The Philosopher's Pupil

by Iris Murdoch

  Tom instantly and obediently left Emma’s bed and returned to his own where he fell at once into a blissful deep happy sleep from which he did not emerge until after eight o’clock.

  He dressed quickly and ran out to the kitchen where he could already hear breakfast sounds. Emma, frying sausages, gave him a glance and a curt good morning. Emma, dressed in his suit, complete with waistcoat and watch chain, with his narrow rimless spectacles, looked alien, almost forbidding.

  Tom said hello and sat down at the kitchen table. Then he got up and laid the table and fetched fruit juice from the fridge. He was given two sausages, said thank you, and ate them. Emma drank some fruit juice but did not eat or say anything or look at Tom.

  At last Tom had said, ‘Thank you very very much for last night. But you’re angry with me.’

  Emma said, ‘Last night was unique.’ After this he got up and went away into his room.

  When he had gone Tom felt a dark, dense anguish curiously shot with joy. Later Emma emerged from his room and made some quite ordinary remarks and generally signalled the resumption of ordinary life, which Tom, rather to his surprise, found himself able to join in resuming. Since then they had carried on as before and yet not as before. There were no strange looks or new and unusual touches or contacts. It was rather as if they both moved more gracefully in an enlarged space. There was a new consciousness in the air; but this remained vague, and Emma’s occasional ‘sulks’ did not seem different in quantity or quality. At bedtime on the next day it had been somehow clear that Tom was to occupy his own bed and not Emma’s. Tom was not upset. He lay in his bed and laughed quietly. And in the days that followed, during which ‘that night’ was not referred to, he was not unhappy. He felt a diffused excitement, a sort of secretive tenderness, which increased his bodily well-being and his natural cheerfulness. Today (the day of the arrival of John Robert Rozanov’s letter) Emma had been especially testy and touchy, but still without making any allusion to their ‘happening’. Would it now, Tom wondered, disappear undiscussed into the past, and become like a dream, gradually unhappening into oblivion?

  ‘Are you going?’ said Emma.

  ‘To see Professor Rozanov? Certainly I am. Wouldn’t you? I’m dying with curiosity.’

  ‘You could go now, this morning. It’s not eleven yet. How long would it take you to get there?’

  ‘Twenty minutes. Whatever can it be? Could it be something awful?’

  ‘You mean like his having secretly married your mother?’

  Tom began to laugh, then abruptly stopped. Good heavens! That he could not endure; but of course it was only a joke —

  Emma went on. ‘Don’t worry, if he had he would say “I have something to tell you”, not “I have something to ask you”.’

  ‘But what can he want to ask?’

  ‘Something about George?’

  Tom felt suddenly disappointed, then frightened. ‘God. I hope not. I don’t want to muck around with George’s emotions. I mean - Christ, I hope George doesn’t find out I’ve been visiting his guru - that would be trouble.’

  ‘You haven’t visited him yet. Maybe it would be wise not to go.’

  ‘Oh I’m going! I’m going now!’

  ‘You ought to shave.’

  Tom ran to the bathroom and shaved carefully and combed his hair.

  ‘And put on a tie.’

  Emma was looking round the bathroom door and Tom could now see Emma’s face wearing its old familiar quizzical mocking look. He turned and went to his friend and put his arms around his neck.

  ‘Emma, all right, I’m not going to talk about it if you don’t want, but something or other did occur, heavens knows what, and I just want you to know that I’m not worrying about it at all and that the most important aspect of the matter as far as I’m concerned is that I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, you dope, but nothing follows from that except that.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that rather a lot? And that night — ’

  ‘A hapax legomenon.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Something that only occurs once.’

  ‘You mean like the birth of Jesus Christ?’

  ‘Don’t be damn silly about this — ’

  ‘Well, the world can be changed — ’

  ‘Oh just shut up, will you. Put a tie on.’

  Tom found a tie. ‘Do you think I should clean my shoes?’

