An Accidental Man

by Iris Murdoch

  Mrs Carberry opened the door. She had been away from work for several days. Her youngest child had been ill. And she had had to take Ronald to the hospital for some tests. She said she thought Miss Dorina must be still in bed and would he wait in the drawing-room. Dorina was still ‘Miss Dorina’ at Valmorana and this seemed so appropriate that Austin scarcely noticed it. He stood in the drawing-room now, trembling suddenly with pleasure and desire. He pictured his tenderness. He pictured her joy.

  Mavis came in. Mavis was dressed in a blue overall and had tied her slightly fuzzy hair in a ribbon. She looked very tired.

  ‘I’m sorry to come so early,’ said Austin, ‘but could I see Dorina, please?’

  ‘Dorina —’

  ‘Mavis, I’ve decided at last. Please forgive me. I know I’m a hopeless character. See, I’ve brought my suitcase. If you can bear to have a married couple in the house.’

  ‘A married couple — ?’

  ‘Me and Dorina! Mr and Mrs Gibson Grey happily reunited at last! It’s happened, you see, the great moment has come, I knew it would, Dorina knew it would. So can we stay, please? Just till we can get the flat back? You don’t mind do you, Mavis? Oh do call her, please. I shall kneel at her feet, I shall. Oh she will be so glad —’

  ‘She isn’t here,’ said Mavis.

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll wait then. Mavis, you aren’t angry? I know I’ve been awful. Has she gone shopping?’

  ‘We’ve been telephoning your place, only no one answered. We thought she might be with you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She’s gone. I thought she might be with you. I’ve been ringing Charlotte too, only she’s still away. I don’t know where Dorina is.’

  ‘But you must know — she can’t have gone — she didn’t tell me —’

  ‘She didn’t tell me. She just packed a suitcase and left. I came back and —’

  ‘She didn’t leave a message? Oh, Mavis, where can she be, where — ?’

  ‘All right, don’t panic,’ said Mavis. ‘She’s with friends somewhere.’

  ‘But they would have telephoned you, everyone knows —’

  ‘She’s not a child! She can look after herself. She’s not a stray dog. She’ll communicate, she’ll come back, she may turn up at any moment, I’ll ring you when she does. Don’t worry, Austin, we’ll let you know at once, don’t worry. Now I must get back to my jobs.’

  ‘Mavis, let me stay for the love of God. I must be here, I’d go mad anywhere else. Here is where she’ll come back to. Oh what can have happened to her? Please, Mavis, let me stay here, please, until she comes back, I must.’

  ‘Austin, honestly, I’ll send news —’

  ‘Mavis, I’m so frightened. She will come back, won’t she? Please, please let me stay here. Oh what can have happened? I know you’ve got plenty of room at the moment. Any corner will do. I won’t need any sheets.’

  ‘Oh all right,’ said Mavis. ‘All right, all right. You will need sheets, though.’ She left the room and walked slowly up the stairs.

  Dearest Hester,

  George and I have been putting our heads together about Charlotte and we’ve decided to start a sort of FUND to guarantee her so much a year. The situation with Gracie is delicate to say the least, and we much doubt if Char would accept her help anyway, so as Char just is in straitened circs we felt some rallying round of an acceptable kind was indicated. Then I had the brilliant idea of recruiting Matthew as president and nominal head of the whole affair (so respectable!), and he said he would, and now all we need is a lot of people to contribute a little regularly, and (yes, dear!) we were hoping that you and Charles would stump up. I shall ask all our gang, and then get Matthew to tell Char, and we’re sure that if he says he arranged it all she’ll say yes! Well, that’s my latest bomb. Could you talk it over with Charles and let us know what you think, not just about a contribution but about the whole idea?

  We so much enjoyed the party. I have a confused memory of my departure! How tall and handsome Ralph has become.

  Ever, with love

  Clara

  PS Charlotte seems reasonably OK, in fact she has gone away on holiday. We are doing our best to cheer her along.

