Chapter/Entry: 4 June 1997 (Murdoch died 8 Feb
1999)
To me the smell of Iris's mother's flat, though quite
faint, was appalling. I had to nerve myself to enter; but Jack, who for
quite a while looked after the old lady, never seemed to notice it, and
nor did Iris herself. The ghost of that smell certainly comes now from
Iris from time to time: a family odour and a haunting of mortality. But
it wasn't that which caused the row I made […]
The trouble was, or seemed to be, my rage over the indoor
plants. There are several of these along the drawing-room window-sill -
cyclamen, spider-plant, tigerplant as we called a spotty one - to which
I had become rather attached. I cared for them and watered them at the
right intervals. Unfortunately they had also entered the orbit of Iris's
obsession with her small objects, things she has picked up in the street
and brought into the house. She began to water them compulsively. I was
continually finding her with a jug in her hand, and the window-sill and
the floor below it slopping over with stagnant water. I urged her
repeatedly not to do it, pointing out - which was certainly true - that
the plants, the cyclamen in particular, were beginning to wilt and die
under this treatment. She seemed to grasp the point, but I soon found
her again with a jug or glass in her hand, pouring her water. Like those
sad daughters in Greek mythology, condemned for ever to pour their
pitchers into vessels full of holes.
I was not put out at the time: I was fascinated. I took
to coming very quietly through the door to try to surprise Iris in the
act, and I frequently did. Once when her great friend and
fellow-philosopher Philippa Foot came to see her, I found them both
leaning thoughtfully over the plants, Iris performing her hopeless
destructive ritual, Philippa looking on with her quizzically precise
polite attention, as if assessing what moral or ethical problem might be
supposed by this task. […]
Whether or not the fate of the plants, or the ghost of an
odour, had anything to do with it, that day I went suddenly berserk.
Astonishing how rage produces another person, who repels one, from whom
one turns away in incredulous disgust, at the very moment one has become
him and is speaking with his voice. The rage was instant and total,
seeming to come out of nowhere. 'I told you not to! I told you not to!'
In those moments of savagery neither of us has the slightest idea to
what I am referring. But the person who is speaking soon becomes more
coherent. Cold too, and deadly. 'You're mad. You're dotty. You don't
know anything, remember anything, care about anything.' This accompanied
by furious aggressive gestures. Iris trembling violently. 'Well-' she
says, that banal prelude to an apparently reasoned comment. Often heard
in that tone on BBC discussions, usually followed by some disingenuous
patter that does not answer the question. Iris's 'Well' relapses into
something about 'when he comes' and 'Must for other person do it now.'
'Dropping good to borrow when ...' I find myself looking in a mirror at
the man who has been speaking. A horrid face, plum colour.