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

bell rang in his ears and

called him—a bell far, far below: “ding dong bell, ding dong bell.”

Hark! now he heard it. It was not now those on the shore who neglected

him; it was he who had to leave them on their shore. “Ding dong bell”;

they were ringing for him, a knell and a summons at once. Because

there was no other hope, he obeyed; he forced himself to cease from

struggling, and from feet to lifted hands one direct line he shot

downwards, down, down, to where the dead men lay. The noise in his

ears might have been the shouting of many voices, crowds and armies,

about their lord, or it might have been the sea uttering itself, its

voice heard not in its own words but in a tremendous echo, sovereign

for those who heard it, shaped into words: “Thus the Filial Godhead

answering spake.” The thunder of the speech crashed through him as he,

assenting to it and to the sea which spoke it, dropped down through

the speed of the depth. It was agony to let himself sink so, to

release all that he loved, to fall through this alien element by which

they walked; it was pain, indescribable…indescribable…what?

—not pain but something else, an exquisiteness of pain which was, now

he realized it, not pain at all but delight. How many there were, far

away on that shore beyond him, who fancied themselves in pain, and,

could they know it, carried all delight in their hearts! Man, through

most of his poor ignorant years, did not truly know what he felt; he

was so habituated to the past that he sighed when he should have

laughed and laughed when he should have sighed. The great passions

swept through him unrecognized till far off he saw the glory of their

departure, and cried out, “That was!” But in rare moments he knew,

and then what power was his! And, could a man’s body be always

impregnated with this salt, as his own was now, and infiltrated with

this sea, he might always know! His experience would always be new,

for newness was the quality of this everlasting and universal life. He

knew delight and named it; unafraid, he summoned it, and it came. He

rejoiced in an ecstasy that controlled itself in great tidal breaths.

He was no longer sinking but walking on the sand at the great sea’s

bottom, only the sea was no longer there; he was himself the sea and

he walked in the sun over the yellow sands. “Come unto these yellow

sands.” He himself—ocean calling to ocean; to other seas that danced

in a flooding splendour. Ecstasy was no more a bewilderment; only

those who had not known it were afraid of it, for it was man’s natural

life. In the stormy waters of the surface there was danger and death,

but, for those who would not fly from the depths and the distances,

those very depths and distances were found to be part of their nature.

Every step that he took was delight; he sent out the cry of the

released spirit: “Merrily, merrily shall I live now.”

 

Something lay on his forehead, obstructing him, as if it were a hand;

he laboured under it. It pressed on him, or he against it, as if alien

limitation controlled him; he stumbled in his walk because it lay over

his eyes and blinded him. A great fear of blindness, of losing this

most happy life, filled him. He threw up his hands to tear the

obstruction away, and they too were caught and prisoned. He tore them

loose; he flung back his head; he was convulsed with a spasm of agony,

and he was standing in the darkness of a cold night under a wooden

roof, and opposite him was the tall watchful figure of Nigel

Considine.

 

There was a long silence; then Considine said, “It may be known and

believed, it can’t be lived thus. But it can be found and lived. Let

us go in.”

 

In the hall there were a group of some half-dozen; away from them,

standing together, were Caithness and Rosenberg. Mottreux was moving

about from one place to another. Roger joined his friends. Considine

stood still and gathered their eyes and thoughts to himself; when that

concentration was sufficient he spoke.

 

“All’s ready,” he said, “and you know your offices. All of us, except

Mottreux, leave tonight. He remains here. But there are two things

yet to be done. Mr. Rosenberg, I present to you the jewels which your

cousin left to you.” Mottreux came forward slowly and gave him the

case, which he offered to the Jew who took it silently. Mottreux fell

back a pace or two so that he stood behind his master. His face was

livid, and he rubbed one hand backward and forward over his forehead.

But he stood, horribly eyeing the Jew, while Considine went on: “I

invite you to come with me if you choose, and I will see that you

reach Jerusalem. There you may wait in peace the coming of your

Messias. If you choose to stay here, you shall be taken to London

tonight or tomorrow to any place that you name.”

 

“I will do as you have said,” Rosenberg answered. “The Lord shall

reward you, and I will rest in Jerusalem.”

