Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (that summer book txt) 📕
"Not in so many words?" Philip asked.
"Contrapuntal," Sir Bernard said. "When you've heard as many speeches as I have, you'll find that's the only interest in them: the intermingling of the theme proposed and the theme actual."
"I can never make out whether Roger's serious," Philip said. "He seems to be getting at one the whole time. Rosamond feels it too."
Sir Bernard thought it very likely. Rosamond Murchison was Isabel's sister and Roger's sister-in-law, but only in law. Rosamond privately felt that Roger was conceited and not quite nice; Roger, less privately, felt that Rosamond was stuckup and not quite intelligent. When, as at present, she was staying with the Ingrams in Hampstead, it was only by Isabel's embracing sympathy that tolerable relations were maintained. Sir Bernard almost wished that Philip could have got engaged to someone else. He was very fond of his son, and he was afraid that the approaching marriage would
Read free book «Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (that summer book txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Charles Williams
- Performer: -
Read book online «Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams (that summer book txt) 📕». Author - Charles Williams
desired. For a kiss also is but the shadow of ecstasy. Then they
taught me in the lodge of the initiated how, though death might be
far, yet it was certain, and that at death the ghost of man wanders
stripped of all powers that it has gained in a place of shadows, and
that there remained yet to be found the secret of how man could go
into that place armed with passion and high delight and return to this
world when and as he would. He that has mastered love has mastered the
world, and he that masters death is lord of that other. Also as the
delights of mere bodily love are but shadows beside the rich joys of
the transforming imagination, so this itself is nothing compared to
the revivifying intoxication of the passage from life to death and
from death to life. And I set my purpose on this and laboured to
achieve it. But, while I brooded, the feet of Europe came nearer, and
the blind intelligence of Europe looked into the clear light of the
lodges and said: ‘It is dark, it is dark,’ and smelt wickedness. And
the religion of Europe came, and the learning of Europe. Then we the
adepts knew that, unless we made Africa free, in a little while Europe
would trample over us and we should be gone; and we resolved that
Europe must be stayed.”
He paused and looked out over the fields and hedges between which they
were passing. Then he went on more sharply and swiftly:
“Not that all the Europeans who came to Africa then had closed
themselves to wisdom. Some of the white officers sat in our lodges and
were initiated and entered into trance, and made themselves strong
men; there have always been some who would do this—Mottreux was one;
I met him in Uganda, and there was a French General in Morocco, and in
the south Simon Rosenberg’s great uncle. And there were others. All of
us set to work to unite Africa. We knew the lodges already in various
parts of the land, and we drew all these into one. And we spoke with
the chiefs and kings; little by little we brought them into our
purpose. The witch-doctors and sorcerers were ours already, though
they were in the outer circle. They gave us a means of ruling the
tribes, and little by little through many years we proposed to
ourselves to show the people of Africa the doctrines of freedom and
sacrifice and ecstasy, and I determined to strike at Europe by panic
and strength.”
Roger said abruptly, “Yet you seemed to wish that Mottreux hadn’t
fired.”
“Why, for myself,” Considine said, “if men without weapons come
against me I’ll meet them without weapons, heart to heart and strength
to strength. But shall I waste years imposing my will on the
Governments of Europe—and spend my energies so? It shall be a shorter
business. They proclaim guns and they shall have guns. But for the
adepts—If I wish Mottreux had not fired it was for his sake, not
mine.”
“Your friends may fire at you one day,” the intolerant voice of the
priest broke in, “when they want something you can’t give them.”
“Pieces of silver, for example,” Considine said, not turning his head.
The night lay about them; they swept on through it. Roger looked out
on the unseen countryside, and remembered the words that had brought
about his own meeting with the conquistador who sat opposite him. “I
will encounter darkness as a bride”—he was rushing towards that
darkness now. The dark closed them in, but they were speeding towards
the core of the darkness; the words themselves were swallowing them
up. All the miracles of the poets had rent and illumined and charged
that night, but the mingling light and dark which was in all easily
accepted verse lay far behind them now where the wild rapture of the
Africans surged above London. It was as if he had passed from them
from something which was himself, to something which was even more
himself. His very physical body was being carried in towards the
energy which created art. Art…the ancient word so often defiled
and made stupid stood for a greatness only partially explored. His
body felt the energy opposite him—an energy self-restrained, self
shaped. “And hug it in mine arms-” but if the arms could not bear it,
if the awful blasting power of that darkness should destroy him as the
glory of Zeus destroyed Semele? It was too late now for choice; he was
lost and saved at once. Onward and onward, away from the ironic
contemplations of the children of the wise world and from the
shrieking self-immolating abandonments of the more ignorant sons of
rapture; away from young perplexity and young greed; away from Isabel.
High-set, as the moon now rising, he saw her, knowing in her daily
experiences, her generous heart and her profound womanhood, all that
he must compass sea and land to find. This was the separation that had
been between man and woman from the beginning; this was fated, and
this must be willed. It was the everlasting reconciliation of the
everlasting contradiction-to will what was fated, to choose necessity.
