A Severed Head

by Iris Murdoch

‘I always carry one,’ I said. I unfolded it and opened the bottle.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re offending all your canons!’ said Palmer. ‘Do you mind drinking it cold? Do pour out three glasses and then put the bottle by the fire.’

  I set the glasses upon a little table of pink marble beside the door and poured them out. I set the bottle down carefully beside the electric fire which was set low down in the wall. The muted yellow pattern in the satin wallpaper flickered in my eyes. I returned to the glasses.

  Antonia got on to the bed and knelt her way across on to the other side, supporting herself on Palmer’s shoulder. She sat there, curling her softly slippered feet under her, well enveloped in the glowing red gown. Her hair, which had been contained in the lifted collar, spread now a little on to her shoulders in flat heavy coils of faded gold. Without make-up she looked older, paler, but her face was tender, alive, maternal, as she kept her tawny eyes upon me, her big working mouth half smiling, posed and attentive. Palmer opposite to her was calm, relaxed, formidably clean, looking in his embroidered robe, with his small neat head, like some casual yet powerful emperor upon a Byzantine mosaic. One long leg, slim and very white, scattered with long black hairs, crossed over the other, was revealed by a slit in the silk. His feet were bare.

  I said, ‘Ares and Aphrodite.’

  ‘But you are not Hephaistos, are you, Martin?’ said Palmer.

  I advanced and gave them the wine, first to Palmer and then to Antonia. I said, ‘I can hardly get higher than this.’

  ‘You are very high indeed,’ said Palmer, ‘and we love you for it. This constitutes an apex.’

  ‘That suggests a descent on the other side,’ I said.

  ‘Let us call it a plateau,’ said Antonia. ‘People live on plateaus.’

  ‘Only people with a good head for heights,’ I said. I raised my glass to them and drank the wine. It was cold and tasted bitter. I was troubled by Palmer’s naked body under the silk robe.

  ‘Antonia told me of your talk,’ said Palmer. ‘I felt quite jealous at being left out, but I simply had to see patients this morning. I think you are being very wise. A complete holiday, a complete rest, that is what you need. Have you decided where you are going?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’m going away after all.’

  Palmer and Antonia exchanged glances. Antonia said in her softest voice, ‘Darling, I do think you should go. Believe me, believe us, it is what is best for you.’

  ‘Isn’t it odd,’ I said. ‘Here I am bringing you wine in bed. Instead of which I ought to be killing both of you.’

  ‘Martin darling, you’re drunk,’ said Antonia. ‘Shall I order you a taxi to go home in?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I said, ‘I have the car.’ I moved toward the claret bottle to give myself some more. Somehow or other my foot came into contact with it and it tilted soundlessly over. A big red stain spread on the white absorbent carpet. I said, ‘Damnation!’

  ‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ said Antonia. ‘It’ll come out!’ She jumped up and went through a white communicating door into the bathroom. In a moment she was squatting at my feet deluging the carpet with water from a bowl. The stain faded to pale pink.

  ‘And if it doesn’t come out,’ said Palmer, ‘we’ll put a rug over it. I forbid you to worry about it, Martin. But, my dear fellow, can you get yourself home all right? Shall I drive you?” He sat there smiling and swinging his naked leg.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I’m perfectly capable. I’m terribly sorry about the carpet. I’d better go. I’ve left the crate in the hall. Will it be all right there?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind putting it in the cellar,” said Palmer. ‘Don’t think of unpacking it, just leave it there. Our maid comes at some unearthly hour, and what with paper boys and milkmen and other mysterious persons who come and go when Antonia and I are asleep, it would be better to have it out of the way. It’s very kind of you indeed.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. I looked down at Antonia who was still mopping the carpet.

  She rose quickly and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You’re not to worry. Is he, Anderson? Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ I said with an embarrassed laugh. I began to back towards the door.

  Antonia sat down again on the bed and they both watched me go. The light from the candlesticks shone upon her golden head and his soft silver one. They watched me, smiling, she infinitely soft and tender, he candid, confident, brilliant. Across the white bed their shoulders leaned together, and they glowed at me out of a centre of white and golden light. I closed the door on them as one closes the door of some rich reliquary or glorious triptych. The light was left within.

