—But this isn’t . . . you can’t go now?
Gwyon looked him full in the face for the first time. —Spain is a land to flee across, he said, motionless, forcing the other face to lower in chagrin at the sight of his own undetermined features, as loss spread from his eyes out to the edges of his face, the emptiness in the eyepiece of a telescope where a point of light expands into a field of space and a worldless universe.
—She . . . They ejaculated at the same instant.
—She came to me there, Gwyon went on with somniloquent evenness, —in this monastery. I was almost asleep, and I felt her hand. I got up, I got to the window as fast as I could, and there, the moon had sent a stream of light in, across the room, right across the room to me. There it was in the sky. The moon . . . warm, like the moon . . .
—Yes but you can’t . . . I’m not a child any more! and you can’t . . . you used to tell me the Thessalonian witches tried to draw it down . . . Gwyon watched him vacantly as he turned away, abrupt movements round the far end of the table as though evading the image, or a mock image of the figure Gwyon had conjured. —And if it’s she standing over us . . . ?
—“The moon is always in motion,” says Arnobius.
—To hell with Arnobius.
—“According to your representation she is a woman, with a countenance that does not alter, though her daily variation carries her through a thousand forms,” Gwyon finished, and his querulous voice failed.
—That . . . that, never mind all that! The words were harsh and uneven as he shook his head, shaking away the paraselene. —I came for you! he cried out at Gwyon.
—Yes . . . ? Gwyon whispered, his hands finding one another before him on the table, as his features reformed and his eyes recovered their glitter.
—If I’ve come for the priesthood, and you . . .
—Yes, you . . . You brought the bull, the gold bull, Reverend Gwyon said leaning forward.
—The what? Yes, that, but listen . . .
—And you’ve come for the priesthood, Gwyon went on tensely.
—Yes I’ve come back, I’ve come to you, because you can tell me . . . what I must know. He lowered his eyes, then raised them gleaming before Gwyon could interrupt again. —Though why you, better than someone else, because I . . . then I’ll be a minister, I’ll know what I’m doing . . . I’ll out-preach Saint Bernard. Mothers will hide their sons, wives will hide their husbands for fear my preaching will tempt them away. Yes, he broke up so many homes the deserted wives formed a nunnery. I’ll form seventy-two nunneries. Yes, “And the brother shall deliver up the brother unto death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death . . .” Why, I’ll go to Laodicea, and I . . . I’ll be God’s Fool Himself, he finished, swinging round to the windows again so abruptly that his hand cracked against the frame. He clutched it quickly in the other, then threw it out again. —Look! Look, the wren, do you see? he cried out.
A wren fluttered to an evergreen outside, its weight not enough to dislodge the snow on the spray where it landed.
—I’ll go out like the early Christian missionaries did at Christmas, to hunt down the wren and kill him, yes, when the wren was king, do you remember, you told me . . . When the wren was king, he repeated, getting breath again, —at Christmas.
The wren had flown, as he turned from the window and approached with burning green eyes fixed on Gwyon. —King, yes, he repeated, —when the king was slain and eaten, there’s sacrament. There’s sacrament. Then at the side of the table he paused and lowered his head, a closed wrist couched in the back of his neck, mumbling, —Homo . . . homoi . . . what I mean is, Did He really suffer? And . . . no, that’s not it, I mean . . . He stopped; and clinging to the edge, sank into his chair.
Reverend Gwyon sat high at the helm, steadying, hands stretched forth to the edge of the sail of wrapping paper, looking down at him as though he were trying to clamber aboard. Then, —Are you prepared? Gwyon brought out, his eyes gleaming with the challenge.
—Prepared?
—The priesthood. The trials before you, for the priesthood.
—Trials?
—There must be priests, strong and passionless, able to renounce the things of this world . . . Gwyon reached out and took his wrist, as though to pull him aboard. —To preach Him Who offers rest from sin, and hope beyond the grave. Born of the Rock, He comes forth to offer Remission of sins, and Everlasting Life.
