The Philosopher's Pupil

A Novel

Iris Murdoch

• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Year: 2010
• ISBN:
  9781453200872
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Literatur Allgemein

A New York Times Notable Book: An "ingeniously plotted" tale of tragedy, comedy, and small-town gossip ( The New York Times Book Review ). The quiet English town of Ennistone is known for its peaceful, relaxing spa—a haven of restoration, rejuvenation, and calm. Until the night George McCaffrey's car plunges into the cold waters of the canal, carrying with it his wife, Stella. And until the village's most celebrated son, famed philosopher John Robert Rozanov, returns home, upending the lives of everyone with whom he comes in contact. Stirred up by talk of murder and morality, obsession and lust, religion and righteousness, the residents of Ennistone begin to spiral out of control, searching for answers and redemption for the sins of their peers—and discovering more about themselves than they ever wanted to know. With breakneck plotting and intricately flawed characters, The Philosopher's Pupil is a darkly humorous novel from the Man Booker Prize–winning author of The Sea, The Sea, masterfully exploring the human condition and the inherent blend of comedy and tragedy therein.

THE EVENTS IN OUR TOWN

A bird was singing in the cold spring-time afternoon in the garden at Belmont. The sky was radiant on one side, leaden on the other. A rainbow had glowed intensely, then faded quickly.

In the drawing-room a wood fire was burning. Beside the fire stood Alexandra McCaffrey, née Stillowen. Near the door stood her old servant, Ruby Doyle. Ruby had just asked Alex about a pension; she had simply said, ‘What about my pension?’ Alex did not understand. She paid Ruby good wages. Did this mean that she wanted to leave? Ruby had been with her since Alex was sixteen.

‘Do you want to leave?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to stop working?’

Alex asked this question sometimes as a matter of form, but she did not conceive that Ruby would want to stop working; she was in good health, and whatever could she do if she stopped working?

‘No.’

‘Or work less? I told you I would arrange a daily woman.’

‘No.’ Ruby had always jealously resisted the idea of a ‘daily’.

‘If you stopped work I would give you a pension,’ said Alex, ‘but wages are more than a pension. Do you understand? You don’t need a pension. People don’t have pensions and wages too.’

‘A pension.’

‘Just try and understand what I’ve said,’ said Alex, ‘Could you take the tea tray?’ She poured the dregs of tea out of her cup into the pot, as she always did, so that Ruby could save washing-up by using the same cup.

Ruby advanced and picked up the tray, holding it easily in one hand.

‘I saw that fox again.’

‘I told you not to talk about foxes.’

Ruby left the room.

The servant was a tall stout woman, as tall as Alex, with a strong grave face. She had a dark complexion and her eyes stared at the world with unemotional critical curiosity. She had a square face and a straight profile and straight bushy hair, almost black. The brown skin of her powerful arms was rough and resembled fish scales. Someone once said that she ‘looked like a Mexican’, and although this did not make much sense it was accepted as an expressive description. She was a silent woman and wore her skirts very long. She was at first thought to be half-witted, but later on people took to saying, ‘Ruby’s no fool, she’s deep.’ Alex herself declared, ‘She’s a mystery.’ Yet she had not felt this until lately; she had not really believed that Ruby was a substantial alien being with thoughts and passions which she concealed.

Alex could make no sense of Ruby’s statement about a pension. It might be just one of Ruby’s obstinate ephemeral misunderstandings, her tendency to ‘get the wrong end of the stick’. On the other hand, it might have been uttered with a special purpose; it might positively mean something else. In fact, now that Alex reflected, she felt sure that it did mean something else, something which Alex did not like. Alex recalled a world of starched white aprons and caps and extremely long stiff damask tablecloths covered with scarcely visible silvery flowers. She had been little more than a child when her father, Geoffrey Stillowen (so the story runs), ‘discovered’ Ruby in the gipsy camp beyond the Common, in which he took a philanthropic interest, and engaged her as his daughter’s maid. Ruby was two years older than Alex. She had looked then as she looked now, brown and hard and strong, solid with a dark rind. They were joined by an old mutual bond. Was this love? The question seemed out of place. It was more an awesome necessity, as if they lived together in prison. Sometimes Alex felt that she could not stand Ruby’s presence in the house, but the feeling passed quickly. Usually there was no feeling, only the bond. What did it consist of? Perhaps simply of orders. They spoke about shopping and household arrangements easily and without constraint. They mentioned the weather or occasionally television but without anything like conversation. ‘What makes good servants is working with them,’ Alex’s mother had said. Alex had never worked with Ruby. It’s not my fault, Alex thought. Ruby was perfectly intelligent, she was ‘all there’, only she was a non-talker. They had never eaten together. They never touched each other. Alex had had a full life of triumphs and disasters and marriage and children and thoughts. She had a copious past and vivid interesting dangerous future. Ruby lived under another law. Alex did not feel that she herself was old, and had only lately come to think that Ruby was. Was Ruby wondering whether she would tend Alex in Alex’s old age, or Alex her in hers? But something much less rational than that was now at issue.

