The Time of the Angels

by Iris Murdoch

  “That was true. Well, I’m going to hand it over today to the person who—well, the person who’s going to get the icon back for me.”

  “And from whom you’d concealed that you still had the money?”

  “Precisely. He’ll have to pay a little bit more than that for the thing I’m afraid. But it’s a gesture.”

  “Which you’ll accompany with some other suitable falsehood?”

  Leo stared at her and then laughed. “Yes! I’ll hand it over anyway. Oh God! Are you pleased with me, Muriel?”

  “But you’re still in the fix with your sympathetic older woman.”

  “Yes. I can’t think about that now. I’ll find some way out. Look, my dear, you did mean it, didn’t you, about your cousin?”

  Muriel looked away from him. An apparition rose before her, a stifling darkness which buzzed in the corner of the room like a tower of bees. She turned quickly back to Leo. “Yes.”

  “Do understand,” said Leo, “that I’m not an utter fool. I act the fool a lot of the time, but I won’t be out of order here. I do want to meet your cousin, just meet her, whatever happens next and even if nothing happens. Of course I’ve thought about her endlessly since you told me. I can’t help being romantic about her. But if you’ll let me meet her I’ll be good. I swear I’ll be orderly and do whatever you say.”

  “Yes,” said Muriel.

  “Won’t you tell me a little more about her? What’s she like?”

  Muriel set her teeth. She could feel that source of tears in her again, like something vibrating far away. She stood up. “Not now. Some other time. Now I must go.”

  “I’ve said something wrong.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Don’t be cross with me, Muriel.”

  “I’m not cross.”

  “Don’t be unhappy.”

  Getting to the door, Muriel seemed to stumble against Leo. He put his arms round her in the same awkward way and she held on to him fiercely for a moment. As she went out she could hear Pattie’s voice still speaking in Eugene’s room.

  A few minutes later Muriel was quietly letting herself out of the front door. It was very silent outside. The fog was a little less dense and the air was filled with snow. Huge soft white flakes gyrated noiselessly round her, seeming to touch the ground and rise again to flitter through the air in a design which just baffled the eye. The flakes came so thickly they seemed to pack the atmosphere with dense stifling furry cold. Muriel beat them away from in front of her face and then went on with head lowered. The thick snow squeaked under her boots. A bundled-up figure materialized and passed her, going in the direction of the Rectory. It looked like Mrs Barlow.

  Muriel walked swiftly, not looking where she was going, trying to think. At least her ability to think seemed to have come back to her. She had been subjected to a strong pressure. Carel had used authority, and though he had uttered no specific threats it was an authority with a menace in it. Yet what could he threaten her with? Muriel felt she was in danger of losing touch with reality. She had had no time to reflect between seeing Carel and seeing Leo; yet she had instinctively clung to her plan of somehow using Leo. She was frightened of Carel, she was frightened of disobeying Carel. But she was even more frightened of something else, of an isolation, a paralysis of the will, the metamorphosis of the world into something small and sleepy and enclosed, the interior of an egg. She felt as if Carel had tried to recruit her for some diabolical plot, or rather to hypnotize her into a sense of its inevitability. She had needed the roughness, even the absurdity, of Leo to persuade her again of her own existence as a rational independent creature.

  Yet why did she suddenly think of it all as a diabolical plot? If it was a plot it was one with which she had herself long cooperated. She had never challenged the view that Elizabeth was ill and needed to be protected from the shocks of the world. She herself had been Elizabeth’s chief protector from those shocks. She herself had made, and made with deliberate care, the bower in which Elizabeth now seemed so alarmingly drowsy and entranced. It had all seemed necessary. Doctors had come and gone and shaken their heads and warned against exertion and recommended complete rest. Elizabeth was an invalid and was leading the life of an invalid. What was mysterious about that?

