by Iris Murdoch
The conventional notion of the Christian God pictures Him as having created and being about to judge. A more intimate theology, and one more consonant with the nature of what we know of love, pictures a demonic force engaged in continuous creation and participation. I felt that I was, at every instant, creating Julian and supporting her being with my own. At the same time I saw her too in every way as I had seen her before. I saw her simplicity, her ignorance, her childish unkindness, her unpretty anxious little face. She was not beautiful or brilliantly clever. How false it is to say that love is blind. I could even judge her, I could even condemn her, I could even, in some possible galactic loop of thought, make her suffer. But this was still the stuff of paradise because I was a god and I was involved with her in some eternal activity of making to be which was of sole and absolute value. And with her the world was made, nothing was lost, not a grain of sand nor a speck of dust, since she was the world and I touched her everywhere.
The rather flowery ideas which I have set out above were not of course as such at all clear in my mind while I was sitting on the floor hugging the chair which she had sat in. (I did this too for some considerable time: perhaps until the evening.) I was, for that period, largely dazed with happiness: joy in my marvellous achievement of absolute love. In this blaze of light of course a few more mundane thoughts flitted to and fro like little birds, scarcely descried by one who was dazzled by emergence from the cave. I will mention here two of these thoughts since they are germane to events which happened later. They were, I should say, not posterior to my discovery of being in love: they were innate in it and born with it.
I spoke earlier in this rigmarole of my whole life as travelling towards what had now occurred. Perhaps my friend the percipient reader may be excused for having interpreted this conception in the following terms: that all this dream of being a great artist was simply a search for a great human love. Such things have been known, indeed such discoveries are common, especially among women. Love can soon dim the dream of art and make it seem secondary, even a delusion. I should say at once that this was not my case. Of course since everything was now connected with Julian, my ambitions as a writer were connected with Julian. But they were not cancelled thereby. Rather something more like the opposite seemed to be happening. She had filled me with a previously unimaginable power which I knew that I would and could use in my art. The deep causes of the universe, the stars, the distant galaxies, the ultimate particles of matter, had fashioned these two things, my love and my art, as aspects of what was ultimately one and the same. They were, I knew, from the same source. It was under the same orders and recognizing the same authority that I now stood, a man renewed. Of this conviction I will speak more and explain more later.
The second thing which was from the start perfectly clear to me, not something which I realized even as much later as one second, was this. I could never never never tell my love. That this knowledge did not immediately produce a pain of which I died is a proof of the immense power, that is ipso facto the purity, of the love which I felt for this girl. It was enough happiness to love her. The extra piece which would be telling her about it was like a pinpoint compared with the heavenly joy of simply apprehending her. (Any further joys my beatified imagination not only did not covet but did not even conceive.) I did not even mind when I saw her again. I had no plans to see her again. Who was I to have plans? If I had been told that I would never see her again I would have felt some sort of distress but it would instantly have been carried up and lost in the great creative upsurge of my adoration. This was no delirium. Those who have loved so will understand me. There was an overwhelming sense of reality, of being at last real and seeing the real. The tables, the chairs, the sherry glasses, the curls on the rug, the dust: real.
Nor did I envisage suffering. ‘I will run the gauntlet of a thousand blows but I will keep my mouth shut.’ No. To the pure lover in his moments of purity the idea of suffering is vulgar, it portends the return of self. What I rather felt was a dazzled gratitude. Yet I understood at once in a clear intellectual way that I could not ever tell Julian that I loved her. The details of this certainty (what it involved) became clearer to me later, but it stood flaming in my way at the very start. I was fifty – eight, she was twenty. I could not puzzle, burden, and bedevil her young life with the faintest hint or glimpse of this huge terrible love. How fearful that dark shadow is when we catch sight of it in the life of another. No wonder those at whom that black arrow is aimed so often turn and flee. How unendurable it can be, the love another bears us. I would never persecute my darling with that dread knowledge. From now onward until the world ended everything must remain, although utterly changed, exactly as it was before.
The reader, especially if he has not had the experience I have been describing, may feel impatient with the foregoing lyricism. ‘Pshaw!’ he will say, ‘the fellow protests too much and intoxicates himself with words. He admits to being a thoroughly repressed man, no longer young. All he means is that he suddenly felt intense sexual desire for a girl of twenty. We all know about that.’ I will not pause to answer this reader back, but will go on as faithfully as I can to recount what happened next.
I slept exceptionally well that night and awoke into the glow of an immediate knowledge of what had occurred. I lay in bed, floating in my secret bliss. For my first consciousness also brought that with it: that I was a man dedicated to a secret task. And forever. There was no doubt about that either. If I love thee not, chaos is come again. The foreverness of real love is one of the reasons why even unrequited love is a source of joy. The human soul craves for the eternal of which, apart from certain rare mysteries of religion, only love and art can give a glimpse. (I will not pause to answer the cynic, possibly the same one whom we heard from just now, who will say: ‘And how long does your romantic foreverness last, pray?’ or rather, I will simply reply: ‘True love is eternal. It is also rare; and no doubt you, Sir, were never lucky enough to experience it!’) Love brings with it also a vision of selflessness. How right Plato was to think that, embracing a lovely boy, he was on the road to the Good. I say a vision of selflessness, because our mixed nature readily degrades the purity of any aspiration. But such insight, even intermittent, even momentary, is a privilege and can be of permanent value because of the intensity with which it visits us. Ah, even once, to will another rather than oneself! Why could we not make of this revelation a lever by which to lift the world? Why cannot this release from self provide a foothold in a new place which we can then colonize and enlarge until at last we will all that is not ourselves? That was Plato’s dream. It is not impossible.
