by Iris Murdoch
Adam’s mother called him across the dark garden.
‘Coming!’ He picked up Zed and put him inside his shirt, warm soaking-wet dog against warm soaking-wet boy.
‘Damn, that creepy priest is here,’ said Brian.
‘How do you know?’
‘There’s his bike.’ A lady’s bicycle was propped against the fence.
Brian and Gabriel and Adam and Zed were returning from their visit to Alex. Their house (though it was not in Victoria Park) was not far away. It was dark now and the sweeping headlights showed the bicycle, the fence, the yellow privet hedge, the side of the house, painted pink, as the car turned off the road into the garage.
They tumbled out, Adam and Zed racing first along the side passage toward the kitchen door which was always left open. And into the kitchen indeed, and not for the first time, the creepy priest had penetrated.
When Brian and Gabriel arrived Father Bernard had already established his usual easy relations with Adam and Zed, holding the little dog up aloft in one hand while Adam laughed and tugged at the black robe.
Gabriel, aware of how much Father Bernard annoyed Brian, and of how jealous Brian was of people who got on easily with Adam, quickly, after greeting the priest, put Adam’s supper, which was standing ready, on to a tray. ‘Here, Adam, take your supper, then quick to bed, no television. Good heavens, you’re soaked, find a towel — ’
Adam and Zed vanished.
‘It’s your supper time,’ said Father Bernard, ‘I won’t trouble you, I’m just calling for a little minute, I won’t stay — ’
There could be no question of his being asked to supper. Gabriel, avoiding Brian’s look, said, ‘Have a quick sherry.’
The priest accepted the sherry. Turning politely to Brian he said by way of greeting, ‘Christ is risen.’ It was the week after Easter.
Brian said, ‘I know, he rose last Sunday, I suppose he is still risen.’
‘Good news is never stale,’ said Father Bernard.
Brian thought, he’s come to talk to Gabriel about George. This thought, together with the postponement of his supper, caused him extreme irritation. He could not decide whether to stay and spoil the tête-à-tête which no doubt they both wanted, or go and leave them to it. He decided to go. Gabriel would feel guilty and he would get his supper sooner. He marched into the sitting-room and turned on the television. He despised television but still craved to see the misfortunes of others.
Gabriel and the priest sat down at the kitchen table. Gabriel took some sherry and a cigarette. She touched his sleeve (Gabriel was a ‘toucher’). Of course, being a Quaker, she did not officially belong to his flock, but he took a liberal view of his responsibilities.
Father Bernard Jacoby, a convert of Jewish origin, was the parish priest. He was an Anglican, but so ‘high’ that it did not occur to anyone to call him ‘the Rector’ or address him as ‘Rector’. He was addressed as ‘Father’ by those who approved of him. Many viewed him with suspicion, not least his bishop, who had been heard to remark that Jacoby was ‘not a priest, but a shaman’. Some opined darkly that the time would come when he would celebrate one Latin Mass too many. His Church reeked of incense. He was a comparative newcomer of whose past not much was known, except that he had been a chemistry student at Birmingham and a champion wrestler (or perhaps boxer). He was thought to be homosexual, and lived permanently under various small clouds.
‘Well, Father — ’ Gabriel knew that he had come to talk about George and some excitement stirred within her.
‘Well and well and well indeed. I was refreshed to see Alpha and Omega so happy. We should welcome such glimpses of pure joy and feed upon them like manna.’
‘Not everyone is glad to see others happy,’ said Gabriel. In talking to Father Bernard she adopted a solemn mode of speech which was not her usual manner.
‘True.’ The priest did not pursue this evident but pregnant idea. He gazed amiably at Gabriel with an air of cunning attention.
Father Bernard was fairly tall, a handsome man though odd-looking. He wore his dark straight sleek hair parted in the middle and falling in fine order to the level of his chin. He had a large nose with prominent nostrils, and rather shiny or luminous brown eyes whose penetrating directness expressed (perhaps) loving care or (perhaps) bland impertinence. He was thin, with thin mobile hands. He always wore a black cassock, clean, and of material suited to the season, and somehow managed to make his dog-collar look like old lace.
‘How is Stella?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Gabriel.
‘Of course, but how is she?’
Gabriel, who had seen her that morning, reflected. ‘She only says accurate things. I don’t know what she feels, but whatever it is she’s making some enormous effort to get it right. She cares about her dignity; in her it’s a kind of virtue.’ She added, ‘Why don’t you go and see her?’
‘I have. I wondered what you thought.’
Stella was not to be numbered among Father Bernard’s fans. It was somehow typical of the man to have fans. She did not dislike him, as Brian did, but she was suspicious. She did not believe in God. But then neither did many of the fans.
‘What did she say?’ said Gabriel. This question was prompted by senseless jealousy. She was full of senseless jealousies.
‘We spoke. She said little. I said little. I sat. I went.’
‘I’m sure she was glad.’
‘I don’t know.’
