The Bell

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘This is Mother Clare,’ said Mark. ‘You two seem destined to meet after all.’

  Catherine had risen to her knees and was staring about as if looking for something. At that moment more voices were heard in the wood, and several more people appeared, uttering questions and cries of amazement. Among them was Michael.

  It was certainly a strange scene: most of the men muddied to the waist, two half-drowned women, and Mother Clare swinging the coat over her shoulders. Michael looked at it with the expression of someone who has had enough surprises and feels that this ought to be the last. But it was not the last.

  As he advanced towards the centre of the group and began to say something, Catherine staggered to her feet. She advanced, grotesque with her long stripes of black hair, her mouth hanging open. Everyone fell silent. Then with a moan she ran at Michael. It seemed for a moment as if she were going to attack him. But instead she hurled her arms about his neck and seemed to cling to him with the whole of her wet body. Her head burrowed into the front of his jacket as in tones of frantic endearment she uttered his name over and over again. Michael’s arms closed automatically about her. Over her bowed and nestling head his face was to be seen, blank with amazement and horror.

  CHAPTER 24

  PAUL PAID THE TAXI-DRIVER. He spent a moment or two working out the exactly appropriate tip. They went into the station. Paul bought the morning papers. They had arrived far too early for the train, as usual. They sat side by side on the platform, Paul reading the papers and Dora looking out across the railway. The sun shone upon a yellow mustard field and there was a haze over the low green tree-fringed horizon beyond. It was sunny again, but chill; the dusty illusions of late summer were giving place to the golden beauties of autumn, sharper and more poignantly ephemeral.

  Dora had spent the rest of the previous day in bed. Everyone had been very nice to her; everyone, that is, except Paul. But the general concern had been for Catherine. Carried back to the Court, Catherine had remained throughout the day in a completely distracted condition. The doctor had been called. After administering sedatives he had shaken his head, spoken of schizophrenia, and mentioned a clinic in London. Late in the evening, after much debate and indecision, arrangements were made for Catherine to go as soon as possible.

  Paul, in a condition not far from schizophrenic himself, had divided his energies between studying the bell and reproaching his wife. Fortunately for Dora’s repose, the bell had claimed the larger part of his time; and very early that morning, after a long telephone call to someone at the British Museum, he had decided to travel to London by the ten o’clock train. This haste left no time for packing, and it had been decided that Dora should travel the following day, bringing the luggage. The larger suitcase, filled with Paul’s notebooks, travelled with him. Dora was to do what she could with brown paper and string, and take a taxi from Paddington if necessary. The bell itself, the old bell, was also going to London, by road-rail container, for examination by experts.

  Dora saw out of the corner of her eye that there was something about Imber in the paper. She did not want to see it. She stared ahead of her at the mustard field. Paul was reading it avidly.

  After a little while he said, ‘Read this,’ and handed her the paper.

  Dora glanced at it unseeingly for a moment, and then said, ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘No, read it properly,’ said Paul. ‘Read every word.’ He kept the paper held up in front of her.

  Dora began to read. The article was headed - FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD - and read as follows:Few days in the history of religious communities, lay or otherwise, can have been quite so eventful as the last twenty-four hours at Imber Court, home of an Anglican lay community tucked away in the wilds of Gloucestershire. Event number one was the discovery, by two visiting members of the community, of an antique carved bell which had lain for many centuries sunk in the ornamental lake which surrounds the house. This bell is alleged to be the property of nearby Imber Abbey, Anglican Benedictine convent, which by an odd coincidence was just about to instal a modern bell. Rumour had it that the antique bell was to be ‘miraculously’ substituted for the modern bell at a quaint baptismal ceremony outside the Abbey. The miracle however did not occur, and those not in the secret were given a different surprise instead by (event number two) the pealing of the bell at dead of night, summoning them to a gathering in the woods more reminiscent of a witches’ sabbath than of the sober goings on of the Anglican church.

