by Iris Murdoch
‘It’s a little park in north London, it’s changed a bit since the summer, Lucas was quite interested, I drove him up there, some building was going on, but not in our area, all the trees were still there. They are Wellingtonias. I didn’t notice the first time.’
‘What – ?’
‘Here’s your map, it shows where it is, where to go in, where the building is going on, it’s quite open now, and where exactly we are to meet. Of course Mir should know the way, but it’s possible that he’s forgotten. And also of course the time, we don’t want to dally, we’ve got to get it over quickly and in order, like I said. Look at the map, look at it, you fool, it’s all perfectly clear – ’
‘Yes, yes, I will look at it, I’ll show Peter – oh how terrible it is – ’
‘All right then. Now you’d better go home. I’ll drive you.’
‘Couldn’t I stay the night with you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh how I wish it was over and all of us safe and well.’
‘Here’s your coat.’
‘Clement, by the way, could you just look at this?’ Bellamy had copied out the lines of Dante from Father Damien’s letter.
‘It’s Dante, the Purgatorio, Virgil saying goodbye to Dante.’
‘Yes, I know that, but what does it mean.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No, I don’t understand Italian, not everybody does!’
Clement translated. ‘Do not expect any word or any sign from me. Your will is free, upright and sound, it would be wrong not to be ruled by its good sense. And so, master of yourself, I crown you and I mitre you.’
When Bellamy had gone Clement sat down again on his leather settee in front of his electric fire, stretching out his slippered feet upon the kazakh rug. He thought about Friday and wondered how four rational beings could have invented anything which was so insane. How had this weird idea been conceived, how had it grown until it seemed inevitable? Peter had suggested it to Bellamy because he thought it might recover a piece of his memory. This was rather daft, but plausible. It could be seen as an act of kindness on the part of the others to assist in this act of shock therapy. Bellamy had adopted it for this reason and also because he had been encouraged by Peter to think of it as some further possible illumination, some change of mind or soul, perhaps, in Bellamy’s enlarged view of it, a miracle of peace and reconciliation, even the intervention of angelic powers. Of course they should more often have kept in mind that Peter was, or had been, a psychoanalyst. Was he a follower of Jung, why had they never thought to ask him that? Why had they not been more deeply interested in him, asked him more searching questions? Perhaps because he had entered their lives as an accuser before whom they were to be judged guilty – and indeed did they not all of them feel guilty? All that is except Lucas. But did not Lucas, surely, feel guilty? Clement did not like to think about the possible phenomenon of Lucas’s guilt-feelings. Then what about Lucas’s motives? The baseball bat, which was also to be present, might be treated as just another aide-mémoire, the fact that Clement was to carry it a reassurance for the enemy. Could there be a dramatic moment when Clement handed it to Peter? Had Clement not told Bellamy that the encounter would and must be theatre? Clement had thought wildly of somehow disposing of the weapon on the way to the meeting, but decided it was too risky thus to toss away so potent an object which might constitute a piece of evidence. In any case he could not risk Lucas’s anger at the loss of his ‘toy’ which he was to entrust to Clement. How perfectly mad it all was! What was Peter really up to, why had he not so far played his strongest card, his return to the law court, was he not after restitution, justice, was he simply amusing himself by torturing Lucas before handing him over to the law? Another factor in the complex field of force was that of the ‘Clifton ladies’. Was Peter perhaps looking precisely in that direction for – what – his ransom, his reward, his consolation prize – his hostage? He had sold them such a touching picture of himself, a man without family, without home, diffident and lonely. And also rich. I suppose he is rich, thought Clement. We’ve all swallowed that too! Here Clement’s memory, in which there were no gaps, conjured up the image of Peter dancing with Aleph at the party. Then he thought of Louise and the electric hostility which had existed between them at their last meeting, and the feeling of his hair rising came again, it was as if they were divided by some magic shield, motionless and tongue-tied. What a horrible metaphor, he thought, as if one’s tongue were tied up by wire. He could feel his tongue writhing in his mouth at the idea. He thought, I’m losing my grip, I’m losing them, it’s all Luc’s fault, he has devastated us and defiled our innocence. He has hypnotised us. Why am I so docile, why am I taking part in this charade, acting as his second, defending his indefensible position, and opposing the righteous stance of a wronged man who has saved my life? Is it because I feel guilt for what Lucas called my cruelty to him when we were children? Perhaps I was cruel. Or is it really because I admired him and revered him when I was a child, I looked up to him, I thought him remarkable and amazing, he is remarkable and amazing. I think I loved him, I think I still love him. And now I am leading him into a trap where he will let anything happen, he will let Peter kill him, he doesn’t care, he does not value his life at anything. Or perhaps I shall be the victim; after all, as Lucas said, it was all my fault.
