The Place of the Lion Read online

  “O I know who he is,” the other said. “He lives here; his name’s Berringer. D’you suppose he saw the creature? But we’d better move him, hadn’t we? Get him inside, I mean?”

  “We were just going to,” Anthony said. “This door’s shut, but I’ve got the back one open.”

  “Right ho!” the other answered. “I’d better slip in and warn his housekeeper, if she’s about. One or two of us will give you gentlemen a hand.” He waved to the small group by the gate, and they came in, to have explained what was needed. Then their leader went quickly round the house while Anthony, Quentin, and the rest began to lift the unconscious Mr. Berringer.

  It was more difficult to do so than they had expected. To begin with, they seemed unable to get the proper purchase. His body was not so much heavy as immovable—and yet not rigid. It yielded to them gently, but however they tried to slip their arms underneath they could not at first manage to lift it. Quentin and Anthony had a similar difficulty with the legs; and indeed Anthony was so startled at the resistance where he had expected a light passivity that he almost fell forward. At last, however, their combined efforts did raise him. Once lifted, he could be carried easily enough along the front of the house, but when they tried to turn the corner they found an unplaceable difficulty in doing so. It wasn’t weight; it wasn’t wind; it wasn’t darkness; it was just that when they had all moved they seemed to be where they were before. Anthony, being in front, realised that something had gone wrong, and without being clear whether he were speaking to the body or the bearers, to himself or his friend, said sharply and commandingly: “O come on!” The general effort that succeeded took them round, and so at last they reached the back door, where the leader and a disturbed old woman whom Anthony assumed to be the housekeeper were waiting.

  “Upstairs,” she said, “to his own bedroom. Look, I’ll show you. Dear, dear. O do be careful”—and so on till at last Berringer was laid on his bed, and, still under the directions of the housekeeper, undressed and got into it.

  “I’ve telephoned to a doctor,” the leader said to Anthony, who had withdrawn from the undressing process. “It’s very curious: his breathing’s normal; his heart seems all right. Shock, I suppose. If he saw that damned thing—— You couldn’t see what happened?”

  “Not very well,” said Anthony. “We saw him fall, and—and—— It was a lioness that got away, wasn’t it? Not a lion?”

  The other looked at him suspiciously. “Of course it wasn’t a lion,” he said. “There’s been no lion in these parts that I ever heard of, and only one lioness, and there won’t be that much longer. Damned slinking brute! What d’ye mean—lion?”

  “No,” said Anthony, “quite. Of course, if there wasn’t a lion—I mean—— O well, I mean there wasn’t if there wasn’t, was there?”

  The face of the other darkened. “I daresay it all seems very funny to you gentlemen,” he said. “A great joke, no doubt. But if that’s what you think’s a joke——”

  “No, no,” Anthony said hastily. “I wasn’t joking. Only——” He gave it up; it would have sounded too silly. After all, if they were looking for a lioness and found a lion … well, if they were looking for the lioness properly, it presumably wouldn’t make much difference. Besides, anyhow, it couldn’t have been a lion. Not unless there were two menageries and two——“O God, what a day!” Anthony sighed; and turned to Quentin.

  “The high road, I think,” he said. “And any kind of bus anywhere, don’t you? We’re simply in the way here. But, damn it!” he added to himself, “it was a lion.”

  Chapter Two

  THE EIDOLA AND THE ANGELI

  Tamaris Tighe had had a bad night. The thunder had kept her awake, and she particularly needed sleep just now, in order to be quite fresh every day to cope with her thesis about Pythagorean Influences on Abelard. There were moments when she almost wished she had not picked anyone quite so remote as Abelard; only all the later schoolmen had been done to death by other writers, whereas Abelard seemed—so far as theses on Pythagorean Influences went—to have been left to her to do to death. But this tracing of thought between the two humanistic thinkers was a business for which she needed a particularly clear head. She had so far a list of eighteen close identifications, twenty-three cases of probable traditional views, and eighty-five less distinct relationships. And then there had been that letter to the Journal of Classical Studies challenging a word in a new translation of Aristotle. She had been a little nervous about sending it. After all, she was more concerned about her doctorate of philosophy, for which the thesis was meant, than for the accuracy of the translation of Aristotle, and it would be very annoying if she made enemies—not, of course, the translator—but … well, anyone. And on top of all that had come that crash of thunder, every now and then echoing all through the black sky. No lightning, no rain, only—at long intervals, just whenever she was going off to sleep at last—thunder, and again thunder. She had been unable to work all the morning. It looked, now, as if her afternoon would be equally wasted.

