by Iris Murdoch
‘I know that you will not play with me. I love you - very much - you know that -’
‘Yes.’
‘But there will be no drama or chat about love or even - continuation of this conversation. You have said something and I have understood it, that and no more.’ ‘Yes. But - the difference will be there. So you agree?’
He stared at her, then he said almost helplessly, ‘You have made a move which I cannot counter.’
Gertrude’s eyes had already begun to laugh at him. She got up and came to him and he rose and took her hand and kissed it.
‘I must love you,’ she said. ‘You must be my friend forever. Will you swear to me not to run away and vanish?’
‘I swear - by - by the precious lifeblood of Poland.’
‘Then that’s clear. That’s all I want. So you needn’t stop loving me and you needn’t be unhappy any more. I love you and need you. Will you promise not to be unhappy any more?’
‘Ah - Gertrude-I cannot promise that-I shall always be -’
‘In pain? Try not to be. Or let it become-a different sweeter pain. Unhappiness is stupid. There are such a lot of things in the world, dear Count, dear Peter. I should be glad if, because of me, you could enjoy so many other things more, things which have nothing whatever to do with me. We’re both upset now, but we’ll grow calm and survey the world together and live in security and safety and peace. Is that not good?’
‘Yes, yes. But, oh Gertrude, how will it be?’
‘Perfectly ordinary, you’ll see. We’ll have such ordinary talk. But deeper and - permanent. Permanence, that’s what one wants in life, and that’s happiness too.’
‘And Tim -’
‘I’ve told him that you must be my dear friend, and our dear friend. He knows I’m saying just that to you. Tim is wise, you know he’s wise.’
‘I wish I was wise. But - oh Gertrude, my dear - perhaps it is possible to be happy after all!’
‘Possible - easy - you’ve made the great discovery! Oh I’m so glad, so relieved. There now, we’ve said enough, and we won’t endlessly discuss it, you’re right. We’ll talk of other things and we’ll be calm then. And now enough. Good heavens, I’d forgotten all about the party, they’ll be arriving any moment, you’ll stay, won’t you? You must. Why, you’re looking quite a different person already!’
‘Anne, my dear, have some champagne!’
Anne had telephoned the Count at the office in the afternoon, but he had already left. She telephoned his flat, but there was no answer. She waited a while in case he came, but she did not expect him as nothing had been arranged. Then she set off for the party wondering if she would see him there.
With the quick awareness of love she took in the already crowded room, seeing his tall figure with his back to her, near the mantelpiece. He was talking to Tim, stooping a little.
Janet Openshaw was giving her some champagne. ‘Anne, we haven’t seen you for ages. You’ve been in retreat.’
‘Yes - sort of -’
‘Do you know everyone here?’
‘No, not everyone -’
‘This tall handsome boy is my younger son Ned. He’s just back from California where he’s been into Buddhism.’
‘Oh really -’
‘Ned says he wants to empty his mind. When I was his age I was trying to fill mine. But you’re really a mathematician, aren’t you, Ned?’
‘Well -’
‘This is Anne Cavidge. She used to be a nun. You don’t mind my saying that do you? I’ll leave you together. I must circulate the eats.’
‘Were you a nun? What kind? Anglican, Catholic, enclosed?’
‘Catholic. Enclosed.’
‘How awfully interesting! I’m awfully interested in religion. Why did you leave? Did you lose your faith? Do you believe in a personal God?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Anne, ‘do you?’
‘No, I think it’s the most anti-religious idea you can imagine. Religion is to do with the destruction of the personality. Would you agree?’
‘In a way, but it depends -’
‘What method of meditation did you use? Do you still meditate? I say, do you think we could have a talk some time? No one here is interested in religion, it’s amazing how uninterested they are, and after all it is the most important subject isn’t it? I never got any real religion as a child, you know my father’s Jewish and my mother’s Gentile and they play at being Anglicans but they never even taught me to pray, and as for my school, I’m at St Paul’s you know -’
‘Hello, Anne, hello, Ned -’
It was Gerald Pavitt, bearish, big, odoriferous, untidy.
