Iris Murdoch - The Sea, the Sea

Of course these were rambling drunken thoughts, but I could not help thinking that I was right to see an awful relief as well as an awful resignation in their acceptance of that death. And of course in trying to see it as so weirdly falling into the pattern of their lives, I knew that I was surreptitiously attempting to ease my own remorse and guilt. How soon we cover up the horror of death and loss, if we can, with almost any sort of explanation, as if we had to justify the very fate which had maimed us.

The flight to Australia could now also be envisaged with a clear conscience. How could Hartley have accepted the idea of leaving England with Titus still lost? Had she accepted it? Perhaps not. Perhaps that was why it had to seem to her ‘like a dream’. I was certain that she had not, in her awkward innocent little conversations with Titus, told him about the Australian plan. After all, she had not told me. This omission now seemed to me a good omen. She had not told me because she was already making up her mind to stay.

Titus had said of her that she was a ‘fantasist’. As I went on thinking, the probable proportion of falsehood in what she had told me seemed to grow. Her structure cracked, like broken bones that would never knit, broken by Ben, by Titus, she had lost her way, her sense of direction to the truth. So where was my ideal now? The strange thing was that there was still a source of light, as if Hartley herself shed light upon Hartley. I could take it all, I could embrace it all, whatever she was like it was her I loved. It had happened so in my life that I had only one place where blameless love was taught and only one teacher. Thus people can be light sources, without ever knowing, for years in the lives of others, while their own lives take different and hidden courses. Equally one can be, and I recalled Peregrine’s words, a monster, a cancer, in the mind of someone whom one has half forgotten or even never met.

But supposing it should turn out in the end that such a love should lose its object, could it, whatever happened, lose its object? Some loves are not defeated by death, although it is not as easy as we think to love the dead. But there are pains and devices which defeat love more ingeniously. Would I at last absolutely lose Hartley because of a treachery or desertion on her part which should turn my love into hate? Could I begin to see her as cold, heartless, uncanny, a witch, a sorceress? I felt that this could never be, and I felt it as an achievement, almost as a mode of possession. As James said, ‘If even a dog’s tooth is truly worshipped it glows with light.’ My love for Hartley was very nearly an end in itself. Twist and turn as she might, whatever happened she could not escape me now.

My reflections did not always maintain this high level. A passing thought of Rosina brought me back to the image of Ben looking so curiously prosperous, as Fritzie Eitel would say so ‘bright-eyed and bushy-tailed’. Was that only the result of an awful death endured and accepted as a way to freedom, the prospect of the opera house reflected in the waves? Where had Rosina spent the night before that hideous day when we took Hartley back? I recalled what Gilbert had said about hearing a woman talking in the house, when he came to deliver the letter. Rosina had declared she was going to ‘console’ Ben. This could have been just a spiteful jest. On the other hand, Rosina was capable de tout. If something had ‘happened’ between Ben and Rosina this might account not only for his curious air of satisfaction but also for his more liberal attitude to Hartley, his tolerance of my visit, of a doorstep discussion lasting almost a minute and so on. Perhaps Rosina had done Hartley a good turn, either by giving Ben a little something to conceal and feel guilty about, or by making him realize how much his funny old wife was to be preferred to a flashy show-business bitch. These were, in fact, however I turned them about, unsavoury thoughts. But at the level of a vulgar curiosity they were at times a relief from the intensity of higher longings.

It then occurred to me that Rosina might still be at the Raven Hotel and that I could simply walk along and ask her, and even if she lied I might learn something.

I was of course reluctant to leave the house because I was, from one moment to the next, expecting Hartley or her ‘sign’, but I decided to risk it, and left a note on the door saying H. Wait. Back very soon. I decided not to telephone the hotel beforehand, as I wanted a little advantage from surprise. If I rang, Rosina would have time to invent an elaborate falsehood. I also wanted the tiny consolation of seeing her sudden pleasure at seeing me. For I had to admit that I wanted from Rosina not only information relative to my case, but also some touch of the comfort which an affectionate woman can give, even if she is a bitch. The walk, the objective, was in itself a distraction, a task, in a period of time when inactive waiting and thinking were already becoming a burden. If Hartley gave no sign I would soon act again. Meanwhile the investigation of Rosina might even turn out to be useful.

It was a warm cloudy day and a little wind was tossing bits of white foam off the many-capped wavelets in Raven Bay. The sea was in a restless fussy mood, dark blue in colour, that grim cold northern blue which even in summertime can convey a wintry menace. The sky too had its northern look, a pallid cool blue between compact and very white fast-moving clouds. The sunlight came and went as I walked along the familiar road, and the big round boulders of the bay leapt out into a surprising variety of grotesque stony shapes, pitted with shadows and blotched with old seaweed stains and eyes of brilliant yellow lichen, then quietly faded again as the light was dipped.

I reached the hotel. I had not been there since the day when I was expelled from the dining room for not wearing a tie. The sun was shining into the cheerful comfortably furnished front hall as I went in, and it occurred to me how clean and tidy and pleasant it was after the filth and squalor of Shruff End, where I had no heart to embellish any more. There were bright chintzy armchairs and a huge vase full of wild buddleia and fuchsia and willow-herb and some of the mauve mallow which was growing among the rocks. A not too sneering servitor came forward to enquire my business. I was wearing dirty cotton trousers slightly rolled up and straying blue shirt, but this could pass muster in the morning, even in the presence of chintz armchairs.

I said, ‘Excuse me, but is Miss Vamburgh still staying in the hotel?’

The man gave me a slightly funny look and replied, ‘Mr and Mrs Arbelow are in the lounge, sir.’

My God! I walked to the door he indicated. The big lounge, with a huge view of the bay, was empty except for two people seated by the window and looking out. They turned as I came in.

‘Charles!’

‘Why it’s our favourite fun person! Charles, old man, we were just hoping you’d come, weren’t we, Rose?’

Two faces were turned towards me, blazing with amused malice.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘How nice to see you two together again. May I buy you a drink?’

‘No, no,’ cried Peregrine, ‘drinks are on us! Waiter, waiter! A bottle of that champagne we had yesterday, please, and three glasses.’

‘Did you go back to London,’ I asked Peregrine, ‘or did you come straight here?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I just stopped to drown my sorrow and there the old cross-eyed bitch was.’

‘And you fell into each other’s arms.’

‘Not at once,’ said Rosina. ‘We had a sort of jolly row to begin with. Peregrine was rather aggressive. He seemed to be chiefly annoyed about his windscreen.’

‘The windscreen bugged me,’ said Peregrine, ‘but it was mainly symbolic. Thank you, waiter.’