  Dear Ralph,

  I am sorry I have not managed to see you since our interesting discussion about the dissolution of the monasteries. Thank you for your note about the party, I am sorry you found it so dull. Your parents, in league with mine, are, I am told, hoping that I shall persuade you not to drop out. Do you really need persuading? Does not self-interest unambiguously suggest that a world of order, money, sanity and cleanliness, together with a roof over one’s head, is preferable to being a drugged penniless tramp who cannot even take a bath? And think of the company one would have to keep. The conversation of even a moderately educated stockbroker is more amusing than that of most self-styled ‘hippies’. There is work of course, which the dropper-out is presumably shunning. But is not work a blessing? The unoccupied human consciousness naturally becomes a place of torment even without the assistance of LSD. What have I forgotten? Oh well, morality. I suppose we ought to lend our considerable talent to any society which is even half way decent: how rare they are becoming these days.

  I cannot see you tomorrow. I expect we shall meet in public at the Dizzy Club. I shall leave your copy of Toynbee in my desk, and you could pick it up in the afternoon, only I won’t be around. I send this as usual by the hand of Williamson minor. What an intelligent and attractive little boy he is.

  Yours

  Patrick

  PS Would you like to have my paper on the Vikings? We could discuss it later on.

  Dearest Gracie,

  this is just a routine apology for what happened at the party. I don’t flatter myself that my untoward behaviour will have knocked even the smallest apple off your cart. The main hurt is to my own vanity. However, we have known each other all our lives and this momentary rise in temperature prompts me to tell you, what you already know, that in some totally unfrenzied but deep sense of the word I love you and always will and would always help at need, always. That’s a lot of alwayses from an unattached young fellow with his life before him, but I know you understand me as you (dear me, here comes that word again) always have. I greatly esteem your fiancé and I am sure you will be very happy; and as for you and me, it was just one of those things. I gather you are still in Ireland where I trust the customary rain is in abeyance.

  Your friend

  Sebastian

  PS The latest thing is that Patrick is to be a good influence upon Ralph! I am not however in my brother’s confidence, as I believe you are in yours.

  Dear Andrew,

  I am so glad that you want to buy Kierkegaard and that we so quickly agreed upon the price! I am sorry I had to leave you with MacMurraghue. I shall never forget your departure into the night with MacM’s head weaving about now high now low! What happened thereafter? How I agree with what you said about Ludwig and Gracie. Another good man done for. Let’s meet in town when you’re next up. I must go now to take my sister to Brands Hatch. All the best.

  Oliver

  My dear,

  Austin is installed. There was nothing I could do about it. He walked in! He now occupies the house like a sort of bored mad child. He follows me around. He haunts the drawing-room and the kitchen, starts reading books and then loses them, switches the television on and off and frightens Mrs Carberry. He nearly has an apoplectic fit every time the telephone or the door bell rings. (So do I.) Ronald saw him yesterday and at once started howling like a dog. I have had enough of this and I urgently want to see you. I’m sorry to sound so peremptory, it’s just the nervous strain. Since you now can’t come here (it’s rather funny really, isn’t it) suppose I come over to you? I could pick up the letter you want Dorina to have from you directly she arrives back. I agree we mustn’t trust the post, I am out sometimes and Austin snoops about and lo
oks at everything. However I don’t really think it’s a good idea, your writing to Dorina. She obviously ran away to make a complete break, she must be fed up with all of us. (God, I don’t blame her!) I think you’d better keep silent in that quarter from now on. However it’s up to you. Matthew darling, let me come and stay with you for a few days. I need this, you need this. You know from experience how easy it is to conceal a girl in your house. (Sorry!) Not that there’s any reason for us to be secretive, but at the moment I couldn’t bear gossip. I’ll send this by the hand of Mrs C. I can’t telephone from here, but will slip out and ring this afternoon. The absolute lack of news is awful. Do you think we should tell the police? I suggested this to Austin and he became almost hysterical. Oh what an awful time. Remember I love you.

  Ever, ever

  Mavis

  PS For God’s sake get Charlotte out so that Austin and Dorina can have the flat as soon as D. turns up.

  PPS. Of course Mrs C. can bring that letter for Dorina if you really want to send it. I honestly think it’s better not. And letters are such dangerous properties. Please send me at least a little note by return. I miss you agonizingly.

