Under The Net - Iris Murdoch [8]
Six
It was about 9.15, on the appointed morning, when I reached Welbeck Street, as I had to go first to Mrs Tinckham's to collect my manuscripts. I found the door open and Sadie fretting and fuming about the hall. 'My dear creature,' she said, 'thank heavens you've come. When I say dawn to dusk I mean dawn to dusk. You've made me madly late. Never mind, don't look like that, come in. I see you've brought enough scribbling-paper to last a year. That's just as well. Listen, I want you, just for today and tomorrow, to stay here all day. Do you mind? I'll feel better if I know someone's here all the time. There's oceans to drink and the fridge is just full of salmon and raspberries and things. Don't invite your friends in though, there's an angel. If Belfounder or anybody telephones just say in a stern masculine voice that I'm out indefinitely. There's an utter darling. Now I must absolutely run.' When'll you be back?' I asked, rather overwhelmed by these instructions. 'Oh, late tonight,' said Sadie. 'Don't wait up. Just choose yourself one of the spare rooms. The beds are all made.' Then she kissed me with considerable enthusiasm and went away. When the door had closed and there was silence in the large sunlit flat except for distant street noises, I stretched out my arms luxuriously and set out to survey the domain. Rugs from Kazakstan and Afghanistan and the Caucasus shifted softly underfoot on the parquet flooring. Rosewood and satinwood and mahogany curved and splayed and tapered in surfaces which glowered with care and quality. Tiny jade objects squatted on white mantel-shelves. Damask curtains stirred gently in the summer breeze. Sadie had come a long way since the days of the Quentin sisters. Here and there, under china animals or French paper-weights, were neat piles of letters or press cuttings or thousand-franc notes. I prowled quietly around, whistling to myself. Several Georgian cut-glass decanters, with enamel labels round their necks, stood on a low table; and in a cupboard I found a vast number of half-empty bottles of sherry, port, vermouth, pernod, gin, whisky and brandy. In the kitchen there was a good deal of hock and claret in one of the cupboards, and the larder was filled with various candies, small sausages, and crab and jellied chicken in tins. I found about twelve kinds of biscuits, but no sign of any bread. In the fridge was salmon, raspberries, and considerable quantities of butter, milk, and cheese. I went back to the sitting-room and poured myself out a long drink of Italian vermouth and soda water, to which I added some ice from the fridge. I took a cigarette from a little S�es casket that perched on gilded feet. Then I sank gently into a deep armchair and let my sense of time be stilled into a long regular undulation which seemed to pass through my body like a sigh. It was a hot day. The windows opened upon the distant intermittent murmur of London. My head was empty and my limbs were leaden with content. After a long time I reached out for some of my manuscripts and began to sort them. As I was looking at them all thought of Sadie and of the recent tumult was already far away. It diminished to a pinpoint and disappeared. I stretched out my legs, crumpling an exquisitely golden yellow and midnight blue striped Kazak rug into folds at my feet. If sleep could have come to me now it would have been one deep cascade of refreshment and peace. But I lay wakeful and soon ceased to turn over the typed and scribbled pages. I let them slide to the floor. It was some time later again, and my eye was wandering along a low white bookshelf on the other side of the room. On top of this at intervals were Worcester and Dresden figures. I surveyed these, and my glance came lazily back along the top row of books. Then suddenly I stiffened and leapt up as if I'd been stabbed, scattered foolscap and typing-paper to the right and left. I strode to the bookcase. There, right in the centre, was a copy of The Silencer. I hadn't seen one for years. It even had its paper cover on. I looked at it with repulsion and fascination. Then I pulled it out, telling myself how foolish I was to be so moved at seeing the paltry work again; and as I held it in my hand I began to feel suddenly no longer repulsed but affectionate and protective towards it, and curious. I sat down cross-legged on the floor beside the bookshelves and opened it. It's always a strange experience to read one's own writings again after an interval. They so rarely fail to impress. As I turned the pages of this curious journal I felt that the years which separated me from the moment of its creation had given it a strange independence. It was like meeting as an adult someone whom one knew long ago as a child. It wasn't that I liked the thing any better, but that now it somehow stood alone; and the idea crossed my mind that now at last it might be possible to make peace with it. I started to read at random. TAMARUS: But ideas are like money. There must be an accepted coin which circulates. Concepts which are used for communication are justified by success. ANNANDINE: That's near to saying that a story is true if enough people believe it. TAMARUS: Of course I don't mean that. If I use an analogy or invent a concept part of what must be tested when the success is tested is whether by this means I can draw attention to real things in the world. Any concept can be misused. Any sentence can state a falsehood. But words themselves don't tell lies. A concept may have limitations but these won't mislead if I expose them in my use of it. ANNANDINE: