by Iris Murdoch
That Humphrey was suffering now was indeed evident enough; and Felix took Mildred's word for it that it was because of young Penn; though his imagination, when it occasionally had time to spare for Humphrey's troubles, could do little with the almost ludicrous idea. Humphrey visited Grayhallock several times during Miranda's sojourn at Seton Blaise, and returned each time with a long face. He and Mildred drew together in a private sombre communion which excluded Felix. They were often to be discovered, almost like lovers, holding hands and having conversations which terminated abruptly on Felix's arrival. He could not conjecture the nature of their complicity and when he wondered what they were talking about he found himself shuddering. Eventually Humphrey took himself off to London and Mildred retired morosely to her room.
Miranda, after a day or two of rather feverish elation, joined herself to the general gloom. She seemed incapable of reading anything except the newspaper, and after remarking upon the extreme pliancy of their covers, took no further interest in Hugh's Jane Austens. She lay for hours huddled upon the settee with a rug over her, staring out at the rain, and consoling herself with snacks. Someone, usually Felix, had to come and make conversation with her. She seemed to him ill in some indefinable way, and, in consultation with Ann, he asked the doctor to call again. Ann thought she might be sickening for German measles, but the doctor could find no symptoms, spoke again of shock, and departed cheerfully after accepting a glass of sherry.
Felix found the conversation hard going, but he kept at it. He was not used to children, and as he sometimes listened to himself talking he found his tone of a jovial uncle horribly unnatural and patronizing. He could not imagine that he was making a very good impression, and their relations remained embarrassingly formal. Yet he was at the same time troubled by a continual sense of her exigence and his deficiency. He was still rather vague about her age, and simply could not bring himself, at this point, to reveal so shocking an ignorance to Ann. But although he now felt that the whole idea was a depressing mistake, he took it as his duty to get to know the child a little better. The trouble was, there were so many forbidden topics: everything, in fact, to do with her father and mother. This left Felix, as far as he could see, with books, school, animals, the countryside, and such few mutual acquaintances as could be mentioned with impunity. He soon ran through these subjects and had to start again at the beginning, trying in vain to interest Miranda in the content of the library, which were in fact mainly historical volumes which had belonged to Felix's, also military, father. But Miranda, unmoved by Pride and Prejudice, was not likely to become absorbed by Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic.
In despair Felix decided he must supply her with some reading matter, if only in order to give himself some time off, and he drove to Canterbury with that end in view. But the bookshops provided no inspiration. He finally went to a newsagent's and brought a great pile of periodicals and women's magazines which he hoped would placate the child and keep her quiet. Then he had, before he left the town, another happy conjecture. He thought he would buy her a doll. Whatever age Miranda was, she was certainly still interested in dolls, and had had a large number of her 'little princes' brought over from Grayhallock to keep her company. Of course, for such a discriminating child, it must be no ordinary doll, and he wondered if he should not drive to London and see what Harrods could do. But a Canterbury shop in fact provided him straightaway with a distinguished little toy which seemed to him just right. It was a rag doll attired in the dress uniform of the Brigade of Guards, prettily turned out and complete with a sword and a very convincing bearskin. Felix congratulated himself. Even if he could not entertain Miranda he might at least give her some pleasure. He was, after all, more or less wooing her, and a wooer ought to bring gifts. For Felix never stopped being conscious of the influence which hostile Miranda might have upon his suit with Ann.
After a windy overcast morning it w. as raining again when he got back to Seton Blaise. He had missed Ann's visit, but arranged by telephone that he would go to see her later that evening at Grayhallock. He hoped that his thought for Miranda would please her. With the doll in his overcoat pocket he went to the library.
The lit lamps and the blazing fire gave the room a winter appearance which contrasted uncannily with the greenish yellowish light at the window and the lush wet garden outside. Gusts of rain crossed the lawn and lashed the house. Felix shivered, aware of a pain in his shoulder which might be rheumatism or perhaps just the bruise which he had received when, in catching Miranda, he had cannoned into Penn.