  ‘No. You aren’t visiting God.’

  ‘Oh. Aren’t I? Will you walk with me?’

  ‘No. Clear off.’

  By the time Tom McCaffrey had reached John Robert Rozanov’s door he had worked himself up into a fair fever. He had pictured every sort of embarrassing, maddening, painful, disastrous business involving George, Rozanov, and himself. Rozanov wanted him to tell George never to communicate with him again. Rozanov wanted him to console George and ask him not to be too upset because Rozanov was too busy to see him any more. (Tom could imagine how George would greet such an embassy.) Rozanov wanted him to instruct George to print some public amendment of some article in which George had misrepresented or plagiarized Rozanov. Trying in desperation to think of something that Rozanov might want which was not connected with George, his disturbed fantasy put forward the idea that perhaps John Robert was about to reveal that he was really Tom’s father! Tom had never entertained this speculation before and did not now entertain it for long. It was promptly driven from his head by the indignant shade of Alan McCaffrey, assisted by that of Fiona Gates. Love for his parents suddenly filled Tom’s soul, disturbing him even more. And these two, as they had always been, comforting and benign ghosts, gave Tom a heightened sense of the vulnerability of happiness and of how dangerous and unpredictable and just bloody tiresomely powerful this eccentric philosopher might prove to be.

  Arrived at the door of 16 Hare Lane, he dabbed nervously at the bell, which made a tiny grunt. He pushed it again harder and longer and produced a loud impertinent hiss. The door opened instantly and was filled by the stout burly form of the philosopher.

  John Robert said nothing, but stepped awkwardly backward into the dark hall to make way for Tom who stepped awkwardly forward into the space. John Robert then moved backwards, followed by Tom, to the door of the sitting-room, then turned his back on the boy and blundered forward into the room.

  Outside, a brilliant April light dazzlingly displayed blue sky, fast white cloudlets, the Cox’s Orange tormented by wind, a disconsolate fence with slats missing, unkempt ruffled damp grass. The room by contrast was dark, low-ceilinged and narrow, the tiny grate and mantelpiece like a slit.

  John Robert said, ‘Please sit down. Please - sit - down — ’

  Tom took in two hopeless slumping low-slung armchairs, and since he had to obey the command rapidly, reached out and seized from beside John Robert an extremely rickety upright chair which he placed on a black lumpy rug beside the fireplace and sat down.

  John Robert looked at the armchairs, made as if to sit on the arm of one and decided not to. Tom leapt up.

  ‘No - you sit - I’ll - there’s another chair - in the hall — ’

  John Robert pushed past Tom who was still standing, and returned with another upright chair which he put with its back to the window. He then closed the door into the hall. They both sat down.

  Tom felt he should say something, so said ‘Good morning’, which sounded rather stilted. He had not only never spoken to Rozanov before, he had never been at close quarters with him or had an opportunity to inspect his face. This in fact was difficult to do now with the dazzling light behind, and the moving clouds making the room seem to tilt like a ship laid over.

  ‘Mr McCaffrey,’ said the philosopher. ‘I hope very much that you will excuse the liberty - if it is a liberty - of my asking you to hear - what I want to say — ’

  Tom felt a pang of fear which he had recognized as a pang of guilt. It had not occurred to him in his imaginings as he walked along that John Robert might want to accuse him of somet
hing. What had he done? What could he have done, to harm, hurt, annoy, incense this great man - or to make the great man imagine that he had been harmed or hurt and could justly be annoyed or incensed? Tom searched his conscience, at once a prey to vague huge remorse. Where in his imperfect conduct could this fault lie? Did John Robert think that Tom had encouraged George to - or told George that —? But almost at once, as he confusedly accused himself of he knew not what, he was aware that John Robert was himself upset, perhaps even nervous.