Yes, that's the grand style of lying. Put down your best half truth and call it a lie, but let it stand all the same. It will survive when your qualifications have been forgotten, even by yourself. TAMARUS: But life has to be lived, and to be lived it has to be understood. This process is called civilization. What you say goes against our very nature. We are rational animals in the sense of theory-making animals. ANNANDINE: When you've been most warmly involved in life, when you've most felt yourself to be a man, has a theory ever helped you? Is it not then that you meet with things themselves naked? Has a theory helped you when you were in doubt about what to do? Are not these very simple moments when theories are shilly-shallying? And don't you realize this very clearly at such moments? TAMARUS: My answer is twofold. Firstly that I may not reflect upon theories, but I may be expressing one all the same. Secondly that there are theories abroad in the world, political ones for instance, and so we have to deal with them in our thoughts, and that at moments of decision too. ANNANDINE: If by expressing a theory you mean that someone else could make a theory about what you do, of course that is true and uninteresting. What I speak of is the real decision as we experience it; and here the movement away from theory and generality is the movement towards truth. All theorizing is flight. We must be ruled by the situation itself and this is unutterably particular. Indeed it is something to which we can never get close enough, however hard we may try as it were to crawl under the net. TAMARUS: That may be. But what about my other point? ANNANDINE: It is true that theories may often be a part of a situation that one has to contend with. But then all sorts of obvious lies and fantasies may be a part of such a situation; and you would say that one must be good at detecting and shunning lies, and not that one must be good at lying. TAMARUS: So you would cut all speech, except the very simplest, out of human life altogether. To do this would be to take away our very means of understanding ourselves and making life endurable. ANNANDINE: Why should life be made endurable? I know that nothing consoles and nothing justifies except a story--but that doesn't stop all stories from being lies. Only the greatest men can speak and still be truthful. Any artist knows this obscurely; he knows that a theory is death, and that all expression is weighted with theory. Only the strongest can rise against that weight. For most of us, for almost all of us, truth can be attained, if at all, only in silence. It is in silence that the human spirit touches the divine. This was something which the ancients understood. Psyche was told that if she spoke about her pregnancy her child would be a mortal; if she kept silent it would be a god. I read this thoughtfully. I had quite forgotten that I had managed to put up even as good a show as that against Hugo. I now found Hugo's arguments very much less impressive, and there occurred to me instantly a variety of ways in which the position of Tamarus might be strengthened. When I had written the dialogue I had obviously been far too bemused by Hugo. I decided then and there that I would confiscate the book for my own use and read the whole of it with great care, and revise my views. The possibility even occurred to me of a sequel. But I shook my head over it at once. There remained the fact that Annandine was but a broken-down caricature of Hugo. Hugo would never even have used words such as 'theory' or 'generality'. I had not achieved more than the most shadowy expression of Hugo's point of view. While I was thinking these thoughts a little stream was running softly somewhere in my mind, a little stream of reminiscence. What was it? Something was asking to be remembered. I held the book gently in my hands, and followed without haste the course of my reverie, waiting for the memory to declare itself. I wondered idly why Sadie should possess a copy of the book. It was not the sort of thing which could conceivably interest her. I turned to the beginning and looked inside the cover. The name written there was not Sadie's but Anna's. I looked at it for a moment, still holding the book very gently, and the memory that I had been seeking took hold of my whole consciousness with the force of a hurricane. What the piece of dialogue had been trying to remind me of were the words which Anna had uttered at the Mime Theatre; the words which I had felt were not her own. They were not her own. They were Hugo's. They were an echo, a travesty, of Hugo, just as my own words were an echo and a travesty of him. When I had heard Anna speak it had not occurred to me to connect what she said with the real Hugo; and when I had thought about Hugo I had not been reminded of Anna. It was my own wretched copy of Hugo's attitude which suddenly made clear to me the source from which Anna too must have derived the principles which she spoke of, and of which the theatre itself was an expression. It did not occur to me to imagine that Anna could have got her ideas from my book. The book was not a strong enough or a pure enough instrument to impress so simple and unspeculative a mind as Anna's. There was no doubt about it. Anna's ideas were simply an expression of Hugo in a debased medium, just as my own ideas were such an expression in yet another medium; and the two expressions, in a curious way, had striking points of resemblance to each other rather than to the original. My head was spinning. I replaced the book and leaned back against the shelves. I had