Iris Murdoch - The Bell

Michael did not altogether give up hope that Imber might work some miracle. But he could not help seeing, after a while with some sadness, and some relief, that Nick was neither inspired nor dangerous but simply bored; and it was hard to see how he could escape boredom on a scene in which he chose to participate so little. Michael, who was exceedingly busy with other things, did not at present see how he could be further “drawn in”, while, congratulating himself on his good sense, he avoided tète-à-têtes with his former friend. Nick lingered on, looking a little healthier, a little browner, a little thinner. Doubtless he was drinking less, though his seclusion in the Lodge, chosen perhaps with just that in mind, made it difficult to know. Michael guessed that he would hang around, taking Imber as a cheap rest cure, until Catherine had gone into the Abbey. Then he would return to London and carry on as before. It looked as if the strange tale would have, after all, a rather dull and undistinguished ending.

IT was Saturday evening, the same day as the Meeting recorded above, and the afternoon heat had lingered on, becoming thicker and hazier and seemingly undiminished. The sky was cloudless now, rising to a peak of intense blue that was almost audible. Everyone trailed about quietly perspiring and complaining of being stifled.

Work was supposed to end, subject to the more urgent seasonal requirements of the garden, at five o’clock on Saturday, and Sunday was supposed to be kept as a day of rest. In fact, work usually encroached on these times; but there was, from Saturday evening onward, a sense of deliberate détente , a somewhat self-conscious effort at diversion, which Michael found tedious. He managed unobtrusively to busy himself in the office, and indeed the time was badly needed to catch up on the paper work of the previous week; but he was forced to some extent to support the fiction of being on holiday. The Straffords were particularly keen on this idea, and Michael suspected that they thought the time should be devoted to getting on with one’s hobbies. Michael had no hobbies. He found he was not able to divert himself; even books were unattractive to him now, though he kept steadily to a modest programme of devotional reading. He was restless to be, officially, back at work.

It was also that this leisure period was too full, sometimes, of disturbing thoughts. He worried now about Nick, imagining various plans for his welfare, and tormented occasionally by a desire, which he rejected as a temptation, to go and have a long talk with him alone. No good would come of that for either of them. Michael prided himself on having lost at least certain illusions; and he felt, from this austerity, an increase of spiritual strength. He resolved, however, to speak to Catherine seriously about her brother. He had surely been right to wait, before making more solemn efforts, to see if Nick would be able to find for himself a place in the picture. He was reluctant to appear, in the eyes of his former friend, either as censor or as benefactor, or indeed to appear as officiously concerned with him at all. He was also reluctant to broach any serious or intimate matter with Catherine, who seemed surrounded at this time by an electrical field of emotion and anxiety. But things had drifted for long enough.

Michael, when he had leisure to reflect, was disturbed too by the thought, which was both distressing and delightful, that he must soon begin to explore again the possibility of ordination. He had a strong sense of the due time having elapsed. His premature approach had been, rightly and fruitfully for himself, rejected; and he could not resist a conviction of being deeply held in God’s purposes for him, which although to chasten him had been for a time obscured, now were again become clear and demanding. He had digested and re-digested his old experiences, and he thought that he had reached a sober enough estimate of himself. He felt now no excessive or blinding sense of guilt about his propensities, and he had proved over a long time that they could be held well and even easily under control. He was what he was; and he still felt that he could make a priest.

On this day, however, no such solemn thoughts were in his mind and for some reason, after the agitation caused by the Meeting had died down, which it did surprisingly quickly, he felt almost light-hearted and quite glad to be at leisure. After high tea on Saturday it had become the custom for some of the little band to accompany Peter Topglass on his evening visit to his traps. Peter trapped birds at various places on the estate for purposes of study and in order to ring them. There was always some excitement in coming to the traps and finding what was there. Michael gladly accompanied his friend, and the women, Catherine and Margaret, usually came too. Once Nick came, brought along by Catherine, but had very little to say and seemed vague and rather bored.

On this occasion Catherine and the Straffords were pledged to sing madrigals with James and Father Bob Joyce. Father Bob, who sang a fine bass, was a serious musician and often swore that when he had time he would take the singing of the community in hand. He had hopes of plain song chant. The Abbey used plain song and had achieved quite a high standard. To Michael’s relief, he had so far not had time. James sang in somewhat tremulous tenor which Michael teased him by terming “Neapolitan”. Mark Strafford provided a more solid baritone, Catherine a thin but very pure soprano, and Margaret an energetic and adequate contralto. The singing group was already established on the balcony, fanning themselves with white sheets of music, when Peter and Michael were ready to set out. Toby, who had heard about the traps and had already inspected them on his own account, was eager to come, and Paul and Dora had asked to come too. Toby said that Nick Fawley had gone into the village. So after exchanging some badinage with the musicians they straggled down the steps and began to make for the ferry.

Dora Greenfield was wearing a spectacular dress of dark West Indian cotton and carrying a white paper parasol, which she rnust have purchased in the village, and, for some reason, a large Spanish basket. She wore the sandals deplored by Margaret Strafford. At Mark’s suggestion, she had drenched herself in oil of citronella to keep off the midges, and the heavy sweetish perfume gave to her person an allure both crude and exotic. Michael watched her, as they ambled along, with irritation. He had seen her, similarly attired and accoutred, in the market garden that afternoon, and her presence had seemed to make their labours into some absurd pastoral frolic. There was something a little touching all the same about her naïve vitality. Her arms touched by the sun were now a glowing gold and she tossed her heavy tongues of hair like a pony. Michael saw dimly how Paul might be in love with her. Paul himself was in a restless excited state and fluttered about his wife, unable to keep his eyes and his hands off her. She teased him with a slightly impatient tolerance.

They reached the ferry, and began to crowd into the boat which, much weighed down, would just accommodate them all. Helped by Paul, Dora settled herself in the bows with a little scream, and as she arranged her skirt admitted to the general amazement that she could not swim. Lazily Michael propelled the heavy boat very slowly through the water, which was warm and seemingly oily with summer idleness. Dora trailed her hand. As they neared the other side Toby exclaimed and pointed. Something was to be seen swimming in the water near the boat. It turned out to be Murphy. Everyone looked, tilting the vessel dangerously to one side. There was something strangely exciting in the spectacle of the dog, his dry furry face kept well above the surface in the rather anxious attitude of a swimming animal, his eyes bright and attentive, his paws beating as it seemed wildly in the water.