The Place of the Lion by Charles Williams (i can read book club .txt) 📕

“Aren’t we,” Quentin put in, his voice sounding unnatural to him as he spoke, “aren’t we making a rather absurd fuss over a mistake? We”, his gesture included his friend, “were rather tired. And it was dark. Or almost dark. And we were—we were not frightened: I am not frightened: but we were startled. And the old man fell. And we did not see clearly.” The sentences came out in continuous barks.

Mr. Foster turned so suddenly in his chair that Anthony jumped. “And will you see clearly?” he demanded, thrusting his body and head forward towards Quentin. “Will you?”

“No,” Quentin cried back at him. “I will not. I will see nothing of it, if I can help it. I won’t, I tell you! And you can’t make me. The lion himself can’t make me.”

“The lion!” Mr. Foster said. “Young man, do you really think to escape, if it is on your track?”

“It isn’t on my track, I tell you,” Quentin howled, jumping up. “How can it be? There isn’t any—there never was any. I don’t believe in these things. There’s London and us and the things we know.”

Anthony interfered. “That at least is true,” he said. “There is London and us and what we know. But it can’t hurt to find out exactly what we know, can it? I mean, we have always rather agreed about that, haven’t we? Look here, Quentin, sit down and let me tell Mr. Foster what we thought—at the time—and for the time—that we saw. And you put me right if I go wrong.”

“Carry on.” Quentin, trembling all over, forced himself to say, turning as he did so to make a pretence of rearranging his chair. Anthony therefore recounted the story of the Tuesday evening and of how on the lawn of that house they had seen, as it seemed, the gigantic form of the lion. He did it as lightly as possible, but at best, in the excited atmosphere of the room, the tale took on the sound of some dark myth made visible to mortal and contemporary eyes. He himself, before he had finished, found himself in the midst of speaking eyeing with mingled alarm, fascination, and hope, the room before him, almost as if at any minute the presence should be manifested there.

“And after that,” Mr. Foster said, “did you not hear the thunder?”

“Why, yes,” the young men said together.

Mr. Foster made a contemptuous motion with his hand.

“Thunder,” he uttered scornfully. “That was no thunder; that was the roaring of the lion.”

Quentin seemed to be sitting still by a tremendous effort. Anthony eyed his visitor steadily.

“Tell us what you mean,” he said.

Mr. Foster sat forward. “You have heard of the owner of the house?” he said. “Well, Berringer is a very wise man—you must not judge him by all that group who get about him—and he has made it his business to try and see the world of principles from which this world comes. He-”

Anthony’s raised hand stopped him. “The world of principles?”

“He believes-and I believe it too,” Mr. Foster said, “that this world is created, and all men and women are created, by the entrance of certain great principles into aboriginal matter. We call them by cold names; wisdom and courage and beauty and strength and so on, but actually they are very great and mighty Powers. It may be they are the angels and archangels of which the Christian Church talks—and Miss Damaris Tighe—I do not know. And when That which is behind them intends to put a new soul into matter it disposes them as it will, and by a peculiar mingling of them a child is born; and this is their concern with us, but what is their concern and business among themselves we cannot know. And by this gentle introduction of them, every time in a new and just proportion, mankind is maintained. In the animals they are less mingled, for there each is shown to us in his own becoming shape; those Powers are the archetypes of the beasts, and very much more, but we need not talk of that. Now this world in which they exist is truly a real world, and to see it is a very difficult and dangerous thing, but our master held that it could be done, and that the man was very wise who would consecrate himself to this end as part—and the chief part—of his duty on earth. He did this, and I, as much as I can, have done it.”

“But I haven’t done it,” Anthony said. “And therefore how can that world—if there is one—be seen by me and people like me?”

“As for that,” the other answered, “there are many people who have disciplined and trained themselves more than they know, but that is not the point now. I know that this man was able sometimes to see into that world, and contemplate the awful and terrible things within it, feeding his soul on such visions; and he could even help others towards seeing it, as he has done me on occasions. But as I told you just now, since these powers exhibit their nature much more singly in the beasts, so there is a peculiar sympathy between the beasts and them. Generally, matter is the separation between all these animals which we know and the powers beyond. But if one of those animals should be brought within the terrific influence of one particular idea—to call it that—very specially felt through a man’s intense concentration on it—”

He paused, and Anthony said: “What then?”

“Why then”, the other said, “the matter of the beast might be changed into the image of the idea, and this world, following that one, might all be drawn into that other world. I think this is happening.”

“O!” said Anthony, and sat down. Quentin was crouched deeply in his chair, his limbs drawn in, his face hidden in his arms, resting on the arm of the chair. A minute or two went by; then Anthony said:

“It’s quite insane, of course; but, if it were true, why a lioness into a lion?”