Miranda was lying as usual, stretched out and doing nothing. She was propped up on cushions and a rug covered her legs. Several dolls, dislodged no doubt by the child's restless tossing, had fallen down between her and the back of the settee so that she was half sitting on them. A row of protesting heads rose above her thigh.
'I'm so glad someone's come at last, said Miranda. 'I was getting so bored.
Someone's come, not you've come, thought Felix, discouraged. But he was glad he had got the doll.
'Have some tea with me, said Miranda, indicating the trolley. 'I asked for a spare cup in case anyone comed up.
'No, thanks. But you go on having yours, don't mind me.
'I've finished ages ago, she said, and pushed the trolley irritably away.
Felix took a chair and sat down near her. He felt the fiuniliar constraint, the fatal mask of brightness. 'And how's Miranda today?
'Terrible!
Felix laughed. 'Oh, I'm sure it's not as bad as that.
She was staring at him again in the disconcerting way children have. She lay back against the cushions with an air of languor, pale and yet with a thin warmth in her cheeks which made Felix think: again of the German measles. He supposed he ought to take her temperature, but he shrank from any close-quarters looking-after of her as from something obscene. And now with a slight distaste, almost disgust, he apprehended her immature girl's body spread out beside him, soft, formless, white, like a helpless larva. She was wearing n tartan dress with a neat little collar which made her look childish, yet her face was not exactly that of a child: it was not a woman's face either, but like the smooth ruthlessly innocent visage of some mythological creature, some little demi-goddess of the woods. Ah, he thought, I shall never win her.
'I've been to Canterbury, he said conversationally. 'I know. You said you were going.
'Did I? Ah well. How's the ankle feeling now? Any better?
'Dreadful, Felix.
Her rare use of his name always unnerved him a little. He glanced at her, met the stare, and looked away again. Her face certainly had something of Ann: the pale colouring, the delicacy of nose and mouth, the impression of a slightly strained nobility. Only Ann's worried look was absent, that look which summed rip for Felix so much of her concern for others. Miranda's face, with its frequent expression of triumphant mockery, and now in repose a certain stony aggressiveness, suggested rather the insolence of her father; and as Felix for a second sensed what was almost like the proximity of Randall's soul, he nearly started back from her.
Feeling guilty at this thought he said jovially, 'Better rescue those dolls, you know, before you squash them completely. He reached across her thigh and tried to pull the dolls out of their uncomfortable situation.
'Don't! said Miranda. She pushed his hand away, and began to lift the dolls out herself. She shook each one crossly as she did so as if to punish it.
How clumsy I am with children, thought Felix ruefully. I expect I simply annoy her, and am doing myself no good at all. He touched the doll in his pocket. He felt a little shy about giving it to her. She sat now looking at the dolls with an expression of apathy. Felix said, 'I'm going to Grayhallock tonight. Can I fetch you anything? Any more of the — er — little princes?
'No, thank you. She added fiercely, still looking at the dolls, 'I wish beastly Grayhallock didn't exist. .
'Come, come! said Felix, surprised and a little shocked by this outburst. 'Why have you got it
in for poor old Grayhallock?
'Nothing ever happens there, said Miranda.
Felix thought this was an odd judgement, considering recent events. 'I should have thought where you were things would always be happening. In that, you take after your father, he continued to himself. God help the young men who love you. And those you love.
She just shook her head and posed the dolls upon the rug, spreading out their skirts.
'Whatever possessed you anyway to jump out of that tree? said Felix. He felt a sudden irritation with the hostile young person, an embryonic desire to spank her. He had not liked her remark about her home.
Miranda looked at him, and he saw in her face some strange reassembling of inner elements, like the moving of stage scenery behind a gauze curtain. She looked alert, wary, older.
She said after a moment, 'I felt, just then, entirely indifferent to life. Does that surprise you?
Felix was irritated still further by the complacent formality of her tone. 'Not particularly, he said. 'Very young people often think they feel something of the sort. Though I doubt if you were really indifferent. All the same, he thought, she did risk her life.
'Was it very naughty of me? she said, with an affected childishness which seemed to invite reproof.
