The Sandcastle (9 page)

‘In fact, you can’t teach teach children to paint,’ said Bledyard. ‘They
already know how to paint. It is the only art that comes naturally to all human
beings.’
‘What about music?’ said Mor. He wanted to get into the conversation.
‘I know,’ said Miss Carter simultaneously. ‘My father didn’t teach me in that
sense till I was quite old. But then he was very severe. I can remember being
made to paint the same thing again and again.’
‘But they forget it later,’ said Bledyard. It was characteristic of Bledyard s
conversation that he did not always attend to remarks made by his interlocutor,
but pursued his own train of thought aloud. This was sometimes confusing until
one got used to it. ‘They forget how forget how to paint at about the time when
they lose their innocence. They have to learn all over again after that. What
does that prove? Painting is man’s most fundamental mode of apprehension. We
are incarnate incarnate creatures, our mode of knowledge is sensible, and
vision is sovereign over the other senses. Before man could speak he could
draw.’ It was also characteristic of Bledyard that whereas he might sit completely
silent for long periods at a social gathering, if once he did start to talk he
would dominate the conversation.
Miss Carter was not embarrassed by Bledyard. She watched him with lips parted.
She clearly found him fascinating. Mor set aside his plate. The ice-cream was
tasteless. He hated ice-cream anyway.
‘If you will excuse me,’ said Mr Everard, ‘I will start making the coffee. It
takes a little time to prepare in my special coffee-machine. No, no, stay where
you are. You haven’t finished your fruit, I see. Cheese and biscuits are on the
table, so do help yourselves if you want any. I shall just be getting the
coffee quite quietly.’
Evvy escaped from the table. He had lately acquired a coffee-machine, from
which Mor had had great hopes; however, since Evvy never put even half of the
correct amount of coffee into the machine, the results were just as deplorable
as before.
‘You think we give significance to the world by representing it?’ said Miss
Carter to Bledyard. ‘No, thank you,’ she said to Mor, who was offering her a
biscuit.
Mor gloomily undid the silver paper from a limp triangle of processed cheese.
‘Representation is an ambiguous word,’ said Bledyard. ‘To represent something
something is a task which must be undertaken with humility. What is the first
and most fundamental truth which an incarnate being must realize? That he is a
thing, a material object in space and time, and that as such he will come to an
end. What is the next next truth which he must realize? That he is related on
the one hand to God, who is not a thing, and on the other hand to other things
which surround him. Now these other things things,’ Bledyard raised his spoon
to emphasize his words, ‘are some of them mere things, and others of them
God-related things like himself.’
Over by the hearth, Mr Everard seemed to be having some trouble with the
coffee-machine. Mor saw with foreboding that he seemed to be pouring in a lot
of water at the last moment.
‘Shall we repair?’ said Evvy. ‘The coffee is almost ready.’ Bledyard, Mor, and
Miss Carter rose from the table.
‘It is distinctly indicated indicated in the Bible,’ said Bledyard, ‘that the
works of nature are placed upon this earth for the benefit of man. Is that not
so, Mis-ter Ever-ard?’
Evvy jumped at being suddenly appealed to. ‘That is so, Mr Bledyard,’ he said.
‘Er, Miss Carter, pray sit here. Do you take milk in your coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Miss Carter.
‘It is also the case,’ said Bledyard, ‘that the Bible commands commands us to
abstain from the creation of graven images.’
‘I hope you don’t mind the milk being cold, Miss Carter,’ said Mr Everard.
‘This is rather a bachelor establishment, I’m afraid.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Carter, ‘I like it better like that. Only a little,
please.’
‘So that we would expect,’ said Bledyard, ‘to find the early Church the early
Church in two minds upon the matter of religious painting and sculpture.
However, it seems to be the case that the fathers felt no special impediment
impediment to representational art, and very soon in the history of the Church
we find worship and praise naturally taking the form of representation, as in
the noble mosaics at Ravenna.’
‘Ah yes, how very fine they are!’ said Mr Everard. ‘Have you been to Ravenna,
Miss Carter?’
