The Black Prince

by Iris Murdoch

  I looked at my watch and found that in the composition of the letter a long time had passed. It was now too late to catch the morning train. No doubt the afternoon train would be better in any case. Trains induce such terrible anxiety. They image the possibility of total and irrevocable failure. They are also dirty, rackety, packed with strangers, an object lesson in the foul contingency of life: the talkative fellow-traveller, the possibility of children.

  I re-read the letter which I had written to Christian and reflected upon it. I had produced it out of some sort of immediate need for self-expression or self-defence, a magical warding-off movement, such as I have explained that I naturally indulge in as a letter-writer. However a letter, as I have at times to my own cost forgotten, is not only a piece of self-expression; it is also statement, suggestion, persuasion, command, and its sheer effectiveness in these respects needs to be objectively estimated. What effect would this letter have upon Christian? It now seemed possible that the effect would be the exact reverse of what I desired. This letter, with its reference to a ‘distressing scene’, would excite her. She would see behind it some quite other communication. She would come round in a taxi. Besides, the letter was full of genuine contradictions. If I was settling abroad why send it anyway? Perhaps it would be more effective simply to send a line saying‘Do not communicate with me’ ? Or else nothing at all? The trouble was that by now I felt so worried about Christian and so polluted by a sense of connection with her that it was a psychological necessity to send some sort of missive simply as an exorcism. To pass the time I wrote the envelope: our old address. Of course the lease had been in her name. What an investment.

  I decided that I would send off the letter to Francis and postpone deciding what sort of communication, if any, to send to Christian. I also decided that it was now a matter of urgency to get out of the house and down to the station, where I could have lunch and await the afternoon train at leisure. It was just as well the earlier train had been safely missed. I have sometimes had the unpleasant experience, arriving very early for a train, of finding myself catching its predecessor with a minute to spare. Thrusting the letter to Christian into my pocket I found my fingers touching the review of Arnold’s novel. Here was another unsolved problem. Although I was well able to consider refraining from doing so, I knew that I also felt very anxious to publish. Why? Yes, I must get away and think all these matters out.

  My suitcases were in the hall where I had left them yesterday. I put on my macintosh. I went into the bathroom. This bathroom was of the kind which no amount of caring for could make other than sordid. Vari-coloured slivers of soap, such as I cannot normally bear to throw away, were lying about in the basin and in the bath. With a sudden act of will I collected them all and flushed them down the lavatory. As I stood there, dazed with this success, the front door bell suddenly began to ring and ring.

  At this point it is necessary for me to give some account of my sister Priscilla, who is about to appear upon the scene.

  Priscilla is six years younger than me. She left school early. So indeed did I. I am an educated and cultivated person through my own zeal, efforts, and talents. Priscilla had no zeal and talents and made no efforts. She was spoilt by my mother whom she resembled. I think women, perhaps unconsciously, convey to female children a deep sense of their own discontent. My mother, though not too unhappily married, had a continued grudge against the world. This may have originated in, or been aggravated by, a sense of having married ‘beneath’ her, though not exactly in a social sense. My mother had been a ‘beauty’ and had had many suitors. I suspect she felt later in life, as she grew old behind the counter, that if she had played her cards otherwise she could have made a much better bargain in life. Priscilla, though she made in commercial and even in social terms a more advantageous buy, followed somewhat the same pattern. Priscilla, though not as pretty as my mother, had been a good-looking girl, and was admired in the circle of pert half-baked under-educated youths who constituted her ‘social life’. But Priscilla, egged on by her mother, had ambitions, and was in no hurry to settle with one of these anprepossessing candidates.

