The Philosopher's Pupil by Iris Murdoch Page A

face’.) Alan had left her and was living in Ennistone with Fiona Gates. Then when Fiona became ill Alex developed her obsession about getting hold of Tom, whom she had always coveted. All this while the John Robert whom Alex, during the brief time of her insane remorse, had so intensely imagined, lay dormant within her: an imprint, a little live ghost, an abiding private double of a man who no longer concerned her. This double now stirred and grew in her imagination with the news that John Robert Rozanov was returning to Ennistone. Why was he returning? Was it possible he was returning for her?

    â€˜What a bloody mess,’ said George. He used to chide Diane for her untidiness. Now he viewed the signs of increasing disorder with a certain satisfaction.
    â€˜Have you seen Stella?’ asked Diane.
    â€˜No. I meant to go again. I felt I ought to go. You charmingly told me to go. I didn’t go. Then it became difficult to go. Then it became impossible to go. Then it became essential not to go. It became a duty not to go, it became a sexual urge. Do you understand?’
    â€˜No. I’m sorry about the mess, I’d have tidied it up if I’d known you were coming, I never know when you’re coming, I wish I did.’
    â€˜So do I. Like the Messiah I am eternally expected. I expect myself.’
    â€˜I miss you. I am starved of love.’
    â€˜If that is so then derry down derry it’s evident very our tastes are one.’
    â€˜I wonder if you’ll ever marry me.’
    â€˜If I married you I’d murder you.’
    â€˜Better dead than unwed.’
    â€˜You yearn for respectability.’
    â€˜Yes, yes.’
    â€˜Most respectable people yearn to shed their respectability but they don’t know how; they cannot get out, said the starling. Think how lucky you are. You are out.’
    â€˜You mean I have no further to fall.’
    â€˜Change the metaphor. You are free.’
    â€˜Is that a metaphor?’
    â€˜Almost everything we say is a metaphor, that’s why nothing is really serious.’
    â€˜ You are never really serious. I think it’s how you try to escape being awful.’
    â€˜It’s how I escape being awful.’
    â€˜Was I free before I met you?’
    â€˜No, you had illusions.’
    â€˜I’m disillusioned now all right.’
    â€˜Unillusioned. I liberated your intelligence.’
    â€˜I’m not free now. I’m a slave.’
    â€˜You love it. You kiss the rod. Don’t you?’
    â€˜Don’t be coarse. I do what you want.’
    â€˜Whores are so fastidious.’
    â€˜Please don’t — ’
    â€˜A verbal point. My service is perfect freedom.’
    â€˜I think I’ve never been free. Who’s free anyway? Is Stella free?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Then is Stella —;?’
    â€˜Shut up about Stella. I don’t like her name in your mouth.’
    â€˜Her pure name in — ’
    â€˜Shut up.’
    â€˜Who’s free?’
    â€˜I know only one person who is free.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜In the end you’ll be my nurse, that’s what you’re waiting for, the smash. You think you’ll pick up the pieces.’
    â€˜I don’t want you smashed. I love you.’
    â€˜It thrills you to tell me my duty. You’d be sick if I did it.’
    â€˜So you think I have no illusions now.’
    â€˜How can you have? I tell you the truth. I am a fount of truth in this place.’
    â€˜I think you do tell me the truth,’ said Diane, ‘and I suppose that’s something.’ She looked at George’s calm round face, his clean white shirt sleeves neatly rolled up, his pale arms covered with sleek silky strokable black hairs. She said, ‘You’re here. ’
    â€˜I’m here, kid. Look after me. I’m as full of rapiers as a doomed bull.’
    â€˜You ought to ring up, I might have been out.’
    â€˜Out?