Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor was giving his WEA class. The evening was nearly over. He often wondered why Nan insisted on coming and what she made of those performances. She was not on easy terms with Tim Burke, who always acted as chairman and entertained them afterwards, and Mor could hardly believe that she came to hear him talk. In any case, she never referred later to anything that he had said. If she ever asked a question, it was a simple and sometimes a stupid one. Mor felt that she did it merely for appearances, and wished that she wouldn’t.

Donald Mor was also present, not sitting with his mother, but in a seat at the side near the front, leaning his back against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other. He had a special dispensation from St Bride’s to attend these sessions. Marsington was three stops along the railway, and just inside the London area, but a fast train would bring the boy back to school well before midnight. Why Don came was no mystery to Mor. He came for the sake of Tim Burke, whom he adored, and from whom he scarcely took his eyes throughout the evening. Mor doubted whether Donald listened to a single word that was said.

Mor was anwering a question. ‘Freedom,’ he said, ‘is not exactly what I would call a virtue. Freedom might be called a benefit or a sort of grace — though of course to seek it or to gain it might be a proof of ment.

The questioner, a successful middle-aged greengrocer, who was one of the props of the local Labour Party, was hanging grimly on to the back of the chair in front of him, whose occupant was leaning nervously forward. The greengrocer who had made the remark that surely freedom was the chief virtue, and wasn’t it thinking so that differentiated us from the Middle Ages? stared intently at Mor as if drinking in his words. Mor thought, he is not really listening, he does not want to hear what I say, he knows what he thinks and is not going to reorganize his views. The words I am uttering are not the words for him.

He felt again that sad guilty feeling which he had whenever he caught himself going through the motions of being a teacher without really caring to make his pupils understand. How well he knew that many teachers, including some who got high reputations by doing so, contented themselves with putting up a show, often a brilliant one, in front of those who were to be instructed - and of this performance both sides might be the dupes. Whereas the real teacher cares only for one thing, that the matter should be understood; and into that process he vanishes. Mor hated it when he caught himself trying to be clever. Sometimes the temptation was strong. An adult education class will often contain persons who have come merely to parade a certain view-point, and with no intention of learning anything. In response to this provocation it was tempting to produce merely a counter-attraction, a show, designed to impress rather than to make anything clear. But to make anything clear here, Mor felt with a sudden despair - how could it be done? With this feeling he irrelevantly remembered Tim Burke’s moving proposition, and felt a sudden shame at this evening’s efforts.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Staveley,’ said Mor, ‘I’ve said nothing to the purpose. Let me try again. You say surely freedom is a virtue — and I hesitate to accept this phrase. Let me explain why. To begin with, as I was saying in my talk this evening, freedom needs to be defined. If by freedom we mean absence of external restraint, then we may call a man lucky for being free — but why should we call him good? If, on the other hand, by freedom we mean self-discipline, which dominates selfish desires, then indeed we may call a free man virtuous. But, as we know, this more refined conception of freedom can also play a dangerous role in politics. It may be used to justify the tyranny of people who think themselves to be the enlightened ones. Whereas the notion of freedom which I’m sure Mr Staveley has in mind, the freedom which inspired the great Liberal leaders of the last century, is political freedom, the absence of tyranny. This is the condition of virtue, and to strive for it is a virtue. But it is not itself a virtue. To call mere absence of restraint or mere kicking over the traces and flouting of conventions a virtue is to be simply romantic.’

Well, what’s wrong with being romantic?‘ said Mr Staveley obstinately. ’Let’s have “romantic” defined, since you’re so keen on definitions.‘

‘Surely, isn’t love the chief virtue?’ said a lady sitting near the front, and turning round to look at Mr Staveley. ‘Or does Mr Staveley think that the New Testament is out of date?’

I’ve failed again, thought Mor, with the feeling of one who has brought the horse round the field a second time only for it to shy once more at the jump. He felt very tired and the words did not come easily. But he was prepared to go on trying.

‘Let’s leave “romantic”,’ he said, and stick to one thing at a time. Let me start again — ‘

‘I’m afraid,’ said Tim Burke, ‘that it is time to bring this stimulating session to a close.’

Confound him, thought Mor. He’s ending early because he wants to talk to me about that other matter. Mor sat down. He felt defeated. He could see Mr Staveley shaking his head and saying something in an undertone to his neighbour.

Tim Burke stood up and leaned confidentially forward across the table in the manner of one pretending to be a public speaker. Mor knew his timidity on these occasions.

“I am sorry, friends,‘ said Tim Burke, ’to terminate this most educational argument so abruptly, but time, as they say, waits for no man. And Mr Mor will, I am sure, not be offended if I say that we shall all appreciate a short spell in the adjacent hostelry during which his words of wisdom may be digested together with a pint of mild and bitter.‘ The termination of the meeting well before closing time was one of the few matters on which the Marsington WEA was in complete agreement.

‘And with this,’ said Tim Burke, swinging back upon his heels, ‘we terminate yet another series of profitable talks from Mr Mor; talks, I may safely say, from which we have all profited one and all, and which will stimulate us, I have no doubt, to private studies and reflections in the months that lie ahead, before our class reassembles here in the autumn. And by which time, if I may be so indiscreet, we all have hopes that Mr Mor will have been persuaded to fill another. and a more exalted post for which the people of Marsington think him to be most eminently fitted. On which delicate topic I say no more - and close proceedings with a request that you express your grateful thanks to Mr Mor in the customary manner.’

Loud and enthusiastic clapping followed, together with cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ Damn! thought Mor. He could see Nan clapping daintily, her eyes cast down. Mor disliked Tim Burke’s public eloquence in any case, and his persona of a student of politics in particular. When he encountered Tim in the context of the WEA he was made aware of him as an awkward half-educated man, ill at ease and anxious to impress. Mor was fond of Tim, there were even things about Tim which he wished to admire, and he was hurt for him by these appearances. He preferred to see his friend relaxed in a pub, or business-like in a committee, or best of all talkative and serene in the dark encrusted interior of the jeweller’s shop. But it was a sad paradox of their relationship that Tim was continually trying to please Mor by a parade of his scanty learning. To instruct him was difficult; to have checked him would have been unthinkable. So Mor continued to be irritated. He had not, however, expected this evening’s indiscretion. Just when Nan needed to be handled especially carefully, Tim had elected to put his foot in it. Now she’ll think I’ve arranged everything with Tim behind her back, thought Mor.