  I myself had left school at fifteen and become a boy clerk in a Government department. I was living away from home and devoting all my spare time to my education and to my writing. I had been fond of Priscilla when we were children, but was now, and deliberately, cut off from her and from my parents. It was clear that my family could not understand or share my interests and I drew away. Priscilla, entirely unskilled, she could not even type, was working in what she termed a ‘fashion house’, a wholesale establishment of the ‘rag trade’ in Croydon. She was, I imagine, some sort of very junior assistant or clerk. The idea of ‘fashion’ seems a little to have turned her head: perhaps my mother was concerned in this too. Priscilla began to lard herself with make-up and haunt the hairdresser and was always buying new clothes which made her look like a guy. Her pretensions and her extravagance were, I believe, the cause of quarrels between my parents. Meanwhile I myself had other interests and was suffering the anxiety of those who know at an early age that they have not had the education which they deserve.

  To cut a long story short, Priscilla really got quite ‘above herself’, dressing and behaving ‘grandly’, and did eventually satisfy her ambition of penetrating into some slightly ‘better’ social circles than those which she had frequented at first. I suspect that she and my mother actually planned a ‘campaign’ to better Priscilla’s lot. Priscilla went to tennis parties, indulged in amateur dramatics, went to charity dances. She and my mother invented for her quite a little ‘season’. Only Priscilla’s season went on and on. She could not make up her mind to marry. Or perhaps her present beaux, in spite of the bold face which Priscilla and my mother jointly presented to the world, felt that after all poor Priscilla was not a very good match. Perhaps there was after all a smell of shop. Then, doubtless as a result of working so hard on her season, she lost her job, and made no attempt to obtain another. She stayed at home, fell vaguely ill, and had what would now I suppose be called a nervous breakdown.

  By the time she recovered she was getting on into her twenties and had lost some of her first good looks. She talked at that time of becoming a ‘model’ (a ‘mannequin’), but so far as I know made no serious attempt to do so. What she did become, virtually, and not to put too fine a point upon it, was a tart. I do not mean that she stood around in the road, but she moved in a world of business men, golf club bar proppers and night-club hounds, who certainly regarded her in this light. I did not want to know anything about this; possibly I ought to have been more concerned. I was upset and annoyed when my father once approached the subject, and although I could see that he had been made utterly miserable, I resolutely refused to discuss it. I never said anything to my mother, who always defended Priscilla and pretended, or deceived herself into believing, that all was well. I was by this time already involved with Christian, and I had other matters on my mind.

  Priscilla met Roger Saxe, who ultimately became her husband. somewhere in that golf club whisky bibbing fandango. I first heard of Roger’s existence when I learnt that Priscilla was pregnant. There seemed to be no question of marriage. And Roger, it appeared, was willing to pay half of the abortion bill, but demanded that the family should pay the other half. This piece of pure caddishness was my first introduction to my future brother-in-law. He was in fact reasonably well off. My father and I put up the money between us and Priscilla had her operation. This illegal and thoroughly sordid drama upset my poor father very much indeed. He was a puritan very like myself, and he was a timid law-abiding man. He felt ashamed and frightened. He was already ill, became iller, and never recovered. My mother, a very unhappy woman, dedicated herself now to getting Priscilla married off soon somehow to somebody or anybody. Then, we never quite knew how or why, about a year after the operation Priscilla got married to Roger.

  I will not attempt a lengthy description of Roger. He too will appear in the story in
due course. I did not like Roger. Roger did not like me. He always referred to himself as a ‘public school boy’, which I suppose he had been. He had a little education, and a great deal of ‘air’, a ‘plummy’ voice and a misleadingly distinguished appearance. As his copious crown of hair became peppery and then grey he began to resemble a soldier. (He had once done some army service, I think in the Pay Corps.) He held himself like a military man and alleged that his friends nicknamed him ‘the brigadier’. He cultivated the crude joking manners of a junior officers’ mess. He worked in fact in a bank, about which he made as much mystery as possible. He drank and laughed too much.