Gabriel wondered if Father Bernard had been disappointed at not having ‘got something out of’ Stella. Brian said he was always scurrying about trying to charm afflicted people.
Gabriel said, ‘About George - if you want me to tell you what really happened I can’t, I mean I only know — ’
‘Oh what really happened - who ever knows what really happened - God knows.’
George was not a fan either, but he was, to Gabriel’s mind, a more promising subject for the priestly charm than Stella was. At any rate, she liked the idea of some finally desperate and broken-down George being mastered by Father Bernard.
‘What do you think happened?’ he said.
‘It was an accident, of course.’
It was remarkable how readily people, including Gabriel, thought ill of George. In fact Gabriel thought George had done it on purpose, and kept in fascinated suspense the idea that he had half intended to kill Stella. She had once only, for a moment, seen George in one of his rages, shouting at his wife ‘I’ll kill you!’ It was a terrifying sight, Gabriel had never seen anything like it. Gabriel knew that Stella would never forgive her for having had that glimpse behind the scenes. Stella tried to conceal George’s undoubted domestic violence, just as she tried (vainly) to conceal his sexual infidelities. He had also attacked people who annoyed him, a gipsy, a bus conductor, a student, perhaps others: ‘losing his temper when drunk’ was one way of putting it. A charge of ‘grievous bodily harm’ was once in view, it was said, only clever Robin Osmore kept George out of court. Alex’s professed view that George was just a random forgivable drunk was not generally held. The absence from his life of ordinary norms of politeness was taken as a sign of deeper moral anarchy. It seemed that there were barriers instinctively erected by civilized citizens, which just did not exist for George. People were afraid of him, and Brian was not alone in thinking that George ‘might do anything’. People sensed a monster, no doubt they wanted a monster. Yet what did the evidence amount to?
Gabriel said, ‘Everyone speaks ill of him.’
‘They like a scapegoat, to have someone at hand who is officially more sinful than they are.’
‘Exactly. Perhaps he’s made worse by our opinions. But I’m sure he is terrible to Stella.’
‘You said it was an accident.’
‘Of course - but I mean - I think she ought to get away from him.’
‘Because he might kill her?’
‘No, to be alone and have another life, she’s obsessed by George, she’s wasting herself, her love d
oesn’t do him good, it just enrages him. Her love is like duty, like something sublime, made of idealism and awful self-confidence. She thinks she’ll elevate him. She ought to kneel down beside him.’
‘Do you tell her this?’
‘Of course not! She’s too proud, she’s the proudest person I know. I wish you’d talk to George.’
‘And do what to him?’
‘Batter him, break him down, make him weep.’
‘Tears of repentance and relief?’
‘You could save him, George could be changed by love, not Stella’s, another kind. His awfulness is an appeal for love.’
The priest laughed, heartily and too long, then snapped his fingers, a habitual gesture when he wanted the discussion to change course. He stood up. ‘Do you know when Professor Rozanov is coming?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Gabriel, rising too, annoyed at this brusque treatment of her moving appeal.
‘Did you ever meet him?’ Father Bernard knew of our distinguished citizen only by hearsay.
‘No,’ said Gabriel. ‘I saw him in the street once. Brian met him, and of course George was his pupil.’
During the last exchange Brian had turned up the sound of the television considerably in order to demonstrate his displeasure.
‘What does Brian think of him?’ said the priest, raising his voice.
‘Better ask him,’ said Gabriel, raising hers and opening the door. ‘Brian! Father Bernard wants to know what you think about Professor Rozanov.’
Brian came in, walked across to the gas stove and peered into one of the saucepans, pulling its lid off and banging it on again. He stared at the priest who did not, however, at once repeat his question, but said instead, ‘Why is Professor Rozanov visiting us?’
‘He isn’t visiting me. I don’t know, arthritis, come to take the waters — ’
‘Do you know where he’ll be staying?’
‘No idea, Ennistone Royal Hotel.’ (Queen Victoria had visited Ennistone when Victoria Park was building, and went to the Institute where the Prince Consort praised the waters and spoke of Baden-Baden.)
‘He hasn’t been here since his mother died,’ said Gabriel, ‘but people say he’s coming back now for good, he’s going to retire here.’
‘What is he like?’ The television noise from the next room was almost drowning their voices.
‘Rozanov? He’s a charlatan. You know what a charlatan is, a fake, a trickster, an impostor, a busybody who pretends to be able — ’
‘Oh don’t shout,’ cried Gabriel as she ran to turn off the television.
The priest made his adieux.
Later in the evening Gabriel and Brian were still talking about George and Stella and Alex.
‘You must drop that Slipper House idea,’ said Brian, ‘Alex would never let us live there. Besides we’d hate it, right on top of her.’
‘We’d use the back gate — ’
‘Forget it.’
‘I want that house.’
‘You’re so acquisitive. And you think Alex is wasting our substance.’
‘She’s so extravagant — ’
‘You mustn’t think like that, it’s mean, it’s petty.’
‘I know!’
‘You shudder if Alex breaks a cup.’
