Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘Don’t, you’re hurting my leg,’ said Rain. ‘I do understand. I had just not realized that I was wrecking your whole life. I see it all quite differently now. I see your children, I see your ambitions. You love me, yes. But you wouldn’t really forgive me for having deprived you of so much. And I would not forgive myself for doing so.’ She spoke in a monotonous slightly whining voice, and her tears were very slow but ceaseless.

‘No, no, no, it’s not like that!’ cried Mor. How could he bear it, that Nan had bewitched her so? She saw it all exactly as Nan had intended. How could she be so stupid? ‘No!’ he cried. ‘I shall not let you do this thing to both of us!’

‘It’s useless, Mor,’ said Rain. ‘What am I doing in your life? I’ve often wondered this, you know, only I never told my doubts. You are a growing tree. I am only a bird. You cannot break your roots and fly away with me. Where could we go where you wouldn’t always be wanting the deep things that belong to you, your children, and this work which you know is your work? I know how I would feel if I were prevented from pointing. I should die if I were prevented from painting. I should die. For a moment she shook with sobs and the ladder trembled under her.

‘I love you, Rain,’ said Mor, ‘what else can I say? I haven’t cared for these other things at all since I’ve known you. I shall never be an M.P. now, whatever happens. I no longer want this. I want you. Don’t kill me, Rain. He leaned against the ladder, embracing the lower steps.

‘You would be happy with me for a short while,’ said Rain, ‘but then what would happen? It’s all dry sand running through the fingers. I can wander about the world and where-ever I go I can paint. If we were together my work would continue. But what about yours? Would it in the end satisfy you just to be with me? Would you be able to write and to go on writing? If you had really wanted to write as much as I want to paint you would have written by now, you would have found the time somehow, nothing would have stopped you.

‘I could write,’ said Mor, ‘or I could start a school. I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought of these things too. I could make my life with you. What sort of life do you think I have now, or would have even if I were an M.P.? You’ve made me exist for the first time. I began to be when I loved you, I saw the world for the first time, the beautiful world full of things and animals that I’d never seen before. What do you think will hop-pen to me if you leave me now? Don’t abandon me. Don’t do such a wicked thing. Don’t!’

He reached up his hand towards her. She leaned forward and took it in a strong grip. They paused for a moment, pressing each other’s hands. But all the comfort was gone out of the contact. They both knew it and felt despair. Rain withdrew her hand.

‘Rain, do you love me?’ said Mor. He stood squarely at the foot of the ladder gazing up at her. ‘If you’ve just changed your mind about me, say it, and don’t wrap it up in this torturing way.’

‘I love you,’ said Rain, ‘I do love you, I do. But what does that mean? Perhaps, after all, it has all been because of-father.’ She laid the palette down on her lap and rubbed her face violently with both hands. Patches of red and blue paint appeared on her cheeks and forehead.

Oh, for Christ’s sake,‘ said Mor, ’don’t give me that. I shall not allow you to leave me, Rain, I shall just not allow it. Nothing has happened tonight which can alter anything between us. Don’t be tricked by my wife. Don’t look anywhere but to me.‘

‘Oh, Mor, Mor,’ said Rain, her voice wailing, ‘if you only knew how I do look to you! I’ve got nobody but you at all. But now I can see. I see that it was you that tricked me - and I too that deceived myself. I saw it all so simply, with nothing to it but you leaving your wife whom you didn’t love and who didn’t love you. But a life has so much more in it than that. I had not seen that I would break so many many things.’

‘If you love me — ’ he said.

‘That word cannot guide us any more.’ She spoke wearily, with finality.

‘Make it all right,’ said Moor. ‘Sweep away what has happened tonight, do not remember it.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ said Rain, ‘my dear — ’ She turned her eyes, red and hazy with tears, towards the face in the picture which was level with her own.

‘Make it all right,’ said Mor.

‘Oh, my dear -’ said Rain.

It was the final negative. Mor stepped away from the foot of the ladder. He stood silent for a moment. The pain in his heart was almost beyond bearing. Then he said, ‘I accept nothing of what you say. We shall speak of this again.’

Rain said nothing. She took up the palette and began to mix some paint, but could not see for her tears.

Mor took two steps towards the door. He said, ‘You should stop that now, and go to bed. You’re far too upset to paint. Shall I fetch your car and bring it round into the playground?’

Rain shook her head violently. It was a moment before she could speak. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I must finish this. I want to repaint the head. I see what to do now. I must go on working. Don’t wait up.’

Mor hesitated. He had a terrible feeling that if he left her now he might never see her again. But he had to see her again. They would speak tomorrow. He would force her to agree with him. It could not be otherwise.

‘We are both too overwrought,’ he said. ‘We will speak of this again tomorrow.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Rain, ‘please go. I must work now. Please go.’

Mor got as far as the door. He stood watching her. She had begun to paint again, dashing the tears from her eyes.

Rain,‘ he said.

She did not answer.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Rain, ‘yes.’

She went on painting. Mor stayed for a minute or two watching her, and then he went out and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty

WHEN Mor awoke it was cold. He turned in bed and W looked towards the window. A very white dim light. It was early morning. No need to get up yet. Then as he turned again to settle down, the memory of last night spread through his mind like a crack. He sat up in bed and held his hand to his face as if to prevent great cries from issuing forth. He must see Rain very soon, immediately after breakfast, sooner. Last night she had been mad. If he had been less drunk himself he would have realized it and would have left her alone at once. He looked at his watch. Ten to six. He lay back on the pillow. There were still hours to wait. Then he found out that he could not stay in bed. He was in too great an agony. He began to get up and to dress, stumbling about searching for his clothes. He had a violent headache.

When he was dressed, he wondered what to do. It occurred to him that Rain might have been painting all night and might still be there in the masters’ dining-room. But on reflection this seemed very unlikely. He sat for a while on the edge of his bed. The time was now five past six. He swung his legs and lit a cigarette. The time opened in front of him like an appalling steam-filled abyss. How could he wait so long? He walked about the room, keeping his footsteps silent. He began to think about his wife.

Then a thought came to him, a thought which he had had last night, but which had been overwhelmed by the violence of the events. He crept downstairs, carrying his shoes with him, and went into the dining-room, where his writing-desk was. He opened the drawer of the desk where he had hidden the two draft letters which he had written, the one to Nan and the other to Tim Burke, announcing his intentions. The letters were there, but Mor could see at once that they had been moved from their original place. He stood for some time in a melancholy daze looking into the drawer. Nan must have found them. That explained the desperation which had driven her to make such a dramatic sacrifice of her own wishes.