Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

The first of the official toasts was the toast to Demoyte, which was to be proposed by Sir Leopold and answered by Evvy. The second toast was the toast to the School, to be proposed by Demoyte and answered by Nan. Sir Leopold rose to his feet and a serene silence fell, rich with the harmony which a large quantity of alcohol had introduced into the conscious and unconscious minds of the company. They looked up benevolently at Sir Leopold. Even Mor controlled his nausea. Sir Leopold, it would seem, was faced with the almost impossible task of proposing a toast to Demoyte without saying anything pleasant about him. But Sir Leopold’s ingenuity turned out to be equal to the occasion. He contrived to say nothing pleasant about Demoyte by saying nothing about him at all. He spoke at length about St Bride’s, its history, its high traditions, and the great line of its headmasters, all dedicated, at least those of them who were worthy of their trust, to the task which Mr Everard had so aptly described as ‘the full development of the good seed of the personality’, regardless of intellectual excellence. Hatred of Demoyte had triumphed, in Sir Leopold’s bosom, over contempt for Evvy. He was prepared even to exalt Evvy in order to annoy Demoyte. The latter listened unmoved, showing in lip and eye how impossible he considered it that he could be belittled by such a person. Sir Leopold sat down amid lukewarm applause. He was not, in any quarter, a popular figure.

Mor was wishing that Nan’s speech was not the last one. He was anxious for it to be over, as he was feeling a good deal of nervous apprehension on his wife’s behalf. He imagined how scared Nan must be feeling. He knew that there was a special absurdity in his identifying himself, at this hour, with Nan; but it was the habit of half a lifetime and it was the absurdity which at present composed his whole being. He felt fairly sure that Nan would acquit herself well. She would certainly have something decent to say - only her delivery of it might be nervous and halting.

Evvy was now talking. Long practice in Hall and Chapel had made Mor able to switch off Evvy’s voice completely. With an effort he switched it on again. ‘ — whom we know and love,’ said Evvy. Accustomed as Evvy was to think the best of everybody, it had not quite escaped his attention that Sir Leopold had been rude to Demoyte; and he tried to make amends, laying it on, it seemed to Mor, rather thick. ‘Under whose able and inspiring leadership,’ Evvy was saying, ‘st Bride’s rose from the deplorable slough in which it formerly lay, and became, dare we say it, a sound and reputable public school of the second class.’

Evvy was here excelling himself, having forgotten that one of the Governors present was the younger son of the Headmaster who had preceded Demoyte. Mor looked along the table at this gentleman, whose eyebrows had flown up into furious triangles, and then looked to see how Demoyte liked Evvy’s description of his achievement. Demoyte seemed amused. This was probably due to the proximity of Rain, who looked as if she might burst into wild laughter at any moment. When Mor saw her so gay, although he knew that it was largely the effect of the wine, he felt irritation and sadness. Nothing today could have moved him to gaiety or laughter. Agonizing thoughts about Donald came back into his mind. Where was his son now? He did not believe that any bodily harm could have come to Donald. But to what other demons might he not now be the prey? He pictured Donald sitting at this moment in some dreary café, staring at a stained tablecloth, while the waitress looked on, contemptuous and curious, or else in a public house, trying to look several years older, and avoiding the eye of the barmaid, or walking along a country road in the dark, caught in the headlights of cars, trying to beg a lift to - where? Afraid to come home. Afraid.

‘ — that I did not find it easy to be the successor to such a man,’ Evvy was saying. His speech was turning out to be far too long, as usual. Sir Leopold had set the decanter circulating, and a whispered conversation was going on at the far end of the table. Each man protected himself from boredom after his own fashion: Sir Leopold by drinking and looking sideways into the top of Nan’s dress, Rain by suppressed laughter, Demoyte by amused contempt, Mr Prewett by talking to his neighbour, and Bledyard by talking to himself.

Evvy continued, ‘And it has been my constant study to resemble him in every way possible.’ This was almost too much for Rain. It became clear from Demoyte’s expression that she had kicked him under the table. They looked at each other. What a spring of life she has within her, Mor thought, to be able to laugh at such a time. But the secret of this is simple. She is young.

Evvy’s voice was now taking on the elevated and lilting quality which it displayed in Chapel when he was nearing the end of a sermon. ‘ — that in future years, when time and mortality shall have taken from us the great original, we shall be privileged to possess, for the admiration of the boys and the wonder of our visitors, this painting, the representation by so distinguished a painter of so distinguished a man.’ Polite clapping broke out. Evvy sat down, and everyone looked at Demoyte.

Demoyte rose to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is for me a moving and a sad occasion. It is the first time since my retirement that I have set foot inside the school which was for so many years my creation and my home. Needless to say, my absence from this scene has been at my own wish, unwilling as I am to play, within these walls which are so dear to me, the role merely of an ancestral ghost whose days of productivity are past and who can now only unnerve and terrify the beholder. This would in itself be a theme for sadness. Add to this, however, the fact that what has called up this apparition is the presence in the world of something new — a work of art: the extremely fine picture which we now have before us.’

Demoyte looked up at the picture. So did everyone else, the guests nearest the fireplace leaning backwards across the table in order to see it. Nobody was bored now.

‘The reverend speaker who preceded me,’ said Demoyte, ‘spoke, as it is his especial right to do, of mortality. And what indeed could be more calculated to impress upon one a sense of finitude than the dedication, to the place where one has passed, such as it was, one’s life, of an image of oneself, to be left as a memorial for future generations? This is to give a palpable body to the sad truth that we can enjoy immortality only in the thoughts of others-aplace in which during our lives we have not always been cherished and in which after our death we shall be without defence. I speak, of course, sub spetie temporis .’

A polite smile spread round the table. Demoyte had transformed the scene. The look of condescension which the Governors had been wearing all the evening had faded now from their faces. They no longer felt themselves to be conferring, by their presence, a favour upon a bunch of simple-minded provincial schoolmasters.

‘This truth,’ said Demoyte, ‘may trouble us or it may merely wound us. My situation is, however, more complex - since I am so fortunate as to have my image passed on to posterity by the brilliant brush of Miss Carter, whom we are so glad and so privileged to have with us tonight.’ Applause followed. About time, thought Mor. He looked at Rain. He felt proud.

‘Such an experience,’ Demoyte went on, ‘cannot but induce humility. How well we know the faces and how little we are concerned with the obscure careers of so many of the men and women whom the great painters of the past have made to live forever among us. Who was Dr Peral? Who was Jacob Trip? Who were Mr and Mrs Arnolfini? In a way we know, with a supreme knowledge, since we may look upon their faces through the eye of a genius. In a way we do not know, nor do we care, what were their talents, their hopes, and their fears, or how they must have appeared to themselves. And so he too will live on, this obscure schoolmaster, held in the profound, and if I may say so, charitable, vision of Miss Carter - and it is a consolation to think that if St Bride’s is in the years to come distinguished for nothing else, it will at least be a place of pilgrimage for those who are interested in the early work of one who - can we doubt it in the face of such evidence - is destined to be one of the more remarkable painters of her age.’