Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor let out a sigh. He became aware of his companions. They seemed all to have been equally struck to silence by the picture. Then Prewett began saying something. Mor did not listen. He got up. Rain was a considerable painter. Mor was astonished. It was not that he had not expected this; he had just not thought about it at all. And as he now let the thought hit him again and again like a returning pendulum he felt a deep pain of longing and regret.

Evvy said, ‘Miss Carter, my expectations were high, but you have surpassed them. I congratulate you.’

‘It’s a remarkable picture,’ said Mor, hearing his voice speaking from a great distance.

‘Is it finished now?’ asked Evvy.

Rain came towards the picture. ‘Oh dear, no!’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘There are all sorts of things that still need doing.’ She reached out her hand and smudged the line of the brow, drawing a long smear of paint into the golden brown of the rug in the background. Everybody winced. Mor felt an immediate sense of relief, Not yet, he thought, not yet.

Demoyte came forward. He said, ‘I begin to feel that I am the shadow and this the substance. All the same, I can still talk, and would point out that everyone has now given his view except the only man whose view is of any importance or likely to be of any interest to Miss Carter.’ He looked at Bledyard. Everyone else looked at Bledyard. Mor looked back at Rain. She looked intensely nervous, and it occurred to him with some surprise that she cared what Bledyard thought.

Bledyard took his time. He had been looking at the picture very intently. He opened his mouth several times in an experimental way before any sound came forth. Then he said, ‘Miss Miss Carter, this is an interesting picture, it is nearly a good picture.’ He was silent, but had clearly not finished. ‘But, said Bledyard. He held them in suspense again. ’You have made your picture too beautiful.‘

‘You mean I’m an ugly evil-looking old devil,’ said Demoyte, ‘and ought to appear so. You may be right.’

Bledyard was one of the few people capable of ignoring Demoyte. He went on, ‘It is a question of the head head, Miss Carter. You have chosen to present it as a series of definitions, well executed in themselves, I don’t deny. But as it is its strength its strength depends upon the power of these definitions to appeal to a conception of character in the observer. One result of this is that while your sitter looks old he does not look mortal. It is the mass of the head that ought to impress us if the picture is to have the power of a masterpiece. The head should be seen as a coinherence coinherence of masses. The observation of character is very well. But this is a painting, Miss Miss Carter.’

There was a silence. ‘You are absolutely right,’ said Rain. She spoke in a slightly desolate voice. ‘Yes, yes, yes, you are right. Then she said with a sudden gesture, Oh dear, it’s no good, it’s no good,’ and turned away.

Everyone except Demoyte and Bledyard looked embarrassed. Bledyard, having said his say, returned to a scrutiny of the picture.

Evvy said, ‘I’m sure Mr Bledyard didn’t mean — ’

Demoyte looked at his watch and said, ‘If you want to get back to that cricket game before it’s all over you’d better gulp down some tea.’

Prewett and Evvy accepted tea from Miss Handforth. Mor refused. Rain was standing by the table, fingering a cup and looking gloomily towards the picture.

Mor went up to her. ‘Bledyard may be right,’ he said, ‘I’ve no idea. But it’s obviously a good picture - and if it has weaknesses, perhaps you can still mend them?’

He bent over her, aware of the crispness of her dress, and remembering the smell of the cotton as he had pressed his head against her. He felt very large and gross. He was sorry that he was still in his shirt sleeves. The perspiration was staining his shirt at the armpits and he felt in need of a shave. He drew back a little, sure that his proximity must be offensive to her.

‘I must paint the head again,’ said Rain. She put her cup down and turned to face Mor. He had the sense once more of being in her presence and with it a blessed relaxing of tension. A weight was taken off him. He said quietly, ‘I was so glad to see the car on the road again.’ The others were not within ear-shot.

Rain fingered the cup. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but remained silent.

‘I shall have to go away in a moment,’ said Mor, speaking very gently, ‘and I should like to take this chance to say that I’m very sorry — ’

Rain interrupted him. ‘Could you have dinner this evening with me and Mr Demoyte at the Saracen’s Head?’

Mor was surprised and moved. He could hardly think of anything he would like better. But he remembered at once that he was bound to dine with Evvy. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m dining with Mr Everard.’

A feeling of intense disappointment overcame him. This might be his last chance to see Rain. This very moment was perhaps his last opportunity of speaking to her alone. He looked into her face, and was astonished to see what an intense almost wild expression was in her eyes. He looked away. He must have been mistaken. He clutched the side of the table. He could hear Evvy saying, ‘Well, we must be off now, I’m afraid.’

Mor said quickly, ‘Why not drop in for a drink at my house tonight on your way back from dinner? Perhaps about nine, just for a little while?’ He uttered the address.

Rain avoided his eye, but nodded her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Evvy passed by, clucking. They went in procession after him to the Riley, and Rain drove them back to the school. She left them in the drive, and drove away, swinging the car violently round, its tyres grinding on the gravel. Evvy and Prewett began to hurry back towards the cricket field. The school grounds were empty and silent. The hollow ringing sound of bat upon ball could be heard in the distance. The game had started again. Bledyard mumbled something and set off in the direction of the studio.

Mor stood by himself in the drive. The sun was declining. Birds walked upon the grass verge, casting long long shadows upon the grass. Mor watched them. He knew that he had done wrong.

Chapter Eleven

IT was a quarter past nine. Mor had found the time on the way back from Evvy’s dinner to buy a bottle of white wine and a bottle of brandy. He had tidied up the drawing-room carefully and set the bottles there with wine-glasses upon a tray. He had laid out a dish of biscuits. Now he ensconced himself in the dining-room window, which looked on to the road, to wait to see his visitor coming. At about dinner-time the sky had begun to be overcast, and by now it was entirely covered with thick black clouds. The heat was intense and quivering. A thunderstorm seemed imminent. But still the warmth and the oppressive silence continued, seeming endless. The light faded, and a lurid premature darkness came over the scene. ‘It’s like the end of the world,’ a woman said in the road. Her voice echoed upon the thick atmosphere.

Mor sat in the window, shivering. He could not bring himself to turn the lights on. He felt no pleasure of anticipation, no joy at the thought of what he was bringing about. He did not know clearly what he was bringing about. He wished that he had not spoken. He would not have spoken if he had not seen that look upon her face. But what did the look signify? He knew that once again he had taken a step along a road that led nowhere. And he had made it that much more difficult for himself, and possibly for her, to dissolve this ambiguous thing that was taking shape between them. Was it something, or was it nothing? He must believe it to be nothing. At moments he could do so.