by Iris Murdoch
But then of course there had been Marie-Laure Auboyer. Felix hoped he had succeeded in putting Mildred off the scent as far as Marie-Laure was concerned, for Mildred went on and on as soon as she got an idea into her head, and Felix was feeling rather sensitive and worried about Marie-Laure. He had met her in Singapore, where she was working in the French consulate and he was Intelligence adviser to the C.-in-C. Felix spoke fluent French, and when he was not away visiting Australia or India or Hong Kong he had spent a lot of his time with the French colony. Marie-Laure had fallen in love with him instantly. Felix was used to impressing girls and did not at first notice her very much. He took her out occasionally, in a rather routine way, as he took out one or two other girls to dance at Prince's or to swim at the Tanglin or to drink at the Cockpit or to dine at the Raffles grill, and they were witty in French together about various subjects not excluding Marie-Laure's attachment, which he found she was able to treat with a satisfactory dryness. She was, certainly an intelligent girl.
Then he began to want rather badly to go to bed with her. This was, just at that time, not easy, as she shared a flat with a SABENA airline typist of domestic habits, and he himself lived in the Senior Officers' Mess, a rather grim place presided over in effect by the Head Matron of the military hospital, who was herself a full Colonel. At length the typist went on leave and Felix got what he wanted. He was shaken by it. Once he had gained possession of Marie-Laure he saw her in a different light. Her very touching beauty and tenderness combined with the highly intelligent way in which she dealt with him, her developed sense of the strategy and tactics of love, impressed him and began to attach him. But then he began to feel afraid.
The period that followed, during which Felix's departure from Singapore became imminent, seemed in his memory to drip with colours almost too vivid to bear. There was something drugged about it, something over-rich. It seemed as if at that time it was always moonlight, the hot moonlight nights as bright as day, and that he was eternally in evening-dress wandering slightly drunk with Marie-Laure through endless gardens with lights hanging from the frangipani whose great lotus-like flowers gave out an overwhelming powdery fragrance, attracting white furry moths the size of sparrows. Or else he was lying endlessly with Marie-Laure upon her bed — the SABENA typist had inevitably by now been confided in — while the devastating rain beat down outside and the sweat poured quietly off their momentarily disjoined bodies. It was a time on which Felix looked back with an agitated fascination and many misgivings. He had never so entirely surrendered to a woman. He did not approve.
He had never, during this time, said anything to Marie-Laure which could lead her to regard this episode as more than ephemeral; and it was only her clever gentleness and tact which prevented him from feeling a cad. But he was aware of how far his behaviour must seem to commit him, and he knew that she hoped. When the time came for him to go he had not had the heart entirely to crush these hopes. They parted as people who would meet again; and when Felix asked himself whether he had, out of misplaced kindness, misled her, he found himself wondering whether his concern not to hurt her feelings did not rather mask from him some deep desire of his own somehow, somewhere to be with Marie-Laure again. He shook his head over this and decided he must be firm with himself. He did not want to be seriously entangled with a French girl. He was not really in love with Marie-Laure, he thought, not quietly and deeply and with all his soul in love, as he could be with an English girl. There was a whole area of his being which could not communicate with Marie-Laure at all. And that brought him back to the problem of Ann, which he found, on his return to England, had moved several stages further on, and at once claimed all his attention.
When Felix had left Singapore it had been fairly certain that his next post would be in India. He was designated to be the Military Adviser to the U. K. High Commissioner in Delhi, liaison officer with the Indian Anny, watching the interests of British Gurkhas in India, and for relations with Nepal. It was a job that attracted him. He had already, as Colonel of Intelligence; visited the Headquarters of British Gurkhas in India, in the old Barrackpore Cantonment at Calcutta, and as a soldier and as a man his imagination had been caught. He looked forward to India; and it had been with mixed feelings, of which irritation formed at first the major part, that he had learned soon after his return to England that Marie-Laure had got herself transferred to the French Embassy at Delhi. He soon forgave her; but by then he had become far more concerned about Ann and the image of Marie-Laure began to fade.
Briefed by Mildred, he had attempted to make a sober estimate of the possible outcome of the situation upon which his fate must depend. Would Randall go or wouldn't he? Would he, exasperatingly, go only partly, go, but not quite enough? If he went off openly, entirely, irrevocably, Felix would feel free to act. But short of that he must hesitate, he must hold his hand. Felix shied away from the thought of stealing another man's wife. That was an action he could not perform. If the man abandoned his wife, that was another matter. But would he?
Worked upon continually by his sister, poor Felix was by now in a state of considerable distress. He felt, since Randall's latest and more promising departure to London, unable either to see Ann or to keep away from her. He decided not to go to India. He felt he must stay, and keep an eye on things. He had an obscure but firm and wonderfully consoling sense that Ann needed him, that she did not want him at this time, to be so far away. Some moment perhaps would come, some moment of cracking apart, some decisive moment, when he must be present in strength to press his advantage. He was not prepared, as things still were, grossly to address Ann. But he was prepared to offer her indirectly, by his continued presence upon the scene, a certain steady reminder.