a sense of everything falling into place to make a pattern which I had not yet had the time to survey. So Hugo was acquainted with Anna. There was no reason in nature why he should not be, since he knew Sadie. But the thought of Hugo knowing Anna was new to me and profoundly disturbing. I had always taken care to insulate very carefully that part of my life which concerned Hugo. I had first met Anna before I had parted from Hugo, though it was after this that I had come to know her well. I had spoken to her of Belfounder, rather vaguely, as someone whom I had used to know a little, before he became so grand. I probably gave her the impression that Hugo had dropped me. As for the book, I had never shown her a copy, or mentioned it to her except as a piece of juvenilia and something of no interest at all. I always referred to it as if it had been published many years before and already buried and forgotten. A cloud of questions buzzed about me. When had Anna obtained the book? How much did she know of my treacherous behaviour to Hugo? What was the significance of the Mime Theatre? What were the relations between Hugo and Anna? What things might they not have said to each other about myself? I covered my mouth at the enormity of the possibilities which now began to unfold. Suddenly Sadie's behaviour began to make sense too--and in an instant it was clear to me that it was not Sadie that Hugo was in love with but Anna. Hugo was become yet another of those to whom Anna gave that modicum of tolerant and mildly affectionate attention which was needed to keep them in a state of frenzy. Anna, of course, was very much more the sort of girl whom Hugo would be likely to love. This was the situation which was driving Sadie furious with jealousy and perhaps inspiring the very hostilities which Hugo was now engaged in countering, and I apparently employed in some obscure way to further. Or it might be that Hugo was interested in Welbeck Street simply because he thought to find Anna there. There were a hundred possibilities. This also explained the Mime Theatre. This doubtless was some fantasy of Hugo's which he had recruited Anna, against her will maybe, to realize. That she had picked up in the process a crude version of his ideas was not surprising. Anna was sensitive and Hugo was impressive. Perhaps indeed the theatre was designed to catch Anna's interest and attention, and to be ultimately the gilded cage which would imprison her. I was reminded of the silent expressionism of Hugo's early films. The speechless purity of the mime might well have become a genuine obesssion for I Lugo. But the beautiful theatre itself, this was a house for Anna, a house which Hugo had built and in which Anna would be queen. An uneasy queen; I recalled her restlessness, her nervousness, when I had seen her at the theatre. She was clearly not at peace in the role which Hugo had created for her. Then I had another revelation. There came back to me with immense vividness the burly masked figure whom I had seen upon the stage in the tiny theatre, the figure that had at once seemed to me strangely familiar; and it was clear to me then, without a shadow of doubt, that that figure had been Hugo himself. At that very moment the telephone rang. My heart sprang within me and fell like a bird striking a window pane. I started to my feet. I had not the slightest doubt but that the caller was Hugo. I looked at the phone as if it had been a rattlesnake. I lifted the receiver and said 'Hello!' in an assumed voice, hoarse and trembling. At the other end of the wire Hugo said hesitantly, 'I'm so sorry. I wonder if I could possibly speak to Miss Quentin, if she's there?' I stood there paralysed, without an idea of what to say to him. Then I said, 'Listen, Hugo, it's Jake Donaghue here. I want to see you as soon as possible about something very important.' There was dead silence. Then I said, 'Could you come here to Sadie's? I'm alone here. Or shall I come where you are?' In the middle of this sentence Hugo replaced the receiver. Then I was in a complete frenzy. I shouted into the phone and hurled it down. I tore my hair and cursed at the top of my voice. I stamped up and down the room scattering the rugs to right and left. It took me a good ten minutes to calm down and start wondering what it was exactly that I was so upset about. I felt that now I must see Hugo at once, instantly, at any cost, within the hour if possible. Until I had seen Hugo the world would stand still. I was not in the least clear about what I wanted to see Hugo for. It was just essential, that was all, and I would be in anguish until it was done. I seized the phone book. I knew that Hugo had moved from his former house, and I had taken care not to know anything of his present abode. I turned the pages with trembling fingers. Yes, he was in the book; a Holborn address and a City number. With a stampeding heart I dialled the number. There was no reply. Then I sat quietly wondering what to do next. I decided that I should go first of all straight to the address given in the phone book, in case he should nevertheless be there, and that I should then seek him if need be at the Bounty Belfounder studio. If Hugo had been looking for Sadie it was unlikely that he was at the studio, since that was where Sadie herself was. On the other hand, the Miss Quentin he had asked for might have been Anna. So there was really no knowing whether or not he mightn't be at the studio. In any case the first thing to do was to go to Holborn to see if he was hiding there and just not answering the phone. Of course he would have been