War in Heaven

by Charles Williams

  Persimmons looked at Ludding. “And now perhaps you will explain,” he said. “Dear me, Ludding, you are letting this temper grow on you. You must try and control it. Why, you might be attacking me next; mightn’t you?” He moved a little nearer. “Answer me, you swine, mightn’t you?”

  “I don’t know why I hit him, sir,” Ludding said unhappily. “It was the other man who irritated me.”

  “The other man: what other man?” Persimmons asked. “Are you blind or drunk, you fool?”

  Ludding made an effort to pull himself together. “It was a young man, sir, in a grey suit. Asked after you and where you lived, and went off up to Cully. He made me see red, sir, and I was shouting after him when this fellow came up.”

  “A young man,” Gregory said, “wanting to see me? This is very curious. And you didn’t know him, Ludding?”

  “Never seen him before, sir,” Ludding answered. “He looked rather like an Indian, I thought.”

  Gregory’s mind flew to what Manasseh had said of the hidden way to the East; was this anything to do with it? What possibilities, what vistas, might be opened! Whatever throne existed there, an end to that path he had followed so long and so painfully, would it not welcome him, coming with the Graal in one hand and the child for initiation in the other? He quickened his steps. “Let us see this young man,” he said, and hastened on to Cully.

  Followed by Ludding, he came to the gates and up the drive, down which he had rushed twenty-four hours before. As he rounded the turn from which Colonel Conyers had shouted at the constable, he met the stranger face to face, and all three of them stood still.

  Gregory’s first impression was that Ludding had been merely romancing when he spoke of the stranger being an Indian; the face that confronted him was surely as European as his own. There was something strange about it, but it was a strangeness rather of expression than of race, a high, contained glance that observed an unimportant world. The eyes took him in and neglected him at once, and together with him took in the whole of the surroundings and dismissed them also as of small worth. One hand carried gloves and walking-stick; the other, raised to the level of the face, moved lazily forward now and then as if to wave away some sort of slight unpleasantness, and every now and then also nostrils were wrinkled a little as if at some remote but objectionable smell that floated in the air. He had the appearance of being engaged upon a tiresome but necessary business, and this was enhanced as he paused on the drive and allowed his glance to dwell on Gregory.

  “You want me?” Persimmons said, and the instant that he spoke became conscious that he actively disliked the stranger, with a hostility that surprised him with its own virulence. It stood out in his inner world as distinctly as the stranger himself in the full sunlight of the outer; and he knew for almost the first time what Manasseh felt in his rage for utter destruction. His fingers twitched to tear the clothes off his enemy and to break and pound him into a mass of flesh and bone, but he knew nothing of that external sign, for his being was absorbed in a more profound lust. It aimed itself in a thrust of passion which should wholly blot the other out of existence, and again its young opponent’s upraised and open hand moved gently forward and downward, as if, like the Angel by the walls of Dis, he put aside the thick and noisome atmosphere of his surroundings.

  “No,” he said coldly, “I do not think I want you.”

  “What are you doing here, then?” Gregory asked thickly. “Why are you wandering about my house?”

  “I am studying the map,” the stranger said, “and I find this a centre marked on it.”

  “My servants shall throw you out,” Gregory cried. “I do not allow trespassers.”

  “You have no servants,” the other said; “you have only slaves and shadows. And only slaves can trespass, and they only among shadows.”

  “You are mad,” Gregory cried again. “Why have you come to my house?”

  “I have not entered your house,” the stranger answered, “for the time is not yet. But it is not that which you should fear—it is the day when you shall enter mine.”

  Ludding, encouraged by his master’s presence, took a step forward. The stranger threw him a glance and he stopped. His anger was so intense, however, that it drove him into speech.

  “Who are you—coming here and talking like this?” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Yes,” Gregory said, “tell us your name. You have damaged my property—you shall pay for it.”

  The other moved his hand outward again and smiled. “My name is John,” he said, “and you know some, I think, that know me.”

