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Authors: Iris Murdoch

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‘But you admit there
is
goodness, even though it is limited and dull?’
‘There is helping other people and letting oneself be imposed upon. This isn’t very interesting and as you know it can proceed from all sorts of motives. And anything of this sort which does not proceed from self-interested motives is rare to the point where I take leave to doubt whether it exists at all! To be really gentle and selfless with moral impunity one would have to be God, and we know
He
isn’t there!’
‘On your view it seems far from clear why human beings ever conceived of the idea of goodness or thought it important at all!’
‘My dear Rupert, you know as well as I do that there are hundreds of reasons for that! Ask any Marxist. Social reasons, psychological reasons. These ideas always help the powers that be. And they are very deeply consoling too.’
‘You make human beings sound like puppets.’
‘But they
are
puppets, Rupert. And we didn’t need modern psychology to tell us that. Your friend Plato knew all about it in his old age, when he wrote
The Laws,
after he had given up those dreams of the high places which so captivate you.’
‘But if goodness isn’t important, what is important, according to you? Though if we’re all puppets I suppose “important” is the wrong word too!’
‘Precisely! Well, we know what moves people, dear Rupert. Fears, passions of all kinds. The desire for power, for instance. Few questions are more important than: who is the boss?’
‘Though of course some people prefer to be bossed!’
‘Yes, yes. It’s all a question of choosing one’s technique. The moral superstition is part of the consolation.’
‘Because people who are unhappy like to feel virtuous?’
‘Well, that’s one thing. And not just unhappy people either. You, for instance, Rupert. You may deny this too, but you feel very deeply persuaded that you are a virtuous man. You like to picture yourself as involved in a significant battle with self. You feel that you are upright and noble and generous, your life is orderly. You gain satisfaction from comparing yourself with others.’
Rupert laughed. ‘I won’t rise to that one, Julius,’ he said.
‘That is why, forgive me dearest Rupert, your big book will be no damn good. You do not even conceive of, let alone face or consider, the possibility that your world of good and evil is simply a consoling superstition.’
‘I agree that a sense of virtue consoles. But a sense of being justly judged consoles too.’
‘Why do you say “but”?’ said Julius. He had been staring intently at Rupert. Now he pushed his chair away and began to walk up and down the room. ‘That is what consoles most of all, most of all, most of all.’
Rupert watched him for a moment. ‘Would it console you?’
Julius stopped in front of his friend. ‘Listen, Rupert. If there were a perfectly just judge I would kiss his feet and accept his punishments upon my knees. But these are merely words and feelings. There is no such being and even the concept of one is empty and senseless. I tell you, Rupert, it’s an illusion, an
illusion.
’
‘I don’t believe in a judge,’ said Rupert, ‘but I believe in justice. And I suspect you do too, or you wouldn’t be getting so excited!’
‘No, no, if there is no judge there is no justice, and there is no one, I tell you,
no one.
’
‘All right, all right—Have some more whisky.’
Julius was staring down at Rupert. Now he was smiling and drooping his eyelids. ‘Well, well—I’ve enjoyed our talk. No thank you, Rupert. And now I think I must really go. I hope I haven’t bored you. No more to drink, I have to look after my inside. Is life worth living? It depends on the liver. Freud’s favourite joke. Good night, my dear fellow.’
 
After Julius’s departure Rupert sat for a long time thinking about what had been said. Was Julius wholly serious, half serious, or not serious at all? It was very hard to say and perhaps Julius himself did not really know. Rupert looked over at the pile of yellow notebooks, their neat order destroyed by Julius’s inquisitive hand. Was it true that he had never, in all those tens of thousands of words, really questioned certain assumptions at all? His mind felt tired and hazy. Was it true that he believed himself to be virtuous? Well, why should he not believe that he had certain qualities of truthfulness and generosity and certain standards of decent behaviour? His life was orderly and open. To see this much was not to romance about saintliness. There
was
a difference between orderly lives and disorderly lives. Rupert drank some more whisky. He felt confused and uneasy. As he got up at last to take himself to bed he reflected, the trouble with poor old Julius is that he has had no philosophical training. When scientists talk philosophy they always tend to over-simplify.
Waiting for Hilda he went to bed and read Proust.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
 