sure to guess, if he had telephoned from his home, that I would ring him back there immediately. Then I began to imagine with what feelings of disgust and dislike he must have put down the receiver after I had announced my identity. He could not even bring himself to speak to me for a moment. I put these thoughts away, they were too painful, and I began to set the rugs straight and tidy up my things. It occurred to me then that Sadie had especially asked me to stay in the flat all day. I countered this, however, with the reflection that after all I was going out to hunt for Hugo, and it was against an incursion from Hugo that I was supposed to be defending the place. So that what I was doing could just count as aggressive rather than defensive tactics having the same end in view, viz. the deflection of Hugo from Welbeck Street. If I could find Hugo and occupy him with myself I would be simply fulfilling Sadie's wishes in another way. With that I strode to the door. I took a farewell look around the flat, and then turned the handle. Nothing happened. I turned the handle again. The door was stuck fast. The Yale lock turned all right, but there was a lock of another design, with no key in it, lower down the door--and this evidently was locked. I examined the bolts, but they were all drawn back. I shook the door and pulled at it with all my strength. It was quite certain that it was locked and the key was gone. I was locked in. When this was clear beyond a shadow of doubt I made my way to the kitchen and tried the kitchen door, which gave on to a fire escape. This was locked too. I then examined the windows. The only one that offered me any hope was the kitchen window, which was separated from the door by a few feet. A daring fellow could have leapt from there on to the fire escape. I judged the distance, looked at the drop, and decided that I was not a daring fellow. I had no head for heights. That consideration bore equally against the drainpipe in the front of the house. I began to search the flat, looking in drawers and boxes to see if I could find a key; but I did this without much hope of success. I was of course perfectly certain that Sadie had done this on purpose. She wanted me, for reasons of her own, to hold the fort all day, and her method of making sure that I did so was to keep me a prisoner. The fact that she had been right in anticipating that I should want to desert my post didn't make me any the less incensed against her. It was indeed equally clear that with this incident my relations with Sadie must terminate. When I had given up the search for the key my final bid was to try to pick the lock of the kitchen door. It was a simple lock. I am in general not too bad at picking locks, a skill which was taught to me by Finn, who is very good at it. But I could make nothing of this one, largely because I couldn't find a suitable tool. The best thing to pick a lock with is a firm piece of wire or a stout hairpin. I could find neither of these in the flat, so I soon gave up altogether. Now that it was inescapably plain to me that I was a prisoner, and that there was nothing to be done but to wait for Sadie to come back, I felt perfectly calm and quiet though perhaps morose might have described it better. I packed up all my belongings in readiness for a quick move. I was resolved to be short with Sadie. Also I was still determined to set off at the very moment of my liberation to look for Hugo. I rang Hugo's number again but got no reply. I thought of telephoning elsewhere for assistance, but on reflection I decided that there was no one to whom I felt inclined to speak frankly of my predicament. I poured myself out a half tumbler of gin, and sat down and laughed very considerably. After that I began to feel hungry. It was after two o'clock. I went into the kitchen and made myself a long luxurious meal, consisting of pate de foie gras, salmon, jellied chicken and tinned asparagus, raspberries, Roquefort, and orange juice. I decided that, in spite of the enormity of Sadie's crime, I would not drink her wine. I found some brandy in one of the cupboards and sat a long time over that, regretting only that Sadie didn't smoke cigars. When thoughts of Hugo and Anna had begun to disturb me excessively I washed up all the plates. After that I began to feel moody, and went to one of the front windows which gave on to Welbeck Street and leaned out, watching the traffic and the people passing by. I had been leaning there some little while, and I was singing a French song to myself and wondering gloomily what on earth I'd say to Sadie when she came back, when I saw two familiar figures coming down the other side of the street. It was Finn and Dave. When they saw me they began to make signals in a conspiratorial fashion. 'It's all right,' I called out, 'I'm alone.' They came across, and Dave said 'Good! We were afraid the Queen of Sheba might be there!' They both looked up at me grinning. I was extremely glad to see them. 'So!' said Dave, who was pleased with himself, 'are you enjoying to be a bodyguard? Have you guarded well?' Finn smiled up at me with his usual amiability, but I could see that on this occasion his sympathies were with Dave. They both seemed to find the situation vastly funny. I wondered what they'd think in a moment. 'I've had a quiet day,' I said with dignity. 'I've done some work.' 'Shall we ask him what his work was?' said Dave to Finn. I could see I was in for a bad half-hour. 'Well, if you've done your day's work,' said Dave, 'why not come out and have a drink. It is nearly time that they are open. Unless you'd rather invite us in. Or are you not allowed to have followers?' 