Jackson's dilemma.

Iris Murdoch.

ONE.

Edward Lannion was sitting at his desk in his pleasant house in London in Notting Hill. The sun was shining. It was an early morning in June, not quite midsummer. Edward was good-looking. He was tall and slim and pale. He was very well dressed. His hair, slightly curling, thickly tumbling down his neck, was a dark golden brown. He had a long firm mouth, a rather long hawkish nose, and long light brown eyes. He was twenty-eight.

His beautiful mother had died of cancer when he was ten. He had seen her die. When he heard his father's sobs he knew. When he was eighteen, his younger brother was drowned. He had no other siblings. He loved his mother and his brother pa.s.sionately. He had not got on with his father. His father, who was rich and played at being an architect, wanted Edward to be an architect too. Edward did not want to be an architect. He studied mediaeval history at Cambridge. Informed by his father that he should now earn his living somehow, he joined a small academic publishing house which dealt with the kind of books Edward liked. Unknown to his father he employed himself at publishing for only two mornings a week, devoting the rest to reading, and attempting to write historical novels, even poems. When Edward's father died Edward shed tears and wished he had behaved better to his father, who had left him the house in Notting Hill, and the estate, and the handsome house in the country. The name of the house was Hatting Hall, a name regarded as ridiculous by Edward and his brother Randall when they were children.

Hatting Hall, half Tudor half Georgian, having by now lost some of its larger property, was now content to own big beautiful gardens and some miles of adjacent meadows. Through these meadows ran the narrow stream of the river Lip, pa.s.sing through the village known as Lipcot. Lipcot, high up upon the far side from Hatting, after giving its name to the river, was now becoming nothing more than a hamlet, consisting of a few small houses, some smaller genuine cottages, a few shops, and a pub. Upstream, recently restored, was a st.u.r.dy bridge, leading to what the villagers called 'civilisation'. The Hall owned the land on its own side down to the river, together with half of a much disputed fragile bridge, the land on the other side, for a considerable distance, being the property of the only other 'grand house' in the vicinity. Farther down the river, on the Hatting side, reached by an ancient stone bridge, upon a little hill (land owned by Hatting) was a fourteenth-century church, complete with a little rectory and a tiny congregation. The other 'grand house' up from the river and among many trees, was called Penndean after the Quaker family which had owned it, and still owned it since the days of William Penn. In fact Penndean was older still, its original name being lost. It had thereafter been diminished by fire as well as being (as Edward's father said) 'messed about by the Victorians'. Edward's grandfather had had some feud with the inhabitants of the 'other House' (their family name was Barnell). Edward's father had been polite. Edward was polite.

Edward's ancestors had not perpetually possessed Hatting Hall, being by descent Cornishmen, and having only acquired Hatting late in the eighteenth century, the previous owners being obligingly bankrupt. This Cornish legend pleased Edward and Randall, but displeased their father, who did not care for piratical ancestors feasting on myths. He preferred to 'take up' the line of the unfortunate but t.i.tled gentry from whom the Lannions seized the charming and romantic residence. Even before the chaotic troubles of his grown-up life Edward had been aware of his odd aspect, his being rather fey, even as being, perhaps because of the Cornish past, under a curse. This withdrawal had also, at school and much later, led to his being called a prig, a prude, a puritan, even a 'weirdo'. He did not greatly mind such treatment, or even being lonely and secluded - but he found himself at times mysteriously frightened. He sometimes had a sensation of being followed. He even pictured himself as a criminal, perhaps a terrorist, who had been reformed, but knew that his erstwhile comrades were on his track and would certainly kill him. He seemed to remember that when a child he had played some sort of game like that with Randall. Later, when he was over twenty, he had another very remarkable and puzzling experience; but of these matters he did not speak to anybody. Edward's father had never recovered from Randall's death, Randall had always been his favourite. Randall was merry, Edward was taciturn. With surprise, moreover, he now found himself the master of Hatting Hall. This discovery which in itself might have cheered him up, filled him at first with alarm, though later he found that things 'went on much as before'. The staff, the 'eople' as his father had called them, the butler and gardener Montague, his wife the maid Millie, continued as before, perhaps almost as before, since Edward's father (Gerald Lannion) had been more self-a.s.sertive and explicit than the kinder and vaguer 'young master'. Edward continued to stay much of the week in London, abandoning the publishing house, attempting another historical novel and trying to write poetry.