—Yes . . .
—Priests to administer Baptism, the Oath, and the Sign on the Brow, and the Communion of Bread and Cup. To preach Redemption, Sacramentary Grace, and Salvation, through the Lord of Hosts, the God of Truth who rewards for acts of piety . . .
—Yes, yes . . . Gwyon’s grip was tight as a closed vise on his wrist. It became tighter.
—To be his priest, are you prepared? Gwyon repeated. —To be inured to hardship? strengthened against temptation? and your body rendered passionless?
—But I . . . yes, good God, there’s no passion left in me now.
—To renounce the things of this world?
—There’s nothing here I want . . . Nothing.
—And when the crown is offered you . . . Gwyon came on, straining with intensity.
—Yes, the third temptation, “All these things will I give thee . . .” No, I’m through with that. He twisted in Gwyon’s grip. —He offered me all that, and he’s behind me. He gave me all that, and he’s behind me. Just being here I’ve renounced him, just coming here, I’ve renounced all he gave me. He paused, and when Gwyon did not speak but continued to grip his wrist and fix all his attention, as he had before, with his eye, went on, —Do you think he didn’t take me up on a high mountain, and show me all the kingdoms of the world? and the glory of them? and offer them to me? and give them to me? And here . . . now . . . if this is not Renunciation . . .
—Could you face fifty days of fasting? Gwyon demanded suddenly.
—Why . . . why yes, if . . .
—Could you stand two days exposed to extreme heat?
—But . . .
—And twenty days in the snow?
—But I . . .
—There are twelve trials of fortitude, Gwyon went on in a voice of intense confidence, —you must face heat and cold, hunger, thirst, and the terrors of drowning, before you take the sacramentum and be sealed on the forehead as his priest.
—But all this . . .
—You cannot be his priest without passing through all the disciplines, Gwyon said, relaxing his grip a little, speaking with an admonishing tone. —You must give proof of self-control and chastity, as Nonnus says in his In Sancta Lumina. To be rendered strong and passionless, in order to convert the army first, Gwyon went on, looking toward the window, his voice sinking to a reflective note.
—But Father . . . Father . . .
—Yes, Gwyon said closing his grip again, bringing his eyes back to the eyes which stared at him. —I have passed through all the grades, of course, to be the Pater Patrum. And then, he went on intent again, —after your death . . .
—My death? . . .
—After the cruciati you must die, of course, after the torments, when you have passed through all the disciplines, when you have attained Cryphius, and Miles, and Leo, and Perses, and Helio-dromus . . .
—Die? . . .
—How else may the soul be relieved of the dread necessity of its lower nature? Gwyon demanded bending toward him.
—Father! . . .
—Yes, at my hands, Gwyon said looking at him steadily, —you must die at the hands of the Pater Patratus, like all initiates.
Gwyon’s face was suffused with a flush which deepened as they sat locked rigidly hand and wrist together; and as it did the face that Gwyon looked into drained of all color until the skin was near translucent, so that it might have been not two processes but one continuous seepage of life. —No one can teach Resurrection without first suffering death himself. No one can be reborn wit
hout dying. No one can be Mithras’ priest without being reborn . . . to teach them to observe Sunday, and keep sacred the twenty-fifth of December as the birthday of the sun. Natalis invicti, the Unconquered Sun, Gwyon finished, turning his face to the window.
—But I . . . you . . . to worship the sun?
Gwyon let go his wrist abruptly, and he drew it back.
—Nonsense, said Gwyon, brisk now. —We let them think so, he confided, —those outside the mysteries. But our own votaries know Mithras as the deity superior to it, in fact the power behind the sun. Here, his name you see . . . Gwyon revealed the marginal notes on the newspaper clipping. —Abraxas and Mithras have the same numerical value, the cycle of the year as the sun’s orbit describes it. Abraxas, you know, the resident of the highest Gnostic heaven . . .
