Pilgrim's Inn

by Elizabeth Goudge

  “Hold your tongue, boy. Sit down, General. It isn’t as uncomfortable as it looks. These were once the storeroom shelves.”

  “So I see,” said George heavily. It was the only thing he did see. It had taken him and Malony a long time to put those shelves up. The walls looked just a mess to him, and of what they were all talking about he had no idea.

  “Who was Placidus, by the way?” inquired David.

  “It was a pity you neglected to conduct Ben round the National Gallery. If you had you might have noticed him. But then again you might not.” John Adair, puffing out spirals of smoke, was enjoying himself. “None of your generation seems to notice anything unless it explodes. You’ve probably been to Wells Cathedral and taken no note of the carved figures of the saints upon the west front, and to Chartres Cathedral and retained no memory of its windows, and to Abbeville and not even noticed that there were any windows, and to the Church of St. Eustace in Paris—”

  “Eustace!” interrupted David. “Pisanello’s ‘Vision of St. Eustace.’ You put me off the scent by calling him Placidus.”

  “His mother gave him the excellent name of Placidus. He only called himself Eustace when he took religion. Just another example of that deplorable loss of aesthetic taste which so often unfortunately accompanies conversion. Eustace—dreadful name. One thinks at once of a parson’s dog collar. Now I’ll tell you about Placidus—”

  “You will not,” interrupted Sally firmly, sitting down suddenly on the floor. “No one tells a story worse than you do. It’s coming back to me and I’ll tell it. I don’t remember it all, but I remember what matters.”

  “Go on,” said Ben, and slid to the floor beside her. David joined George and John Adair on the pile of shelves and watched the two of them together. Sitting there on the floor there did not seem much difference in their ages; they were the child who tells a story and the child who listens, all down the ages. The light was fading now, and in the dimness it seemed to him that all things flowed together, past and present, love and agony; life and death became fused into one tireless moment of longing, the longing that linked together so many journeys, quests, martyrdoms, making them all one, the oneness the object of them, the goal, the crown.

  — 3 —

  “He lived in Italy,” said Sally the child, telling a tale to Ben the child. “He was a Roman noble, a great huntsman, a rich fairy-tale knight, riding out from the pages of an illuminated missal on his great white horse with its gay trappings, his spurs on his heels, his hunting horn slung over his shoulder, his hunting knife in his belt and his spear in his hand, his garments all bright and gay and richly furred, his dogs bounding about him.

  “And one day, in this beauty and this pomp, he went hunting in the forest outside Rome, the dark forest where there were wild beasts in plenty for a brave man to slay, boars and bears as well as the deer and the swift hares. But it was not only because of the good hunting that Placidus rode through the Roman forest; he rode in pursuit of something else besides excitement and danger, something unknown to which his tongue could give no name and of which his imagination could form no image. And he rode alone because the huntsmen of the unknown must follow a path narrow as the confines of his own body, lonely as his own pain, dark as his own ignorance, and his way is his own way and cannot be shared with another.

  “But though the forest was dark and dangerous, and the path narrow, it was full of gleams and flashes of beauty that were as candles lit along the way, beckoning Placidus on and on to that something beyond, of whose existence he had no proof except the fact of his own journeying, but which he knew he would surely recognize under whatever guise his quarry would choose to show itself to him at his journey’s end.

  “And so he rode, and was glad of the flowers that were singing bright beneath the forest trees, of the melodious birds in the branches, of the streams and the pale stretches of still water, and of the running that could not be seen of skipping beasts. The day wore on and still Placidus rode he did not know where, after he knew not what.

  “And then, at last, he saw it: a white deer, the most perfect creature he had ever seen, with great branching antlers, the magnificent head reared proudly, the splendid body poised for flight. For a moment the flashing eyes met his, commanding him, and then the creature was off, silver hoofs spurning the ground, the perfect body a white flash of speed, the antlers swaying this way and that, yet never entangled in the branches, beckoning, challenging, defying. One clear call did Placidus sound upon his horn and then he was off too, his dogs after him, his horse stretched out to full gallop with great hoofs pounding on the forest floor. Placidus bent low in the saddle, whispering threats and cajolements, reckless of time or place, life or death, knowing only that he must follow that deer until the end.

