War in Heaven by Charles Williams (books to read for self improvement txt) đ
"Oh, mummie, don't sit down there, that's my table," he said.
"Darling, I'm so sorry," Barbara Rackstraw answered. "Had you got anything on it?"
"Well, I was going to put the dinner things," Adrian explained. "I'll just see if the chicken's cooked. Oh, it's lovely!"
"How nice!" Barbara said abstractedly. "Is it a large chicken?"
"Not a very large one," Adrian admitted. "There's enough for me and you and my Bath auntie."
"Oh," said Barbara, startled, "is your Bath auntie here?"
"Well, she may be coming," said Adrian. "Mummie, why do I have a Bath auntie?"
"Because a baby grew up into your Bath auntie, darling," his mother said. "Unintentional but satisfactory, as far as it goes. Adrian, do you think your father will like cold sausages? Because there doesn't seem to be anything else much."
"I don't want any cold sausages," Adrian said hurriedly.
"No, my angel, but it's the twenty-seventh of the month, an
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Barbaraâs voiceâor the voice of the apparent Barbaraâbroke in. âBut, dearest,â she said, âhow dreadful for you! Why didnât you tell me? You must have had a horrible time.â She dropped the paper again and hurled herself on to her knees beside him.
He caught her hand in his own, and felt as if his body at least was sane, whatever his mind might be. After all, the universe had produced Barbara. And Adrian, who, though a nuisance, was at least delimited and real in his own fashion. The fantastic child of his dream, evil and cruel and vigilant, couldnât at the same time have Adrianâs temper and Adrianâs indefatigable interest in things. Even devils couldnât be normal children at the same time. He brought his wifeâs wrist to his cheek, and the touch subdued the rising hysteria within him. âIt was rather a loathsome business,â he said, and put out his other hand for the cigarettes.
II
Mornington had on various occasions argued with Lionel whether pessimism was always the result of a too romantic, even a too sentimental, view of the world; and a slightly scornful mind pointed out to him, while he ate a solitary meal in his rooms that evening, that the shock which he undoubtedly had felt was the result of not expecting people to murder other people. âWhereas they naturally do,â he said to himself. âThe normal thing with an unpleasant intrusion is to try and exclude itâ human or not. So silly not to be prepared for these things. Some people, as De Quincey said, have a natural aptitude for being murdered. To kill or to be killed is a perfectly reasonable thing. And I will not let it stop me taking those lists round to the Vicarâs.â
He got up, collected the papers which he had been analysing for reports on parochial finance, and went off to the Vicarage of St. Cyprianâs, which was only a quarter of an hour from his home. He disliked himself for doing work that he disliked, but he had never been able to refuse help to any of his friends; and the Vicar might be numbered among them. Mornington suspected his Christianity of being the inevitable result of having moved for some time as a youth of eighteen in circles which were, in a rather detached and superior way, opposed to it; but it was a religion which enabled him to despise himself and everyone else without despising the universe, thus allowing him at once in argument or conversation the advantages of the pessimist and the optimist. It was because the Vicar, a hard-worked practical priest, had been driven by stress of experience to some similar standpoint that the two occasionally found one another congenial.
That evening, however, he found a visitor at the Vicarage, a round, dapper little cleric in gaiters, who was smoking a cigar and turning over the pages of a manuscript. The Vicar pulled Mornington into the study where they were sitting.
âMy dear fellow,â he said, âcome in, come in. Weâve been talking about you. Let me introduce the Archdeacon of Castra ParvulorumâMr. Mornington. What a dreadful business this is at your office! Did you have anything to do with it?â
Mornington saluted the Archdeacon, who took off his eyeglasses and bowed back. âDreadful,â he said, tentatively Mornington thought; rather as if he wasnât quite sure what the other wanted him to say, and was anxious to accommodate himself to what was expected. âYes, dreadful!â
âWell,â Mornington answered, rebelling against this double sympathy, âof course, it was a vast nuisance. It disturbed the whole place. And I forgot to send the copy for our advertisement in the Bookmanâso we shanât get in this month. Thatâs the really annoying part. I hate being defeated by a murder. And it wasnât even in my own room.â
âAh, thatâs the trade way of looking at it,â the Vicar said. âYouâll have some coffee? But this poor fellow⊠is it known at all who he was?â
âNary a know,â Mornington answered brightly. âThe police have the body as the clue, and thatâs all. Rather large, and inconvenient to lug about, and of course only available for a few days. Nature, you know. But itâs the Bookman that annoys meâyou wouldnât believe how much.â
âOh, come, not really!â the Vicar protested. âYou wouldnât compare the importance of an advertisement with a murder.â
âI think Mr. Morningtonâs quite right,â the Archdeacon said. âAfter all, one shouldnât be put out of oneâs stride by anything phenomenal and accidental. The just man wouldnât be.â
âBut, still, a murderââ the Vicar protested.
The Archdeacon shrugged. âMurders or mice, the principleâs the same,â he answered. âTo-morrow is too late, I suppose?â
âQuite,â Mornington answered. âBut I neednât worry you with my phenomenal and specialist troubles.â
âAs a matter of fact,â the Archdeacon went on placidly, âwe were talking about your firm at first rather differently.â He pointed with his glasses to the manuscript on the table, and looked coyly at Mornington. âI dare say you can guess,â he added.
