Clive Lewis - That Hideous Strength

Curry always in later years regarded this as one of the turning-points of his life. He had not up till then been a religious man. But the word that now instantly came into his mind was “Providential.” You couldn’t really look at it any other way. He’d been within an ace of taking the earlier train: and if he had . . . why, he’d have been a dead man by now. It made one think. The whole College wiped out! It would have to be rebuilt. There’d be a complete (or almost complete) new set of Fellows, a new Warden. It was Providential again that some responsible person should have been spared to deal with such a tremendous crisis. There couldn’t be an ordinary election, of course. The College Visitor (who was the Lord Chancellor) would probably have to appoint a new Warden and then, in collaboration with him, a nucleus of new Fellows. The more he thought of it, the more fully Curry realised that the whole shaping of the future college rested with the sole survivor. It was almost like being a second founder. Providential-providential. He saw already in imagination the portrait of that second founder in the new-built hall, his statue in the new-built quadrangle, the long, long chapter consecrated to him in the College History. All this time, and without the least hypocrisy, habit and instinct had given his shoulders just such a droop, his eyes such a solemn sternness, his brow such a noble gravity, as a man of good feeling might be expected to exhibit on hearing such news. The ticket-collector was greatly edified.

“You could see he felt it bad,” as he said afterwards.

“But he could take it. He’s a fine old chap.”

“When is the next train to London?” asked Curry.

“I must be in town first thing to-morrow morning.”

Ivy Maggs, it will be remembered, had left the diningroom for the purpose of attending to Mr. Bultitude’s comfort. It therefore surprised everyone when she returned in less than a minute with a wild expression on her face.

“Oh, come quick, someone. Come quick!” she gasped.

“There’s a bear in the kitchen.”

“A bear, Ivy?” said the Director. “But of course “

“Oh, I don’t mean Mr. Bultitude, sir. There’s a strange bear; another one.”

“Indeed!”

“And it’s eaten up all what was left of the goose and half the ham and all the junket, and now it’s lying along the table eating everything as it goes along and wriggling from one dish to another and a-breaking all the crockery. Oh, do come quick! There’ll be nothing left.”

“And what line is Mr. Bultitude taking about all this, Ivy?” asked Ransom.

“Well, that’s what I want someone to come and see. He’s carrying on something dreadful, sir. I never see anything like it. First of all he just stood lifting up his legs in a funny way as if he thought he could dance, which we all know he can’t. But now he’s got up on the dresser on his hind legs and there he’s kind of bobbing up and down, making the awfullest noise-squeaking like-and he’s put one foot into the plum pudding already and he’s got his head all mixed up in the string of onions and I can’t do nothing with him, really I can’t.”

“This is very odd behaviour for Mr. Bultitude. You don’t think, my dear, that the stranger might be a she bear?”

“Oh, don’t say that, sir!” exclaimed Ivy with extreme dismay.

“I think that’s the truth, Ivy. I strongly suspect that this is the future Mrs. Bultitude.”

“It’ll be the present Mrs. Bultitude if we sit here talking about it much longer,” said MacPhee, rising to his feet.

“Oh dear, what shall we do?” said Ivy.

“I am sure Mr. Bultitude is quite equal to the situation,” replied the Director. “At present the lady is refreshing herself. Sine Cerere et Baccho, Dimble. We can trust them to manage their own affairs.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said MacPhee. “But not in our kitchen.”

“Ivy, my dear,” said Ransom, “you must be very firm. Go into the kitchen and tell the strange bear I want to see her. You wouldn’t be afraid, would you?”

“Afraid? Not me. I’ll show her who’s the Director here. Not that it isn’t only natural for her.”

“What’s the matter with that Jackdaw?” said Dr. Dimble.

“I think it’s trying to get out,” said Denniston. “Shall I open the window?”

“It’s warm enough to have the window open, anyway,” said the Director. And as the window was opened Baron Corvo hopped out and there was a scuffle and a chattering just outside.

“Another love affair,” said Mrs. Dimble. “It sounds as if Jack had found a Jill . . . What a delicious night!” she added. For as the curtain swelled and lifted over the open window, all the freshness of a midsummer night seemed to be blowing into the room. At that moment, a little farther off, came a sound of whinnying.

“Hullo!” said Denniston, “the old mare is excited too .”

“’sh! Listen!” said Jane.

“That’s a different horse,” said Denniston.

“It’s a stallion,” said Camilla.

“This,” said MacPhee with great emphasis, “is becoming indecent!”

“On the contrary,” said Ransom, “decent, in the old sense, decent, fitting, is just what she is. Venus herself is over St. Anne’s.”

“She comes more near the Earth than she was wont “, quoted Dimble, “to make men mad.”

“She is nearer than any astronomer knows,” said Ransom. “The work at Edgestow is done, the other gods have withdrawn. She waits still, and when she returns to her sphere I will ride with her.”

Suddenly in the semi-darkness Mrs. Dimble’s voice cried sharply, “Look out! Look out! Cecil! I’m sorry: I can’t stand bats. They’ll get in my hair!” Cheep cheep went the voices of the two bats as they flickered to and fro above the candles. Because of their shadows they seemed to be four bats instead of two.

“You’d better go, Margaret,” said the Director.

“You and Cecil had better both go. I shall be gone very soon now. There is no need of long good-byes.”

“I really think I must go,” said Mother Dimble. “I can’t stand bats.”

“Comfort Margaret, Cecil,” said Ransom. “No. Do not stay. I’m not dying. Seeing people off is always folly. It’s neither good mirth nor good sorrow.”

“You mean us to go, sir?” said Dimble.

“Go, my dear friends. Urendi Maleldil.”

He laid his hands on their heads: Cecil gave his arm to his wife and they went.

“Here she is, sir,” said Ivy Maggs, re- entering the room a moment later, flushed and radiant. A bear waddled at her side, its muzzle white with junket and its cheeks sticky with gooseberry jam. “And-oh, sir!” she added.

“What is it, Ivy?” said the Director.

“Please, sir, it’s poor Tom. It’s my husband. And if you don’t mind”

“You’ve given him something to eat and drink, I hope?”

“Well, yes, I have. There wouldn’t have been nothing if those bears had been there much longer.”

“What has Tom got, Ivy?”

“I give him the cold pie and the pickles (he always was a great one for pickles) and the end of the cheese and a bottle of stout, and I’ve put the kettle on so as we can make ourselves-so as he can make himself a nice cup of tea. And he’s enjoying it ever so, sir, and he said would you mind him not coming up to say how d’you do because he never was much of a one for company if you take my meaning.”

All this time the strange bear had been standing perfectly still with its eyes fixed on the Director. Now he laid his hand on its flat head. “Urendi Maleldil,” he said. “You are a good bear. Go to your mate-but here he is,” for at that moment the door, which was already a little ajar, was pushed further open to admit the enquiring and slightly anxious face of Mr. Bultitude. “Take her Bultitude. But not in the house. Jane, open the other window, the French window. It is like a night in July.” The window swung open and the two bears went blundering out into the warmth and the wetness. Everyone noticed how light it had become.