Alex had never quite dominated Belmont. She had not lived in the house as a child. Her father often let it, and when, between tenancies, the family occupied it for a while Alex felt that she was a visitor. This feeling persisted after she came home to it as a bride. The children, now departed, had made no mark upon the place, and Alan had always regarded it as her father’s house. It was a big white stucco house, one of the finest in Victoria Park, with bow windows and ‘Strawberry Hill Gothic’ windows and a wide graceful curving staircase and a turret. But in spite of the thick spotless glittering white paint which covered every piece of wood, inside and out, it was a sulky house full of its own moody thoughts. Alex could feel them vibrating. It was a frame within which she and Ruby moved about on their separate paths. The house evaded Alex, a reflex of her loss of grip upon life. It menaced her at night with smells of smoke and fears of fire. She had dreams in which she lost her way in the house and came upon rooms she did not know existed where some other form of life was proceeding, or had proceeded recently and ceased. Not that there were dead people there, but dead things. At these times of evasion it seemed that Ruby was more at home in Belmont than Alex was, and Alex turned to Ruby as to a monumental security. Yet this had an opposite aspect. Ruby’s great silent being could seem to be maliciously in league with the house against Alex. There were places where things disappeared, dropped out of the world or into another one. It was absurd how things vanished. Yet Ruby would always find them. Ruby, with her gipsy blood, was popularly credited with having second sight. But was it not more likely that Ruby could find them because Ruby had, perhaps unconsciously, hidden them?

It’s being alone together at last, thought Alex; we get on each other’s nerves. Ruby had been nurse to the three boys, she had seen them grow up and go. Tom, now a student, had gone last. Ruby had never got on with Brian, but she had been close to George and to Tom. Alex had not felt jealous of Ruby in the past; the idea of jealousy would have seemed absurd. But a little while ago when she had seen Ruby talking to George she had felt her servant as an alien power. And only yesterday she had come into the drawing-room and found Ruby sitting there. Ruby had risen and departed silently. No doubt she had just been dusting and had felt tired. But Alex felt menaced as if she were suddenly diminishing in Ruby’s eyes. Alex’s mother had worked with the servants; she had been at ease with them because the distance between them was absolute. She could never have been where Alex was now and feared what Alex now feared. Was there then a power with which Alex would have to treat? Was she supposed to make some significant move, some concession? If so, the old order was falling and a new law was coming to be. Could there be a sudden failure of obedience, a failure of respect which would bring them face to face in some unimaginably crude and painful encounter? The sulky house echoed and Alex could hear Ruby locking and chaining the doors each night. Did she imagine that Ruby was noisier and rougher and clattered more and banged? Alex told nobody about these irrational insubstantial fears which were perhaps nothing more, though indeed nothing less, than the general shadow of her death.

Leaning at the mantelpiece, her bowed head reflected in the big arched gilt-framed mirror, she gently touched the little encampment of bronze figures which had been there so long, since Alan’s day. The fire licked its wood hungrily and subsided, image of her thought. How sweet and clean the grey ash was which Ruby scooped out into her pan and mingled with the dust: light and sweet and clean as death. The bird was still singing its wild skirling lyrical song, the missel-thrush, ‘the stormcock’ Alan used to call it, and ‘Northwest Jack’. He had liked birds.

Alex moved to the window and looked out. There was a slight rain like pelting silver in the cool light. The green tiled roof of the Slipper House gleamed wet through the reddish haze of the budding copper beech tree. The curving lawn was luridly bright. Something brown moved across it. A fox. Alex never admitted to anyone that she saw foxes. Ruby was afraid of them. Alex loved them.