Then, when he was settling down and a.s.suming that now nothing would ever happen, there was a change, a bright light, a fresh wind. He had a little earlier, partly in connection with his father's death, made some sort of mild relationship or 'reconciliation' with the inhabitants of Penndean. At that time these had consisted only of an elderly man, known as 'Uncle Tim' somehow connected with India, and a younger but over forty man, his nephew called Benet. Meeting him in the village, Benet had asked Edward if he would come to lunch. Edward, just returning to London, had said sorry, he could not. A little later Edward, again in London, learnt from Montague by telephone that the 'old man' at Penndean had just died. Edward felt sorry, he realised now that he would have liked to have met him. He sent a letter of condolence to Benet. A little later still he accepted an invitation to lunch. He liked Benet, and was able to glimpse the gardens of the house not visible from the road, but he did not get on with Benet's friends and refused a subsequent visit. The time was now late autumn. Invited yet again a little later he accepted, finding that the party consisted of Benet, the local Rector on visit, a handsome middle-aged woman with a great deal of glossy brown hair (Edward recognised her from the last occasion), another good-looking woman evidently 'from Canada', and her daughters, two pretty young girls, one nineteen, one twenty-one, one called Rosalind, the other Marian. Benet explained to Edward that the girls' surname was that of the (now dead) father, Berran, while their mother, subsequently married to a Canadian whom she later left, was called Ada Fox, that the girls had been to, and now left, a girls' boarding school, and that they had all rented a cottage in Lipcot for holidays. During lunch the girls reminded Edward that they had met him more than once in the street when they were inhabiting their cottage. Ada, sitting next to Edward, told him that the girls had just completed a trip with her to Scotland, after which she would return to Canada leaving them with their new flat in London to amuse and educate themselves. 'London is itself an education,' she said, and Edward, sitting next to Marian on his other side, nodded sagely.

Contrary to his expectations Edward did not see very much of the girls even after the delayed departure of their mother shortly before Christmas, after which the girls went to Paris, returning to London and reappearing in early spring in Lipcot and again meeting Edward in the street, when they told him they had again rented the same cottage. After that - well, after that - the girls now staying on at their cottage wanted to play tennis. Edward hastily refurbished the tennis court at Hatting. They wanted to ride. Edward did not ride, but he arranged for them to have ponies. Edward did not like long walks, but the girls did and they all went on long walks and Edward read the map. The girls wanted a swimming pool and Edward told Benet that there must be a swimming pool. The girls teased Edward, they made fun of him, they called him solemn. They were often with Benet and with Benet's friends, some of whom Edward began to tolerate. In all this time however they had not set foot in Hatting Hall. At last Edward, who was absolutely averse to entertaining, noticed the now continual hints, and gave a lunch party. Indeed it took Edward himself some time before he became thoroughly aware of what was going on, what it was all about, that he was falling madly in love with Marian, who was madly in love with him. Only later did he discover that everyone at Penndean, and at Hatting, was 'in on it', not of course excluding the inhabitants of the village who were taking bets in the pub.

How had it all so gently, so quietly, so inevitably come about? Can I be happy, Edward wondered to himself, can my dark soul see the light at last? There he was now, early in the morning, sitting upright at his desk on the first-floor drawing room of his house in Notting Hill. He was breathing deeply and expelling his breath in long gasps. He could feel his heart hitting his ribs violently. He put his hand to his chest, the palm of his hand feeling the force of the blows. He sat there quietly, silently. Tomorrow he was to be married in the little fourteenth-century church upon the hill near Hatting Hall.

Suddenly something terrible and unexpected occurred. The window pane had cracked and fallen inward, showering the carpet with little diamonds of broken gla.s.s. The sound of the report seemed to come a second later. A pistol shot? He leapt to his feet, crying out, as he remembered later. An a.s.sault, an attempted a.s.sa.s.sination, a nearby bomb? Then he thought, someone has thrown a stone through the window. He stepped quickly across, grinding the gla.s.s under foot, and looking down into the street. He could see no one. He thought of rushing down but decided not to. He turned back into the room and began to pick up the gleaming fragments of gla.s.s, looking about him as he did so, at first putting them into his pocket then into the waste paper basket. Yes, it was a stone. He picked up the stone and held it, then dusted it with his other hand to remove the specks of gla.s.s. He put the stone carefully upon the mantelpiece. After that he drove in his beautiful red car to Hatting Hall.

On the afternoon of the same day Benet was, or had been, busy making arrangements for the evening dinner party. Arrangements for tomorrow's wedding were, so far as he knew, complete. He had discussed every detail with the Rector, Oliver Caxton. The wedding was to be at twelve o'clock. The service would be the usual Anglican wedding service. The church was normally visited by the Rector, who was in charge of other parishes, once or twice a month, and on special occasions such as weddings, funerals, Christmas, and Easter. Curates just now were hard to come by. The congregations on ordinary occasions (Sunday and matins only) consisted sometimes and at most of Benet, Benet's visitors, Clun the Penndean gardener, his daughter Sylvia, three or four women from the village, in summer perhaps two or three tourists. Uncle Tim, Benet's late uncle, had regularly read the lessons. Benet also used to read the lessons. Now Clun sometimes did. Benet had now given up except for special occasions. Sometimes in winter the Rector conducted the service in the otherwise empty church. Of course the Barnells were Quakers, but there was no Meeting near Lipcot, and the plain Anglican service contained, in accord with wishes from Penndean, periods of silence. There was at present no piano. Benet did not object. As for the two beautiful young people, the radiant hero and heroine of the scene, they had at first demanded a sc.r.a.ppy civil wedding, but had been overruled by the bride's mother, Ada Fox, who unfortunately was unable to be present, and by Mildred Smalden, a holy lady, friend of the Barnells. Benet had wanted a 'proper show', as he thought Uncle Tim would have wished. How very sad that Uncle Tim was no longer with them. Concerning the number of the guests, the young pair had prevailed, there were to be very few. There was to be champagne and various wines (Benet did not like champagne) and all sorts of delicious things to eat, sitting, or standing, or walking about, at Penn after the wedding, immediately after which the two children (as Mildred called them) were to depart for an undisclosed destination in Edward's Jaguar.