  Married to such a man it was not likely that my sister would be very happy, nor was she. With a pathetic and touching loyalty, and even courage, she kept up appearances; She was house-proud : and there was eventually quite a handsome house, or ‘maisonette’, in the ‘better part’ of Bristol, with fine cutlery and glasses and the things which women prize. There were ‘dinner parties’ and a big car. It was a long way from Croydon. I suspected that they lived beyond their means and that Roger was often in financial difficulties, but Priscilla never actually said so. They both very much wanted children, but were unable to produce any. Once when drunk Roger hinted that Priscilla’s ‘operation’ had done some fatal damage. I did not want to know. I could see that Priscilla was unhappy, her life was boring and empty, and Roger was not a rewarding companion. I did not however want to know about this either. I rarely visited them. I occasionally gave Priscilla lunch in London. We talked of trivialities.

  I opened the door, and there was Priscilla. I knew immediately that something must be wrong. Priscilla knew that I detested ad hoc arrangements. Our luncheon ‘dates’ were usually fixed by letter weeks in advance.

  She was smartly dressed in a navy blue ‘jersey’ coat and skirt, looking pale and tense, unsmiling. She had retained her looks into middle age, though she had put on weight and looked a good deal less ‘glossy’, now resembling a ‘career woman’: the female counterpart perhaps of Roger’s specious ‘military look’. Her well-cut ungaudy clothes, deliberately ‘classic’ and quite unlike the lurid plumage of her youth, looked a bit like uniform, the effect being counteracted, however, by the vulgar ‘costume jewellery’ with which she always loaded herself. She dyed her hair a discreet gold and wore it kempt and wavy. Her face was not a weak one, somewhat resembling mine only without the ‘cagy’ sensitive look. Her eyes were narrowed by short sight, and her thin lips were brightly painted.

  She said nothing in reply to my surprised greeting, marched past me into the sitting-room, selected one of the lyreback chairs, pulled it away from the wall, sat down upon it and dissolved into desperate tears.

  ‘Priscilla, Priscilla, what is it, what’s happened? Oh, you are upsetting me so!’

  After a while the weeping subsided into a series of long sighing sobs. She sat inspecting the streaks of honey-brown make-up which had come off on to her paper handkerchief.

  ‘Priscilla, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve left Roger.’

  I felt blank dismay, instant fear for myself. I did not want to be involved in any mess of Priscilla’s. I did not even want to have to be sorry for Priscilla. Then I thought, of course there is exaggeration, misconception.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Priscilla. Now do calm yourself please. Of course you haven’t left Roger. You’ve had a tiff – ’

  ‘Could I have some whisky?’

  ‘I don’t keep whisky. I think there’s a little medium-sweet sherry.’

  ‘Well, can I have some?’

  I went to the walnut hanging cupboard and poured her a glass of brown sherry. ‘Here.’

  ‘Bradley, it’s been awful, awful, awful. I’ve been living trapped inside a bad dream, my life has become a bad dream, the kind that makes you shout out.’

  ‘Priscilla, listen. I’m just on the point of leaving London. I can’t change my plans. If you like I can give you lunch and then put you on the Bristol train.’

  ‘I tell you I’ve left Roger.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed if you don’t mind.’

  ‘To bed?’

  She got up abruptly, pushed out of the door banging herself against the lintel, and went into the spare bedroom. She came out again, cannoning into me, when she saw that the bed was not made up. She went into my bedroom, sat on the bed, threw her handbag violently into a corner, kicked off her shoes and dragged off her jacket. Uttering a low moan she began to undo her skirt.

  ‘Priscilla!’

  ‘I’m going to lie down. I’ve been up all night. Could you bring my glass of sherry, please?’

  I fetched it.

  Priscilla got her skirt off, seemingly tearing it in the process. With a flash of pink petticoat she got herself between the sheets and lay there shuddering, staring in front of her with big blank suffering eyes.

  I pulled up a chair and sat down beside her.

  ‘Bradley, my marriage is over. I think my life is probably over. What a poor affair it has been.’

  ‘Priscilla, don’t talk so – ’

  ‘Roger has become a devil. Some sort of devil. Or else he’s mad.’

  ‘You know I never thought much of Roger – ’

  ‘I’ve been so unhappy for years, so unhappy – ’

  ‘I know – ’

  ‘I don’t understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.’