  Sixteen

  I stumbled cursing down the cellar steps. The crate was infernally heavy. I got it to the bottom and kicked it. The bottles rattled reproachfully. An electric light, unshaded but dim, showed the bleak musty cavern that was Palmer’s cellar. The place seemed darker than usual and a sulphurous odour of fog mingled with the smells of rotting wood and cold damp stone. I sat down on a broken kitchen chair. I had hurt my foot kicking the crate.

  I found that I had thrust my glass into my pocket, and it occurred to me that I might as well drink some more wine. Reaching out from a sitting position I got hold of the neck of a bottle and hauled it from the crate. I took a little time unfolding my corkscrew again and getting the bottle open. I poured out some wine, slopping it over my trousers and on to the floor. I drank it quickly and poured out some more.

  It was cold in the cellar and the smell which I had identified as fog seemed to be getting stronger. I shivered and turned up the collar of my overcoat. I found myself wondering what the inside of a gas chamber could be like. The wine was cold too, harsh and unlike itself, a strange unfamiliar potion. It left an ill taste on my tongue. My head was spinning a little and I had an uneasy sensation in the stomach which was either fear or indigestion.

  There was a sudden noise very near by. I jumped up hastily and retreated a few steps across the uneven cellar floor. My heart struck against my side like a gong. A figure had appeared on the cellar steps. For a moment in the obscurity I could not see who it was. Then I recognized it was Honor Klein. We stared at each other. My heart knocked still, and for a moment I had the strange experience of seeming to stand outside and see myself, a tall stooping figure, my coat collar turned up, my hair wild, my eyes staring, and the wine half spilt. I found it difficult to speak.

  Honor Klein came down another two steps. She said, ‘Oh, it’s you. I saw the light on and I thought it might be my brother.’ She stood there, hands deep in the pockets of her tweed coat, looking down at me broodingly, her eyes narrow, the line of her mouth equally hard and straight.

  I said, ‘Your brother is in bed with my wife.’ I added, ‘I just took them up some wine in bed.’

  Honor Klein went on brooding at me. Then her face relaxed slightly and her eyes opened a little with an ironical light. She said, ‘You are heroic, Mr Lynch-Gibbon. The knight of infinite humiliation. One does not know whether to kiss your feet or to recommend that you have a good analysis.’ She said it as one might say ‘a good thrashing’.

  I said, ‘You kindly introduced my mistress to my brother. That was charming of you.’

  ‘She asked me to,’ said Honor Klein after a pause.

  ‘And why did you do so with such alacrity? I cannot credit you with a kind heart.’

  The mockery had left her face and as she stared at me through the gloom the grimness of her expression seemed more and more weighted with melancholy. Her face was heavy and surly, like a face in a Spanish religious painting, something looking out of darkness, barbarous yet highly conscious. She said, ‘Oh it doesn’t matter. I did it on the spur of the moment. I thought it was time for her to see a new face.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you have any idea what a destructive person you are? I should be grateful if you would keep your hands off my busin
ess in future.’

  ‘We are not likely to meet in the future,’ said Honor Klein. ‘I am going back to Cambridge almost at once.’

  ‘You speak as if it were the North Pole,’ I said. ‘I wish it were! And I’m not the only one who’ll heave a sigh of relief.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Palmer and Antonia aren’t exactly delighted to have you hovering over them like a carrion crow.’

  Honor Klein looked at me and her face twisted for a moment. Then she said, ‘You are drunk, Mr Lynch-Gibbon, foully drunk, and even when you are sober you are stupid. Good night.’ She turned to go.

  I said, ‘Wait a minute.’

  What happened next may seem a little improbable, but the reader must just believe me that it did occur. She paused and turned round again to face me. I set my foot on the lowest step and seized her arm roughly. Then I pulled her down towards me. She came stumbling, and for a moment we stood together at the foot of the steps, me breathing hard and crushing her arm in my grip, she tense and glaring at me. I had in retrospect the illusion that her entire face, then and during the moments that followed, had become black.