She looked at her watch. At six o’clock Brian and Gabriel were coming. They would want to talk about George.

‘How was Stella when you saw her?’ said Gabriel to Alex.

‘Less tragical.’

Gabriel was silent.

Three days had passed since George’s exploit. Stella was still in hospital.

For drinks with Alex, they stood. There was a definite time scheme, a symphonic pattern or temporal parabola, definite places; such things calmed the mind. The bow-windowed drawing-room, on the first floor, looked out on the garden. The lamps were on but the curtains were not drawn.

Brian held his glass of apple juice with both hands, like someone holding a candle in a procession. He sometimes drank alcohol, but more and more rarely. He had many things to worry about; money, his job, his son, his brother George. Just now he was worrying about Ruby. He hated the off-hand way in which Alex behaved to Ruby. Yet when he was markedly polite to her (as had happened this evening) Ruby smiled a quick zany mocking smile as if to indicate that she knew he was being condescending.

Brian was not good-looking, but he had an impressive head. Someone had remarked that George and Brian ought to exchange heads. The hearers understood. Brian was pock-marked. He was red-lipped, with sharp wolfish teeth. When younger, with a blond beard, he had looked piratical. Now he was clean-shaven, with very short greyish hair growing in a neat swirl from his crown. He was not very tall, with an assertive face and long blue eyes. He looked anxious and melancholy, and was often irritable. Of course compared with George he was ‘nice’, but he was not all that nice.

Gabriel was taller, anxious too, with restless moist brown eyes. She had a rather long nose and floppy fairish limply curling hair which she tossed from in front of her face, where it often found itself, with a quick pretty jerk which annoyed Alex. She had an air of fatigue, read by some as gentleness and repose. She always dressed up for visits to her mother- In-law.

Alex was tallest, still handsome everyone said, though as the years went by this saying had become traditional and worn away a little. She had an oval face and a pretty nose, and she had remained slim. She had long eyes like Brian’s, of a darker blue, which narrowed by thought or emotion in a fleeting cat-look. (Whereas Brian used to open his eyes wide and stare.) She painted her eyelids discreetly but never used lipstick. She had a long strong consciously mobile mouth. Her sleek well-cut copious hair was a light greyish blond, still managing to glow and gleam, certainly not dyed. She never bothered much with her clothes for these meetings with the Brian McCaffreys. This evening she was wearing a shabby smart rig, an old well-tailored dark coat and skirt, a careless white blouse.

Adam McCaffrey was in the garden with his dog.

‘Did the matron say when she was coming out?’ said Brian.

‘Soon.’

Alex and Gabriel were drinking gin and tonic. Gabriel was smoking.

‘Where do you think she should go then?’ said Gabriel, tossing back her hair.

‘Where do you think?’ said Alex. ‘Home.’

Gabriel looked at Brian who would not catch her eye. Gabriel thought Stella should come and stay with them when she came out of hospital. Not uttering this thought, she said vaguely to Alex, ‘Oughtn’t she to rest, to convalesce?’

‘Go to the sea,’ said Brian, deliberately confusing matters.

‘That makes no sense,’ said Alex. ‘There isn’t anywhere to go to at the sea.’ The seaside house had been sold; Alex had sold it without consulting the children.

‘I suppose we’ll go on our excursion as usual,’ said Brian. The annual seaside family picnic was an old custom. They had observed it last year, even though the house was sold, going to the same place, only a little farther along the coast. Brian and Gabriel had loved that house, that place, that precious access to the sea.

‘That’s the future,’ said Alex, narrowing her eyes. ‘I never know the future.’

‘The doctor says we mustn’t swim in the Enn any more,’ said Gabriel, ‘because of the rat-borne jaundice.’

‘I never understood why you bothered with that muddy river when you have the Baths,’ said Alex.

‘Oh well, Adam likes the river - it’s more natural and - sort of private and secret - and there are animals and birds and plants and - things — ’

‘Did he bring Zed today?’ said Alex. Zed was Adam’s dog. Adam and Zed had run straight out into the garden.

‘Yes. I do hope he won’t root anything up like when — ’ I always wonder...