The Bell

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘This is the visitors’ chapel,’ said Mrs Mark, speaking now in such a low whisper that Dora could hardly hear her. ‘What you see through the bars is the high altar of the nuns’ chapel. The main body of the chapel faces the altar and can’t be seen from here. By this arrangement we can participate in the services without ever seeing the nuns, which of course would be forbidden. There is a Mass at seven every morning which visitors may attend. That’s the gate the priest comes through to give communion to anyone who is in this chapel. When the nuns are receiving the sacrament these curtains are closed to cut this chapel off from the main one. This is the place where outsiders like us can come nearest to the spiritual life of the Abbey.’

  A soft rustle came from somewhere in the distance, round the corner beyond the bars, and then the sound of a footstep.

  ‘Is someone - ?’ whispered Dora.

  ‘There is always a nun in the chapel,’ murmured Mrs Mark. ‘It is a place of continual prayer.’

  Dora felt stifled and suddenly frightened and began to retreat towards the door. The rich exotic smell of the incense roused some ancestral terror in her Protestant blood. Mrs Mark genuflected, crossing herself, and followed. In a moment they were out in the bright sunlight. The tall grasses moved, mingling with the reeds at the water’s edge, and the lake flickered quietly in the sun. The wide scene, with a slanting view of Imber Court and a hazy distance of parkland elms, was laid out under a cloudless sky. There was something incredible about the proximity of that dark hole and that silence. Dora shook her head violently.

  ‘Yes, it is impressive, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Mark. ‘There is a wonderful spiritual life here. One just can’t help being affected by it.’

  They began to walk back across the causeway.

  ‘We’ll take that little path to the left,’ said Mrs Mark, ‘and cut through behind the house to the market-garden.’

  The path led them from the end of the causeway a little way along the shore, and then turned away to the right, skirting a thick wood. A glint of greenhouses was to be seen ahead. As they turned by the wood, leaving the edge of the lake, the thin tinkling of the hand bell followed them from across the water.

  Dora burst out, ‘It’s terrible to think of them being shut up like that!’

  ‘It is true’, said Mrs Mark, ‘that these women lay upon themselves austerities from which you and I would shrink in terror. But just as we think the sinner better than he is when we imagine that suffering ennobles him, so we do less than justice to the saint when we think that his sacrifices grieve him in the way they would grieve us. Indian file here, I think.’

  Mrs Mark led the way along the narrow track which could still just be found in the middle of the encroaching grass, tall and bleached to a faded yellow. Long feathery plumes, brittle with dryness, learned from either side, touching the shoulders of the two women as they passed. Still stirred and affected by what she had seen, Dora blundered on in her uncomfortable shoes, watching where she stepped, and seeing ahead of her through the undergrowth the intermittent flash of Mrs Mark’s well-developed calves, healthily shining, burnished by the sun to a glowing golden brown. The back view of the Court could be seen on the right, from this side a long unbroken façade, with pillars set close into the wall to frame the impressive round-topped windows of the Long Room. They emerged into an open space where the grass had been cut and stacked. The path faded away here and Dora’s high heels sank into sharp stubble.

  ‘This is where the market-garden begins,’ said Mrs Mark. ‘It’s still very small, you know. This nearer part is what used to be the flower garden of the Court. We’re cultivating that in strips with lettuce mainly, and some carrots and onions and young leeks. Beyond is what used to be the fruit garden of the Court. That’s enclosed by the high walls you see straight ahead. We’ve kept that very much as it was. It’s well stocked with apples and pears and plenty of soft fruit. There are some greenhouses in there, and we’ve added the more modern ones you see on the left. They’re all full of tomatoes at present. The wire thing beside them is a chicken house. Just one or two birds, you know. Then we’ve just started to cultivate a piece of the pastureland beyond the ha-ha. We’ve got cabbage there, and a good area of potatoes and brussels sprouts. We’re only growing the safer vegetables at present till we’ve gained experience. We shall dig up more of the pastureland in the autumn.’