  “We hear,” Mrs. Rockbotham said, “that he’s quite comatose.”

  “Dear me,” Damaris said coldly. “More tea?”

  “Thank you, thank you, dear,” Miss Wilmot breathed. “Of course you didn’t really know him well, did you?”

  “I hardly know him at all,” Damaris answered.

  “Such a wonderful man,” Miss Wilmot went on. “I’ve told you, haven’t I, how—well, it was really Elise who brought me into touch—but there, the instrument doesn’t matter—I mean,” she added, looking hastily over at Mrs. Rockbotham, “not in a human sense. Or really not in a heavenly. All service ranks the same with God.”

  “The question is,” Mrs. Rockbotham said severely, “what is to be done to-night?”

  “To-night?” Damaris asked.

  “To-night is our monthly group,” Mrs. Rockbotham explained. “Mr. Berringer generally gives us an address of instruction. And with him like this——”

  “It doesn’t look as if he would, does it?” Damaris said, moving the sugar-tongs irritably.

  “No,” Miss Wilmot moaned, “no … no. But we can’t just let it drop, it’d be too weak. I see that—Elise was telling me. Elise is so good at telling me. So if you would——”

  “If I would what?” Damaris exclaimed, startled and surprised. What, what could she possibly have to do with these absurd creatures and their fantastic religion? She knew, from the vague gossip of the town, from which she was not altogether detached, that Mr. Berringer, who lived in that solitary house on the London Road, and took no more part in the town’s activities than she did herself, was the leader of a sort of study circle or something of that kind; indeed, she remembered now that these same two ladies who had broken in on her quiet afternoon with Abelard had told her of it. But she never attended to their chatter with more than a twentieth of her mind, no more than she gave to her father’s wearisome accounts of his entomological rambles. Religions and butterflies were necessary hobbies, no doubt, for some people who knew nothing about scholarship, but they would not be of the smallest use to Damaris Tighe, and therefore, as far as possible, Damaris Tighe very naturally left them out of her life. Occasionally her father’s enthusiasm broke through her defences and compelled attention; it always seemed extraordinary to Damaris that he could not in her politeness realise her boredom. And now …

  Mrs. Rockbotham interrupted Miss Wilmot’s lengthier explanation. “You see,” she said, “we meet once a month at Mr. Berringer’s, and he gives us an Instruction—very instructive it always is—about thought-forms or something similar. But I suppose he won’t be able to this time, and none of us would like—I mean, it might seem pushing for any of us to take his place. But you, as an outsider.… And your studies are more or less about methods of thought, I understand?”

  She paused, and Damaris supposed they were.

  “I thought, if you would read us something, just to keep us in touch with—well, the history of it, at lea
st, if nothing else,” Mrs. Rockbotham ambiguously concluded, “we should all be greatly obliged.”

  “But,” Damaris said, “if Mr. Berringer is … incapacitated, why not suspend the meeting?”

  “No, I don’t want to do that,” Mrs. Rockbotham answered. “It would be very awkward, anyhow, to let everybody know before nine to-night—some of them live miles out——”

  “You could telegraph,” Damaris put in.

  “And in the second place,” Mrs. Rockbotham went on steadily, “I don’t think Mr. Berringer would like us to treat it as if it all depended on him. He always insists that it’s an individual effort. So we must, in the circumstances, get someone else.”