A small number of wedding guests were to be present at Benet's dinner table that final evening. Benet knew Ada well and her daughters very well, having become recently something of a ward to the girls and thus a convenience to their flighty mother. Marian, who loved 'creating' things, was spending the last day and night in London completing some secret 'surprise' and would drive down very early on the wedding day. Edward, in spite of protests, was to return to Hatting on the morning before. Rosalind, who was of course to be her sister's bridesmaid, was also coming 'on the day before', with Mildred. Two other guests, friends of Benet, were Owen Silbery, an eccentric painter, and a young man who worked in a bookshop called Thomas Abelson, a friend of Owen, nicknamed 'Tuan' by Uncle Tim, and likely to arrive by taxi from the distant railway station. Rosalind and Mildred were to stay in the house, in the 'old part', usually closed up, supposed to be haunted, bitterly cold in winter, but now delightfully opened up and prettified by the maid Sylvia. Tuan was to stay in the guest bedroom in the main part. Owen stayed in the village pub, as he always insisted on doing, being a special friend of the proprietor. The pub was called the Sea Kings, with a sign of a pirate ship painted by Owen. In fact Lipcot was not near the sea, but the pub had borne that name for a long time, centuries it was said.

Benet was alone in the library. In the library there was silence, as of a huge motionless presence. The books, many of them, were Uncle Tim's books, they had been in their places since Benet was young. Many of the books still glowed, faded a fainter red, a fainter blue, the gold of their t.i.tles dusted away, emanating a comforting noiseless breath. Most of Benet's books were still in London. (Why still? Were they planning a sortie to take over the library at Penndean?) Benet's uncle had died leaving Benet so suddenly in absolute possession, here where from childhood he had lived more as a guest or a pilgrim, a seeker for healing. But even when Uncle Tim was away in India some pure profound gentle magic remained. The books did not know yet, but they would find out that Tim had gone, really gone away for ever.

Benet's father, now long deceased, had been Uncle Tim's younger brother. Benet's paternal grandfather, a lover of the cla.s.sics, had named his elder son Timaeus and his younger son Patroclus; appellations which were promptly altered by their owners to Tim and Pat. Benet (who narrowly escaped being called Achilles) called his father Pat and of course his mother Mat. Benet's full name was William (after William Penn) Benet Barnell. He had early suppressed the William and of course rejected Ben. The origin of Benet, pa.s.sionately clung to by its owner, was not clear, except that it had something to do with his mother and with Spain. Pat always claimed that he, Pat, was unlucky and 'put down'. However he made what seemed to be a sensible, even happy, marriage with sweet Eleanor Morton, daughter of an amicable solicitor, and training to be a singer. However Pat did not like music. He was also, as Benet soon found out, dissatisfied with his son. He wanted a daughter. He once asked Benet if he would like a little sister, to which Benet shouted 'No, no, no!' In any case no more children came. Pat's ill luck continued. Eleanor died quite early on in a car crash, Pat driving. Pat himself, a dedicated smoker, died of lung cancer, by which time Benet had grown up, had left the university, where he had studied philosophy, and followed his father into the Civil Service. Benet had loved his parents and regretted later that he had not revealed his love more openly. Remorse.

Uncle Tim (he did not marry, neither did Benet) was for Benet, and indeed for others, a romantic and somewhat mysterious figure. He had been involved in 'various wars'. He had left the university without a degree but had been (this much was known) a talented mathematician. He became, using this talent no doubt, an engineer, and somehow thereby came in contact with India, where he then spent much of his life, returning at intervals to England. During his absences Pat 'took over' Penndean, but more often, to Benet's chagrin, rented it.

n.o.body quite discovered what Uncle Tim did in India, after his war, except perhaps building bridges. Perhaps they simply did not ask him; even Benet, who adored him, did not ask him until late in his life when Tim gave him what sometimes seemed to Benet strange answers. Pat used to say that his brother had 'gone native'. Uncle Tim more than once asked his family to visit India and to see the Himalayas. Benet longed to go but Pat always refused. Late and at last Uncle Tim started spending longer and longer times at Penndean and then settled down there altogether.

