Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘Ah yes, how very fine they are!’ said Mr Everard. ‘Have you been to Ravenna, Miss Carter?’

‘Yes, I often went there with my father,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I know the mosaics very well.’

‘The early Church the early Church,’ said Bledyard, accepting his coffee-cup from Mr Everard, ‘does not seem to have made any distinction distinction between the representation of the works of nature and the representation of human forms. So near so near in time to the source of light, their vision was informed by a reverence which penetrated even their method of depicting the human face. However, when we are overtaken by the secular spirit of the Renaissance, we find we find a more exclusive interest in the human shape as such, conjoined alas with a total loss of that insight and that reverence.’

‘What do you think of the coffee this time, Bill?’ said Mr Everard. ‘A bit better, isn’t it?’

‘It’s very good, sir,’ said Mor, pouring the insipid stuff hastily down his throat.

‘Are you suggesting,’ said Miss Carter to Bledyard, ‘that we should treat the representation of the human form in some way quite differently from the presentation of other things?’

‘As you know,’ said Bledyard, ‘we find it natural to make the distinction. Only we do not make it absolutely absolutely enough. When confronted with an object which is not a human being we must of course treat it reverently. We must, if we paint it, attempt to show what it is like in itself, and not treat it as a symbol of our own moods and wishes. The great painter the great painter is he who is humble enough in the presence of the object to attempt merely to show what the object is like. But this merely, in painting, is everything.’

How I agree with you! said Miss Carter. Distantly from the school the two-fifteen bell was heard ringing.

‘But,’ said Bledyard, ‘when we are in the presence of another human being, we are not confronted simply by an object — ’ He paused. ‘We are confronted by God.’

‘Are you teaching the first period, Bill?’ said Mr Everard. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked you earlier.’

‘No, I’m not, in fact,’ said Mor.

‘Do you mean that we ought not to paint other human beings? asked Miss Carter.

‘Each must find out his own way,’ said Bledyard. ‘If it were possible, ah, if it were possible to treat a head as if it were a spherical material object! But who is great enough to do this?’

‘I don’t see why one should attempt to treat a head as a spherical material object,’ said Mor. ‘We know what a head is, and we know what it is to understand another person by looking into his eyes. I don’t see why the painter should be obliged to forget all this.’

‘Who is worthy to understand another person?’ said Bledyard. He spoke with no more and no less intensity than at the start. He answered Mor’s words, but his eyes were fixed upon Miss Carter. ‘Upon an ordinary material thing we can look with reverence, wondering simply at its being. But when we look upon a human face, we interpret it by what we are ourselves. And what are we?’ Bledyard spread out his two hands, one of which held the untasted cup of coffee.

‘I agree with much of what you say,’ said Miss Carter, speaking quickly before Bledyard could interrupt her. ‘Our paintings are a judgement upon ourselves. I know in what way, and how deplorably, my own paintings show what I am. But still I think — ’

‘It is a fact,’ said Bledyard, ‘that we cannot really observe really observe our betters. Vices and peculiarities are easy to portray. But who can look reverently enough upon another human face? The true portrait painter should be a saint - and saints have other things to do than paint portraits. Religious painters often understand this obscurely. Representations representations of Our Lord are usually not presented as if they were pictures of an individual. Pictures of Our Lord usually affect us by the majesty of the conception, and not by any particular expression or gesture. Where the picture is individualized, as in Caravaggio’s rendering of Christ at Emmaus, we are shocked. We should be equally shocked at any representation of a human face.’

Mr Everard was looking at his watch and shifting restlessly. He began to say something, but Miss Carter got in first. ‘What you say is so very abstract, Mr Bledyard. One might think beforehand that it is impossible to depict a human face with sufficient reverence — and perhaps in some absolute sense sufficient reverence there never is. But if we consider paintings by Rembrandt, by Goya, by Tintoretto, by — ’

Miss Carter’s voice was rising higher. She was becoming extremely excited. Bledyard tried to interrupt her. Mr Everard uttered some half-articulate sound.

Mor, speaking very loudly, managed to drown them all. ‘I’ve got to go now, I’m afraid.’ A sudden silence followed.

Bledyard laid his cup down and stood up. He turned to Mr Everard. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for a very pleasant lunch, Mis-ter Ever-ard. I have enjoyed meeting Miss Miss Carter. I hope I have not stayed stayed too long.’

Miss Carter stood up. She was looking flushed and agitated. She said, ‘Thank you very much indeed — it was so kind of you. I have enjoyed it.’

Evvy was looking ready to drop with exhaustion. They all walked down into the hall. As Mor descended the stairs he saw the little packet of books which he had left on the hall table. He pounced on it and took the opportunity to hand it quickly to Miss Carter. ‘The books I promised you.’

Miss Carter took them distractedly and said, ‘Oh, thank you,’ hardly looking at him. Mor cursed Bledyard. They all came out on to the gravel in front of the house. The blazing heat of the afternoon rose from the earth in waves.

‘Oh, Bill,’ said Evvy, ‘do make my apologies to your wife. I quite meant to invite her, I really meant to, but you know how inefficient I am. At this time of term my memory quite goes. But do tell her, will you, and make my excuses.

‘I will certainly,’ said Mor, who had no intention of passing this idiotic apology on to Nan. He knew how it would be received.

‘And don’t fail to persuade her to make that little speech for us at the dinner,’ said Evvy.

‘I’ll try,’ said Mor. He put his hand up to shield his brow from the sun.

‘Well, I’m so glad you came,’ said Evvy, ‘it was so nice. Now I really must get back to my tasks. End of term in sight, you know. Good-bye, Miss Carter, we shall meet again soon - and thank you so much for coming.’ He retreated quickly into the house and shut the door.

The three guests stood for a moment undecidedly in the drive. Mor thought, if Bledyard says another word I shall crown him. Miss Carter was evidently thinking the same. She scraped the gravel with her feet and said hurriedly, ‘I must be going too. I suppose I can’t give either of you a lift back to the school?’ The invitation did not sound very whole-hearted.

Mor realized with a shock of surprise that the big green Riley which stood at the door must belong to Miss Carter. It seemed to him amazing that such a small woman should own such a large car. The next moment it seemed to him delightful.

Bledyard said at once, ‘No, thank you, Miss Carter. I have my bicycle bicycle here. I shall go on that. So I shall say good-bye.’ He disappeared abruptly round the side of the house.

Mor was left alone with Miss Carter. He thought very quickly. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a most intense wish to ride away in Miss Carter’s car. He said, ‘Yes, please, I’d be very grateful for a lift.’

He opened the door for her, and then jumped in himself on the other side. Miss Carter stowed the parcel of books in the back seat. Then she put on some dark glasses and wrapped a multi-coloured handkerchief round her head. After that she started the engine. As they began to move slowly forward a curious apparition passed them. It was Bledyard, riding his own bicycle and pushing Mor’s. He went by at speed, with head down, and turned off the drive on to the cycle track that led back to the school.