I cannot say that I thought all these sage thoughts as I lay in bed on that first morning of the first full day of the new world. Perhaps I thought some of them. I certainly felt made anew, I felt corporeally glorified, as one might feel oneself to be with humble amaze upon the day of the bodily resurrection. My limbs were made of butter or lilies or pale wax or manna or something. Of course the flame of physical desire warmed and informed this scene of unsullied pallor, yet without seeming separate from it, or indeed feeling separate from anything. When sexual desire is also love it connects us with the whole world and becomes a new mode of experience. Sex then reveals itself as the great connective principle whereby we overcome duality, the force which made separateness as an aspect of oneness at some moment of bliss in the mind of God. I yearned absolutely, yet I had never felt more relaxed in my life. I lay in bed and thought about Julian’s legs, now bare and egg – shell brown, now encased in tights, pink, mauve, black. I thought about her mane of dry shining greeny – golden hair and the way it grew down the back of her neck. I thought about the intense concentration of her strokable nose and pouting mouth, pointing like an animal’s muzzle. I thought about the sky – cleanness of her English water – colour eyes. I thought about her breasts. I felt completely happy and I felt good. (I mean virtuous.)
I got up and shaved. What physical pleasure there is in shaving w
hen a man is happy! I examined my face in the mirror. It looked fresh and young. The waxen imprint was still upon it. I really did look a different person. A radiant force from within had puffed out my cheeks and smoothed the wrinkles round my eyes. I dressed with care and took some time to select a tie. Eating was still, of course, out of the question. I felt as if I should never need to eat again, but could live indefinitely simply by breathing. I drank a little water. I squeezed an orange, more out of a theoretical idea that I should nourish myself, than because of any return of appetite, but the juice was too rich and heavy, I could not even sip it. Then I went into the sitting – room and dusted it a little. At least I dusted a few visible surfaces. As a lifelong Londoner, I am easily tolerant of dust. The sun had not yet come round to the position whence it could illuminate the brick wall opposite, but there was so much sunny brightness in the sky that the room was glowing in a subdued way. I sat down and wondered what I was going to do with my new life.
All this may sound ridiculous. But being in love is a life – occupation. I suppose this concept resembles, or rather is a special case of, the idea of doing everything for God and making the whole of life into a sacrament, ‘sweeping the room as for Thy laws’, as in Herbert’s poem. I had just been dusting the room for Julian, without of course even conceiving that she might ever visit it again. I now allowed myself to pick up her copy of Hamlet, which was still lying in its place on the marquetry table. It was a school edition. In the front the name of a previous owner, Hazel Bingley, had been crossed out, and Julian Baffin written in a childish hand, obviously some time ago. What did Julian’s handwriting look like now? I had only received a child’s postcards. Would I ever receive a letter from her? I felt quite faint at the idea. I examined the book. The text was scrawled over with extremely silly observations by Hazel. There were also a few observations by Julian (equally silly, I have to admit), dating from her school studies rather than from her ‘second innings’ with the play. ‘Feeble!’ she had written beside Ophelia’s ‘Oh what a noble mind’ speech, which I thought was a bit unfair. And ‘Hypocrite!’ beside Claudius’s attempted prayer of repentance. (Of course no young person can understand Claudius.)
I spent some time examining the book and culling these flowers. Then hugging it against my shirt, I began to meditate. It had not ceased to be clear that my new ‘occupation’ was not in any sense an alternative to my life’s work. The same agency had sent me both these things, not to compete but to complete. I would soon be writing and I would write well. I do not mean that I thought of anything so vulgar as writing ‘about’ Julian. Life and art must be kept strictly separate if one is aiming at excellence. But I felt those dark globules in the head, those tinglings in the fingers which token the advent of inspiration. The children of my fancy were already hosting. Meanwhile however there were simpler tasks to be performed. I must set my life in order and I now had the strength to do so. I must see Priscilla, I must see Roger, I must see Christian, I must see Rachel, I must see Arnold. (How easy it all suddenly looked!) I did not say to myself ‘I must see Julian’, and over that divine lacuna I gazed out with wide peaceful eyes at a world devoid of evil. There seemed to be no question, at the moment, of leaving London. I would perform my tasks and I would not lift a finger to see my darling again. And I felt, as I meditated upon her, glad to think that I had so immediately given her one of my best treasures, the gilt snuffbox, A Friend’s Gift. I could not have given it to her now. This innocent thing had gone away with her, a pledge, did she but know it, of a love dedicated in silence to her quite separate and private happiness. Out of this silence I would forge my power. Yes, this was a yet clearer revelation and I held on to it. I would be able to create because I would be able to keep silent.
