|
|
|
|
. |
“A Feast of Reason and a Flow of Soul”: A Cycle of Inklings Stories ONE: “Lunch with C. S. Lewis” [First in a four-part
cycle of stories: Tom McCord is a
24-year-old American, touring Tom surveyed the
labyrinthine aisles of books, stacked floor to ceiling, with neatly
hand-lettered signs pointing to more books by the thousands on the floor
above. He exhausted most of the hour wandering through the maze that is
Blackwells, spending less time perusing books by C. S. Lewis than simply
trying to find them. Besides three
books of literary criticism, the distinguished don had also published two
books of poetry and a “scientifiction” novel. After skimming through books with titles such as Rehabilitations, Out of the Silent Planet, and The Pilgrim’s Regress, Tom glanced at his watch and decided it was time to head over to the Turf Tavern. Realizing that he still hadn’t discovered what the “C. S.” stood for, Tom pushed open the heavy front door of Blackwells, wondering what sort of man he’d meet behind the initials. Tom walked out onto
Broad Street and felt reassured by the crystalline blue sky above and classic
elegance of the Sheldonian Theater just across the way. Stepping briskly
through traffic of bicycles and black sedans, he crossed over to the Continuing east on Broad
Street, Tom crossed Catte Street, “street of the mouse catchers,” and
continued on to Holywell. Taking a right at Tom scanned the crowded room until he saw a slender, silver-haired gentleman sitting alone at a table, reading a leatherbound book. He made his way over to the table and asked diffidently, “Excuse me. Professor Lewis?” The older man looked up with momentary bewilderment, then pointed without a word to a back corner of the room. Tom looked over and saw another man sitting alone, a portly, ruddy-cheeked man with thinning hair, wrinkled baggy paints and an ill-fitting coat. He looked more like a country farmer who’d stopped in for a ploughman’s lunch than a celebrated man of letters. Tom glanced down again at the distinguished-looking gentleman to see if there was some mistake, but the other man just offered a thin-lipped smile and nodded his head in confirmation. Tom worked his way past several more tables and approached the second man, who was holding a book called Diary of an Old Soul in one hand and a pint of cider in the other. “Excuse me. Professor Lewis?” he tried again. “Yes, yes,” said the other genially, rising to shake hands. “And you must be McCord,” he added in a deep resonant voice, gesturing at the empty chair across the table. Tom took a seat, stared across the table at that round, friendly face, the broad forehead and the big, liquid eyes. Suddenly Tom discovered that he had completely forgotten how to make words come out of his mouth. “So, you’ve come over from America, I understand?” said Lewis. All the words in the English language suddenly vied for Tom’s tongue, and he wanted to say, “research grant” and “Arthurian romance” and “great admirer of your work” all at once. Finally, he mustered all his verbal powers and answered, “Yes, that’s right.” He paused for several seconds, until subjects and verbs started finding each other in his brain, and then he continued: “I’m over here working on a book. I don’t know if you remember my letter, but I did my masters thesis on Arthurian literature and now I’m doing some follow-up research.” “Yes,” answered Lewis, “I recall the letter. Reality and romance. From history to legend to literature. I think I recommended Collingwood? And perhaps Tolkien’s essay on Beowulf? “Yes, sir. Both very helpful. I’m over here visiting the traditional Arthur sites. I’m looking for evidence of actual historical figure, a Romanized Celt who harried the Saxons.” The two men ordered lunch, a plate of fish and chips for each, with a pint of bitter for Tom and another cider for Lewis. Lewis briefly bowed his head before taking a bite, then returned to their topic: “So you’ve been studying King Arthur at university, have you?” “Yes, sir. I just finished my masters at UCLA.” Lewis had a puzzled look, so
Tom went on: “That’s the “Ah,” said Lewis, with a sudden
look of recognition. “ Tom nodded. “Well, I’m more of a polar bear myself. I prefer a fine winter’s day to the blaze of summer.” “In the States, people move clear across the country for our balmy skies,” said Tom. Lewis pondered this a moment.
