Read Online The Black Prince (Penguin Classics) by Iris Murdoch - Free Book Online Page B

physically than her husband. She had been putting on weight and some might have called her fat. She was always busy, often with charities and mild left-wing politics. (Arnold cared nothing for politics.) She was an excellent ‘housewife’, and often referred to herself by this title.
    ‘Rachel, are you all right?’
    There was a darkening reddish bruise under one eye and the eye was narrowed, though this was hard to see because the eyelids of both eyes were so grossly red and swollen with weeping. Her upper lip was also swollen on one side. There were traces of blood on her neck and on her dress. Her hair was tangled and looked darker as if wet; perhaps it was literally wet with the flow of her tears. She was panting now, almost gasping. She had undone the front of her dress and I could see some white lace of her brassière and a plump pallor of flesh bulging above. She had been crying so much that her face was almost unrecognizably puffed up, all wet and shiny and hot to look at. She started now to cry again, pulling away from my convulsive sympathetic gesture and plucking at the collar of the dress in a distraught way.
    ‘Rachel, are you hurt? I’ve got a doctor here – ’
    She began awkwardly to get up, again pushing away my assisting hand. I got a whiff of alcohol from her panting breath. She knelt upon her dress and I heard it tear. Then she half ran half fell across the room to the disordered bed, where she flopped on her back, tugging at the bedclothes, ineffectually because she was half lying on them, then covering her face with both hands and crying in an appalling wailing manner, lying with her feet wide apart in a graceless self-absorption of grief.
    ‘Rachel, please control yourself. Drink some water.’ The sound of that abandoned weeping was scarcely bearable, and something far too intense to be called embarrassment, yet of that quality, made me both reluctant and anxious to look at her. A woman’s crying can sicken one with fright and guilt, and this was terrible crying.
    Arnold outside shouted, ‘Please let me in, please, please – ’
    ‘Stop it, Rachel,’ I said. ‘I can’t bear this. Stop it. I’m going to open the door.’
    ‘No, no,’ she whispered, a sort of voiceless whine. ‘Not Arnold, not—’ Was she still afraid of him?
    ‘I’m going to let the doctor in,’ I said.
    ‘No, no.’
    I opened the door and placed my hand on Arnold’s chest. ‘Go in and look at her,’ I said to Francis. ‘There’s some blood.’
    Arnold began to call out, ‘Let me see you, please, darling, don’t be angry, oh please – ’
    I pushed him back towards the head of the stairs. Francis went inside and locked the door again, whether out of delicacy or professional caution.
    Arnold sat down on the stairs and began to moan. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear – ’ My awkward appalled embarrassment mingled now with a horrible fascinated interest. Arnold, beyond caring about what impression he made, was running his hands again and again through his hair. ‘Oh I am a bloody fool, I am a bloody fool—’
    I said, ‘Steady on. What happened exactly?’
    ‘Where are the scissors?’ shouted Francis from within.
    ‘Top drawer dressing-table,’ Arnold shouted back. ‘Christ, what does he want scissors for? Is he going to operate or something ?’
    ‘What happened? Look, better move down a bit.’
    I pushed Arnold and he hobbled stooping, holding the banisters, past the turn of the stair, and sat on the lowest step, holding his head in his hands and staring at the zig-zag design of the hall carpet. The hall was always a bit dim because of the stained glass in the door. I went down past him and sat on a chair, feeling very odd, upset, excited.
    ‘Oh Christ, oh Christ. Do you think she’ll forgive me?’
    ‘Of course. What — ?’
    ‘It all started with such a damn silly argument about one of my books. Oh God, why is one so stupid – we just went on arguing, neither of us would stop at all – We