Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (best books to read txt) đ
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âMy friend does,â Caithness said.
âIf the ape were chained and caged?â Mottreux said. âIf he were quite
helpless?â
âIf one were very sure,â Caithness said, and dared not stop to ask
what he meant.
There was an almost breathless stillness, then Mottreux said again,
âHeâs not human; heâs monstrous. He robs us of everythingâof our
souls!â
âHe robs you of everything, of your souls most of all,â the priest
said, not knowing after what mingled mass of colour the otherâs spirit
panted. Mottreuxâs face took on a sudden cunning, as if he plunged
that secret deeper into his heart and veiled it there more securely.
He said, âIf anything should happen-â
âIt would be a fortunate thing for the world,â the priest said. âBut,â
he added, âthatâs in the hands of God.â
âAyeâGod,â the other answered. âBut he behaves like God. If anything
happened, would your friend-â
Caithness paused. He thought of Sir Bernard, and ironically with the
thought there came the memory of his own visit to London, of his talk
with the Archbishop, of his insistence that the Church must not use
the secular arm. Yesâbut he wasnât then in this house, so close
against this mad dreamer; he hadnât seen the African horde dancing
round the upright figure whom it worshipped, he hadnât heard of this
blasphemy of the conquest of death. Never as an ordinary ruleânever
but whenânever but, for this once, nowânever afterwards, for this
couldnât happen twice. And even now it wasnât he or his friends or the
Church; it was the manâs own follower. And the Zulu Christian would be
saved from captivity, and Roger from delusion, and men from a lie.
Now, just nowâif this whisperer so close to him choseâŠ
âAnyone who saved England,â he said, âanyone who did would be a friend
to all men.â
âYouâd see that he was safe?â Mottreux urged. âYouâd speak to Suydler?
youâd keep me secret till it was right to have it known?â
âOf course,â Caithness answered. âYou should be with me till all was
agreed; it would be easyâŠâ
There was a voice in the hall below; a door opened and shut. Someone
came to the foot of the stairs. Mottreux nodded and stepped away,
breathing only âBe ready then. I canât tell when it may be.â He
disappeared down the staircase, and Caithness after a few moments went
slowly on to join the king.
It was already dark. The sea was lost, and the drive in front of the
house. Roger was alone, for Caithness had not returned from the king,
and Rosenberg, though it was but late afternoon, had with a few
muttered words gone back to his own room. No-one of the others had
come in. Roger had read a little in one or other of the books
scattered about-they were mostly what are called the âclassicsâ of
various times and languages. They were all in âprivately printedâ
editions, exquisitely done with types he did not recognize and
bindings whose colours were strange and beautiful combinations. There
was one volume of the fragments of Sappho, another of the Song of
Solomon, an AEschylus, a Gallic War, a Macbeth; there were one or two
Chinese texts, and one or two which Roger supposed must be Africanâat
least, the characters were altogether strange to him. There was a
manuscript book, half filled with delicate mysterious writing, also in
strange characters. He had read in some and looked at others; he had
tried to search in them for the power which reposed there, and of
which those Greek or English or unknown characters were sacramental
symbols. And when he ceased and for a while half abandoned the search
he was aware that he did not abandon it, as so often before, to return
to an outer world of things different from the secret paths he had
been following. Sometimes when he had been reading at home he had
looked up to feel the rooms, the furnitureâtolerable and even
pleasant as it all wasâin some sense alien to the sacred syllables.
His own writing-table, comfortable and useful, blinked rather
awkwardly at him when he returned from the visit of Satan to Eden or
the nightingale in the embalmed darkness. But here there was no such
difficulty or distinction; all was natural. As a result of that most
fortunate combination of mental and visible or audible things, the
tiredness which often seized him in those moments was absent. For it
was never great things in their own medium which wearied him; theyâhe
had always known and now more than ever knewâwere strength and
refreshment; it was the change from one medium to another, the passing
from their clear darkness to the fog of daily experience. But here
there was no need to return; all was one.
He walked to the window, and looked out. But he could see nothing
except the lights of a car standing in front of the door; he turned
back into the room, and after hesitating for a minute or two went
across it and out into the hall. There he saw a group of men, gathered
round Considine. They were breaking up even while he glanced; each of
them went off as on separate business. Considine stood alone. He
stretched himself easily, smiled at Roger, and walked towards him.
