Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (best books to read txt) đź“–
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there was no chance of return; within and without the passionate
terror hurled them on. Farther and farther east they poured; not
merely the Thames but great reservoirs and docks and small tributaries
of small rivers, swallowed those who were pushed aside; and there were
puddles in the street which were not water where someone had striven
to guard his belongings, and heaps that were a dreadful hindrance to
those who came behind. A pestilence of the spirit walked in the night
and slew its victims as it went.
It hovered in the streets; it rested in churches and such public
buildings as had been readily and benevolently opened. For in the
early hours of the exodus men had supposed that it would, however
serious and tragic, still be quiet and controlled. Certain authorities
therefore had hoped that the buildings in their charge would be of use
to exhausted fugitives. St. Paul’s, in a holy goodwill, was so opened.
The crowd entered, increased, filled it, flowed over the rails of the
sanctuary, clambered upon the altars, and within its walls suffered
and inflicted horror. The windows of public-houses, as of
eating-houses and gunsmiths, had been smashed, and bottles of drink
obtained, and the strongest men made use of their strength. On the
High Altar a drunken woman smashed a bottle over the head of a
vociferating assailant, and was shot by his companion before the
victim had died. The kingship which Inkamasi so proudly held had here
its apish rival in savage might or dextrous cunning; yet that kingship
was unstained, as all lovely things are unstained by their detestable
imitations, since beauty cannot be manifested unless the mind assents.
Without that assent, beauty itself must be tyranny; but with that
grave acceptance there is no government that is not beautiful, for
love is not only the fulfilling but the beginning of the law.
In Kensington all that night Sir Bernard watched, as if on a rocky
island—one of a scattered archipelago of such islands—a lingering
child of a lost race watched the sea overwhelm his city. After the
departure of Considine with his guests or prisoners—no-one was quite
sure which they were—Sir Bernard had gone back with Isabel and Philip
to the library. He stood there with his back to the fire, surveying
the room, the stains of blood on the carpet and the divan, the empty
chairs round the card-table, and the dropped cards, the general
disarray that had meant companionship and now meant desertion. He
looked at Isabel, now enduring a separation deeper than his own—at
least, presumably; everyone would say it was. Even in that moment he
found himself wondering whether Isabel or he would miss Roger the
most; it was so difficult to compare these things. Isabel had lost her
husband; and he had lost—a friend who lived mostly in Yorkshire, and
a younger friend whom he saw perhaps three or four times a month for
an hour or two, and a barbarian chief whom he’d only known a few days.
O and a Jewish mystic whom he didn’t know at all. They didn’t, all of
them put together, sound intimate beside Isabel’s loss, and yet…It
wasn’t whom you lost; it was what you lost, what centre of what
concern or quality of yourself was torn away, so that your own
capacity moved helplessly in the void. Something very like stability
had been torn from under him. He looked at Isabel again and wondered.
Was it merely her youth that made her seem, in that house of
desertion, the least deserted of them all? He was old; he’d outlived
his time; he was living on his memories. There went through him a rare
flash of envy; Isabel hadn’t to live on her memories, Isabel—
Sir Bernard recaptured a sense of proportion. “No-one who’s just in
the throes of seeing Considine go off with a Zulu, a Jew, a clergyman,
and an expert in the poets ought to talk of living on his memories,”
he said to himself. He said to Isabel as tenderly as possible: “Why
did you tell Roger to go?”
“Because I wanted him to, since he wanted to,” she said. “More; for I
wanted him to even more than he did, since I hadn’t myself to think of
and he had.”
Sir Bernard blinked. “I see,” he said. “But—I only ask—isn’t it a
little risky…deciding what other people want?”
“Dear Sir Bernard, I wasn’t deciding,” she said, “I was wanting. It
isn’t quite the same thing. I want it—whatever he wants. I don’t want
it unselfishly, or so that he may be happy, or because I ought to, or
for any reason at all. I just want it. And then, since I haven’t
myself to think of, I’m not divided or disturbed in wanting, so I can
save him trouble. That’s all.”
“O quite, quite,” Sir Bernard said. “That would be all. And is that
what you call quiet affection?”
Isabel looked a trifle perplexed. “I don’t call it anything,” she
said. “There isn’t anything to call it. It’s the way things happen, if
you love anyone.”
“Of course,” Sir Bernard said. “Too much excitement has made me dull
tonight. Of course, it’s the way things happen. The whole round world
has noticed it. So you wanted Roger to go?”
Isabel said, a little unhappily: “When you put it like that it sounds
somehow as if I didn’t really, or only because he wanted to. Don’t you
see I couldn’t want it because of him? He—somehow he wanted it in me.
O I don’t know. I’m not as intelligent as you, but I know it was the
one thing I had to have to make me happy.”
Sir Bernard looked at her again, very steadily. “And does it make you
happy?”
“Utterly,” Isabel said. “O of course it’s dreadfully painful,
but—yes, utterly.”
