Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

Naturally the guests had brought books though not everyone was ready to declare or discuss his choice. Duncan had brought two fat Government publications, Gulliver had brought the poems of Lowell and Berryman and had vowed to write some poetry during his stay, Lily had brought a travel book on Thailand, Gerard had brought Horace's Odes and a volume of Plotinus in the Loeb edition, Rose had brought Daniel Deronda, Jenkin had brought the Oxford Book of Spanish Verse, a Portuguese grammar, and a book by a Jesuit called Socialism and the New Theology. (He kept these latter works well out of Gerard's sight.) Tamar had apparently brought no book but had retired to the library to find one. The 'regulars' felt but did not mention the absence of Jean whose comical taunts and restless badinage had always stirred up what might otherwise have proved too quiet a scene. Rose anticipated that Gull and Lily would be bored.

Since they had got up it had begun to snow, at first with tiny indecisive flakes, now with larger ones. The countryside, al ready streaked by a previous fall, was now entirely white. Rose had warned the newcomers to bring boots and also warm jerseys to wear if necessary inside the house as well as outside. There was central heating, and wood fires all day in the 'public rooms' and at evening in the bedrooms, but Boyars was (as Rose complacently said) not a warm house.

`Is the water meadow frozen?' asked Gerard.

`I think so,' said Rose, 'it must be. I'll go over and look this morning.'

Gerard and Rose, who could skate well, kept their skates at Boyars. They disliked the weird and garish atmosphere of indoor skating rinks. Jenkin could not skate but liked watching the others. Duncan could not skate and did not like watching the others who were always, he claimed, and that included Jean who was a good skater, showing off. Tamar could skate but had forgotten to bring her skates. Rose thought an old pair of Annushka's might fit her. (Annushka, a beautiful skater, had given up.) Lily said she had skated a bit once and was game to try. Gulliver admitted to being able to skate. He did not however reveal, even to Lily, that he had just, for the occasion, bought a pair of skates, the first he hail ever possessed. He had spent some time the previous morning rubbing mud over the shining boots to dim their newness. It had been a foolish and expensive purchase. He had still not managed to find a job.

`I say, Rose,' said Jenkin, 'there's a ladybird walking on the sideboard. What shall we do, put her on those plants? Shall I catch her?'

`I will,' said Rose. `I'll put her in the stables. They creep into crannies in the wood, then they fly out in the spring. It's amazing how sturdy insects are.'

`They'll survive the Bomb,' said Jenkin, 'I suppose there's some comfort in that.'

Rose took a wineglass from the cupboard, captured the ladybird and took charge of it.

A white cat with greyish tabby blotches entered with tail erect and was captured by Lily. `Rose, what's the name of your pussycat?'

`Mousebrook,' said Rose. In fact the cat's full name was Mousebrook the Mauve Cat, but Rose did not feel matey enough with Lily yet to tell her that.

`What a funny name!'

`Skating this afternoon, don't you think?' said Gerard. `Yes,' said Rose. 'This morning you boys must work. Look at that snow! It's real brass monkey weather.'

What on earth does that mean, Lily wondered, as she struggled with recalcitrant Mousebrook.

After breakfast, while the others were still arguing about their 'day', Duncan hurried upstairs to his bedroom. He had already made his bed. Annushka did not make beds, as Rose always reminded them. The room had seemed cosy last night in the firelight. Now the fire was out and the room was cold and filled with a relentless greyness by the moving curtain of snow. Duncan was not in the room which he had always occupied with Jean. Rose had moved him, with tactful intent, to a smaller room at the back of the house where, as she said, the view was better. The view was at least different, but Duncan was cross at being given a small room with no contiguous bathroom. He gazed out at the view through the irritating little diamond-shaped lattice panes of the pointed Strawberry Hill Gothic window characteristic of this part of the house. He sympathised with Rose's great-grandfather who had altered (or 'vandalised') the front of the house by altering the pseudo-Gothic to sturdy Edwardian and adding a graceless but useful extension. He opened the window so as to see better, then closed it abruptly against a massive entry of bitterly cold air and a snowflake or two. His room looked out over the back lawn and garden, the conifers and extensive shrubbery, the rosy walls of the vegetable garden, a segment of woodland, the gentle mild hills of the English countryside, a istant farm, and the Roman Road, a dead straight miles-long section of a famous Roman highway which here ribboned over he hills and dales, constituting a sort of landmark. The Roman Road was not now a main road. The main road, not a motorway but a substantial artery, lay a considerable distance off in front of the house on the other side of the river.

