. He felt humble and wretched and proud and sad and solitary but with a sort of greatness.

  Gertrude seemed to be struggling to say something. Twice he heard her intaken breath as for speech. At last she said, ‘Tim - dear Tim -’

  ‘Oh don’t bother,’ said Tim. ‘I just love you. It doesn’t matter. Please don’t feel you have to discuss it. I’m going in a minute. Why shouldn’t I love you? It’s just a fact. It doesn’t make anything else in the world different. It’s quite harmless. It doesn’t matter.’

  Gertrude’s chair scraped again. Tim, thinking she was going away, began to rise. Then he saw that she was coming round the table and he sat down again.

  Gertrude took another chair and pulled it up near Tim’s so that they were sitting rather awkwardly side by side.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Tim casually, almost roughly.

  Gertrude thought, I’m at the edge, I’m over the edge. I’ve got to come close to him, I’ve got to touch him. It is to do with the present moment and the necessity of it and how it’s all complete, all here, all in him. Everything that is necessary is here, there is nothing left outside, and I have to act, I have to move. I must touch him, but how. I feel so giddy, so disjointed, so disconnected, as if my limbs have been taken off and put on the wrong way round. Without looking at Tim, she half turned towards him and with a gesture of abandonment, laid her hand on the table.

  Tim seized her hand and began to kiss it. He kissed it humbly, gently, reverently, avidly, hungrily, as if he were eating some holy manna. He said, ‘I love you.’

  ‘I think I love you too,’ said Gertrude.

  Tim held her hand up against his eyes. He had again the sense of some inconceivable annihilating flash of light. Then he laid her hand down again upon the table and moved his chair a little away from her. He breathed open-mouthed, pulling at the neck of his shirt. He said, ‘Dear Gertrude, you don’t mean what I mean. You haven’t understood. It doesn’t matter. All right. You’re drunk, I’m drunk. You’ve been under an awful strain here. Let’s say good night now. And tomorrow we’ll just wave each other good-bye. We’ve been good companions, as you said. I’m very grateful for that. Don’t let my stupid declaration spoil it all. Yes, I do love you, sorry to have to keep saying it. But you don’t have to do anything special, you don’t have to be kind to me.’

  ‘I’m not being kind to you, you fool,’ said Gertrude. ‘But maybe you’re right and we should go to bed and to sleep and - sober up and -’

  But they continued to sit there, entranced, terrified, breathing deeply, spellbound to their chairs. Their faces expressed the most terrible gravity, like people waiting for news of an execution. Yet at the same time it was as if each of them were desperately calculating. Tim poured out some more wine. He shifted his chair so that it was parallel to the table. He stared at Gertrude’s profile.

  Gertrude stared at the Munch print of the sacred girls on the bridge. She thought I’ve got to kiss him, it’s the end point of the world, I’ve got to. It was like a duty, she quaked and shook with it. She could feel her cheeks burning, she could feel Tim staring at her. She too turned her chair and moved to face him. Her knee overlapped his knee.

  Tim clutched her clumsily, one arm round her waist and one round her shoulder, and pulled her towards him. He saw her close to, her glowing amazed eyes, her wet mouth. Then they both rose to their feet. Then it was simple. Their bodies locked together, their arms locked together, their eyes closed. So they stood for a time. Then Tim moved her a little, drew back a little and kissed her with one slow gentle kiss. Then he let go of her, she stepped back, and they stood for a moment in a strange quiet modesty. Gertrude smoothed down her dress.

 
‘Tim - I’m going to bed now-I don’t want to see you again tonight - stay here a while. We’ll talk in the morning. Good night.’

  Tim bowed to her, an odd bow such as he had never bowed before. Then she was gone. He sat down to finish his wine. He looked at the black shining uncurtained window and saw himself reflected there, a man sitting alone. He tucked in his shirt tails and buttoned up his shirt, and looked at himself. He thought, the old silent rocks have been looking in at us. All the gods and demons of the valley could have crowded round that window and watched us. Perhaps they did. He thought, she was drunk, poor thing, she will hate me in the morning. But the morning was still a long way off. He drank more wine. He was dizzy, floating, prolonging a not quite incomprehensible ecstasy. He could hear Gertrude moving about above. Then there was silence. At last he left the table and turned out the lamp and went quickly and quietly up the stairs.

