Read The Good Apprentice Online
Authors: Iris Murdoch
The Good Apprentice (57 page)
‘It’s a novelty, like what you get at Christmas time. What do you know, Edward?’
‘Oh stop it, Meredith,’ said Edward, ‘remember you’re only thirteen.’
‘Who says you can’t go mad at thirteen? Can you do this?’ Meredith suddenly did a handstand, his head went down, his elegantly trousered and now so long legs went up, his light brown hair flopped forward, his heels clapped together. Edward saw his spread hands upon the carpet, white with the weight. Then his elbows moved outward as he slowly lowered his head to touch the floor. He remained poised so for a moment, then in a whirl of legs and arms sprang upright. Looking at Edward now, his face was red and grim. He said, ‘Go away. I’ve got a pain in my heart.’ He did another handstand. His face, unintelligibly reversed, glared up at Edward. Edward went out, quietly shutting the drawing room door and the front door.
Why do I torment him so, thought Thomas, why do I keep sending him into danger? Suppose he goes back to that room and jumps out of the window?
He sat for a while holding in his hand the comb which he had automatically brought, together with a clean white handkerchief, out of the drawer of his desk. Then he began very carefully to comb his hair, feeling for the crown of his head and sleeking the silky hair down with his other hand. After that he pulled a little bunch of errant hairs out of the comb and dropped them in the wastepaper basket, put the comb away, and cleaned his glasses with the handkerchief. He set things in order on his desk. He straightened the page of notes and the speckled stone which had come from Scotland. He set out his well-sharpened pencils in a neat row. He often wrote in pencil. He liked sharpening pencils and using different coloured ones.
He thought, most unlikely. Then he thought, all the same I must stop practising, I must retire, I really must stop it. He sat back in his chair. Thomas, who did not always tell the truth, did not have to go to the clinic. It was his research day.
He started thinking about the menopause, and how much false mythology this concept had generated. It was a favourite topic of many of his female patients, determined to connect their nervous crises with this phenomenon, and if they had no nervous crisis to induce one. In fact, he thought, there is no typical menopause, there are as many menopauses as women. A smattering of popular science caused so much unnecessary trouble, anxious schoolgirls counting the days to their exams, middle-aged women led to anticipate breakdowns by magazines picked up in their hairdressers. Of course there were cases. This was one subject upon which Thomas and Ursula Brightwalton were in agreement. He wondered if Midge thought about it and whether the prospect was worrying her? Ought he to say something, in general terms of course? It was characteristic of their marriage that they did not discuss such things. Thomas’s puritanism, both Catholic and Jewish, shunned physiological conversation about sex. Some couples made verbal directness, even coarseness, a part of their intimacy. Thomas and Midge had retained a sort of shyness which Thomas valued. Of course, as a doctor, he tended his wife and said what was necessary, but not as chat. He loved his wife deeply with a dignified and reticent passion and continually felt how fortunate he was to be married to her. His ancestral sense of the absoluteness of marriage had never, in their long relationship, been shaken, he took their permanence for granted. He was never worried by the luncheons with men friends from her ‘model’ days, which she amusingly (not always un-maliciously) described to him afterwards. Their life together was orderly and ceremonious. As a young wife she had matched her ways with his, being in love with his authority. Later the difference of age between them had seemed to disappear. It will no doubt appear again, thought Thomas, but we are past danger.
Midge had seemed restless lately, short-tempered with him and with Meredith in an uncharacteristic way. Their love-making, dependent on mute signals, had over many years decreased in frequency and lately ceased, no doubt temporarily. Thomas, who certainly did not desire this state of affairs, had said nothing. He wondered if he should talk to Midge or continue to rely upon the telepathy which had always made them so close and happy together. He decided to reflect upon the matter. He recalled Ursula saying, long ago, that of course Thomas ought to have married a busy Scottish body who was always in the kitchen, and Midge ought to have married a rich industrialist with a yacht who would enable her to have a
salon
full of the rich and famous. A joke of course, and another false generalisation. The same was true of Ursula’s idea that Thomas was an autocrat and a bully.
We
are happy, he thought, we know what ‘living well’ is. Meredith was one proof of that. Thomas, who, in his work, so skilfully talked and probed and pressed, did not do so at home. He did not ‘confront’ his wife or his son. He had very rarely been overtly angry with Meredith or chided him harshly; but when Thomas was displeased Meredith knew and knew why. The child’s intelligent eyes, at an early age, met his in a silent compact. Sometimes alone together, Thomas writing, Meredith reading, they would raise their heads and look at each other, unsmiling. Later, alone, they would smile.
salon
full of the rich and famous. A joke of course, and another false generalisation. The same was true of Ursula’s idea that Thomas was an autocrat and a bully.