The scuffling of feet sounded on the porch outside. Janet passed through the room hurriedly, behind them. Gwyon reached for his wrist again. It was not there, and Gwyon’s hand gripped the edge of the table. —“The gods are benevolent and regardful of the human race,” says Elisæus, Gwyon said almost in a whisper. —“If only men acknowledge the greatness of the gods and their own insignificance, and take pleasure in the gifts of the earth distributed by the hands of the king . . .”
Janet’s footsteps sounded in the front hall, and the door banged open, spilling voices into the house. Gwyon paused. His hand shook on the edge of the table, and his lip quivered. —Mithras means friend, he said, —mediator. Mithras is mediator between the gods and the lower world. He waited anxiously, as though for confirmation, as footsteps approached in the hall.
—Hell? the lower world, hell? came in distracted query.
—Our own earth, Reverend Gwyon answered, and was silent until Janet’s voice broke in upon them from the doorway, and he leaped up.
—It’s the Use-Me Ladies to see you, Reverend, said she.
Reverend Gwyon was through the doorway in the other direction before she’d finished her sentence, muttering —I’ll . . . be a minute, as he passed her. The study door banged, and from inside the sound of a book hurled to the floor a moment later.
Janet fled to the kitchen, as footsteps sounded straight down the front hall to the dining room. Three ladies came in. The cold came in with them; it clung round them as they came to a stop.
—Reverend . . .
—Reverend . . .
—I beg your pardon. We have come to see Reverend Gwyon.
—Oh, I . . . I . . . He just went out.
—Went out?
—Went out?
—But in this kind of weather he never goes out. Reverend Gwyon is always irritable when the sky clouds over and we have bad weather.
—No, I mean . . . just out of the room. He’ll be right back.
—I see.
—We’ll wait. And are you visiting here?
—I? Why, you might say . . .
—It may have surprised you, when we mistook you for Reverend Gwyon.
—But there is a resemblance.
—There is a resemblance. Of course Reverend Gwyon is a good deal bigger.
—A good deal older. But as you’re dressed, you may see where we make our mistake. Are you in the Lord’s work?
—I? why I . . . Yes, I’m . . .
—I can’t see where I saw the resemblance.
—. . . the Reverend Gilbert Sullivan.
—But just for a minute . . .
—Just for a minute I saw it too. It may be that only this morning we were speaking of Reverend Gwyon’s son.
—Who has been away a very long time.
—The prodigal son.
—But he has no brothers.
—Yes, the poor boy.
—Poor Camilla.
—May was really a mother to him.
—Poor May.
—It was a severe trial for everyone.
—He wasn’t a strong boy.
—But then Camilla . . .
—Poor Camilla . . .
—Poor Camilla never was strong.
—Taken and left in foreign lands. Left to lie among Roman Catholics.
—I trust the Reverend Gilbert Sullivan is not a Roman Catholic priest? The name . . .
—The name . . .
—Me? Good God, no. I mean . . .
—The name suggests Irish extraction. Perhaps his forebears are north of Ireland?
—Perhaps we may ask Reverend Gilbert Sullivan to attend our Christmas supper tonight?
—Of course we may.
—Of course he may.
Hurraaaph! . . . —Look out, or by God I’ll split your skull. Shake the snow off before you come inside. Oh, good day, ladies. I didn’t see you, ladies. Don’t mind us, the dog and me. We’ve been outdoors, as you can see. We’ve been working, both very tired. Up the stairs, now! Up the stairs!
—Working, indeed.
—Indeed!
—Indeed!
—Why I could smell him across the room.
—He wanted to sing at the supper tonight. One of his songs from the saloon.
—It is a disgrace to have him our sexton.
—It is a disgrace to have him living right here under the roof of the parsonage.
—But Reverend Gwyon . . .
—Reverend Gwyon . . .
—Reverend Gwyon always smells so fresh.
—Even his charity is stretched too far.
—Indeed it is. But I’ve been thinking . . .
