by Iris Murdoch
‘She says she’s been attacked by an owl,’ said Ludwig.
Mitzi was sitting in her little kitchen, pouring some whisky into a glass with a shaking hand.
‘She’s drunk,’ said Austin. He had just come in out of the rain, looking tired and bedraggled, his mouth drooping.
‘I’m not drunk,’ said Mitzi, ‘and I was attacked by an owl. I sat all the evening in that pub and you didn’t come.’
‘I only said I might come,’ said Austin.
‘If I hadn’t been wearing my head scarf it would have clawed my eyes out.’
‘I must ring Gracie,’ said Ludwig.
‘Go to bed, Mitzi,’ said Austin. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t turn up.’
‘Where were you? God, my head hurts. I was so frightened.’
‘I got so bloody depressed I went for a long walk, I can’t remember where.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’ve been to visit your little wifie.’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Austin. ‘I haven’t. And don’t talk about Dorina like that. I’m soaked. I’m going to bed.’
‘To wifie, to wifie. You’ll hug a pillow and pretend it’s her.’
‘Goodnight!’
Austin departed through the sitting-room and slammed the door.
‘Are you all right, Mitzi?’ said Ludwig. ‘I must go and ring —’
‘No, I’m not all right. I’ve been alone all day and then waiting for that drip. I don’t know why I bother with him, he’s just a scrounger. Here, let me look at myself, it feels funny, it’s hurting.’
Mitzi was still wearing her glossy black mackintosh and a damp pink scarf round her head. She got up unsteadily and peered into the little mirror propped on the dresser. Then she pulled the scarf off. There was a long sticky red scar down the side of her face, from the temple to the jaw.
When Mitzi saw the wound she began to wail. She wailed rhythmically like a dog and tears spouted from her eyes. ‘Oh Christ, look at that.’
‘Dear me, you have hurt yourself,’ said Ludwig. ‘However did you do it?’
‘I told you, I was attacked by an owl!’
Whatever happened, he thought, she must have been pretty drunk not to notice it till now.
‘Ooh, ooh, ooh,’ wailed Mitzi. In a moment it would be hysterics.
‘Sit down,’ said Ludwig. ‘Sit down, Mitzi. Here, have your whisky, please don’t cry.’
Mitzi laid her forehead on the table and wept, trying to grasp her whisky at the same time.
‘What’s the matter?’
Ludwig jumped.
Garth was standing in the doorway, his face wet with rain, his hair blackly streaked about his head.
‘She says she’s been attacked by an owl. Look.’
‘Better wash it,’ said Garth. ‘Move the chair here beside the sink, come on. Where’s the disinfectant? Yes, bring that bottle and a clean cloth — Well, find one, look in those drawers. Put the towel round her shoulders. I suppose the water’s hot, good. Take that glass away from her, Now stop that noise, please, stop that noise!’
Mitzi stopped her wailing. She sat helplessly, looking up at Garth while he bathed the wound, her mouth wetly open and tears coursing down her face. She looked like an enormous baby.
‘The water’s very hot,’ said Garth, ‘but that’ll do it good. Now a clean towel, please, a clean towel. Fine. Now you’d better go to bed. Leave it uncovered. It’ll be stiff tomorrow. If it looks at all septic go to a doctor. Now off to bed.’
‘We’ll have to help her,’ said Ludwig. ‘She’s rather drunk.’
Mitzi was whimpering again, very softly, almost droning, gazing away across the room and patting the scar rhythmically with her fingers.
‘Go to bed,’ said Garth. ‘We’ll help you. Where’s her bedroom?’
‘Next landing.’
Mitzi, holding her glass, was propelled through the sitting-room, towering over her helpers like the image of a goddess being wheeled slowly along. The stairs were difficult, as Mitzi insisted on clutching the glass with the hand which was also holding the banisters. A trail of whisky followed them up.
‘Just tumble her on the bed,’ said Garth. He extracted himself from under Mitzi’s huge arm, switched the bedroom light on, and then went away down the stairs and closed the sitting-room door after him.