  They came to a concrete path which led between glass frames in the direction of the walled garden. Some figures came into view. A little distance away James Tayper Pace could be seen instructing Toby how to hoe between the rows of plants. A figure, probably Peter Topglass, was moving to and fro in one of the greenhouses.

  ‘Hoeing is an unromantic activity,’ said Mrs Mark with a certain satisfaction, ‘but it’s one’s daily bread in a market-garden.’

  Patchway approached them along the path, pushing a wheel-barrow. His hat looked as if it had not moved since last night.

  ‘Still no rain I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Mark to Patchway.

  ‘Won’t see no life in them leeks before the autumn if it don’t rain buckets pretty soon,’ said Patchway.

  They stood aside to let him pass.

  ‘He’s going to lift some lettuces,’ said Mrs Mark. ‘Such a nice simple man. What you see on the right is the back of the stable block, said to have been designed by Kent. Part of it was damaged by fire about fifty years ago, but as you see it’s still very pretty. It figured a lot in old prints. We’ve made some of the loose boxes into garages, and some into packing sheds where we weigh and pack the vegetables to go to Pendelcote and Cirencester. I supervise that part of the work as well as all the indoor things and the catering. We believe that women should stick to their traditional tasks. No point in making a change just to make a change, is there? We’d be so glad if you ever felt like joining in any time. I expect you’re handy with your needle?’

  Dora, who was not, was feeling the sun extremely. The reflections of heat and light from the concrete path and the line of glass frames were giving her a headache. She put her hand to her head.

  ‘Poor thing!’ said Mrs Mark. ‘I’ve walked you off your feet. We’ll just take a quick look at the fruit garden and then I’m sure you should go inside and rest, and I must get on with my jobs.’ She pushed open a heavy wooden gate in the wall and they came into the fruit garden.

  The old stone walls, dry and crumbling with the long summer, covered over with brittle stonecrop and fading valerian, enclosed a large space crammed and tangled with fruit bushes. A wire cage covered an area in the far corner, and there was a glint of glass. A haze hung over the luxuriant scene, and it seemed hotter than ever within the garden. Disciplined fruit trees were spread-eagled along every wall, their leaves curling in the heat. Dora and Mrs Mark began to walk along one of the paths, the dried up spiky fingers of raspberry canes catching at their clothes.

  ‘Why there’s Catherine,’ said Mrs Mark. ‘She’s picking the apricots. ’

  They came towards her. A large string net of small mesh had been thrown over a section of the wall to protect the fruit from the birds. Behind the net Catherine was to be seen, almost lost in the foliage of the tree, dropping the golden fruit into a wide basket at her feet. She wore a floppy white sun hat under which her dark hair straggled in a long knot, hazy with wisps and tendrils, which hung down between her shoulder-blades. She was intent on her labour and did not see Dora and Mrs Mark until they had come very close. Her dark head, thrown back beneath the powdery glow of the hanging apricots, looked to Dora Spanish, and again beautiful. Her averted face, without the nervous self-protective look which it wore in company, seemed stronger, more dignified, and more sad. Dora felt that strange misgiving once more at the sight.

  ‘Hello, Catherine!’ said Mrs Mark loudly. ‘I’ve brought Dora to see you.’

  Catherine jumped and turned about, looking startled. What a jittery creature she is, Dora thought. She smiled and Catherine smiled back at her through the net.

  ‘Yo
u must get terribly hot doing that,’ said Dora.

  Catherine wore an open-necked summer frock with pale washed-out flowers upon it. Her throat was burnt to a dark brown by the sun, but a sallowness in her face had seemed to resist the sunlight and gave her the pale look which Dora had remarked the night before. She pushed the hat back off her head as she spoke to Dora until it rested, held by its strings, upon the great bunch of hair on her shoulders, and she swept the ragged dark fringe back from her brow. She wiped a brown hand wet with perspiration upon her dress, while they exchanged a remark or two about the weather. Dora and Mrs Mark passed on.

  ‘Catherine’s so excited about going in, bless her heart,’ said Mrs Mark. ‘This is such a thrilling time for her.’

