Henry and Cato by Iris Murdoch Page A

was. Dutiful Sandy had left the estate in its entirety to his brother. So that was all right. Henry did not want to hear about the farms or about the investments, which Merriman thought were so good, or about how Merriman had advised against the sale of the Oak Meadow, or how he had with apt prudence persuaded Gerda to insure against death duties. Henry was still feeling extremely odd, a little giddy, very tired, with a sort of scraped obfuscated vulnerability to light and sound which made him think he might be better off going to bed again. A log fire was burning in the big grate, murmuring, then falling into itself softly like snow. Henry wondered if he could get as far as the sofa. He got up and then instead went to the door intending to return to his bedroom. An old familiar smell of smoky toast was still emanating from the dining-room. He saw in the hall some rather good eighteenth-century water-colours which must always have been there. He was about to peruse them when he heard voices from the open door of the drawing-room opposite.
    The drawing-room, similar to the library, with three tall sash windows, faced south across the descending terraces towards the lake, and enjoyed the complete formal view of the river valley, the obelisk, the woods beyond, and on the extreme right the little green-domed Greek folly perched upon its hillock. There was a brightness now, an almost sunshine, against a darker sky, and the budding trees of the woodland were intensely green. The drawing-room was all white and yellow and rather sparsely furnished, with long mirrors and console tables in between the windows. There was a round marquetry table in the centre of the room, an enormous Chinese cabinet at one end, and a set of canary-coloured Louis Quinze chairs scattered about which were never used, the velvet having been expensively treated so as to look old. There were some nineteenth-century family silhouettes upon the walls and a French ormolu clock supported by sphinxes upon the chimney piece, underneath a portrait of an ancestor with a dog which now looked to Henry’s dazed eyes remarkably like a Stubbs. A fire was burning here too, and round it on a crumpled rug there was an encampment of easy chairs, but the room was cold and smelt unoccupied. Probably he had turned his mother and Lucius out of their accustomed haunt.
    Lucius leapt up as he came in and with an ungainly awkwardness which also managed somehow to express self-satisfaction began at once to move smiling towards the door.
    â€˜Well, Trundle, slept, yes, I bet?’ Lucius’s enthusiastic tones betrayed an uncertainty about his own role. Was he a paternal figure, a jolly uncle, or just a slightly older contemporary? Lucius looked younger this morning, moderately bright-eyed and boyish. He tossed his white hair then drew it back from his brow with a slow long-fingered hand, twinkling and smiling.
    Henry was not going to help him to solve the difficulty of tone. ‘OK.’
    â€˜He’s got an American accent,’ said Gerda.
    â€˜No, no, surely not, we can’t have that, can we—Though in fact—Ah well, I must get back to my book. Tempus fugit, eh.’
    â€˜I can’t remember what your book’s about,’ said Henry. ‘Or rather, I think I never knew.’
    â€˜Oh politics, political stuff, abstract you know, concepts. Gerda thinks it’s like Penelope’s web. I think it’s hard work. Are you writing a book?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Henry.
    â€˜Have you published any books?’ said Gerda.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜What’s your book on?’ said Lucius.
    â€˜Max Beckmann.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Max Beckmann. A painter.’
    â€˜I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him,’ said Gerda.
    â€˜Oh, Max Beckmann,’ said Lucius. ‘Well I must get back to my toils. Arrivederci. ’
    Henry watched Lucius frisk out of the door, then sat down opposite his mother.
    He said.