'I can't come out,' I said calmly, 'and I can't ask you in either.' 'Why not?' asked Dave. 'Because I'm locked in,' I said. Finn and Dave looked at each other, and then they collapsed helplessly. Dave sat down on the kerb choking with laughter and Finn leaned weakly against the lamp-post. They rocked. I waited coolly for the paroxysm to be over, humming softly to myself. Dave at last lifted his head and after several attempts managed to say to Finn, 'But that settles it!' and they were both off again. 'Look here,' I said, impatiently, 'stop laughing and get on with getting me out of here.' 'He wants to get out!' cried Dave. 'But haven't you tried? What about that drainpipe? It looks perfectly easy, doesn't it, Finn?' And they doubled up again. 'I've tried everything,' I said. 'Now shut up and do what I say. I suggest Finn picks the lock of the kitchen door. You can get up by a fire escape at the back. I'd have done it myself only Sadie doesn't use hairpins.' 'We don't use hairpins either,' said Dave, 'but if you like we'll carry a petition to Sadie.' 'Finn,' I said, will you help me out of this place?' 'I will surely,' said Finn, but I've nothing with me.' 'Well, go and find something!' I shouted. By now our somewhat bizarre conversation had attracted a good deal of attention in the street and I didn't want to prolong it. Eventually it was agreed that Finn should walk round the neighbouring streets until he found a hairpin, and then come back to deal with the door. Even in these days one doesn't have to walk far in the streets of London before coming on a hairpin, if one happens to be looking for one. My only fear was that Finn would forget what he was supposed to be doing and go into a pub. I know myself that nothing is so hypnotic as walking along with one's eyes on the pavement. When this had been settled I closed the window firmly. I felt that further conversation with Dave would be unprofitable at that moment. In a few minutes, however, I could hear him banging on the kitchen door, and I had to go and converse with him out of the kitchen window simply to keep him quiet. He then kept up for some quarter of an hour a stream of irritating badinage, full of more or less fantastic suggestions to the effect that if I'd had an ounce of spirit I might have escaped by crawling along ledges, climbing on to the roof, tying the sheets together, and other things of a similar kind, to which I answered somewhat curtly. At last I heard Finn coming bounding up the fire escape. He had found a beautiful hairpin, and it didn't take him more than half a minute to deal with the lock. Dave and I watched him with admiration. When the door was open Dave and Finn wanted to come in and look round, but I hustled them quickly down the steps. I was not sorry to be spared the interview with Sadie, and had no wish to have her arriving back on us just at this stage. Before I left I stuffed my pockets with biscuits. I asked myself if I belonged to a social class that would pinch two tins of pate de foie Bras from a woman guilty of making an illegal detention, and decided that I did. I took a last sad look at the Afghans and Kazaks, and seized my belongings and went. When we were in the street I hailed a taxi at once. Finn and Dave were both in the highest spirits, and had clearly no intention of being parted from me. I think they felt that if they hung on to me they'd be in for an entertaining evening, of which they were loath to be cheated. I on my side wasn't yet entirely certain what I was going to do, and felt my usual need of moral support, so I let them pile into the taxi after me. We went first to Mrs Tinckham's shop, where I left my suitcase and the manuscripts. 'Now, where do we go?' asked Dave, his round face shining with glee, like a small boy before a picnic. 'We're going to look for Belfounder,' I said. 'You mean the film fellow,' said Finn. 'The fellow you used to know a long time ago?' 'Him,' I said, and refused to be pumped further, so that Dave had to entertain Finn for the rest of the journey with a wealth of more or less insulting conjecture. I didn't listen to them. I was beginning to feel very nervous now that the prospect of an interview with Hugo was looming over me like an iceberg. I had really very little idea about what I wanted to say to Hugo. It wasn't exactly that I needed to see him to find out about his feelings for Anna. I felt as confident that I had diagnosed these correctly as I was that the simpleton on the stage at the Mime Theatre had been Hugo, and that it had been Hugo who had driven Anna away afterwards in the big black Alvis. I wanted of course much more to discover Hugo's state of mind towards myself. Not that I was in any real doubt about this either; it was certain that Hugo must regard me with a most comprehensible dislike and contempt. But this condition I might by my own efforts alter. Yet it was not even for this that I wanted to see Hugo. During the afternoon it had crossed my mind that Hugo might have a great deal more to teach me; the more so, as my own perspective had altered since the days of our earlier talks. I had seen this in a flash when I had re-read, after so long, a piece of the dialogue. My appetite for Hugo's conversation was not blunted. There might be more speech between us yet. Was it this then that made me seek him with such a feverish urgency? It seemed to me that after all I just wanted to see him because I wanted to see him. The bullfighter in the ring cannot explain why it is that he wants to touch the bull. Hugo was my destiny.