  Why can’t I think of it all more simply, thought Muriel. Perhaps it was inevitable that Elizabeth should lead a rather quiet life. But it was not inevitable that she should see so few people. Carel had somehow jumbled everything together. It just needed a little sorting out. It wasn’t such an all-or-nothing business. Why shouldn’t Muriel just go to her father in a firm straightforward way and say to him that she thought Elizabeth needed more company and why shouldn’t she meet young Leo Peshkov for a start? It wasn’t a monstrous suggestion. Why then did she so immediately feel that it was?

  Certainly what she ought to do was to try to explain the whole thing to Eugene. He was there, he was wise, and the idea of thus “involving” him was at once consoling. But would he approve of the idea of Leo being introduced to Elizabeth? Well, why on earth shouldn’t he? It was only to Muriel herself that the plan appeared like a violent action, like the sudden breaking of a mirror. To a rational outsider the idea would seem quite ordinary. Though to make the outsider really understand would it not be necessary to infect him a little with her own more lurid vision of the scene? Yet could she? Would not these fires pale then and seem quite unreal? Were they not quite unreal? I must talk to Eugene, Muriel said to herself. But her image of talking to Eugene was of being held very closely and tightly in Eugene’s arms.

  “Muriel!”

  Muriel shied, slipped, and nearly fell off the pavement. A figure was standing near her in the brownish-white flurry of the snow. Where am I? was Muriel’s first thought. She had walked at random and now someone was calling her by her name.

  “Muriel—”

  Muriel recognized Norah Shadox-Brown. “Oh, hello—”

  “My dear girl, what luck to run into you. I was just going down to call. That brown demon on the door always says you’re out. I was going to call her a liar this time, so it’s just as well I met you!”

  “Oh, yes—” said Muriel. She felt so cut off from Shadox, so listlessly unable to conceive of her, it seemed hardly worth replying.

  “Muriel, I want to have a serious talk with you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Muriel. She wondered how she could get away from Shadox, but she had no strength to invent a lie.

  “What did you say? Look, there’s no point in standing about in the snow. You’re looking perished with cold. You’re not in a hurry, are you? It’s not far to my house. We can walk it in five minutes. A brisk walk will warm us up. No talking on the way! Come along then, quick march!”

  Norah thrust her arm through Muriel’s and began to urge her along the road. Their boots sank into the deepening snow. Snowflakes like cold wool drifted into their panting mouths. Speech would have been impossible in any case.

  Muriel struggled feebly for a moment. Then she quietly, gasping to herself, resented the pressure of Norah’s arm on hers, of Norah’s thigh against her. Then she became indifferent and allowed herself to be hauled along. She even shut her eyes and fell into a sort of trance.

  “Here we are. Up the stairs. I’m up on top. No one lives down below. But of course you’ve been here before.”

  Muriel had been there once before, on an occasion she preferred not to remember, when Shadox had been trying to persuade her to go to the university.

  The sudden warmth of the sitting-room was almost painful. Her thawing feet ached and a fiery touch seemed to outline her face. Automatically Muriel took off her coat and her scarf and laid them on a chair. With some difficulty she took off her gloves. Her hands were stiff and white with cold. She thrust one under her arm and compressed the stiffness, expecting to hear it crack. Her hands were becoming five-fingered patterns of pain. Muriel realized that those tears were going to start again. She felt their glow in her eyes. Whatev
er happened she must not cry in front of Shadox. She went to the window and coughed gruffly into her handkerchief.

  “What a day!” said Norah. “Sit down, Muriel. I think we both need some liquid refreshment! I’ll just make us some coffee. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Muriel continued to stand, smoothing her face all over with the handkerchief, and watching the steady descent of the snow. The snow filled the air, not seeming any more like separate flakes, but like a huge fleecy white blanket which was being gently waved to and fro just outside the window. The door opened again and the coffee-tray clinked down on the table.