  Ralph,

  sorry, sorry, sorry. I can’t quite remember the later part of the time. If I hadn’t left my handbag behind at the Odmores at least we could have eaten something. I remember somebody crying on a bridge, but I don’t know whether it was you or me. It was all a horrible business, sorry. To go off with you was a mean action and my saying so throughout the evening and indeed night didn’t make it any less so. I return the pocket-knife which you so sweetly gave me in that pub. I feel my life may easily become a mess, like the mess so many of my friends live in, and I don’t want that. I know you are no longer a child and I say to you do not be in love with me — I think you are not really, it is just an idea. There is nothing here. Well, at least we haven’t been worse than stupid. I can’t write you a clever letter, this is just to say please, in that way, go away, and I am so sorry and I do wish you very well, sorry,

  Ann

  Dear Karen,

  I would like to see you. I am sorry about the tone of my last letter. Naturally your relations with other people are none of my business. I write to you now simply because I am feeling depressed and because you once expressed affection for me, and although much of it may in the natural course of events have evaporated I trust a residuum of good will may still remain to form the basis of a friendship, for I begin to realize, on mature judgment, that I need friends, including ones of the other sex. No skin off R. Pargeter’s nose or anyone’s. I think starting on an ordinary job has affected my mind more than I would have expected. I feel old age is imminent and if there are any people at all whom one knows well one should cling to them shamelessly. So could we have lunch next Wednesday? I will pay.

  love

  Sebastian

  My dearest Mavis,

  I too am very worried about the lack of news, but there could be so many innocuous reasons for it and I think we may get a telephone call at any moment. It would be premature to alert the police. Waiting is terrible, but will seem as nothing in retrospect. It is indeed ironical that Austin is now in occupation. However, in Dorina’s absence we should anyway have had to keep both the Villa and Valmorana manned in case of her return to either. For this reason too I think that, much as I should love to have you here, you should stay where you are for the present. I fear we cannot trust Austin even to stay at his post, and I think you should, at all events, be on the reception committee. I send, along with this, by Mrs Carberry the letter for Dorina, which of course you may read. I have left it unsealed — seal it when read. I think it is important for her to have it. Of course you must hand it to her personally at a safe moment, be sure that it is destroyed immediately afterwards, and meanwhile keep it effectively hidden. I agree that letters are dangerous properties. Please burn this one at once. About the flat, Charlotte is still on holiday but I will contact her on her return. I send very much love to you and look forward to seeing you soon when this nightmarish interim shall be over.

  Ever, with fondest love

  Matthew

  My dear Dorina,

  we have been very worried about you and this is a little note to welcome you back. It was indeed unfortunate that Garth arrived and that he upset you so much. However he told you in essence nothing which you did not already know about the peculiar difficulties of your situation. Whether you and I acted wisely only an all-knowing providence could really tell. We acted certainly with a will for the good, and must hope for such blessing as may attend, automatically perhaps, and even in the absence of the above-mentioned providence, upon such willing. Think back to what was most seriously said and thought between us and hold to that. In respect of any courage and wholeness you have been able to gain I am of course a mere instrument and as such to be cast aside. May you go forward to happiness with Austin. I cannot sufficiently tell you what joy it will bring to me to hear of the renewal of your marriage. As to a certain necessary silence, there are things which even in wedlock must be devoutly buried in the heart, and there is no need to feel guilt or fear about this. I send this little note just to reiterate my goodbye. There can of course be no more communication between us. But simply because our leave-taking was so ragged I take the liberty of thus sending you my good wishes.

  Ever your well-wisher

  M.

  Destroy this letter at once.

  Dear Oliver.

  thanks for helping me with MacMurraghue. He really is a dear man, though not that evening at his best. He was sick in Sloane Square and then felt better and now mercifully cannot remember anything that happened. He is doing penance in his room with the Parmenides. I enclose a cheque for Kierkegaard. I am delighted, and will come to London when term ends to pick him up. With schools imminent and my men all having nervous breakdowns I cannot escape at the moment. I was, I fear, indiscreet about Ludwig’s arrangements. The girl has charm and though illiterate is no fool but I am reluctantly concluding that I cannot stand her. A pity, as he is so extremely nice. I look forward to seeing you.

  Au revoir.

