Iris Murdoch - The Bell

There was a general groan.

Peter said, “I think we hardly need to have the discussion again. We all know what everyone thinks. I suggest we just put it to the vote.”

“I’m against voting as a general rule,” said Michael, “but we may just have to here. Would anyone like to say anything before we vote?”

Michael had for some time been in favour of buying a mechanical cultivator, an all-purpose machine with a small engine which could be used for superficial digging, and also, with various appliances attached, for hoeing, mowing, and spraying. The purchase of this machine, which was light and easily operated even by an unskilled worker, seemed to him an obvious next step in the development of the market garden. He had been amazed to find himself opposed by James and the Straffords on a curious point of principle. They had maintained that the community, having set themselves apart from the world to follow Adam’s trade of digging and delving, should equip themselves only with tools of minimal simplicity and should compensate by honest and dedicated effort for what they had chosen to lack in mechanization. Michael regarded this view as an absurd piece of romanticism, and said so. After all, they were engaged in a particular piece of work and should do it, to God’s glory, as well as the fruitful discoveries of the age would allow. He was answered that they had all of them withdrawn from the world to live a life which was, by ordinary standards, not a “natural” one in any case. They had to determine their own conception of the “natural”. They were not a profit-making concern, so why should efficiency be their first aim? It was the quality of the work which mattered, not its results. As there was something symbolic, and indeed sacramental, in their withdrawal from the world, so their methods of work should share that quality. Honest spades were to be permitted. Even a plough. But none of these new-fangled labour-saving devices. “Good heavens!” Michael had exclaimed, “we shall be weaving our own clothes next!” – and had thereby mortally offended Margaret Strafford whose cherished plan for a craft centre at Imber did in fact include weaving. It was certainly a question with wide implications.

Michael thought that the argument came particularly ill from Mark Strafford, who always discovered urgent work in the office whenever some hard digging was to be done; but he recognized it as a strong one, having more than a merely romantic appeal. They had set themselves outside the bounds of ordinary convention, but without adopting any clear traditional mode of life. They had to invent their own norms. Michael felt sure that his own view was the right one; to be eclectic to this extent about methods of work was a sort of idiotic aestheticism. Yet he found it hard to argue the point clearly, and was distressed to find how emotional he soon became about it. Everyone else seemed ready to become emotional too, and by now the excitement had gone on long enough. In driving the matter to a vote instead of quietly dropping it Michael knew that he was trying to impose his own conception of how the community should develop. It seemed important to him to outlaw nonsense of this kind from the start; but he found his role in doing so a distasteful one.

A silence followed Michael’s invitation to speak. It was a subject on which the interested parties had already said rather too much. James shook his head and looked down, indicating that he would make no more speeches.

Patchway said in a tone which was half statement and half question, “That don’t make no difference about the plough.”Patchway had been one of those who looked askance at the cultivator, but for different reasons. He regarded it as an amateur’s toy.

“No, of course not,” said Michael. “This thing won’t replace the plough. We’ll need that anyway for the heavy work, such as ploughing up that bit of pasture in the autumn.” They had a standing arrangement to borrow a plough from a nearby farmer.

More silence followed, and Michael called for the vote. For the cultivator were Michael, Peter, Catherine, Patch-way and Sister Ursula. Against it, James and Mark. Margaret Strafford abstained.

Trying not to sound pleased, Michael said “I think that’s a sufficient majority to act on. May I be empowered to go and buy the cultivator?” A murmur empowered him. Michael felt that there was something to be said for being a leader after all.

Margaret Strafford spoke in a high nervous voice. She was timid of speaking, even in such an informal gathering, “I don’t suppose this is the moment to raise the question about the pottery. But I’d just like to ask people to keep it in mind. I’ll raise it again later on.” Margaret was anxious that, even if mechanization should triumph on the agricultural front, at least the Simple Life should be available in other forms.

Michael said “Thank you, Margaret. You understand that this arts and crafts problem will have to wait until we have more people here and have our finances on a sounder footing. But we certainly won’t forget it. And that conveniently raises my next item, which is the financial appeal. Perhaps you could take this one, Mark?”

“I think everyone knows about this item too,” said Mark. The point is, we need capital. We’ve lived so far from hand to mouth, and depended long enough on the generosity of one or two individuals. It seems perfectly reasonable and proper, to get ourselves well started, to make an appeal for funds to a limited circle of persons whom we know te be interested. The only questions are the exact wording of the thing, the list of clients, or should I say victims, and the time-table.”

“Bell!” said James.

“Yes,” said Mark. “There’d be no harm done if we could synchronize the appeal with the arrival of the new bell, and got a little innocent publicity.”

“I suggest we appoint a sub-committee to deal with the details,” said Michael. A sub-committee was appointed consisting of Mark, James, and Michael.

“Might I raise the subject of the bell now?” said James. “It seems to come up. As you know, dear friends, the Abbey has existed since its second foundation without a bell. Now at last, Deo gratias , it is to have one. The bell is cast, and should be delivered sometime later this month, in fact in about a couple of weeks from now. The Abbess has expressed the wish, dear Sister Ursula will correct me if I’m wrong, that the whole business be conducted quietly and without undue ceremony. However, since we have this privileged role of camp followers to the Abbey, I think a little merrymaking on our behalf would be proper to celebrate the entry of the bell into the Abbey. And as I hinted just now, the tiniest bit of publicity might be welcome for other and more worldly reasons!”

“I’m nervous of publicity,” said Michael. “This community could so easily be made to look absurd in the press. I suggest we take the Abbess very literally. What do you think, Sister Ursula?”

“I think a little merry-making might be in order,” said Sister Ursula, smiling at James. “The Bishop is coming, you know, and he won’t want too Lenten a scene.”

“Gilbert White says”, said Peter, “that when they had a new ring of bells at Selborne the treble bell was up-ended on the village green and filled with punch and they were all drunk for days!”

“I don’t think we can quite emulate Selborne,” said James, “but then neither need we emulate the old man of Thermopylae who never did anything properly. We could organize a small festival and see to it that we got the sort of publicity we wanted. I gather the Bishop wants to revive the old ceremony of christening the bell. This could take place with just ourselves present on the evening of his arrival, and then we could have a little procession with some of the village people on the following day. The village seems quite excited about the whole business. As I think most of you know, the Abbess has the poetic idea that the bell should enter the Abbey early in the morning through the great gate as if it were a postulant.” He looked at Catherine.