  ‘I’m so sorry – ’

  ‘But lately it’s been sort of pure intense hell, he’s been sort of willing my death, oh I can’t explain, and he tried to poison me and I woke in the night and he was standing by my bed looking so terrible as if he was just making up his mind to strangle me.’

  ‘Priscilla, this is pure fantasy, you mustn’t – ’

  ‘Of course he’s off after other women, he must be, though I wouldn’t mind really if he didn’t hate me. Living with someone who hates you is – it drives you mad – He’s so often away in funny ways, says he’s late at the office and when I ring up he isn’t there. I spend so much time just wondering where he is – And he goes to conferences, I suppose there are conferences, once I rang up and – He can do anything he likes and I’m so lonely, oh so lonely – And I put up with it because there was nothing else to do – ’

  ‘Priscilla, there’s still nothing else to do.’

  ‘How can you say that to me, how can you. This cold hatred and wanting to kill me and poison me – ’

  ‘Priscilla, calm yourself. You can’t leave Roger. It doesn’t make sense. Of course you’re unhappy, all married people are unhappy, but you can’t just launch yourself on the world at fifty whatever you are now – ’

  ‘Fifty-two. Oh God, oh God – ’

  ‘Stop it. Stop that noise, please. Now dry yourself up and I’ll take you back to Paddington in a taxi. I’m going to the country. You can’t stay here.’

  ‘And I left all my jewels behind and some of them are quite valuable, and now he won’t let me have them out of spite. Oh why was I such a fool! I just ran out of the house late last night, we’d been quarrelling for hours and hours and I couldn’t stand it any more. I just ran out, I didn’t even take my coat, and I went to the station and I thought he’d come after me to the station, but he didn’t. Of course he’s been trying to drive me to run away and then say it’s my fault. And I waited at the station for hours and it was so cold and I felt as if I was going mad through sheer misery. Oh he’s been so awful to me, so vile and frightening – Sometimes he’d just go on and on and on saying “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you” – ’

  ‘All spouses are murmuring that to each other all the time. It’s the fundamental litany of marriage.’

  ‘“I hate you, I hate you – ” ’

  ‘I think you were saying that, Priscilla, not him. I think – ’

  ‘And I left all my jewels behind and my mink stole, and Roger took all the money out of our joint account – ’

&
nbsp; ‘Priscilla, brace up. Look, I’ll give you ten minutes. Just rest quietly, and then put your togs on again and we’ll leave together.’

  ‘Bradley – oh my God I’m so wretched, I’m choking with it – I made a home for him – I haven’t got anything else-I cared so much about that house, I made all the curtains myself-I loved all the things-I hadn’t anything else to love – and now it’s all gone – all my life has been taken away from me – I’ll destroy myself – I’ll tear myself to pieces – ’

  ‘Stop, please. I’m not doing you any good by listening to your complaints. You’re in a thoroughly nervous silly state. Women of your age often are. You’re simply not rational, Priscilla. I daresay Roger has been tiresome, he’s a very selfish man, but you’ll just have to forgive him. Women just have to put up with selfish men, it’s their lot. You can’t leave him, there isn’t anywhere else for you to go.’

  ‘I’ll destroy myself.’

  ‘Now make an effort. Get control of yourself. I’m not being heartless. It’s for your own good. I’ll leave you now and finish packing my own bags.’

  She was sobbing again, not touching her face, letting the tears flow down. She looked so pitiful and ugly, I reached across and pulled the curtain a little. Her swollen face, the scene in the dim light, reminded me of Rachel.

  ‘Oh I left all my jewels behind, my diamanté set and my jade brooch and my amber ear-rings and the little rings, and my crystal and lapis necklace, and my mink stole – ’

  I closed the door and went back to the sitting-room and closed the sitting-room door. I felt very shaken. I cannot stand unbridled displays of emotion and women’s stupid tears. And I was suddenly deeply frightened by the possibility of having my sister on my hands. I simply did not love her enough to be of any use to her, and it seemed wiser to make this plain at once.