Iris Murdoch - The Black Prince

«But there's really and truly nothing there except friendship. Rachel understands that now. You're the one who has invented this myth about me and your ex-wife. And you seem to be using it as an excuse for pestering Rachel in a way I might resent if I were more old-fashioned. Fortunately Rachel has a sense of humour about it. She told me how you came round this morning, accusing me and all ready to comfort her! Of course I know, we all know, that you're keen on Rachel. Your being so has been an aspect of our friendship. You were keen on both of us. And don't misunderstand me, Rachel hasn't just regarded this as a joke, she's been very touched. Any woman likes a suitor. But when you start pestering her with attentions and suggesting I'm unfaithful at the same time it becomes something that she rightly won't put up with. I don't know whether you really think that Chris and I are lovers, or whether you pretend to Rachel that you think it. But she certainly doesn't believe anything of the sort.»

Arnold was sitting with his legs straight out in front of him, balanced on the heels. A characteristic pose. His face wore the affectionate quizzical ironical expression which I had once liked so much.

I said, «Let's have a drink.» I went to the walnut hanging cupboard.

I should of course have been, and in a way I was, relieved that the thing had been done so quietly. But I was also upset and annoyed and felt an impulse to shatter Arnold's complacency by showing him Rachel's letter. The letter was in fact lying on the Pembroke table, where I could even see the corner of the envelope protruding from under some papers. Naturally such treachery was not to be seriously envisaged. It is the woman's privilege to save herself at the man's expense. And though, as it seemed at that moment, whatever had happened had been Rachel's idea and not mine, I had to take full responsibility and suffer the consequences. I decided at once that I must not discuss or dispute the proffered view, but just pass the matter off as coolly as possible. It then came to me: but is Arnold lying? He could well be lying about Christian. Was he also lying about Rachel? What had passed between Arnold and his wife and would I ever know it for certain?

I looked at Arnold and found him looking at me. He seemed hugely amused. He looked well and strong and young, his lean greasy pale brown face had the look of a keen undergraduate. He looked like a clever undergraduate teasing his tutor.

«Bradley, it's true what I said about me and Chris. I care far too much about my work to indulge in muddles. And Christian is rational too. In fact she's the most rational woman I've ever met. What a grip on life that woman has!»

«Having a grip on life would be quite compatible with having a fling with you, I dare say. Anyway, as you have politely indicated, it's not my business. I'm sorry if I offended Rachel. I certainly wasn't intending to pester her with attentions. I was depressed and she was sympathetic. I'll try to be less disorderly. Can we leave it at that?»

«I read your so-called review with some interest.»

«Why call it a so-called review? It's a review. I'm not going to publish it.»

«You oughtn't to have sent it to me.»

«True. And if it's any satisfaction to you I regret having done so. Could you just tear it up and forget it?»

«I've already torn it up. I thought I might be tempted to read it again. I can't forget it. Bradley, you know how vain and touchy we artists are.»

«I know from my own case.»

«I wasn't excluding you, for Christ's sake. We, you too. When one's attacked through one's work it goes straight into the heart. I don't mean that one bothers about journalists, I mean people one knows. They sometimes imagine that you can despise a man's book and remain his friend. You can't. The offence is unforgivable.»

«So our friendship is at an end.»

«No. Because in rare cases one can overcome the offence by moving much closer to the other person. I think this is possible here. But there are one or two things I must say.»

«Go on.»

«You, and you aren't the only one, every critic tends to do this, speak as if you were addressing a person of invincible complacency, you speak as if the artist had never realized his faults at all. In fact most artists understand their own weaknesses far better than the critics do. Only naturally there is no place for the public parade of this knowledge. If one is prepared to publish a work one must let it speak for itself. It would be unthinkable to run along beside it whimpering, 'I know it's no good.' One keeps one's mouth shut.»

«Quite.»

«I know I'm a second-rater.»

«Uh-hu.»

«I believe that the stuff has some merits or I wouldn't publish it. But I live, I live, with an absolutely continuous sense of failure. I am always defeated, always. Every book is the wreck of a perfect idea. The years pass and one has only one life. If one has a thing at all one must do it and keep on and on and on trying to do it better. And an aspect of this is that any artist has to decide how fast to work. I do not believe that I would improve if I wrote less. The only result of that would be that there would be less of whatever there is. And less of me. I could be wrong, but I judge this and stand by the judgment. Do you understand?»

«Yes.»

«Also I enjoy it. For me writing is a natural product of joie de vivre. Why not? Why shouldn't I be happy if I can?»

«Why indeed.»

«An alternative would be to do what you do. Finish nothing, publish nothing, nourish a continual grudge against the world, and live with an unrealized idea of perfection which makes you feel superior to those who try and fail.»

«How clearly you put it.»

«Bradley, don't be cross, our friendship has suffered because I'm successful and you aren't, I mean in a worldly way. I'm afraid that's true, isn't it?»

«Yep.»

«Believe me, I'm not trying to make you angry, I'm in a quite instinctive way defending myself against you. Unless I do this reasonably effectively I shall feel deep resentment and I don't want to feel deep resentment. Isn't that sound psychology?»

«No doubt.»

«Bradley, we simply mustn't be enemies. I don't only mean it would be nice not to be, I also mean it would be fatal to be. We could destroy each other. Bradley, do say something, for God's sake.»

«You do like melodrama,» I said. «I couldn't destroy anybody. I feel old and stupid. All I care about is getting my book written. There is a book, I care about that absolutely. The rest is rubble. I'm sorry I upset Rachel. I think I'd better leave London for a while. I need a change.»

«Oh stop being so self-absorbed and quiet. Shout and wave your arms about! Curse me, question me. We must come closer to each other, otherwise we're lost. Most friendships are a sort of frozen and undeveloping semi-hostility. We've got to fight if we're going to love. Don't be cold with me.»

I said, «I don't believe you about you and Christian.»

«You're jealous.»

«You're wanting to make me shout and wave my arms, but I won't. Even if you aren't making love to Christian, your 'friendship,' as you call it, must hurt Rachel.»

«My marriage is a very strong organism. Any wife has moments of jealousy. But Rachel knows she's the only one. When you have slept beside a woman for years and years and years she becomes part of you, separation isn't possible. Wishful-thinking outsiders often tend to underestimate the strength of a marriage.»

«I dare say.»

«Bradley, let's meet again soon and talk properly, not about these nervy things, but about literature, like we used to. I'm going to write a critical reassessment of Meredith. I'd love to know what you think.»

«Meredith! Yes.»

«What Christian would call your motivation is dark to me.»