Duncan, distracted for a short while by company, now returned to his wound. He had eaten too much breakfast and felt sick. His whole being felt sick, sick, sick. He had announced on the previous evening that he must go very early on Sunday to prepare for a meeting. He had intended earlier not to come at all, but had decided he ought to appear so as not to seem to be avoiding Tamar. Now that seemed a ridiculous reason. Why should anybody think he was avoiding Tamar, what motive could they imagine he might have for doing so? This calculation was a measure of the guilt he felt about what had, so briefly, so quickly, happened that evening. He could scarcely now picture what state of mind, what sudden desperate need for consolation, had led him to take that little girl, that child, into his arms. It didn't, now, seem like lust, it was simply an irresistible craving for love, for a woman's love, for being held close in a woman's arms and hearing her say, as she had said, 'I love you, I'll always love you.' It was as if Tamar had murmured, 'I'll protect you, I'll shield you, I'll take your hurt away, I'll carry you out of the world, I'll make you invisible and perfectly safe for ever and ever.' Perhaps she had said something like that. I was very drunk that evening Duncan said to himself. I must have been dreadfully drunk fit act in that way. Was I disgusting, brutish, awful? She didn't seem to think so then, I could have been anything and be loved. But what did she feel later? Duncan did not like to believe that she now saw him as a drunken brute. But then neither did he want to believe that she really loved him. What would that mean, what could it bring about? What words could he use, what words could he ever use, to tell Tamar that he was grateful, but it was indeed something momentary and he could not return her love? Was that what he felt now above Tamar, little innocent Tamar with her schoolgirl hair and slender legs? He thought, she'll assume, she'll know that it was an aberration. I was in a state of shock, I'd just had the solicitor's letter, I hope she took that in. Oh God, why did I act so stupidly, why do I have to have this as well! I can't go on living with myself much longer. Of course it was her doing, she started it, I'd never have made a move, I'd never have wanted to! What a minx, what a temptress, what terrible ill luck, what an accursed doomed creature I am.

Duncan had not exactly recovered from the solicitor's letter, but had adjusted his mind so that the letter was not a death sentence, not a total extinction of hope. This was partly the result of a talk with Gerard which had taken place the day after Tamar's visit. Duncan showed Gerard the letter and they discussed it. It was a relief to talk, for once (for Duncan had not lately been eager to see his friends) to Gerard, though Gerard's lively pleasure in the talk annoyed him. Gerard loved listing pros and cons. He still thought of himself as the leader, the healer, the one who was never in trouble, the one who had remained young; while Duncan had become heavy, cumbersome, wrinkled and old. Even his hair, though it was thick and dark and crinkly, was like a heavy wig upon his head, while Gerard's hair curled and shone like a boy's. These were ludicrous thoughts of course, as ludicrous as a new feeling of jealousy about Jenkin, as if Jenkin, always around the place, made it increasingly difficult for Duncan to talk freely to Gerard as he had once done. The fact that they had once been so close however remained as an eternal guarantee. Gerard had suggested, or rather elicited from Duncan, the idea that the solicitor's letter did not mean anything final. It could even he some sort of try-on or something which Crimond had ordered Jean to do as a matter of routine. Duncan must not be seen to take itseriously. Thus inspired Duncan had replied to the solicitor that he was surprised to receive the letter, he did not want a divorce, he loved his wife and desired and expected her to return to him before long. Since then nothing more had cen heard. Gerard said that was a good sign.