  “And so the wild chase went on. But he could not catch up with the creature; it was always a little ahead. The horse was near foundering, his own breath came in gasps, some of the dogs had fallen behind, but still he went on. And then the ground rose steeply and the rocks of a mighty mountain towered up before the failing sight of horse and rider. The deer bounded up it, swift yet unhurried, as though winged. But Placidus could not follow. He reined in his horse, lest it dash itself to death against the rocks, and bowed his head in shame. He, the unconquerable huntsman, was beaten at last.

  “And at that moment of his shame the miracle happened. The deer stopped and swung round to face him, lifting its proud head, and the antlers formed themselves into a gleaming cross, with a crucified Figure upon it, that strange symbol of the Christians which he had seen many times and wondered at for a moment or two, and then had turned aside and gone on his way thinking no more about it. But now he could not turn aside, for the deer, the vision sent to him, had led him directly to this end. His way was blocked by this impassable mountain and the challenge of this cross.

  “There was only one thing he could do and he did it. He leaped from his horse and fell upon his knees. And a voice cried out loudly, echoing through the forest, ‘Placidus, why dost thou attempt to injure me? I am Jesus Christ whom thou hast long served in ignorance. Dost thou believe in me?’ And Placidus answered, ‘Lord, I believe.’ The voice came again, the words spoken this time very low in his own soul, as though in warning, ‘Many sorrows shalt thou endure for my sake, many temptations will assail thee, but be of good courage, I will always be with thee.’

  “A thrill of dismay went through Placidus, yet he did not hesitate, for he knew that he was not yet at his journey’s end; as he had followed the vision of the deer to the vision of the cross, so he must follow the vision of the cross to something beyond again. What it was he still did not know, but in spite of his fear he did know that to attain the goal at last he would give all that he had, down to the last drop of his blood. ‘Lord, I am content,’ he said. ‘Only give me patience to endure all things for Thee.’ When at last he looked up again the deer with the crucifix between its antlers had disappeared and night was falling in the forest.”

  “Not so bad, Sally,” said her father as she paused. “Though I dare say I could have done better.”

  “It sounds like St. Paul on the Damascus road,” said Ben. “Go on, please, Sally. What happened after?”

  “Very much like St. Paul. Just the same pattern. It’s always the same pattern. He did give all that he had. He lost his wealth and his great position, and in the end was burned to death in Rome by order of the Emperor Hadrian. There are lots of stories about his life as a Christian, but I don’t remember them very well. It’s the first bit that came back so vividly, all in a rush, because of this place.”

  “Funny thing, memory,” said David. “Like a storeroom full of cupboards. Something makes one of the doors fly open, and out falls a lot of stuff you didn’t even know you had.”

  “I know perfectly well,” said a clear and beautiful but icy voice, “that I had more in this storeroom than is now upon the kitchen floor. There are fou
r pots missing. Have you smashed them?”

  It was Nadine standing in the doorway, her hands in the pockets of the long cherry-red coat that suited her better than any garment that she had. She was hatless, her dark head held proudly, her face white with weariness and anger. She looked beautiful, but lonely and desolate. All his old love for her, all that had been between them for so long, seemed to surge over David in a wave of anguish. How long had he known Sally? Just a few weeks. And Nadine had been to him the only woman in the world for as many years. He jumped up and went to her. “Nadine, do forgive us. We’d no right to pull the place to pieces like this while you were out. It was insufferable.”

  This was an aspect of the affair that had not hitherto occurred to anyone else except George. Now they saw to their shame that there was something in it, and gathered round her full of explanation and apology. They were dreadfully sorry. They might at least have waited for her. But they had been so excited. They knew there was a frightful mess. But didn’t she think it was worth it? Had she ever seen anything lovelier than these painted walls?

