by Iris Murdoch
Not that the Imber community, as it so far existed in embryo, was exceptionally problematic. On the surface it was peaceful and reasonably efficient. Yet there were certain stresses of which Michael was continually conscious, he hoped without irritation. James and Margaret Strafford worked too hard, Mark Strafford not hard enough. The tension between Mark and his wife, though muted, remained. Mark Strafford was sarcastic, nervous, and inclined to make much of difficulties. Michael, who did not agree with Kant that feelings of affection cannot be demanded of us as a duty, did his best to like Mark, so far without conspicuous success. The bearded and ostentatiously virile appearance of his colleague was a constant annoyance. James Tayper Pace, without meaning to be so, was inevitably a second centre of authority, and Michael noticed a tendency in both the Straffords to take their orders from James, without consulting him. James, who believed that authority should melt in brotherly love, as would have been the case in a community composed of persons like himself, was careless of such matters. This led to some confusion. Peter Topglass did not improve things by being blindly, and sometimes aggressively, loyal to Michael. There was a faint appearance of two parties.
Michael, who thought that James was often obtuse about the subtler questions of organization, was aware too of serious moral differences between them which had so far scarcely made themselves evident. James was a man of more confident faith and more orthodox and rigid moral conceptions. Michael was not sure how far these things were in him, or ought anywhere to be, connected; but he suspected that James, who was no fool and could judge as well as love those who surrounded him, saw his leader as a man with ‘ideals but no principles’. The presence in the community of Catherine, with her highly strung spirituality and her imminent departure, was an inspiration to all; yet it was also undoubtedly a centre of obscure emotional tension, and Michael hoped that he was entirely charitable in his wish to see her soon and securely stowed ‘inside’. Then there was the, for him especially, appalling problem of her twin brother.
Michael was called from his meditations by the bell for Mass. After breakfast he repaired as usual to the estate office to cast an eye over the day’s correspondence. He enjoyed this part of the morning, during which he could see, as it were, the wheels of his small enterprise turning, and take the numerous minor policy decisions which kept the market-garden from day to day a going concern. Although for other and perhaps higher reasons he had wished to give place to James, he was glad to find himself, in the more purely business side of his work, remarkably efficient. He planned the expanding project delicately, lovingly, like a military operation, and was surprised to discover in himself, after his undistinguished career as a schoolmaster, such a talent for this kind of work. Meticulous timing, careful disposition of labour, quick changes of plan were necessary if the garden with its small and largely unskilled personnel were to yield its best; and Michael found himself experiencing again the curious satisfaction which planning of this kind had given him during his service as a soldier during the war. As a platoon commander, and later a company commander, in a battalion of the local county regiment, he had been conscientious and even, to his surprise, enthusiastic and moderately successful. To his great regret he was never sent overseas. The métier of soldiering, with its absolute requirements and its ideals of exactness and devotion had caught his imagination, and when on training exercises he had taken an almost boyish delight in dispatching his men to comfortable beds in the nearest village while he remained by some darkening roadside, to pore over the map with his flashlight and spend the night with his sleeping bag and greatcoat underneath the lorry.
By the time Michael had read the correspondence, made some telephone calls to clients in Pendelcote, and had a word with Mark Strafford who acted in the estate office as his secretary and accountant, it was nearly ten o’clock, the hour of the weekly Meeting. Michael had had no further time to reflect upon the agenda, and sought rather guiltily in his pocket for the scrap of paper on which he had written the items. He wondered who would be present on this occasion. Michael had always taken the view that the Meeting was a regrettable necessity, should be brief and businesslike and attended only by full members of the community. James however had maintained that the Meeting should be an open gathering attended by any guests who happened to be present at the Court and who wished to see the brotherhood in action. Michael had declared that he had no taste, even in so would-be charitable an atmosphere, for washing dirty linen in public. James had replied that the community was not likely to have any dirty linen, and if perchance it had it ought to wash it in public. James, it sometimes seemed to Michael, believed that truthfulness consisted in telling everybody everything, whether it concerned them or not, and regardless of whether they wanted to know. This position had however a certain moral force about it. Michael, finding a majority against him, did not care to argue his own more complex views, and gave way. The somewhat tiresome compromise was adopted that visitors, of whom so far there had been very few, were told they might attend, without being given any clear guidance, as to whether they would be welcome.
