The Good Apprentice (24 page)
Read The Good Apprentice Online
Authors: Iris Murdoch
‘I must be off,’ said Stuart. Thomas refrained from asking where he was going, what he was going to do, how he proposed to spend the evening. He had begun to feel an intense curiosity about all Stuart’s activities and mode of being. He said, ‘Stuart, thank you for coming, I enjoyed talking to you. I hope you’ll come again when you feel like it, and we could continue this conversation.’
‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll ever talk like this again,’ said Stuart, ‘it wouldn’t do. Things can get spoilt by being talked about. But thank you, you’ve helped me get clearer about some things. Would you tell Meredith I’ll expect him about ten on Saturday at the usual place?’
Thomas opened the door and Stuart moved towards it, then closed it and turned back towards Thomas.
‘I know you asked me about Christ — I didn’t say properly about him.’
‘Isn’t he one of your signals or refuges? One of those non-degradable objects you say are everywhere?’
‘Yes — but also I — I can’t take the idea of the resurrection — it spoils everything that went before — ’
‘I think I understand,’ said Thomas.
‘I have to think of him in a certain way, not resurrected, as it were mistaken, disappointed — well, who knows what he thought. He has to mean pure affliction, utter loss, innocent suffering, pointless suffering, the deep and awful and irremediable things that happen to people.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s another thing I sometimes think of in this connection, a particular thing. This may sound awfully arbitrary or bizarre or — ’ Stuart suddenly became crimson in the face.
‘What? Go on.’
‘Something a chap at college told me. He’d been to visit Auschwitz, the concentration camp, you know they’ve made it into a sort of museum now. And he said the most awful thing he saw there were plaits of girls’ hair.’
‘Plaits — ?’
‘They say how the Nazis used everything at those camps, at some of them anyway, like a factory — ’
‘Like lampshades made of human skin.’
‘Yes — and they cut off the hair of the people to use — to make wigs I suppose — and there was an exhibition there — ’ He paused, and for a moment Thomas thought he was going to burst into tears. ‘There was a great huge pile of people’s hair, and there were long plaits, girls’ plaits, beautifully carefully plaited, and I thought — that there was a morning — when a girl woke up from sleep — and plaited her hair — so carefully — and — ’ Stuart clenched a fist and fell silent, breathing deeply.
‘And you connect that with Christ on the cross — ’
Stuart said after a moment, ‘It’s a sort of — particular — absolute — thing.’ Then he said, ‘You know, sometimes I do look for signs, or a sign.’
‘Isn’t that a form of magic?’
‘Yes. I’m just reporting a weakness!’ Stuart smiled and the emotion of a moment ago was suddenly quite gone.
When Stuart had left him Thomas sat motionless at his desk while his mind performed some extremely condensed and intuitive thought-acrobatics. He thought, what an amazing thing such a conversation is, how ever do we do it? What is more extraordinary and inexplicable than human consciousness? Yet we all know what it is, we know what the word refers to, we aren’t in any doubt about it. And how surprising and moving his thing about the girls’ hair. That means so many things. What an outburst of emotion. And his connecting it with Christ. He really has a talent for — for what?
After a time Thomas relaxed. He pictured Stuart’s fair doggy cropped head, rather a large long head, and his amber eyes which were so naively trustful and yet so clever. He’s cleverer than I imagined, Thomas thought, is that a good thing? What is a good thing here? He pictured Stuart’s boyish smile. Then he pictured Mr Blinnet’s bland smile and his mocking ironical eyes with their deep crazy inner chambers. Then he saw Edward’s grimacing smile, the smile of the unconscious mind as it triumphs over the conscious. Would Stuart founder dreadfully somehow upon the rock of his own resolve? ‘Sink me the ship, master gunner — ’ What a touching motto, a
schoolboy
motto! Did Stuart secretly imagine he was an exceptional person destined to change the world? Would he end up sitting in some hospital garden, imagining he was Jesus? Or would he turn out to be dull, not divinely dull, but just a self-deluded common-place fellow? In fact, just like everyone else.
schoolboy
motto! Did Stuart secretly imagine he was an exceptional person destined to change the world? Would he end up sitting in some hospital garden, imagining he was Jesus? Or would he turn out to be dull, not divinely dull, but just a self-deluded common-place fellow? In fact, just like everyone else.