  More surprises were to follow. Next day, Friday, began ceremoniously, no witches in evidence. Blessed by a mitred Bishop the new bell processed slowly along the picturesque causeway which leads across Imber lake to the gates of the nunnery. Event number three took place, with dramatic suddenness, half-way across the causeway. The bell suddenly overturned into the water and sank without trace. Subsequent investigation suggested that sabotage, and not accident, was responsible for this disaster; and the finger of suspicion was pointed at one of the brothers.

  Scarce, however, had this mystery been allowed to thicken when event, or catastrophe, number four ensued. One of the brothers, a sister this time, since the brotherhood embraces both sexes, who was shortly to proceed herself across Imber causeway to nunhood, became deranged and threw herself into the lake. Happily she was rescued quite unhurt by Miss Dora Greenfield, a visitor to the Abbey, with the help of an aquatic nun, who provided a unique spectacle by doffing her habit and diving in in her underclothes. The unfortunate would-be suicide is receiving medical attention.

  The Imber brotherhood, designed to allow laymen to have the benefits of the religious life while remaining in the world, has been in existence for less than a year. When not engaged in religious exercises it cultivates a market-garden. Why this recent outbreak of drama? A spokesman closely connected with the community mentioned schisms and emotional tensions, but members of the brotherhood were not anxious to comment, and assured us that life at Imber is normally peaceful.

  The brothers are a self-governing body, subject to no defined ecclesiastical authority. They make no vows of chastity or of poverty. Who supports them? Voluntary contributors. An appeal for contributions is shortly to be issued, to be followed by a swelling of the numbers of brothers and sisters. The community occupies a charming eighteenth-century house in extensive grounds.

  ‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘have you read it all?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dora.

  ‘And are you pleased with your achievement?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Not very? You mean you’re a little pleased?’

  ‘I’m not pleased at all.’

  ‘I suppose you realize you’ve probably done permanent damage to these excellent people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whose idea was it? Gashe’s? Or Spens’s?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘And you still say you had nothing to do with what happened to the new bell?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I wonder why I ask you questions when I never believe what you say.’

  ‘Oh, do stop, Paul,’ said Dora. Her eyes filled with unshed tears.

  ‘I can’t understand you,’ said Paul. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether you aren’t mentally ill. Perhaps you’d better see a psychiatrist in London.’

  ‘I won’t see a psychiatrist,’ said Dora.

  ‘You will if I decide you will,’ said Paul.

  The distant sound of the train vibrated on the still air. They both turned and looked down the line. The train was coming into view, a long way off. Paul got up and lifted his suitcase and advanced towards the edge of the platform.

  There was a commotion in the station yard. Dora looked round and saw that the Land-Rover had just drawn up outside. Out of it tumbled Mark Strafford, Mrs Mark, Sister Ursula, Catherine, and Toby. The train roared into the station.

  Paul was busy finding himself an empty first-class compartment near the front with a corner seat facing the engine. Mrs Mark bustled Catherine straight through on
to the platform, followed by Sister Ursula. Mark and Toby went to the booking-office. Mrs Mark saw Dora and piloted Catherine in the opposite direction. Mark followed his wife and gave her some tickets. Toby emerged, saw Dora, looked away, turned back, and waved half-heartedly, then got into the nearest carriage by himself. Mark and Mrs Mark spent some time finding a suitable carriage for Catherine. They found it and Mrs Mark pushed Catherine in and got in herself. They shut the door, and Sister Ursula stood by on the platform, talking smilingly to them through the window. Mark went back to look for Toby, discovered where he was, opened the door a little, and stood with one foot on the footboard, talking.

  Paul had stowed his things, opened the window, and leaned there frowning at Dora. He said, ‘I expect you at Knightsbridge tomorrow about three o’clock. I shall be there waiting for you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dora.

  ‘You understood all my instructions about the packing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, good-bye,’ said Paul. ‘I won’t go through the farce of kissing you.’

