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Authors: Iris Murdoch
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appointment, by the way. I saw it in The Times.’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, helping himself to the whisky. ‘I never thought I’d end up as head of a House. An Oxford college to play with. I just couldn’t resist it. I expect I’ll hate it though, it’ll wreck my work. Oh God, I wrote Sophie such a long letter about all that.’
‘I imagined you’d settled down for ever in California.’
‘So did I. It’s a terribly wicked hedonistic place. But I felt somehow – free there – you know, like they say Englishmen get in America – uninhibited – let their hair down. I told Sophie all about that too in the letters. Of course I don’t mean I had women or anything.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’m such a puritan. I’m the most frustrated man in the northern hemisphere. I’ve got semen running out of my ears. Oh God, I’m talking quite ordinarily, aren’t I, as if – and she’s dead – thank God for drink. Getting through time has always been my problem. I’m always more or less sozzled now, only nobody notices – at least I hope they don’t – I never get quite sober – if I did I’d be screaming – I’m always just topping up, you know – I live on a plateau of permanent quiet inebriation. A single drink and I’m back up there again, right up. I can work all right too. God, I’m such a wet, such a failure. I talked to Sophie about all that in the letters.’
‘What a bore you must have been,’ said Monty. ‘I can’t think why you regard yourself as a failure. You were always full of erroneous ideas about yourself, as I remember. You’re a successful world-famous scholar, fellow of the Royal Academy, head of an Oxford college —’
‘I was a pupil of Beazley once. When I think of that I want to crawl under the carpet. I’m no good. I’m not like you —’
‘Like me ? I’m just a failed novelist’
‘An artist – that’s best of all,’ said Edgar, dribbling a little at the mouth and gazing into his drink. ‘Yes, that’s best of all. I wish to Christ I was a writer. Anyway, you know what I mean.’
Oddly enough, Monty did know.
‘You’re just better than me,’ said Edgar. ‘Always were. You got Sophie. You deserved to get Sophie. Oh Christ. She’s dead. Oh Christ. You’ve got a sort of hardness in you, a centre. I’m soft all the way through, I can’t cope with life manfully, never could. Maybe I’m retarded, yes, that’s it, retarded. When I see any sort of nobility or strength in somebody else I just resent it like hell. At least I don’t resent it in you, but that’s because I admired you so much at college. Te Consule, you know, as we used to say. You remember – "the prince whose oracle is at Delphi ...". All our old private mythology – you were somehow at the centre of it all. Everyone has someone they admire at school or at college, and go on admiring for ever after. You’re just my admiree.’
‘This is drivel,’ said Monty. ‘And since you admit to being retarded, I can only agree. If there is anything which you admire in me, it is probably what I least value in myself.’
‘I don’t mean your frightfulness – remember what we used to call your frightfulness – at least not exactly that. You’ve got a centre, you can think, you can invent. Are you writing another Milo Fane?’
‘No.’
‘You know I’ve never really been loved by a woman.’
‘ Tiens .’
‘Somehow I’ve always wanted the ones that didn’t want me. I’m the absolute queen bee of unrequited love. And then with Sophie – it was so especially awful – Oh God – what can you be thinking of me—’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Monty, ‘of how we all used to call you "Rosie" in college.’
Edgar had indeed not changed much. The drink problem, if it was one, had not marked him yet. The plump smooth full-lipped uniformly pink youthful face had been so mysteriously and discreetly touched by middle age, it was not clear how one knew it was not still the face of an
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, helping himself to the whisky. ‘I never thought I’d end up as head of a House. An Oxford college to play with. I just couldn’t resist it. I expect I’ll hate it though, it’ll wreck my work. Oh God, I wrote Sophie such a long letter about all that.’
‘I imagined you’d settled down for ever in California.’
‘So did I. It’s a terribly wicked hedonistic place. But I felt somehow – free there – you know, like they say Englishmen get in America – uninhibited – let their hair down. I told Sophie all about that too in the letters. Of course I don’t mean I had women or anything.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’m such a puritan. I’m the most frustrated man in the northern hemisphere. I’ve got semen running out of my ears. Oh God, I’m talking quite ordinarily, aren’t I, as if – and she’s dead – thank God for drink. Getting through time has always been my problem. I’m always more or less sozzled now, only nobody notices – at least I hope they don’t – I never get quite sober – if I did I’d be screaming – I’m always just topping up, you know – I live on a plateau of permanent quiet inebriation. A single drink and I’m back up there again, right up. I can work all right too. God, I’m such a wet, such a failure. I talked to Sophie about all that in the letters.’
‘What a bore you must have been,’ said Monty. ‘I can’t think why you regard yourself as a failure. You were always full of erroneous ideas about yourself, as I remember. You’re a successful world-famous scholar, fellow of the Royal Academy, head of an Oxford college —’
‘I was a pupil of Beazley once. When I think of that I want to crawl under the carpet. I’m no good. I’m not like you —’
‘Like me ? I’m just a failed novelist’
‘An artist – that’s best of all,’ said Edgar, dribbling a little at the mouth and gazing into his drink. ‘Yes, that’s best of all. I wish to Christ I was a writer. Anyway, you know what I mean.’
Oddly enough, Monty did know.
‘You’re just better than me,’ said Edgar. ‘Always were. You got Sophie. You deserved to get Sophie. Oh Christ. She’s dead. Oh Christ. You’ve got a sort of hardness in you, a centre. I’m soft all the way through, I can’t cope with life manfully, never could. Maybe I’m retarded, yes, that’s it, retarded. When I see any sort of nobility or strength in somebody else I just resent it like hell. At least I don’t resent it in you, but that’s because I admired you so much at college. Te Consule, you know, as we used to say. You remember – "the prince whose oracle is at Delphi ...". All our old private mythology – you were somehow at the centre of it all. Everyone has someone they admire at school or at college, and go on admiring for ever after. You’re just my admiree.’
‘This is drivel,’ said Monty. ‘And since you admit to being retarded, I can only agree. If there is anything which you admire in me, it is probably what I least value in myself.’
‘I don’t mean your frightfulness – remember what we used to call your frightfulness – at least not exactly that. You’ve got a centre, you can think, you can invent. Are you writing another Milo Fane?’
‘No.’
‘You know I’ve never really been loved by a woman.’
‘ Tiens .’
‘Somehow I’ve always wanted the ones that didn’t want me. I’m the absolute queen bee of unrequited love. And then with Sophie – it was so especially awful – Oh God – what can you be thinking of me—’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Monty, ‘of how we all used to call you "Rosie" in college.’
Edgar had indeed not changed much. The drink problem, if it was one, had not marked him yet. The plump smooth full-lipped uniformly pink youthful face had been so mysteriously and discreetly touched by middle age, it was not clear how one knew it was not still the face of an
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