“Because the temporal and spatial thing may be masculine or feminine, but the immortal being must in itself appear as masculine to us, if masculinity is consonant with its nature,” Mr. Foster answered. “As, of course, supposing that we could call the lion strength or authority or something like that, it would be. But it is absurd to use such words about these forces, at all.”

“It would be something”, Anthony couldn’t help saying, “to know the pet name of any force one happened to meet.” But he spoke almost as if to prick on his incredulity, and neither he nor the others smiled. A much longer time passed now before anyone spoke: then Anthony asked another question.

“And what about Mr. Berringer himself?”

“We can’t yet tell”, Foster said, “what has happened to him. Myself, for what it’s worth, I think he’s the focus of the movement; in some way we don’t understand. It’s through him that this world is passing into that. He and his house are the centre.”

“Is that why everything happens in his garden?” Anthony asked.

“It is why everything begins to happen in his garden,” Foster answered. “But it won’t stop there. If I’m right, if all this world is passing into that, then the effects will be seen farther and farther away. Our knowledge will more and more be a knowledge of that and not of this—more and more everything will be received into its original; animals, vegetables, all the world but those individual results of interior Powers which are men.”

Anthony missed part of this. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “If you’re at all right, it would mean destruction. But you can’t, you can’t be.”

“What did you see in the garden?” Foster demanded. “You know whether you believe in the shape that was there.”

Quentin looked up and spoke harshly. “And what of men?” he asked.

“Some men will welcome it,” Foster said. “As Mr. Tighe has done—as I shall do. And they will be joined to that Power which each of them best serves. Some will disbelieve in it—as I think Damaris Tighe does; but they will find then what they do believe. Some will hate it, and run from it—as you do. I cannot guess what will happen to them, except that they will be hunted. For nothing will escape.”

“Cannot the breach be closed?” Anthony asked.

Mr. Foster laughed a little. “Are we to govern the principles of creation?” he retorted.

Anthony looked at him thoughtfully, and then said still quietly, “Well, we don’t know till we try, do we?”

Quentin looked anxiously at him. “Do you think there’s a chance?” he exclaimed.

Anthony said slowly, “You know, Quentin, I’m almost certain that Damaris will dislike it very much indeed. It will interfere with Abelard dreadfully. And of course you may remember that I promised to do everything I could to help her get her degree.”

“Even”, Mr. Foster asked sarcastically, “to ruling the various worlds of creation?”

“Everything,” Anthony answered. “I don’t know why this Mr. Berringer—no, but perhaps it wasn’t his fault, which makes it worse—I don’t know why this lioness should come upsetting us. You don’t care for the notion yourself, Quentin, do you?”

“I hate—I hate it,” Quentin said, controlling himself not unsuccessfully. Anthony looked back at Mr. Foster. “You get the idea?” he asked.

Their visitor again laughed a little. “You might as well try and stop daffodils growing,” he said. “It’s the law.”

“If it is,” Anthony agreed, “that settles it. But, my dear Mr. Foster, I must insist on being allowed to find out. Actually, of course, I feel that all this thesis of yours is, if you’ll excuse me, pure bunk. But I’ve watched some curious things happen, and now you tell me of others. I should hate anything to worry Miss Tighe—seriously; a little worry might be a perfectly good thing for her. And Mr. Sabot doesn’t want the lion, and Mr. Sabot and I have done our best for years to assist one another against undue interference.”

“Interference!” Foster said, with another laugh.

“Well, you can hardly call it less, can you?” Anthony asked.

“I gather you’re on the side of the lion?”

“I am on the side of the things I have wanted to see,” the other answered, “and if these Powers destroy the world, I am willing to be destroyed. I have given myself to them.”

“Well, I haven’t,” Anthony said, getting up. “Not yet, anyhow. And Mr. Sabot hasn’t, nor Miss Tighe.”

“You fool,” Foster said, “can you stand against them?”

“If they are part of me, as you tell me, perhaps I might; I don’t know,” Anthony answered. “But if they are, then perhaps the authority which is in me over me shall be in me over them. I’m repeating myself, I beg your pardon.”

Mr. Foster got up, with a not quite good-humoured smile. “You’re like most of the world,” he said, “you don’t know necessity when you see it. Well, I’d better go now. Goodnight, and thank you.” He looked at Quentin and offered him no word.

“Necessity, as no doubt Abelard said,” Anthony remarked, “is the mother of invention—_invenio_, you know. The question is what shall I venio in. We’re none of us clear about that, I think.”

He drifted with their visitor to the hall, and returned to find Quentin again restlessly roaming about the room. “Look here,” he said, “you go to bed, old thing.”

“But what are you going to do?” Quentin asked wretchedly.

“O Lord,” said Anthony, “how do I know? I’m going to sit and meditate. No, I don’t want to talk any more and it’s no use going to Smetham till I’ve got my ideas