Perfect for one moment in his heart, he knew the choice taken. He
willed necessity. All the poets had done this in their own degree—the
very making of their verse was this, their patience and their labour,
their silence till the utterance they so long desired rose into being
within them. This was the secret of royalty—the solemn anointed
figure of government to whom necessary obedience was willed, and so
through all orders of hierarchical life, secular or religious,
vocational in every kind, trade or profession, ceremonial or actual.
Love too was its image, but love and not the beloved was the
necessity; to love, and only to the beloved as the sacred means, the
honourable toil was given.
Something different was in the air; his nostrils felt, far off, the
smell of the sea.
The wild figures that danced on the outskirts of London that night
were but few and scattered representations of the more monstrous forms
that filled it within. The serpent skins that clothed some of the
leaders of the dance were poor vestments if compared to the mad
dragons of escaping multitudes. Considine had indeed loosed but few of
his meinie on the hills of the north and the south; he had not cared,
it was afterwards discovered, even to justify the announcements of
burning villages and destroyed troops which he had caused to be
broadcast. A few bombs had been dropped but more for noise and mental
horror than to destroy. He had even reassured London, speaking from
its centre. But there were many whom the reassurance did not solace,
and there were many, many more, who did not hear it, for they were
already in flight. It was known in the small streets and the slums of
the extremer suburbs that the Africans had landed, and of those who in
those crowded buildings heard the news there were few who did not rush
out to seek safety. The north fled southwards; the south fled
northwards; the west broke away towards the east. Over the east alone
no hostile airfleet manoeuvred and fought the English planes while its
laden airships sank earthward to landing places prepared long since.
Many a house with wide grounds had waited for this night; flares
summoned the enemy and they came. At most they numbered few enough in
comparison with the defenders, and they were not meant for attack. But
on all convenient heights their fires blazed, and sacred revels were
begun which till now had been hidden in the black night of African
swamps. As there the wild animals fled from the drums, the conches,
and the screams, so now the terrified population rushed away to what
it hoped was safety. The slums poured out their people, and not the
slums alone. From many a fine house, lying happily on the outer rim of
London, cars issued bearing huddled women and children, while men,
both young and old, drove them furiously away. A brother coming back
home would bear the news, or a father peering from a window would be
aware, dreadfully near him, of the awful barbarian tumult breaking
out, and household after household sought by their mechanical
inventions to escape from the strange gospel which called to their
uncomprehending minds. Considine’s voice had hardly ceased its
proclamation when opposite Charing Cross a laden car from near the
Heath crashed into another similarly laden from the Terrace at
Richmond. This was but the first of many similar catastrophes. London
became the enemy of London; civil war, chaotic and bloody, surged
through the streets. Ealing and Highgate and Streatham, listening to
the guns, heard instead the riot roaring through them, hesitated and
feared and shrank, and then, as the rumours grew louder, and the panic
in the streets spread into the houses, themselves swept out to swell
the flood. The spray of the approaching waves of humanity mingled; the
first fugitives passed each other and soon began to call out, and
heard how they fled not towards safety but towards new danger. And
behind those earliest and most timorous souls came the main hurrying
processions. They came up towards the centre; stations and tubes were
choked, and yet tubes and stations offered no certain refuge from an
enemy pursuing on foot. It was not merely death dropped from the skies
that threatened but death hastening along on earth. Round about
Piccadilly and Pall Mall, clambering over the railings of the parks,
trying to rest in Trafalgar Square, surging over the bridges and even
running on and falling from their parapets, surging also from the
thoroughfares of the north, the mob converged on the central lines of
Oxford Street and Holborn and Cheapside, of the Strand and Fleet
Street and Ludgate Hill and Cannon Street. There it sought to pause,
but still the continual presence thrust it from behind, and now it was
driven on not merely to escape death that pursued from afar but death
that threatened close at hand. The mere necessity of breath oppressed
it, the desire of escape not from Africa but from itself. Ignorant and
at odds with itself it swayed and exuded itself, and was magnetized by
some slight movement and rushed after in blind despair or even blinder
hope. A woman with a baby would take a few steps down a partly
deserted turning, and others would follow, and a small eddy would be
set up which a mile away was reflected in another insane and
multitudinous onrush. A young man would pull his girl into an arch or
doorway for rest, and others would see and follow, and a little tumult
would break out in that greater tumult, and the first couple were
fortunate indeed if they both emerged from that tiny crush alive into
the ever-moving surges that poured by them. Yet, terrible as the fear
was, fear was not present alone; desire and loathing and the cruel
darkness of abandoned souls walked in the mist of the crowds and took
their pleasure as they could. Abominable things were done, which none
saw or seeing stopped to prevent. Shrieks went up in hidden corners,
and laughter and sudden silences answered them, silences hardly
discernible in the general roar and themselves filled with the
never-ceasing sound of the guns. How many devotees of Considine’s
choosing rode through the air to death that night was never rightly
known, but not till the late November dawn was high did the movement
of his planes or the efforts of the English gunners cease. There was
therefore, for the elements
Comments (0)