Oh let
that
not be so! thought Thomas. He was beginning to find Stuart immensely interesting, he wanted to chart his progress in detail. He was saddened by Stuart’s ‘never again’. He had feared something of the sort. Perhaps in spite of his delicately prescient anxiety not to, he had pressed him too far. More likely Stuart had coolly intended to have just one talk with Thomas; at least he must have felt he needed it. He had certainly come to talk about himself and not about Edward. So would they really never talk again? Thomas had looked forward to many such talks. More than that, he had looked forward to just that ‘close’ friendship with Stuart which Stuart had declared to be outside his programme!
that
not be so! thought Thomas. He was beginning to find Stuart immensely interesting, he wanted to chart his progress in detail. He was saddened by Stuart’s ‘never again’. He had feared something of the sort. Perhaps in spite of his delicately prescient anxiety not to, he had pressed him too far. More likely Stuart had coolly intended to have just one talk with Thomas; at least he must have felt he needed it. He had certainly come to talk about himself and not about Edward. So would they really never talk again? Thomas had looked forward to many such talks. More than that, he had looked forward to just that ‘close’ friendship with Stuart which Stuart had declared to be outside his programme!
Of course I am a professional meddler, thought Thomas, but this is a special case. If indeed Stuart were to fade into the dullness with which Thomas menaced him, perhaps that would be his success? Or would he be overwhelmed, ruined by the forces which he so calmly imagined he could simply reject? Thomas had to admit that the idea of such a collapse interested him; he was already imagining himself coming to the rescue. The dark powers, as the ancients knew, were essentially ambiguous; and thus, as Stuart instinctively perceived, enemies of morality. Blindly, he recognised them; perhaps they recognised him. He would never game for their favours. But I do, thought Thomas, I have to, I do it daily, trying to make benignant allies out of the most dangerous things in the world. When calm resolve and rational morals seem to fail, can not
they,
vehicles after all of spirit, be invoked and charmed into friendliness, before their exasperation with that very failure leads them to destroy the whole structure? I have to try, thought Thomas, I have to play this dangerous game, because I am that sort of healer, and — oh heavens — because I
love
it!
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.
they,
vehicles after all of spirit, be invoked and charmed into friendliness, before their exasperation with that very failure leads them to destroy the whole structure? I have to try, thought Thomas, I have to play this dangerous game, because I am that sort of healer, and — oh heavens — because I
love
it!
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.
A little loud wren was singing. The sun was shining. Edward was walking along the edge of the river, the
other side
of the river. He had now been at Seegard for nearly two weeks, and Jesse had still not come home. During this time Edward had said nothing to the women about the
dromos,
which he had continually wished to revisit, but in vain because the river had risen so as to make the hurdle bridge impassable and submerge the stone bridge completely. The weather had turned very cold and he did not fancy swimming across carrying his clothes. On several occasions he secretly made his way past the greenhouses and the vegetable garden, along the overgrown but quite authoritative little path which led to the river. Who trod that path? The sight of the rushing stream, now well above the precarious ‘footway’ of the wooden structure, shaking it and almost carrying it off, made Edward shudder with a kind of fearful almost sexual excitement. Today however (it was ‘rest time’) it was with a more purposive thrill that, finding the river a little abated, he set his foot on the leaning structure, tested it, and, with the water splashing his feet, edged his way across. And now he was, the word came to him as he walked along, free; yet not really free, but upon a different ground where, perhaps, other enchantments reigned.
other side
of the river. He had now been at Seegard for nearly two weeks, and Jesse had still not come home. During this time Edward had said nothing to the women about the
dromos,
which he had continually wished to revisit, but in vain because the river had risen so as to make the hurdle bridge impassable and submerge the stone bridge completely. The weather had turned very cold and he did not fancy swimming across carrying his clothes. On several occasions he secretly made his way past the greenhouses and the vegetable garden, along the overgrown but quite authoritative little path which led to the river. Who trod that path? The sight of the rushing stream, now well above the precarious ‘footway’ of the wooden structure, shaking it and almost carrying it off, made Edward shudder with a kind of fearful almost sexual excitement. Today however (it was ‘rest time’) it was with a more purposive thrill that, finding the river a little abated, he set his foot on the leaning structure, tested it, and, with the water splashing his feet, edged his way across. And now he was, the word came to him as he walked along, free; yet not really free, but upon a different ground where, perhaps, other enchantments reigned.