  Tim thought that he would now lie awake all night, but he found the quick sleep of one who has laboured hard and well. He fell into a deep dreamless pit of dark joy. Gertrude too thought that she would not sleep, but she did. She slept soon and dreamed of Anne.

  Tim Reede awoke. He was lying on his back. It was daylight and a bird was singing. He thought at first he was at home in his garage loft, where there were nearby trees in a little garden and birds came and sang. A deep thrilling stream of happiness flowed through him as he lay and listened to the bird. He noticed the happiness and that it was unusual, amazing. He wanted to sleep again. Then he thought, I’m in France. Then he thought, Gertrude.

  He sat up and pushed his feet out of the bed. He listened. Silence. In desperate haste he got up and slithered tiptoe into the bathroom. Gertrude’s room had its own separate bathroom so there was no danger of colliding with her. He washed and shaved and cleaned his teeth and glided back to his own room and dressed. The stream of happiness had turned into a stream of pure fear. He must find out, he must know. But oh Christ, Gertrude was probably still asleep. He listened again. Silence. He combed his hair. He felt sick to vomiting with anxiety and terror.

  He went to the window. Gertrude, dressed in her pale café-au-lait dress, was standing in the little meadow among the blue flowers, looking away towards the rocks whose near side was still dark although the sun, shining from behind the crests, had filled the valley with colours.

  Tim did not call. He ran, almost falling down the stairs, and out the quickest way through the dining-room archway and across the terrace. Gertrude had turned towards him. He stumbled into the flowery grass, then stood, not close, holding out his hands towards her.

  ‘Gertrude -’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s all right.’

  ‘What’s all right, what do you mean?’

  ‘It’s still there.’

  ‘Oh my God -’ said Tim. Then he said, ‘But what’s still there, what does that mean?’

  They spent the morning in conference. ‘Conference’ best expressed the extraordinary intense careful colloquy which, under Gertrude’s chairmanship, took place, during that morning. There was, by Gertrude’s will, no kiss, no embrace, and this abstention contributed not a little to the thrilling calmness of their debate. They sat now, not in the sitting-room, but opposite to each other at the trestle table under the open dining-room archway, just in the shade. There had been no question of breakfast.

  They talked with apparent clarity above a silent chaos of astounded fear. Both wanted to comfort, to reassure, to say ‘It’s all right’. At the same time, both were filled with a curious almost shame-faced caution, an anguished sense of timing, a desire not to go too fast, not to go too slow, not to say anything offensive or scandalous or tactless or improper. Vast metaphysical doubts assailed them about whether they had really understood what the other thought or wanted. There were moments when they stumbled and lost each other, terrible checks and silences when they gazed across the table in dismay. They had to work out what had happened, or not really to work it out, not yet to explain or clarify it, but simply to make it bearable by surrounding it with a net of ordinary words. And they argued, scarcely knowing what it was they were arguing about.

  ‘It was a wonderful moment when you came striding through the twilight on that first day.’

  ‘You think it was prophetic. But you didn’t come here to see me.’

  ‘And you didn’t want me to come here.’

  ‘That’s ancient history. We’ve survived the night. Will we survive the day?’

  ‘We must think -’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. This couldn’t have happened at Ebury Street.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying so.’

  ‘Suppose I hadn’t taken your hand.’

  ‘You said you had to.’

  ‘But suppose I hadn’t?’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘It’s because of here.’

  ‘Because of here needn’t mean just because of here.’

  ‘You’ll have a reaction, a revulsion, you’ll suddenly see me as -’

  ‘No -’

  ‘You’re suffering from shock, you’ve been under stress. People in stress situations get sick, they get a bit crazy, they could imagine that they fall in love. They have huge emotional illusions and make huge emotional mistakes.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘Well, I’m terrified.’

  Gertrude learned across and touched the back of his hand with a kind of quick routine rap, like touching someone to keep him awake.

  ‘All right,’ said Tim. His mouth was dry. ‘We shall see. But I feel that some god is playing a game with us.’

  ‘You keep trying to make what has happened into something else.’

  ‘But what has happened? You won’t say -’

  ‘Tim, I don’t know what to say. But I’m sure -’

  ‘I’m sorry, why should you commit yourself to anything. I just mean it’s so unsafe, so unreal. All this can unhappen. You can unhappen it just by saying we won’t speak of it again, good-bye.’