  ‘Please — ’ said Tom, ‘there’s nothing you could - I mean if there’s anything - I could do - or — ’

  ‘There is,’ said Rozanov, ‘something that you could do — ’ He stared at Tom, wrinkling up his pitted brow, his big moist prehensile lips thrust forward.

  Tom thought: Oh God. It is about George.

  ‘Before I explain - or at any rate - before I - introduce - what I want to - I hope you will not mind if I ask you a few simple questions.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And may I say, as I said in my letter, that I desire - indeed I require - that you should regard everything that is said in this room as strictly confidential, or to use a simpler and stronger word, as a secret. You understand what that means?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will not speak of this conversation with anybody!’

  ‘Yes. I mean no, I won’t — ’ It did not occur to Tom to query this requirement, which after all, since nothing had yet been revealed, might have seemed unreasonable, so much was he already under the spell of the philosopher. In any case, he would have promised as much and more at that moment, so great was his curiosity.

  ‘I want to ask you, then, these questions, which I believe you will answer truthfully.’

  ‘Yes - yes — ’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘And in good health? Well, obviously you are.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom thought, he wants me to go on an expedition to find something, buried treasure in California, for instance.

  ‘You are at the university in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Do you enjoy your work?’

  ‘Yes, on the whole.’

  ‘What sort of degree will you get?’

  ‘Second-class.’

  ‘How will you earn your living?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘I’d like to be a writer.’

  ‘A writer?’

  Tom thought, he wants me to write his biography! What perfect fun, trips to America —

  ‘What have you written so far?’

  ‘Oh, just poems and one or two stories —’

  ‘Have you published anything?’

  ‘Just one poem in the Ennistone Gazette. But of course, I think I could write anything - I’m interested in biography — ’

  ‘You don’t want to be a philosopher, do you?’

  ‘No-no, I don’t.’

  ‘Good. Would you say that you were a cheerful person?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think I’d be a good travelling companion.’

  ‘A good travelling companion.’ John Robert was interested in this point.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m awfully good-tempered and practical— ’ John Robert and Tom, his biographer, secretary, his privileged aide, travelling about America, but the world, together … George would be furious. Oh God, George. But could it all be somehow about George after all? Perhaps he wants me to be George’s keeper? Tom gazed fascinated at John Robert’s huge face and fierce yellow-brown eyes and red lips pouting with will.

  ‘Your family are Quakers. Do you practise your religion?’

  ‘I go to Meeting - to the Quaker Meeting - sometimes. It means something to me.’

  ‘Did you go last Sunday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Are you engaged to be married?’

  ‘No. Certainly not.’

  ‘Are you - please excuse these questions - but - well - are you living with a young lady?’

  ‘No.’

  Tom’s mind switched back to buried treasure. An adventure, a quest. Good. A dangerous one? Not so good. Suddenly he thought, he wants to recruit me for the Secret Service! That’s what all this ‘confidential’ business is about! I’ll say no. I couldn’t stand that. But it’s exciting all the same, and jolly flattering really!

  ‘But you have done - I mean - you have had - sexual experience?’

  ‘Yes, but not much, and not now.’ Unless what happened last Sunday night counted?

  ‘Are you heterosexual?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom thought, that settles it, it must be the Secret Service. It’s true I’m heterosexual. But suppose he asks if I’m homosexual too?

  This question did not occur to John Robert. He pondered. Tom had begun to feel, staring at the philosopher and distinguishing his face from the light behind, slightly giddy. The dazzling white clouds were driving the narrow tilting ship-room swiftly along. John Robert’s face, huge with command and troubled concentration, was difficult to keep in focus. Tom thought, he is coming to the point, whatever in heaven and earth the point may be. He could hear his own fast breathing and Rozanov’s.

  ‘I imagine you know that I have a grand-daughter, Harriet Meynell.’

  This took Tom completely by surprise. He had not heard the local gossip. He was vaguely aware that such a person existed, but he had never seen her or thought about her and felt extremely vague about her age. He thought, does he want me to take her on visits to the Natural History Museum? Jesus, how can I get out of this?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She is seventeen.’