  ‘Oh Paul, don’t be so beastly,’ said Dora. The tears spilled on to her cheek. ‘Do say something nice to me before you go.’

  Paul looked at her with cold eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you want me to comfort you now when you’re in trouble. But last March, when I came home and found that you’d left me, there was no one to comfort me then, was there? Just you think it over. No, don’t paw me. I’m not sexually attracted to you at this moment. I sometimes wonder whether I ever will be again.’

  ‘Close all the doors, please,’ shouted the porter, who had once been as far as Paddington.

  Mark stepped back, shut the door, and stood laughing loudly at something he had just said to Toby.

  ‘Paul, I’m so sorry,’ said Dora.

  ‘How absolutely not enough that is!’ said Paul. ‘I advise you to do some serious thinking, if you’re capable of it.’ He fumbled in his wallet. ‘Here’, he said, ‘is something you might think about. Bring it back to me in London. I always carry it with me.’ He handed her an envelope. The whistle blew. The train began to move.

  Paul pulled up his window at once and disappeared. Dora stood watching the carriages go by. She saw Toby sitting well back in his corner, his face twisted and anxious. As the carriage passed Dora waved, but he pretended not to see. Catherine and Mrs Mark were in one of the last carriages, and the train was moving fast by the time they reached Dora. Mrs Mark was looking at Catherine. Catherine looked at Dora, a quick peering unsmiling look with almost closed eyes. Then she was gone.

  Dora turned towards the exit. Mark and Sister Ursula were just going back into the booking-hall. Before they disappeared they turned and smiled at her vaguely, evidently unable to decide whether to call her to join them. They went out and Dora heard the engine of the Land-Rover start up. It idled quietly. They were probably waiting for her to emerge.

  Dora sat down again on the seat and regarded the yellow mustard field and the distant view of pale stubble and dark trees. It was less misty now. The engine continued to idle. Then the note rose, and she heard the wheels of the Land-Rover scraping the gravelly yard as Mark turned it sharply round. It roared away, out of the gate and down the road.

  Dora got up and began to leave the station.

  The station was just outside the village on the Imber side. A lane with high overgrown hedges wound away across the fields, and the footpath to Imber left it a quarter of a mile further on. Dora wondered whether to cross the line and go into the village. But there was no point in it, since the pubs would not be open yet. She turned into the dark tunnel of the lane. The sound of the train and the car had died away. A murmur accompanied her steps, which must come from a tiny stream invisible in the ditch. She walked on, her hands in her pockets.

  Her hand encountered the envelope which Paul had given her. She drew it out fearfully. It would have to be something unpleasant. She opened it.

  It contained two brief letters, both written by herself. The first one, which she saw dated from the early days of their engagement, read as follows:Dear dear Paul, it was so wonderful last night and such absolute pain to leave you. I lay awake fretting for you. I can’t wait for tonight, so am dropping this in at the library. It’s agony to go away from you, and so wonderful to think that soon soon we shall be so much more together. Wanting to be with you always, dearest Paul, ever ever ever your loving Dora.

  Dora perused this missive, and then looked at the other one, which read as follows:Paul, I can’t go on. It’s been so awful lately, and awful for you too, I know. So I’m leaving - leaving you. I can’t stay, and you know all the reasons why. I know I’m a wretch and it’s all my fault, but I can’t stand it and I can’t stay. Forgive this scrappy note. When you get it I’ll be finally gone. Don’t try to get me back and don’t bother about the things I’ve left, I’ve taken what I need. Dora.

  P.S. I’ll write again later, but I won’t have anything else to say than this.

  This was the note Dora had left at Knightsbridge on the day she departed. Shaken, she reread both letters. She folded them up and walked on. So Paul carried them always in his wallet and wanted to have them back to go on carrying them. So much the worse for Paul. Dora tore the letters into small fragments and strewed them along the hedge.