“I wouldn’t think of moving somewhere just for the climate,” he said. “Unless
I were a vegetable. Before I moved house to a “Well, you’d get conflicting
opinions on both those topics about “And what subjects did you choose for your examinations?” asked Lewis. “Well,” explained Tom, “we don’t do things the same way over in the States as you do here. Instead of tutoring and comprehensive exams, we sign up for several classes every semester. Each time you earn a passing grade in a course, you are awarded credits. Then once you’ve accumulated enough credits, you earn a bachelor’s degree.” “Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Lewis, nibbling on piece of fried haddock. “I believe I’ve had that explained to me before. I don’t think it’s a system that would suit me. It sounds like someone judging a horse not by its speed or strength, but by how many oats you’ve tried to feed it.” Tom grinned at the analogy. “Yes, that’s about how it feels from the horse’s point of view as well.” “And what about the masters degree?” asked Lewis. “More provender?” “Well, more coursework. But I did write a masters thesis. I called it ‘Arthur through the Ages.’ Nothing terribly original. Just an overview of what you might call the many layers of Arthurian legend.” Lewis kept eating and kept listening, so Tom assumed he wanted to hear more: “At the bottom layer, some historical figure, perhaps a Romanized Celt who kept the Saxons at bay. Then the Welsh bards and chroniclers, turning Arthur into a world conqueror and adding the wizard Merlin to his retinue. Then the French romancers, less interested in the knights as warriors than as lovers. Lancelot moves to center stage, his adventures involving less armor and more amour, you might say.” Tom paused, hoping to detect an appreciative smile on Lewis’s face. But the older man just kept eating, so Tom continued: “Finally, the Grail quest stories and the newest character, Galahad the Good.” “Yes, it’s true,” said Lewis,
finishing off a chip and licking his fingers, again reminding Tom more of a
country farmer than an Not waiting for the inevitable question, Tom decided to explain: “I’m over here working on a book, a guide for visitors who want to see the most famous Arthurian sites for themselves.” Lewis looked up quizzically, and Tom thought he saw another inevitable question coming. “I suppose you must think I’m nuts—uh, daft, I guess you would say—for coming over here to research a book when there’s a war on.” “On the contrary,” said Lewis, “I quite understand. And I approve. War does not create fundamentally new conditions. It simply underscores the permanent human condition. There is really no such thing as ‘normal life.’ If you’d actually lived in past eras that we think of a settled and peaceful, I’m sure you would find, upon a closer look, that they were full of crises, alarms, conflicts, and tribulations. Civilization has always existed on the edge of a precipice. If men put off their search for truth and beauty until they felt perfectly secure, I don’t think the search would have ever commenced.” Lewis took a sip of cider and
continued: “Besides, it’s just human nature. War, terrible as it is, is not
an infinite thing. It cannot absorb the full attention of the human soul.
Soldiers read novels in the trenches. Old men propound new mathematical
theories in besieged cities. Just a few months ago, I saw a student of mine
right here in “I wish you’d been there when I was trying to explain this trip to my father!” exclaimed Tom. “But a moment ago,” he continued, “when I brought up my research over here, I thought I saw a skeptical look on your face.” “Oh, that wasn’t about the war,” answered Lewis. “I just wondered if you’d found what you were looking for. For me, the enchantment of the old romances lies in the literary artistry, not the local geography.” “I’m not sure I understand,” said Tom. “When I was about your age, I
took a trip down to Tintagel--magical name!--where the old books say Arthur
was born. The fierce waves tumbling against the rocky coast and the crumbling
castle on the edge of a cliff were worthy of Layamon or Malory. But the old
tin mines that scarred the landscape. The derelict farms with broken walls
and gates off their hinges. Worst of all, right there by “Merlin’s Cave,” as
they call it, some blackguard, cursed by all the muses, has built a
monstrosity called the “Well, yes, I have seen some of
that,” answered Tom. “I suppose it is inevitable wherever there’s a
dollar--or a quid--to be made. But it can work the other way too. When I was
down at “Yes, yes,” I know exactly what
you mean,” said Lewis, speaking for the first time with unfeigned enthusiasm.