Thinking of the books, Benet recalled how Tim, who, though no scholar, loved reading, used to utter, again and again, his 'quotes' or 'sayings', 'Tim's tags' lines out of Shakespeare, sentences out of Conrad, Dostoevsky, d.i.c.kens, Alice in Wonderland, Wind in the Willows, Kipling, Robert Louis Stevenson. 'Another step Mr Hands, and I'll blow your brains out.' When he was dying Benet heard him murmur, 'Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.' Of course Benet had had his cla.s.sical education, but had inclined to the philosophical side. His sense of the Greeks had come to him later, distantly from memories of his grandfather, and from Tim and Tim's books. In a strange way the books, which were indeed not all 'cla.s.sics', were somehow deeply soaked in some spirit of the Ancient World. Benet had sometimes tried to a.n.a.lyse this atmosphere, this rich aroma, this trembling resonance, this wisdom, but it eluded him, leaving him simply to bask within it. He recalled now, something which Tim liked to picture again and again, the moment when Caesar, angry with the Tenth Legion, addressed them as Quirites (citizens), not as Commilitones (fellow soldiers)! Benet, even as a child, instantly shared the grief of those devoted men as they hung their heads. There were some magic things which these books and utterances had in common. A favourite inner circle, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Lord Jim, Treasure Island, Alice in Wonderland, Kim. Tim also liked Kafka, which might have seemed strange, but on reflection Benet understood that too.

Pat used to say of Tim that he remained 'absolutely childish'. This was perhaps an aspect of his character which Benet saw rather as a heroic romanticism. Some years ago Benet, accidentally talking to an Indian diplomat at a Whitehall party, mentioned casually that his uncle worked in India, and was amazed to find that the diplomat had heard of Tim. He said of him, 'Dotty, crazy, but brave as a lion.' Benet was sorry that he had then lost track of the diplomat, not having even discovered his name. Tim's books were indeed adventure stories, as Benet saw them in his own childhood; but as he grew up he saw more in his uncle and his tales, a sort of warm ringing undertone, a gentle compa.s.sionate light or sound, an awareness of the tragedy of human life, good and evil, crime and punishment, remorse. Tim must have seen terrible things in India; perhaps done terrible things, which he might or might not have regretted, but which, in the sunny peace of Penndean, were never spoken of. The strange sound was then a sort of silent pain, which he rehea.r.s.ed again and again among his broken heroes - Macbeth with b.l.o.o.d.y hands, Oth.e.l.lo having killed his wife, the bizarre devastation of Kafka's people, T.E. Lawrence, Jim jumping from the ship. For consolation, Kim and the Lama. Another thing which Pat said of Tim was that he was covered all over in sugar. Benet (then adult) objected. It was not sugar. It was a sort of faintly beautiful profound grief. Alice listening to the Mock Turtle weeping. When Tim was dying he was reading Through the Looking Gla.s.s. This was a strange point at which Benet often paused. Well, why not? Was not Lewis Carroll a mathematician? Tim did not display his mathematical mind to his family, though he did once try to explain G.o.del's theorem to Benet. Building bridges? Pat, and Benet when young, thought of Tim's Indian activities as those of some simple labourer; then, after he had (as Pat said) 'gone native', as a descent into some sort of occult necromancy. A regular joke was to ask Tim if he could perform the Indian Rope Trick, then laugh when Tim took this seriously and started to explain. To Benet alone, in later years, Tim, now old (confused some said, but Benet never accepted that) spoke of the magic of mathematics, of calculating prodigies, of the deep reality of human intelligence, beyond words and outside logic. Many people in India, he said, could easily master contrivances beyond the comprehension of the brightest Cambridge scholars. It only dawned later on Benet why Tim tenderly avoided playing chess.

Leaving at last the silence of the library, Benet moved towards the drawing room, pausing in the hall to survey himself in the long mirror. The hall was large and rather dim, deprived of the sunlight of the summer afternoon; it contained an old Sheraton writing desk, never opened, and was the only part of the house to have parquet flooring. The mirror was also dim, a little smudged at the sides. Ever since childhood Benet had wondered what he looked like. This wonder was connected with 'Who am I?' or 'What am I?' Benet had discovered quite early in life that Uncle Tim shared this lack of ident.i.ty. They sometimes discussed it. Does everyone feel like this, Benet had wondered. Tim had said that no, not everyone did, adding that it was a gift, an intimation of a deep truth: 'I am nothing.' This was, it seemed, one of those states, achieved usually by many years of intense meditation, which may be offered by the G.o.ds 'free of charge' to certain individuals. Benet laughed at this joke. Later he took the matter more seriously, wondering whether this 'gift' were not more likely to precede a quiet descent into insanity. Later still he decided that, after all, 'I am nothing', far from indicating a selfless mystical condition, was a vague state of self-satisfaction experienced at some time by almost anyone. Yet more profoundly he wondered whether Tim, thought by so many of his friends and acquaintances to be 'rather dotty', were not really a receiver of presents from the G.o.ds.