  Gregory thought of his enemies. “That pestilent priest, perhaps?” he sneered, “or the popinjay of a Duke? Are these your friends? Or is the Duke too vulgar for you? What kings have you in the house of which you brag?”

  “Seventy kings have eaten at my table,” the stranger said. “You say well, for I myself am king and priest and sib to all priests and kings.”

  He dropped his hand and moved leisurely forward. Gregory inevitably stepped out of his direct path. As he passed Ludding the chauffeur put a hand out towards his shoulder. But he didn’t somehow lay hold, and with an equal serenity of gait the stranger went on and at length passed out of the gates. Gregory, pulsating with anger too bitter for words, turned sharply and went on to the house. And the chauffeur, cursing himself, drifted slowly to the garage.

  By the afternoon, however, Gregory had recovered his balance, or, rather, his intention. Whether the stranger was a wandering lunatic or whether he had some real link with the three fools who had carried off the Graal he did not know; and, anyhow, it did not matter. His immediate business was with the Rackstraws, and an hour before tea he went down towards the cottage to find them.

  They were a little distance from it among some trees. Barbara was reading Mr. Wodehouse’s latest Jeeves book, and Lionel, stretched on the ground, was telling Adrian the adventures of Odysseus the wise, the far-travelled. The story broke off when Gregory appeared.

  “Have you been to London?” Adrian asked.

  “Darling——” Barbara murmured.

  “Well, Jessie said he had, Mummie,” Adrian protested. Jessie was the maid from Cully.

  “Jessie was perfectly right,” Gregory answered. “I have been to London, and I have come back. In London, Adrian, they have large trains and many soldiers.” He paused.

  “I have a large train in London,” Adrian soliloquised. “It has a guard’s van with luggage in.”

  “I saw a train,” Gregory said, “which belongs to your London train. It asked to be taken to Adrian because it belonged to him.”

  “What, another train? A train I haven’t seen?” Adrian asked, large-eyed.

  “A train you haven’t seen, but it belongs to you,” Gregory answered seriously. “Everything belongs to you, Adrian. You are the Lord of the World—if you like. One day, if you like, I will give you the world.”

  “After this week I could almost believe that, Mr. Persimmons,” Barbara said. “What would you do with the world, Adrian?”

  Adrian considered. “I would put it in my train,” he said. “Where is the train I haven’t seen?” he asked Gregory.

  “Up at the big house,” Gregory answered. “Let’s all go up there to tea, shall we? And after tea you shall see the train. It’s gone to sleep now, and it won’t be awake till after tea,” he explained gravely.

  Adrian took his hand. “Shall we go?” he said, and pulled anxiously to lead the way.

  “Let us go,” Gregory assented, and looked back laughing over his shoulder. “Will you come?” he cried.

  Barbara stretched out her hands, and Lionel pulled her to her feet. “I just want to shimmer up, like Jeeves, not walk,” she said. “Do you like Jeeves, Mr. Persimmons?”

  “Jeeves?” Gregory asked. “I don’t think I know it or him or them.”

  “Oh, you must,” Barbara cried. “When I get back to London I’ll send you a set.”

  “It’s a book, or a man
in a book,” Lionel interrupted. “Barbara adores it.”

  “Well, so do you,” Barbara said. “You always snigger when you read him.”

  “That is the weakness of the flesh,” Lionel said. “One shouldn’t snigger over Jeeves any more than one should snivel over Othello. Perfect art is beyond these easy emotions. I think Jeeves—the whole book, preferably with the illustrations—one of the final classic perfections of our time. It attains absolute being. Jeeves and his employer are one and yet diverse. It is the Don Quixote of the twentieth century.”

  “I must certainly read it,” Gregory said, laughing. “Tell me more about it while we have tea.”

  After the meal the four of them climbed to the gallery and Mr. Persimmons’s room, where the train was marvellously arrayed and arranged. Adrian gave himself up to it, with Barbara assisting. Gregory took Lionel over to the bookcases. Presently, however, they were recalled by calls from the train, and found that somewhere in the complicated mechanism a hitch had occurred. Gregory examined it, turning the engine over in his hands; then he said: “I think I see what the fault is.” He fiddled with it for a minute or two, then he looked at Barbara with a smile. “Would you mind holding it, Mrs. Rackstraw?” he asked. “I just can’t get the right bit past the screw with one hand.”

