Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (best books to read txt) đ
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The seaâhe couldnât look at the shore from where he sat; only at the
terrace and the sea beyondâthe sea was different. He wondered,
vaguely, whether it was Africa, or whether both sea and Africa were
names for something else, a full power, an irresistible mass:
irresistible if it moved, but then it didnât move. Or hadnât. Hadnât
was a better word, because it might. All that mass of waters might
gather itself up and surge forwardâsurge or creep, swiftly or slowly,
anyhow irresistible. But he, sitting there, with the memory of that
dead hand jerkingâas if a sudden wave had flopped forward out of the
sea over the green lawn, and then retreated again, and the whole vast
mass had swung silent and removed once more. If the mass followed
after a while, followed the wave? He would live in it, he would be
changed so as to breathe and bear it; he would see what other
inhabitants peopled itâthere might be one chief thing, a fish of
sorts, a swift phosphorescent fish which was called Considine on earth
before the sea came. Or if the sea were merely a flat plain for
something else to slide over, a huge Africa in the shape he knew from
maps sliding over the waterâonly of course not sliding, but marching,
millions on millions of black manikins, so small, so very small, but
so many, marching forward, yet keeping that mapped shape, and he would
be just their size and be marching with themâleft, right; left,
right. Whether they were alive or dead he couldnât say; the fellow who
was marching either opposite him or alongside himâit wasnât clear
whichâkept quivering and jerking his hand. Hosts of themâLord of
hosts; he had known the Lord of hosts when he was called Considine,
and rode on a batâs back; these were the bats. Why was he here among
this crowd of bats with negro faces that rose out of that ocean, now
throbbing free from the ties which had so long held it? And all the
bats were singingââFathom five, fathom five; rich and strange.â There
they were, all coming on; he himself had called them and they were
coming.
He heard, but did not notice, a step beside him. Then a voice he
half-recognized said: âHere you are!â It was Caithnessâs voice, and
with the recognition Rogerâs trance broke. He shifted, looked round,
realized that he was cold, stood up, stamped once or twice, and said:
âYes, here I am. But donât,â he added, as his mind came more to
itself, âask me where.â
âItâs a strange place,â Caithness said. âHe must have many of them,
scattered about. Near London, for the airships to land. Howâs he kept
himself hidden all these years?â
âI suppose,â Roger said flippantly, âthe exalted imagination suggested
it. Shakespeare was a good business man.â
He found a certain relief in talking to the priest, however different
their views of Considine, as an ordinary Christian might find it
easier to talk to an atheist than to a saint. It wouldnât last, but
just for a little it was pleasant and easy.
But Caithness, not having gone so far, was not so desirous of
reaction. He said, looking gloomily at the young man: âI donât know
what you find in him. Where did he take you?â
Roger looked out to sea again, and half-unconsciously said, âThere.â
The sea should give up its dead, out of the sea of universal shipwreck
the dead sailors of humanity should rise again, their bodies purified
by the salt of that ocean, running up to a land which perhaps then
they would feel and know for the first time in its full perfection:
matter made purely sensitive to matter, and all the secrets of the
passion of life revealed. Who could tell what wonders waited then,
when emotion was full and strong and sufficient, no longer greedy and
grasping, when the senses could take in colour and essence and respond
to all the delicate vibrations which now their clumsy dullness missed,
when deprivation itself should be an intense means of experiencing
both the deprived self and the thing of which it was deprived, whenâO
when space and time were no more hindrances, when (for all one could
tell) the body itself might multiply itself, as certain magicians had
been said to do, and truly be here and there at once, orââCome
then,â he prayed, but did not know to whom, âmaster of life, come
quickly.â
âItâs cold out here,â he heard Caithness say abruptly, âletâs go in.
Have you seen Rosenberg?â
Roger, as he half-reluctantly turned to follow, thought of the Jew
with a shock. âNo,â he said. âIâd forgotten him.â
âI wonder what this man means to do with him,â the priest went on.
âColonel Mottreux has brought the famous jewels.â There was a light
sneer in his voice, and Roger knew that the desire and delight of the
late Simon Rosenberg was utterly incomprehensible to Caithness. Yet it
should not have been so, he thought, for was there after all so much
difference between minds that longed to see their own natures made
manifest, the one in converted and beautiful souls adorned with
virtues, the other in a chosen and beautiful body adorned with jewels?
Certainly Caithness thought it was for the good of the souls, but no
doubt Rosenberg thought that his wife enjoyed wearing the jewels, and
very likely she did. Certainly, also, on Caithnessâs hypothesis, the
souls were likely to enjoy their kind of beauty for a much longer time
than Mrs. Rosenberg, even if she hadnât died when she did, could
possibly have enjoyed hers. So that Caithness was actually likely to
get more satisfaction out of his externalized desire than Rosenberg.