  ‘Going in?’ said Dora.

  ‘Oh, you didn’t know,’ said Mrs Mark, as she led Dora back towards the gate. ‘Catherine is going to be a nun. She is going to enter the Abbey in October.’

  They went out of the gate. Dora turned to take one last look at the figure under the net. At the news which she had just heard she felt a horrified surprise, a curious sort of relief, and a more obscure pain, compounded perhaps of pity and of some terror, as if something within herself were menaced with destruction.

  ‘It’s time now please,’ said the man behind the counter.

  Dora jumped guiltily to her feet and returned her glass. She was the only remaining inhabitant of the darkly varnished bar parlour of the White Lion. She went out into the sunshine and heard the sad sound of the inn door being closed and bolted behind her. It was half past two.

  After taking leave of Mrs Mark in the morning Dora had rested for about twenty minutes, and then had walked to the village by a footpath which Mrs Mark had indicated to her, to inquire at the station about the suitcase. The walk took longer than she expected, but when she arrived, sweating and exhausted, she was told that the case was due to be returned by a train which came through in about half an hour. Wandering out again into the village Dora was transported with delight to discover that the pubs were open. She patronized in turn the White Lion and the Volunteer, and sat dreaming in the dim light of the bars, enjoying that atmosphere of a quiet pub which was connected with her pleasanter memories of being in church. She went back to the station and found the train was late. Eventually it appeared and the suitcase was unloaded and given to Dora. Her first action was to retire with it to the Ladies’ Cloakroom and change into a summer dress and sandals. Feeling much better, she emerged and was about to start out, laden with the suitcase, on the walk back which it had not occurred to Paul, or indeed to herself, to think of as likely to be peculiarly wearisome, when she happened to look at the time. It was a quarter past one. Dora then remembered that lunch at Imber was at twelve-thirty. It was then that she entered for the second time into the White Lion.

  Ejected, she trailed off through the village and found the stile and the little footpath which led through two wheatfields and a wood to the main road. The wheat, tawny with ripeness, had been cut and stood in tented stooks about the fields, while a few ghostly poppies lingered at the edge of the path. Dora reached the road, walked a little way along it following the wall of the Imber domain, and went in through a small door. From here a path led diagonally across two of the streams that fed the lake, to join the drive at the third bridge. This was a very beautiful part of the walk, and was mainly in the shade, and although very hungry now and somewhat confused at being so late, Dora felt momentarily quite delighted with the soft air and with the green arches of the wood as she reached the plank bridge over the first stream. She was cooled by the shade and her emptiness gave her a sense of energy.

  The estate was thickly wooded here and the stream found its way along under a leafy cavern of elder and ash saplings beneath the higher roof of the trees. Grasses leaned into the stream and were spread out in long lines of vivid green, but it was clear in the centre, running over a bed of sand and pebbles. Dora stood for a moment, looking down into the trembling speckled water, and found herself thinking about Catherine. She pictured her, attired as a bride, going through the great Abbey door in October, never to emerge again. Then it was in imagination as if she, Dora, were crossing the causeway, her eyes fixed steadily upon the opening door. She woke shivering from the vision, and descending quickly by the side of the bridge walked sandals and all into the bed of the stream. Thank God she was not Catherine.

  She climbed scratched and dripping up the farther bank and continued her way. It was a few minutes later that two alarming thoughts struck her almost simultaneously. The first thought was that she must have lost her way, since she had reached the second stream, which was broader and overgrown with brambles, but found no bridge, and was now following a path going uphill parallel to the stream. The second thought was that she had left the suitcase behind in the White Lion. At this second thought Dora gave a wail of despair. It was bad enough to have missed lunch. This second imbecility would make Paul cross for days, even provided the suitcase had not meanwhile been stolen. She turned about, meaning to run back to the village and try to get it at once. But she felt so hot and so tired and so hungry, and it was such a long way and there were so many nettles suddenly all around and anyway she was lost. I am a perfect idiot, thought Dora.

