Iris Murdoch - The Bell

“Quite,” said Michael.

“It’s a pity”, said James, “that we seem to have made so little impression on Mrs G. I wish she’d have a talk with Mother Clare. I’m sure it’d straighten her out a bit. That girl’s just a great emotional mess at present. I feel we’ve let Paul down rather.”

“Possibly,” said Michael.

“And you know, we’re fully responsible for the boy,”said James. “He came here, after all, as a sort of retreat, a preparation for Oxford. Of course there’s nothing seriously amiss in his rampaging around with Dora in a companionable way – but I think someone ought to put in a word.”

“Who to?” said Michael.

“To Dora, I’d say,” said James. “Appealing to Dora’s better nature may turn out to be a difficult operation. I fear that girl is a blunt instrument at the best of times – and also resembles the jeune homme de Dijon qui n”avait aucune religion ! But even if she doesn’t care about her husband’s blood pressure she ought to show some respect for the boy. She should see that point. Suppose you gave her a little kindly admonition, Michael?”

“Not me,” said Michael.

“Well, how about Margaret?” said James. “Margaret is such a motherly soul and Dora seems to like her – and maybe that sort of advice would come better from a woman. Why, here is Margaret!”

Michael looked up sharply. Margaret Strafford could be seen running along the concrete path towards them her full skirt flapping in the wind. Michael interpreted her portentous haste immediately and his heart sank.

Margaret threw open the door, letting in a great blast of chill air. “Michael,” she cried, delighted with her commission, “the Abbess wants to see you at once!”

“I say, you are in luck!” said James. Their two bright amiable faces looked at him enviously.

Michael washed his hands at the tap in the corner of the greenhouse and dried them on his handkerchief. “Sorry to leave you with the job,” he said to James. “Excuse me if I dash.”

He set off at a run down the path which led along behind the house to the lake. It was customary to run when summoned by the Abbess. As he turned to the left towards the causeway the full blast of the wind caught him. It was almost blowing a gale. Then he saw, looking across the other reach of the lake, that an enormous lorry had just emerged from the trees of the avenue and was proceeding at a slow pace along the open part of the drive. It must be the bell. He should have been interested, excited, pleased. He noted its arrival coldly and forgot it at once. He turned onto the causeway. He felt certain that the Abbess must know all about Toby. It was irrational to think this. How could she possibly have found out? Yet it was astonishing what she knew. Breathlessly, as he reached the wooden section in the centre of the causeway, he slowed down. His footsteps echoed hollow upon the wood. He had not expected this summons. He felt as if he were about to undergo some sort of spiritual violence. He felt closed, secretive, unresponsive, almost irritated.

At the corner of the parlour building Sister Ursula was waiting. She always acted watchdog to audiences with the Abbess. Her large commanding face beamed approval at Michael from some way off. She saw the summons as a sign of special grace. After all, interviews with the Abbess were coveted by all and granted only to a few.

“In the first parlour,” she said to Michael, as he passed her mumbling a salutation.

Michael burst into the narrow corridor and paused a moment to get his breath before opening the first door. The gauze panel was drawn across on his side in front of the grille and there was silence beyond. It was usual for the person summoned to arrive first. Michael pulled back the panel on his side to reveal the grille and the second gauze panel on the far side which screened the opposite parlour inside the enclosure. Then he straightened his shirt collar – he was wearing no tie – buttoned up his shirt, smoothed down his hair, and made a strenuous effort to become calm. He stood, he could not bring himself to sit down, looking at the blank face of the inner panel.

After a minute or two during which he could feel the uncomfortable violence of his heart he heard a movement and saw a dim shadow upon the gauze. Then the panel was pulled open and he saw the tall figure of the Abbess opposite to him, and behind her another little room exactly similar to his. He genuflected in the accustomed way and waited for her to sit down. Slightly smiling she sat, and motioned him to be seated too. Michael pulled his chair well up to the grille and sat down on the edge of it sideways so that their two heads were close together.

“Well, my dear son, I’m glad to see you,” said the Abbess in the brisk voice with which she always opened an audience.“I hope I haven’t chosen the most dreadfully inconvenient time? You must be so busy today.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” said Michael, “it’s a good time for me.” He smiled at her through the bars. His irritation, at least, was gone, overwhelmed by the profound affection which, mingled with respect and awe, he felt for the Abbess. Her bright, gentle, authoritative, exceedingly intelligent face, its long dry wrinkles as if marked with a fine tool, the ivory light from her wimple reflected upon it, reminiscent of some Dutch painting, reminded him of his mother, so long ago dead.

“I’m in a dreadful rush myself,” said the Abbess. “I just felt I wanted to see you. It’s been ages now, hasn’t it? And there are one or two little business details. I won’t keep you long.”

Michael felt relieved by this exordium. He had been afraid of being in some way hauled over the coals: and this was not the moment at which he wanted an intimate talk with the Abbess. In his present state he felt that any pressure from her would tip him over into a morass of profitless self-accusation. Taking courage from her business-like tone he said, “I think everything’s in train for tonight and tomorrow. Margaret Strafford has been doing marvels.”

“Bless her!” said the Abbess. “We’re all so excited, we can hardly wait for tomorrow morning. I believe the Bishop is arriving this afternoon? I hope I shall catch a glimpse of him before he goes. He’s such a busy man. So good of him to give us his time.”

“I hope he won’t think we’re a lot of ineffectual muddlers,” said Michael. “I’m afraid the procession tomorrow may be a bit wild and impromptu. There’s plenty of goodwill, but not much spit and polish!”

“So much the better!” said the Abbess. “When I was a girl I often saw religious processions in Italy and they were usually quite chaotic, even the grand ones. But it seemed to make them all the more spontaneous and alive. I’m sure the Bishop doesn’t want a drill display. No, I’ve no doubt tomorrow will be splendid. What I really wanted to ask you about was the financial question.”

“We’ve drafted the appeal,” said Michael, “and we’ve made a list of possible Friends of Imber. I’d be very grateful if you’d cast your eye over both documents. I thought, subject to your views, we’d send the appeal out about a fortnight from now. We can cyclostyle it ourselves at the Court.”

“That’s right,” said the Abbess. “I think, for a cause of this kind, not a printed appeal. After all, it’s something quite domestic, isn’t it? There are times when money calls to money, but this isn’t one of them. We’re only writing to our friends. I’d like to see what you’ve done, if you’d send it in today by Sister Ursula. We can probably add some names to the list. I wonder what sort of publicity our bell will get? That might help in some quarters, mightn’t it? I see no harm in the world being reminded, very occasionally, that we exist!”