Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

The village of Foxpath, not visible from the road, was reached by a lane bordered by huge yew trees, from some of whose more slender branches the piled snow had fallen, revealing dark glossy pointed foliage and pale red waxen berries.

`The Pike will be open now,' said Jenkin at last.

`Yes.'

`Don't be cross, Gerard.'

`I'm not, my dear creature, I'm just thinking how differently we see the world.'

`Honestly, I don't think I understand politics any more, I just want a few decent simplifications. Utilitarianism is the only philosophy that lasts.'

`There aren't any decent simplifications. All this stuff about feeding the poor is religion. OK, doing it is good. But as an idea it's just a bit of romantic Christian myth. You think this idea takes you all the way.'

Jenkin's long nose was red with cold and his eyes were watering. He had pulled his woollen cap down over his ears and was hunched up ape-like inside his overcoat.

`Don't walk so fast, Gerard. I'm just a practical chap, it's you who are religious. Yes, as we keep telling each other, we do see life differently. I see it as a journey along a dark foggy road with a lot of'other chaps. You see it as a solitary climb upa mountain, you don't believe you'll get to the top, but you feel that because you can think of it you've done it. That's the idea that takes you all the way!'

Gerard with a sidelong glance at his friend acknowledged both the attack and the disarming tone of its delivery. 'I don't think one can see much above where one is, up there it just looks like death.'

`That's what I’d call a romantic myth.'

`I believe in goodness, you believe in justice. But we don't either of us believe in an ideal society.'

`No – but I feel I live in society, you don't – I think you don't notice it.'

By this time their lane had joined a road which led into the village, the snow was trodden, cars had passed, there was a sound of dogs barking, echoing in the snow spaces, and the high cries of children tobogganing on a hillside half a mile away. The church, beyond the village, upon a small eminence, was here in view, not shielded by trees. Soon they were walking on trampled pavements between cottages, their roofs of slate and thatch heavy with thick snow and fringed with icicles, their walls, of pale powdery rectangular stones, sparkling with frost. 'Good mornings' were exchanged, and 'cold, isn't it!' There was an air of excitement and comradeship in the dry windless cold and the brightening white light. Gerard had never really got to know Rose's acquaintances in Foxpath. There was for instance an elderly Miss Margoly whom Rose used to speak of, the tall box nedge of whose garden they were just passing, and a Scropton family whose pretty square house was set back from the road. Then there was the house of Tallcott, the doctor, who was 'good but brusque', then the village shop where one could get 'almost everything', the new house of the local builder, the cottage of Mr Sheppey the plumber, the dressmaker's cottage, the cottage where Annushka was born and her nieces still lived. The big pond was frozen, two people were skating, others cautiously and triumphantly walking on the ice, together with puzzled ducks and geese. A few flakes of snow now wavered in the air, scarcely resolved to fall. At last the Pike, the sign of the savage toothy fish, picturesquely rising among bulrushes, hanging immobile in the cold quiet air. Real Ale. Unbuttoning then coats and removing their gloves, they went into the hot crowded bar.

The room, dark after the dazzling white scene outside, smelt of warm wet wool, wet clothes, wet carpet. Yes, thought Gerard, amid the deafening chatter, as he looked around in vain for somewhere to sit while Jenkin was exchanging pleasantries at the counter, this is what he likes and I don't! How long do we have to stay here? He's ordering pints. We shall be late for lunch.

Suddenly feeling tired he pulled off his overcoat and rubbed the frost off his eyelashes and shook the snowflakes out of his curly hair. He rubbed his cold nose, thawed by the heat into a dripping wetness. He pulled down his smooth jersey and adjusted his just-visible collar and tie.

He doesn't have to worry about virtue, thought Gerard, he lives a simple life devoid of temptation and remorse, he lives in decent simplifications, all he sees is a mass of particular sufferers – and of course he's right about the mountain and how one cheats by a leap into the ideal. We've talked about this before, but it's never had such a deep cutting edge, it goes right down to the bone. Thank God he's stopped asking me what I'm going to write. Perhaps I'll write about Plotinus, he thought, a quiet rambling book about Augustine and Plotinus with some observations about today, their time was just like ours really. How sublime it all seems when one looks back, that moment when Plato's Good was married to the God of the psalms. But what an awful perilous mess it was too, philosophy versus magic, just like now. Only we haven't got a genius to teach us a new way to think about goodness and the soul.

