Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

As he spoke of this Mor felt suddenly present to him the anger which was the tremendous counterpart of so long and so minute an oppression, and which, because in the end he had been afraid of Nan, he had always concealed even from himself. It was a great anger as it rose within him, complete, as if the memory were by some miracle retained within it of every smallest slight and every mockery, and it brought with it a great strength. Mor bid it welcome. It was upon this strength, he knew, that he would have to rely to carry him through to what he must believe to be possible, an issue. Rain listened to him silently throughout, with bent head, until he had told her everything - except for one thing. In all his outpouring he made no mention of his political ambitions. Demoyte had obviously not spoken of this matter to Rain, and Mor saw no reason to confuse things still further by introducing it. This question stood apart from his immediate problems and there would be time to decide how it should relate to them. Later, much much later, he might try to explain this also. Meanwhile he and Rain had quite enough to think about.

Sitting now in the chapel, and watching through the window the birds spreading their wings in the tree, and hearing the distant drone of Evvy’s voice, Mor was rehearsing what he had said to Rain and wondering if it was strictly true. He had said that he no longer loved Nan. Of course he no longer loved her. But somehow to say this was not to say anything at all. He had lived with Nan for twenty years. That living together was a reality which made it frivolous, or so it seemed to him for a moment, even to ask whether or not he loved her. On the other hand, while his not loving her might not be important, it would be a matter of importance if it turned out that he hated her. Certainly there were times when he hated her. He could see her, as he thought about it, sitting there insulated by calm and mocking superiority, announcing to him decisively that one or other of his dearly cherished plans was merely laughable and out of the question. Mor said to himself, of course there are faults on both sides. I am a clumsy oaf and I’ve given her a dull life. Yet, he thought, I may have failed to understand her, but I have at least tried. I’ve never inflicted on her that terrible crushing certainty of being always right. When I’ve disagreed with her I’ve always been willing to listen, always been ready to come as far as I can to meet her. Indeed, he thought to himself, I have come so far that I have almost invariably ended by doing exactly what she wanted. His anger blazed up, terminating the reverie.

Evvy was still prosing on. When Evvy preached, he puffed up his chest like a pigeon, grasped his vestments firmly in each hand just below shoulder level, and swayed rhythmically to and fro upon his heels. His earnest boyish face, shining with a benevolent zeal, was bent upon the congregation. Mor began to listen to what he was saying.

‘And so we see,’ said Evvy, ‘that God is to be thought of as a distant point of unification: that point where all conflicts are reconciled and all that is partial and, to our finite eyes, contradictory, is integrated and bound up. There is no situation of which we as Christians can truly say it is insoluble. There is always a solution, and Love knows that solution. Love knows! There is always, if we ponder deeply enough and are ready in the end to crucify our selfish desires, some one thing which we can do which is truly for the best and truly for the good of all concerned. If we will truly gear our lives on to God, and keep moving always towards that distant point, we shall be able, when the scene otherwise would seem dark indeed, to perceive clearly what is that one good thing that is to be done. And indifferent as we shall at such moments be to all worldly vanities and satisfactions we shall know the priceless joy of duty faithfully performed — for “not as the world giveth give I unto you”. Often throughout our lives will the darkness fall - but if we are ready, through prayer and through the ever fresh renewal of our efforts, to “help ourselves”, the grace of God will not be found wanting. And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the bla bla bla bla. …’

The School woke abruptly from its coma and staggered sleepily to its feet, drowning Evvy’s concluding words in a clatter of chairs. There was a white flutter of hymn-books. The organ began to play the introduction to the final hymn. It was Praise, my soul, the King of heaven . This hymn was a great favourite with the School. It had a jolly swinging tune and was good for singing loudly. The boys began to look more animated. Then they burst into song. Evvy had found his way back to the place in the right-hand side of the chapel which he usually occupied at Sunday afternoon services. He stood there sideways on to the congregation, with the other masters in two rows parallel with him, facing each other. The boys faced the altar. Evvy had a serene and satisfied look, as if the tremendous burst of singing were a tribute to the power of his exhortations.

Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,

Who like me His praise should sing?

Praise Him! Praise Him!

Praise Him! Praise Him!

Praise the everlasting King.

sang the School with abandon. As they sang, bent to hymn-books or looking upward in the joyful freedom of knowing the words by heart, their faces glowed with hope and joy. Mor reflected that in most cases it was joy at the termination of Evvy’s sermon and hope of a jolly good tea to follow shortly, but he was moved all the same. It was at such moments that the School en masse was most affecting. He thought to himself, what a sod I am, what a poor confused sod.

The voices rose above him in two layers. The hoarse breaking voices of the older boys were surmounted by the bird-like treble of the younger boys, roughened a little at the edges like unworked silver. Amid the concert it was usually possible for Mor to discern the voice of his son. Donald’s voice was breaking, and from its present raucous clamour a pleasant bari tone seemed likely to emerge. Mor listened, but he could not hear his son singing. Perhaps today Donald did not feel like crying ‘Praise Him!’ Mor turned his head cautiously towards the rows of faces seeking Donald. For a moment he could not find him. Then he saw him standing at the end of a row, his hymn-book closed in his hand. Donald was looking at him. Their eyes met with a shock, and they both looked away.

Mor stared at the floor. He felt himself exposed. His face was suddenly hot and he knew that he must be blushing. The hymn ended. Evvy’s voice was raised, and with an enormous crash the congregation flopped to its knees. Mor knelt gloomily, his eyes wide open in a fixed obsessive stare. Opposite to him he could see Bledyard kneeling. His eyes were shut very tightly as if against a violent light, his face was contorted and his lips were moving. Mor supposed that Bledyard must be praying. Evvy concluded whatever requests he had been making, and everybody got up. Mor stood waiting for the words of dismissal, his eyes glazed lest he should anywhere encounter the glance of Evvy, Bledyard, or his son.

The thought that he would very shortly see Rain came to him now gently and insistently, warm and calming. He had a rendezvous with her in twenty minutes’ time. He had asked her to meet him at the squash courts after the service was over. This was a convenient and secluded meeting place. The courts were strictly out of bounds to the School on Sundays — indeed, by reason no doubt of their peculiar seclusion they were out of bounds at all times except for the actual playing of squash. All games were forbidden on Sundays at St Bride’s, although swimming was permitted, which for some reason did not count as a game. The squash courts were thickly surrounded by trees and could easily be reached by a woody path which led down through the masters’ garden. They were situated close to the school fence wherein, near to that point, there was an unobtrusive gate to which Mor possessed the key. He intended to pick up Rain at the courts and then take her out through the gate and away. He had suggested the initial meeting place so that he could be sure of a moment of complete privacy in which to kiss her. He felt embarrassed now to meet her at Demoyte’s house - and he was not yet in a state of mind where he could invite her to his own.