‘Oh Gerald, Anne was a nun. You don’t mind if I call you Anne? You know Gerald, of course you do, he knows about quasars and black holes and things and time and space coming to an end and -’
‘How are your maths getting on, Ned?’
‘Ma put you up to asking that!’
Taking her opportunity Anne began to move away. She wanted to get across the room to Peter.
Ned called after her, ‘I’ll ring you up, can I, about that talk.’
Tim Reede had had his necessary conversation with the Count. Of course they merely exchanged pleasantries, but much was understood. There was a little embarrassment but this quickly vanished. It was suddenly ‘as it used to be’, and yet also of course different. Tim was surprised and touched to find in himself a renewed and stronger flow of affection for the Polish exile. It did not occur to Tim to feel patronizing, such an attitude would have been impossible to him. But he found himself feeling, within his own happiness, a special lively affectionate pleasure. He sensed in the Count a corresponding feeling, quite unmixed with any embarrassing ‘gratitude’. The Count looked amazingly conspicuously happy. They smiled at each other and parted. Now Tim was paying marked attentions to Mrs Mount, he had even begun to call her ‘Veronica’. The idea that she felt ‘sentimental’ about him had quite changed his view of the ‘old creature’.
Rosalind Openshaw was trying to decide which of the men in the room was the most attractive, apart that is from her brother William with whom she was rather in love. She was quite keen on Tim, she could perceive the ‘nice animal’ aspect of him which so much appealed to Gertrude, but she found his lack of dignity a serious drawback. Manfred had dignity, but was too conventionally handsome and too tall. Victor Schultz was beautiful but bald, and there was something of the ‘playboy’ about him which repelled Rosalind. Akiba Lebowitz was yummy of course but just married. Ed Roper (who looked like a toad, quite a nice one) had brought along a French writer called Armand something whom Rosalind liked the look of, and at any rate he was a novelty. He was very dark and skinny and wicked-looking. Rosalind liked his clever little slit-eyes. She had always found Gerald Pavitt attractive, though this idea seemed to occur to no one else. She was moved by his burly fatness and by a curious benevolent cunning in his much-folded face and by his smell. A friend of William’s, one David Idleston (now talking to Moira Lebowitz), was generally rated a stunner, but of course he was too young. Rosalind could not be attracted by any young man, other than her brother. Her fine intelligent gaze rested on the Count. He was tall, it was true, but not too tall. His absolute pallor, his gentle mien, his straight floppy colourless hair, and those sad pale blue eyes made her heart turn over and over. She turned and began to make her way in the direction of the Frenchman.
Anne detached herself from the politeness of Stanley and from the boisterous familiarity of Ed Roper who had now suddenly decided that she was his dearest pal. She edged round the back of a lawyer called Ginzburg (twin brother of the actor), an old friend of Guy’s, lately returned from The Hague, and now she had the Count in full view. He was talking to Gertrude. Anne felt an extreme awful shock before she quite knew what it was that she had perceived or thought. The Count was radiant. The terrible gaunt mask of despair and gloom was gone. It was a quite different Peter, one whom Anne had never seen before, who was now leaning towards hi
s hostess, laughing, his face almost zanily wrinkled up with amusement and pleasure. Anne thought, is he drunk? Then he saw Gertrude’s face. And Gertrude was holding the cuff of the Count’s jacket and pulling at it playfully. The Count had stopped laughing, and was saying something to Gertrude. His face was tender, calm, joyful, at peace.