We
are happy, he thought, we know what ‘living well’ is. Meredith was one proof of that. Thomas, who, in his work, so skilfully talked and probed and pressed, did not do so at home. He did not ‘confront’ his wife or his son. He had very rarely been overtly angry with Meredith or chided him harshly; but when Thomas was displeased Meredith knew and knew why. The child’s intelligent eyes, at an early age, met his in a silent compact. Sometimes alone together, Thomas writing, Meredith reading, they would raise their heads and look at each other, unsmiling. Later, alone, they would smile.
Thomas despatched a missive about his wife to his unconscious mind and turned his thoughts to Mr Blinnet. Mr Blinnet continued to puzzle Thomas. He sometimes found himself considering the theory apparently held by Ursula that Mr Blinnet was an impostor. Yet of what kind? With what motive? If he simply enjoyed spending his money year after year to deceive Thomas did not that in any case betoken an abnormal state? He had come to Thomas after ineffectual hospital treatment by drugs. (He had refused shock therapy.) Mr Blinnet apparently lived a normal life, he enjoyed a private income which he managed by himself, he drove an expensive car. He was (it seemed) entirely without family and had never been married. Everything about him was normal except that he was mad. (Thomas had met similar cases of which Mr Blinnet’s was the most striking.) He had frightening delusions, he was persecuted by laser beams, by telepathic probes that entered his brain, by aliens with ray guns, by packs of mad dogs which followed him in the street. He was particularly afraid of dogs. He also had a continuing fantasy about a dead woman who was growing into a tree. This woman was sometimes described as his wife, whom he had killed, intentionally or accidentally, and (in various versions) buried on a common, sunk in a lake, burnt in an oven, or dismembered and strayed in the sea. Yesterday he had handed Thomas a long poem on this subject. Mr Blinnet often wrote poems, dull banal insane poems, the fantasies of the insane are usually inertly uninventive. His latest poem (he was much given to assonance) began, ‘So she grows old in her grave under the tree, so she grows cold in her skirt of earth, yet still grows from her clothes of mould, sprouting from the dirt of her clouts, I have found her above ground as a green mound’ (and so on, rambling without form or conviction). Was Mr Blinnet a homicidal maniac in a period of repose? He did not seem to be that kind of madman; but suppose he were not a madman at all? Suppose Mr Blinnet, a sane man, had committed a serious crime, and had then set up an elaborate pretence of being insane, for use in court should the law catch up with him? Ingenious — but would such a long deception be necessary? Mr Blinnet would seem to be of the stuffsecret agents are made of. He was indeed very like a secret agent as portrayed in a film, whose appearance so perfectly belies his real nature, which yet, to the discerning eye, looks slyly through. Mr Blinnet’s calm beautiful face was like that of a simple sage or holy man, yet the eyes, caught sometimes unexpectedly, were watchful, even amused. Mr Blinnet, for all his sufferings with sprouting corpses and laser beams, often enjoyed a secret joke. If it was all a charade, why did he need to go on, how could he? Of course he loved Thomas. (Thomas loved him.)
Thomas’s thoughts returned to Edward. Edward wanted Thomas to tell him whether that vision of Jesse was an hallucination. Thomas could not. He was inclined to think it was. If a drowned man had been there what Edward had
seen
would have had a different quality and the idea of hallucination would not have arisen. It was important that Edward had classed it in this way at once. But what was the use of speculating? Time might show something. It was better for the present to let Edward
occupy
himself with his continued ordeal, until he could feel that he had
done everything.
In the end he would tire and come back and fall unconscious at Thomas’s feet. Then another phase would begin, a convalescence in which Edward’s youth, his simple and robust nature, his instinctive desire for happiness, would effect his cure. But it would be a serious mistake to start this process too soon.
seen
would have had a different quality and the idea of hallucination would not have arisen. It was important that Edward had classed it in this way at once. But what was the use of speculating? Time might show something. It was better for the present to let Edward
occupy
himself with his continued ordeal, until he could feel that he had
done everything.
In the end he would tire and come back and fall unconscious at Thomas’s feet. Then another phase would begin, a convalescence in which Edward’s youth, his simple and robust nature, his instinctive desire for happiness, would effect his cure. But it would be a serious mistake to start this process too soon.
Thomas felt tired. He had been concentrating upon Edward. Now he would concentate on his book and forget Edward. I must stop, though, he thought. I’ve
got away
with it so far. I might be found out at any moment. I long to be free, art and reason have led me to this place, from now on I’ll be guided by desire. I can’t go on exercising this ingenious skill, this power, bending and contorting people’s lives like a Japanese flower arranger. It must come to an end — before something goes wrong, before I lose what, after all, I still treasure so much, my reputation, my — honour. What poor Edward has lost, and seeks. For me, there could be no authority, no magisterial healer. Then he thought, how much I would like to discuss some of these things with Stuart. Could that happen? Perhaps later. But first of all I must retire from all this, I must
let it go.
