The Flight From the Enchanter

by Iris Murdoch

  She reached out for the picture of Nicholas which stood always on the table beside her bed and began to study it. Annette was always moved, both by the fact of her extraordinary resemblance to her brother and by the fact that, because of the difference of their hair, no one seemed to notice it. This made a kind of sweet secret between them, a secret written upon their flesh but covered by a cloud. Annette felt herself at times to be so close to Nicholas that she was sure they must be in telepathic communication. Nicholas had thought this too, at a time when he was interested in psychic phenomena, and had tried to establish it by experiment. Nothing sensational had come of this, however.

  Annette looked into the face of her brother. It was a recent photograph, which she had taken herself last summer in Switzerland, which showed Nicholas in an open-necked shirt, with arms folded, looking very gravely into the camera. Behind him was the Lake of Geneva. He looked like a poet. Annette sighed. If Nicholas were only here, he would advise her. As he was not here, should she confide in Rosa? That was the question.

  Annette was still staring into the photograph as into a mirror when there was a knock on the door. Annette imagined that it was probably Rosa, since today was a holiday at the factory, and she gave a guilty start and put the photograph down on the counterpane. She called ‘Come in’. The door opened very slowly and a strange apparition presented itself. A very slim and tall young man, dressed in a red check shirt and flannel trousers, with a blue scarf knotted round his neck, leaned cautiously in through the doorway. His skin was very fine and pale and his eyes were very blue. He had brown hair and a rather bold expression. Annette was impressed by this figure, which she had never before set eyes on, and said to it, ‘Hello!’ The young man, after looking carefully at Annette, sidled in through the door and replied ‘Hello!’

  Annette, who felt that social initiative was at present beyond her, wrapped her dressing-gown closer about her and looked at her visitor with curiosity and said nothing. Jan Lusiewicz returned her look and then smiled. Annette found his smile charming.

  ‘I come to look for Rosa,’ he said, ‘but I think she is weg, away.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Annette. ‘I haven’t been up yet.’

  ‘You are ill?’ said Jan. ‘Or you stay in bed always so late?’

  ‘No,’ said Annette. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, feeling that it was about time this was established.

  ‘I am Janislav Lusiewicz,’ said Jan. He pronounced his name with a flourish which made it incomprehensible to Annette. ‘I work at factory with Rosa. I am engineer. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Annette Cockeyne,’ said Annette, and felt that she had nothing particular to add to this information.

  ‘You are pretty girl,’ said Jan. ‘How old you are?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ said Annette. She spoke tonelessly to indicate her disapproval of this forwardness.

  ‘So!’ said Jan, ‘we are just right ages, no?’

  Annette was not quite sure what this meant, but felt it to be impertinent.

  Jan suddenly reached out and picked up the photograph of Nicholas which was lying on the bed. ‘This your boyfriend?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Annette furiously, ‘it is my brother! Give it back to me! I haven’t got a boyfriend.’

  Jan returned the photo. ‘So pretty girl not have boy friend,’ he said, ‘that is bad. But brother, that is good. I too have brother. You love your brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annette.

  ‘I too, I love my brother,’ said Jan. ‘Is not always so in England. In Poland all love their brothers, in England is not.’

  ‘I’m not English,’ said Annette savagely. ‘I have no country. You can wait downstairs for Rosa, if you like.’ She was clutching the photograph of Nicholas to her breast. She felt suddenly that she was going to cry.

  ‘I go in a minute,’ said Jan. ‘Don’t be afraid, I do nothing.’ He turned and looked about her room. ‘Nice room you have,’ he said. ‘I want always so nice room. But so is difficult when man comes poor to other country, foreigner always poor.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Annette.

  ‘In Poland I am rich man, big gentleman,’ said Jan, ‘but now is all stolen.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Annette. She realized with a sort of relief that she could postpone her tears no longer. When Annette wept, it was like a summer storm, a prodigious downpour without warning. Large tears welled suddenly from her eyes and coursed conspicuously down her cheeks.

  Jan was amazed. ‘I not frighten you, I hope,’ he said. ‘But I do nothing!’

  Annette just wailed. Jan approached and stared down at her curiously. ‘Stop crying,’ he said. ‘Look, I make you laugh. I make Polish dance, see!’