âAllâs done,â he said. âTheyâve communicated from Africa. Your people
are in touch with mine. I knew they would begin soon.â
Roger, still struggling with a scepticism in political things which he
had abandoned in spiritual, said: âIt canât be possible thatâŠâ
âItâs certain,â Considine answered. âSuydlerâwhat can Suydler do
against us? He wonât trust himself to flog the English on, nor to
cheat the Powers that will want to cheat him. South Africa I will
leave for fifty years or so; at the end of that time theyâll be
begging to come in. Letâs go outside, shall we?â
They went out on to the verandah, and, as the coldness of the evening
took them, veils seemed to fall away from Considine. Roger felt
himself in the presence of maturity and power beyond his thought,
perhaps something of that power into which he had been experimentally
searching. The man by his side threw off the habitual disguise of
years and behaviour which he wore; he moved like a âgiant form,â and
though his eyes, when they rested on Roger, were friendly, their
friendliness was tremendous and wise and, as it might have been,
archangelic. He walked lightly, pacing the verandah, and seemed not to
depend on the floor to support him; Roger felt clumsy and awkward
beside him, earth and a child of earth beside earth purified, infused
and transmuted.
Considine said: âWe shall go tonight. Iâve got one more thing to do
here, and thereâs time enough for that.â
âYou always seem to have time to spare,â Roger answered.
âWhy not?â the other asked. âEvery second is an infinity, once you can
enter it. But manâs mind sits outside its doors moaning, and leaves
his activity to run about the world in a fever of excitement. You will
leave that presently.â
âHow did you set out on this?â Roger asked diffidently. The impetuous
angry Roger of London had disappeared; he walked as a child and as a
child referred to his adults.
In the darkness Considine smiled. âThis morning,â he said, âa girl
jilted a boy, and the boy said, âWhy do I suffer helplessly? This also
is Iâall this unutterable pain is I, and I grow everywhere through it
into myself.â I could show you the street where it happenedâthey
havenât yet pulled it downâwhere the boy said, âIf this pain were
itself powerâŠâ So he imagined it as himself and himself as it, and
because it was greater than himself he knew that he also was greater
than himself, and as old and as strong as he chose. The girlâs dead
long ago; she was a pretty baby.â
âBut then?â Roger asked.
âThenâa little later-before noon,â the voice answered, âthe boy found
another girl and loved her. But as that love spread through him he
remembered the vastness of his pain and what had seemed to him
possible because of it, and he asked himself whether love were not
meant for something more than wantonness and child-bearing and the
future that closes in death. He taught himself how this also was to
charge his knowledge of what man could be, and he poured physical
desire and mental passion into his determination of life. Then he was
free.â
Roger said: âBut why Africa?â
âMy father was a surgeon,â the other answered, âthough not a poor man,
and he went on a ship, taking me with him. The ship was wreckedâit
wasnât unusual thenâbut he and I were saved, and came to shore. Iâve
told you that my father knew something of the old magical
traditionsâthings I havenât much concerned myself with; such as are
of value are natural properties of the developing and unstunted nature
of man, and the rest are of no valueâbut by such tricks he made
himself feared by the sorcerers. We went far into the inland before he
died, and there I found that things which Iâd discovered with pain
were taught to the priestly initiates. But they held them secret and
were afraid of them, and I knew they were for the world when the time
should come. And now it has come.â
âAnd the end,â Roger cried out in a sudden access of desperation and
hope, âwhat is the end?â
The other turned to confront him, but in the darkness Roger, full of
cloudy memories and fiery prophecies, was uncertain what he faced.
There had been in the movement something of Isabel, but it was not
Isabel; he wondered whether it were not rather the lofty head of
Milton, doctrinal yet mysterious, at which he was looking, but the
eyes were not Miltonâs, for Milton was blind, and these eyes were
shining at him in the night. It was ratherâthis figureâsomething
that had to do with the sea the sound of which came to him still, the
sea that had come up from its borders and been talking with him though
he had not known it for what it was. So it was not eyes, it was light
under the sea which he saw, and he was being swept away from human
beings into the ocean gulfs and currents. He struck out as if he were
swimming, but that did not ease the choking in his throat and nostrils
nor the clamour in his ears. With all his power he drove upwards, and
it seemed that his head broke out from the waves and beheld not very
far off a shore on which his friends walked. He saw Sir Bernard
looking ironically out over the waters in which he struggled, looking
ironically at him, as if with a smile to see how the rash fool who has
sailed on such a voyage now agonized for one plank to cling to. He saw
Rosamond, her arm in Philipâs, bending him away from the foam, and
drawing him safely towards the highroads beyond. He saw Isabel, and
her dress was drenched with spray, her dress and her hair, and she had
stretched one firm arm towards the sea, and stood on the extreme edge
of the land; but her eyes did not see him, and he could not tread
waterâhe was whirled down again as if into the noise of a roaring
dance, and again he choked and agonized and sprang upward through a
thousand fathoms of water and emerged to see them again, but small,
very small. As he gazed a tiny distant
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