Free The Philosopher's Pupil by Iris Murdoch Page A

disappointed at not having ‘got something out of’ Stella. Brian said he was always scurrying about trying to charm afflicted people.
    Gabriel said, ‘About George - if you want me to tell you what really happened I can’t, I mean I only know — ’
    â€˜Oh what really happened - who ever knows what really happened - God knows.’
    George was not a fan either, but he was, to Gabriel’s mind, a more promising subject for the priestly charm than Stella was. At any rate, she liked the idea of some finally desperate and broken-down George being mastered by Father Bernard.
    â€˜What do you think happened?’ he said.
    â€˜It was an accident, of course.’
    It was remarkable how readily people, including Gabriel, thought ill of George. In fact Gabriel thought George had done it on purpose, and kept in fascinated suspense the idea that he had half intended to kill Stella. She had once only, for a moment, seen George in one of his rages, shouting at his wife ‘I’ll kill you!’ It was a terrifying sight, Gabriel had never seen anything like it. Gabriel knew that Stella would never forgive her for having had that glimpse behind the scenes. Stella tried to conceal George’s undoubted domestic violence, just as she tried (vainly) to conceal his sexual infidelities. He had also attacked people who annoyed him, a gipsy, a bus conductor, a student, perhaps others: ‘losing his temper when drunk’ was one way of putting it. A charge of ‘grievous bodily harm’ was once in view, it was said, only clever Robin Osmore kept George out of court. Alex’s professed view that George was just a random forgivable drunk was not generally held. The absence from his life of ordinary norms of politeness was taken as a sign of deeper moral anarchy. It seemed that there were barriers instinctively erected by civilized citizens, which just did not exist for George. People were afraid of him, and Brian was not alone in thinking that George ‘might do anything’. People sensed a monster, no doubt they wanted a monster. Yet what did the evidence amount to?
    Gabriel said, ‘Everyone speaks ill of him.’
    â€˜They like a scapegoat, to have someone at hand who is officially more sinful than they are.’
    â€˜Exactly. Perhaps he’s made worse by our opinions. But I’m sure he is terrible to Stella.’
    â€˜You said it was an accident.’
    â€˜Of course - but I mean - I think she ought to get away from him.’
    â€˜Because he might kill her?’
    â€˜No, to be alone and have another life, she’s obsessed by George, she’s wasting herself, her love doesn’t do him good, it just enrages him. Her love is like duty, like something sublime, made of idealism and awful self-confidence. She thinks she’ll elevate him. She ought to kneel down beside him.’
    â€˜Do you tell her this?’
    â€˜Of course not! She’s too proud, she’s the proudest person I know. I wish you’d talk to George.’
    â€˜And do what to him?’
    â€˜Batter him, break him down, make him weep.’
    â€˜Tears of repentance and relief?’
    â€˜You could save him, George could be changed by love, not Stella’s, another kind. His awfulness is an appeal for love.’
    The priest laughed, heartily and too long, then snapped his fingers, a habitual gesture when he wanted the discussion to change course. He stood up. ‘Do you know when Professor Rozanov is coming?’
    â€˜No, I don’t,’ said Gabriel, rising too, annoyed at this brusque treatment of her moving appeal.
    â€˜Did you ever meet him?’ Father Bernard knew of our distinguished citizen only by hearsay.
    â€˜No,’ said Gabriel. ‘I saw him in the street once. Brian met him, and of course George was his pupil.’
    During the last exchange Brian had turned up the sound of the television considerably in order to demonstrate his