‘WHY, HELLO JULIUS,’ said Morgan. ‘Are we on speaking terms?’
‘Why not? How nice to see you, Mrs Browne.’
They had just met by accident in the Tate Gallery, at an exhibition of modern sculpture. Morgan had felt a violent shock which she seemed only a moment later to identify as having been caused by a glimpse of Julius’s shoulders and pallid hair seen through a break in the crowd.
‘Have you been here long?’ said Morgan, fanning herself with her catalogue. ‘It’s all very interesting, don’t you think?’
‘Interesting! When people don’t understand something they feel they have to say that! It’s so conveniently non-committal!’
‘Well, will you commit yourself?’
‘Yes. This stuff is pure and absolute junk. And just look at all those asses staring at it with reverence! The human race is incurably stupid.’
Morgan laughed. ‘All right. I’m not going to do battle for those objects. What a mob! I can hardly breathe. Let’s get out and look at some real art.’
They pushed their way out and emerged into the space and air of the long gallery. ‘I suppose it’s too early for a drink?’ said Morgan.
‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s go and look at the Turners. I want to talk to you.’
‘As you will.’
There was no one with the Turners. Morgan sat down opposite one of the Petworth interiors and after a bit of wandering round Julius came and sat beside her.
‘How
calm
great pictures make one feel,’ said Morgan. ‘I love these late Turners. Passionate turmoil held in perfect immobility. Elemental energy mysteriously constructed into space and light.’
‘Um.’
‘Don’t you care for Turner?’
‘Not much. A hopelessly derivative painter. Always copycatting somebody. Poussin, Rembrandt, Claude. Never finished a picture without ruining it. And he had far too high an opinion of himself. He should have remained a minor genre painter, that’s about his level. I’m afraid his painting resembles his poetry.’
‘I didn’t know he wrote poetry.’
‘He wrote pretentious doggerel.’
‘But you do like some painting, don’t you, Julius? I remember when we went to Washington—’
‘There is a characteristic pleasure in looking at certain pictures. But the whole thing is ephemeral.’
‘How do you mean, the whole thing?’
‘Oh this great legend of European art and literature. That rubbish we saw in the other room is a clear enough announcement that the show is over. In a hundred years or so nobody will have heard of Titian or Tintoretto.’
‘I hope you’re wrong. Did you get my letter, Julius?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid I didn’t understand it. Was I meant to? It was rather long. I’m not quite sure that I finished reading it.’
‘I’m beginning to see myself clearly at last.’
‘A remarkable feat, if true.’
‘Ever since I’ve been grown-up I’ve been some sort of slave. I was always stupidly in love. Then there was that
idea
with Tallis. Then you—’
‘I gathered there was to be some kind of new era.’
‘Yes. I suddenly got a vision of what it would be like to be free.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Julius. I suddenly saw how marvellous it would be to have free affections. And do you know who somehow made me see it? Peter.’
‘Who is Peter?’
‘Peter Foster, Hilda and Rupert’s son, you know.’
‘Oh yes of course.’
‘He’s a very interesting boy.’
‘Very. He appears to live on nothing and do nothing.’
‘Hilda gives him quite a big allowance, only don’t tell Rupert, it’s a secret. Peter’s going back to Cambridge in October. I persuaded him to.’
‘Really. I am afraid that I find young people rather boring.’
‘Peter’s fallen quite madly in love with me, it’s awful!’
‘Don’t pretend you aren’t delighted.’
‘Well, of course I am in a way, though it’s a bit embarrassing. But anyhow I suddenly saw how wonderful it would be to love a whole lot of people, not in a frenzy, but freely, in
innocence.
That’s what I felt with Peter—a sense of
innocence.
I’ve never before felt innocent as an adult.’
There was silence. Julius looked at his watch. Morgan fidgeted with an incoherent desire to touch him. She wanted to pull roughly at his sleeve, pinch his arm, kick him. But by now some other people had come into the room.
‘Well, Julius?’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say. You are always wanting other people to act in some drama which you have invented. I think you are in a silly emotional frame of mind. Why don’t you try to do some
work?
You managed to work at Dibbins in spite of your thrilling sex life.’
‘Work will come. I’ve got to sort myself out first. I’ve got to find out how to love people with
my
kind of love, I’ve never really done that before.’
‘You’d better explain this to Rupert. It’s more up his street than mine.’
‘I gather you had quite an argument with Rupert. He pretended not to be, but I think he was rather upset.’
‘I can’t stand that sort of facile optimistic High Church Platonism. These sensitive people are so terribly absorbed in their own reactions.’
‘I know what you mean. Of course Rupert’s always had a quiet easy life, even during the war. But I do think he’d be splendid in an emergency. When the Gatling’s jammed and the Colonel’s dead.’
‘I don’t know what you are quoting. Presumably some dreary panegyric of British Imperialism. I have no idea what Rupert would do when the Gatling was jammed and the Colonel was dead. I was referring to his somewhat high-minded theorizing.’
‘Rupert is a bit pleased with himself. Of course he’s got plenty to be pleased about, successful man, successful husband. I only wish he and Hilda wouldn’t put it on display quite so much.’
‘I hate exhibitions of family life,’ said Julius.
‘Yet you did enjoy living with me, didn’t you, Julius, in that house in the woods? That was a sort of family life.’
‘Of course I enjoyed it.’
‘Then why are you so changed?’
‘People get bored with things. I am bored with this conversation. ’
‘I don’t think you ever really loved me at all.’
‘That is the sort of remark which women make which makes men sick, and which shows that women really are inferior. What’s the matter now?’
Morgan had stiffened, half risen, and then sunk back again with an exclamation. ‘It’s all right. I thought I saw Tallis. That man just going out. He’s not really like him at all. I’m haunted by Tallis. I keep thinking I see him everywhere. Do you know, Tallis brought my books and things round to Seymour Walk on a
handcart!
That was typical. And his idea of a compliment was to tell me he’d as soon abandon me as he’d abandon his old papa!’
‘What are his relations with his father?’

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