  Barbara took it willingly, and Gregory pushed and thrust at the mechanism for a minute or two. Then he altered the position of his left hand so that it lay lightly over Barbara’s fingers and thrust again with his right. There was a slip, a jangle, an oath from Gregory, a light shriek from Barbara, an exclamation from Lionel; then the engine had dropped to the floor, while the men stared at a long scratch on the inside of Barbara’s wrist and lower arm from which the blood was already oozing.

  “My dear Mrs. Rackstraw, I am so sorry,” Gregory exclaimed. “Do please forgive me. Does it hurt you much?”

  “Heavens, no!” Barbara said. “Lend me your handkerchief, Lionel, mine isn’t big enough. Don’t worry, Mr. Persimmons, it’ll be all right in a few minutes if I just do it up.”

  “Oh, but you must put something on it,” Gregory said. “Look here, I’ve got some ointment here—only a patent medicine, I admit; I forget what they call it—not Zam-buk, but something like it. Anyhow, it works rather well.” He had gone across to a drawer, and now produced a small round wooden box, which he held out to Barbara. “And there’s some rag somewhere; ah, here it is.”

  Barbara wrinkled her nose as she took the box. “What a funny smell!” she said. “Thank you so much. But I’ve got vaseline at home.”

  “Don’t wait,” Gregory said, “put some on now and do it up.” He turned to Adrian. “Still,” he said, “I put the engine right. But it oughtn’t to have had a sharp edge like that. I must take it back next time I’m in town.”

  Half an hour slipped away. Then Lionel, turning by accident to put a book down on the table, saw his wife’s face.

  “Barbara,” he said suddenly, “do you feel ill?”

  She was lying back in her chair, and as he spoke she looked across at him, at first unrecognizingly. Then she said, speaking dizzily: “Lionel, Lionel, is that you? I’m fainting or something; I don’t know where I am! Lionel!”

  Lionel was across the room and by her side, even as Gregory, who was sitting on the floor by Adrian, rose to his feet. Persimmons glanced at his guest, went across and pressed the bell, and returned. Rackstraw was speaking as quietly as he could, to soothe her. But she sat up suddenly and began to scream, her eyes blind to everything round her, her hands thrusting away from her. “Lionel! Lionel! Oh, God! Oh, God! Lionel!”

  Lionel threw a look towards Gregory. “Adrian!” he said. Gregory turned to the child, who, startled and horrified, was beginning to cry, picked him up with murmured consolations and encouragements, and went quickly to meet Ludding at the door.

  “Mrs. Rackstraw is ill,” he said. “Telephone to the doctor; and then come back. I may want you. He’ll be here as quickly if you telephone as if you go down in the car, won’t he? Hurry!”

  Ludding vanished, and Gregory, going with Adrian into the next room, produced a parcel of curious shape, which he presented to the child. But Adrian heard, even through the closed doors, the spasmodic shrieks that came from the next room, and clung despairingly to Gregory. Then amid the cries they heard movements and footsteps, a chair falling, and Lionel’s voice on a quick note of command. Adrian began to scream in alarm, and Ludding, on his return from the telephone, was sent to find the maid Jessie, between whom and Adrian a pleasant friendship had ripened. She carried him off to her own quarters, and Gregory ran into the next room.

  There Barbara had collapsed again into a seat, in which she was writhing and twisting, at intervals crying out still for Lionel.

  “But, my darling, I’m here,” he said, tortured beyond any of his own visionary fears. “Can’t you see me? Can’t you feel me?” He took her hands.

  By the long alliance of their bodies, knit by innumerable light touches of impatience or of delight, some kind of bridge seemed to be established. Barbara’s hands closed on his, and her voice grew into a frenzy of appeal. “Save me, Lionel, save me! I can’t see you. Come to me, Lionel!”