We’ll live at Quitterne, and I’ll
think
and I’ll write. Magic must come to an end. Of course Theseus must leave Ariadne and Aeneas must abandon Dido, Athens must be saved, Rome must be founded, Prospero drowns his book and frees Ariel, and the Duke marries Isabella. And Apollo tames the Furies. Thomas sat for a while and then added half aloud, ‘And flays Marsyas.’ He smiled.
got away
with it so far. I might be found out at any moment. I long to be free, art and reason have led me to this place, from now on I’ll be guided by desire. I can’t go on exercising this ingenious skill, this power, bending and contorting people’s lives like a Japanese flower arranger. It must come to an end — before something goes wrong, before I lose what, after all, I still treasure so much, my reputation, my — honour. What poor Edward has lost, and seeks. For me, there could be no authority, no magisterial healer. Then he thought, how much I would like to discuss some of these things with Stuart. Could that happen? Perhaps later. But first of all I must retire from all this, I must
let it go.
We’ll live at Quitterne, and I’ll
think
and I’ll write. Magic must come to an end. Of course Theseus must leave Ariadne and Aeneas must abandon Dido, Athens must be saved, Rome must be founded, Prospero drowns his book and frees Ariel, and the Duke marries Isabella. And Apollo tames the Furies. Thomas sat for a while and then added half aloud, ‘And flays Marsyas.’ He smiled.
‘I want you to teach me to meditate,’ said Midge.
‘I don’t know how,’ said Stuart, ‘I just do it. I mean, there are those very long disciplines — I just invent it for myself, perhaps all wrong. You must ask someone else.’
‘You want to get rid of me.’
‘No, I just can’t help.’
‘You
must
help. You’re supposed to be doing good. Is it because it’s personal?’
must
help. You’re supposed to be doing good. Is it because it’s personal?’
Stuart said, after a pause, ‘I doubt if I could help anyway, but as it is — I mean my father being involved — I feel it’s better that we don’t talk.’
‘Who else can I talk to? Surely you have a special duty, a special obligation. You’re the only person who can see it all. You must help me to
thirik,
no one else can. I want to tell you everything about myself and about the situation, telling you would make so much difference — then I could make the right decision. Don’t you want me to do that?’
thirik,
no one else can. I want to tell you everything about myself and about the situation, telling you would make so much difference — then I could make the right decision. Don’t you want me to do that?’
‘Yes, but — ’
‘Aren’t you even
interested?’
interested?’
Stuart considered. ‘Yes, I am “interested”. But that sort of interest is a mean low instinct and one I can’t follow.’
‘You think it wrong to imagine other people’s sufferings?’
‘No possible good could come of your telling me all this.’
‘How do you know, why are you so certain, why not
try,
what are you afraid of?’
try,
what are you afraid of?’
‘I’m able to see all sorts of bad consequences, which perhaps you can’t. None of this conversation should be happening at all — ’
‘How can you say anything so dry and heartless — ’
‘It’s a device, it’s a way of putting off telling Thomas.’
‘You mean if I don’t tell Thomas you will!’
‘No. I won’t tell him.’
‘Ever?’
‘That question doesn’t arise. Thomas is bound to know sometime soon. My father might tell him. It’s better if you do. Once the secret doesn’t just belong to you and to my father it’s just very likely to come out somehow — ’
‘I suppose Edward might tell him. Or those devils at Seegard might send it around. But — it doesn’t matter — I feel as if he knows already — ’
‘Do you think so?’
‘No, he doesn’t know, but as you say he’s bound to, so there it is. What I want is to understand what I’ve done — that’s what I want to talk to you about — and about it all, and what such things mean anyway. How can I judge? I need you, I need your help, I beg you to help me, I want to confess, I want to pour it all out in front of you — ’
‘I understand, but pouring out is just what won’t help. It’s no use telling me. That’s just a diversion, another emotional experience, a way of experiencing — of continuing — that relationship — Go to Thomas. Telling
him
is what will make everything clear and real. You’ve been living in some sort of dream — that’s how I see it anyway — until you tell Thomas you won’t know what you are doing. Once you’ve told him you’ll be a different person.’
him
is what will make everything clear and real. You’ve been living in some sort of dream — that’s how I see it anyway — until you tell Thomas you won’t know what you are doing. Once you’ve told him you’ll be a different person.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘Part of you is afraid. But you
do
want to be another person, to stop deceiving — ’
do
want to be another person, to stop deceiving — ’
‘You seem to think a woman can love no one except her husband. You think any other love is worthless — but it may be the most valuable thing in the world. And it happens all the time. You just want to separate me from your father. The whole thing makes you sick. Can’t you be objective?’
‘Yes, it does make me sick,’ said Stuart, ‘but that’s not the point. The point is to tell the truth. Telling a lot of lies, particularly systematic lies, gradually detaches one from reality, one can’t
see.
My own view, which isn’t important, is that this thing with my father is wrong — there’s Meredith to consider, and — ’
see.
My own view, which isn’t important, is that this thing with my father is wrong — there’s Meredith to consider, and — ’
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