Mornington tried to look pleased, and said in a voice that almost cracked with doubt: âBooks?â
âA book,â the Vicar said. âThe Archdeaconâs been giving a series of addresses on Christianity and the League of Nations, and heâs made them into a little volume which ought to have a good sale. So, of course, I thought of you.â
âThank you so much,â Mornington answered. âAnd youâll excuse me askingâ but is the Archdeacon prepared to back his fancy? Will he pay if necessary?â
The Archdeacon shook his head. âI couldnât do that, Mr. Mornington,â he said. âIt doesnât seem to me quite moral, so to speak. You know how they say a book is like a child. One has a ridiculous liking for oneâs own childâquite ridiculous. And thatâs all right. But seriously to think itâs better than other children, to push it, to âbackâ its being better, as you saidâthat seems to me so silly as to be almost wicked.â He shook his head sadly at the manuscript.
âOn the general principle I donât agree with you,â Mornington said. âIf your ideas are better than othersâ you ought to push them. Iâve no patience with our modern democratic modesty. How do you know the publisher you send it to is a better judge than you are? And, if he rejects it, what do you do?â
âIf I send it to all the publishers,â the Archdeacon answered, âand they all reject it, I think I should believe them. Securus iudicat, you know.â
âBut it doesnât,â Mornington said. âNot by any manner of means. The orbis terrarum has to be taught its business by the more intelligent people. It has never yet received a new idea into its chaotic mind unless imposed by force, and generally by the sword.â
He picked up the MS. and turned over the pages. ââThe Protocol and the Pact,ââ he read aloud, ââas Stages in Manâs Consciousness.â âQualities and Nationalities.â âModes of Knowledge in Christ and Their Correspondences in Mankind.â âIs the League of Nations Representative?ââ
âI gather,â he said, looking up, âthat this is at once specialist and popular. I donât for a moment suppose we shall take it, but I should like to have a look at it. May I carry it off now?â
âI think Iâd like to keep it over the week-end,â the Archdeacon answered. âThereâs a point or two I want to think over and a little Greek I want to check. Perhaps I might bring it down to you on Monday or Tuesday?â
âDo,â Mornington said. âOf course, I shanât decide. Itâll go to one of our political readers, who wonât, I should think from the chapter-headings, even begin to understand it. But bring it along by all means. Persimmonsâ list is the most muddled-up thing in London. âFoxy Flossieâs Flirtationsâ and âNotes on Black Magic Considered Philosophicallyâ. But that, of course, is his father, so thereâs some excuse.â
âI thought you told me the elder Mr. Persimmons had retired,â the Vicar said.
âHe is the Evening Star,â Mornington answered. âHe cuts the glory from the grey, as it were. But he pops in a good deal so as to do it. He hovers on the horizon perpetually, and about once a fortnight lightens from the east to the west, or at least to Persimmonsâ private office. A nice enough creatureâwith a perverse inclination towards the occult.â
âIâm afraid,â the Vicar said gloomily, âthis interest in what they call the occult is growing. Itâs a result of the lack of true religion in these days and a wrong curiosity.â
âOh, wrong, do you think?â Mornington asked. âWould you say any kind of curiosity was wrong? What about Job?â
âJob?â the Archdeacon asked.
âWell, sir, I always understood that where Job scored over the three friends was in feeling a natural curiosity why all those unfortunate things happened to him. They simply put up with it, but he, so to speak, asked God what He thought He was doing.â
The Vicar shook his head. âHe was told he couldnât understand.â
âHe was taunted with not being able to understandâwhich isnât quite the same thing,â Mornington answered. âAs a mere argument thereâs something lacking perhaps, in saying to a man whoâs lost his money and his house and his family and is sitting on the dustbin, all over boils, âLook at the hippopotamus.ââ
âJob seemed to be impressed,â the Archdeacon said mildly.
âYes,â Mornington admitted. âHe was certainly a perfect fool, in one meaning or other of the words.â He got up to go, and added: âThen I shall see you in the City before you go back to⊠Castra Parvulorum, was it? What a jolly name!â
âUnfortunately it isnât generally called that,â the Archdeacon said. âItâs called in directories and so on, and by the inhabitants, Fardles. By Grimmâs Law.â
âGrimmâs Law?â Mornington asked, astonished. âWasnât he the man who wrote the fairy tales for the parvuli? But why did he make a law about it? And why did anyone take any notice?â
âI understand it was something to do with Indo-European sounds,â the Archdeacon answered. âThe Castra was dropped, and in parvulorum the p became f and the v became d. And Grimm discovered what had happened. But I try and keep the old name as well as I can. Itâs not far from London. They say Caesar gave it the name because his soldiers caught a lot of British children there, and he sent them back to their own people.â
âThen I donât see why Grimm should have interfered,â Mornington said, shaking hands. âFardles⊠it sounds like an essay by Maurice Hewlett. Castra Parvulorum⊠it sounds like⊠it sounds like Rome. Well, good night, sir. Good night, Vicar. No, donât come to the door.â
III
Actually at the moment when Mornington was speaking of him the elder Mr. Persimmons was sitting in a comfortable chair in an Ealing flat, listening to his sonâs account of the afternoonâs adventure. He was a large man, and he lay back watching Stephen with amused eyes, as the younger man grew more and more agitated over the incredible facts.
âIâm so afraid itâll be bad for business,â he ended abruptly.
The other sighed a little and looked at the fire. âBusiness,â he said. âOh, I shouldnât worry about business. If they want your books, theyâll buy your books.â He paused a little, and added: âI called in to see you to-day, but you were out.â
âDid you?â his son said. âThey didnât tell me.â
âJust as well,â Mr. Persimmons answered, âbecause you neednât know now. You wonât be called at the inquest. Only, if anybody ever
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