'Yes, I think it was, said Felix. 'You might have seriously damaged yourself or someone else, and you scared your mother out of her wits.
'Yes, I was very bad, said Miranda with satisfaction. 'Don't you think my mother is an awfully sweet person.
Felix restrained a desire to slap her. 'Yes, charming, he said. Then, in case she should make some further insufferable remark, he said, 'Why all this indifference to life, anyway? In lots of ways you're a very lucky little girl. Annoyance is making me stupid, he thought. No daughter of Randall's could be a very lucky little girl.
Miranda stared at him, her big hazel eyes glistening and the new liveliness working in her face. Then she looked away and said, 'Sometimes I see no point in going on. We're all going to be blown up soon anyway. I'd rather die young in my own way than die slowly of radiation sickness.
Although she still spoke with a certain complacency, her words shook Felix. He was indeed being stupid with her. He only hoped she was not noticing it. 'I think, he said, 'that one should take life as o job. Just like the Army. Go where it sends one and take whatever comes next.
'But you don't do that, said Miranda, her gaze returning to him mischievously. 'You can choose your job, choose whether you go to India or stay in England.
How smart and well-informed the brat is. 'Well, I'm lucky this time, said Felix. 'It's not usually like that.
'I want to be lucky — or nothing.
'You're very young, he said, beginning to weary a little of the discussion. 'Other people are what matter about life, and that's the best reason why one just can't contract out of it. We are members olle of another, as the service says. But perhaps a child can't be expected to understand.
'Am I a child? said Miranda. Hugging the dolls now she held his gaze. Her eyes were stonily provocative.
Felix hesitated. 'Damn it, of course you are, Miranda! They both laughed.
'Which reminds me, said Felix a little awkwardly, 'I've got a present for you.
He took the doll out of his pocket and set it on Miranda's knee.
It was unexpected. Dropping the others she looked at it for a moment, her mouth slightly open. Then she looked back at Felix and there was in her eyes a dark violence which he could not decipher. He turned back to the doll and reached' out a slow hand to pick it up. She drew it towards her as if to hug it, and then let it fall in her lap. She gave a little whimper and covered her face and then laid her brow against the back of the settee. A series of little cries followed, her shoulders jerking. Then she straightened up, wiped her eyes in which there had been but few tears, and said dryly, 'Thank you, Felix. Felix watched the curious almost contrived, little storm with amazement.
He would never never understand her. He looked surreptitiously at his watch.
Chapter Twenty-eight
ANN walked slowly up the hill along the grass path between the gallicas. Behind her the thick white tower of smoke from the bonfire rose straight up into the air. It was a still day, not raining, but overcast and heavy, under a yellow sky. Ann had been lighting the bonfire, taking from the stables one of the buckets of tom paper kept for this purpose. Nothing was wasted at Grayhallock. And Nancy Bowshott was well trained in the segregation of the contents of waste-paper baskets. Now as Ann mounted she looked on either side of her under the red prickly arching stems to see if she could catch sight of Hatfield. Bowshott had reported seeing him earlier that morning, in the field just below the nursery, devouring a young rabbit.
There was, of course, no word from Randall. A friend of Clare Swann's had reported seeing him in Rome lunching in an expensive open-air restaurant with Lindsay, and Clare had passed this on, with scandalized exclamations, to Ann. The absurd intelligence had hurt her terribly of course, if Randall was in Rome with Lindsay, obviously he would be lunching with her at expensive open-air restaurants. But the vague words had stirred her imagination, and she saw the trailing canopy of vines, the cloudless radiant sky, and beneath in a dappled shade the lovers leaning together.
Ann's mind was out of her control. She had never had this sensation before and it afflicted her with a sort of sea-sickness. She was racing somewhere so fast that she could no longer focus her eyes. Her images of those she loved, her image of herself, seemed lurid, inflated and blurred. Everything was getting monstrously larger and hazier at the same time. She wished that she could rest; but the machine only whirled the faster, dazzling her and inducing a continual nausea.
