The Place of the Lion - Charles Williams (best motivational books to read TXT) š
- Author: Charles Williams
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Unthinkingly he put out his hand to the cigarette box which Quentin had given him one Christmas; given both of them, as he had himself pointed out, in remarking on the superior nature of his own present, which had been a neat kind of pocket-book and therefore an entirely personal gift. But Quentin had maintained that the cigarette box, as being of greater good to a greater number, had been nearer to the ideal perfection of giving. āForā, he had argued, āto give to you a means by which you can give to others, is better than to give a merely private thing.ā
āButā, Anthony had persisted, āin so far as you are one of those othersāand likely to be the most persistentāyou give to yourself and therefore altogether deprive the act of the principle of givingā; to which Quentin had retorted that he was included only as one of a number, and that the wise man would not deprive others of good because he himself might be a gainer. āOtherwise what about all martyrs, missionaries, and philanthropists?ā And so the comedy had been played to its end.
The comedyābut this was no comedy; the fierceness of the Lion was no comedy, nor any of those other apparitions, unless the Lambā¦The Lion and the Lambāand a little child shall lead them. Lead them where? Even a little child was in its own mind presumably leading them somewhere. Or perhaps not, perhaps a little child would be content just to lead. The Lion and the Lambāif this were the restored balance?
Friendshipāloveāhad something in it at once strong and innocent, leonine and lamblike. By friendship, by love, these great Virtues became delicately known. Apart from such love and friendship they were merely destructive and helpless; man was never meant to be subjected to them, unless by the offering up of his being to ādivine Philosophy.ā In that very chair he had been mocked by Foster for hoping to rule the principles of creation, and he had answered that he had promised to do everything to help Damaris. How far such a profound intention sufficed to rule those principles he did not knowāmo re perhaps than man normally thought. The balance in thingsāthe Lion and the Lamb, the Serpent and the Phoenix, the Horse and the Unicorn: ideas as they were visualized and imaginedāif these could be ledā¦ifā¦
He could not clearly understand what suggestion was being made to him. But an intense apprehension of the danger in which many besides Quentin were grew within him, a danger brought about by the disorder which had been introduced. He could not honestly say that in any sense he loved these others, unless indeed love were partly a process of willing good to them. That he was determined to do, and perhaps this willing of good meant restoration. By order man ascended; what was it that St. Francis had written? āSet Love in order, thou that lovest Me.ā First for Quentin and then for all the rest.
So gradually abandoning himself to the purpose of the great Power that lived in him, he sat on. If the Eagle was to be served the Eagle must show him how to serve. In this place of friendship, among the expositions and symbols of friendship, he was filled with the intention of friendship. Quentin was not here, but here they had been received by the knowledge of good, by comparison with which only evil could be known. Friendship was one, but friends were many; the idea was one, but its epiphanies many. One winged creatureābut many, many flights of birds. The sparrows in the garden outside his windowāand the brown thrushes that sought in it sometimesāthe blackbird and the starlingāthe pigeons of the Guildhall and the gulls of the Thamesāthe pelicans of St. James and the ridiculous penguins of the Zooāherons in shallow watersāowls screaming by nightānightingales, skylarks, robin redbreastsāa kingfisher out beyond Maidenheadādoves and crows? ravensāthe hooded falcons of pageantryāpheasantsāpeacocks magnificently scornfulāmigrating swallows of October? migrating? migratingābirds of paradiseāparrots shrieking in the jungles of Indiaāvultures tearing the bodies in the sands of Africaāflight after flight went by. He knew them in the spiritual intellect, and beheld by their fashioned material bodies the mercy which hid in matter the else overwhelming ardours; man was not yet capable of naked vision. The breach between mankind and the angelicals must be closed again; āa little child should lead themāāback. The lion should lie down with the lamb. Separately they had issuedāstrength divorced from innocence, fierceness from joy. They must go back together; somehow they must be called. Adam, long sinceāso the fable ranāstanding in Eden had named the Celestials which were brought into existence before him. Their namesāhow should Anthony Durrant know their names, or by what title to summon again the lion and the serpent? Yet even in Anthony Durrant the nature of Adam lived. I n Adam there had been perfect balance, perfect proportion: in Anthonyā?
He was lying back, very still, in his chair. His desire went inwards, through a universe of peace, and hovered, as if on aquiline pinions, over the moment when man knew and named the powers of which he was made. Vast landscapes opened beneath him; laughter rang up towards him. Among the forests he saw a great glade, and in the glade wandered a solitary lamb. It was aloneāfor a moment or for many years; and then from the trees there came forth a human figure and stood also in the sun. With its appearance a mighty movement everywhere began. A morning of Light was on the earth; the hippopotamus lumbered from the river, the boar charged from the forest, the great apes swung down to the ground before a figure of strength and beauty, the young and glorious archetype of humanity. A voice, crying out in song, went through the air of Eden,āa voice that swept up as the eagle, and with every call renewed its youth. All music was the scattered echo of that voice; all poetry was the approach of the fallen understanding to that unfallen meaning. All things were namedāall but man himself, then the sleep fell upon the Adam, and in that first sleep he strove to utter his name, and as he strove he was divided and woke to find humanity doubled. The name of mankind was in neither voice but in both; the knowledge of the name and its utterance was in the perpetual interchange of love. Whoever denied that austere godhead, wherever and however it appearedāits presence, its .austerity, its divinityārefused the name of man.