The nervous guilty qualms which he felt at, not for the first time, absenting himself for longer than he was ‘supposed to’ were proof that he was after all a prisoner, a prisoner with the kindest, most beautiful, most loving captors, captors who set him tasks. He found satisfaction in his tasks, the weariness they caused and his sense therein of being a slave and needing to have no thoughts. He slept promptly and well; yet of course thoughts came. He wondered if, perhaps unconsciously, the women were trying to ‘sweat his misery out of him’. They had still not questioned him about Mark. Edward did not raise the subject, and they showed so little awareness of it that he sometimes thought that they had either forgotten it or had never realised how terribly he had been wounded. Nor did they seem aware of how intensely and anxiously Edward was awaiting his father, how dreadful this meeting would seem from which he also so irrationally hoped for healing. These women, Mother May and his strange sisters, hardly sisters but rather as he now saw them elf maidens,
they
could not set him free, and he no longer even desired to unburden his heart to them.
they
could not set him free, and he no longer even desired to unburden his heart to them.
They
, as the days went by, began to appear different to him. They were still, as he had first apprehended them, taboo, holy women, and endowed with arcane skills. They had not healed his wound but they had a little soothed it. He sometimes wondered whether he were being affected by the diet, so monotonous and so pure: apples, cabbage, herbs, rice, bran, nuts, beans, lentils, oats, especially oats. (‘It’s oats with everything here, you know,’ Ilona said.) There had been no reappearance of the home-made wine; but Mother May sometimes produced herbal draughts which smelt and tasted of flowers and were said laughingly to produce ‘benign thoughts’ and ’happy dreams‘. Edward felt healthier, stronger, and wondered whether this were a true and proper and
natural
— a word often used at Seegard — recovery; or whether, by some magic alien to it, his most precious possession, the wound, the guilt, the
thing itself,
were being wrongfully taken from him. Was he being quietly deprived of his sense of reality? He remained convinced that for his true well-being, and so that all this at Seegard so far should not seem a dream interlude or worthless demoralising holiday from his
real
task, he needed Jesse: Jesse’s wisdom, Jesse’s authority, Jesse’s love. Nothing else would do. And yet as he thought this deep thought he realised too the frailty of his hope. Perhaps he should now be quite elsewhere, doing something quite else.
, as the days went by, began to appear different to him. They were still, as he had first apprehended them, taboo, holy women, and endowed with arcane skills. They had not healed his wound but they had a little soothed it. He sometimes wondered whether he were being affected by the diet, so monotonous and so pure: apples, cabbage, herbs, rice, bran, nuts, beans, lentils, oats, especially oats. (‘It’s oats with everything here, you know,’ Ilona said.) There had been no reappearance of the home-made wine; but Mother May sometimes produced herbal draughts which smelt and tasted of flowers and were said laughingly to produce ‘benign thoughts’ and ’happy dreams‘. Edward felt healthier, stronger, and wondered whether this were a true and proper and
natural
— a word often used at Seegard — recovery; or whether, by some magic alien to it, his most precious possession, the wound, the guilt, the
thing itself,
were being wrongfully taken from him. Was he being quietly deprived of his sense of reality? He remained convinced that for his true well-being, and so that all this at Seegard so far should not seem a dream interlude or worthless demoralising holiday from his
real
task, he needed Jesse: Jesse’s wisdom, Jesse’s authority, Jesse’s love. Nothing else would do. And yet as he thought this deep thought he realised too the frailty of his hope. Perhaps he should now be quite elsewhere, doing something quite else.
He slept, falling like an animal into its lair at night, waking occasionally for a second to hear the river sound, or what he took to be the distant sound of the sea, then sleeping again to dream of the frou-frou of dresses, the clink and swing of necklaces, long tresses unpinned and softly falling, and of women, mothers perhaps, Chloe, Midge, Mother May, even Bettina, leaning above him and merging together. The wind, which tired him so by day, came at night in regular sighing gusts, sounding like some great thing deeply and steadily breathing. The rain pattering or gently stroking the window panes was more like soft footsteps, soft surreptitious padding, not frightening really but strange, like many things that surrounded him, like Ilona’s casual reference to ‘things from the past’. He had not heard the breaking glass noise again, or the children’s running feet. Sometimes there were faint scratching sounds, rats perhaps, or what Ilona called ‘mouse-kins’. Something odd and unnerving had however happened two nights ago as he mounted the dark stairs in West Selden to his bedroom. He now knew his way blindfold about the building and preferred running nimbly in the pitch dark to the bother of carrying a lamp. As he mounted the stairs in velvet blackness of blindfold dark something passed him. It did not touch him, but he heard its faint whirring sound and felt the air of its passage. It was, as he intuited it at the time, something spherical, about the size of a football, passing him very close at waist height. Edward raced up the stairs and into his room and hastily struck some matches, dropping several before he was able to light his lamp. He stood tensely listening, hearing the river and the far off
gewick gewick
and
ooo-ooo
of the owls. In the lamplight he noticed that he was less frightened by the episode than he might have expected. Remembering Ilona’s jest, he wondered if what had passed him was a poltergeist which occupied his bed by day and had now fled on hearing his approach! He smiled. All the same, he examined the bed carefully before getting into it.
gewick gewick
and
ooo-ooo
of the owls. In the lamplight he noticed that he was less frightened by the episode than he might have expected. Remembering Ilona’s jest, he wondered if what had passed him was a poltergeist which occupied his bed by day and had now fled on hearing his approach! He smiled. All the same, he examined the bed carefully before getting into it.