  ‘But I’m not saying that!’

  ‘And I should be grateful, I am grateful. But, my dear, we’re dreaming and we’ll wake up. It’s too good to be true.’

  ‘Oh Tim, stop, we’ve been over this.’

  ‘How extraordinary, I’ve just remembered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That day when you swam in the pool - it seems a hundred years ago-I fell asleep in such an odd way and I dreamed and I forget the dream - and what I dreamt was that I was holding you in my arms. That proves it.’

  ‘Proves what?’

  ‘That it’s just something to do with here, with this place, this landscape. We’re under a spell. But when we go away it will fade. You’ll see I’m just a dull fellow with ass’s ears. Gertrude, you are deluded, you can’t love me, I’m not educated, I’m not clever, I can’t paint, I’m going bald -’

  ‘Oh don’t be so destructive. Something has happened to us. Can’t you just be true to it long enough to see what it is?’

  ‘You’re so brave! I feel that if I lose this whatever it is now I shall die. I existed without it before, but now that it’s here, if it’s here -’

  ‘Tim, I haven’t asked this, perhaps there’s no need but I just want to be sure, have you any ties - any girl - or anything like that - ?’

  Tim’s lies usually came to his lips so fast that he scarcely noticed they were lies. Now he hesitated for one second before replying, ‘No. There’s no one like that in my life.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Ought I to have told her about Daisy, Tim wondered. Better not, how could I possibly have explained about Daisy, it would have given the wrong impression straight away and somehow spoilt everything. I couldn’t mention Daisy without it seeming important in a way that it’s not. Really, Daisy and I gave each other up years ago, it’s not like a real relation. Besides, all this with Gertrude may be a dream and there’s no need to decide what to say just yet.

  He said, ‘Gertrude, I’m an awful liar -’

  ‘You
mean -?’

  ‘I said I could speak French and I can’t.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me. I’ll teach you a bit of French -’

  ‘You won’t. We won’t be here. We won’t be at Ebury Street either. We haven’t anywhere to go, we haven’t anywhere to be, we’re just impossible. We can’t be together like real people are. Gertrude, I’m not real, don’t rely on me.’

  ‘I shall make you real. We must wait and see, meanwhile trust each other. What else can we do?’

  ‘Oh Jesus Christ - but what do we do while we’re waiting?’

  Tim Reede awoke. Joy, contentment possessed his body. He was naked, covered in sweat. All was silent. He breathed deeply and breathing was joy. He thought, I feel so happy, like never before, ever in my life. I feel so pleased and heavy and warm and damp and limp. I really exist and it’s so good.

  He opened his eyes. He was lying in his bedroom, in his own narrow bed, and Gertrude was lying with him. She was asleep.

  It was the afternoon nearing to evening, he could tell by the light. He eased himself off the bed and stood up and looked down at Gertrude. The quiet sleeping face looked like that of a stranger. A woman in his bed. He felt amazement, tenderness, fear that she would wake. The sleeping face having lost some characteristic expression, some cautious protective dignity, looked anonymous and defenceless and sweet. Gertrude’s thick brown hair was everywhere, netted over her brow and over the pillow, crossing her face moved by her breath, streaked down into the perspiration on her neck. The salient collar bones glowed and shone with moisture. The large breasts were pale. Gertrude of Ebury Street, the goddess of the crystal pool, had changed again into this strange magic brown-haired girl with long heavy sleepy eyelashes and limp open hands, and nestling feet.

  Tim crept away as he had done in the morning, for it was the same amazing day. He sponged off the sweat and got dressed. He went quietly downstairs and stood on the terrace and watched the evening sun making the rocks move, making them breathe, very quietly expand and contract like some organism under the sea. He thought, well, something has happened now which can’t unhappen. And yet at any moment - He did not want to think frightening thoughts. He felt a blank blinding empty happiness. He also felt extremely hungry. He wanted to dance. He went down onto the flowery lawn and executed a few Morris steps. Then with his hands on his hips he danced down as far as the olive grove. He stood there and gazed at the rocks. When he turned about he saw that Gertrude was standing on the terrace in a flimsy white garment which might have been a nightdress. He began to dance towards her across the flower-shadowed grass.