‘She’s careless, and she will use the best stuff all the time.’
‘Why not, it isn’t your cup, it probably never will be. She’ll leave everything to George. You know we wouldn’t lift a finger.’
‘She might have consulted us before selling Maryville.’
Maryville was the seaside house.
‘It was nothing but trouble, that place; dry rot and then squatters — ’
‘Going to the sea isn’t the same after you’ve lived there; it’s made that lovely piece of coast seem all sad.’
‘There you go again, property, property, property!’
‘Alex doesn’t use the Slipper House. That time last summer I saw her painting stuff, it was just the same as it was years ago.’
‘Maybe she meditates there, it isn’t our business, try to imagine her life, for heaven’s sake. You don’t like this house.’
‘I do because it’s our house, but it’s so small.’
‘The trouble with you is you’ve never got used to being a poor Bowcock.’ Gabriel’s branch of the family had not, for some reason. shared in the ancestral money.
Gabriel laughed. ‘Maybe! But we need more room. If we have Stella here — ’
‘Do we have to have Stella here?’
‘I think so.’
‘She wouldn’t come.’
‘I talked to her again, very tactfully. I think she’s afraid to go back to George.’
‘Husbands and wives often understand each other better than well-meaning outsiders imagine.’
‘Anyway she wants an interval.’
‘You seem to want her to leave George.’
‘She goes on thinking she can cure him, she goes on looking for little signs that things are getting better — ’
‘That’s love.’
‘It’s an illusion.’
‘In a way,’ said Brian, ‘it can’t be an illusion.’
‘I think George really hates her.’
‘That’s something she will never believe.’
‘That’s the trouble. Think of the misery there must be in that house, and George involved with that other woman. I think Stella should have a quiet time to think it over. She’s still in a state of shock, she’s sort of prostrate.’
‘Stella prostrate? Never!’ Brian admired Stella.
‘Do you know, George hasn’t been to see her since the first day?’
‘George is demonic, like Alex,’ said Brian. ‘He would feel it stylish not to turn up, then it would seem inevitable.’
‘You keep saying he’s a dull dog.’
‘Yes, he’s commonplace, a thoroughly vulgar fellow, like Iago.’
‘Like - really! But Alex isn’t demonic, she’s become much quieter, a sort of recluse, I feel quite worried about her.’
‘You love worrying about people. Alex just doesn’t want to see how old and decrepit her friends are. She sees herself as a priestess, she goes on playing the femme fatale, she imagines men falling madly in love with her.’
‘I suppose they did. Wasn’t Robin Osmore madly in love with her?’
‘Dozens of them were. But that was a hundred years ago. And it wasn’t Robin Osmore, it was his father. Thai’s how old she is.’
‘She doesn’t look it.’
‘I keep longing for the time when Alex is just a poor old wreck, a pathetic confused old thing wanting to be looked after, but it never comes.’
‘You’ll hate it when it does.’
‘I shall dance.’
‘You won’t. You’re proud of her, you all are. There’s a sort of governessy grande dame aspect of Alex which supports you.’
‘OK, but that’s a metaphysical matter and strictly private. Just don’t ask me to love her.’
‘You should talk to her about George, it’s no good with me there. I really do think we should take some sort of collective responsibility for George.’
‘Women always want to rescue men, to save them from themselves, or help them to find themselves, or something.’
‘I said collective responsibility — ’
‘George needs electric shocks and some of his brain removing.’
‘I can’t think how he can live with himself.’
‘Stella ought to ship him out to Japan. He’d do well in Japan, they are all Georges there.’
‘He must be in hell.’
‘George in hell? Not a bit of it. He blames us.’
‘Well, we are to blame because we speak ill of him, we’ve turned against him and abandoned him.’
‘I mean he blames us, everybody, the world, everything except George. He has chronic hurt vanity, cosmic resentment, metaphysical envy. George has always behaved as if he were being outrageously cheated,
something stolen, something lost.’
‘I suppose he has guilt feelings.’
‘It isn’t guilt, it’s shame, it’s loss of face. He’s probably more worried about losing his driving licence than about having nearly killed his wife. Anything wicked or evil in himself he immediately shifts on to the enemy, the others. He’s lost all sense of ordinary reality.’
‘He feels insecure.’
‘I daresay Hitler felt insecure!’
‘You’re exaggerating wildly. Everyone says how violent George is, but we don’t know the circumstances, it all builds up by hearsay. I think people are just against him because he’s unconventional and that frightens them. They’re afraid of him because he’s not polite!’
‘He’s certainly given up the niceties of human intercourse, but that’s just a symptom. George hates everybody. He makes one understand terrorists.’
‘Can’t you feel pity for him? Do you think a day or an hour passes when he doesn’t think about Rufus?’
‘Loss of child, loss of face.’
‘How can you — ’
‘He probably pitched the child down the stairs in a fit of rage and then convinced himself it was Stella’s fault.’
‘Don’t say that, Brian, I know other people do, but you mustn’t, please -’