Another source of unease, felt vaguely, now perceptibly stronger, concerned the women. It had come to Edward at the start that the women were not only
essentially
remote from him in some quite special way, but also perfect: calm, wise, beautiful, devoid of ordinary human failings. This idea persisted, coexisting easily with Ilona’s childishness and Bettina’s brusqueness. It seemed natural that they had never kissed him. Mother May and Bettina had never touched him. Ilona had occasionally touched his sleeve, but with a puppyish gesture, devoid of emotional significance, to hurry him on or draw his attention to something. That these women actually were (how could they not be?) imperfect unnerved Edward as he became aware of it, even frightened him. For instance, they were afraid of the ‘tree men’. Perhaps this was something that came over them when Jesse was away, when they apprehended themselves as lonely and defenceless. But Edward did not like to think of a queen, princesses, elf maidens, as mere nervy women. He had not discovered any reason for this obsessive fear except that the tree men were ‘rough’, destroyed precious plants, and had once quite deliberately (they said) cut down a beautiful very old tree, a huge sycamore, on Seegard land. Perhaps some old feud with Jesse was involved. The absence of information about Jesse’s whereabouts and date of return was also, after this passage of time, disturbing in itself. His advent was constantly and confidently promised ‘soon’. Edward had not asked where he was or what he was doing; and now refrained from asking from a fear of being lied to. He sometimes thought, and
hated
to think, that Jesse was perhaps somewhere in the South of France with a young and pretty mistress; even had a quite other ménage. And (this thought had only lately begun to torment Edward) other children.
Another son.
This idea was exceedingly painful; and he was distressed, often made agonisingly nervous, by the unexplained lapse of time, the evasiveness of the women, and also of late by their relations to each other and to him which had at first had such a reassuring formality, had belonged to their ‘perfection’. Simply put, he felt jealousy in the air. He was a man among three women. Nothing palpable could suggest the vulgar idea that they were ‘vying for his affection’; but there was a certain tension. So far no one of them had attempted to establish a special relationship, to gain his confidence or examine his heart. The only ‘sorting out’ involved was the no doubt natural assumption that paired him and Ilona as the ‘young ones’. ‘Off you go, children,’ Mother May had said yesterday, despatching them to the apple store. Perhaps he imagined it, but he felt that Bettina might resent some implied relegation of herself to the older generation. She was sometimes stiff with him when they worked together, when he played plumber’s mate, or carpenter’s boy, fetched the materials or held the tools. Yet perhaps this was just her nature, a usual shyness, an admirable reserve. Mother May, so open and cheerful and busy, the Queen Bee as she sometimes called herself, also seemed to his over-stressed imagination to be watching him with some sort of concealed emotion. And though he was ‘easy’ with Ilona, they became no closer, nor could he see how this could happen. Perhaps they were all simply worrying about Jesse. As he now continually studied them he saw increasingly how different they were. The three women, always similarly dressed (to please Jesse of course) in their plain brown shifts by day and their floweredbenecklaced dresses in the evening, could still look alike, as if occluded by a powdery golden haze of similarity. Yet with sharpened perceptions Edward perceived their individual faces. Mother May’s perfect complexion was sketched here and there with a silverpoint of tiny lines, scarcely visible, not to be called wrinkles, not indeed marring but somehow perfecting her pale calm beauty. Her eyes were of the lightest softest grey. Bettina had a larger face, unlike the perfect oval of her mother’s, with darker grey eyes, an aquiline nose and strong protruding chin, and a clever reflective mouth. In repose or when concentrating upon work she could resemble a
quattrocento
picture of a young nobleman. Ilona had a smaller perter face, animated and peering like an animal’s, with eyes of a bluer grey, and a witty mobile mouth. They all had similar long reddish-gold hair, sometimes put up in coils or buns, sometimes hanging in long plaits. Ilona, whose hair was longest, sometimes wore hers simply tied with a ribbon at the neck and streaming loose down her back. Edward thought a lot about their hair. He had never touched it, not even Ilona’s. He imagined that he could smell their hair. It had a very delicate feral smell.
