The Bell

CHAPTER 9

“THE chief requirement of the good life”, said James Tayper Pace, “is to live without any image of oneself. I speak, dear brothers and sisters, as one who is most conscious of being remote from this condition.” It was the next day, Sunday, and James was standing on the dais in the Long Room, one arm resting lightly on the music stand, delivering the weekly talk. He frowned nervously and swayed to and fro as he spoke, tilting the stand with him.

He went on. “The study of personality, indeed the whole conception of personality, is, as I see it, dangerous to goodness. We were told at school, at least I was told at school, to have ideals. This, it seems to me, is rot. Ideals are dreams. They come between us and reality – when what we need most is just precisely to see reality. And that is something outside us. Where perfection is, reality is. And where do we look for perfection? Not in some imaginary concoction out of our idea of our own character -but in something so external and so remote that we can get only now and then a distant hint of it.

“Now you will say to me, dear James, you tell us to seek perfection and then you tell us it is so remote we can only guess at it – and where do we go from there? The fact is, God has not left us without guidance. How, otherwise, could our Lord have given us the high command ‘Be ye therefore perfect’? Matthew five forty-eight. We know in very simple ways, ways so simple that they seem dull to our subtle moral psychologists, what we ought to do and what avoid. Surely we know enough and more than enough rules to live by; and I confess I have very little time for the man who finds his life too complicated and special for the ordinary rules to fit. What are you up to, my friend, what are you hiding? I should say to that man: A belief in Original Sin should not lead us to probe the filth of our minds or regard ourselves as unique and interesting sinners. As sinners we are much the same and our sin is essentially something tedious, something to be shunned and not something to be investigated. We should rather work, as it were, from outside inwards. We should think of our actions and look to God and to His Law. We should consider not what delights us or what disgusts us, morally speaking, but what is enjoined and what is forbidden. And this we know, more than we are often ready to admit. We know it from God’s Word and from his Church with a certainty as great as our belief. Truthfulness is enjoined, the relief of suffering is enjoined, adultery is forbidden, sodomy is forbidden. And I feel that we ought to think quite simply of these matters, thus: truth is not glorious, it is just enjoined; sodomy is not disgusting, it is just forbidden. These are rules by which we should freely judge ourselves and others too. All else is vanity and self-deception and flattering of passion. Those who hesitate to judge others are usually those who fear to put themselves under judgement. We may remember here the words of Saint Paul – Michael will correct my Latin – iustus ex fide vivit. The good man lives by faith. Galatians three eleven. I think we are meant to take this remark quite literally. The good man does what seems right, what the rule enjoins, without considering the consequences, without calculation or prevarication,knowing that God will make all for the best. He does not amend the rules by the standards of this world. Even if he cannot see how things will work out, he acts, trusting in God. He does the best thing, breaking through the complexities of situations, and knows that God will make that best thing fruitful. But the man without faith calculates. He finds the world too complicated for the best thing, and he does the second best thing, thinking that this in time will bring forth the best. Ah, how few of us have the faith spoken of by Saint Paul!”

Dora was beginning to lose interest. It was all too abstract. She had come to the little service out of curiosity and placed herself at the back where she could see all the congregation. Paul was sitting beside her, which was. unfortunate. She would have liked to be able to survey him too. He kept glancing at her, and at one point drew his foot up to hers till she could feel his highly polished shoe touching her instep through the sandal. She saw from the corner of her eye the soft blur of his moustaches, the bird-like movements of his head. She kept her gaze resolutely forward.

Dora felt restless and dejected. In spite of certain moments of satisfaction, when the warmth of the weather and the beauty of the scene lifted her above her anxieties, she had not been able to settle down at Imber. She still felt nervous and shy and as if she were acting a part. It was not that she disliked anyone, though she did find Michael and James, especially James, a bit alarming. Everyone was nice to her, she had an easy time, she didn’t even have to get up at what James called “shriekers”, which she discovered to mean crack, or shriek, of dawn. She ambled down a minute before breakfast. Sometimes she missed breakfast and scrounged a bite later on from the larder. She did nothing all day quite agreeably, without anyone looking askance. Even Mrs Mark seemed to have forgotten about her, and was quite surprised when Dora offered to help with this or that. Her only regular duty, besides doing her room, was washing up, and she could do this quite serenely in a dream. What nagged her however was a certain new sense of her inferiority; that, and the prospect of going home with Paul when all this, unnerving as it was, was over. Dora was not unused to feeling inferior. A vague sense of social inferiority, an uneasy lack of savoir faire, was normal to her. But what she felt at Imber bit deeper, in a way which she at times resented. Often it seemed to her that the community were easily, casually even, judging her, placing her. The fact that so little was expected of her was itself significant. This was distressing. The sense that the judgement occurred without their thinking about it, that it happened automatically, simply as it were by juxtaposition, was still more distressing.