“When I was growing up, my family went on holiday to the Tom nodded in agreement. In
that moment, they were not a distinguished, middle-aged professor and an
eager young American sharing lunch in a pub. They were two men who knew
exactly what the other was talking about. Tom leaned in a little and said,
“Can I tell you something? When I was down in “Ah,” said Lewis, “the Lady of
the “And where Sir Bedivere returned it, on Arthur’s strictest orders, as the king lay dying. Well, Dozmary is just a round pond on a flat heath, surrounded by reeds. You could almost throw a stone across it. I’m sure there are twenty lovelier scenes within an hour’s hike of the pool. But there is something eerie about the place, knowing what they say about it. I stood there on the edge, looking at slate-gray water under a leaden sky. And I just couldn’t help myself. I found a dead branch, about three feet long, and I heaved it into the pool, just to see what would happen. I couldn’t help but think of those lines: “So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur; But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful . . .” To Tom’s surprise, Lewis took up the verse, in his deep, booming voice: “And caught him by the hilt and brandish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.” The two men looked at each other in a shock of mutual recognition. “You know Tennyson!” said Tom. “Idylls of the King. I’m afraid he’s fallen badly out of fashion.” “Oh, I have a pathological aversion to what is fashionable,” explained Lewis. “I think the poetry they publish nowadays will be known to literary historians as the ‘Whining and Mumbling Period.’” “And yet,” said Tom, looking down at his plate, “I suppose it would be a kind of compliment if later generations took any notice of you at all.” Lewis cocked his head slightly and kept listening, so Tom tried to explain: “I was in Blackwells this morning, all those rows and rows of books--including several of yours. I have to wonder what it would feel like to visit there again someday and see a handsome book on the shelf with my name on the spine.” Lewis smiled and nodded that
he understood. “Oh, yes, that,” he
said, “‘The House of Fame.’ When I was your age, I positively ached to take
my place on “What happened?” asked Tom, leaning forward. “The worst possible fate!” answered Lewis, laughing to himself. “The poem was finally published, and no one took any notice!” “I would think that would just fuel your ambitions,” said Tom. “To try and write another book in hopes that, like Byron, you might wake up one day to find yourself famous.” “Lewis laughed again with his great hearty laugh. “I suppose that was my first response,” he confessed. “But when I became a Christian a few years later, all that seemed to change. I ceased to want to be original, and just to do the best work I could. As for getting published, I think you’ll be surprised when your book comes out, as I have no doubt it will.” Tom wasn’t sure he understood, so he just kept listening. “There’s an itch to see your name in print,” continued Lewis. “You can hardly think of anything else. But once the book is published, you’ve scratched that itch and you find that nothing much has changed. The simple absence of an itch is not usually ranked among life’s great pleasures.” Lewis chuckled again and looked straight into Tom’s eyes. Remembering something about the eyes being windows to the soul, Tom felt increasingly exposed, and he decided to change the subject. “Right now I have another kind of itch,” he said, “something I’ve been puzzling about in one of your books. Do you mind if I ask about The Allegory of Love?” “It’s no bother,” said Lewis. “Authors never mind talking about their own books. If duty or courtesy fails us, gratified vanity will step forward to take their place.” Tom smiled and asked his question: “If memory serves, there was a passage about Chrétien de Troyes. You said that, clear back in the twelfth century, Chrétien was already looking longingly to the past, that he already felt, as we do now, ‘the age of chivalry is dead.’ ” “Yes, I recall that passage,” said Lewis. “Then you go on to say the Age of Chivalry is always dead, but we should think no worse of it on that account. You say that the ideal of Camelot, as the medievals understood it, or even the idea of the Middle Ages, as the Romantics later understood it, are really phantom eras that historians will never find. But then you add that such periods have their place in a history more momentous than what usually goes by that name.” Lewis nodded his head. “Well, Professor Lewis, forgive me for being obtuse. But I’m not sure what this ‘momentous history’ is that is more important than actual history. Are you saying that imagined history, the idealized worlds of Malory or Walter Scott, are more important than the real thing?” “‘Momentous’ is the word I used,” explained Lewis. “I must say, for me personally, turning to a ‘real’ historian like Macaulay after reading Walter Scott is like tinsel after diamonds. But, yes, I believe I was suggesting that the pageant of history, as imagined by literary artists, may be of greater moment than the usual toils of those who collect statistics and pottery shards.” Lewis leaned in a bit and
added, “Perhaps I had a bit more in mind as well.” He paused, as if waiting
to see if Tom could keep a secret, then continued: “It seems to me that
beyond the history we know is another kind of history, a sort of ‘haunting.’
Behind the Arthurian story may be some true history, but not quite the kind
you have in mind. Throughout the English past, there seems to be something
else trying to break through—as it almost did in the sixth century. Something
called ‘ “Logres?” asked Tom. “The Welsh
word for “Well, yes, that,” said Lewis, “but also more than that. Look it up in Christian poets like Spenser or Milton and see if it doesn’t mean something more. Or better yet, have a look at Charles Williams’s new book of poems, Taliessen through Logres. I think you’ll see what I mean.” “Actually, I did pick up that book once,” said Tom. “To be honest, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.” Lewis nodded ruefully. “Yes,
poor Charles. He’s a friend of mine. He’s always been plagued by the problem
of obscurity.” Lewis looked like he was about to launch into an extended
explication, but then he had a better thought. “Say, you’re in luck—or ‘holy
luck,’ as Charles would call it. He’s right here in “Is he a colleague of yours at Magdalen?” asked Tom. Lewis leaned back slightly.