  This put a slightly different complexion on the matter. Was he to show her round London, take her to Hamlet? Where was she anyway? He said, ‘Is she in America?’

  ‘No, she is in Ennistone, at the Slipper House. Didn’t you know that I have rented the Slipper House from your mother?’

  ‘No.’ Tom did not feel bound to go into his relationship, incomprehensible to himself, with Alex.

  ‘She is there with her maid,’ said John Robert with a ridiculous solemnity.

  ‘Oh - good — ’

  ‘She has never been in Ennistone before.’

  ‘I could show her the town, if that’s what you want — ’ Or was the weird old codger merely chatting?

  ‘I want you to meet her, to get to know her.’

  ‘And introduce her to some young people? I could do that. I could give a party for her.’ Already Tom was planning whom he would invite.

  ‘I don’t want her to meet anybody else. Only you.’

  ‘But why - why only me?’

  ‘Only you.’ John Robert was breathing audibly through his mouth which he had opened wide, and was gazing at Tom with a look which seemed like hatred but was no doubt only the result of concentration. Being so concentrated upon was beginning to give Tom a panicky feeling of being trapped. He wanted to get up and lean on the mantelpiece, or open the door into the hall. But he could not move. He was fixed by John Robert’s glare and John Robert’s purpose.

  ‘Perhaps you could explain,’ said Tom, trying to sound forceful but sounding timid.

  ‘She needs a protector.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll protect her - I mean when I’m here - I’m usually not here. I can protect her for a fortnight.’

  ‘I shall require more than that.’

  Tom thought, he is mad, he is totally unhinged. He is mad, and yet he is not mad. As he underwent the philosopher’s gaze Tom felt rather mad himself as if he might suddenly have to get up and go to John Robert and touch him.

  ‘I’ve got to go back to London and - and work — ’ said Tom. ‘I can’t sort of - do you mean a sort of chaperone? I’m not the person you want.’ As he said this he felt a sudden pain, as if to be separated from John Robert forever, after this conversation, would be terrible anguish! Is he hypnotizing me? Tom wondered.


  ‘You are the person I want.’

  ‘But what to do, what for — ’

  ‘I don’t want a lot of people, a lot of men — ’

  ‘A lot of men?’

  ‘Vying - for my grand-daughter.’

  The word ‘vying’ sounded so odd and foreign to Tom as John Robert said it that Tom could hardly for a moment understand it.

  Tom said, ‘She’s only seventeen! And anyway, why not? Am I supposed to keep them off?’

  ‘She is nearly eighteen.’

  ‘Then can’t she look after herself? Girls can these days. If you want a chaperone, can’t her maid do it?’

  ‘You ask if you are supposed to keep them off. Yes. I want that to be - clear.’

  ‘But how can it be! I can’t devote the rest of my life to her!’

  John Robert was silent, leaning back now and staring.

  What is this that I’m being turned into, this task that is being forced on me, Tom thought. Shall I go, shall I run? Shall I suddenly be bloody rude? He could not. He said, leaning forward and speaking gently as to a child, ‘Do you want me to sleep in front of her door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to be her brother?’

  ‘No. I do not want you to sleep in front of her door, I do not want you to be her brother.’

  Tom took in the emphasis. ‘Whatever do you want then?’

  ‘I want you to marry her.’

  John Robert rose to his feet, and Tom, as the philosopher’s huge form blocked the light, sprang up too and retreated to lean against the flimsy shiny little sideboard. They remained so, John Robert staring open-mouthed and Tom gazing at the blurred image of the philosopher’s head, beyond which the cold brilliant sun was shining on the agitated branches of the apple tree. Then, as if there was nothing else to do, they both sat down again. Tom found that his heart was racing and that he was blushing violently. He thought, I didn’t know that one could blush from fear.