It was Thursday morning. Standing in the road near Lucas’s house Sefton looked again at her watch, which was taking an incredibly long time to drag its hands on from nine-forty to ten o’clock. Now when at last there was only one more minute she approached the house, and after standing at attention at the door for a suitable number of seconds, rang the bell. There was a brief silence. Then Lucas opened the door, smiled, said ‘Ah, good morning Sefton,’ then turned, leaving her to close the door and preceding her to the drawing-room. With long strides she followed him. In their other previous meetings Lucas had sat behind his desk and Sefton had sat upon a chair, always put in waiting for her in the middle of the room fairly close to the desk and facing it. Now, reassuringly, the chair was in place, but stationed a little farther away from the desk. Sefton had usually stood until Lucas sat down. Now however, still standing, he motioned her to sit. As usual, she took off her coat and put it on the floor. The room was as usual rather dark since Lucas kept the curtains partly drawn. The green-shaded lamp was alight on his desk. Sefton sat with her hands folded. Her heart was beating painfully.
Sefton, who habitually concealed her emotions, had never revealed to anyone the extreme nature of her devotion to Lucas. Concerning how far he was aware of it or how he might feel about it she did not reflect, it was not her business. During the time, now more than a year, since Sefton had left school, and up to the day upon which Lucas and Peter Mir had had their fatal encounter, Sefton had regularly, and more frequently than she divulged at Clifton, had tutorials with Lucas. The arrangement, which was his suggestion, could of course at any moment terminate, and after ‘that day’ and Lucas’s subsequent disappearance, Sefton had come to assume that it had ended. She had not expected, or allowed herself to hope for, the present summons. Of course she was afraid of him, and this was generally assumed. In fact the Cliftonians and others predicted that Sefton would simply not be able to stand it! Lucas could certainly be savage and ruthless, not hesitating to wound. But Sefton, with her soldierly courage and her passionate intelligence, had instantly perceived the pearl of great price which was now within her reach. Lucas was not only a good and exacting teacher, he was a great scholar. She had been told, as a child, that Lucas was awfully learned and clever, but this had meant little. Now, coming to him from the agreeable domain of her thoroughly worthy schoolteachers of history and of the classical languages, she felt like an ambling walker confronted by a cliff. The standards which she perceived, though still hazy to her, were terrible ones. She grew pale. But at the same time a new spirit awoke in her, a completely new understanding of what scholarship and learning meant. This spirit was not ambiti
on, it was love. It was a stricter clearer more invigorating sense of truth which was love. Her love for Lucas, for of course she loved him dearly, was something close, ancillary, but separate. It was a profound reverential passion. If permitted she would have bowed to touch his feet.
Lucas did not sit down but began to walk to and fro between his desk and the mantelpiece. Sefton’s chair had evidently been placed unusually far back in order to keep this pathway clear. Lucas was wearing a white shirt, undone at the neck, and a shabby black-velvet jacket. He walked slowly to and fro in silence, his hands behind his back, his dark Chinese eyes narrowed, his lips indrawn to a line. His dark damp hair hung down neatly over his ears. He did not look at Sefton. She watched him, breathing deeply.