On the other hand, the prospects of escape were not rosy either. Dora missed London. She was surprised to find that she felt no urge to smoke or drink at Imber. She had slunk down to the White Lion once or twice in the first days; but it was a long way and the weather was forbiddingly hot. She had drunk a little of her whisky from the tooth mug in her bedroom. But these little celebrations had a surreptitious and dreary quality which had her soon discouraged. She did not like drinking alone. She noted with pleasure, and it was her only solid consolation, that as a result of this abstention and because of the sobriety of her diet she was becoming a little thinner. The trouble was that the return to London would be so far from gay. Paul was within sight of the end of his work. He was speaking of going home; and he glowed with a palpable determination to take his wife back with him and instal her as one does an art treasure, clearing the scene, locking the door. His will arched over Dora like a canopy. It was not that she had any thought of not returning with Paul. After all, she had come back to him, and although their reunion was far from successful the calculations that had led to it remained solid. It was just that she could make no vision of herself back in London with Paul. She saw the flat in Knightsbridge, meticulous, exquisite, glowing with stripy wallpaper and toile de Jouy and old mahogany andobjets d”art, utterly alien and utterly dreary. She could not see herself in it. It was not that she intended anything at all. She simply did not believe in that future.

At this moment, however, Dora was not obsessed with thoughts such as these. She was studying the male members of the congregation to decide which were the most handsome. It was James, certainly, who bore the closest resemblance to a film star, so big, so curly-headed, and with that open powerful face. Toby had the best features and the most grace. Mark Strafford was rather striking, but men with beards had an unfair advantage. Michael had a very sweet face, like a worried dog, but was not dignified enough to be handsome. In the end, she concluded Paul was the best-looking of them all: distinguished, dignified, noble. His face lacked serenity, however, it lacked radiance. It often looked distinctly bad-tempered. But then, as she sadly reflected, her husband was not a happy man.

Dora turned her attention to the women and got as far as Catherine. Catherine was sitting at the side near the front, easy to survey. She wore a neat grey Sunday frock, rather smart it occurred to Dora. The sort of frock that might be worn with an expensive hat at a luncheon party. Only here, somehow, it just looked simple. She had combed her hair, which made a spectacular difference to her appearance. The bun was worn low, firmly knotted, and the hair, pulled smoothly behind the ears, was glossy, undulating, refusing to look demure. Catherine was looking down and drooping her eyelids in a customary pose which seemed at times modest and at times secretive. Dora could see the bulge of the brow, the high arch of the cheek, the gentle yet somehow strong upward tilt of the nose. The natural pallor of the skin looked today more ivory than sallow. Dora looked at her with an admiration and a pleasure which were not un-tempered by the knowledge that this splendid piece was so soon to be withdrawn definitively from circulation.

The unconscious part of Dora’s mind which was still listening to James advised her that this bit was getting interesting again. She began to attend. “I cannot agree with Milton,” James was saying, “when he refuses to praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue. Virtue, innocence, should be valued whatever its history. It has a radiance which enlightens and purifies and which is not to be dimmed by foolish talk about the worth of experience. How false it is to tell our young people to seek experience! They should rather be told to value and to retain their innocence: that is enough of a task, enough of an adventure! And if we can keep our innocence for long enough, the gift of knowledge will be added to it, a deeper and more precise knowledge than any which is won by the tawdry methods of ‘experience’. Innocence in ourselves and others is to be prized, and woe to him who destroys it, as our Lord Himself has said. Matthew eighteen six.

“And what are the marks of innocence? Candour – a beautiful word – truthfulness, simplicity, a quite involuntary bearing of witness. The image that occurs to me here is a topical one, the image of a bell. A bell is made to speak out. What would be the value of a bell which was never rung? It rings out clearly, it bears witness, it cannot speak without seeming like a call, a summons. A great bell is not to be silenced. Consider too its simplicity. There is no hidden mechanism. All that it is is plain and open; and if it is moved it must ring.

“If we think here naturally of our own bell, the great bell of Imber which is so soon to make its triumphal entry into the Abbey, our thoughts will turn to one of our number who is also shortly to cross the lake and enter by that gateway: one in whom, and although she blushes I know she will forgive me, we so resplendently see the merits of which I have been speaking, the worth of innocence which is retained until it becomes knowledge and wisdom. She will doubtless chide me by saying that I speak of the beginning as if it were the end: and indeed the contemplative life is a way so endlessly transforming that it can scarcely be spoken of by an outsider: and he who asks for the contemplative life does not know what he is asking. But we who are merely, if I may put it so, camp-followers or fellow-travellers of holiness, must be excused our moments of enthusiasm. At such times as this one may well feel that the purposes of God are visible in this world. One may even feel that the age of miracles is not over. Certainly it will be, for this community, a most vital and perhaps decisive inspiration to know that someone who has so completely belonged to us, who has been one of ourselves, has taken that other path; and although we may rarely see her again, we shall know that she is near us and that we shall have her prayers. I had not meant to make this personal digression, but, as I say, I know dear Catherine will pardon me. And I think it no harm to say what, in this matter, we have all been thinking. And now, my friends, I must bring my remarks, which I fear have been awfully rambling and lengthy, to an end.”

