The Sea, The Sea - Iris Murdoch [86]
‘Help him?’
‘Yes, why not? Financially for instance, or—I know a lot about the world, Hartley—about some worlds, anyway. What does he want to do, what is he studying?’
Hartley gave a deep sigh, and then rubbed her cheeks with her red hands. She produced her handkerchief, still stained with lipstick. Tears had risen into her eyes.
‘Hartley—dear—’
‘He’s gone, he ran away, he’s lost, we don’t know where he is. We haven’t heard anything from him for nearly two years. He’s gone away.’
‘Oh God—’ So cunning and vile is the human soul that I felt instantly glad that Hartley had this understandable cause of grief and had told me about it and was weeping about it in my presence. Suddenly there was sympathy, communication.
‘I’m so sorry. But can’t he be found, have you told the police? There are ways of finding people. I could help there.’
Hartley mopped her face, then took a mirror and powder compact out of her bag and dabbed powder round her eyes. I had seen so many women powder their faces. I was seeing Hartley perform this little ritual of vanity for the first time. She said, ‘You can’t help and please don’t try to. Better to leave us alone and—’
‘Hartley, I’m not going to leave you alone, so you must make up your mind to that and invent some humane way of dealing with me! Are you just afraid of falling in love with me again, is that it?’
She stood up, lifted her shopping basket, which was beside me, and dropped her handbag into it. I came round into her pew and put my arms firmly round her shoulders. It still felt like doing the impossible. For a moment she bowed her head and rolled her brow quickly to and fro against my shirt, and I felt the blazing warmth of her flesh against mine. Then she pushed past me and began to walk to the door. I followed.
‘When shall I see you?’
‘Please don’t, you’ll worry us, and please don’t write.’
‘Hartley, what is it? Let go. Let yourself love me a bit, there’ll be no harm. Or do you think I’m such a grandee? I’m not, you know. I’m just your oldest friend.’
‘Don’t do anything, I’ll write to you, later.’
‘You promise?’
‘Yes. I’ll write. Only don’t come.’
‘Won’t you explain?’
‘There’s nothing to explain. Stay here please.’ And she went away.
Dearest Lizzie, I have been reflecting on what you said in your sweet and wise letter, and what you said also when we met at the tower. I have to ask your pardon. I think perhaps that you are right after all. I love you, but it may be that my rather (as you say) ‘abstract’ idea of our being together is not, for either of us, the best expression of that love. We might just create confusion and unhappiness for both. Your ‘suspicions’ of me may indeed be just, and you are not the first one to express such doubts! Perhaps I am by now too much of a restless Don Juan. So let us play it differently. This is not necessarily a sad conclusion, and we must both be realistic, especially as someone else’s happiness is also at stake. I was very touched and impressed by the spectacle of your relationship with Gilbert. It is an achievement and must of course be respected. What does it matter what people exactly ‘are’ to each other, so long as they love and cherish each other and are true to each other? You were so right to emphasize that word. You doubted my capacity to be loyal and I am near enough to sharing your doubts to be anxious for us not to take the risk. It is just as well that we never defined what we expected. We are both fortunate in being happy as we are, and we can simply count our old affectionate friendship, now so happily revived, as a bonus. We don’t want, do we, any more anguish or muddle.