‘Yes, I often went there with my father,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I know the mosaics
very well.’
‘The early Church the early Church,’ said Bledyard, accepting his coffee-cup
from Mr Everard, ‘does not seem to have made any distinction distinction
between the representation of the works of nature and the representation of
human forms. So near so near in time to the source of light, their vision was
informed by a reverence which penetrated even their method of depicting the
human face. However, when we are overtaken by the secular spirit of the
Renaissance, we find we find a more exclusive interest in the human shape as
such, conjoined alas with a total loss of that insight and that reverence.’
‘What do you think of the coffee this time, Bill?’ said Mr Everard. ‘A bit
better, isn’t it?’
‘It’s very good, sir,’ said Mor, pouring the insipid stuff hastily down his
throat.
‘Are you suggesting,’ said Miss Carter to Bledyard, ‘that we should treat the
representation of the human form in some way quite differently from the
presentation of other things?’
‘As you know,’ said Bledyard, ‘we find it natural to make the distinction. Only
we do not make it absolutely absolutely enough. When confronted with an object
which is not a human being we must of course treat it reverently. We must, if
we paint it, attempt to show what it is like in itself, and not treat it as a
symbol of our own moods and wishes. The great painter the great painter is he
who is humble enough in the presence of the object to attempt
merely
to
show what the object is like. But this
merely,
in painting, is
everything.’
How I agree with you! said Miss Carter. Distantly from the school the
two-fifteen bell was heard ringing.
‘But,’ said Bledyard, ‘when we are in the presence of another human being, we
are not confronted simply by an object — ’ He paused. ‘We are confronted by
God.’
‘Are you teaching the first period, Bill?’ said Mr Everard. ‘I’m sorry, I
should have asked you earlier.’
‘No, I’m not, in fact,’ said Mor.
‘Do you mean that we ought not to paint other human beings? asked Miss Carter.
‘Each must find out his own way,’ said Bledyard. ‘If it were possible, ah, if
it were possible to treat a head as if it were a spherical material object! But
who is great enough to do this?’
‘I don’t see why one should attempt to treat a head as a spherical material
object,’ said Mor. ‘We know what a head is, and we know what it is to
understand another person by looking into his eyes. I don’t see why the painter
should be obliged to forget all this.’
‘Who is worthy to understand another person?’ said Bledyard. He spoke with no
more and no less intensity than at the start. He answered Mor’s words, but his
eyes were fixed upon Miss Carter. ‘Upon an ordinary material thing we can look
with reverence, wondering simply at its being. But when we look upon a human
face, we interpret it by what we are ourselves. And what are we?’ Bledyard
spread out his two hands, one of which held the untasted cup of coffee.
‘I agree with much of what you say,’ said Miss Carter, speaking quickly before
Bledyard could interrupt her. ‘Our paintings are a judgement upon ourselves. I
know in what way, and how deplorably, my own paintings show what I am. But
still I think — ’
‘It is a fact,’ said Bledyard, ‘that we cannot really observe really observe
our betters. Vices and peculiarities are easy to portray. But who can look
reverently enough upon another human face? The true portrait painter should be
a saint - and saints have other things to do than paint portraits. Religious
painters often understand this obscurely. Representations representations of
Our Lord are usually not presented as if they were pictures of an individual.
Pictures of Our Lord usually affect us by the majesty of the conception, and
not by any particular expression or gesture. Where the picture is
individualized, as in Caravaggio’s rendering of Christ at Emmaus, we are
shocked. We should be equally shocked at any representation of a human face.’
Mr Everard was looking at his watch and shifting restlessly. He began to say
something, but Miss Carter got in first. ‘What you say is so very abstract, Mr
Bledyard. One might think beforehand that it is impossible to depict a human
face with sufficient reverence — and perhaps in some absolute sense
sufficient
reverence there never is. But if we consider paintings by Rembrandt, by Goya,
by Tintoretto, by — ’
Miss Carter’s voice was rising higher. She was becoming extremely excited.
Bledyard tried to interrupt her. Mr Everard uttered some half-articulate sound.