  “But where will you hold the meeting?” Damaris asked. She didn’t want to offend Mrs. Rockbotham who, though only a doctor’s wife, had influential relations, among whom was the owner of that literary weekly of which her cousin Anthony Durrant was a sub-editor or something of the sort. Damaris had had an occasional article, done for the public of course, printed there already, and she was anxious to keep the gate open. Indeed it occurred to her at once that if she could only find among her various MSS. a suitable paper, she might use it both for that evening and for The Two Camps, which was the name of the weekly. It had originally been meant to be symbolical of the paper’s effort to maintain tradition in art, politics and philosophy while allowing the expression of revolt; though Anthony insisted that it signified the division in the contributors between those who liked it living and intelligent and those who preferred it dying and scholarly, represented by himself and Damaris. He had told her that in a moment’s exasperation, because she had insisted on talking of the paper instead of themselves. Anthony was always wanting to talk of themselves, which meant whether she loved him, and in what way, and how much, whereas Damaris, who disliked discussing other people’s personal affairs, preferred to talk of scholarship or abstract principles such as whether and how soon The Two Camps would publish her essay on Platonic Tradition at the Court of Charlemagne. Anthony had gone off in rather a bad temper finally, saying that she had no more notion of Plato than of Charlemagne, and that her real subject was Damaristic Tradition at the Court of Damaris; upon which he swore he would write a long highbrow article and publish it—Damaris being, for that purpose, a forgotten queen of Trebizond overthrown by the Saracen invasion. “Nobody’ll know any better,” he had said, “and what you need very badly indeed is a thoroughly good Saracen invasion within the next fortnight.”

  Mrs. Rockbotham was explaining that she had been talking to Mr. Berringer’s housekeeper on the telephone. The usual small arrangements had, of course, been made for the meeting, and the housekeeper, though a little reluctant, was under pressure compliant. Mr. Berringer was still lying quite quiet—unconscious, Dr. Rockbotham had said. Mrs. Rockbotham and Miss Wilmot however both thought it more likely that the unconsciousness was of the nature of trance, Mr. Berringer’s soul or something having gone off into the spiritual world or somewhere, probably where time didn’t exist, and not realizing the inconvenient length of the period that was elapsing before its return.

  “And suppose,” the over-suppressed Miss Wilmot broke out, “suppose he came back while we were there! What he might tell us! He’d even be able to tell you something, Elise, wouldn’t he?”

  The whole thing sounded extremely disagreeable to Damaris. The more she thought about it, the sillier it looked. But was it worth while, if Mrs. Rockbotham chose to be silly, refusing her request, and running the risk of a hostile word dropped in that influential relative’s ear?

  “But what sort of thing do you want?” she asked slowly.

  Mrs. Rockbotham considered. “If you could tell us something about thought-forms, now,” she said. “That’s what we’re trying to shape—I can’t go into it all—but perhaps a few remarks about … well, now, Plato? Mr. Berringer told us that Plato wrote a good deal about ideas, and didn’t you tell me you had several studies in Plato almost done?”

  Damaris thought of the Charlemagne paper, but rejected it as being too historical for this purpose. She thought of a few other titles, and suddenly—

  “If it would be any good to you,” she said, “I have some notes on the relation of Platonic and medieval thought—a little specialist, I’m afraid, but it would be the best I could do. If it’s really any use——”

  Mrs. Rockbotham sat up with a delighted smile. “How good of you, Miss Tighe,” she exclaimed. “I knew you’d help us! It will be exactly right, I’m sure. I’ll call for you in the car at half-past eight. And thank you so much.”

  She stood up and paused. “By the way,” she asked, “what’s your paper called?”

  “The Eidola and the Angeli,” Damaris answered. “It’s just a comparison, you know; largely between the sub-Platonic philosophers on the one side and the commentators on Dionysius the Areopagite on the other, suggesting that they have a common pattern in mind. But some of the quotations are rather quaint and might attract your friends.”

  “I’m perfectly certain it will be delightful,” Mrs. Rockbotham assured her. “The—the Eidola. What were they? But you’ll tell us that, won’t you? It’s really too kind of you, Miss Tighe, and I only hope one day I shall be able to do something to show my appreciation. Good-bye till half-past eight.”