 

“But for us, lords and princes, my companions,” Considine said, and

his tone sank from conversational ease to direction and control,

“before we take up again the work that is before us, there remains one

ceremony to fulfil. Initiates of love and death, I invite you to a

sacrifice of death, by virtue of that hope and determination which

shall make you masters of death as you are in your degree masters of

love. There is in this house another guest, a child of royalty and an

inheritor of one of the great and passionate imaginations of mankind,

Inkamasi the Zulu. He is not with us, but we are with him. Shadow

though it be of the true ecstasy and fiery life into which we shall

enter, it is yet an heritage worthy of honour. To us has been

committed the care of these vast and antique dreams; it is ours to

see, so far as in us lies, that those who are possessed by them are

entertained mightily and dismissed royally. Love and poetry and

royalty are adored as the channels whereby the passion and imagination

of man’s heart become revealed to him, and knowing his own greatness

he moves to the final accomplishment, the ending in his own person of

all the accidents of place and time. This man is not with us, but in

an hour when, superseded in Africa and undesired in Europe, he looks

for a throne on which to perish, it must be we who offer him that

throne. By no compulsion and no persuasion the King Inkamasi turns to

the throne we offer and awaits immolation there. He is driven by the

might of his own royalty which demands of him no lesser conclusion; he

is received by us as, beyond his purpose, a meet and acceptable

sacrifice. Put away from you the desires of your hearts, save the one

last desire. I exhort you to come with hands of devotion and a single

heart; who knows but this very night the work may be accomplished and

there may descend upon one of us that ecstasy which shall drive him

into death and in death to resurrection?”

 

Roger heard and realized what was conveyed by phrase and accent.

Appalled by the understanding he took a half-step forward, but

Caithness was before him. With a supernatural insolence as high as

Considine’s own, the priest cried out and confronted his enemy. “You

dare not touch him,” he said. “This man is in your care, and his blood

is on your head if you hurt him. God shall require it of you; I charge

you to let him go-”

 

Considine had paused to let him speak, but now with a gesture he

stopped him, and as the priest panted for words the other’s voice set

him aside.

 

“If that time which you and he accept and serve were at your

disposal,” he said, “I would not prevent your seeking to turn him from

his assent. But it cannot be now. You will not encourage him to seek

victory in death; and the king cannot fail from his royalty. What we

do we do quickly. It is permitted, if you choose, that you shall be

with him at his end; console, direct him as you will. But see that you

do not interfere now with his and our choice, or you shall be taken

from him. The offering which he makes and which we, with vaster

purposes, accept is beyond the humble vision of your creed. He dies

for the sake of his kingship; we experience his death for the sake of

making it a part of our imaginations. Man shall conquer death, not by

submitting to it as you teach, and not by avoiding it in a mere

prolongation of life, as certain wise yet erring masters have taught,

though this may be a necessary step towards conquest, but by entering

into and annulling it.”

 

“Antichrist,” the priest exclaimed, “is the day of your dominion

here?”

 

“Neither Christ nor Antichrist,” the voice of the other answered him,

“but I bring a gospel of redemption, and the ends of the world hear

it: whom do men say that I, a son of man, am?”

 

He flung out a hand towards the group of his servants and disciples;

he turned his eyes upon them and they answered, Arab and Egyptian,

negro and white: “The end of mirage, the palm in the desert,” “The

last of the Imams, the Shadow of Allah,” “The lord of sorcerers and

kings,” “The bearer of keys, the interpreter of tongues,” and, as the

mingled voices ceased, Considine’s own answered them: “I am all these

and yet I am no more than any of you, for all of you shall be as I.

That which I have known I have not known of myself. I am the child of

the initiates; their servant and the servant of the mighty imagination

which is in man. Any of you shall conclude his kingdom before me;

purify yourselves, know, exult, and live. I call to you again, lords

of the spirit, postulants of infinity, put away all desire but to be

fulfilled in yourselves. The sacrifice of kingship is for the single

of heart.”

 

He swept his arms upward and inward in one compelling gesture. “Come,

see the death of a man. Come you too,” he added to his guests, “if you

so will. But if not, then remain here until we come for you again, to

accompany the body of the King Inkamasi to the sepulchre in the ocean

which awaits him.”

 

He went forward and his servants after him. Vereker signed to

Caithness to precede him, and Roger accompanied the priest. Mottreux

looked after them; then he went swiftly to Rosenberg and laid his hand

on the casket.

 

“Do you really mean to go with these to Jerusalem?” he said.

 

“I am determined,” the old man answered. “I will make haste to the

city of our God.”

 

Mottreux turned sharply away; he went after the others.

 

They were going to the room where that morning Roger had seen the

attempt at revivification, but the last of the disciples did not quite

catch them up. Very softly he went after them; when Vereker had

entered the room he paused by the door, and as softly moved a key from

within to without. Then he pulled the door nearly but not quite shut

after him and waited.