At last he stopped pacing and sat down upon his desk facing her and said, ‘Do not speak please during what I have to say to you.’ After a pause he went on, ‘A historian, though he may as a teacher specialise, must be a polymath. This cannot be said too often and I have said it to you often enough. He must not only know the whole of history in so far as this is possible in our miserable lifespan, he must be widely acquainted with the structures of human life. To take one instance, if he wishes to discuss slavery he must have a knowledge of economics. Knowledge of languages is of course essential. Fortunately you are a ready learner, you have Greek and Latin and French, you have taught yourself Italian and Spanish, and you have fair German. Your knowledge of German will in due course need to be perfected, it will prove your most important asset after the classical languages. You should also learn Russian, I think you know a little, it is not a difficult language and will reward you with the great pleasure of reading Pushkin. When you were a child you thought of history as stories about heroes. This is a natural starting-point. The cult of the hero is a persistent phenomenon, men will love a monster if he has bella figura – and of course there are also good heroes, as we have seen even lately in our own time. We have discussed this. We have even discussed why we both hate Napoleon! Of course you are now aware of the vastly more complex nature of historical studies. Yet meticulous tracings of facts need not exclude the warmth of passions, provided these are controlled by truthful vision. The Lord whose shrine is at Delphi does not say yea or nay but gives a sign. Meditation upon such signs may prove a richer guide than an acceptance of simpler safer conclusions in terms perhaps of general tendencies, the error of Marx. Human behaviour, the property of individuals is often irrational and mysterious. You are still, as you know, only a struggling beginner, an apprentice, a historian in ovo, scarcely even that. History is not a science, nor is it an art, though the historian must, as writer, be an artist too, he should write well, lucidly and eloquently, and is not harmed by a lively imagination. What is history? A truthful account of what happened in the past. As this necessarily involves evaluation, the historian is also a moralist. The term ‘liberal’, mocked at by some, must be retained. Historians are fallible beings who must make up their own minds, constantly aware of the particularised demands of truth. What is seen as odd must be allowed to retain its oddity, upon which later on a clearer light may or may not shine. There are many dangers. History must be saved from dictators, from authoritarian politics, from psychology, from anthropology, from science, above all from the pseudo-philosophy of historicism. The study of history is menaced by fragmentation, a distribution of historical thinking among other disciplines, as we see happening in the case of philosophy. Such fragmentation opens a space for false prophets, old and new. Not only the shades of Hegel and Marx and Heidegger, but also those, you know whom I mean, who would degrade history into what they call fabulation. Of course it is a truism, of which much has been made, that we cannot see the past. But we can work hard and faithfully to portray it, to understand and explain it. We need this if we are to possess wisdom and freedom. What brings down dictators, what has liberated eastern Europe? Most of all a passionate hunger for truth, for the truth about their past, and for the justice which truth begets. You stand upon the brink of another century. Upon you and others like you will fall the burden of preserving the purity of scholarship and of the high standards of independent thinking. You must adhere to these old values, continually purifying them and holding them sacred. Above all beware of a relaxed determinism which haunts our increasingly scientific and technological civilisation. You are on your own, thinking your own thoughts, be calm, be patient, endure an infinite slowness, time spent in checking a fact or a reference is not time wasted but an essential part of the sheer blank labour involved in scholarship. Historians too have their dark nights. Love and seek perfection. Remember that this is a lifelong dedication, you are entering upon it as into a religious house, something to which you must give your whole life, you must grow into being a scholar. You must be an ascetic, shun sins, avoid remorse and guilt, these must not consume your time and energy. Do not envy the talents of others or their fame, do not indulge jealous feelings when another is preferred. Travel light, simplify your life. Beware of being involved in the problems of other people, altruism is too often simply a busy exercise of power. Another piece of advice. Do not marry. Marriage ends truthfulness in a life. I think you are in any case inclined toward solitude. Solitude is essential if real thinking is to take place.’