Benet now, looking at himself in the mirror, experienced a usual surprise. He still looked so remarkably young. He also, when thus caught, always seemed to have his mouth open. (Did he always go about with his mouth open?) He was of medium height, about the height of Uncle Tim, though shorter than Pat. He was lean and slender, always neatly dressed even when gardening. He had thick ruffled hair, copious red and brown, flowing down over his ears, without any streaks of grey, a broad calm face, a high bland brow, dark blue eyes, a neat straight nose, full lips which often smiled though their owner was now often sad. Ever since he had left the Civil Service he had had troubles. Tim of course - his unsuccessful return to philosophy - his having never been in love - was that a trouble? What am I to do next? Of course this business with the girls had been a happy distraction.

The drawing room was a big room with gla.s.s doors opening on to the main lawn. There were books here too, in low wooden bookcases, all sorts of books, atlases, cookery books, guides to English Counties, to London, France, Italy, big books on famous painters, books about games, books about animals, trees, the sea, books about machines, about science and scientists, books about poetry, about music. Of these books Benet had read only a few. Benet's numerous philosophy books were beyond in the study, a room which opened off the drawing room. The drawing room floor was covered with a huge dark, dark-blue almost black, now very worn, carpet covered with minute trees and flowers and birds and animals, brought back from India by Uncle Tim when he was still young. There was a fine open fireplace surrounded by a heavy curly mahogany Victorian surround, numerous pictures on the walls, some of Quaker ancestors with dogs, more recent water colours with various views of the house, and of the river Lip. Uncle Tim had donated some Indian miniatures, said to be very valuable. There were numerous old armchairs with embroidered cushions, and a (not valuable) piano introduced into the house by Benet's sweet short-lived lovely mother, Eleanor Morton. Benet recalled the happy childhood evenings when she played and they all sang. She soon set her opera music aside. Tim and Pat and indeed Benet preferred 'Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair', and (a song which brought tears to Tim's eyes) 'The Road to Mandalay'.

Benet surveyed the room, re-arranging upon the mantelpiece, which still subsisted inside the Victorian surround, the netsuke which Owen Silbery had given him long ago; then he went through into his study. This also looked upon the terrace, and the immense lawn which had been dotted here and there with various tall and bushy trees by Benet's great-grandfather and other far more remote ancestors, even beyond the Quaker time. A little farther off there was a small copse of dainty birch trees, and beyond that the dark forest of huge Wellingtonias. Somewhere else, beyond the fountain and the rose garden, Benet had vaguely dreamed of erecting some little Grecian building with marble columns; within which, the girls had insisted, there might one day be a warm indoor all-the-year-round swimming pool! Had the girls convinced him at last about that pool? Smiling, he opened the window which Sylvia was always shutting, and let in a thick warm pressure of air, filled with the odours of flowers and mown gra.s.s and mingled with the music of blackbirds, thrushes, larks, finches, sparrows, robins, collared doves and a distant cuckoo. He thought for a delicious moment how lucky he was - then he turned to worrying about his guests, about tomorrow and the wedding.

After that, and when he was about to leave the room, he looked down at what he had been writing earlier in the day, not upon a typewriter or word-processor, machines which he despised, but upon the inky foolscap pages of his book on Heidegger. Benet had intended for some time to write, or attempt to write, that book. However, he found it difficult to plan the work and to decide what he really, in his heart, thought of his huge ambiguous subject. He had made a great many notes, with question marks, in fact his book so far consisted largely of notes, unconnected and unexplained. Benet found himself accusing himself of being fascinated by a certain dangerous aspect of Heidegger which was in fact so deeply buried in his own, Benet's, soul that he could not scrutinise or even dislodge it. Of course Benet admired Sein und Zeit and loved (perhaps this was the point) the attractive image of Man as the Shepherd of Being. Later Heidegger he detested; Heidegger's sickening acceptance of Hitler, his misuse of the Pre-Socratic Greeks, his betrayal of his early religious picture of man opening the door to Being, his transformation of Being into a cruel ruthless fate, his appropriation of poor innocent Holderlin, his poeticisation of philosophy, discarding truth, goodness, freedom, love, the individual, everything which the philosopher ought to explain and defend. Or was the era of the philosopher nearly over, as Pat used mockingly to tell him? Benet wished now that he had talked more with Uncle Tim about the Indian G.o.ds. How close had Tim come to those G.o.ds whom Benet himself knew only through Kipling and Tim's rambling talk? Was it too late to learn the Hindu scriptures - was it all too late? A big bronze dancing Shiva, dancing within his ring of fire, forever destroying the cosmos and re-creating it, had stood upon Tim's desk, which now was Benet's desk. I wish I had started all this up earlier, thought Benet, I kept putting it off until I retired, I should have held on to philosophy, instead of going into the Civil Service, as Pat insisted. Of course Benet had never believed in G.o.d, but he had somehow believed in Christ, and in Plato, a Platonic Christ, an icon of goodness. Pat had not believed in G.o.d, indeed he hated Christianity. Eleanor had been a silent Christian. He recalled now how he had intuited her Christianity. Of course he never thought of such things then. And now - well, Heidegger, the greatest philosopher of the century? But what was Benet thinking somehow so deeply about when he turned his mind to that remarkable thinker? It seemed to him that after all his philosophical reflections, there was a sound which rang some deeper tremor of the imagination. Perhaps it was his more profound desire to lay out before him the history of Heidegger's inner life, the nature of his sufferings: the man who began as a divinity student and became a follower of Hitler, and then -? Remorse? Was that the very concept which sounded the bell? What had Heidegger said to Hannah Arendt after it was all over? What had that pain been like - what had those millions of pains been like? A huge tormented life? Was Heidegger really Anti-Christ? 'The darkness, oh the darkness,' Benet said aloud.