  She pulled away from me with a sudden violence, trying to free her arm. It was odd that she did not seem particularly surprised. As she pulled I changed my grip and began to turn her about, twisting her arm behind her back. At this she kicked me very hard indeed in the shins. I pushed her wrist upward towards her shoulder blade and captured her other hand. I could hear her gasp with pain. I was behind her now and her weight came backward against me as I increased my pressure. She kicked me again, very painfully.

  I relaxed my grip and curled one leg round hers, at the same time pushing her violently forward. She fell on her knees, and I half fell on top of her, losing hold of her arm. We rolled over each other on the floor. I gave her my weight, trying to find her wrist. On her back now, she came against me with both hands pushing and clawing, and endeavoured to drive her knee into my stomach. She fought like a maniac; but it was remarkable too that throughout our brief battle she did not cry out once.

  We were both impeded by our overcoats, and I was also impeded by being extremely drunk. She was even stronger than I would have expected. But it took me only a moment to get hold of her wrists. I crushed them both together in one hand, leaning my weight upon her until she became still. I could see her face just below mine, the black hairs on her upper lip, the white of her teeth. I lifted myself a little and with my free hand struck her three times, a sideways blow across the mouth. She closed her eyes and tried to turn her head away. I saw that clearly in retrospect too.

  After I had hit her the third time I began to wonder what I was doing. I let her go and rolled off her. She got up without haste while I got myself into a sitting position. My head, suddenly asserting its existence, felt terrible. She brushed down her coat and then without looking at me and still without haste she mounted the cellar steps.

  I sat quiet for a minute feeling extremely confused. Then holding my head, which felt ready to break open, I got shakily to my feet. I got myself up the steps and into the hall. The front door was open and outside, hung like a blanket a yard from the opening, was the fog, yellow, opaque, infernal, completely still. I stood in the doorway. In the hollow damp silence I could hear the echo of receding footsteps. I went down into the street, ran a little way, and stopped to listen. My footprints lay behind me, a reeling progress, upon the damp pavement. With a choking sigh more profound than silence the fog enclosed me. I opened my mouth to call out to her but found that I had forgotten her name.

  Seventeen

  Darling, I’m sorry I was so drunk yesterday - and I do hope I didn’t make a beastly stain on the carpet. You and Palmer were sweet about it. You must let me pay to have it cleaned. I think after all I shall go away, though I’m not sure where. So don’t expect to hear from me for a bit. I’m perfectly all right and you’re not to worry about me. I’ll make the arrangements about moving the furniture before I go. I’ll be glad when that part is over. I may have seemed churlish, but don’t think I’m not deeply grateful for your concern. I may yet need your help; and I would be a fool to be indifferent to having, still now, your love. Though I’m not sure after all that I understand what generosity is. However, even if what I manifested was something else, it was like enough to it and might become changed into it in time without anyone noticing, don’t you think? Forgive me and bear with me.

  M.

  My dearest child, I’m sorry I was so drunk yesterday. I hope I didn’t tire you out. I should have gone sooner. This is just a little note to say that I may perhaps go away for a while, so I won’t see you in the near future. I think honestly that this may be a good thing, as I am afraid that if we meet now we may quarrel. As I said yesterday, I am not really aggrieved about Alexander. I have quite got over that: and I do believe you when you say you love me. But I just feel too bloody miserable and mixed up to be able to see you without fretting terribly about taking decisions which I do not feel myself competent to take at present. You understand. It may seem unreasonable to ask you to love me all the same and to love me especially: but nothing here is reasonable, and in love nothing is ever reasonable. So, selfish, inconsiderate, and sorry for myself, I ask just that.

  Your M.

  Dear Dr Klein,

  I literally do not know how to apologize for what happened last night. What form of words can I use to say how very deeply I regret my extraordinary conduct? You will have concluded, indeed you did, if I remember, conclude that I was drunk. Mad would perhaps describe it better. And perhaps all I can do by way of apology is to offer some explanation, however crude, of how I could have behaved in so eccentric a fashion. Before this however let me express the hope that I did not seriously hurt you. Indeed, I am speechless with contrition. I can only trust that, since you have seen much of the world, you experienced no damaging shock, however profound the dislike and contempt which my actions cannot but have provoked in you.

