Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘Well, you tell me what that is, Bledyard,’ said Mor. ‘I can see you’re going to in any case.’ He squatted back against the wall. The lower part of the wall was covered on all three sides with black footmarks where boys had sprung up against it in the court of play. Above him hung the face of Bledyard in the fading greenish light. The roof was darkened. It must be clouding over. A few drops of rain pattered on the glass. Mor shivered. The screams were still rising unabated from the swimming pool.

‘You know what it is,’ said Bledyard. ‘You are deeply bound to your wife and to your children, and deeply rooted in your own life. Perhaps that life that life will hold you in spite of yourself. But if you break break these bonds you destroy a part of the world.

‘Possibly,’ said Mor, ‘but I might then build another part.’ What he said sounded empty and trivial in his own ears. And how can you, an outsider, assess the value of these bonds, as you call them, in terms of human happiness?‘

‘Happiness?’ said Bledyard, making a face of non-comprehension. ‘What has happiness got to do with it? Do you imagine that you, or anyone, has some sort of right to happiness? That idea is a poor guide.’

‘It may be a poor guide,’ said Mor, ‘but it’s the only one I’ve got!’ He spoke with bitterness.

‘That is not true, Mr Mor,’ said Bledyard. He leaned forward, stooping over Mor, his long hair flapping. ‘There is such a thing as respect for reality. You are living on dreams now, dreams of happiness, dreams of freedom. But in all this you consider only yourself. You do not truly apprehend the distinct being of either your wife or Miss Carter.

‘I don’t understand you, Bledyard,’ said Mor. He spoke wearily. He felt himself strangely cornered in the bare monochrome square of the squash court which seemed suddenly like a cell.

‘You imagine,’ said Bledyard, ‘that to live in a state of ex tremity is necessarily to discover the truth about yourself. What you discover then is violence and emptiness. And of this you make a virtue. But look rather upon the others - and make yourself nothing in your awareness of them.’

‘Look here, Bledyard,’ said Mor, ‘even if it were the case that I could set aside all consideration of my own happiness and my own satisfaction I should still not know what to do.’

‘You lie,’ said Bledyard. He spoke quite evenly and quietly. ‘You do not know even remotely what it would be like to set aside all consideration of your own satisfaction. You think of nothing else. You live in a world of imagined things. But if you were to concern yourself truly with others and lay yourself open to any hurt that might come to you, you would be enriched in a way of which you cannot now even conceive. The gifts of the spirit do not appeal to the imagination.’

A burst of ear-splitting screams arose from the swimming pool. It sounded as if hell’s gate had been opened.

Mor was silent. He did not know how to answer Bledyard. He said, ‘I am probably not capable of what you speak of. Such an austerity would be beyond me. I am too deeply involved now even to attempt it. Perhaps too I don’t think as highly as you do of these “bonds” and “roots” All I can say is that this is my situation and my life and I shall decide what to do about it.’

‘You speak as if this were a sort of virtue,’ said Bledyard, ‘you speak as if to be a free man was just to get what you want regardless of convention. But real freedom is a total absence of concern about yourself.’ Bledyard was speaking earnestly and quickly and was now scarcely stammering at all.

Mor stood up. Bledyard’s didactic tone was beginning to anger him. He had humbled himself quite sufficiently before the man. ‘I don’t despise what you say, Bledyard,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s very wise. It just doesn’t manage to connect itself with my problems. And now, could I ask just one thing, and that is that you don’t go bothering Miss Carter with any talk of this sort.’

His utterance of the name altered the atmosphere. Bledyard thrust his head forward and said in an excited tone, ‘You know you are damaging damaging her. You are diminishing her by involving her in this. A painter can only paint what he is. You will prevent her from being a great painter.’

He is raving, thought Mor. But the words wounded him deeply all the same. Why had he been so patient with this maniac? The screaming in the background was rising to a crescendo. He had to raise his voice to be sure that Bledyard could hear him. ‘Leave that to me and to her!’ he said. ‘You are not our keeper. And now enough of this.’

Bledyard went on excitedly, ‘She is young, her life is only beginning beginning, she will have many things -’

‘Oh, shut up, Bledyard!’ said Mor. ‘You only say this because you’re jealous, because you’re in love with her yourself!’

The whistle blew shrilly in the swimming pool. There was an immediate silence. The splashing diminished and ceased. The rain had stopped too, and there was a sudden and startling stillness. Mor bitterly regretted what he had said. Bledyard stood looking at the wall, blinking his eyes, a slightly puzzled and patient expression on his face.

Then Mor heard, very near to him, the sound of voices. The sound came from the other side of the wall. It must have been drowned till now by the din from the swimming pool. There was somebody talking in the next court. Mor and Bledyard looked at one another. For a moment they listened. Then Mor strode back to the corridor and stepped into the second squash court, followed by Bledyard.

The tableau which confronted them was this. Sprawled with his back against the wall, one long leg spread out and the other crooked up at the knee, lay Donald Mor. Lying upon the floor with his shoulders supported by Donald’s lifted leg, his own legs crossed and one foot swinging was Jimmy Carde.

The four regarded each other. Then as if jerked from above by pieces of wire the two boys sprang to their feet. They stood erect and attentive, waiting for whatever storm should break.

Mor looked at them and all his pent-up anger broke through. ‘ Clear out! ’ he said in a low and savage voice. He and Bledyard stood aside. The boys passed between them without a word.

The distant bell could be heard ringing for evening prep. Mor and Bledyard began in silence to climb the path that led towards the school.

Chapter Fourteen

FELICITY began to swim back again towards the shore with long slow strokes. The sea was dead calm. She swam breast stroke, very steadily, trying to break the surface as little as possible. The water kissed her chin like oil. The sun warmed her forehead and dried the drops of moisture from her cheeks. It was a declining sun, but still triumphantly in possession of the sky. The coast was deserted. Felicity was in a rocky bay where at low tide there was revealed a great expanse of rounded boulders heaped at the base of the cliff. At high tide the water covered them and there was no way. Beyond the headland on either side were stretches of sand and there the holiday-makers had congregated. But here there was no one. This was very important just at the moment as Felicity was about to perform a magic ceremony.

Felicity had realized at an early age that she must be psychic. She had discovered a witch mark upon her body. This was a very small protuberance a little below the nipple of her left breast which was not at all like an ordinary mole. It rather resembled an extra nipple. Felicity knew that witches were provided with these so that they could be sucked by their familiars; and although she was not altogether attracted by the idea of furnishing this sort of hospitality to some being from the other world she was pleased to discover that she was undoubtedly gifted in this special way and she waited with interest for further manifestations.