Tumbling her on the bed was not so easy. Ludwig, suddenly left with all her weight heeling over upon him, nearly lost his balance. Then somehow they both fell on to the bed together. Mitzi’s elbow descended on to his chest like a pickaxe. Ludwig gasped. The next moment he found himself gripped in a fierce gorilla-like embrace.
It took Ludwig a moment to realize that the big girl was actually embracing him, another moment to discover that struggling was useless. Mitzi was immensely strong. Ludwig tried to raise his knee up between them, but Mitzi’s giant arms, like two sinuous tree trunks, had drawn their bodies close together. He felt her panting whisky-laden breath upon his face and then a huge tongue appeared to be licking him.
Ludwig relaxed and said in a small firm voice, ‘Mitzi, let me go, please.’
There was a crying sound, as if somewhere a little girl was weeping. Then the terrible grip relaxed. Ludwig, bruised and breathless, fell off the bed. He found he was kneeling beside it. For a minute he had been in black darkness. Now he was surprised to find that the light was on and that he could see Mitzi’s large pale freckled tear-stained face very close to his own, all crumpled up with weeping and curiously spotted with blood from the long scar which was bleeding a little. Big hands touched his shoulders gently. ‘I’m sorry, Ludwig. I must be drunk. I’m so unhappy. And that owl frightened me so.’
Ludwig kissed her on the brow. Then somehow he had dug one arm in underneath her neck. He felt the warm vertebrae. He kissed her on her hot wet alcoholic mouth. He got up, dignified. ‘Goodnight, Mitzi.’
‘Goodnight, darling Ludwig.’
He went out and turned out the light. Unless drink sent her to sleep at once he would almost certainly meet her in her dressing-gown later on. God. He had nearly reached the sitting-room door when it occurred to him that he was sexually excited.
Garth had left Ludwig to put Mitzi to bed, not out of any embarrassment which related to her, but because he was afraid his father might emerge and he did not want to be seen with one of Mitzi’s arms hung round his neck like a bolster. Thus he would not appear to advantage. And as he had not seen Austin for some time he felt that their next meeting should be initiated with some due solemnity. He had come tonight to see Ludwig.
However when the door closed behind him he forgot Ludwig and Mitzi instantly and was back again in a little street on the west side of New York. It was in the early hours of the morning and he was alone. It was very stupid to be alone in a small New York street in the early morning hours. He had been to a party and had felt such horror of his fellow guests that he had refused all offers of lifts and had set off by himself and found the way back longer than he had realized. He had met a few solitary walkers and eyed them and been eyed by them. A police car kerb-crawled him and then drove away leaving the scene empty. A little later he saw something happening on the other side of the street. Three people were standing there in a group. Then suddenly they were all in wild motion. Two of them were attacking one. It was all taking place underneath a street lamp, brilliantly lit, perfectly clear, theatrical. The two attackers looked like Puerto Ricans, the attacked was a negro. A knife clattered to the ground. Garth saw another knife entering the negro’s clothing at his side, heard him scream. The negro, who was not a powerful man, was flailing with his arms and screaming. ‘Help me, help me!’ he cried to Garth, and out of the mêlée he seemed to lean towards him like a child starting from its mother’s arms. One of the men had gripped the negro’s arms from behind and was drawing them back. Number two had picked up the fallen knife and was pulling the negro’s shirt at the neck as if he wanted to take his tie off. ‘Help me, help me!’ Garth, who had stopped, watched. While number on
e held on behind, number two had bared the man’s throat and, slowly and deliberately searching with his left hand for the place, drove the knife in at the base of the neck, just above the collar bone, where it would go straight into the subclavian artery. Garth saw the knife blade flash and heard one more scream, the last one, before he turned and walked on. He did not run, he just walked at a fast steady pace, not looking behind him, and took the next and the next. After that he walked till dawn.
