Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘This is the hall,’ said Mor. He looked at it gloomily. It was deplorably familiar.

You must tell me all about Mr Demoyte,‘ said Miss Carter suddenly.

‘What do you want to know?’ said Mor. He felt that he had half expected this. They walked back slowly into the open air.

‘Well, everything,’ said Miss Carter, ‘as much as you know. As you will realize, painting a portrait is not just a matter of sitting down and painting what you see. Where the human face is concerned, we interpret what we see more immediately and more profoundly than with any other object. A person looks different when we know him - he may even look different as soon as we know one particular thing about him. And in any case there are simpler problems. A choice must be made about the clothes which the person is to wear in the picture, the posture which he is to hold, the expression on his face, the background, the accessories. A consideration of all these things will then affect one’s methods and one’s technique. It is impossible to be in a hurry.’

Mor smiled inwardly at this speech, which had been delivered in a slightly pompous and didactic tone. They were now walking across the playground in the direction of the Gym. He wondered if this was Miss Carter’s own voice or the voice of her father. Partly to try her, he said, ‘Why should you want to learn more about Demoyte? Who knows what view of him is the right one? Perhaps you, meeting him for the first time, and knowing no more than what you see, will see him more truly than we who have known him for so long.’

‘I am a professional portrait painter,’ said Miss Carter rather primly, ‘and I am employed to paint your Mr Demoyte, not my Mr Demoyte.’

Mor whistled to himself. He now saw what Demoyte had meant when he said that she had a sense of vocation like a steam hammer. They entered the Gymnasium. It was full of juniors, who were dangling on ropes, curling over bars, springing over the horse, or otherwise bouncing about on the floor after the rather frog-like manner of small boys. Mr Hensman, the gym instructor, smiled and waved to Mor. Mor liked him. He was one of Donald’s well-wishers.

Miss Carter looked a while at the pullulating scene. Then she said, as they turned away, ‘Of course, what I said just now was pretentious nonsense. What Mr Demoyte would call cant. At least I know him well enough to know one of his favourite words. I want to paint a really good likeness. We all think that there is something which is what a person is really like, and that this takes some time to learn. I think you know what Mr Demoyte is really like, and I want to find out’

They walked across the playground again, and entered School House. Mor felt a new respect for Miss Carter, and it occurred to him for the first time that he liked her. He wondered where she had been educated. He supposed in a French lycée. He would have liked to ask her, only it would have been too forward.

‘Well, I shall do what I can for you,’ he said. ‘Here is one of the main scholars’ dormitories.’ He opened the door and showed the long double line of iron beds, all with their blue coverlets. Beside each bed stood a white chest of drawers, on top of which each boy was allowed to place no more than three objects. Between the beds were white curtains which were pulled back in the day time.

This spectacle seemed to interest Miss Carter more than the Gym and the hall. ‘It looks Dutch,’ she said. ‘I wonder why? So much white material, and the light - Does your son sleep here?’

The question disturbed Mor. ‘My son isn’t a scholar,’ he said. ‘Anyway, only the younger boys sleep in dormitories. The older ones sleep in their studies.’

‘There’s something very touching about a dormitory,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I have seen graveyards which are touching in the same way.’

They began to descend the stairs.

‘I have the impression, for instance,’ said Miss Carter, ‘that Mr Demoyte is deliberately trying to deceive me about certain things. Since I arrived I am quite sure that he has been wearing clothes that he does not usually wear. I think this not only because of the smell of mothballs but because of the way the clothes look on him.’

Mor laughed. He felt no obligation to keep Demoyte’s absurd secret. ‘You’re right!’ he said. ‘Demoyte hardly ever puts on a suit. He usually wears corduroys and a sports coat during the day, and black trousers and a velvet smoking-jacket in the evening. And a bow tie, of course.’

‘I suspected the bow tie,’ said Miss Carter, ‘because of a certain gesture he makes as if to adjust one. Yes. Why should he want to deceive me?’

‘He doesn’t want to be summed up by a slip of a girl,’ said Mor. He glanced sideways at her..

Miss Carter smiled faintly. ‘But I will sum him up,’ she said. ‘I will!’

Not her father’s voice, thought Mor. Herself. They began to walk down the hill, across the ragged slope of grass which separated the Library building from the first trees of the wood. ‘Would you like to see the Chapel?’ he said.

‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Carter firmly. ‘Not dressed like this. I might offend someone. Tell me, has Mr Demoyte ever published a volume of poems called Falling Flowers?’

Mor stopped and went into a peal of laughter. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Did he try to tell you those were his?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter. ‘When I asked to see all his published works he offered me the poems, and said he’d get the others in a day or two.’

‘He’s probably inventing something even more fantastic,’ said Mor. ‘It’s almost a shame to spoil his fun. Falling Flowers is an early effort of Mr Everard!’

Miss Carter laughed. ‘Mr Demoyte is enjoying himself,’ she said. ‘I’d better rely on you instead. Could you please get me all his books? Can I trust you, I wonder?’ She spoke with a cool peremptory air which Mor might have resented.

‘Yes!’ said Mor fervently. He did not resent it. ‘I’ll get you what he has written. There isn’t much. The book on Oriental rugs, some articles on rare editions, and a volume of sermons preached at School Services. That was published very long ago. Demoyte would be furious if he knew I’d given it to you.’

‘It shall be a secret between us,’ said Miss Carter.

Mor felt at once a little uneasy at the thought that he was going to deceive the old man; but he wanted to please Miss Carter, and he thought her wishes were reasonable.

‘What would you like to see now?’ he said. ‘What about the studio? There’s an exhibition of the boys’ art that was put on for Speech Day. I think it’s still there.’

‘Oh yes, please,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I love children’s art.’

It seemed to Mor a little quaint that she should refer to the boys as children. It occurred to him that he was regarding Miss Carter as being in some way more youthful than his own pupils. They walked out of the sun on to one of the shadowy paths of the wood, the ground underfoot crackling with twigs and leaves and scattered with patches of golden light.

‘But won’t we meet Mr Bledyard?’ said Miss Carter.

‘Would you mind?’ said Mor. ‘In fact, he’s hardly ever there on these sunny afternoons. He takes the boys out sketching.’

I haven’t met him yet,‘ said Miss Carter, ’and I feel a bit nervous.‘

‘He’s quite harmless, our Bledyard,’ said Mor, ‘only a little odd. He’s a sort of primitive Christian, you know. His views on portrait painting are connected with that. He thinks we ought to get back to Byzantine styles or else not paint at all.’

They approached the studio. It was a long rambling building which incorporated an old barn that had been standing there before. The music rooms were in a jumble of Nissen huts which were just visible farther on through the trees. Scattered sounds of a piano and of wind instruments were borne on the summer air. Miss Carter shivered and stopped in her tracks.