Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (that summer book txt) 📕

it, had lost

its earlier concentration and was filled instead with a profound

conviction, a content so deep that he involuntarily looked at the Zulu

to see what, if anything, had caused it. But no difference showed in

Inkamasi, who still, motionless, glassy-eyed, and lethargic, knelt at

the rail, his hands hanging over it. The Archbishop’s face visible at

moments as he turned and returned, knelt and rose, spread out or

closed his hands, was more sombre than that of the other priests, but

it was no more strongly moved. Philip had once seen his father the

moment before a successful but very dangerous operation, and the look

of the celebrant reminded him of Sir Bernard then: it was the look of

a man conscious of the gravity of the work before him but conscious

also of an entire capacity to deal with it. But was this also then a

work of cutting and setting right and binding? was it as possible, if

less usual, to restore a man’s will as to restore his stomach? The

archbishop seemed to be no more agitated than any clergyman delivering

a sermon; only as he stood now in the Prayer of Consecration, he

suddenly, after the words “in the same night that He was betrayed,”

paused and repeated them on a more exalted note. “In the same night

that He was betrayed…” Philip felt himself looking into a

different world; a world he had glimpsed once before over the

outstretched arm that had been more significant to him than any other

experience in his life. To take his part in it, if indeed it really

existed, was beyond him; yet he felt that if something was in fact

being done there to aid a man he ought to be taking his part in it. He

understood the work no more than he understood why Rosamond should be

and mean so much. But if the king were really hypnotized…he began

to make a wordless effort towards prayer, half absurd though he felt

his effort to be. On the instant it took him; a sudden warmth leapt

within him; his being rested stable upon a rocky basis, and the

movements before him became natural and right. He understood them no

more than before, but he was assured that they answered to the

imperious control that held him. That control was gone again in a

moment; he found himself staring only at the ordinary men whom he

knew; his mind was undirected, his heart was unwarmed, as before. But

as at Hampstead there had opened spaces and distance beyond all

dreams, so now there had shown glimpse of a certainty beyond all

pledges and promises, a fixity which any after hesitation was

powerless to deny. He became conscious of an immense stillness around

him; the Archbishop was on his knees before the altar, and the others

motionless in their places. The Archbishop’s voice sounded: “Almighty

and Everlasting God, who alone art the life of all thy creatures and

hast made them able to know how in thy eternity they glorify thee,

unite them in thy prevailing will, and increase in them that freedom

which only is able to bring them to the bondage of the perfect

service, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” The chaplain and Caithness

answered “Amen.”

 

“Almighty God,” the Archbishop said again, “make us to know thee

through thy Love who hath redeemed us, and bestoweth through the

operations of the Church militant upon earth grace and aid upon all

that are in adversity. Establish in us, and especially at this time

upon our brother here present, a perfect knowledge of thee, overcome

all errors and tyrannies, and as thou only art holy, so be thou only

the Lord, through Jesus Christ our Saviour.”

 

Before the “Amen” had ceased, he rose, genuflected, turned, and came

down the steps of the altar to Inkamasi. He set his hands on the

Zulu’s head, paused, and went on: “By the power of Immanuel who only

is perfect Man, by his power committed unto us, we recall all powers

in thee to their natural obedience, making whole all things that are

sick, and destroying all things that are contrary to his will. Awake,

thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give

thee life. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy

Ghost.”

 

As his voice sounded through the chapel Philip saw the hands of the

king come together, saw them fold themselves, saw his head move, heard

him sigh. Caithness moved an arm behind him, but it was not needed.

Inkamasi glanced round swiftly, and as he did so the Archbishop as

swiftly went back to the altar, genuflected, and returned, bearing the

Sacred Gifts. He communicated them to Caithness first, and then, as if

in the ritual of his office, to the king; only again his voice

lingered on and intensified the formula of two thousand years, the

formula by which Christendom has defined, commanded and assisted the

resurrection of man in God. As naturally as in any other service of

his life, the king received the Mystery; afterwards he moved as if to

rise, but Caithness with a smile touched him on the shoulder and made

a quiet signal of restraint, and he desisted. They remained in their

places till the Rite was done. The Archbishop and the chaplain passed

out, and in due time the others also rose and made their way to the

door.

 

The chaplain met them there; he and Caithness exchanged a few murmured

sentences, and then the three went back to the car.

 

There Caithness said: “I’ll drive this time; you two get in together.”

Inkamasi hesitated a moment but he obeyed, and the priest added

hastily to Philip. “He knows you; better tell him everything he wants

to hear-”

 

“Yes, but look here,” Philip began, a little startled. “I’m not clear

what-”

 

“No, but never mind,” Caithness said, rather more like the vicar for

the moment than the godfather or even the priest, “you’re able to

explain what’s happened, aren’t you? He’s met you and he hasn’t met

me—that’s why you’ll do it better. In you get.”

 

In accordingly Philip got. But he didn’t quite see how to open the

conversation. Did one just say engagingly, “You must be surprised to

find yourself here?” or apologetically, “I hope you don’t mind our

having carried you away?” Or could one risk saying, with an air of

relief, “That was a near thing?” And then supposing he said, “What?”

or “How?” What had it been near to? and how? Philip began to wish that

his father was in the car. But before he had found the exact words,

the African turned to him and said, “Will you tell me, Mr. Travers,

what has been happening?”

 

Philip tried to, and thought he failed badly. But apparently enough

became clear to satisfy Inkamasi, who listened intently, and then

said, “You’ve done me a greater service than I quite know, I think.

It’s very good of you.”

 

“Not at all,” said Philip. “My father didn’t like leaving you there.

Perhaps we ought to apologize…but…”

 

“No,” Inkamasi said, “no, I don’t think you ought to apologize. If

you’ve made my life clear to me, that doesn’t seem a thing to

apologize for.” He stared in front of him. “But that we shall see,” he

added, and relapsed into silence.

 

Philip, looking at him, thought that he wasn’t looking very friendly,

and that he was looking rather African, in fact rather—savage. Savage

was a word which might here, in fact, have a stronger meaning than it

generally had. Inkamasi’s head was thrust forward, his jaw was set;

his hand moved, slowly and relentlessly, along his leg to his knee, as

if with purpose, and not a pleasant purpose. “I hope he isn’t annoyed

with us,” Philip thought. “My father must have meant it for the best.”

But before they reached Kensington the king relaxed; only there was

still about him something high and strange, something apart and

reserved, something almost (but quite impersonally) exalted—in short,

something like a chieftain who knows that he is a chieftain and is

instinctively living up to his knowledge. When they reached Colindale

Square, Philip, being on the near side, got out first, and half held

the car door for the stranger. Inkamasi got out and smiled his thanks.

But he didn’t utter them, and Philip was suddenly aware that he had

expected him to. As it was, Inkamasi seemed to have relegated him to

the position of an upper servant, yet without being discourteous. Sir

Bernard met them in the hall.