War in Heaven, Charles Williams [novels for teenagers .txt] 📗

collector in my time, and—once I understood from Sir Giles what your old chalice might be—I couldn’t resist it.”

“It must be a wonderful thing to be a collector,” the Archdeacon answered gravely. “Apparently you may be seized any time with a passion for anything. Have you a large collection of chalices, Mr. Persimmons?”

“None at all, since I didn’t get that,” Gregory answered. “To think it’s in the hands of some thief now, or a pawnbroker perhaps. Have you put the police on the track yet, Archdeacon?”

“No,” the Archdeacon answered. “I don’t think the police would find it. The police sergeant here believes in letting his children run more or less wild, and I feel sure he wouldn’t understand my clues. Well, good-day, Sir Giles. Good-day, Mr. Persimmons.”

“Oh, but look here,” Gregory said, “don’t go yet. Come up to Cully and have a look at some of my things. You don’t bear malice, I’m sure, since I didn’t succeed in cheating you.”

“I will come with pleasure,” the Archdeacon said. “Collections are always so delightful, don’t you think? All things from all men, so to speak.” And, half under his breath, as they turned towards Cully, he sang to himself, “Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious; for His mercy endureth for ever.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gregory asked at the same moment that Sir Giles said, “Eh?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the Archdeacon said hastily. “Merely an improvisation. The fine weather, I suppose.” He almost smirked at the others, with gaiety in his heart and curving his usually sedate lips. Gregory remembered the way in which the priest’s monologue had carried him half over the county, and began almost seriously to consider whether he were not half-witted. Sir Giles, on the other hand, began to feel more interest than hitherto. He glanced aside at Gregory, caught his slight air of bewilderment, and grinned to himself. It appeared that his country visit might be of even more interest than he supposed. He always sought out—at home and abroad—these unusual extremists in religion; they wandered in a borderland, whatever their creed, of metaphysics, mysticism, and insanity which was a peculiarly fascinating spectacle. He had himself an utter disbelief in God and devil, but he found these anthropomorphic conceptions interesting, and to push or delay any devotee upon the path was entertainment to a mind too swiftly bored. The existence and transmission of the magical ointment had become gradually known to him during his wanderings. Of its elements and concoction he knew little; they seemed to be a professional mystery reserved to some remoter circle than he had yet touched. But the semi-delirium which it induced in expectant minds was undoubted, and whenever chance made him acquainted with suitable subjects and he could, without too much trouble to himself, introduce the method, he made haste to do so. Subjects were infrequent; it required a particularly urgent and sadistic nature; he was not at all sure that Persimmons was strong enough. However, it was done now, and he must gain what satisfaction he could from the result.

Of the Graal he thought similarly. That the chalice of Fardles was the Graal he had little doubt; the evidence was circumstantial, but good. He regretted only that the process of time had prevented him from studying its origin, its first user, and his circle, at close quarters. “All martyrs are masochists,” he thought, “but crucifixion is a violent form.” Yet, given in the Jew’s mind the delusion that he loved the world, what else was the Passion but masochism? And the passion of the communicant was, of course, a corresponding sadism. Religion was bound to be one of the two; in extreme cases both. The question was, which was the Archdeacon?

The Archdeacon, ignorant that this question was being asked, strolled happily on between his two acquaintances, and with them turned up the drive to Cully. He promised himself opportunities of making clear to Persimmons that he guessed very clearly who had the Graal. He wished that in the early stages of his recovery he had not let out to Mr. Batesby that he had been robbed of the chalice. Mr. Batesby had, of course, passed the information on. If only it were still a secret! But why should anyone want it so much, he wondered. Collecting—well, collecting perhaps.

“Do you collect anything in particular, Mr. Persimmons?” he asked. “Or merely any unconsidered trifles?”

“I have a few interesting old books,” Gregory said. “And a few old vestments and so on. I once took an interest in ecclesiology. But of late I have rather concentrated on old Chinese work-masks, for instance.”

“Masks are always interesting,” the Archdeacon said. “The Chinese mask, I think, has no beard?”

“None of mine have—long mustachios, but no beard,” answered Gregory.

“False beards,” the Archdeacon went on, “are never really satisfactory. A few weeks ago a man called to see me in what I suspect to have been a false beard, I can’t imagine why. It seems such a curious thing to wear.”

“I believe that many priesthoods make it a part of their convention not to wear beards,” Gregory said conversationally. “Now what is the reason of that?”

“Obvious enough,” Sir Giles put in. “They have dedicated their manhood to the god—they no longer possess virility. They are feminine to the god and dead to the world. Every priest is a kind of a corpse-woman… if you’ll excuse me,” he added after a pause to the Archdeacon, who said handsomely: “I wish it were more largely true.”

“Not every priest,” Persimmons said. “There are virile religions, adorations of power and strength.”

“To adore strength is to confess weakness,” Sir Giles said. “To be power is not to adore it. The very weakest only dream of being powerful. Look at the mystics.”

