Shadows of Ecstasy, Charles Williams [e ink epub reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Williams
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virtue of that wide reading which both she and her husband loved, she
had felt a shadow of it at times; in the superb lines of Marlowe or
Shakespeare, in the rolling titles heard on ceremonial occasions at
Church or in local celebrations: “The King’s Most Excellent Majesty,”
“His Majesty the King-Emperor,” “The Government of His Britannic
Majesty.” But on Rosamond unprepared by such imaginative experience
the sudden consciousness of this energy and richness—believing so
greatly in itself and operating so near her—had come with a shock of
dismay. Besides, when all had been said, they were all on edge with
the African news, and to have an African in your own rooms
overwhelming you with himself—No, she didn’t like it, Rosamond was
right.
The single bliss and sole felicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
The divine lines came riding back into her memory. “It isn’t”, Roger
had said once at one of his “popular” lectures, “what poetry says, it
is what poetry is.” These lines described kingship, but that wasn’t
their strength. They invoked kingship, they grew by their very sound
into something of the same enormous royalty which the Zulu had for a
moment worn; they were the safe possession in themselves of that sense
of single bliss and sole felicity which they affected to describe. In
them it was apart from her, to be enjoyed and endured only as she
chose, it was hers. But if it went abroad, moving in the world not at
her decision or the decision of those like her, but in its own right
and power, the energy which was royalty and poetry dominating and
using her by means of hands and voices and eyes…
Rosamond came back from the window to the fire, and Isabel remembered
that she hadn’t replied to her sister’s question. She said: “No, they
won’t come here.”
Rosamond answered: “You won’t see him again?”
“Who—the king?” Isabel asked. “I don’t suppose so.”
“I don’t think you ought to,” Rosamond said. “It’s not very patriotic,
is it? Why ever did you let Roger bring him in?”
Isabel stiffened a little. “My dear little girl,” she answered, “I
don’t ‘let’ Roger. If there’s any letting done,” she went on,
relaxing, “he does it. But I don’t think he quite knows it.”
Rosamond’s face suggested that Philip would be “let” or not, fairly
often. Isabel added: “Would you rather we’d ‘let’ the crowd get at
him?”
“Yes,” her sister answered. “You don’t know how I hate him. He’s…
abominable.”
“Don’t be silly, Rosamond,” Isabel said. “You let things upset you so,
though you do seem such a sedate little creature. I don’t suppose
you’ll see him again, and if you do what difference does it make?”
Rosamond moved uneasily. “Why isn’t Philip stronger?” she said. “He
needn’t have gone tonight.”
Isabel broke into a laugh. “You want Philip to be the world’s strong
man led by a woman’s hair,” she said. “You can’t have it, darling.
Philip’s no caveman.”
“I don’t want a caveman,” Rosamond cried out. “I hate him anyhow. He
looks like Roger does when he quotes that beastly poetry. It isn’t
decent. It’s like those horrible people on the Heath.”
“What on earth do you mean? What horrible people?” Isabel asked,
really bewildered.
“Disgusting beasts,” Rosamond went on. “You know what I mean—all
those brutes lying about at night. They make everything so…so
loathsome. Why can’t people be nice and behave properly?”
“And not quote poetry or be kings of the Zulus,” Isabel murmured. “You
do hate a good many things, don’t you? You’re not going to marry
Philip, I hope, because you hate him rather less than the other young
men you know? I don’t think he’d be entirely satisfied with that.”
“Philip!” Rosamond uttered, in a tone so unlike her usual deceitfully
soft voice that Isabel looked at her in alarm. There had been in that
one word scorn and hate and fear, almost as if Philip rather than the
Zulu stood for everything that Rosamond most detested, as if she were
aware now for the first time that the world was not simply Rosamond
Murchison’s oyster, that indeed it was a great deal more like an
octopus, the tentacles of which she had seen waving at a distance in
the night. The king—Philip—poetry—people on the Heath—African
proclamations—certainly there was a huge something whose form lay
hidden in the darkness and the distance without; something Rosamond
had always avoided, unless occasionally…Isabel remembered how her
small sister, who had always carried herself as if she pretended to
disdain chocolates, had once secretly and greedily devoured a whole
boxful. It had been an unpleasant episode, made worse by an ignored
but definite attempt on Rosamond’s part to make Isabel herself the
culprit; only appalling physical results had made innocence certain.
Rosamond perhaps hated an octopus that lay not merely without. Isabel,
bending her brows at the fire, and trying to be lucid and loving at
once, was not altogether sorry when Rosamond said suddenly: “I’m
tired: I’m going to bed. Say goodnight to Philip for me,” and
vanished.