  Nadine, glancing round the walls, saw nothing but a vague mess. Her eyes met her husband’s and saw them hot with anger. . . . For her sake, against these others. . . . She smiled a little, at George only, feeling queerly close to him.

  “Well, there it is,” she said with a hard control that deflated the sinners far more completely than if she had lost her temper. “What’s done is done, and I expect what you have found will turn out very interesting. It’s past five o’clock and you must all be dying for tea. Annie-Laurie is just taking it to the drawing room. I’ll ring for her to bring me mine in my sitting room. I’ve got a bit of headache.” And she turned and left them, her slim bright figure mounting up the turret staircase like a tall angel going away into heaven and bearing the earthbound to their doom.

  — 4 —

  She went into her sitting room and shut the door, but she did not sit down. With her hands still in her pockets she stood looking out of the window. The brief spell of sunshine was over and a mist had blown in from the sea. She shivered, looking out at the cold opaque grayness. She felt as though she were looking at some dismal gray stone mountain. She had come to a dead end. There was a light step outside and a tap on the door. She thought it was Ben, come to apologize yet once more. She wanted only to be alone, but her past carelessness over Ben was still a reproach to her, and in these days she could deny him nothing. “Come in,” she called.

  But it was David who came in, almost the David of seven years ago, glowing with sudden reborn love for her, his usually ready tongue unable to give the form of words to the shamed turmoil of his thoughts. “Nadine—Nadine—I’m so sorry—”

  It was in her hands. This was her chance. He was in a mood of reaction. She could bind him to her all over again or she could set him free. It was not so difficult, for her choice had been made last night. Step by step she had come to this; it was only the last step of many. She moved back, her hands still in her pockets. “There’s no need to apologize, David,” she said coldly.

  “There’s every need. To make a mess of your house without your knowledge, in your absence, was an unpardonable thing to do. And it was my fault. Ben and Old Beaver were blind with enthusiasm. It was I who should have called a halt. I’ve behaved like a cad to you, Nadine.” And in more ways than one, said his shamed and loving look.

  “Nonsense,” she said curtly. “What a child you are, David. You look like a naughty little boy caught by his mother stealing sweets from the cupboard. I was only annoyed for the moment about those smashed jam pots.” She stifled a yawn. “I’m dead beat, that’s all. Being shampooed always tires me to death. Tomorrow I shall be as keen about the frescoes as you and Ben, and glad that both of you have the interest of them. Tommy will be excited, too, when he comes.”

  She classed him with her children; then she turned to her mirror, taking her hands from her pockets and giving her beautiful hair a few deft touches. He saw her face in the mirror, apparently absorbed in the result of the shampoo, with a little twist about the mouth that his humiliation read as contempt. A major operation, even though one may have desired it, is never pleasant, and he went rigid with pain. She, too, saw him in the mirror, and it was all she could do not to turn round and hold out her arms to him. Instead she turned away and took her coat off.

  “It’s all right, my dear,” she said, in a tone of voice that relegated him now to the status of the twins. “Such a fuss about nothing!” She yawned again. “I’m dying for a cup of tea. If Annie-Laurie isn’t available yet, send my dear old George along with one, will you?”

  Without a word he went away and left her. She groped her way to the little armchair and sat down. It was done. She had denied. It was over. . . . No, it wasn’t. . . . That was where she had gone wrong before. There was never a last step, but only one more step. Nothing is ever over; it is all a continuing process. Lying back in her armchair she shut her eyes and made her submission to the process; it seemed somehow a personal submission to a personal power, a reorientation of herself. . . . Yes, she said. . . . Well, what next? . . . That hateful poem she had read in John Adair’s room came to her mind. She had denied. Now she had to go out into that detestable wood and learn to laugh.