Mor, speaking very loudly, managed to drown them all. ‘I’ve got to go now, I’m
afraid.’ A sudden silence followed.
Bledyard laid his cup down and stood up. He turned to Mr Everard. ‘Thank you,’
he said, ‘for a very pleasant lunch, Mis-ter Ever-ard. I have enjoyed meeting
Miss Miss Carter. I hope I have not stayed stayed too long.’
Miss Carter stood up. She was looking flushed and agitated. She said, ‘Thank
you very much indeed — it was so kind of you. I have enjoyed it.’
Evvy was looking ready to drop with exhaustion. They all walked down into the
hall. As Mor descended the stairs he saw the little packet of books which he
had left on the hall table. He pounced on it and took the opportunity to hand
it quickly to Miss Carter. ‘The books I promised you.’
Miss Carter took them distractedly and said, ‘Oh, thank you,’ hardly looking at
him. Mor cursed Bledyard. They all came out on to the gravel in front of the
house. The blazing heat of the afternoon rose from the earth in waves.
‘Oh, Bill,’ said Evvy, ‘do make my apologies to your wife. I quite meant to
invite her, I really meant to, but you know how inefficient I am. At this time
of term my memory quite goes. But do tell her, will you, and make my excuses.
‘I will certainly,’ said Mor, who had no intention of passing this idiotic
apology on to Nan. He knew how it would be received.
‘And don’t fail to persuade her to make that little speech for us at the
dinner,’ said Evvy.
‘I’ll try,’ said Mor. He put his hand up to shield his brow from the sun.
‘Well, I’m so glad you came,’ said Evvy, ‘it was so nice. Now I really must get
back to my tasks. End of term in sight, you know. Good-bye, Miss Carter, we
shall meet again soon - and thank you so much for coming.’ He retreated quickly
into the house and shut the door.
The three guests stood for a moment undecidedly in the drive. Mor thought, if
Bledyard says another word I shall crown him. Miss Carter was evidently
thinking the same. She scraped the gravel with her feet and said hurriedly, ‘I
must be going too. I suppose I can’t give either of you a lift back to the
school?’ The invitation did not sound very whole-hearted.
Mor realized with a shock of surprise that the big green Riley which stood at
the door must belong to Miss Carter. It seemed to him amazing that such a small
woman should own such a large car. The next moment it seemed to him delightful.
Bledyard said at once, ‘No, thank you, Miss Carter. I have my bicycle bicycle
here. I shall go on that. So I shall say good-bye.’ He disappeared abruptly
round the side of the house.
Mor was left alone with Miss Carter. He thought very quickly. He was suddenly
overwhelmed by a most intense wish to ride away in Miss Carter’s car. He said,
‘Yes, please, I’d be very grateful for a lift.’
He opened the door for her, and then jumped in himself on the other side. Miss
Carter stowed the parcel of books in the back seat. Then she put on some dark
glasses and wrapped a multi-coloured handkerchief round her head. After that
she started the engine. As they began to move slowly forward a curious
apparition passed them. It was Bledyard, riding his own bicycle and pushing
Mor’s. He went by at speed, with head down, and turned off the drive on to the
cycle track that led back to the school.
The impudence of him! thought Mor. He hoped that Miss Carter would not realize
the significance of the spectacle. He feared that she would. Then suddenly he
began to laugh aloud.
‘What is it?’ said Miss Carter.
Mor went on laughing. ‘What a droll fellow Bledyard is!’ he said.
The car gathered pace.

Chapter
Six

THE
Riley turned on to the main road.
I’m so sorry,‘ said Miss Carter, ’if I sounded rather short when I offered you
the lift. I was afraid Mr Bledyard might accept. I really couldn’t have endured
his company for another moment.‘
‘That’s all right,’ said Mor. ‘The first hour is the worst. One does get used
to him in time. There’s something very remarkable about Bledyard.’
‘He is certainly remarkable,’ said Miss Carter, ‘but infuriating. I’m sure he
isn’t mad - but he has a characteristic of mad people. He argues insistently
and coherently and with the appearance of logic - but somehow it’s just all
wrong, there’s some colossal distortion.’
