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Authors: Iris Murdoch
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undergraduate.
‘Yes, "Rosie", yes. I think you invented that. I rather liked it. You were bloody kind to me in those days. I’ve kept all your letters, even from then. And all Sophie’s letters of course. There weren’t many. I’ll show them to you one day. Would you like that?’
‘No.’
‘Do you mind if I have some more Scotch. In a weird way this is like old times. How we used to talk about women before we really knew any! Do you remember saying to me laissons les jolies femmes aux homines sans imagination? ’
‘No.’
‘We used to talk all night. Women, philosophy. "Nothing in reason supports the assertion that it is good absolutely to relieve suffering." How we broke our heads on that one, do you remember?’
‘I think you’d better go now.’
‘Hitting something soft back hard, like in badminton, that’s what our friendship has always been like. I used that image once in a letter to you. I kept all your letters – Did you – No, of course, you said you didn’t —’
‘Oh, go away,’ said Monty. ‘There isn’t any friendship. I know, now that you remind me of it, that you were once all set for some sort of big emotional intellectual friendship between us, full of challenges and responses and rows and reconciliations and exchanges of clever letters, but it never existed except in your mind. After we left college the only real connection between us was Sophie, and now she’s dead.’
‘You sound so cold, – as if you’d accepted her death.’
‘Of course I’ve accepted her death. I accept facts.’
‘That’s your – frightfulness – again. You always hated vulgarity and sentiment. Oh God. Coming home to England you know – I kept thinking and thinking how I’d see her -I didn’t even think of her saying anything to me. I felt I’d be like a dog, just sitting and looking at her. I was faint with joy at the idea of seeing her. Did she talk about me ever?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She made jokes.’
‘Well – I’m glad of that – if I was good for a laugh – that was all right. Coming home I felt—’
‘Have you still got that big house? I forget its name.’ But as he spoke Monty remembered the name.
‘Mockingham. Yes. It’s been a bit of a problem since my mother died. And you know my sister lives in Canada now. It’s only twenty miles from Oxford, so I suppose I’ll partly live there. Do you remember coming to Mockingham?’
‘Yes.’ Monty especially remembered the first occasion. It was his first visit to a large English country house, where all was ‘accustomed, ceremonious’. He had been impressed, but had carefully concealed this fact from Edgar.
‘You remember the coolness with my mother about your not coming to church?’
‘Are you still devout?’
‘Well, I go. I tag along. I don’t know what I believe. But it helps me not to go to the dogs. Not so fast, anyway. I say, Monty, that tape you were playing. Do you think you could -?’
‘No.’
‘Will you sometime?’
‘No. Could you go now! I’m going back to bed.’
‘I’m sorry – don’t be angry with me, Monty.’
‘I’m not angry. Just clear off, will you.’
‘I’ll come to see you tomorrow.’
‘It is tomorrow. And you won’t’ Monty rose and pulled back the curtains and opened the shutters. Bright sunshine flooded the dark elaborate little room, drawing blue flashes out of the de Morgan tiling.
‘Can I come this evening?’
‘No.’
‘When, then?’
‘Look, Edgar,’ said Monty, ‘I’m glad we’ve talked, but that’s that. We have nothing more to say, unless you count drooling on about Sophie as saying something. I don’t want to see you and I can’t imagine that you really want to see me. Maybe I’ll look you up one day in Oxford. Except that I’m never there. Anyway, good-bye.’
‘But, Monty, Monty -’ Edgar had risen.
‘Go, go. Here, take this.’ Monty reached out to the chimney-piece and took up a Coleport mug
‘Yes, "Rosie", yes. I think you invented that. I rather liked it. You were bloody kind to me in those days. I’ve kept all your letters, even from then. And all Sophie’s letters of course. There weren’t many. I’ll show them to you one day. Would you like that?’
‘No.’
‘Do you mind if I have some more Scotch. In a weird way this is like old times. How we used to talk about women before we really knew any! Do you remember saying to me laissons les jolies femmes aux homines sans imagination? ’
‘No.’
‘We used to talk all night. Women, philosophy. "Nothing in reason supports the assertion that it is good absolutely to relieve suffering." How we broke our heads on that one, do you remember?’
‘I think you’d better go now.’
‘Hitting something soft back hard, like in badminton, that’s what our friendship has always been like. I used that image once in a letter to you. I kept all your letters – Did you – No, of course, you said you didn’t —’
‘Oh, go away,’ said Monty. ‘There isn’t any friendship. I know, now that you remind me of it, that you were once all set for some sort of big emotional intellectual friendship between us, full of challenges and responses and rows and reconciliations and exchanges of clever letters, but it never existed except in your mind. After we left college the only real connection between us was Sophie, and now she’s dead.’
‘You sound so cold, – as if you’d accepted her death.’
‘Of course I’ve accepted her death. I accept facts.’
‘That’s your – frightfulness – again. You always hated vulgarity and sentiment. Oh God. Coming home to England you know – I kept thinking and thinking how I’d see her -I didn’t even think of her saying anything to me. I felt I’d be like a dog, just sitting and looking at her. I was faint with joy at the idea of seeing her. Did she talk about me ever?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She made jokes.’
‘Well – I’m glad of that – if I was good for a laugh – that was all right. Coming home I felt—’
‘Have you still got that big house? I forget its name.’ But as he spoke Monty remembered the name.
‘Mockingham. Yes. It’s been a bit of a problem since my mother died. And you know my sister lives in Canada now. It’s only twenty miles from Oxford, so I suppose I’ll partly live there. Do you remember coming to Mockingham?’
‘Yes.’ Monty especially remembered the first occasion. It was his first visit to a large English country house, where all was ‘accustomed, ceremonious’. He had been impressed, but had carefully concealed this fact from Edgar.
‘You remember the coolness with my mother about your not coming to church?’
‘Are you still devout?’
‘Well, I go. I tag along. I don’t know what I believe. But it helps me not to go to the dogs. Not so fast, anyway. I say, Monty, that tape you were playing. Do you think you could -?’
‘No.’
‘Will you sometime?’
‘No. Could you go now! I’m going back to bed.’
‘I’m sorry – don’t be angry with me, Monty.’
‘I’m not angry. Just clear off, will you.’
‘I’ll come to see you tomorrow.’
‘It is tomorrow. And you won’t’ Monty rose and pulled back the curtains and opened the shutters. Bright sunshine flooded the dark elaborate little room, drawing blue flashes out of the de Morgan tiling.
‘Can I come this evening?’
‘No.’
‘When, then?’
‘Look, Edgar,’ said Monty, ‘I’m glad we’ve talked, but that’s that. We have nothing more to say, unless you count drooling on about Sophie as saying something. I don’t want to see you and I can’t imagine that you really want to see me. Maybe I’ll look you up one day in Oxford. Except that I’m never there. Anyway, good-bye.’
‘But, Monty, Monty -’ Edgar had risen.
‘Go, go. Here, take this.’ Monty reached out to the chimney-piece and took up a Coleport mug
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