Roger, meanwhile, was walking with the others towards the house where
Inkamasi lived, at one end of the line of four, with Philip at the
other, and Sir Bernard and the Zulu discussing stomachs in between. It
occurred to Ingram with a slight feeling of shame, as he heard the
older man explaining and assenting, that although in the past Sir
Bernard had always been able and willing to discuss literature, he
himself had never been either able or willing to discuss stomachs. He
had liked and admired the specialist, but he had assumed as a matter
of course that his own specialization was a more public, even a more
important, thing. To justify himself he allowed the suggestion to
arise that Sir Bernard had been perhaps a little too easy-going, too
disinclined to press his own interests. After all, it was in a
different way a note of his son’s character also. Philip was a nice
creature, but he never imposed himself; he was graver and more solemn
than his father but equally swept on the current of conversation. That
Sir Bernard had now for many years been able unnoticed to direct any
conversation to any end he wished, but that all ends seemed to him
equally interesting, naturally did not occur to the younger
specialist. Ingram was himself so devoted to his own subject and
neglectful of others that he inevitably assumed a similar devotion and
neglect in his friends, and explained their behaviour on this
hypothesis. As he glanced sidelong at the disputants therefore he saw
in Sir Bernard an example of a man a little ill-treated by society,
and made up his mind to read the famous book at the first opportunity.
Nor could he refrain, as his eye caught the Zulu’s face in the light
of a lamp, from reflecting upon how differently this stranger had
dominated their emotions. The sudden crisis had tricked him into what
was almost an absurdity. But in fact, he reflected, the sudden crisis
was not separate from Inkamasi; it was Inkamasi. It was a human force
that had overthrown him. His emotions, caught unguarded by his
self-attentive mind, had moved him, and his emotions themselves had
been moved by a stronger emotion issuing from the stranger. Rhythm had
followed rhythm. “God damn and blast rhythm!” he thought angrily, “I
will not use their malodorous slang.” But the word had started his
associations; half a dozen lines leapt into his mind flushed with war
and royalty, from “My nightingale, We have beat them to their beds,”
down to “stunned of heaven or stricken pale Before the face of the
King.” Perhaps there was something in rhythm after all; perhaps Milton
meant something profounder than was usually thought by saying that the
great poet should himself be a poem; perhaps—
“Don’t you think so, Roger?” Sir Bernard asked.
Ingram came back with a shock. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I wasn’t
listening. Don’t I think what?”
“Don’t you think that the king had better not go on living alone?”
“Are you alone in the house?” Ingram asked the Zulu.
“I am the only sub-tenant,” Inkamasi said gravely. “There is a
landlady.”
“Then of course you mustn’t,” Ingram said. “Is this it?” They had
stopped outside a house in one of the smaller apartment-letting roads
bordering the Heath. “You could be attacked and done in here quite
nicely—from back and front. You’d better come and stop with us as I
told you.”
Inkamasi shook his head. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Ingram,” he
answered, “but I couldn’t expose Mrs. Ingram to any unpleasantness.”
“Nonsense,” said Roger. “She won’t-”
Sir Bernard laid a hand on his arm. “A moment, Roger,” he said. “I
speak as a snob, but so did Saint Paul on occasion, I seem to
remember, and I also am an Apostle. Or at least I know the Home
Secretary. Now in two or three days the Government will be driven to
arrest and intern all the Africans in London. No, of course, it won’t
want to, but it won’t be able to let them be done to death one by one.
I suggest it will be much more to the point if the king is staying
with me, because my word will probably be taken for him. And he can
walk in the garden and study digestion theoretically and practically.”
“You mean they’ll let him alone there?” Roger said. “Yes, I suppose
that’s true. Well, we’d better look for a taxi then.”
“Stop a minute, Mr. Ingram,” the Zulu said. “Sir Bernard, this is
extraordinarily kind of you. But it would make it a little difficult
for me perhaps, if I may say so. If I came to stay with you, I should
be committed to neutrality, if not to friendship. And supposing I
wanted to help my people?”
A car came softly along the street towards them. Sir Bernard said
dubiously, “It would necessitate, I suppose, an implied parole. But
would you be worse off? You can’t do much for them now; and if you’re
attacked and killed-”
He paused; behind them the car also stopped. Roger, glancing over his
shoulder as he heard the king say, “I mustn’t pledge myself; I mustn’t
be bound,” saw Nigel Considine spring out. He gave a quick exclamation
and his companions also looked round.
“Why, Mr. Ingram,” Considine said, and saluted Sir Bernard and Philip,
“this is a happy meeting. I didn’t know you were friends of my
friend.”
“Through the introduction of a London crowd,” Roger answered. “So we
just strolled home with him.”
“I was afraid of that,” Considine answered, “so I’ve come to carry him
off.” He smiled at Inkamasi, and Philip wondered why he and his father
and Roger should suddenly seem so small standing around those two
other figures. Sir Bernard said, “I was just suggesting that the king
should stay with me.” But the African and Considine were gazing at
each other, and neither of them answered.
“I must be free,” Inkamasi said suddenly. “I must do what I choose.”
“You shall be free; you shall do what you choose,” the other answered.
“But you will come with me now, and presently I will set you free.” He
broke suddenly into a stream of unrecognizable syllables which the
others supposed were Zulu, and still he held Inkamasi’s eyes with his
own, and the African stammered and began to speak and ceased, and the
urgent commanding voice flowed on. Inkamasi put out his hand suddenly
towards Sir Bernard, who was next him, and took his arm.
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