  He posed for a moment, and then began to hurl himself violently about the room, uttering Slavonic whoops, his legs and arms flying out in improbable directions. Annette stopped crying. The room shook with the impact as Jan, leaving the ground at regular intervals, rejoined it without misgivings. The furniture was beginning to leap about in sympathy. The chest of drawers started to hop decorously. Annette stared. The whole room was dancing. The precious stones jumped lightly to and fro upon their blue cloth and then one after the other they began to spring to the floor. Diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts and rubies, the spoil of many continents, pattered to the ground between Jan’s dancing feet. ‘Stop!’ cried Annette.

  Jan stopped abruptly in a Slavonic attitude.’ Oh, pick them up!’ she cried, and pointed to where they still rolled about on the dark boards, reflecting various lights. Open-mouthed, Jan obeyed, and when he could see no more of them he heaped them into Annette’s open hands. She examined them carefully to see that none was lost, and then poured them into the pocket of her pyjamas.

  Jan was regarding her with a mixture of doubt and respect. ‘They are just glass,’ he said, ‘or real jewels?’

  ‘Real jewels,’ said Annette.

  ‘So they are worth much money?’

  ‘Very much money.’

  ‘So you are rich girl?’ said Jan.

  There was a noise downstairs and a sound of voices. Jan turned abruptly and opened the door of Annette’s room. He went out and leaned over the banisters and called ‘Rosa!’ Annette heard from below an exclamation of surprise, and then Rosa’s feet on the stairs. But Jan, instead of going down the stairs to meet Rosa, turned back into the room and waited for her.

  ‘I am here!’ he called.

  Rosa hesitated at the door. ‘May I come in?’ she said, and came in. She looked at Jan and she looked at Annette, who was still sitting up in bed. Some emotion which Annette could not decipher showed for a moment on her face, which immediately afterwards became expressionless.

  ‘I just meet Annette,’ said Jan. ‘Perhaps we have some coffee now. No work, no hurry, isn’t it?’

  Rosa said ‘splendid!’ and then said to Annette, ‘Nina has just called. I met her at the door.’ She left the room.

  ‘You go and help Rosa make the coffee,’ said Annette.

  ‘I see Rosa plenty at factory,’ said Jan. ‘I see you never before, perhaps never again.’

  Annette could not avoid his eyes, and found in them an expression of tender solemnity which was both absurd and touching. She smiled at him and they were silent. Rosa knocked and entered. She brought a tray with two cups upon it.

  ‘You not take coffee with us?’ asked Jan.

  ‘No, I must look after my visitor,’ said Rosa. She laid a book down on the dressing-table. ‘You may need this too.’

  As the door closed, Jan picked up the book. It was a Polish-English dictionary. He made a face. ‘That mean she is angry,’ he said, ‘but I soon bring her back.’ He sat down on the foot of Annette’s bed.

  Rosa went slowly down the stairs. She was feeling very shaken. It was the first time that one of the Lusiewicz brothers had dared to come uninvited to the house in Campden Hill Square. In the very early days, before Hunter’s unaccountable spite against the brothers had developed, and befo
re the arrival of Annette in the house, Rosa had brought them there once or twice. But since then, she had always met them elsewhere and had assumed it as an unwritten rule that they were never to visit her at Campden Hill Square. As she descended the stairs, she wondered why this seemed so imperative. She could not have the brothers visiting her at Campden Hill Square; and this was not just because of Hunter. She felt suddenly sick and afraid. Jan’s unheralded appearance displayed a new boldness. It was a portent.

  She found herself staring into the face of Nina, who had stood politely at the kitchen door while Rosa made the coffee, and who was now hovering about the hall, not sure whether she ought to go into the kitchen or into the drawing-room. Rosa tried to clear her brow. At that moment there was the postman’s rat-tat on the door and a letter fell through the letter-box on to the mat. Nina, relieved that there was something that she could do, hastened to pick it up, and handed it to Rosa. As the letter changed hands, both the women noticed the superscription. It was addressed to Rosa in Mischa Fox’s handwriting. They raised their eyes immediately to look at each other and then at once looked away. In that instant each surmised how much the other knew. Nina was white and Rosa blushing furiously. Rosa led the way back into the kitchen, putting the letter into her pocket.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Rosa, ‘to keep you waiting like this. I’m being appallingly rude. Didn’t I give you any coffee? Do sit down.’ Nina sat down, and Rosa put the milk back on the stove.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked Nina. The question sounded cruel. Nina was fathoming her inability to reply to it when there was another bang on the door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Rosa, and left the room. She opened the front door. It was Miss Foy.

