Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor was watching Rain. Demoyte continued to speak. She was fingering her glass, looking down, frowning. She was moved by his words. Mor returned his glance to the tablecloth, and then after a suitable interval looked at Nan.

Nan was looking, for the first time that evening, thoroughly nervous and disturbed. She was looking straight ahead of her with an unseeing stare, and her hand which lay upon the table was visibly trembling. She had drawn out of her handbag and clutched in her other hand a small piece of paper with notes upon it. A deep blush had spread downward from her cheeks to her neck. Her lips moved slightly. Poor Nan, thought Mor. He tried to catch her eye. She turned towards him - and he was startled by the scared and wide-eyed expression with which she looked at him. He smiled and made an encouraging gesture with his hand. Mad, mad, he thought to himself, all is mad. But at least this evening will soon be done. After Nan’s speech they would adjourn to the Common Room, and soon after that one could decently go. The evening was almost over. Nan was still giving him a look of distress and fear, and he could see now that her lower jaw was trembling. He had to look away. He was beginning to tremble himself. He hoped that she would not blunder too much. It was certainly hard on her, following after so accomplished a speaker as Demoyte.

By now Demoyte’s speech was almost done. He was speaking of the school. He was even being gracious to Evvy. At last the toast was being proposed: St Bride’s! They lifted their glasses. Sir Leopold was laying an encouraging hand upon Nan’s bare arm. Nan rose to her feet. Mor averted his eyes and tried to think how splendid it would be in a few minutes when they had all escaped into the Common Room and could relax.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Nan, her voice pitched higher than usual and quivering with the uncanny refinement of the nervous woman, ‘I am privileged and pleased that such a gathering as this should be the occasion of my very first public speech.’ Everyone was leaning forward, looking upon her sympathetically. ‘And it is fitting too that the person who answers the toast that we have just had should be an outsider, a mere wife, someone who, while living in the shadow of this great institution, does not really form part of it.’

Mor began to feel some relief. Nan had caught the absurd tone of the evening’s proceedings quite well. Her voice was becoming steadier. Now she was going on to say suitably banal and complimentary things about St Bride’s. She was acquitting herself quite respectably. Another sentence or two, thought Mor, and she will have said enough and can decently sit down. He looked up approvingly, hoping that she was about to make an end. But Nan went on.

‘St Bride’s,’ she was saying, ‘has always been distinguished for its tradition of public service. Our great democracy has not looked towards St Bride’s in vain - and public servants in all ranks of honourable employment are numbered among our old boys’ Mor smiled inwardly. He knew just how much Nan cared about traditions of public service. He was amazed at her capacity to put on this act. He would not have suspected her capable of such a masquerade.

‘I trust then,’ Nan was saying - her voice was trembling again now, ‘that you will not think it unsuitable if, before ending my speech, I strike a more personal note. The windows of St Bride’s have never, as we know, been closed upon the world of commerce and of politics. Enriched by contact with the School, many have gone out, boys and masters alike, into the world beyond the classroom and the library And here I am sure you will pardon me if I speak to you of something which has long been known to many of you - the ambitions of my husband.’

Mor jumped, and upset what remained of his glass of wine. He looked up quickly at Nan. She was looking at the ceiling, her mouth open to speak again. Mor’s heart began to twist within him like a corkscrew. But still he did not realize what was coming.

‘It has been for many years,’ Nan went on, ‘the dear wish and ambition of my husband, myself, and our children that he should serve his country in the highest role to which a democratic society can call its citizens - that of a Member of Parliament. After a long period of patient work, my husband has now the great happiness of being able to realize his lifelong ambition. The nearby borough of Marsington have decided to adopt him as their Labour candidate - and as we know, Marsington, with all respect to those present who are of the other party, is a safe Labour seat.’

Amazement, horror, and anger struggled within him; Mor could scarcely believe his ears. He turned his head to where Demoyte and Rain were sitting. Demoyte looked completely stunned; he was half turned towards Nan, his hand raised to his mouth. Then he turned sharply back towards Mor, a look of surprise, dismay, and accusation. But it was the face of Rain that made Mor almost cry out aloud. He had told her nothing of his political plans. She was hearing of them now for the first time. She looked towards him, her lips parting as if to question him, her eyes expressing astonishment and sheer horror, her whole face working in an agony of interrogation. Mor shook his head violently.

Nan was going on. ‘As Shakespeare says, there is a tide in the affairs of men that taken at the flood leads on to fortune. This tide now runs for my husband, and for myself, and for our children. We have discussed the matter fully, and we are at last agreed that there is no other bond or tie which can prevent us from adventuring forward together. Courage is needed to make the great step. To delay would be fatal. Such a chance comes but once in a lifetime. Courage he has never lacked - nor is it likely that he will hesitate now when all his deepest and most cherished wishes are about to find so complete a fulfilment.’

Mor was breathing deeply. He was still almost deprived of breath by the shock. Who would have thought that Nan would be so ingenious - or so desperate? He knew that something vital, perhaps final, was happening to him, but he did not fully see what it was. He tried to keep Rain’s eyes, but she turned away from him, grimacing with distress. Mor told himself that what he ought to do now, now this very minute, was to get up from his seat and lead Rain out of the room. Nan had attempted to comer him by a public gesture. She should be answered in the same way. To rise now and go out with Rain would set the seal on all his intentions. At last Nan had raised the storm. It was for him to ride it. But Rain had turned away her eyes - and although Mor struggled in his seat he could not bring himself to get up. A lifetime of conformity was too much for him. He stayed where he was.

‘To you, therefore, my husband’s friends and colleagues,’ Nan continued, ‘I turn at this crucial moment of choice, and ask for your blessing and your good wishes for an enterprise worthy indeed of the traditions of St Bride’s, and of the great talents of my husband. In the end, no destiny could satisfy him but this one, which he has always so ardently desired and which is now so unexpectedly placed within his reach.’

Nan was speaking slowly and precisely, making every word count. Once more the tremor had gone from her voice. She was masterly. She paused for breath.

Quite quietly Rain rose to her feet. She turned towards Demoyte as if to speak to him, but did not. She turned about, gathering up her evening-bag, and went soft-footed out of the room. Everyone shifted uneasily, stared at her as she departed, and then looked back to Nan, puzzled but still spell-bound. The candles were burning low.

Nan prolonged her pause. From the comer of his eye Mor could see her figure relax. She threw her page of notes down on the table. She began to say, ‘But you will have heard enough now of my personal hopes and fears - it remains for me to conclude my remarks by - Her voice became inaudible to Mor. He half rose from his seat, and then slumped back again, helpless. He became aware that everyone in the room was looking at him. He thought at first it must be because of Rain’s departure, but then realized that it was because of Nan’s speech. He knew he ought to follow Rain out — but again he could not. The scene held him prisoner, his wife’s presence and her words pinned him to his chair, his whole previous life contained him like a strait-jacket. He turned to face Demoyte and flinched away from the expression of blazing fury in the old man’s eyes that bid him get up and go. He could not.