Ludwig came in, looking rather red. ‘Gee, she’s large. I wonder how she did get that wound.’
‘Is my father in?’ said Garth.
‘Yes, but he’s gone to bed.’
‘Good. Can we stay here?’
‘I guess so. This is Mitzi’s sitting-room really, but we all use it.’
‘Your room’s upstairs — ?’
‘Yes, next door to your dad.’
‘Then we’re better here.’
‘Look,’ said Ludwig, ‘do you mind if I just telephone to Gracie. I was going to telephone to ask if I could come round, but now —’
‘Good heavens,’ said Garth, jumping up, ‘don’t dream of changing your plans for me, especially not at this hour. I’ll be off.’
‘Stop, please, Garth. I see Gracie all the time, and I’ve hardly seen you. I’m not staying the night over there, nothing of that sort, it’d just be coffee. Garth, please stay, I must talk to you, please. Gracie won’t mind.’
‘All right.’
Garth sat, and heard through the open door Ludwig talking to Gracie on the telephone. ‘Yes, honey, I just got back from the meeting, it went on longer than — No, I guess I won’t if you don’t mind — That’s right, I might get some work done — Goodnight, honey pie, sleep well, sweetie puss, yes, darling, and you — there — dear — um — yes — goodnight, little chicken.’ Kisses. Click.
Garth noted that Ludwig was already prepared to mislead his fiancée.
Ludwig was red again, perhaps because he realized that Garth had overheard the conversation. ‘Whisky?’
‘A little. Has my father got a job yet?’
‘I don’t think so. Not unless he has today.’
‘How’s Dorina?’
‘I haven’t seen her. Why don’t you go?’
‘I can’t,’ said Garth. He must not go near Dorina. He wondered how much Ludwig understood of all that. ‘When are you getting married?’
‘September. It’s a big do, I’m afraid.’
September. Ridiculous.
‘Say,’ said Ludwig, ‘when I’m married we’ll still be friends, won’t we?’
‘Yes.’ But it was unlikely. Marriage made people worldly. Even now Ludwig seemed to have less edge to him. Garth stared at Ludwig’s greyish furry head, close cropped again now, his earnest long-lipped face and often-blinking puzzled doggy-brown eyes. Why had this chap once seemed so important?
‘Have you seen your Uncle Matthew yet?’ said Ludwig.
‘No. I don’t suppose I shall. I’m not going to be at the Buckingham Palace garden party. Why?’
‘He sounds an interesting guy. I’d like to meet him.’
‘He is an interesting guy,’ said Garth. He had already decided to keep clear of Uncle Matthew. Uncle Matthew knew too much. And look what he had become. ‘But he’s a false prophet.’
‘A false prophet?’
‘He’s an entangler. He’ll entangle you if he can. He’s a fat charmer, charming his way to paradise. He’s the sort of person who makes everyone tell him their life story and then forgets it.’
‘You seem to feel strongly about him,’ said Ludwig.
‘I don’t.’ Garth was about to tell Ludwig that if Ludwig fell in with Matthew he would have to fall out with Austin, but he decided not to. He could not set up as his father’s keeper, it was a false role. And some things must be left to Ludwig’s intelligence. ‘I haven’t seen him for years, actually.’
‘Gracie seems to be very keen on him,’ said Ludwig.
Garth said nothing.
‘Say, did that bag of yours ever turn up?’ said Ludwig.
‘No.’
‘Austin said there was a novel in it.’
‘Yes, but it’s not important. I would have torn it up anyway. It was a false sort of thing — personal muck — you know. I’m not a novelist.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Well — it was about a chap who saw somebody stabbed in the street and felt it meant something absolutely important to him, and kept trying to explain this to everybody, to his parents and his girl and his teacher and so on, and nobody understands and then they think he’s mad and imagined it all and in the end he commits suicide.’
‘It sounds jolly good,’ said Ludwig.
‘Don’t be silly, Ludwig,’ said Garth. ‘You must have developed softening of the brain since you came to England.’