Jenkin turned and looked at Gerard and smiled. Then he pointed upward. Gerard looked up. The Christmas decorations were in place, the glittering red and silver chains crisscrossing the ceiling, the sparkling tinsel stars, the little pendant figures of angels. He looked again at Jenkin and his pointing finger. Perhaps I'll write that book, thought Gerard; but first of all there's something about Jenkin Riderhood which has got to be decided, it's got to be found out and sorted out and done something about. Oh God, it's such a terrible risk – it's as if his life were at stake, or mine.

The flooded water-meadow, a huge space adjoining the river, was superbly frozen. The land, which belonged to Rose and was let to an amiable farmer, had once been common land and was still discreetly so regarded by the village. Rose ignored her fishing rights, to the disgust of Reeve and Neville. The wilful English winters did not often produce reliable enduring expanses of ice, and so the Foxpathers were not much given to skating and on the whole preferred to show off on the village pond. A few however were dotted here and there on the flat snow-covered ice-sea of the meadow as Rose and her party approached.

It was after lunch. Lunch, though announced as 'light and simple', had been fairly substantial, consisting of cold meats, hot potatoes, salads, then tipsy cake, then cheese, and accompanied by claret, which everyone said they must 'go easy' on, but mostly did not. It had been generally agreed that skating, if it was to take place, must do so at once, otherwise everyone would retire and fall asleep, and anyway it would be dark by four thirty. Duncan, who had drunk most claret, had announced his intention of sleeping it off forthwith, so the little group consisted of Rose, Gerard, Jenkin, Tamar, Gulliver and Lily. Tamar and Jenkin, non-skaters, had come for the show. Rose was glad that Tamar, who had refused even to try on the proffered boots, had come along. She was afraid that the child, who had eaten very little at lunch, would elect to spend the afternoon alone. She had already 'taken possession' of the library where the others tended to leave her in peace, and had been seen reading or (it was Rose's impression) affecting to read The Tale of Genji, which Rose had recommended to her some time ago. Rose had intended to have, but had not yet had, a 'good talk' with Tamar who looked more than usually reserved and wan.

A little more snow had fallen, covering the earlier tracks of man and beast, and had now ceased. The air remained windless and breathlessly quiet, suspended in a kind of magical pause which made people lower their voices. The afternoon light was already changing, the white sky darkening into a reddish glow. The expanse of meadow showed mainly white, but, seen close to, where skaters' curving tracks had passed, the gleaming ice beneath the snow was iron-grey. The Boyars party made quite a colourful set. Rose and Lily had taken some trouble with their appearance. They were both wearing fur hats, Rose's brown, Lily's black. Rose wore a long dark green jacket of heavy tweed, a thick high-necked brown jersey with a green silk scarf at the neck, knee-breeches and thick socks. Lily wore a white polo-necked skin-tight jersey, with a V-necked red jersey over it, a loose fluffy belted black cardigall of angora wool, and black woollen trousers tucked into red socks. Noting Rose's well-worn knee-breeches, she had remarked that tucking one's trousers into one's socks looked just as good and was easier. (She at once regretted this observation.) Both women, as they announced, had on their thickest woollen vests, Rose two, Lily only one. Lily felt cold. She had paid too much attention to Rose's prediction that they would get quite hot skating. Gerard, who, thinking it wrong to be obsessed with clothes, dressed with a casual discernment, was wearing a dark green high-necked cashmere sweater over a white shirt, a dark blue scarf of very light wool, a long navy jacket ofhand-woven tweed and blue-black corduroy trousers. Jenkin wore his usual winter suit with a thick jersey, a heavy overcoat and his stripy woollen cap. Tamar also wore a substantial overcoat above her jumper, and legwarmers over her trousers and had covered her head and most of her face with a beige-coloured scarf. Gulliver had, after much thought and indecision, put on pale brown corduroy trousers, his best and longest jersey, blue with the strawberry design, and his short green Loden coat. He already felt both bulky and cold. He and Gerard were bare-headed. Gulliver, who had felt it infra dig to wear headgear, now intensely envied Jenkin his silly woolly cap. Gerard and Rose and Lily wore smart high leather boots. Tamar and Jenkin wore heavy walking shoes. Gulliver wore trim wellingtons.