  Andrew

  PS My ablest pupil has just attempted suicide. I must go and surround him with affection.

  Dear Patrick,

  was your last letter serious? Are you serious? Everything you say now sounds so bloody insincere. You usen’t to be like that. You say ‘What have I forgotten?’ I answer, ‘Everything that makes life worth living.’ Are we machines? You sound as if you were becoming one. And you have the cheek to lecture me. No, I do not want to read your paper on the Vikings, to hell with the Vikings; and rather than see you in public at the Disraeli Club I would prefer not to see you at all. I want to see you properly alone and soon. I want an explanation of your letter. All right, we might talk about dropping out, I don’t know what I feel or think at the moment, I’m a mess, not made of steel like you. Let us meet, I suggest, indeed insist, tomorrow before breakfast near the pavilion. Surely you can make that. I return this note by the hand of snotty dog-faced Williamson minor.

  Yours

  Ralph

  My dear Ludwig,

  you have, as you must realize well, put us into a very difficult and painful position. If only it were possible to discuss this matter with you face to face. Your last letter must, I believe, have been written with the hope that it would at last effect a capitulation on our part and that you would then have all that you want — Oxford, your bride, and complacent parents. But it cannot be. Your mother, I should say at once, does not want me to write to you quite so firmly, but she is (and wishes me to tell you this) in entire agreement with the gist of my statement. If at this point we did what might seem easiest, gave way and blessed your wedding and your plans for leaving permanently this country we would, we seriously believe, be betraying our duty to you in the deepest way. Dear Ludwig, you cannot have any doubt of our love. And we have had till now the blessed felicity of a family life entirely devoid of quarrelli
ng, which in this time is unusual. This very fact may in some ways have masked disagreements and divergences which have perhaps existed for some time and are only now making themselves felt. We have never been harsh parents, we have never needed to be, and the appearance of harshness now is simply, under God, the pursuance of our most strict duty and our love. Please read this letter carefully. It is not merely an obstinate repetition of what we have said to you before. About your general attitude to the war, although we do not share it, we will not argue. We understand and respect the view which you have expressed to us in your letter, and earlier too in our frank talks together, and we do not either wish or hope to change it. That is not our question. But now and before it is too late we urge two things. We think that if you are to adopt this position you should adopt it honestly and explicitly and openly in the USA and not evade the issue by hiding in Europe. The search for good cannot be divided in the way that you propose, it must be a total giving and not a calculation. This is not to say that you should seek what you call martyrdom, but that you should at least confront the issue directly when deciding on your policy. (And here, as I said earlier, there are many possibilities.) We also think (and this is a quite different matter) that you should not hasten into a marriage with a young lady who is, we now feel quite certain, not suited to be your wife. Please forgive these words which we do not utter lightly. We have in fact felt this from the start, but hesitated to say so because we hoped that you would change your mind of your own accord. Your letter about bridesmaids and such things makes us indeed understand the reality of your plan and prompts us to say that, from our view, we cannot applaud your choice. Unfortunately as you have not brought your intended bride to see us we cannot judge her from first experience. Our impression has been formed from your letters about her and her family, from her own letter to us, and from her photograph. This may seem meagre evidence, but in such an all-important matter an impression must without flinching be formed by parents, and the lack of data is not to be ascribed to our fault. We feel that Miss Tisbourne is too young, and that she is insufficiently educated and insufficiently serious to be your life-long companion. This is not, my son, the idle prejudice of severe and gloomy parents. You know yourself how much we too care for youth and gaiety and the happier side of life. But a secure future cannot be built simply upon the light-heartedness of youth. You must have a partner to whom you can reveal the deepest of your soul and whose judgments of value are likely to accord with your own. You and your wife should be, in the gravest sense, morally akin. If you are not your union will be a hell of superficiality, loneliness and ultimately deceit. I beg you, Ludwig, to ponder most carefully what I say. You may not agree. But for our sakes, dear child, I beg you at least to postpone this hasty marriage. Please forgive and understand the truly terrible anxiety of two loving parents concerning their only son. In a few days, after you will have had this letter, I may telephone you at about eight or nine in the morning your time at the latest address you gave. Your mother sends her love and kisses. Always, my dearest son, your loving father,