Quick, perceptive Anne had, in another second, understood it all. Gertrude had made a love-treaty with the Count. He was not to be miserable or to go away. He was to stay forever as her courtier, within the light of her countenance. Tim would not mind. It was, for Gertrude, easy. She had fielded him casually, as if in passing. She had only to stretch out her hand, she had only to whistle ever so softly. The little which she would give Peter would be enough for him, would be much. He would humbly accept whatever, with a loving will, she spared him. Perhaps all that he required was the sense that she needed him, he could live on that. Intelligent warm-hearted Gertrude had magicked him into happiness. And Anne could guess that this was not just a benevolent act. Gertrude needed his esteem to support her. She had always valued his love and saw no reason why she should not go on enjoying it forever.
Anne turned away. They had not seen her. She concentrated on preventing tears from rising into her eyes. She would quietly slip away and go home. No one would notice.
She found herself face to face with Manfred.
‘Hello, Anne. More champers? Where’s your glass?’
‘Thanks, but I have to go.’
‘Oh don’t go. Are you all right? You look a little -’
‘I’ve got a slight migraine, that’s all. I’m going to go home and lie down.’
‘Do you suffer from migraine? So do I. Only I’ve got some marvellous pills -’
‘I must go.’
‘Anne, let me drive you home. You don’t look at all well.’
‘I’m OK. Thank you so much. I think a walk will do me good.’
She got as far as the door.
Gertrude caught her up. ‘Manfred says you’ve got a migraine, don’t go, you must lie down here.’
‘No thanks, my dear. I just need some fresh air.’
‘I wanted to talk to you, only we can’t now. Could you come round for lunch tomorrow? Just us two?’
‘Yes, I’ll come. I’ll be all right tomorrow.’
‘Bless you, dear dear girl. Do you know, you’ve made a conquest ? Ned Openshaw says he’s fallen in love with you! Oh hello, Moses, I’m so glad you managed to get here.’
‘I say, Gertrude, have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘About the new Pope! He’s a Pole!’
‘What’s that? The new Pope?’
‘Listen, Moses says the new pope is Polish!’
‘It’s not possible!’
‘Quick, quick, tell the Count!’
‘Where’s the Count? The new Pope is a POLE!’
‘Count, Count, listen, the new Pope -’
‘Hooray, the new Pope is Polish!’
‘How absolutely marvellous! Count, have you heard?’
‘Hooray for the Count, the Count for Pope!’
‘A toast to the Count!’
‘Oh just look at his face!’
‘Hooray for Poland, hooray for the Count!’
‘Three cheers -’
‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,
for he’s a jolly good fellow,
for he’s a jolly good fe-el-ow
AND so say ALL OF US!’
‘Were you there when they were singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow”?’
‘Yes,’ said Anne. She had heard the song break out as she was going down the stairs.
‘Peter was just crazed with joy.’
‘Was he?’ said Anne. She was sitting over lunch with Gertrude in the dining-room at Ebury Street.
‘I call him “Peter” now,’ said Gertrude. ‘I’m trying to get used to it. I’ll gradually teach the rest of you to say it. I think it’s time he was Peter to us. I rather wonder whether he ever liked being called “Count”. More cheese?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Anne, you’ve eaten nothing. Are you sure that migraine has gone?’
‘Yes thanks.’
‘Manfred says he has some super pills.’
‘I’ve got some super pills too. I’m OK. Thanks.’
‘And you’ve still got that burn on your hand.’
‘No, it’s a different one.’
‘You careless clumsy girl.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You can’t be if you keep saying so. Funny, you’re wearing that blue and white dress again, the one you wore when you came here from the convent. What a lot has happened since then.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s marvellous about the new Pope. I’m so pleased. It’s a good omen, it’s a breath of hope. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stanley was saying, oh never mind what Stanley was saying. And the Count - he’s a changed man. I’m so delighted that the news came through on just that day, and at the party.’
‘Yes, it was nice. And everybody cheered him.’
‘Yes. Oh I feel so complete. God bless Peter, God bless Poland, God bless Anne. Drink up.’
‘I’m drinking.’
‘You aren’t. Do eat some cheese or a divine Cox’s Orange Pippin.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I must tell you something about the Count, about Peter.’
‘Yes?’