‘I know,’ said Mor, thinking suddenly of his wife. ‘Yet Bledyard commands
respect. One has to ask oneself now and then whether it isn’t one’s own vision
that’s distorted.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter. ‘Oh dear!’ She stopped the car abruptly. They were
almost outside the main entrance to the school. Do you mind if we talk for a
minute or two? I seem to have brought you back already. I really feel knocked
out by that conversation. It’s a great relief to be able to talk to you.
‘Not at all,’ said Mor. ‘I’m in no hurry. I haven’t anything special to do this
afternoon.’ He felt pleased at what she had said.
“Well, in that case,‘ said Miss Carter, ’perhaps we could drive on a bit. I
know it’s very naughty, and I ought to be working, but I really must have some
air. I expect you need some too. I’ll bring you back almost at once.‘ She let
in the clutch and the Riley glided off again.
Mor immediately began to feel guilty. Although he was not actually teaching,
there were in fact a lot of things that he ought to be doing that afternoon.
All the same, it was so delightful to fly along in the car, the still summer
air changed to a warm breeze, and the noisy menacing main road to an open
obedient highway that for once really led somewhere. Mor saw that they had
crossed the railway bridge without his even noticing the hill. All this was
good for him, he felt, after the strained atmosphere of Mr Everard’s
drawing-room. It would be all right to go a little way.
‘I’m really upset by that man,’ said Miss Carter. She was very serious. It was
clear that she could think about nothing but Bledyard.
‘Well then, confound him!’ said Mor, laughing, ‘if he upset you!’
‘No, no,’ said Miss Carter, ‘as you said yourself, he may be right - or rather,
I don’t actually think he’s right, but it all comes as a sudden — reproach. I
take my art very seriously. Indeed,
now
it’s all I have. I know I’m
quite good. I believe I shall be better. But this man makes me feel that
everything I do must be rotten. In a way it is - rotten, rotten, I know.’ She
said the word as a foreigner would say it, giving it significance. She was
speaking excitedly again, her small hand gesturing above the steering-wheel.
And as she spoke she accelerated. The sandy edges of the main road flashed
madly past and a number of cars were left behind. In a moment the speedometer
was at seventy. Miss Carter seemed scarcely to notice. Mor held on to his seat.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘and do slow down. I don’t often travel in cars. As Bledyard
said, each must find his own way. And as you said, his remarks are too
abstract. The answer to him is the works themselves. And your answer is your
work. When you’re not distracted by theories, when you’re alone with the work,
you know what you have to do, and at least in what direction perfection lies.’
Mor spoke earnestly. He felt that here too was something to be taught,
something to be understood. And he too had something which he must try to
understand. He wanted to continue the conversation.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Miss Carter. She put the brake on, and they proceeded for
a little way in silence. By this time they had reached the outskirts of
Marsington. The car stopped at the traffic lights.
‘Turn left here,’ said Mor. ‘Let’s get off the main road.’ He didn’t want to go
past Tim Burke’s shop.
They turned, and in a moment or two they were in a country lane. The murmur of
the traffic diminished to silence. The leaves met over their heads. Miss Carter
slowed the car down. ‘This is a surprise,’ she said, ‘that to escape is so
easy. I wonder if there is a river anywhere near here? I feel so hot - it would
be wonderful to see some water. I suppose it’s too far to go to the sea?’
‘Oh, much too far!’ said Mor, scandalized. It’s rather a dry country about
here, but I expect I could find some sort of little river for you. Let me see.
Yes, if you drive on another few miles there should be one. Drive on anyhow,
and I’ll recognize the way when I see it.‘
‘Are you sure I’m not keeping you from anything?’ said Miss Carter. ‘You must
say as soon as you want to go back. Or perhaps I could take you somewhere, or
go and collect something for you? I believe you said you hadn’t got a car.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Mor, ‘and in fact you could help me by dropping me in a
little while quite near here. There’s someone I ought to see, and since we’re
so close I might as well go this afternoon. It’ll save me a railway journey.
