Read Online The Sacred and Profane Love Machine by Iris Murdoch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Iris Murdoch
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brightly painted with sprays of red roses. Take it, take it away. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that I want to dismantle the place, like Aladdin’s palace. Whenever anybody comes, I give them something to take away.’
‘Oh thank you – how pretty – I’ll put it in my room in college. Monty, do you think, later on I mean, when you’ve had time to sort things out, you could give me something of Sophie’s?’
‘No.’
‘Anything, anything at all, one of her shoes —’
‘No!’
‘Monty, you don’t mean it about not seeing me tomorrow? I’ve got to see you, I’ve got to talk about her, I shall go mad. You may have had time to get used to it, but I haven’t -’
‘Go away,’ said Monty. ‘I don’t want to see you. / don’t want to see you. Understand. Go away. Please.’ He opened the drawing-room door and went out into the hall.
Edgar followed. He stood, arms hanging, holding the Cole-port mug by the handle. Then suddenly he gave a little whine and began to cry. His face grew red and seemed to be instantly wet all over with tears. He said, ‘I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it.’ He continued silently to cry, staring at the ground and not wiping his tears.
Monty studied him for a moment or two. Then he went to the front door and opened it wide. A spurt of bird song entered into the house. Edgar set off along the hall and, with a powerful whiff of whisky, went past Monty and out of the door, still crying.
Monty went back up to his bedroom and darkened it again by pulling the curtains. He got back into bed. He wondered if the sight of Edgar’s tears might now help him to cry. He tested himself hopefully, but it was no good. His heart was beating hard and his head was aching and he lay sleepless. It was nearly six o’clock.
‘Blaise is away,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s with Magnus Bowles.’
‘Oh really,’ said Monty. He got up and wandered restlessly to the window. They were in the little Moorish drawing-room which the intense evening sunshine was illuminating with a rich powdery light, making the turquoise ducks upon the tiles to glitter like jewels and the saffron and grey lentil trees to glow with a pearly radiance. Harriet was sitting among the patchwork cushions upon the purple canopied sofa, looking with her pale mauve robe and her half-tumbled glinting brown hair, like some sultan’s delight. The room was somnolent and the garden fragrances were lacking in freshness, heavy like incense. Monty felt a little faint, perhaps from lack of food, perhaps from lack of air. A large pink-silver-paper-covered milk chocolate fish (a salmon perhaps?) which Harriet had brought with her lay upon the low table beside Edgar’s empty whisky glass. It was once again six o’clock.
The morning post had brought another letter from Monty’s mother, who was mercifully still at Hawkhurst.
My darling boy,
I am thinking of you all the time and will come to you soon. I just brood over your grief, wishing so much that my loving thoughts could make it well. I know by intuition, telepathy, what you will, how much you are suffering. We have always been so close and known each other’s minds. I would draw off that pain if I could. I can at least share it. Be quiet within yourself, dearest child, try to be quiet in your mind. I don’t mean resignation, you are not a resigned person. We know what we think, don’t we, of ‘the will of God’ and all that false comfort that weak people fly to. Just be gentle and relaxed with your sorrow. And be sure to take all those pills the doctor gave you, won’t you, dear. I was so glad of your letter though it said so little. I may telephone you soon. I did ring on Tuesday actually, but I got no answer. I expect you were in the garden. Do not make any decisions about property until I have seen you, you are in no state to do so. We shall have to think it all out carefully together, won’t we. I look forward to a long quiet conference about practical matters.
‘Oh thank you – how pretty – I’ll put it in my room in college. Monty, do you think, later on I mean, when you’ve had time to sort things out, you could give me something of Sophie’s?’
‘No.’
‘Anything, anything at all, one of her shoes —’
‘No!’
‘Monty, you don’t mean it about not seeing me tomorrow? I’ve got to see you, I’ve got to talk about her, I shall go mad. You may have had time to get used to it, but I haven’t -’
‘Go away,’ said Monty. ‘I don’t want to see you. / don’t want to see you. Understand. Go away. Please.’ He opened the drawing-room door and went out into the hall.
Edgar followed. He stood, arms hanging, holding the Cole-port mug by the handle. Then suddenly he gave a little whine and began to cry. His face grew red and seemed to be instantly wet all over with tears. He said, ‘I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it.’ He continued silently to cry, staring at the ground and not wiping his tears.
Monty studied him for a moment or two. Then he went to the front door and opened it wide. A spurt of bird song entered into the house. Edgar set off along the hall and, with a powerful whiff of whisky, went past Monty and out of the door, still crying.
Monty went back up to his bedroom and darkened it again by pulling the curtains. He got back into bed. He wondered if the sight of Edgar’s tears might now help him to cry. He tested himself hopefully, but it was no good. His heart was beating hard and his head was aching and he lay sleepless. It was nearly six o’clock.
‘Blaise is away,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s with Magnus Bowles.’
‘Oh really,’ said Monty. He got up and wandered restlessly to the window. They were in the little Moorish drawing-room which the intense evening sunshine was illuminating with a rich powdery light, making the turquoise ducks upon the tiles to glitter like jewels and the saffron and grey lentil trees to glow with a pearly radiance. Harriet was sitting among the patchwork cushions upon the purple canopied sofa, looking with her pale mauve robe and her half-tumbled glinting brown hair, like some sultan’s delight. The room was somnolent and the garden fragrances were lacking in freshness, heavy like incense. Monty felt a little faint, perhaps from lack of food, perhaps from lack of air. A large pink-silver-paper-covered milk chocolate fish (a salmon perhaps?) which Harriet had brought with her lay upon the low table beside Edgar’s empty whisky glass. It was once again six o’clock.
The morning post had brought another letter from Monty’s mother, who was mercifully still at Hawkhurst.
My darling boy,
I am thinking of you all the time and will come to you soon. I just brood over your grief, wishing so much that my loving thoughts could make it well. I know by intuition, telepathy, what you will, how much you are suffering. We have always been so close and known each other’s minds. I would draw off that pain if I could. I can at least share it. Be quiet within yourself, dearest child, try to be quiet in your mind. I don’t mean resignation, you are not a resigned person. We know what we think, don’t we, of ‘the will of God’ and all that false comfort that weak people fly to. Just be gentle and relaxed with your sorrow. And be sure to take all those pills the doctor gave you, won’t you, dear. I was so glad of your letter though it said so little. I may telephone you soon. I did ring on Tuesday actually, but I got no answer. I expect you were in the garden. Do not make any decisions about property until I have seen you, you are in no state to do so. We shall have to think it all out carefully together, won’t we. I look forward to a long quiet conference about practical matters.
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