“Here in “Well, I will most certainly
make a point to attend his lectures while I’m in Lewis grinned and asked, “And how long to you plan to be here?” “I’m not sure. Several weeks, I
expect, unless this war heats up too much. I’ll be using “Say, I have another idea,”
said Lewis. “Williams, Tolkien and I have a little band of brothers that
meets here in “I’m honored that you would
ask,” said Tom. “I was hoping to meet Professor Tolkien while I was here.”
But then he added diffidently, “But I’m not sure. I’m just an untutored
colonial. I wonder how well I would fit in with a clique of Lewis burst out laughing, in a deep, hearty guffaw. “Now I know you ought to come!” he said. “It’s not like that at all. We gather in the back parlor of the ‘Bird and Baby,’ as we call it, for some frothy ale and frothier talk. It’s quite a lively group, lots of laughter. People in the front room think we must be talking ribaldry, when we’re really arguing theology! And we love to skewer those linguistic birds who write books like The Meaning of Meaning!” Tom smiled and agreed that he would like to come, if the others agreed. They continued to talk for more than an hour, more like old friends than two men who had only met that day. Throughout the conversation, Tom had an odd sensation: instead of feeling smaller in the presence of this brilliant man, he somehow felt himself more intellectually keen than usual. It was odd how Lewis’s enthusiasm and learned repartee didn’t make Tom feel overshadowed. Rather he felt he shined all the brighter himself. As the time came for them to leave, the two
men stood and walked toward the door of the tavern. At their parting, Tom
began feeling more formal again. “Well, Professor Lewis, may I say what a
privilege it has been talking to you. I don’t know if I got my questions
answered, but I’m sure this lunch will be one of the highlights of my trip to
“My friends call me Jack,” said Lewis. As they shook hands, he added, “And don’t worry too much about those unanswered questions. Perhaps our lunch of fish and chips today was part of that ‘momentous history’ I talked about in my book.” As Lewis smiled and turned to leave, Tom pondered that last remark. He realized he’d just acquired one more question. SOURCES Page 1 Loose muses: See The Oxford Book of Oxford, ed. by Jan Morris (Oxford UP, 1978), p. 269. Page 2 “Polar bear”: The Collected Letters of C. S. Lewis, Vol. 3 (Ed. by Walter Hooper. Page 2 Vegetable: Lewis, Letters of Lewis 3, p. 419. Page 3 American education like judging horses: Letters of Lewis 3, p. 1073. Page 3 “Midway between a work”: Letters of Lewis 3, p. 646. Page 4 Civilization “on the edge of a precipice”: See C. S. Lewis, “Learning in War-time,” paragraph 4. Page 4 Young man with falcon: The Collected Letters of C. S. Lewis, Vol. 2 (Ed. by Walter Hooper. London: HarperCollins 2004), p. 295. Page 4 Lewis’s memory of
Tintagel: The Collected Letters of C. S. Lewis, Vol 1 (Ed. by Walter Hooper. London: HarperCollins, 2000), p. 581. Page 4 Imagining Fafnir: Surprised by Joy, p. 77. Page 5 Aversion to what’s
fashionable: Letters of Lewis 2, p. 372. Page 5 “Whining and Mumbling
period”: Letters of Lewis 3, p. 12. Page 5 Getting published is like scratching an itch: Letters of Lewis 3, p. 346. Page 5 Good work instead of originality: “Membership,” closing paragraph. Page 5 “Gratified vanity”: Letters of Lewis 2, p. 641. Page 5 Tinsel after diamonds: Letters of Lewis 1, p. 247. Page 5 “Haunting” of English
history: That Hideous Strength, p. 369. Page 6 Proud to call Williams
his friend: Letters of Lewis 2, p. 501. Page 6 “Linguistic birds”: Letters of Lewis 2, p. 107; Letters of Lewis 3, p. 447. |
|
|
|
|
|
Copyright © 2009 Elizabethtown College All Rights Reserved
|