But let’s find your river first. It won’t take long.’ It had occurred to Mor
that since he was practically in Marsington he might call again on Tim Burke.
In his exalted state of mind of the previous evening he had failed to have a
sufficiently precise conversation with Tim. He ought to be, Mor thought, more
fully briefed about the financial aspect of the enterprise before raising the
question with either Nan or Evvy. Nan would be certain to make some objections
on the grounds of finance — and in order to convince her his answers must be
exact. Another talk with Tim would be exceedingly useful.
‘Good,’ said Miss Carter. The road opened before them and she let the car take
it at a rush. Mor’s recent nervousness was clearly far from her mind. From the
expression on her face he suspected she was still thinking of Bledyard’s
reproach. He saw her eyes side view behind the dark glasses and they were large
with thought. She held the steering-wheel lightly with one small hand, and the
other arm lay along the edge of the window. A grove of pine trees swept past
behind her head, and an odour of sand and resin filled the car. It was indeed a
dry country.
It occurred to Mor that he had told Nan he would be back for tea. He said to
Miss Carter, ‘Would you mind stopping if you see a telephone-box? I must just
ring my wife to tell her what time I’ll be back.’
‘Certainly,’ said Miss Carter. A telephone-box appeared very soon, and she
stopped the car.
Mor went into the box and fumbled for his sixpence. A curious stillness
surrounded him after the sound of the engine. Out of this, in a moment or two,
came Nan’s voice speaking. She always sounded apprehensive when she picked up
the telephone. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Nan,’ said Mor. ‘It’s Bill. I just thought I’d ring to say I won’t be
home for tea. I’ve got one or two things to do, and then I have to go and see
Tim Burke about a Labour Party thing.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Nan. ‘When will you be home?’
‘Oh, about five-thirty, I expect,’ said Mor. ‘Maybe sooner. Cheerio.’
He put the phone down. Then he stood quite still in the telephone-box and a
strange cold feeling came over him. Why on earth had he done that? Why had he
told Nan a lie? Why hadn’t he said that he was out with Miss Carter in the car?
He hadn’t even reflected about it, he had told the lie immediately, without
even thinking. Why? He supposed it must have been because he was vaguely aware
that Nan would be very sarcastic and unpleasant about his wasting the afternoon
in this way. But this wasn’t a reason for telling her a lie. Anyhow, it was so
idiotic. Anyone might have seen him and Miss Carter in the car together. But
that wasn’t the point. He ought not to have lied to Nan. He came slowly out of
the box.
‘What’s the matter,’ said Miss Carter. ‘You look very strange. Are you all
right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ said Mor. ‘I’m just feeling the heat a bit. I’ll be better when
the car’s started.’
Miss Carter gave him an anxious glance and they set off.
Here I am telling another lie, said Mor to himself. Suddenly he said to Miss
Carter, ‘I’m sorry, that’s not true. The fact is that, I don’t know why, I
didn’t tell my wife that I was with you in the car — which was very foolish of
me.’
Miss Carter turned to look at him. Her eyes were hidden behind the dark,
glasses. Now she’ll despise me, thought Mor. She’ll despise me for telling the
lie, and she’ll despise me for telling her that I told it.
‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Carter. ‘You’ll have to tell her when you get back. She
won’t mind much, will she? But I expect she’ll be cross with me.’
Mor felt a sudden relief and an enormous liking for Miss Carter. Of course, it
was straightforward enough, and not much harm would be done. He would have a
nasty half-hour with Nan, that was all. He was grateful to Miss Carter for the
simple way in which she had dealt with it, and he was glad now that he had told
her.
‘You’re perfectly right, of course,’ said Mor, ‘and naturally I shall tell her
when I get back. She’ll be cross with me, quite rightly, but she won’t be cross
with you - I’ll see that she isn’t. I’m so sorry about this. I really am a
fool.’
The car had been speeding along as they talked. ‘Where are we now?’ said Miss
Carter.
Mor wasn’t quite sure. ‘Drive on a bit,’ he said. ‘We may have missed the
turning. I’ll recognize something in a moment.’ He felt that this last exchange
had broken some barrier between himself and Miss Carter, and he found himself
now more at ease in her presence. For a moment he was almost glad of his
foolishness.