  ‘Oh, Miss Rosa,’ said Miss Foy, ‘I’m so sorry! Is this an inconvenient time to come?’ Miss Foy was carrying a large brown-paper parcel and was wearing a small velvet hat which rested like a bird on top of her frizzy hair.

  ‘Come in!’ said Rosa, ‘the more the merrier!’ She led Miss Foy into the kitchen. The letter from Mischa was burning into her thigh. ‘Sit down,’ said Rosa. Just then the milk began to boil over furiously, Nina sprang up and took it off, and began to look round in a futile way for a cloth.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Rosa, and she mopped it up with her handkerchief. ‘I’m afraid that’s the last of the milk, and it’s quite burnt now. Do you mind having it black?’ Neither Nina nor Miss Foy minded. ‘Oh, do you know each other?’ said Rosa, and introduced them. She was listening hard all the time for any sound of Jan Lusiewicz descending the stairs.

  ‘I know a Mrs Carrington-Morris who I believe is a customer of yours,’ said Miss Foy politely.

  ‘Ah,’ said Nina, ‘how nice.’

  ‘I always think dressmaking is so creative,’ said Miss Foy.

  Rosa looked at them both and concealed her exasperation. She wanted desperately to open Mischa’s letter, but she wanted to be able to do so in complete peace. How could she decently dislodge them? ‘Are you just going out shopping?’ she asked Miss Foy.

  ‘Well, no,’ said Miss Foy, ‘the fact is I was bringing a letter for you.’ She handed Rosa an envelope. ‘It’s from Mrs Wingfield. I also took the liberty,’ said Miss Foy, ‘of bringing you a plum cake.’ She set the brown-paper parcel on the table and opened it. An enormous brown cake was revealed.

  ‘How very kind of you!’ said Rosa. She put Mrs Wingfield’s letter in the other pocket.

  ‘It’s from an old recipe my mother left me,’ said Miss Foy. ‘The secret of it is a little dash of cider, real country cider of course, not that fizzy stuff in bottles. I was born in the West Country, you know, not far from Tiverton. When I was a child my mother used to make cakes and send me out with them as presents to the neighbours. And the neighbours would give us presents too, and not only at Christmas time. Such a nice custom. In the towns nowadays you don’t find it at all. But I’m told that on the Continent people still do that kind of thing. Perhaps in — er — your country, Miss er — ’

  There was a piercing cry from upstairs. Nina and Miss Foy sat petrified, and they both turned to look at Rosa. Rosa was staring at the cake and appeared not to have heard. She took a sharp knife out of the drawer and laid it on the table.

  ‘I think,’ said Nina, ‘that someone called.’

  ‘No, it was just something next door,’ said Rosa. She sat down and crossed her legs. Then the cry came again, more urgently than before. It was somebody calling ‘Rosa!’

  ‘Really,’ said Miss Foy, ‘I think I must be getting on. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I hope you’ll like the cake.’ She picked up her handbag nervously and made for the door.

  ‘Oh, must you go?’ said Rosa. ‘Thank you so much for calling.’ As Miss Foy made off, Rosa went up the stairs two at a time.

  She flung open the door of Annette’s room. Annette and Jan were standing close together in the middle of the floor, both were dishevelled, and Annette was trying to draw her disordered dressing-gown closer about her. Rosa crossed the room in a stride, took Jan Lusiewicz by the wrist and thrust him away from Annette. As she did so, she struck him hard across the check with her other hand. For a moment the trio stood as if turned to stone. It would have been hard to know which of them was the most surprised.

  Then Jan turned on his heel and left the room. He was as white as a sheet. His footsteps could be heard descending the stairs at a run. Without a glance at Annette, Rosa followed at a leisurely pace. As she reached the first landing she heard the front door close behind him with a bang.