He rose and left the study and crossed the great carpet to the gla.s.s doors and walked out onto the lawn. Here he listened again to the sounds, which he had failed to hear when he was so strangely struggling with that mysterious demon. The sweet sounds of the garden birds, and now, coming from the river, the geese flying overhead uttering their strange tragic gabble. d.a.m.n it, he said to himself, I am supposed to be organising this evening, and tomorrow! Oh I wish it was over and all well. Of course nothing will go wrong, they themselves will orchestrate everything!

Benet was now checking the dining table. The dining room, adjacent to the hall and the front door, looked upon the drive where, emerging from among the trees, cars were soon to be expected. Sylvia, who loved Benet dearly, almost as much as she had loved Uncle Tim, smiled tolerantly across the table as he intently pushed things about, then she quietly left the room. The placement was proving difficult as usual. There were few guests, only from the 'inner circle'. Strictly Benet should have Mildred on his right and Rosalind on his left. However, actually, Benet wanted to have Edward on his right, he wanted very much to talk to Edward, he felt that Edward needed protecting and he wanted to be fatherly to him. So then Edward would have Mildred on his right. Then there were Owen, and Tuan alias Thomas Abelson. But would that do? Owen was always difficult and should not sit next to Mildred whom he knew so well, nor to Rosalind whom he sometimes reduced to tears. Was Tuan, so called by Tim after Conrad's novel, a solution? Hardly, put anywhere he was rather inarticulate. Suppose Benet took him on, upon his left? Benet was shy of this, and would feel bound to talk a lot to him, thus reducing his time to Edward. At last he decided to keep Rosalind on his left, Owen between Rosalind and Tuan, and Tuan thus next to Mildred, who was next to Edward who was next to Benet. Rosalind would have to look after herself, and Tuan would be at the far end of the table facing Benet. He must remember to put out the cards. It was a small table where they would all hear each other, of course it could be lengthened by leaves. Benet reflected upon how rarely he had done that since Tim died. A moth appeared and fluttered quietly across the room. Benet blew it gently away, not wanting to damage its frail antlers. Sylvia was the one who made war on moths.

A small dark car appeared out of the wood and slewed round noisily upon the beautifully raked and weeded gravel. Benet hurried out into the hall and opened the front door. Mildred and Rosalind emerged, waved, then began to unpack various boxes. Benet went forward to help. He had known Rosalind and her sister and their mother, on and off, through summers when they had come back to the cottage in Lipcot. Rosalind had grown up almost as beautiful as Marian, and, following Shakespeare's heroine, persistently dressed as a boy, not in jeans, but as a real trousered well-dressed boy, even with waistcoat. Her bright straight golden hair, falling beyond her shoulders, was allowed as boyish. Mildred was an old friend. Long ago Benet, or so he claimed, had dissuaded her from becoming a nun. Later, for a while, she was a member of the Salvation Army. However, she remained nun-like. Owen who had known her longer than Benet, often painted her, spoke of her pale wistful pre-Raphaelite look. She wore long dark brown dresses and her long thick dark brown hair was supported by big tortoisesh.e.l.l combs. She lived austerely in a small flat, worked as a dress-maker, caring for the poor, visiting the sick, a.s.sisting the homeless. She also frequented the British Museum; 'her G.o.ds are there,' Owen used to say. Apparently or perhaps she had some sort of small pension. She had, some time ago, entered the lives of Owen and Benet through Uncle Tim, who said he had found her wandering late at night near Saint Paul's. What Tim, or Mildred, was doing there was never made clear. She spoke in what some called an 'aristocratic voice'. Others said 'like a head mistress'. She too, through Benet, had met the girls some time ago. She quite often went to church and was prepared to be called 'some sort of Christian'.

'h.e.l.lo, Sylvia,' said Mildred, ignoring Benet, to the pretty girl who had run out too.

Benet kissed Rosalind, Rosalind hugged Sylvia, talking they moved toward the house carrying the bags and boxes. At that moment, out of the trees, more than ever like the Green Man, silent Clun the gardener, Sylvia's father, with a gesture, got into the car and drove it away.

Rosalind went upstairs with Sylvia, and into the rarely used 'old part' of the house. Mildred had 'her own room' there too, though often when visiting she preferred to stay in the inn. Now she followed Benet into the drawing room. They sat down on the sofa and looked at each other. Benet reached out and took her hand.