The Whitehall job, through a highly placed friend, was made readily available. He had not yet said his definite yes, but he knew now what he would do. The Military Secretary's department was, of course, for him something of a dead end, and the job in question was a niche reserved for men of independent means and limited ambition. He was, in a way, sorry. Yet Felix, though he was still in love with the Anny, was not now especially in love with his own career. He had commanded a company in Italy during the war, and had commanded a battalion before going on extra-regimental employment to Singapore. But he knew now that he would never command a brigade. He had been too long on the staff: and he had never, in any case, had the personality for it. He was not hearty with the right people. This disappointment, which had been bitter he had digested some little time ago; and he told himself that since he could never have exactly what he wanted it didn't in a way matter what he had. In any case, his increasing devotion to Ann, appearing in the light of a duty, settled the matter.
It was at this juncture, indeed on the morning of the very day when he was entertaining his sister to lunch at Ebury Street, that he received a disturbing letter from Marie-Laure. He touched it now in his pocket as he finished off the Nuits de Young, and phrases from it were passing through his head as he talked to Mildred. Marie-Laure, as it turned out, was still in Singapore. not having yet taken up her Indian appointment. She was having second thoughts about going to India. Felix had written her a slightly sarcastic letter when he had heard of her coup, and although he wad at once followed it up by an affectionate one, it was dear that he had hurt her. She did not, she said, want to pursue him if he found her a nuisance. It was still possible for her to stay in Singapore. So much had been unspoken between them and at the time it had not mattered. He had been thoroughly English, and though this was rather beautiful it was something for which she now had to pay. He must forgive her for asking for definitions. But she did not want to die of being quiet and reasonable. Did he want to see her again or not? He had said, when they parted, that he did, and he had said it with a fervor. On that fervour she had been living ever since. But had he spoken merely to smooth over a distressing parting? Now that he was back in England she would perhaps seem someone far off and unreal. There would be perhaps girls in England, a girl, in
deed he had once hinted it, who would make him forget his Marie-Laure. Yet when she thought of their last time together she felt that there must be for them another time. She had never positively said it — but in case he had not understood, and for fear of perishing by a mistake, let her say it now: she loved him, she wanted to marry him, she wanted to be with him forever. All she asked of him now was some response, however vague, something quite noncommittal: but which might help her to decide.
This letter disturbed Felix, and not only because it made him feel that he had behaved badly. It disturbed him for a deeper reason. He had left things unfinished between himself and Marie-Laure. And the devil of it was that he wanted them, for the present, to remain unfinished. The scent of her personality came strongly from the letter. He took stock of the extent to which she still existed for him. He did not want to tell her to forget him. Yet what else could he honestly tell her?
'Well, I don't know, Mildred was going on. 'I'm sure she didn't go there for fun. Did you see how confused Hugh was? He hated our finding her there.
'That's perfectly natural, said Felix. Je crois voir comment vous vous raidissez en lisant ceci.
'Maybe, said Mildred. 'Dear Hugh. Dog-faced Emma shan't have him, not if l can help it.
'How much do you think Hugh realizes of your kind intentions? Vous prejerez que les choses arrivent sans avoir besoin d'etre decidees.
'Oh, nothing, my dear! He's like a new-born babe, always was. He thinks of me as a big solid sensible girl, a nice shaggy old friend, rather like Nana in Peter Pan!
Felix laughed. 'Will he get a surprise? Je ne veux pas que tout finisse entre nous a cause d' un malentendu.
'If I succeed, you mean? I'm not sure. He may never know. Sometimes I think that would be the most beautiful. I should swallow him without his even noticing it.
'I think he'd realize something was up! Brandy, Mildred? or some Cointreau? Mon beau Felix, je ne veux pas mourir a force d' hre raisonnable.
'Thank you, yes, a little Cointreau. What a lovely meal, Felix. Ah, my dear, I wish I could screw your courage to the sticking point. I can inspire courage in quarters where it harms me. I can't inspire it in quarters where I want to see it. And I can't even use my own! I'm hamstrung.
'So am I, said Felix. 'Do you mind if I smoke? Je vous aime de tout mon etre, je desire vous epouser, etre avec vous pour toujours.
'Of course I don't mind if you smoke. Why do you go on asking me year after year? There's no need for you to be. You ought to approach Ann in a straightforward way.
'Let's not have this again, shall we? said Felix. He added, 'You know, I don't think Miranda likes me. It struck me again this time. Felix, Felix, souhaitez-vous vraiment me revoir?
'Stop making excuses, said Mildred. 'Miranda doesn't like anybody except herself and possibly her papa. She'd put up with you. Really, it's difficult enough without having Miranda the measure of all things into the bargain. No, you should do as I say. If you're waiting for Randall to clear off properly, you may wait forever.
'I wonder, said Felix, his attention caught. 'I wonder.
'I'll tell you one good reason why Randall will never go off, not properly that is.
'I've thought of that one.
'Precisely. No dough. He just can't clear off.