After I had been brooding upon this truly awe – inspiring insight for some time my heart suddenly nearly fell out of me because the telephone rang and I thought it might be her.
‘Yes?’
‘Hartbourne here.’
‘Oh hello, my dear fellow!’ I felt a sort of cordial relief though I could hardly still breathe with excitement. ‘I’m so glad you rang. Look, let’s meet soon, how about lunch – could you manage lunch today?’
‘Today? Well, yes, I think I could actually. Shall we say one o’clock at the usual place?’
‘Yes, that’s fine ! I’m afraid I’m on a diet by the way, and won’t be able to eat much, but I’d love to see you, I do look forward to it.’ I put the phone down smiling. Then the front – door bell rang. My heart performed the same swoop into emptiness. I scrabbled at the door, almost moaning.
Rachel stood outside.
When I saw her I came straight out of the flat and closed the door behind me and said, ‘Oh Rachel, how marvellous to see you ! I’m just going to do some urgent shopping, would you like to walk along with me?’ I did not want to let her in. She might have gone into the sitting – room and sat down on Julian’s tiger lily chair. Also I felt I must talk to her unintimately, out in the open air. I was glad to see her.
‘Can’t I come in and sit down for a minute?’ she said.
‘I must have a breath of air, do you mind? It’s such a lovely day. Come along then.’
I set off along the court and then along Charlotte Street, walking rather fast.
Rachel was dressed more smartly than usual in a silky dress with red and white blotches on it and a low square neckline. Her collar bones, sun – browned and mottled, were prominent above the dress. Her neck was dry and wrinkled, faintly reptilian, her face was smoother, more made – up than usual, and wearing the expression the French call maussade. She seemed to have lately washed her hair which made a smooth frizzy ball around her head. She looked, in spite of the above description, a handsome woman, tired, but not defeated, by her life.
‘Bradley, don’t walk so fast.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Before I forget, Julian said would I pick up her copy of Hamlet which she left with you.’
I had no intention of parting with this book. I said, ‘I’d like to keep it for a while. It’s rather a good edition, and I wanted to note one or two things.’
‘But it’s a school book.’
‘Excellent edition all the same. Not available any more.’ Later I would feign to have lost it.
‘It was so kind of you to see Julian yesterday.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
‘I hope she hasn’t been pestering you.’
‘Not at all. Here we are.’
I turned into a stationer’s shop in Rathbone Place. I can browse indefinitely in a stationer’s shop, indeed there is hardly anything in a good stationer’s which I do not like and want. What a scene of refreshment and innocence! Loose leaf paper, writing paper, notebooks, envelopes, postcards, pens, pencils, paper – clips, blotting paper, ink, files, old – fashioned things like sealing wax, new – fangled things like sellotape.
I dashed among the shelves followed by Rachel. ‘I must buy some more of my special notebooks. I’m going to be doing a lot of writing soon. Rachel, let me buy you something, I must, I’m in a present – giving mood.’
‘Bradley, whatever is the matter with you, you seem quite delirious.’
‘Here, let me give you these nice things!’ I had to load somebody with presents. I collected for Rachel a ball of red string, a blue felt – tipped pen, a pad of special calligrapher’s paper, a magnifying glass, a fancy carrier bag, a large wooden clothes peg with URGENT written on it in gold, and six postcards of the Post Office Tower. I paid for the purchases and loaded the bag with all Rachel’s spoil into her arms.
‘You seem in a good mood!’ she said, pleased, but still a bit maussade. ‘Now can we go back to your place?’
‘I’m awfully sorry. I’ve got a rather early lunch engagement, I’m not going back.’ I was still worrying about the chair and whether she wouldn’t try again to remove the book. It was not that I was unwilling to talk to Rachel, I was greatly enjoying it.
‘Well, let’s sit somew
here.’
‘There’s a seat in Tottenham Court Road, just opposite Heals.’
‘Bradley, I am not going to sit in Tottenham Court Road and contemplate Heals. Aren’t the pubs open yet?’
They were. I must have spent longer than I realized in meditation. We went into one.
It was a featureless modern place, ruined by the brewers, all made of light plastic (pubs should be dark holes), but with the sun shining in and the street door open it had a sort of southern charm. We visited the bar and then sat at a plastic table which was already wet with beer. Rachel had a double whisky which she proposed to drink neat. I had a lemonade shandy for the sake of appearances. We looked at each other.
It occurred to me that this was the first time since I had been smitten that I had looked another human being in the eyes. It was a good experience. I beamed. I almost felt that my face had the power to bless.
‘Bradley, you are looking odd.’
‘Peculiar?’
‘Very nice. You look awfully well today. You look younger.’
‘Dear Rachel! I’m so glad to see you. Tell me all. Let’s talk about Julian. Such an intelligent girl.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I’m not sure that I do. I’m grateful to you for taking an interest in her at last.’
‘At last?’
‘She says she’s been trying to attract your attention for years. I warned her you probably won’t keep it up.’
‘I’ll do what I can for her. I like her, you know.’ I laughed crazily.