Miss Carter slowed the car down and Mor began to study the countryside.‘ By
this time they were deep in the ragged coniferous Surrey landscape which lies
between the fanned-out lines of the great main roads out of London: the region
where the escaping Londoner, alone of city-dwellers to use the word in quite
this way, says a little doubtfully, ’Now at last we are really in
the
country.‘
Mor decided that they must have passed the turning he had in mind, but he felt
sure that if they continued they would find their way to the river all the
same. He was determined, after that unpleasantness, not to fail Miss Carter in
the matter of the river. He owed her a service. Meanwhile the afternoon was
growing hotter and the woodlands thicker, more immobile, and more heavily
perfumed. They drove on.
With a simultaneous cry they greeted what now appeared quite suddenly upon the
road before them. Miss Carter braked violently, and approached at a walking
pace. She said, ‘How strange, I thought at first it was a mirage.’ She stopped
the Riley within a few feet of the ford.
The water ran twinkling across the road in a wide steady sheet. They could hear
it running. For a while they sat in an entranced silence listening to its
noise. Then Miss Carter let the car come very slowly forward until the front
wheels were dipping into the water. She turned to Mor with a look of triumph.
Mor was glad at her joy. He looked about him to each side. The water emerged
from the wood under concrete shelves, the tops of which were covered with earth
and grasses. Beyond this the trees were thick and it was impossible to see what
happened to the little river. Mor looked across the water. A short way beyond
the ford there was a turning to the left. ‘Let’s just go down there,’ said Mor,
pointing to it. ‘We might be able to reach the bank of the river farther
along.’
Miss Carter looked at him a little anxiously. ‘Are you sure you have time?’ she
said. ‘I don’t want to keep you. My pranks have caused you some trouble
already.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mor. ‘Nothing was your fault, my dear child. I’ve still got
some time in hand. If you’d like to go -? We won’t spend more than a moment
looking.’
‘I’d love to!’ said Miss Carter promptly, and the car went through the ford
with a gentle swish and sailed round the corner. Here once more the trees met
overhead and there was a diffused green light. Miss Carter took off her
glasses.
After about a hundred yards they saw that the little road was bearing to the
right, away from the direction where the river must lie. The wood was still far
too thick for them to see what was there, although when the car stopped and
Miss Carter switched off the engine a murmuring sound of water was distantly
audible. Straight in front of them, however, was a white gate, and beyond it
was a gentle green bridle path which curved away to the left between ferns and
brambles under a close continuous archway of oaks, birches, and conifers. It
was tempting. They looked at each other.
‘Let’s leave the car,’ said Mor. ‘We could walk down there in a moment and find
the river.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘why walk? We can ride.’ And she had leapt out of the car and
was unfastening the gate. A minute or two later the Riley was lurching gently
along the bridle path.
‘To drive a car along a path like this,’ said Miss Carter almost in a whisper,
‘is like sailing a boat along a street. It is an enchantment.’
Mor was silent. It was so. The engine was almost noiseless now and above it
rose the massed hum of the woodland on a summer afternoon, a dazing sound that
confounded itself with silence. It was as if since they had passed the white
gate they had entered another world. The spirit of the wood pressed upon them,
and Mor found himself looking from side to side expecting to see something
strange. The path was well kept and closely covered with fine grass, and
someone had cut the bracken back on either side. All the same, the ferns and
the wild flowers were close enough to the wheels of the car to touch them as
they passed, and Mor saw gorse and ragged robin and ladies’ lace banked and
swaying slightly on either side of the path ahead. Here and there came a deep
vista into the wood, down leaf-strewn alleys lighted by a brown light. There
was still no sign of the river. Miss Carter stopped the car suddenly. She still
spoke in a low voice. ‘Would you like to drive?’
Mor was startled. It was nearly fifteen years since he had driven a car, and he
had never possessed one of his own. ‘I haven’t driven for a long time,’ he
said, ‘and I don’t know whether I could now. Anyway, I haven’t got a driving
licence.’