  CHAPTER

  13

  — 1 —

  The winter was upon them with gales and rain and driving mists from the sea, with now and again a calm still day just touched with frost, when the blue eggshell sky, the last gold on the trees, and the green of the rain-washed grass seemed in spite of their brilliance to be without substance, lovely but transitory as the spider’s webs that in the early mornings stretched their sparkling filaments from branch to branch in the bare apple orchard.

  Knyghtwood, though the gales had stripped away most of its leaves, had not lost its fascination for Ben and the twins. Indeed, its spell seemed deeper than before. The trees all had faces now, the twins said, and fingers and toes. They dug their toes in hard when the wind blew; they stretched up their arms to the sky and pulled down the clouds with their long gray fingers, and made purple cloaks out of them that they wrapped about their bare limbs when the night fell coldly.

  An old white owl had taken up his residence just inside the wood, and at dusk he would sit on top of the green gate and stare benignly at the Herb of Grace as though through the night he intended to have it in his special care. He was like a great moth in flight, heavy and lumbering as though his wings were burdened with the weight of dreams, yet his glimmering body made no sound in the air. The small birds were silent now, except for small gurgling conversations beneath the bushes, but the owl had a very reassuring kind of hoot when he blundered about the house in the night, like a watchman’s cry of “All’s well.” The gulls were vociferous as they drifted and tossed over the river. When the houseboat was packed up for the winter Annie-Laurie had taken her bells from the top of the mast lest they should tarnish in the salt winds, but the place of their chiming was taken by the rustle of the dry sedges. There was always music about the Herb of Grace, and always a drifting beauty. The holiday season was over and no more strangers came to the inn. Those who lived there felt that for the time being they had strangely lost touch with the outside world and all its terror and pain. Their present concern was with the house and with each other. They had some pattern to make here in this place, and they must weave together their hopes and fears, their loves and joys, about the central beauty of the chapel in the heart of the house.

  The chapel was the important thing just now. A friend of John Adair’s, an expert, had been down to see the frescoes and had shown them what to do, and now John Adair and David, Ben and Sally, worked increasingly at the restoration of the walls, removing the dirt of ages from the glowing colors below. The frescoes were incredibly lovely. The background of the wood had been painted with a lavishness and eagerness that was astonishing, but to Ben’s delight the artist’s perspective and
anatomy was as poor as his own, and he had bothered no more than a child would have done about any kind of likelihood. He had had no hesitation whatever in expressing his passionate love of trees, birds, animals, butterflies, and flowers in such a welter of them as took the breath away. He had splashed the trees of Knyghtwood onto the walls in all the splendor of their summer foliage, the knotted strength of their roots holding firmly to a green mossy earth sown thickly with all his favorite flowers. Bees and butterflies hovered over them and sipped their honey regardless of season or soil or habitat or anything whatever except the desire to paint for the glory of God every flower and insect that God had made that he could manage to get into the space at his disposal.

  It was Ben’s guess that he had started with the flowers and butterflies and then found himself left with no space on the floor of the wood for the birds and animals. But he had not let this worry him. Up above, in every small break in the foliage of the trees where one expected to see a patch of sky, one saw instead a little leaf-framed picture of an animal or bird enjoying itself. One showed a gull in flight, another a swan sailing on a patch of blue water. There was a deer feeding, a little doe fast asleep, a kingfisher diving for a fish, a robin building a nest, an owl in contemplation, a badger’s holt with the back view of the badger going in, a rabbit’s burrow with the front view of the rabbit coming out, a squirrel eating nuts, a field mouse sitting up on its hind legs and washing its ears, and as many others as there were frames in the trees in which to put them. There was no sky anywhere, because there was no space in which to put it, but the whole scene shone with so clear and lovely a light, so tranquil and yet so glowing, that one knew that the hot blue of a midsummer day was passing to golden sunset with a breath of coolness stirring in the wood and the birds’ voices rising in a paean of praise.