  At that moment she heard a rustling of leaves from further down the path, in the direction from which she had come, and a figure emerged from the wood, parting the tangled greenery in front of him. It was Michael Meade.

  He seemed surprised to see Dora there and came towards her with a smiling questioning look.

  ‘Oh, Mr Meade,’ said Dora, ‘I think I’m lost.’ She felt shy at finding herself alone with the leader of the community.

  ‘I saw the colour of your dress through the trees,’ said Michael, ‘and I couldn’t think what it was. I thought at first it was one of Peter’s rare birds! Yes, if you’re making for the house, you’ve come up the wrong path. I was just visiting the watercress beds. We grow cress on a section of the other stream. It’s out of season now, of course, but one has to keep it cleared out. It’s pretty up here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ said Dora, and then to her dismay found that she was starting to cry. She felt a little faint from hunger and the intense heat, more breathless than ever under the canopy of the wood.

  ‘You’re feeling the heat, you know,’ said Michael. ‘Sit down here for a moment on this tree trunk. Put your head well forward, that’s right. You’ll feel better in a moment.’ His hand touched her neck.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Dora. Finding she had no handkerchief she wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress, and then rubbed her face with the back of a muddy and perspiring hand. ‘I went to fetch the suitcase, you know, the one I left on the train, and I got it, and now I’ve left it behind again in the White Lion!’ Her voice ended in a wail.

  Michael looked at her for a moment. Then he began to laugh too, rather ruefully.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Michael, ‘but it did sound comic, the way you said it! Cheer up, there’s no tragedy. I have to go to the village this evening in the Land-Rover and I’ll fetch it back then. It’ll be quite safe at the White Lion. Did you have any lunch, by the way? We were wondering about you.’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Dora. ‘I had a drink. But they hadn’t got any sandwiches.’

  ‘Let’s go straight back to the house,’ said Michael, ‘and Mrs Mark will find you something to eat. Then you ought to lie down. You’ve given yourself a strenuous morning. We’ll go this way, up the hill, and cross by the stepping stones. It’s just as quick from here and rather cooler. Up you get and follow me. I won’t go fast.’

  He helped Dora to her feet. She smiled at him, pushed the damp hair back from her brow, feeling a little better now, and followed him as he set off along the path. She felt no more anxiety about the suitcase, as if everything had been made simple and settled by Michael’s laughter. She was grateful to him for that. Last night he had seemed just a thin pale man, over-tired and inattentive.
But today she saw him as a decisive and gentle person, and even his narrow face seemed browner and his hair more golden. With eyes so close together he would always look anxious, but how blue the eyes were after all.

  So for a minute or two Dora followed Michael along the path, feeling calm again, looking at her guide’s sunburnt and bony neck, revealed above the sagging collar of a rather dirty white shirt. Then she saw that he had stopped abruptly and was staring at something ahead. Without saying anything Dora came quietly up to him to see what it was that had made him stop. She looked over his shoulder.

  There was a little clearing in the wood, and the stream had made itself a pool, with mossy rocks and close grass at the edge. In the centre it seemed deep and the water was a cool dark brown. Dora looked, and did not at first see anything except the circle of water and the moving chequers of the foliage behind, unevenly penetrated by the sun. Then she saw a pale figure standing quite still on the far side of the pool. It took her another moment, after the first shock of surprise, to see who it was. It was Toby, dressed in a sun hat and holding a long stick, which he had thrust into the water and with which he was stirring up the mud from the bottom. Dora saw at once, saw sooner than her recognition, that except for his sun hat Toby was quite naked. His very pale and slim body was caressed by the sun and shadow as the willow tree under which he stood shifted slightly in the breeze. He bent over his stick, intent upon the water, not knowing he was observed, and looked in the moment like one to whom nakedness is customary, moving with a lanky bony slightly awkward grace. The sight of him filled Dora with an immediate tremor of delight, and a memory came back to her from her Italian journey, the young David of Donatello, casual, powerful, superbly naked, and charmingly immature.