  Lionel looked back at Gregory. “What on earth’s happened?” he said in a low voice. “Can’t we do anything?”

  “I’ve sent for the doctor,” Gregory answered in equally subdued tones. “We can’t do anything but hang on till he comes. Adrian’s with Jessie. Try her with the child’s name.”

  Barbara had relapsed again into comparative silence, though her frame was shuddering and trembling in the moment’s exhaustion. Gregory, from behind Lionel, considered her thoughtfully. The operation of the ointment would have, he supposed, some sort of parallel to his own experience. But where in him, it had released and excited his directing purpose to a fuller consummation, in Barbara Rackstraw, who probably drifted through the world like most people, “neither for God nor for his enemies,” it was more likely simply to define and energize the one side, without giving it entire separation and control. All with which he had felt himself one would be to Barbara an invader, a conqueror, perhaps even an infernal lover; she would feel it in her body, her blood, her mind, her soul. Unless indeed she also became that, though since without her definite intention, so without her definite control. Then, instead of calling for Lionel, would she shriek at him? How funny! He picked up the box of ointment and dropped it into his pocket; there was another more harmless box in the drawer, if inquiries were made.

  Almost another quarter of an hour had passed since the crisis had begun. Gregory saw no necessity for it ever to end. In himself the ointment had been a means to a certain progress and return, but Barbara had no will to either, and might, it seemed to him, exist for ever in this divided anguish of war. He wondered very much what the doctor would say.

  Suddenly Barbara moved and stood up. Her voice began again its despairing appeals to God and Lionel, but her limbs began to dispose themselves in the preliminary motions of a dance. Gently at first, then more and more swiftly, her feet leapt upon the carpet; her arms tossed themselves in time to unheard music. Lionel made an effort to stop her, throwing one arm round her waist and catching her hands with the other; before his movement was complete she broke his hold and sent him staggering across the room. Gregory’s heart beat high; this then was the outer sign of the inner dance he had himself known: the ointment had helped him to seal his body while his soul entered ecstasy. But here the ointment gave the body helpless to the driving energy of the Adversary, and only through the screaming mouth a memory that was not conquered cried out to her lover and to her God.

  Gregory heard a movement outside the door; there was a tap. But he was too absorbed to speak. Then the door opened and the village doctor stood in the opening. At the same moment, as if she had waited for it, Barbara, still moving in that wild dance, threw up her hand and, carelessly and unconsciously tore open her light frock and underwear from the breast downwards. It hung, a momen
t, ripped and rent, from the girdle that caught it together; then it fell lower, and she shook her legs free without checking the movement of the dance.

  Even Gregory was not very clear afterwards what had then happened. It had needed the three of them to bring her into some sort of subordination, and to bind her with such material as could be obtained. The doctor’s next act was to inject morphia, a proceeding which Gregory watched with considerable pleasure, having his own views on what result this was likely to bring about. She was carried into one of the spare rooms at Cully, and Lionel took up his station there also. “They’ll put another bed in presently,” Gregory told him. “And my man Ludding will sleep in the next room, so if you want anything ask him. Good heavens, it’s not seven yet! Now, about Adrian.… He shall sleep in my room if he likes, that will distract him, and he’ll feel important. Hush, hush, my dear fellow, we must all do what we can. The doctor’s coming in again later.”

  The doctor indeed, after asking a few questions, and looking at the box of harmless ointment, had been glad to get away and think over this unusual patient. Gregory, having made inquiries, found that Adrian was out in the gardens with Jessie, and strolled out to find them, just preventing himself from whistling cheerfully in case Lionel should hear. It occurred to him that it would be pleasant before the child went to bed to see if anything could be discovered about the stranger who had disturbed him earlier, but whom, warm with his present satisfaction, he was inclined to neglect. Still …

  He suggested, therefore, to Adrian—who had allowed himself to be persuaded how delightful it would be to sleep in his uncle’s own room, and that his mother had better be left alone that evening—that another game at hidden pictures would be pleasant. The cup they had used before was not, it seemed, possible, but there were other means.