  CHAPTER 25

  SINCE THE EVENTS OF THE previous morning, Michael had been occupied. He had summoned the doctor to Catherine and interviewed him when he came and when he left and when he came again. He had spent some time, with Margaret Strafford, by Catherine’s bedside. He had had speech with the Bishop and seen him off with such dignity as was possible in the circumstances. With Peter, he had investigated the wooden section of the causeway and discovered that two of the piers had been sawn through just below the water level. He had made arrangements by telephone with a firm of contractors who had agreed to come at once to repair the causeway and to recover the bell from the lake. He had interviewed the foreman who had arrived with tiresome promptness. He had answered some twenty telephone calls from representatives of the press, and talked to half a dozen reporters and photographers who appeared on the spot. He had visited Dora. He had taken decisions about Catherine.

  In so far as Michael was thinking about anything during that day he was thinking about Catherine. The revelation made to him in the scene by the lake had surprised him so profoundly that he was still unable, in his mind, to pick the matter up at all. He was left, still, gaping over it, horrified, shocked, full of amazement and pity. He had, in spite of himself, a reaction also of disgust. He shivered when he remembered Catherine’s embrace. At the same time, he reproached himself, distressed that he had never guessed, or tried to guess, what really went on in Catherine’s mind, and that when now some part of it had been made plain there was so little he could do. He tried to make his thought of her a constant prayer.

  That Catherine had been in love with him, was in love with him, was something in every way outside the order of nature. Michael did not know how to put it to himself, the usual phrases seeming so totally inappropriate. He told himself, but could not feel, that there was no reason why Catherine should not attach herself to him as much as to anyone else; he told himself too that, although the attachment was untimely, it was a privilege to be so chosen. He was not sure whether it made things better or worse to suggest that since Catherine appeared to be deranged her love was in a sense made null.

  Her present condition certainly gave cause for deep anxiety. She had passed part of the day asleep. The rest of the time she lay on her bed weeping, addressing Michael whether he was present or not, reviling herself for various crimes which were never made clear, and raving about the bell. Nick, who had been told by the Straffords, came to her room soon after she was brought in. The doctor was already there and he had to wait. When he was admitted he sat dumbly beside his sister holding her hand, a dazed and stricken look upon his face, finding little to say. She for her part clung almost automatically to his hand or his sle
eve, but paid him little direct attention, addressing to him her few sane remarks, which concerned opening or closing the window and fetching pillows. He was, perhaps, too much a part of herself to be, at that time, either a support or a menace. He spent a large part of the day with her, retiring only when she was asleep or when some other visitor was present, when he would walk alone round the garden near the house. He seemed profoundly upset but spoke to nobody; and indeed nobody had time, in the busy rush of that disorganized day, to speak to him. Michael passed him several times, and on the first occasion uttered some words of regret. Speaking to Nick was hideous; Catherine seemed to lie between them like a corpse. Nick nodded in reply to Michael’s speech and went on his way.

  It was late at night before the arrangements had finally been made for Catherine to go to London. Mrs Mark was to go with her, and stay with some friends nearby so that she could see her daily, if this was thought desirable, at the clinic. She promised to telephone Imber as soon as there was any news at all. When it was clear that it was really best for Catherine to go, Michael felt a craven relief. He wanted more than anything, at the present moment, that Catherine might go away and be looked after somewhere else. Her presence near him filled him with fear and with a sense of guilt which was vague and menacing, full of as yet unspoken indictments.

  Falling exhausted into bed, Michael had soon discovered yet other worries to postpone his sleep. On the following morning, Imber would be in the headlines. However the story was told, Michael had no illusions about how the brotherhood would come out of it. After these catastrophes, to appeal for money would be, in the nearer future, impossible. Whether the whole enterprise was not now destroyed Michael tried to prevent himself from wondering. Time would show what could be salvaged and Michael was not without hope. What more occupied him now that he had contrived to remove to some distance the overwhelming thought of Catherine, was the overwhelming thought of Nick.