The echo of that high spiritual mastery sounded through the inmost being of the child of Adam who lay tranced and attentive. His memory could not bear the task of holding the sounds, but it was not memoryās business. The great affair of the naming was present within him, eternal, now as much as then, and at any future hour as much as now. There floated from that singing rapture of manās knowledge of man a last note which rose through his whole being, and as it came brought with it a cloud. āA mist went up and covered the face of the earth.ā His faculties relaxed; his attention was gently released. He blinked once or twice, moved, saw, recognized, and drowsily smiled at the Landseer; then his head dropped down, and he was received, until his energies were renewed, into such a sleep as possessed our father when he awaited the discovery of himself.
The railway station at Smetham lay some half-mile out of the actual town, though it was connected by a row of houses and shops. The staff, therefore, though they soon heard whispers of strange things in the town, were still at work when Anthony, late in the evening, returned. He had spent the afternoon at his rooms in solitude and meditation and had then, rather to his own surprise, determined suddenly to go and have a good dinner. After this he had made his way to Kingās Cross, and got out of the train at Smetham about half-past nine. His room at the hotel was still kept for him, but he wanted first of all to see Damaris. From the station, however, he telephoned to the hotel to know if there were any messages. He was told that a gentleman was at that very moment waiting for him.
āAsk the gentleman to speak,ā Anthony said, and in a minute heard Richardsonās voice.
āHallo,ā it said. āThat you, Durrant?ā
āRather,ā Anthony answered. āHow are things with you?ā
āI donāt know that they are,ā the voice said. āThings, I mean. There seem a good many fewer, and anyhow I want to push one of them off on to you.ā
āSweet of you,ā said Anthony cheerfully. āWhat particular?ā
āI donāt quite knowā, Richardson said, āwhat may happen, though I know what, by Godās extreme mercy, I hope. But thereās this book of Berringerāsāyou know, Marcellus nosterāit seems the kind of thing that might be more useful to you than to me, if anyone comes at allā¦ā
āO weāre all coming through,ā Anthony interrupted. āBusiness as usual. Premises will be re-opened tomorrow with improvements of all kinds. But not, I fear, under entirely new management. The old isnāt better, but it canāt be shifted yet.ā
āCanāt it?ā the other voice said, grimly. āWell, never mind. You think things will be restored, do you?ā
āThe way of the world,ā Anthony said. āWe shall jolly well have to go on making the best of both. āVague half-believersāānot but what Arnold himself was a bit vague.ā
āO stop this cultural chat,ā Richardson broke in, but not ill-naturedly. āI want to give you this book.ā
āBut why?ā Anthony asked. āWasnāt it you it was lent to?ā
āIt was,ā Richardson said, ābut I have to be about my Fatherās business, and itās the only thing Iāve got that I ought to do anything with. Where are you? And what are you doing?ā
āIām at the station,ā Anthony told him, āand Iām going straight to Miss Tighe. You might come and meet me, if youāve time. Where is the necessity taking you?ā
There was a brief silence as if Richardson was considering; then he said, āVery well, I will. Donāt walk too quickly. Iām in rather a hurry and I donāt want to miss you.ā
āRight,ā said Anthony. āIāll walk like aālike the opposite of the Divine Horse till I see you. Unless the necessity drives me.ā And he hung up.
That strange impulse however, to which in the serious and gay humour that possessed him he had given the name of the necessity, allowed him to wander slowly down the station road, till he saw Richardson walking swiftly along to meet him; then he quickened his own steps. They looked at each other curiously.
āAnd soā, Richardson said at last, āyou think that the common things will return?ā
āIām quite certain of it,ā Anthony said. āWonāt He have mercy on all that Heās made?ā
The other shook his head, and then suddenly smiled. āWell, if you and they like it that way, thereās no more to be said,ā he answered. āMyself, I think youāre only wasting time on the images.ā
āWell, who made the images?ā Anthony asked. āYou sound like a medieval monk commenting on marriage. Donāt be so stuck-up over your old way, whatever it is. What actually is it?ā
Richardson pointed to the sky. āDo you see the light of that fire?ā he asked. āYes, there. Berringerās house has been burning all day.ā
āI know, I saw it.ā
āIām going out there,ā Richardson said and
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