The Sea, The Sea - Iris Murdoch [160]
‘My God,’ said Titus. Then he said, ‘I think it’s obscene. And I don’t like this talking about her as if she were a child or mental patient. I’m going to swim.’
‘Titus—don’t think too ill of me—you see—’
‘Oh I don’t think ill of you, in a way I’m quite breathless with admiration. I just couldn’t do it myself.’
‘You’re not going to run over there for the letter?’
‘No. I expect it’s too late anyway.’
‘And you won’t run away from me?’
‘I won’t run away from you.’
He went out of the back door.
Outside it was a hazier later evening and the shadows of the rocks were long, long on the grass. I did not look at my watch. I sat down beside Hartley.
She had taken her hands from her face and was sitting limp, staring at the table. Where I had dragged at her dress there was a little triangular tear. I could see the deep reddish streak of sunburn that led downward from her throat. I could see her brassière and the roundness of her contained breasts. The quick almost panting movement of her breath.
It was indeed obscene. I had, from the inception of this plan in my mind, intended to keep Hartley here, by force if necessary; but I had not imagined the details, and I had somehow hoped that as soon as she saw Titus in my house she would make the great mental leap, the intuition, the necessary conjecture: she would see her freedom and the possibility of living with Titus and me. And once she had grasped her freedom I had the strong and reasonable hope that she would come to me, even though Titus was an unknown quantity and had his own freedom to dispose of. But perhaps I had indeed, inspired by the boy’s providential appearance, tried to move too fast. The horrors of the last half hour had shaken my resolution so that I nearly conceived of, after all, taking her home. Yet could I, now? He was almost certainly back and had read that letter and—my plan had succeeded so well that it had trapped me also. I did now look at my watch. It was twenty-five past nine.
I took her hands and put them neatly one on top of the other, and my hand above them. Then I turned her face round to look at me. She had not been crying. To my unspeakable relief I received, not the harsh anxious glare that I so much dreaded, but a new quiet look, gentle and reflective; and although she looked so sad yet she seemed younger, more like her old self, and also more alive, less apathetic, more intelligent. My confidence returned. Perhaps, after all, her freedom was stirring. Perhaps my plan had been right. It was a question of a cure, a psychological cure. And in the instant I decided that it would now be fatal to show any weakness. I must be absolute, I must be to the full the being who had made Titus breathless with admiration.
‘I’m not going to let you go, Hartley. Not tonight, not ever. You can’t go back tonight anyway. It’s too late to get that letter. He’s got it now. Let him think what he pleases. Why should you fear him and lie to him? That hurts me so. I can’t bear it, Titus can’t bear it. Titus wants you, but he doesn’t want him. Doesn’t that suggest anything to your mind? I like Titus, Titus likes me. Why shouldn’t Titus be my son, why shouldn’t you be my wife? It’s fate, Hartley, it’s fate. Why should Titus turn up just now, why should he come to me? Why should I be here at all? You must see how extraordinarily it’s all worked out. Titus so much wanted to be with you, but he would never have gone over there, never. And you were glad to see him, weren’t you? And you were able to talk to him. What did you talk about?’
‘The dogs—’
‘The dogs?’
‘He was remembering the dogs we had when he was little, he likes animals.’
‘Oh—good. Hartley, just relax, let it go, let it drop.’
‘Let what drop?’
‘You know—this burden, this useless fruitless loyalty, this pointless sacrifice. You’re making his life a misery too, let it go, let him go. You’re like a half-dead person.’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve felt half dead—yes—often. I think quite a lot of people do. But you can live on half dead and even have pleasures in your life.’
The reflective tone of