'Now look here,' said Mildred (a well-known formula), withdrawing her hand, 'how are you going to manage? Will you be able to feed them all after the wedding? Half the village will want to join in, you know. I've hired this car, by the way, Rosalind still hasn't got one.'

Benet, who had not thought too clearly about all this, said, 'Oh, it will be all right. They'll stay at the gate. Only the three or four old faithfuls may decide to come into the church. And afterwards it's just our lot up at Penn.'

'Hmmm. How many guests have you invited to the wedding, not just tonight of course - ? Is Anna coming tonight, by the way?'

'No, she is coming tomorrow. Very few guests. They wanted a three-minute wedding with a Registrar!'

'I suppose Ada ditched that. But why isn't she coming?'

'Marian says she has just found another man! I don't know. My G.o.d, Mildred, I shall be so glad when this is over!'

'Nonsense, you'll enjoy it. Anyway I will. Any friends of Edward's?'

'No. He doesn't want any. He says he hasn't got any!'

'Typical Edward. I'm so glad he is marrying at last, such hawkish looks, but he is pure in heart. So Marian is coming down very early tomorrow morning, upon the day itself! She always liked treats and surprises. That's typical too. Oh look!'

Rosalind, now wearing her bridesmaid's dress, had quietly entered the room carrying her bouquet.

When all were a.s.sembled and the parade to the dining room began, Benet was delayed by Rosalind. (Had Edward got a best man? No, Edward had not got a best man!) Thus Mildred, entering the room first, sat down in her frequent place on Benet's right, and thereafter seeing Edward, standing helpless, signalled him to her other side. Owen, who was longing to talk to Edward, at once sat down beside him, at the same time capturing, by gripping his sleeve, the timid wandering Tuan who was shy and often silent. Rosalind, then entering alone, placed herself on Benet's left, finding herself thus next to the harmless Tuan on the other side. Benet, who had just realised that he had forgotten his instructions, entered last, thus placed, silently cursing, between the two women. Before dinner Mildred and Rosalind had hoped for some music and singing, but Benet had quietly and hastily informed them that Edward would not like it.

The guests, now at table, knew each other in some cases very well, in other cases just fairly well. Mildred and Owen, both 'oddities', were close friends, by some deemed a 'strange couple'. Benet had met them years ago through Uncle Tim, who had discovered Owen in an exhibition of Indian pictures. Tuan was a later acquisition, allegedly 'picked up' by Uncle Tim in a train from Edinburgh. He was extremely slim, even thin, with a long neck and a dark complexion, straight black hair, dark brown eyes, a thin mouth and a shy smile. Tim called him (without any visible evidence) 'the Theology Student', and conjectured that he must have had some sort of awful shock in the past. In any case Tuan said little of his past and nothing of his family. He had been at Edinburgh University, even taught at a London university, and now worked in a bookshop. He had been devoted to Tim and shed many tears at his death. He was also now attached to Benet and to Owen Silbery. He was deemed not to be gay. Owen was a painter, in fact a distinguished and well-known painter. He announced himself sometimes as 'in the style of Goya', and moreover, it was said, painted horrific p.o.r.nographic pictures which he sold secretly. He was in fact well known as a portrait painter, and one who could satisfy his clients. His pictures were bought at high prices. He was tall, becoming stout, but remained handsome, even 'dashing', a big head, a high and constantly lined brow, a large st.u.r.dy nose, watery pale blue eyes and thick lips, and long black straggling hair, said to be dyed. He could smile and laugh a lot and was much addicted to drink, only saved (it was said) by the attentions of the saintly Mildred.

'Are you thinking of opening your house to the public now?' Owen was saying to Edward. 'You thought of doing that, didn't you?'

'I didn't actually,' said Edward. 'My father mentioned it, but he never really wanted to. I certainly don't.'

'I don't blame you,' said Owen. 'After all you don't need the money, and showing the place would be a burden and a nuisance. Yes, I can see, absolutely a nightmare.'

'Quite.'

'Have you still got that Turner, the Pink One it was called?'

'Yes. How did you know about the Turner?'

'It was lent for the Turner exhibition. Your ancestors had very good taste. Of course I am not implying that you and your father lacked it.'

'That is just as well.'

'Of course you have the latest burglar alarms I a.s.sume. Are you writing a novel?'

'No. Why should I be writing a novel?'

'Everyone writes novels nowadays. Someone told me you were. I feel that you have much to write about.'

'And you are a painter.'

'Yes, I am a painter. One day soon I shall paint you.'

'How is your swimming pool getting on?' Mildred asked Benet.

'Oh, it's rather at a standstill, actually I'm still just planning it.'

'All those marble columns? The girls are longing for it to be ready! Isn't it good news about Anna, pity she isn't here tonight.'

'She's coming tomorrow.'

'It's time they came back from France. It's so sad that Lewen didn't live to see-'

'So you're going into the Courtauld?' Tuan was saying to Rosalind.