Felix was gloomily silent a moment. 'What's the answer? Mildred pondered. 'I suppose we could lend him some. Felix laughed. 'Do you know, I think he'd take it?
'Of course he'd take it. Anyway we could always make it anonymous. What do you think, Felix, seriously? I expect he'd need a great deal.
'Mildred, there are limits!
'Are there? All's fair in love and war, they say. And you a soldier.
'Quite, said Felix. 'All is not fair in war, thank God, and when it is I shall resign. Nor in love either.
'War is too terrible for fairness now, said Mildred, 'and love has always been. Ann is probably dying for you to take her by storm.
'I don't think so, said Felix shortly.
'Well, he won't go, said Mildred. 'He has no money. He won't go, he can't go. So there we are.
Chapter Eighteen
'THEY'RE devoted, you know, said Randall.
It was late at night. The curtains were drawn in Hugh's flat in Brompton Square. It had been a breathlessly hot day and now the purple airless dark trembled over London, opaque and very still.
Hugh and Randall had dined together, and dined well. They were returned and had been drinking brandy. It had been, rather to Hugh's surprise, an agreeable evening. When Randall had rung up to suggest such a meeting Hugh had feared that there would be some sort of unpleasantness. But in fact they had talked during dinner of indifferent matters and so revived the old comradeship between them that Hugh was ready to think it was just for that that Randall had come. Only now, very late, did the names of any of the women arise. Hugh looked at his watch.
Hugh had been doing nothing lately except think about Emma; and although many of the thoughts were painful the total activity was a joy and the degree of engrossment a miracle. He was still, of course, almost totally in the dark. He not only did not know what Emma was thinking, he did not even yet know exactly what he wanted, not exactly that is. But he knew relentlessly in which direction he must go, and in that direction he struggled on alone, under a banner on which were inscribed the words Liberty and Starvation.
For Hugh found himself somewhat in the position of one who has scarcely recovered from the first wild joy of release from prison when he discovers that though he is indeed free he is free only to starve. The extent to which he did now positively feel free struck him as amazing, since he had not thought himself, with Fanny, so especially tied. But the openness of the world now burst on him with dazzling power, and he felt faint with too much fresh air. Yet with this came other needs. As an elderly married man, surrounded by an accustomed and reasonably affectionate circle, he had been long settled in an emotional routine which was so much a routine that the emotions were indeed barely perceptible at all. But now, although the persons, all but one, who had cared for him were still in their places they no longer seemed to suffice. Hugh felt starved for human encounters and surprises, direct glances, wrestlings of soul with soul and wild unblunted affections.
His renewal of relations with Emma had been in many ways not what he expected. She was, he went on noticing, somehow older than he would have thought likely, and in some respects seemed older than himself. If he had imagined himself as it were waltzing away with Emma it was certainly not like that. Emma had changed, and there was something resigned and morose in her against which he blundered. Yet she was also the same Emma; and his sense of a certain compassion for her gave but a finer savour to his age-old acknowledgement of her superiority. What moved him most of all was the absolute directness of their communication which gave him just that salty taste of reality for which he craved.
But what did Emma want? He found her behaviour puzzling. She was glad to see him, more glad, he suspected, than she allowed officially to appear. Yet she kept him provocatively at Anns' length. He had been delighted by her wish to go to Grayhallock, though a little, and ineffectually, ashamed of taking her. Her conduct when there had been most unaccountable. She had banished him from her company and spent hours, before and after lunch, talking to Ann, to the children, to anyone but him. Then there had been the exasperating arrival of Mildred and the others, Mildred's raised eyebrows and Emma's honeyed wit. The Finch contingent had tactfully not stayed to lunch, but they had appropriated the later part of the morning, and Hugh had had to attend to Mildred's chat about art exhibitions in London and other nonsense, while watching from the comer of his eye Emma disappearing through the beech trees on the arm of Felix Meecham. The only part of the day which had been satisfactory was the journey, during which Hugh had held Emma's hand on the dual carriageways and they had talked about old times.
She had refused to dine with him and he had delivered her back to the flat just after seven. There Lindsay Rimmer had gree
ted them with ebullient cheerfulness and embraced Emma as if she had been away for a twelvemonth. The immodest displays of affection on both sides made Hugh uneasy; but he observed Lindsay and thought her very beautiful. She was certainly all of a glow at Emma's return and the two of them laughed together a great deal. Since then Hugh had been allowed to see Emma only twice, when he was invited to tea, and on each occasion Lindsay had been present nearly the whole time. Hugh felt excited, restless and cross, and told himself afterwards that soon he must' take a firm line'. But, taking a firm line was likely to be difficult since he realized how far he was from understanding what it was that confronted him.
Now that Randall had positively named the two women Hugh felt rather relieved than otherwise. It was suitably late, there would be no time for protracted conversation, and it would have been too unnatural for them to part without some such reference. Also given the friendliness of the earlier part of the evening, some mention of these awkward topics might constitute, for the topics themselves, a civilizing touch. Hugh hated to have unmentionable things about him.