  As you know, I have been under an extreme strain of late; how extreme, I did not fully know until yesterday. You said once earlier on that I was a violent man. I plead guilty to this charge, and to having, as I now realize, grossly over-estimated my powers of control. It was both unfortunate and unjust that you, an innocent party, should have had the benefit of my violence. I spoke wildly last night when I implied that you had harmed me. Your actions in my regard were, I fully realize, without malice and indeed without interest: I would be a fool in any case to imagine that I could have inspired any concern in you which could find expression in animosity. It is just that I am feeling thoroughly persecuted at present and because you arrived at a moment when I was particularly strained and irrational I flew at you.

  Yet also it was no accident. I owe it to you here to attempt to understand myself. Indeed I am grateful to you, because in some way, and not only by occasioning last night’s outburst, you have helped me to see what has gone wrong. I love my wife and I still desire her. I also love your brother. As may or may not have been obvious to you - it was until lately by no means obvious to me - my feelings for Palmer are of no normal intensity. I have never been in the accepted sense, a homosexual, but certainly my attachment to Palmer has some-thing of this colour; and it is an odd thing, though it may be for all I know a phenomenon well known to clinical psychology, that Palmer’s liaison with my wife has increased rather than diminished my affection for him. The situation implied, therefore, or perhaps I should say however, a two-way jealousy: yet it has been a long time before I have become aware of this implication. It may be suggested that my slowness was due to a preoccupation with moral principles, and indeed at the conscious level I believe that I did make moral efforts, if such things are ever really made, in the direction of what I understand to be generosity and compassion. A more profound and plausible explanation may however be found in the particular role which Palmer and Antonia have played towards me, and with which I have so readily cooperated. I mean of course the role of paren
ts. It was I fear, not by chance that I married a woman considerably older than myself; and when that woman turned her affections toward a yet older man, to whom I was already related in a quasi-filial manner, the stage was set for my regression to the situation of a child.

  But children, as we know, are savages, and their immature love for their parents is often with difficulty distinguished from hatred. Of such hatred and such violence you were for a moment the innocent, yet as I have said not the accidental, victim. Although naturally I entertain no personal feelings towards you whatsoever, not even, as I have explained, those of the slightest resentment, your connexion with Palmer made you serviceable as a symbol, you became as it were the joker in the pack whom I could imagine momentarily to be the object of my fury. I should add that it was, needless to say, an ephemeral fury, fully expended, as I deeply regret, upon you: I have, I must assure you, no real ill-feeling toward Palmer. Indeed this solitary outburst has helped me, by making me more profoundly conscious of myself, to purge my imagination of evil humours and to render myself more truly like the generous person whose part I have endeavoured to play. I say this in case you should, after last night’s exhibition, feel any apprehension of possible violence to your brother. I assure you sincerely that there is no such possibility.

  It only remains for me to apologize to you very humbly and to hope that even if, as I fear, you find my conduct inexcusable, you will at least, if you have had the patience to read this letter, find it somewhat more comprehensible.

  I am yours sincerely,

  Martin Lynch-Gibbon

  Dear Honor Klein,

  I am afraid there is little point in trying to explain my conduct of last night, and scarcely any point even in apologizing. I was, as you observed, very drunk, and I behaved like a wild beast. I can only say that I am not only as shocked at myself, but also as amazed, as you could possibly be. I cannot account for it, nor would you be interested in a rigmarole of implausible hypotheses about the state of my psyche. It is enough to have assaulted you without boring you into the bargain. I must, however, write this letter to send, though without any hope of its being acceptable, my very humble and very sincere apology. I dare to hope that I did not seriously hurt you. If I caused you any pain, I assure you that my condition bums me more sharply than the harshest blow. I cannot think what came over me; nor can I at all conjecture what your state of mind about me can now be. It would hardly need saying, were it not that I fear I have consistently behaved badly to you, but you are to me an object of profound respect, not only because you are Palmer’s sister but because you are you: and I feel a most biting regret at having forfeited, I must fear for ever, the possibility of your good opinion. I will not prolong this letter. I hope, contrary to your prediction, that we may meet again: though I shall certainly not offer you my company in the foreseeable future, nor of course will I expect any answer to this communication. I am very sorry indeed for my shocking behaviour.