—I’ve been thinking, don’t misunderstand me, the very same thing. After all, the sexton is getting older.
—The Lord will deliver him.
—The Lord will release him.
—The Lord will have pity on the poor man.
—Why, Reverend Gwyon.
—Reverend Gwyon . . .
—We’ve come to ask you about our supper, the Christmas supper in the church tonight.
—Mrs. Dorman is going to sing. My sister is going to play the piano.
—And we’ve arranged for a visiting lecturer.
—A former Y.M.C.A. official. He is going to give a humorous talk.
—Nothing flighty. Nothing frivolous.
—Oh dear no, his talk will have some meat in it.
—I understand he has been in Africa. Not just traveling, wasting time. He was fully occupied with the Lord’s work.
—And your guest will come.
—Yes, he is coming. We shall see both of you there tonight.
—Reverend Gwyon might like to hear our poem.
—Reverend Gilbert might like to hear our poem.
—Both of them might like to hear the poem we’ve written for the Christmas supper tonight.
—The last two verses. The rest will have to be a surprise!
So as members of the Use-Me
So as members of the Use-Me
So as members of the Use-Me
We hope to conquer all
We hope to conquer all
We hope to conquer all
Offering the fellowship of Jesus
Offering the fellowship of Jesus
Offering the fellowship of Jesus
To those who need him most of all
To those who need him most of all
To those who need him most of all
For when we get to heaven
For when we get to heaven
For when we get to heaven
A reward there will be in store
A reward there will be in store
A reward there will be in store
For those whose daily living
For those whose daily living
For those whose daily living
Has been “Use-Me evermore.”
Has been “Use-Me evermore.”
Has been “Use-Me evermore.”
When they looked round, they were alone in the room. When they left, seeking their footprints, those were gone under the snow; and the prints of departure so quickly obliterated as to leave no witness that their visit had ever been made
at all.
Though Reverend Gwyon, alone again in his study, found time to mutter, —There was a woman’s grade in the Mysteries. Porphyry mentions it . . . hummn . . . He turned up open books on his desk. —Hyena. That was it. Hyena.
His gaze fell upon the Bible. —Near Christmas! Christmas! he said almost viciously, as his eye followed lines on the open page. —Then the moon shall be confounded and the sun ashamed . . . His hand flung over the pages of Isaiah. —The sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory. Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall the moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be . . .
Suddenly Gwyon’s hand swept the Bible to the floor. He stood there quivering the length of his frame. Then he crumpled the newspaper clipping from Osservatore Romano; and after it, one by one, the books went to the floor, Tertullian’s De Prœscriptione Hœreticorum, Arnobius’ Adversus Nationes, De Errore Profanarum Religionum of Firmicus Maternus . . . He did not stop until he came to Saint John of the Cross, which he opened, removed the contents, and dropped the hollow Dark Night of the Soul after the rest of them. Then he straightened the gold bull figure to its feet on his desk, and stood with his hands on its horns looking out at the darkening sky.
—Cannot they see, it is exhausted? he whispered. Thunder sounded, beyond Mount Lamentation, and it sounded again.
Then he broke out,
—Herakles star-adorned, king of fire, ruler of the universe, thou sun, who with thy far-flung rays art the guardian of mortal life, with thy gleaming car revolving the wide circuit of thy course . . . Belus thou art named on the Euphrates, Ammon in Libya, Apis of the Nile art thou by birth, Arabian Kronos, Assyrian Zeus . . . but whether thou art Serapis, or the cloudless Zeus of Egypt, or Kronos, or Phaëthon, many-titled Mithra, Sun of Babylon, or in Greece Apollo of Delphi, or Wedlock, whom Love begat in the shadowy land of dreams . . . whether thou art known as Paieon, healer of pain, or Æther with its varied garb, or star-bespangled Night—for the starry robes of night illuminate the heaven—lend a propitious ear to my prayer. He paused, then went on more loudly,
The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) Page 59