But for that you must have a supernatural hypothesis, and the fact
that a supernatural hypothesis had quite definite advantages didnât
make it true. The fact that man wanted a thing very much never did
make it trueâor the body that lay within would now perhaps be walking
in the house and even coming up to speak to himâŠHe shuddered
involuntarily, no more in servile than in holy fear, and to escape
from that hovering awe said: âHave they been given to Rosenberg yet?â
âNo,â Caithness answered. âI donât fancy Considineâs all that anxious
to part with them.â
Roger looked at him in surprise. They had come into the room where
they had breakfasted, from which doors of an exquisitely clear glass
led on to the lawn in front of the house. The priest walked across and
looked out. Roger said, rather coldly: âThatâs utterly unnecessary. Do
you hate him so much?â
âI donât hate him,â Caithness said, âexcept that heâs set himself
against God, like Antichrist which is to come.â
âO donât be silly,â Roger said crossly. âAntichrist indeed! What on
earth has he done to make you think heâd steal a lot of jewels?â
âWhatâs he done,â the priest said over his shoulder, âto make you
think he wouldnât? Hasnât he put many men to death and stolen the
minds of others? If he wants the jewels heâll take them.â
âBut he wonât want them,â Roger exclaimed; âthatâs the whole point. I
may, or for all I know Mottreux may, but heâs no more likely to want
them than you are, to be fair to you,â he added with a half-humorous
admission of Caithnessâs own integrity.
The door opened, and Mottreux and Rosenberg came into the room. The
old Jew looked at them for a moment and then went across to the other
side of the room and sat down. Mottreux paused by the door, seeming
not to have expected to find the other two there. His dark and hungry
eyes rested on Roger and moving towards him, he said in a low voice,
âI hear Nielsen has really died.â
The sentence itself seemed fatal; in its note of hopelessness it
conveyed death. Roger, not finding words to answer, nodded. Mottreux
walked slowly over to Rosenberg, to whom he began to talk in a low
voice. Caithness, after a minute or so, went over to join them. Roger
considered doing the same thing and decided not to. He didnât want to
chat, and he couldnât see what, besides mere chat, Mottreux and
Rosenberg could have to say to each other. Mottreux, he remembered,
was supposed to be waiting for the captain, whoever the captain was.
His mind went back to the sea, and he thought suddenly of submarines.
Perhaps that was what Considine had meant by âmoving.â It was all such
a mad mixture, purple rhetoric and precise realism, doctrines of
transmutation and babble about African witch-doctors and airships and
submarines. He wondered what Isabel was doing, and whether perhaps
after all he would have been wiser to stopâŠbut he couldnât, he
couldnât; the thing that for years had torn at his heart and brain had
to be satisfied. He and she had alike to choose necessity. But if his
necessity could have lain with hersâŠAnd Sir Bernardâwhat would he
have made of this house where servants of impossibilities talked by
the hearth, and he himself waited for the next moment of explication?
Staring at his toes, Roger thought that that was all he did seem to be
doingâwaiting. Was he wasting his time? had Considine meant him to be
doing something all this while? He ought to have been working, to have
imagined intensely theâŠ
Considine was in the room. To Rogerâs preoccupied mind he might have
materialized out of the air, but apparently he hadnât. He said,
âThereâs no message yet. Mottreux, Iâll dictate the alternative
dispositions for the generals, if you will come. These gentlemen will
be able to amuse themselves a little.â He came over to Roger and
looked into his eyes, then he said, smiling, âYouâve been running
after your fancies, Ingram; youâve not been driving even their faint
power through you. Do you think it will happen by itself?â
âI know,â Roger said. âI was thinking soââThey heard and were abashed
and up they sprang.ââ
âSo,â Considine answered. âTurn on to that all your heart; and then
turn that on to yourself. Donât let yourself grow too tired, but never
quite let go. Weâll talk again soon.â He turned.
âMottreux?â
The other joined him and they went across the hall into another room,
where a case stood on the table. âThere are Rosenbergâs jewels,â
Considine said. âWeâll give them to him presently; letâs look at them
once.â He took a key from his pocket and opened the case as he spoke,
and then poured upon the table a glowing heap of jewels. They shone
and sparkled; they gleamed and glintedâsome set, many unset; stones
of every kind revealing the life of stone, colour revealing the power
of colour. Considine stood and looked at them, and if Roger had been
there he might have thought that the heap of jewels and the human
figure reflected each other, and that intense life leapt and re-leapt
between them. The manâs form seemed to hold in itself depths of
mysterious tint; so clear and mysterious was the corporeal presence,
disciplined and purged and nourished through many decades by supreme
passion. The deep smile broke out again as he gazed, exulting in the
joy of beauty, absorbing it, and almost visibly transmuting it into
his own dominating awareness of it. He stretched out his hand and
picked up one or two, and a whole diadem of splendour faded by the
unparalleled delicacy of consummated mortality which held it. He laid
them down and laughed softly as he did so, humming again to himself,
ââUnder the blossom that hangs on the bough.â All this,â he added
aloud, âbut one blossom under which
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