Lucas paused here. He had been looking as he talked, not quite at Sefton, but beyond her, to the dim far end of the room. He now looked at her for a moment – then stood up, walked round his desk, and sat down in his usual chair. Sefton, at a point about half way through Lucas’s speech, had begun to weep. Her tears, which she did not attempt to wipe away, flowed quietly down to her chin and dripped onto her corduroy jacket. She had sat motionless, gazing at Lucas, and as if not breathing. Now she drew a deep breath and moved, bowing her head and closing her eyes.
Lucas shuffled some papers on his desk and said, ‘Please go now.’
Sefton, who had now found a handkerchief, rose and stood facing him. She did not move towards him. Then she stooped to pick up her coat.
Lucas then said, in a soft gentle voice, ‘I shall soon be going away for some time. Goodbye, dear Sefton.’
She could not see his face. She made a gesture, touching her breast with a closed hand, then opening the hand and stretching it towards him. She turned, carrying her coat, and went to the door and out into the hall. As she was opening the door she heard a step behind her.
Lucas, now in a bright humorous tone, said, ‘Wait a minute, could you take this to Harvey? He left it behind.’
He put into her hand Harvey’s stick with the ivory bird’s head. Sefton took the stick. She was outside the door and the door had closed.
Once outside the house Sefton soon ceased her weeping, but not in order to hide her tears. She recalled how, when reduced to tears by Lucas in a tutorial, he had reminded her of how Odysseus in the house of Alcinous had becomingly hidden his tears. Sefton concluded afterwards that the reminder was not really designed to induce her not to cry, or if she must cry to conceal it, but was just a half-jest aimed to restore her to her ordinary cheerful docile state of mind. In fact Lucas had, especially after he had roughly chided her, made many jesting reproaches of this sort, the memory of which she cherished. But now her tears dried because so many terrible emotions and speculations demanded her attention. She gasped, however, tearlessly, and catching her breath sobbed and groaned. (Also like Odysseus on that occasion, she thought as she walked along.) The predominant emotion was fear. She had so many times, when Lucas had disappeared after the court case, listened to the conjecture that he had killed himself. Moreover, and of course, she loved him; but in Sefton’s stern code her love had always been chained up, and howled fruitlessly, as indeed it did now. Among her sombre and terrible thoughts a contemptible pang of jealousy kept distracting her. So Harvey had left his stick behind. So Harvey too was admitted to Lucas’s counsels, and probably far more intimately. She walked all the way back to Clifton.
As she approached the house she saw a taxi waiting outside. The door of th
e house opened and Harvey emerged. Sefton hurried forward waving the stick. She came up to him and handed it to him, saying, ‘You left this behind. Lucas told me to give it to you.’ Harvey took the stick. He said nothing, but shocked Sefton by a look of extreme distress, almost, she thought afterwards, of hatred. He got into the taxi which drove off. Thinking about it afterwards Sefton reproached herself, remembering what Lucas had said about jealousy. And she thought, I am jealous because Harvey sees Lucas – and Harvey is jealous because I do!
‘We are too early, are we not?’ said Lucas.
‘Yes. We’d better wait in the car.’
Clement had parked the car down a side road.
‘Yes, indeed. I believe it has stopped raining now. I have brought my umbrella.’
‘Are you all right, I mean how are you?’
‘What a quaint question. I am looking forward intensely to the performance. It is charmingly unpredictable.’
‘You’re not intending to – you will keep quiet, won’t you – I mean you don’t have to do anything.’
‘I have nothing in mind to do. Would you like to search me to find out if I am armed?’
‘No. We want to get this business over quickly.’
‘How long do you think it will take?’
‘I hope about four minutes.’
‘Oh, I hope longer than that. You haven’t forgotten the bat?’
‘It’s in the inside pocket of my overcoat. But what’s it for? Is it for me to defend you with?’
‘You must make it visible. It may jog Dr Mir’s memory. After all, the purpose of this gathering is to make him remember something or other. It has no other purpose so far as I know.’
‘I hope it has no other purpose.’
‘You think he may be violent?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’