  “You look like a refugee, my child! Do sit down and tell me how you are. You ought to have answered my last letter, oughtn’t you. It would have been polite!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Muriel. She came back towards the fire and sat down. “I’ve been—so depressed since I came to London.” She oughtn’t to have said that. It was just what Shadox wanted her to say.

  Norah was silent for a minute or two studying Muriel. Then she said, “I think you’d better tell me all about it.”

  Muriel looked round Shadox’s sitting-room. It was just as she remembered it. A coal fire blazed in the grate and cast sparks of light on to the big brass-handled fire-irons. The mantelpiece was covered with white china cups with elegant flower decorations upon their spotless gleaming sides. White wooden bookshelves filled the two recesses. Norah’s books, with all their paper covers still upon them, seemed as neat and clean and colourful as her china. The flowery chintz upon the chairs had faded to pleasant powdery hues. Excellent modern reproductions of recent French masters hung upon the walls. The wallpaper was spotty with very small roses. Muriel breathed it in with what she was amazed to find was a sense of relief.

  She looked at Shadox. Shadox hadn’t changed either. Shadox never changed. She had looked just like that all the years Muriel had known her. The glittering silvery-grey straight hair framing the lined kindly face, a uniform colour of light biscuity brown. The strong mouth and shrewd confident eyes. Shadox had once represented everything which Muriel despised. Her kindness had seemed sloppy and intrusive, her confidence a blind reliance upon musty values. Now Muriel, giddy suddenly with a sense of having become infinitely older, apprehended Norah as being marvellously, perhaps savingly, innocent.

  “I’m a bit worried about my father and my cousin,” said Muriel.

  “I’m not surprised. Your father is a difficult man. And Elizabeth has a particularly tiresome sort of illness. Here, have some coffee. Tell me how it is.”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Muriel. “I confess it’s getting me down. Of course, Elizabeth is ill, she can’t really go anywhere and she’s not supposed to lift things and so on. But I feel my father rather exaggerates it. He tends to keep her a bit too cooped up, and he’s so touchy about her having visitors. I think Elizabeth ought to see more people.”

  “I entirely agree. I’ve always taken that view myself. Of course, your father is rather neurotic, isn’t he. He’s the sort of man who dislikes visitors of any description. I imagine he hates having strangers in the house.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Muriel. It had not occurred to her that there might be this simple explanation of Carel’s reluctance to let anyone visit Elizabeth.

  “I’ve known lots of people like that. It’s particularly unfortunate in parents who inflict their misanthropy on their children! Of course one has to use tact. How is the child herself? Morale fairly high?”

  “Not bad. I’m amazed how cheerfully she puts up with it on the whole. Only she’s got rather sort of tired and apathetic lately.”

  “It’s a wretched time of year and I expect it’s an anticlimax after the move. Naturally she needs a bit of a change, a diversion. Of course, what she needs most of all is men friends.”

  “I thought of introducing her to Leo Peshkov,” said Muriel. She said this with a sense of uttering some extraordinary blasphemy in a concealed form. It was like saying swear words in a foreign language.

  “Excellent idea,” said Norah. “He’s on the spot, isn’t he. A rather disappointing young man. Not much spunk. But he’s quite nice and you couldn’t want anything more harmless.”

  “I doubt if my father will think so,” said Muriel.

  “Why in heaven’s name should your father object? If you ask me he’s a neurotic, selfish, isolated, self-obsessed person. It’s a very familiar type among men. I hope you don’t mind my saying so Muriel, but a spade is a spade. You must just be firm with your father. You’re still a bit afraid of him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes—” said Muriel. She looked into the dazzling fire and dug her fingers into the corners of her eyes.

  “How old are you, Muriel my child?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Well, isn’t it about time you stopped being afraid of your father?”

  “Yes—” said Muriel.