  Damaris, with the firm intention that Mrs. Rockbotham should have her hope fulfilled by assisting, if necessary, to print the paper in question, said good-bye, and herself took her visitors to the car. Then she went back to her study and set to work to find the lecture. When she did, it appeared even more technical than she had supposed. The main thesis of a correspondence between the development of the formative Ideas of Hellenic philosophy and the hierarchic angelicals of Christian mythology was clearly stated. But most of the quotations were in their original Greek or Latin, and Damaris was compelled to sit down and translate them at once, for fear of later hesitation about an adequate word, into bearable English. She took the opportunity to modify it here and there in case she hurt Mrs. Rockbotham’s feelings, changing for example “superstitious slavery” into “credulous piety” and “emotional opportunism” into “fervent zeal.” Not that Mrs. Rockbotham was likely to be worried by any insult to the schoolmen or Dionysius the Areopagite—she added a couple of sentences explaining “Areopagite”—but Damaris had only the remotest notion what these ladies supposed themselves to be doing, and even in pure scholarship it was never worth while taking risks unless you were pretty sure. The highly intellectualized readers of The Two Camps were almost certain to be free from any prejudice in favour of either the eidola or the angeli, but with Mr. Berringer’s disciples one couldn’t tell. She altered “priestly oppression” into “official influence” almost automatically, however, recalling that Anthony had told her that a certain number of clergymen took in the periodical, and after a couple of hours’ work felt fairly ready. It would, at worst, give her a chance of reading her paper, which she liked doing; things sounded different when they were read aloud. At best—well, at best, one never knew; someone useful might be there. Damaris put the MS. ready and went down to dinner.

  At dinner her father began talking. They sat opposite each other in the small dining-room into which two bookcases holding works on Proclus, Iamblichus, St. Anselm, and the Moorish culture in Spain had lately crept. The maid supplied them with food, and Damaris—to a less nourishing effect, but with a similar efficiency—supplied her father with conversation. He was more than usually thrilled to-day; never had he seen so many butterflies, and yet they had all escaped him.

  “There was a great one on the oak at the top of the hill,” he said, “and it vanished—really vanished—just as I moved. I can’t think what sort it was—I couldn’t recognize it; brown and gold it seemed. A lovely, lovely thing!”

  He sighed and went on eating. Damaris frowned.

  “Really, father,” she said, “if it was as beautiful as all that I don’t see how you can bear to go on eating mutton and potatoes so
ordinarily.”

  Her father opened his eyes at her. “But what else can I do?” he said. “It was a lovely thing; it was glinting and glowing there. This is very good mutton,” he added placidly. “I’m glad I didn’t miss this too—not without catching the other.”

  Damaris looked at him. He was short and rather plump, and he was enjoying the mutton. Beauty! She didn’t know that she hated him, and certainly she didn’t know that she only hated him because he was her father. Nor did she realize that it was only when she was talking to him that the divine Plato’s remarks on beauty were used by her as if they meant anything more than entries in a card-index. She had of course heard of “defence mechanisms,” but not as if they were anything she could have or need or use. Nor had love and Heloise ever appeared to her as more than a side-incident of Abelard’s real career. In which her judgment may have been perfectly right, but her sensations were wildly and entirely wrong.

  “Plato says——” she began.

  “O Plato!” answered Mr. Tighe, taking, as if rhythmically, more vegetables.

  “—that,” Damaris went on, ignoring the answer, “one should rise from the phenomenal to the abstract beauty, and thence to the absolute.”

  Mr. Tighe said he had no doubt that Plato was a very great man and could do it. “But personally,” he added, “I find that mutton helps butterflies and butterflies mutton. That’s why I like lunching out in the open. It was a marvel, that one on the oak. I don’t see what it can have been. Brown and gold,” he added thoughtfully. “It’s very curious. I’ve looked up all my books, and I can’t find anything like it. It’s a pity,” he added irrelevantly, “that you don’t like butterflies.”

  Meaning to be patient, Damaris said, “But, you know, I can’t take, up everything.”

  “I thought that was what you just said Plato told you to do,” her father answered. “Isn’t the Absolute something like everything?”