‘Don’t bite me. I can’t conceive of anything you wrote not being somehow good.’
‘I’m not a writer, that’s the point, not an artist. You may know a truth but if it’s at all complicated you have to be an artist not to utter it as a lie. Almost everything uttered is lies.’
‘What about philosophy?’
‘That’s the worst lie of all, because it’s so gentle.’
‘Gentle? Why did you give up philosophy?’
‘Because I saw a man stabbed in the street.’
‘So the novel was about you?’
‘Yes, in a trivial way. The hero was me, I suppose all first novel heroes are the author. But it didn’t express the point, not the point.’
‘Who was the guy who was stabbed, I mean the real one?’
‘I don’t know. A negro. He was done in by a couple of thugs. He may have been a thug himself. It was late at night, no one around. He shouted for help. I watched. Then I walked on.’
‘I guess I’d have walked on too. But you feel guilt?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Garth. ‘Part of the point is that I don’t feel guilt.’
‘I would,’ said Ludwig. ‘I feel guilt about everything. But if you don’t feel guilt why is it so all-important?’
‘Oh don’t —’ murmured Garth — ‘don’t —’
‘You know, I’ve so much wanted to talk to you about my situation.’
‘You mean your engagement?’
‘No. My not going back home to fight.’
‘Oh that. What about it?’
‘You’re the only person I can tell this to really. My parents feel ashamed of me. They think I’m ungrateful, they think I’m scared, they hate my breaking the law. They don’t want me to stay here, they think I’ll be extradited. And of course they don’t really want me to fight either. They’re all mixed up. I’d like you to read their letters.’
‘Are they leading you to change your mind?’
‘No, of course not. But I feel sometimes that I’m in a dishonest position. To go back and resist is OK. To stay away and resist — well, it’s not resisting, it’s having the best of all worlds and leaving the suffering to them.’
‘Bosh,’ said Garth. ‘You’ll suffer, you’ll see to that. As for being lucky, why shouldn’t you be? On the other hand, if you feel so unhappy about it why don’t you go back?’
Ludwig looked miserable. ‘I don’t see why I should,’ he said. ‘I’m no politician. I’m a scholar.’
‘Stay here then. What do you want me to say?’
‘Garth, you don’t understand. The war’s wrong. We agree on that? Now —’
‘Not all that again,’ said Garth. ‘Of course the war’s wrong, in an abstract sort of way. But even if you were to go and fight it, that wouldn’t matter. Do that, if you so much want to please your parents.’
‘You haven’t got it! I feel it’s dishonourable to do what’s right in an easy way, and yet — you see I keep thinking and thinking about that war and all the suffering, the bombs, every day, at this very moment, and the kids and the women —’
‘I daresay you do think about it. Thinking about th
e misery of the world is a favourite contemporary occupation. And if you can’t think the television set will think for you. I keep thinking about that chap being knifed and about those students I saw having their heads battered. I daresay those chaps are sitting it out in some brain-damaged twilight at this very moment. But so what? The mind is a mechanical sort of cinema show with a rather small number of reels.’
‘I feel it’s dishonourable not to go back and be martyred and yet to go back would be totally irrational. And by staying I do what’s objectively right, in that I refuse to fight in that war.’
‘So you have to choose between unreason and dishonour. All right. The only thing that’s certain is that you will choose.’
‘You’re not being very helpful,’ said Ludwig.
‘You want total reassurance. I can’t give it.’
‘I don’t. You didn’t talk like this at Harvard.’
‘At Harvard I couldn’t see. Now I can. At least I can see more. The point is, it doesn’t really matter very much what you do. What you do will be decided by causal factors in your nature which in a way are deep, and in a way are utterly superficial. Deep because they’re mechanical and old. Superficial because their significance is, in relation to the real you, trivial. In a way nothing matters very much, though in a way everything matters absolutely. It needn’t matter what you do, though it can matter a good deal how you do it. Meanwhile virtue is just a necessary illusion.’