Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

Lily was going to see Crimond. She had not seen him or sent him any communication since the awful occasion of the midsummer ball. The baneful memory of that night haunted her, sometimes tormented her, although she did not really imagine that, for her, it could have been different. Well, perhaps she did imagine a little, could not altogether banish beautiful painful fantasies of how on that evening Crimond could at last have 'found himself' in realising how much he cared for her. She had felt, still a little felt, with a kind of pride and a kind of terror, that it was 'all her fault', because it was she who had brought Jean and Crimond together. If she had not told him of the dance he would not have manifested himself in that kilt, radiant with godlike power. Although she had told no one about her own crucial role in that drama, she could not help feeling that someone or something would punish her for it – perhaps fate, perhaps Crimond. Yet also it was a bond, she had played the part of Love's messenger, and it was not because of her that Love had been, so mysteriously, vanquished. One of her present terrors, as she walked along the ragged street, was that Crimond might think that she had come to sympathise with him! This idea made her feel ready to destroy herself. In fact she knew nothing, and it seemed that nobody knew anything, about the reasons for Jean and Crimond's second parting. The fact was that Crimond was once more alone, and no woman had yet enabled him to 'find himself'. Of that Lily felt sure. She was going to see him because she had to.

As she neared the house and her knees were as water she began to ask herself again (for she had gone over it in detail many times during the last weeks) whether in spite of her intuitions she might be entirely wrong about Crimond, and have been wrong all along? Her impression of him as solitary could be entirely accidental and fallacious. Perhaps the 'Jean business', about which Gerard and company were so solemn, was just one of an endless stream of adventures? Suppose a woman were even now in possession, in the house, ready to open the door to Lily and sneer at her? It seemed madness to make this gratuitous unheralded excursion which could end with some new and more awful humiliation by which she would be scarred forever. But there was upon her a fiercer and more awful imperative, issuing from the depths of her prescient and frightened soul. She might regret having come, but would surely much more terribly regret not having come.

The sun was shining and, even in this cluttered and ramshackle part of London, there was the sense of a spring day. Windows which had long been closed were open and people, hatless and gloveless, had put on lighter and brighter clothes. In tiny front gardens bushes were budding and grass actually beginning to grow. There were, here and there, trees, slightly hazy with green, which shed an aura, even a fragrance of new life. A fresh cold sunny light announced the start of the long English spring. Of course Lily had given careful thought to what she was to wear. She had considered and rejected various smartish but simple dresses, even the black and white one with the velvet collar which was so subtly becoming. She decided on dark brown, very narrow, trousers, of unobtrusively expensive tweed, with a lighter brown leather jacket and a blue cotton shirt and a silk scarf with a blue and pink abstract design. In spite of attempts to put on weight, she was as thin as ever, her face that morning, as she put on discreet make-up, looking almost gaunt, the tendons of her long neck sturdily in view, her collar bones protruding under the soft cotton of the shirt. Her melted-sugar eyes were clear and bright, bw 0s. wrinkles increasingly massed round them collected the io- powder conspicuously onto their ridges. Her thin lips, wit wio lipstick, were almost invisible, her mouth a slit. She had unwisely washed her scanty unconvincing hair the previom night, and it was now, however much she combed it down and tucked it in behind her ears, standing up on end in dry senseless wisps. She had given up the much-advertised hair oil. She had wrapped the silk scarf carefully round her neck ,and that at least stayed in place. Over this gear she had put mi her long green coat, and her trousers were tucked into Mat boots.

At last Crimond's house was near, then in view, and Lily hurried her pace so as to preclude any sickening last-mimic hesitation. She mounted the stone steps. The big door, which looked like a modern painting, patchily coloured and scribbled over with cracks, was closed. Lily tried it. It was n0i locked and she entered into the familiar shabby hallway, dark and smelling of old dirt and neglect. She paused in th• darkness, blinded after the hard clear sunlight, and inhaled the atmosphere of silence and anticipation and fear which she knew so well. She listened. She thought, he's out, he's moved. She stepped forward and tripped against the bicycle and stood still again after the sound. She opened the door leading to the basement and tiptoed down the stairs. Here she listened again. Silence. She turned the handle noiselessly and slowly opened the door a little and looked through the opening into the Playroom.

She saw, as in a familiar picture, the familiar scene, the murky room, the lighted lamp, the figure at the desk writing. It was like a dream, indeed she had often dreamt it. The window onto the area, untouched by the sun's rays, gave near the door a little dead illumination, but the other end of the room was dark except for the lamp. Crimond, his head bowed, unaware of his visitor, continued to write, and Lily inserted herself quietly into the room and sat down on a chair near the door. She breathed deeply, hoping that she was recovering and not becoming more unnerved. There was for a moment a trance-like peace as if she had been granted a timeless vision, a scene transfigured by a ray from beyond, falling upon it accidentally like the shadow of an aeroplane upon a landscape.

Suddenly Crimond lifted his head and stared down the room. He said in a sharp tone, 'Who's that?'

Lily thought, he thinks it's Jean. She said, `It's Lily.'

Crimond stared a moment, then lowered his head again and continued to write.

Lily came slowly forward carrying her chair. She set it down, not up against the desk, but a little way in front of it, as if she were a candidate about to be interviewed. She took off her coat and sat down. She noticed that the target, which had been on the wall behind Crimond, was gone. She waited.

After about two minutes Crimond looked up again. He was wearing rather thicker glasses of a different rounder shape with dark rims which altered his appearance. He took off the glasses and looked at Lily. 'Well?'

`Forgive me,' said Lily. 'I just wanted to see you.'

`What about?'

Lily was ready for this question. 'I just wondered if'l could do any typing for you. Someone said you had nearl yfinished your book.' In fact Lily knew quite well that the book was finished, as Gulliver had told her some time ago.

`Thank you,' said Crimond, 'the book has been typed. I don't need any assistance.' However he did not seem to expect her to go, but continued to stare at her. He waited for her to speak again.

`So it's finished?' said Lily.

,Yes.'

`So what are you writing now?'

`Another book.'

`Is it like the first one, a sequel?'

`No. It's quite diffi-rent.'

`What's it about?'

Crimond did not answer this question. He rubbed his long nose where the new spectacles had made a red line on the bridge. Then, not looking at tier, he busied himself -cleaning the spectacles with a handkerchief, then refilling his fountain pen at an ink pot and wiping it on a piece of blotting paper. She thought, feeling a little calmer now, that he looked older, his pale face a little puffy, his faded red hair a little thinner.