Iris Murdoch - The Bell

“Would you like a boiled egg or something?” said Mrs Mark. “We usually have high tea at six and just milk and biscuits after Compline.” She indicated a side table with mugs and a large biscuit tin in which Peter Topglass was now rummaging.

The group around Dora had broken up. Michael Meade could be seen, in converse with Mark Strafford, flashing a nervous smile of irregular teeth, his long hands darting about in Egyptian gestures. “No more Petit Beurre,” Peter Topglass was saying meditatively to himself in the background.

“No egg, thank you,” said Dora. “I ate something on the train.”

“A little milk then?”

“No, thank you, nothing,” said Dora. She thought of the whisky bottles. They would be in South Wales by now.

James Tayper Pace came bursting back through the doors, crying “Eureka! Toby was the lucky one!”

Toby Gashe followed holding Dora’s shoes by the heels, one in each hand. He lowered his eyes as he approached Dora and his dusky red cheeks burned a little redder. He presented to her the top of his round dark head as he gave her the shoes with an embarrassed little obeisance.

“Oh, Toby, thank you so much!” said Dora.

Paul came in, his face wrinkled up with irritation.

“Well sought, dear James and Toby,” said Father Bob Joyce. “There is more rejoicing over what is lost and found than over what has never gone astray.”

“And now,” said James, “since Mrs Greenfield’s shoes have been discovered, we can all go to bed.”

PAUL and Dora were alone.

“That notebook is irreplaceable,” said Paul. “It represents years of work. I was a fool to ask you to bring it.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Dora. “I’m sure we’ll get it back. I’ll go to the station tomorrow.”

“I ought to have telephoned at once,” said Paul,“only your antics put it out of my head. Why did you want to take your shoes off anyway?”

“My feet hurt,” said Dora. “I told you that.”

They looked at each other in the austere light of a strong unshaded electric light bulb. Paul’s room was on the first floor, with two large windows looking towards the Abbey side. It had been a grand bedroom in its time, with green panelling and a great mirror set in the wall. It was furnished now with two iron beds, two upright chairs, a large trestle table on which Paul had spread his books and papers, and a small pretty mahogany table which looked like a relic of former days. Paul’s suitcase, open and half unpacked, stood in the corner. Two new but cheap mats were on the floor which otherwise was bare. The room echoed as they spoke.

Paul stood with one hand on his hip and stared at Dora. He could scan her in this way for a long time, frowning slightly, and this always frightened her. Yet at the same moment she knew that this was a manifestation of love, of that untiring and relentless love that Paul went on feeling for her, and which held her resentful, fascinated, ultimately grateful. She looked back at him, uneasy, yet admiring the solidity of him, full to the brim with his love and his work and all his certainty about life. She felt flimsy and ephemeral by comparison, as if she were merely a thought in his mind.

To end the stare she went up to him and shook him gently by the shoulders. “Paul, don’t be cross.”

Paul moved away, not responding to her touch. “Only you”, he said, “would be simple-minded enough, after betraying me in the way you have done, to paw me and say ‘Don’t be cross’!” He imitated her, and then went to dig in his suitcase and pull out his neat black-and-white check sponge-bag.

“Well, what can I say?” said Dora. “Here I am, anyway.”

“Nor do I subscribe to the view”, said Paul,“expressed just now by Father Bob, that the lost sheep is more to be rejoiced over. And if you are expecting me to rejoice you will be disappointed. Your escapades have diminished you permanently in my eyes.” He left the room.

Dora dejectedly opened her canvas bag. Her pyjamas were in the lost suitcase, but at least her toothbrush was here. She was deeply wounded by what Paul had said. How could he assess her like this because of something which had happened in the past? The past was never real for Dora. The notion that Paul might keep her past alive to torment her with, now occurred to her for the first time. She stopped thinking so as not to cry and went to open the two tall windows as wide as they would go. There were no curtains. The night was hot and swarming with stars. From this side of the house the lake seemed very near. It was dark yet somehow to be seen in a diffused radiance of starlight and the not yet risen moon. Other shapes lay beyond.

Paul entered the room again.

“I haven’t any pyjamas,” said Dora, “they were in the suitcase.”

“You can have one of my shirts,” said Paul. “Here’s one that’s due to be laundered anyway.”

“Did you tell those nuns all about me?” said Dora.

“I didn’t tell the nuns anything,” said Paul. “I had to say something about you to the other members of the community, and if it was unflattering that is hardly my fault.”

“They’ll think their beastly prayers brought me here,” said Dora.

“I respect this place,” said Paul, “and I advise you to do the same.”

Dora wondered if she would ask Paul now whether he believed in God, but decided not to. Evidently he did. She said instead, “I can’t do anything about the past.”

Paul looked at her hard. “You can refrain from being frivolous about it,” he said. “In your case I won’t speak of repentance, since I don’t think you capable of anything so serious.”

The sharp tinkling of a hand bell, rung on the other side across the water, came in through the window. Dora jumped. That bell again,” she said. “What is it?”

“It’s the Abbey bell for the various offices,” said Paul. “It’s ringing now for Matins. If you’re awake in the very early morning you’ll hear it ringing for Lauds and Prime. They’re getting a big bell soon,” he added.

They both began to undress.

“There’s a legend about the Abbey bell,” said Paul. CI found it in one of the manuscripts. It should appeal to you.”

“What is it?” said Dora.

“This is a very old foundation, you know,” said Paul. “There have been Benedictine nuns here on and off since the twelfth century. The present order is Anglican, of course, but still Benedictine. Anyhow, sometime in the fourteenth century, that was before the dissolution, the story runs that one of the nuns had a lover. Not that that was so very unusual I daresay at that time, but this order had evidently had a high standard. It was not known who the nun was. The young man was seen climbing the wall once or twice and ended up by falling and breaking his neck. The wall, which still exists incidentally, is very high.

“The Abbess called on the guilty nun to confess, but no one came forward. Then the Bishop was called in. The Bishop, who was an especially holy and spiritual man, also demanded that the guilty one should confess. When there was still no response he put a curse on the Abbey, and as the chronicler puts it, the great bell‘flew like a bird out of the tower and fell into the lake’.”

“Good heavens!” said Dora.

“That wasn’t the end,” said Paul. The guilty nun was so overwhelmed by this demonstration that she forthwith ran out of the Abbey gates and drowned herself in the lake.”

“Oh, poor thing!” said Dora.

“You, of course, identify yourself with the faithless one,” said Paul.

“She was probably forced into the order,” said Dora.“People were in those days.”

“She broke her vows,” said Paul.