Ann was by now dreadfully in love with Felix. From the moment when, after his own declaration, she had realized with a shocked surprise that she was ready to fall in love, the descent of her mind into love had taken place with the power of an avalanche. There was nothing between her and a total love of Felix, no barrier, no resting place. Once she had seen the possibility, the whole thing had been there, and with such an authority and completeness that she could now convince herself that she had loved Felix for years. Certainly the thing had been long preparing; and for all the madness of the present moment, she knew that it existed not as something crazy or trivial, but as a deep belonging of her whole personality. She fully laid claim to, she fully inhabited, her love of Felix.
That she was in this extremity she had so far concealed from him, by an avoidance of long or intimate talks, and by a partly simulated concentration upon Miranda. She had even managed, in Miranda's absence, to keep her daughter with her as a topic of conversation, and in this role as a sort of chaperone. She feared some terrible breakdown with Felix, some hurling of herself into his arms or at his feet; and her efforts to preserve an erect posture made her positively stiff. For she knew very well that great as was the sum of her love and of his love at this moment, any such scene would increase it a hundredfold. And she still did not, in the most fundamental terms, know what she was up to.
For the fact was that, keeping pace demonically with her love for Felix, there had developed in her a dark new passion for Randall. It was as if one were the infernal mirror image of the other; and at times when she woke from a troubled sleep, not sure which of the two she had been dreaming of, she almost felt the loves to be interdependent. Being in love with Randall in this way was something entirely painful and with a brutality of its own, as if such' a love could not but hurt its object. It was quite unlike her old romantic love for the young Randall, or her steady married love for her husband. She was not sure indeed how she recognized it as love at all. It was a kind of mutual haunting. It made her frightened; and because she suspected at times that it was simply her resentment and her jealousy run mad, she tried not to indulge it. She began to need help.
Felix had attempted to give her, and she had attempted to give herself, the sense of there being plenty of time. But she knew that this was just
a reassuring fiction. There was, really, very little time. It was not just that at her age, at Felix's age, it was senseless to talk of waiting for years. There was something in the situation itself which demanded a quick solution. She did not doubt either Felix's love or her own, nor had she in general any sense that she ought to send him off to a younger woman. Her own appetite for Felix, with a rejuvenating sharpness and authority, made her feel herself a proper enough object. Soberly, she did not think it likely that Randall would return.
She had been for years unwilling to see that Randall hated her, she had been unwilling to use that word even to herself. But lately she had been compelled to see it, to see the strength and a little to understand the nature of that hatred. Randall saw her as the destroyer, as the devil.
These considerations, however, were very far from adding up to an answer. There were, she felt at times, insuperable barriers between herself and Felix. There was Miranda. The child worshipped her father. Would she tolerate a step-father? Ann had had experience of Miranda's will. Even if this difficulty were overcome there was another, vaster, harder: the Christian view of marriage. Ann had always been a member of the Church of England, zealous, serious, on the whole undoubting, but a little vague about dogma. She had never reflected before upon this particular question. She did not know how to find out what she thought about it and she was afraid' of finding out. She thought that she had it in her to defy authority; but defying her own conscience would be another matter. As yet her conscience, lost somewhere in the uproar of her feelings, had made no pronouncement.
Ann was troubled too by the existence of Marie-Laure Auboyer.
She wished that she had not asked Felix for her name; pale and silent now behind the name, like a funeral effigy, stood the' figure, both pathetic and menacing, of the French girl, whom Ann found herself thinking of both as a rival and as a victim. She had learnt of her existence some time ago from Mildred and had gathered, and felt some quiet pain at the news, that Felix was greatly in love. Mildred had mentioned this in some context of deploring foreigners; and had obviously at once regretted her indiscretion. She had been at Grayhallock twice in the last week, on each occasion in a' state of listlessness out of which she only roused herself in an effort to efface the impression she had then made. In the course of those attempts she let it slip out, perhaps imagining that Ann knew already, that Marie-Laure had gone to Delhi. It was another reason for haste. Felix must if necessary be dispatched to India before it became too late.