'No, not yet anyway, I'm just taking a course-'

'But you are a painter!'

'I have tried painting, but I've given it up for the moment.'

'You must feel so happy about Marian.'

'Yes, but I'm rather worried about myself.'

'What about?'

'About tomorrow. I've never been a bridesmaid before and I'm afraid I shall fall or drop the bouquet or start to cry.'

Sylvia had gone home. The sequence of her beautiful dishes was nearing its end. She never forgot that Mildred was a vegetarian. The first dish was vegetarian anyway, consisting of salads of all kinds of fresh green leaves with a cheese souffle. From here Mildred went on to spinach and leek pie, the others to a delicate leg of lamb. The pudding was of course summer pudding, but special. Bottles of Uncle Tim's claret were consumed. Mildred was not against this, if not taken in excess. They had now been arguing for some time about politics, Owen dominating as usual.

'What we need is a return to Marxism, early Marx of course, Marxism was created when Marx and Engels saw the starving poor of Manchester. We've got to get rid of our vile, stupid, rapacious bourgeois civilisation, capitalism must go, just look at it now, what a senseless government-'

'I agree with you about the poor people,' said Mildred, 'and our unhappy leaders may be in difficulties, but we must hold on to our morals, we must civilise and spiritualise politics, and most of all we must develop a believable form of Christianity before it is too late.'

'It is already too late. You are a disciple of Uncle Tim, you worship T.E. Lawrence, Simone Weil worshipped him too, at least the poor girl never knew he was a liar and a cheat-'

'He wasn't,' said Mildred, 'he was cheated, he didn't know that he would not be able to help the Arabs-'

'Can you believe a single word of what he said happened at Deraa?'

'I believe it,' said Benet. This was a touchstone often skirmished around.

'It was a fantasy, he was after his own glory, then he spent the rest of his life punishing himself, and then he committed suicide-'

'He didn't commit suicide,' said Benet, 'it was an accident.'

Mildred said, 'Of course there is such a thing as redemptive suffering, but-'

'There is no redemptive suffering,' said Owen, 'only remorse - remorse is what is real - Uncle Tim knew it all right - and your philosopher friend Heidegger, Benet, except of course he's Anti-Christ-'

'He's not my friend,' said Benet. 'I daresay he is Anti-Christ.'

'You love him,' said Owen. 'You are sinking into his evil!'

Benet smiled.

Mildred said, 'I think it is time for a rapprochement of philosophy and theology, and Christianity must learn from the religions of the east, and they must learn-'

'In that case,' said Owen, 'there will be only two world religions, your oriental Christianity, and Islam. Don't you agree, Tuan?'

'And Judaism,' said Tuan. I believe-'

'Judaism of course,' said Owen. 'Our future will be total destruction, Herac.l.i.tus was right, war is the king of all things, war is necessity, it brings everything about. Kafka was right too, we are in the Penal Colony, behind our rotten bourgeois civilisation is a world of indescribable pain and horror and sin which alone is real.'

'I'm glad you mention sin,' murmured Mildred.

'Is that what you really believe?' said Edward to Owen.

'He believes in romantic heroism and discuter les idees generales avec les femmes superieures,' said Benet.

'It isn't all play!' said Mildred, defending Owen.

'Well, I think we are now drunk enough,' said Benet, 'we must not go on to get cross! Let us now go out into the garden and breathe deeply and admire the marvels of nature. I suggest we rise and give our usual toast, and another very special toast as well.'

The diners were now rising and moving their chairs.

'First to dear Uncle Tim, whom we love and whose spirit is still with us.'

'Uncle Tim!' Gla.s.ses were raised and everyone was solemn. After which all remained standing, expectant, during a brief silence. 'And now let us all drink the health of our dear friend and neighbour, Edward Lannion, and his absent bride, Marian Berran, who this time tomorrow will be Mrs Lannion! May these two lovely young people have long and happy lives, may they have happy children and may all of us here be privileged to share in their joy and goodness. Marian and Edward!'

'Marian and Edward!' During the toast, Edward, pale, almost alarmed, looking suddenly very young, having hesitated about sitting down, stood, first lowering his head, then lifting it, and looked about upon the company with an air of frightened grat.i.tude. Benet now moved quickly in case Edward should feel that he must now make a speech.

'Come on now, all of you, out into the garden!'

They all crowded out into the garden, pa.s.sing back from the dining room into the drawing room whose gla.s.s doors opened onto the paved terrace and the gra.s.s. There was a light on the terrace, revealing the brilliant colours of flowers in big mossy stone urns. Beyond was what at first seemed like darkness, but was in a few moments seen to be starlight. The moon was not present, being elsewhere. But a dense light came to them from the innumerable crowding stars of the Milky Way. Upon the gra.s.s, already damp with dew, they stopped at first, looking up with silent awe, then talking to each other in soft voices, gradually separating, never going too far away as if, though exalted, they were also afraid.