‘By the way, thank you so much for looking after him for me. He says you gave him a talking to about not despairing. He says you held his hand like a priest.’
‘I didn’t hold his hand.’
‘Well, figuratively. He’s immensely grateful for the holy woman act, it kept him going.’
‘It was no trouble.’
‘We’re both so grateful. I should have done something about him earlier, only -’
‘You were so busy.’
‘Yes, an awful lot has been happening. But I must tell you. I wouldn’t tell this to anyone else, except Tim of course. I felt I couldn’t leave the Count all lonely and sad. Tim agreed we had to draw him in.’
‘Into the family circle.’
‘More than that. You know, well, it’s no secret, everyone knows, Guy knew, the Count is very much in love with me.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I must call him Peter. Peter was, is, very much in love with me. But, in the past, we never talked about it, it was just understood between us.’
‘Quite.’
‘And of course when I was a widow how could he not hope?’
‘How indeed.’
‘And then Tim was there.’
‘And then Tim wasn’t there -’
‘Yes. And I know Peter suffered very much and hoped and suffered and couldn’t bear it any more, and he decided he would go away to Ireland.’
‘To Ireland?’ said Anne. ‘He never told me that.’
‘He’s very secretive. He hardly ever talks to anyone. He told me he was going to go to Belfast and he hoped he might be killed by a terrorist!’
‘He told you - ?’
‘Yes, after the party, of course he’d changed his mind by then! Anyway I couldn’t just let him drift off. Where could he go, to whom could he go, that would make any sense for him? I, and we, are his people. Only he was so hurt and so proud and so silent and so Polish. I think he really wanted to go away and pine away and die. And I couldn’t let him do that, could I?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a strange man, ridiculously hard to communicate with. You know how one can be close to someone yet not, perhaps never, get the knack of direct communication -’
‘Yes.’
‘I might not have been able to get through to him without his having first broken down the barrier.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes, in France. You know, when you were feeling so rotten I saw quite a lot of Peter alone - and one evening he hel
d my hand for a moment - what an achievement that was! And he sort of murmured that he loved me. It was only an isolated moment, but it changed things.’
‘As you said once, you can change the world in four seconds.’
‘Yes. He thought that that moment was nullified by what happened after, but it wasn’t. It made a sort of opening through which I could talk to him.’
‘Through which you could beckon him and draw him.’
‘Yes. Well, I probably could have done it anyway, it just needed time for me to think about it.’
‘So now?’
‘Now - well, did you see him last night? Even before the Polish Pope news! His cup is full and running over. I have told him that I care for him, I love him and he doesn’t have to stop loving me. He is perfectly happy.’
‘Isn’t that splendid. And you think it will last?’
‘Yes, I think I can guarantee that.’
‘Tim won’t be uneasy?’
‘No, of course not. That’s what makes it all possible. Tim and me-I can hardly explain, it’s so deep - and it’s been tested enough as you know. I could only have married Tim-I could never have married Peter-I see that now. Tim knows he’s absolutely secure, and he rather loves Peter on his own account. Peter was always very kind to Tim in the old days.’
‘So everyone should be able to be happy, under your guarantee. ’
‘I don’t see why not! When one is secure in marriage one is free to love people and be loved by them. I’m much less buttoned up about that than I used to be, much more free, in a way Tim has helped me to be emotionally more free.’
‘And you thought why shouldn’t you have Peter too.’
‘Yes. Not loving Peter and his being so unhappy was the only flaw in my happiness, and I thought why ever shouldn’t I be completely happy and make him happy. And I do care about what he thinks -’
‘What he thinks about you?’
‘Yes, and -’
‘You didn’t want his mind to get away, I can understand that. In the end he might have judged you.’
‘I don’t think he would ever have recovered enough to do that!’
‘Even if he had gone right away -’
‘I had to save him from despair, to hold him, to rescue him. Why should he be miserable when I can so easily make him happy just by attending to him? Unhappiness is stupid. He’s an intelligent man -’