On that rich and final word they fell into silence. Irony, even loving
irony, could say no more. The mind accepted a fact which was a
contradiction in terms, and knew itself defeated by that triumphant
contradiction. Sir Bernard wished he could have heard Considine and
Isabel arguing—not that Isabel would or could have argued. So far as
he could see, she was saying exactly the opposite of Considine, and
yet they curiously agreed. They were both beyond the places of logic
and compromise, even amused compromise. They were both utterly,
utterly—well, they were both utterly, and that was that. It was no
wonder Isabel didn’t want to go to Africa.
It was Philip who presently, wandering restlessly about the house,
brought them news of the number of fugitives who were beginning to
hurry along Kensington High Street. Sir Bernard, hearing, frowned.
“This,” he said, “if it’s happening everywhere, may mean pure hell
before long. Let’s go and look from upstairs.” There was an attic
window which commanded the High Street, and from it they surveyed the
increasing crowd. A few of the fugitives, turning aside, hurried
through the square in which the house stood, but not many; most of
them pressed frantically onwards.
“I’d better make sure the front door’s fastened up,” Philip said
suddenly. “We don’t want any of them pushing in.” He added, more
carefully, “I suppose actually there’s no danger.”
“Of course not,” Isabel said. “Mr. Considine said he wasn’t going to
hurt London.”
“I don’t really see,” Sir Bernard said, “how one can be expected to
believe Mr. Considine. You can’t refuse your mind and yet have people
accept your word, can you?”
“But surely you do believe him?” Isabel said. “He said so.”
“I know he said so,” Sir Bernard patiently explained. “What I’m
trying—O very well. Besides, you’re right. I do believe him, but I
can’t think why I should. The Second Evolution of Man, I suppose.
Considine at the bottom of a well—and what a well!”
“That man’s very tired,” Isabel said, watching a party of five; a
woman carrying one child, a man with two, who had just turned into the
square, and were stopping even in their haste for a necessary minute.
“He oughtn’t to go on—nor ought she. Sir Bernard, don’t you think-”
“Yes,” Sir Bernard said. “I suppose you want to rest, too. Good God,
you do! And feed?”
“Well,” Isabel said, blushing slightly, “I was thinking, if you’d got
any milk, the children…I could just go and speak to them.”
“Then Philip will go too,” Sir Bernard said. “Ecstasy has very curious
forms sometimes, especially if it happens to be attacking anyone who
isn’t.”
“Isn’t what?” asked Isabel. “I thought you were talking about me.”
Sir Bernard took her arm. “Come down,” he said. “Philip, go and open
the door,” and as the young man obeyed, “Is that true?” he asked.
She turned clear eyes upon him. “I’m no good at words,” she said, “and
I’m a fool at knowing things, but when there’s something in you that
has its way, and when Roger’s doing what he must do, and I too—O every
fibre of me’s aching for him and I could sing for joy all through
me. Isn’t that all the ecstasy that I could bear? Come and
let’s do something before it breaks my heart to be alive.”
It was indeed by the sea that the house stood at which the car
eventually arrived. Through the wide porch in front of which it
stopped the light shone from the open door; a light in which expectant
figures moved and waited. Roger got out, stiff and weary, and as he
stretched himself wondered afresh at that strange company of
travellers. His fellows seemed less weary than he; the old Jew’s
movements were slow but not difficult, and Caithness, once out,
glanced swiftly round him as if to discover any sign of the king.
Oppression lay, Roger thought, on him alone, perhaps because he alone
was yet unused to a deliberate co-habitation with belief. The past
popularity, the long tradition of religion supported its diverse
champions against a present neglect. But art had never been popular,
and its lovers in all ages were few and solitary. His own belief was
as passionate as that of the Jew or the Christian, but it was more
often thwarted and more greatly troubled.
They gathered in a group, waiting for that fourth of their company in
whose train they had been brought there, the incarnate epiphany of
immortal conquest. He delayed to speak to the driver, and as the
others stood they savoured more fully the presence of the ocean. They
could hear the faint sound of it in the darkness; they could smell and
feel it in the air, as if the secret medium of all their journeys
sensibly expressed itself to them. Fresh and everlasting, alien yet
alluring, distant and deep yet delicate and close, it drew them
together and unified them by its subtle existence. Caithness said
unnecessarily: “We must be close to the shore; that’s the waves we
hear.” Neither of the others answered him, and before the words had
well died away Considine came up to them. He invited them with a
gesture and they followed. In the porch Mottreux met them. He saluted
his master and said: “All’s well: we’ve put the king in his room. He’s
in a slight fever but otherwise he’s all right.”
Considine nodded. “The captain’s not here yet?” he asked. “No; I
hardly expected him. Tomorrow. My friends will be tired; show them
their rooms.”
“I should like to see the king,” Caithness said, with a sound of
challenge.
Roger saw Considine’s smile leap out. “Take Mr. Caithness to him
then,” he said to Mottreux, and then to the priest:
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