essentially
remote from him in some quite special way, but also perfect: calm, wise, beautiful, devoid of ordinary human failings. This idea persisted, coexisting easily with Ilona’s childishness and Bettina’s brusqueness. It seemed natural that they had never kissed him. Mother May and Bettina had never touched him. Ilona had occasionally touched his sleeve, but with a puppyish gesture, devoid of emotional significance, to hurry him on or draw his attention to something. That these women actually were (how could they not be?) imperfect unnerved Edward as he became aware of it, even frightened him. For instance, they were afraid of the ‘tree men’. Perhaps this was something that came over them when Jesse was away, when they apprehended themselves as lonely and defenceless. But Edward did not like to think of a queen, princesses, elf maidens, as mere nervy women. He had not discovered any reason for this obsessive fear except that the tree men were ‘rough’, destroyed precious plants, and had once quite deliberately (they said) cut down a beautiful very old tree, a huge sycamore, on Seegard land. Perhaps some old feud with Jesse was involved. The absence of information about Jesse’s whereabouts and date of return was also, after this passage of time, disturbing in itself. His advent was constantly and confidently promised ‘soon’. Edward had not asked where he was or what he was doing; and now refrained from asking from a fear of being lied to. He sometimes thought, and
hated
to think, that Jesse was perhaps somewhere in the South of France with a young and pretty mistress; even had a quite other ménage. And (this thought had only lately begun to torment Edward) other children.
Another son.
This idea was exceedingly painful; and he was distressed, often made agonisingly nervous, by the unexplained lapse of time, the evasiveness of the women, and also of late by their relations to each other and to him which had at first had such a reassuring formality, had belonged to their ‘perfection’. Simply put, he felt jealousy in the air. He was a man among three women. Nothing palpable could suggest the vulgar idea that they were ‘vying for his affection’; but there was a certain tension. So far no one of them had attempted to establish a special relationship, to gain his confidence or examine his heart. The only ‘sorting out’ involved was the no doubt natural assumption that paired him and Ilona as the ‘young ones’. ‘Off you go, children,’ Mother May had said yesterday, despatching them to the apple store. Perhaps he imagined it, but he felt that Bettina might resent some implied relegation of herself to the older generation. She was sometimes stiff with him when they worked together, when he played plumber’s mate, or carpenter’s boy, fetched the materials or held the tools. Yet perhaps this was just her nature, a usual shyness, an admirable reserve. Mother May, so open and cheerful and busy, the Queen Bee as she sometimes called herself, also seemed to his over-stressed imagination to be watching him with some sort of concealed emotion. And though he was ‘easy’ with Ilona, they became no closer, nor could he see how this could happen. Perhaps they were all simply worrying about Jesse. As he now continually studied them he saw increasingly how different they were. The three women, always similarly dressed (to please Jesse of course) in their plain brown shifts by day and their floweredbenecklaced dresses in the evening, could still look alike, as if occluded by a powdery golden haze of similarity. Yet with sharpened perceptions Edward perceived their individual faces. Mother May’s perfect complexion was sketched here and there with a silverpoint of tiny lines, scarcely visible, not to be called wrinkles, not indeed marring but somehow perfecting her pale calm beauty. Her eyes were of the lightest softest grey. Bettina had a larger face, unlike the perfect oval of her mother’s, with darker grey eyes, an aquiline nose and strong protruding chin, and a clever reflective mouth. In repose or when concentrating upon work she could resemble a
quattrocento
picture of a young nobleman. Ilona had a smaller perter face, animated and peering like an animal’s, with eyes of a bluer grey, and a witty mobile mouth. They all had similar long reddish-gold hair, sometimes put up in coils or buns, sometimes hanging in long plaits. Ilona, whose hair was longest, sometimes wore hers simply tied with a ribbon at the neck and streaming loose down her back. Edward thought a lot about their hair. He had never touched it, not even Ilona’s. He imagined that he could smell their hair. It had a very delicate feral smell.
Other books
Seeing Spots by Ellen Fisher
Lauren Takes Leave by Gerstenblatt, Julie
Resonance by Chris Dolley
Sexual Desires of a Woman by Goss, Ashley
The Lance Temptation by Brenda Maxfield
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) by David Michael Williams
Falling Fast by Sophie McKenzie
Utterly Yours (Book Five) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) by Alexa Brookes
Her Incubus Master (The Children of Lilith) by Devlin, Bliss
The Sleeping Baobab Tree by Paula Leyden