  Rosa went into the drawing-room and closed the door. She sat down. She felt an intense emotion in which pain and fear were mingled with exhilaration. Pain predomininated. She held her forehead like someone in a crisis of drunkenness. The first blow had been struck, hostilities had opened. Remorse struggled with relief and was resolved into fear. I am lost, thought Rosa, but without yet knowing what she meant by this.

  With a gesture as if of self-protection she took the two letters from her pocket. She laid Mischa’s letter on the table and opened the one from Mrs Wingfield. On a torn sheet of paper in a rakish hand Mrs Wingfield had written, Think I can help you perhaps. Call Monday. Not a word to anyone. C. W. Rosa put the note away and then began to tear open Mischa’s envelope. Her hand shook so much that she almost dropped it. She drew out the enclosure. It was a printed formal invitation to a party on the following Thursday. At the bottom Mischa had written, Rosa, please come. It was the first time in years that Mischa had taken any initiative towards seeing her. She closed her eyes.

  There was a timid knock on the door. Rosa opened her eyes and called out. Nina appeared diffidently. ‘Good heavens!’ said Rosa, ‘I’m so sorry! I’m afraid I’d forgotten all about you. How dreadful of me. It’s been rather a difficult morning. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Keepe, please,’ said Nina. ‘I’ll come back another time. It was nothing important. Please don’t worry.’

  Rosa saw her to the door, and then returned to the drawing-room. Should she go to Mischa’s party? She fell into a chair like a poled ox. As she lay there, the door opened again. It was Annette. Rosa hardly saw her. In all the conflict of emotions aroused by the portentous appearance of Jan in the house it had not occurred to Rosa to feel any irritation with Annette. She had forgotten her as completely as she had forgotten Nina. Annette, who was dressed now, was looking terrified. But before she could utter a word, Hunter came in. He was eating something.

  ‘Hello there!’ said Hunter, with his mouth full. ‘What’s that heavenly cake you’ve got in the kitchen?’

  ‘A neighbour brought it,’ said Rosa.

  ‘It’s got a most extraordinary and marvellous taste,’ said Hunter.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosa, ‘it’s cider, from Tiverton. Give Annette a piece.’

  Then suddenly she began to laugh.

  Twelve

  IT was the day before the shareholders’ meeting and Hunter still did not know what he was goi
ng to do about the Artemis. He was in the extremity of indecision and very wounded by Rosa’s refusal to help him. She had even been avoiding him for the last few days. He longed to know what she wanted, but was afraid to ask. Helpful friends told him, that Rosa had been heard to say that the Artemis was good for nothing but to be got rid of to the highest bidder. But Hunter did not imagine that his sister, who was not famous for saying what she really thought in public, was any more likely to have done so on this occasion. The responsibilities of his position became more tormenting as he began to realize their extent. There was no one who could help him, since there was no one to whom he could reveal the extraordinary conception of the situation which was gradually taking shape in his mind. He found himself unable to work, and spent the day sitting wretchedly in his office or else walking aimlessly round Kensington and Notting Hill; and each night he plunged into an uneasy sleep in which he would perpetually find himself required, by means which were either beyond his capacity or beyond his comprehension, to save his sister from some ill-defined catastrophe.

  However, the very fact that he had decided nothing was by now beginning to amount to a decision. Hunter’s desire to sell the Artemis had become very clear and very sharp. He had thoroughly rehearsed the advantages of doing so, and he wished profoundly to be through with the whole business and be free to start, as he put it to himself, on something entirely new — though what that new thing would be was not, when he interrogated himself further, quite so plain. Hunter felt that it would be wise to sell the Artemis — but he also felt that it would be scandalous. This aspect of the matter had not, in spite of much reflection, come out so clearly. Some sort, he was not sure what sort, of betrayal of trust seemed to be involved in selling the periodical. What Hunter needed in order to get over this uneasy feeling was a word from Rosa — and this was just what was not forthcoming. If Rosa had told him that his scruples were foolish, he would have been perfectly happy to sell. On the other hand, if Rosa had said that the Artemis must be saved at all costs, Hunter would have been equally happy to attempt that.