“Don’t, this evening,” Gregory said to the Archdeacon, laughing. “Come in and look at some of my treasures.”

Cully was a large, rambling house, with “the latest modern improvements”. Gregory took his companions up a very fine staircase into a gallery from which his own rooms opened out. In the hall itself were a few noticeable things—a suit of armour, a Greek head, a curious box or two from the Minoan excavations, a cabinet of old china. The gallery was hung with the Chinese masks of which Gregory had spoken, and, having examined them on their way, the visitors were brought at last into their host’s sitting-room. It was lined with books, and contained several cabinets and cases; a few prints hung on the walls.

“I suppose,” Sir Giles said, glancing round him, “if you had succeeded in cheating the Archdeacon out of the Graal, you’d have kept it in here.”

“Here or hereabouts,” Gregory said. “The trouble is that in the alterations which earlier inhabitants of the house made the old chapel was converted, at least the upper part of it, into these rooms—my sitting-room, my bedroom, my bathroom, and so on. So far as I can understand, the bathroom—or what is almost the bathroom—is just over where the altar stood; so that to restore the chalice to its most suitable position would be almost impossible.”

“As a matter of manners,” the Archdeacon admitted, “perhaps. But surely not more so than achieving it—if I may say so—by throwing dust in the eyes of its keeper. No, I don’t speak personally, Mr. Persimmons; I allude only to an example of comparative morals.”

“What upsets the comparison,” Sir Giles said, “is that in the one case you have a strong personal lust and action deflected in consequence. But in the second action is? comparatively—free.”

“I shouldn’t have thought that any action was freer than any other,” the Archdeacon said as he followed Gregory across the room. “Man is free to know his destiny, but not free to evade his destiny.”

“But he can choose his destiny,” Gregory answered, taking a book from the shelves. “He may decide what star or what god he will follow.”

“If you spell destiny and god with capital letters—no,” the Archdeacon said. “All destinies and all gods bring him to One, but he chooses how to know Him.”

“He may defy and deny him for ever,” Gregory said, with a gesture.

“You can defy and deny the air you breathe or the water you drink,” the Archdeacon answered comfortably. “But if you do you die. The difference in the parallels is that in the other case, though you come nearer and nearer to it, you never quite die. Almost—you are in the death-agony— but never quite.”

Sir Giles interrupted the discussion. “I’m going to revise my last Monday’s lecture,” he said. “I know the orthodox creed and the orthodox revolt by heart. I don’t quite know how the Archdeacon would put it, but I know your apologia inside out, Persimmons. I heard it put very well by a wealthy Persian once. I’ve got a note of it somewhere. What time do you dine in this bloody hole of yours?” he threw over his shoulder as he went towards the door.

“Half-past seven,” Gregory called, and turned back to exhibit more of his possessions. These now were rare books, early editions, and bibliographical curiosities in which the Archdeacon took a definite and even specialized interest. The two bent over volume after volume, confirming and commenting, their earlier hostility quiescent, and a pleasant sense of intellectual intimacy established. After the examination had gone on for some time Gregory took from a drawer a morocco case in which was a thin square pamphlet. He drew it out and held it towards the priest. “Now this,” he said, “may interest you. Look at the initials.”

The Archdeacon took it carefully. It was a copy of the old pre-Shakespearean King Leir, stained and frayed. But on the front was scrawled towards the top and just against the title the two letters “W.S.” and just under them in a precise, careful hand “J.M.”

“Good heavens!” the Archdeacon exclaimed. “Do you mean-?”

“Ah, that’s the point,” Gregory said. “Is it or isn’t it? There’s very little doubt of the J.M. I’ve compared it with the King’s College MS., and it’s exact. But the W.S. is another matter. One daren’t believe it! Alone—perhaps, but both together! And yet, why not? After all, it’s very likely Shakespeare didn’t take all his books back to Stratford, especially when he’d written a better play himself. And he may have known Milton the scrivener. We don’t know.”

There was a soft tap at the door. “Come in,” Gregory called, and the door opened to show a man standing on the threshold.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but you’re wanted on the telephone. A Mr. Adrian, I understood, sir.”

“Damn!” Gregory said. “I forgot I told him to ring me up. It’s a child staying near here,” he went on, “who was frightfully interested in the telephone, so… And the telephone’s in the hall.”

“Please, please,” the Archdeacon said. “Don’t disappoint him, I shall be quite happy here.” His eyes were on the books on the table. But so were Gregory’s. He had heard and seen the interest the Archdeacon felt, and one or two of these treasures were small, compact things. Yet to disappoint Adrian might throw him back there. He moved to the door and caught the arm of the man who stood there.

“Ludding,” he whispered, “keep your eye on him. Don’t let him put anything in his pocket. Do something about the room till I get back.”

“He may recognize me, sir,” the man said doubtfully.

“Then look through the crack in the door, but watch him whatever you do. I shall only be two or three minutes.” He went swiftly along the gallery and down the stairs, and Ludding softly manipulated the door till he was able to take in the leaning figure at the table.

The Archdeacon’s eyes were on