James stumbled from the dais, looking rather shy and awkward now that the flow of his eloquence had ceased. Father Bob Joyce exhorted the company to pray, and with much pushing and scraping of chairs everyone knelt down. James hid his face at once in his large hands and drooped his head very low. Catherine knelt with her eyes closed and her hands folded, her face revealed and contracted with an emotion which Dora could not read. Michael had laid one hand, fingers spread out, lightly upon his brow, his eyes screwed up, frowning a little as he bent his head. Then Dora divined that Paul was watching her, and closed her eyes too. The prayer ended, the service was over, and the little congregation began to shamble out.

As they came out into the sunlit hall Mrs Mark detained Paul with some question. Catherine, who walked out just ahead of Dora, was smiling at James who was chaffing her in a rather ponderous way which was no doubt supposed to be a sort of apology. Dora felt he had laid it on rather thick, but was certainly right in thinking that he would be forgiven. His sincerity was monumental, and, in the light of his own remarks, Dora was ready to see his gaucherie as a remarkable spontaneous candour. Moved by him, she was even ready to imagine she believed in brotherly love. She smiled vaguely in his direction, and then found herself walking out onto the balcony with Catherine, James having vanished into the Common Room. He thinks a little talk with her will do me good! was Dora’s immediate reaction; but she looked at Catherine at ihat moment with interest, almost with affection.

“I liked your service,” said Dora, for something to say. She wanted to get into the sun, and began to walk slowly down the steps. Catherine walked with her.

“Yes,” said Catherine. “It’s quite simple, but it suits us. It’s difficult, you know, for a lay community where nothing’s ordained. It all has to be invented as you go along.”

They began to walk across the grass, taking the path towards the causeway.

“You’ve tried different things?” said Dora vaguely.

“Oh yes,” said Catherine. “At first we had it that everyone said the whole Office privately every day. But it was too much of a strain/

Dora, who had very little conception of what the Office was, heartily agreed. It sounded awful.

They walked out a little on to the causeway. The sun cast their shadows onto the water. The bricks, overgrown with moss and small plants, were warm underfoot; Dora could feel the warmth through her light shoes. The strong sense she now had of her companion’s shyness and nervousness set her at ease. She felt less afraid of Catherine, glad to be with her.

“It’s so hot,” she said, “it makes one want to swim. I can’t swim – I wish I could. I expect you can. Everyone can except me.”

“I never go into the water,” said Catherine. “I can swim, but not at all well, and I don’t like it. I think I must be afraid of water. I often dream about drowning.” She looked rather sombrely down at the lake: in the shadow of the causeway it was obscure and green, the water thick, full of weeds and floating matter.

“Do you? How funny. I never do,” said Dora. She turned to look at Catherine. It came to her how very melancholy she looked; and Dora, her imagination abruptly set in motion, wondered for a moment whether Catherine could possibly really want to be a nun.

“You can’t really want to go in there!” said Dora suddenly. “To shut yourself up like that, when you’re so young and so beautiful. I’m sorry, this is very rude and awful, I know. But it makes me quite miserable to think of you in there!”

Catherine looked up, surprised, and then smiled very kindly, looking straight at Dora for the first time. “There are things one doesn’t choose,” she said. “I don’t mean they’re forced on one. But one doesn’t choose them. These are often the best things.”

I was right, thought Dora, triumphantly. She doesn’t want to go in. It’s a sort of conspiracy against her. They’ve all been saying for so long that she’s going in, and calling her their little saint and so on, and now she can’t get out of it. And stuff like what James was saying this morning.

She was about to reply to Catherine when to her irritation she saw Paul coming towards them across the grass. He couldn’t leave her alone even for five minutes. Catherine saw him and with a murmur to Dora and an apologetic wave she turned and walked on across the causeway, leaving Dora standing.

Paul came up to her. “I couldn’t think where you’d got to,” he said.

“I wish you’d leave me alone sometimes,” said Dora.“I was having an interesting conversation with Catherine.”

“I can’t think what you and Catherine could find to say to each other,” said Paid. “You seem to have rather different interests!”

“Why shouldn’t I talk to Catherine?” said Dora. “Do you think I’m not worthy to, or something?”

“I didn’t say so,” said Paul, “but you evidently feel something of the sort! If you want my view, I think Catherine is everything that a woman should be – lovely, gentle, modest, and chaste.”

“You don’t respect me,” said Dora, her voice trembling.

“Of course I don’t respect you,” said Paul. “Have I any reason to? I’m in love with you, unfortunately, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate for me too,” said Dora, starting to cry.

“Oh, stop it!” said Paul, “Stop it!”

Catherine had reached the other side of the lake and walked along under the Abbey wall. She passed the first door into the parlours, and went in by the door that led into the visitors’chapel. It seemed to Dora afterwards that she closed it behind her with a bang.