As he left the estate office Michael wondered if Paul Greenfield and his wife would take it into their heads to come along. One or two of the topics for discussion were delicate ones, and he rather hoped to be left in the privacy of his brothers to discuss them. Michael quite liked Paul Greenfield. He was a year or two younger than Michael, who had known him slightly at Cambridge, where he had found Paul’s blend of aestheticism and snobbery thoroughly distasteful; and when a strange chance had brought Paul to Imber on the track of the manuscripts Michael had been far from pleased and had wished his old acquaintance could have chosen some less crucial moment for his visit. However, he found Paul much improved or himself less puritanical; possibly both. Paul, who had perhaps had a similar pleasant surprise, showed some tendency to unburden himself to Michael about his matrimonial troubles. But Michael had been too busy for more than the occasional tête-à-tête and had gained only a confused impression of the situation. He had been genuinely delighted at the unexpected announcement of Mrs Greenfield’s imminent arrival; and had been astonished, unprepared as he was by Paul’s descriptions to which he had paid little attention, at her appearance. He could not yet see, though he found himself interested to know, how Paul could have got himself married to so apparently unlikely a lady.
As Michael entered the common-room he was relieved to hear Margaret Strafford telling Peter that Paul and Dora had gone out for a walk. She had, she said, advised them about a route which should not prove too tiring for Mrs Greenfield. Why, she wondered, had that young woman not brought a single pair of sound shoes with her? Those pretty sandals would be worn out in a few days.
Michael sank into the armchair by the fireplace which was by custom the chairman’s position, and took a quick look round as the rest of the community were settling themselves down. There was no sign of Nick. Michael hoped every week that he might come, but he never did. Everyone else was now present. Michael saw young Toby sidling in through the door and looking about shyly for a seat. He smiled at the boy and pointed him out a chair. He felt he could have done without Toby’s presence; and yet, he thought, as he looked at the boy’s face, taut and round-eyed with a sort of warm eagerness, half-smiling as he looked about at his companions, where could be the harm or embarrassment of having such a witness. Perhaps after all there was something in James’s theory that privacy has a tendency to corrupt. He saw the boy curl himself into his chair, tucking his long legs under him. He noted his grace.
‘All present, I think, with the usual exception,’ said James briskly.
The community was disposed in a half circle facing Michael, with James well in the front. The Straffords were beside him. Peter and Patchway made the second row, with Toby. Catherine was on the window-seat, sitting sideways to look out, her thin cotton skirt pulled well down towards her ankles and her hands clasped about her knees. Sister Ursula, who always attended the meetings as a liaison officer, sa
t by the door, her stoutly clad feet protruding squarely from the habit, her lively and critical eyes fixed upon Michael. He smiled at them all, feeling suddenly at ease and pleased with his crew.
‘I’ve made the usual little list,’ he said. Proceedings were quite informal. ‘Let me see, what shall we take first.’
‘Something nice and easy,’ said James.
‘There isn’t anything easy this week,’ said Michael. ‘And I’m afraid there are one or two old favourites. For instance, the mechanical cultivator question.’
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, Patchway 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 to 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 merry-making 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.
‘All right,’ said Michael. ‘Another committee please. Perhaps a definite plan could be submitted to us next week. And, of course, Father Bob must be consulted about the music.’
‘He’s got some ideas already,’ said James. ‘He says he’s game for anything except “Lift it gently to the steeple”!’
A sub-committee to deal with the bell was appointed, consisting of James, Margaret Strafford, Catherine, and Sister Ursula. Father Bob was to be co-opted.
Michael looked at his notes. Squirrels etc. His heart sank and he was half tempted to leave this item over. He spoke up quickly. ‘The next thing, and I think we can’t put off discussing it any longer, is this question about shooting squirrels and pigeons.’
Everyone looked glum and avoided each other’s eyes. This problem had arisen early and was still unsolved. Soon after arriving at Imber, James Tayper Pace had produced his shotgun and made regular sorties to shoot pigeons, crows, and squirrels in the vicinity. He regarded this both as a normal country pursuit and as a proper part of any farmer’s duty; and it could not be denied that the pigeons especially were a menace to the crops. Encouraged by his example, Patchway also took to prowling the estate with a gun and proved singularly adept at slaughtering hares, some of which, it was suspected, went to adorn tables in the village. When Nick Fawley arrived, bringing a .22 rifle with him, he joined in the game, this being indeed the only service which he appeared to perform with any enthusiasm for the community.