  It was all perfectly simple after all, there were no nightmares. Elizabeth was a bit lonely. Naturally she needed a change, a diversion. Carel was tiresomely neurotic. He hated visitors. But Elizabeth must see some young people. Leo Peshkov was quite nice, perfectly harmless. Muriel must just be firm with Carel. Carel was a selfish, isolated, self-obsessed person. It was a familiar type among men. Muriel must simply be firm with him. Muriel was twenty-four and it was about time she stopped being afraid of her father. It was all quite simple and quite ordinary.

  “Don’t cry, Muriel,” said Shadox. “There’s nothing dreadful. It’ll all come right. Drink up your coffee. It’ll all come right, my dear child.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EUGENE PESHKOV WOKE up to the knowledge that something very odd indeed had occurred. He lay drowsily with eyes half-closed in the cavern of his lower bunk wondering what it was. It was something odd, disturbing and wonderful. Whatever could it be? He rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow, rubbing his eyes. Then he realized that the sun was shining into the room.

  The room was bleached by the sunshine and lightened and enlarged by it as if it had been lifted up and opened out into an expanse of air. The sky to be seen through the high window was clear and pale and so quivering with radiance that it could scarcely be seen as blue, an azure as brilliant as a diamond. There was too a certain familiar quality in the light, a certain tinkling glittering pallor, which made Eugene’s whole body vibrate with a consciousness almost too piercingly physical to be called memory. He leapt out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. Then putting a chair against the wall and mounting upon it he looked out of the window.

  The fog had been rolled away and the sun shone out of a sky of icy sizzling blue on to a vast expanse of deep untrodden snow. The building site had become a huge snowfield beyond which was revealed a great horizon of snow-touched domes and spires, twinkling in the intense crystal light.

  The emotion which had metamorphosed Eugene’s body now located itself violently in his stomach and he got down in haste. The first thing on which his dazzled eyes could focus was the painted Russian box. He still could not remember what it was associated with the box which so much afflicted him. Some very similar box must have played a part in his childhood. He supposed it might be something to do with his mother or his sister. He put his hand on the box and felt its glossiness, hoping that touch might tell, but nothing came except some ray of unnamable anguish adding itself to the disturbance occasioned by the snowy light. Eugene dressed quickly. He had slept late. He could hear Pattie moving things in the kitchen, he could hear her singing. Even inside the house sounds rang with a difference, higher, as if they flew higher in the air, thinner, purer, like crystal echoes of the snow. This too in all his sinews he knew, he knew.

  Eugene had gone to bed the night before in a state of misery. The loss of the icon had been simply painful, a blow. But the revelation of his son’s iniquity had been a shock of a different kind, something which forced him to become not just a victim but an actor, and an absurd and stupid one. He realized now how much he depended on qui
etness and order and passivity for his well-being and for the dulling of what he still knew of man’s inhumanity to man. Was his stoicism just a resigned forgetfulness after all? He could tolerate what was simple and could be endured passively, as he endured now in passive retrospect the catastrophe of his life. But Leo’s action was a personal attack which jabbed his personality and brought back the ugly particulars of the past. Those things too, at that time, had hurt and humiliated in this way. And then there had been the distasteful intrusion of Miss Muriel, what she had witnessed and what she had said. Eugene’s security was shaken, his indispensable dignity, his sense of decorum, everything which protected him utterly from the casual monkey race of the English and made him their superior. He felt menaced and diminished.

  However, that had been yesterday before the great manifestation of the sun and the snow. Now Eugene felt disturbed and excited, distinctly better. He regarded himself in his shaving-mirror. Since Pattie’s arrival he shaved every day. He stroked his moustaches which curved stiffly, thick on the lip and tapering to two wiry points below. They were a rusty brown, the colour his hair had once been. His hair, a peppery grey, still grew in a wavy tonsure round his bald spot, luxuriant enough to conceal it except when the wind was blowing from a certain direction. He examined the hair in front. Perhaps it was getting a little thin. He coughed in a sympathetic way at his mirror image and then hurried out of his room and into the kitchen.