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 master’s degree?” asked Lewis. “More provender?”
“Well, more coursework. But I did write a master’s 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, a Celtic commander 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 Oxford don. “Even in a fairly late version like Malory’s, you can see Christian characters like Arthur and Galahad, mixing with the almost druidical Merlin. It looks like Britain in that twilight era between the Romans and Saxons. For me, Arthurian tradition is less like layers, and more like a cathedral—the work of many hands over many generations.”
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 visit 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 as 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.”
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 Oxford with a brightly colored hawk tethered to his wrist. Here is a young man who could be called into the army any day now. And yet his whole mind is focused on reviving the ancient art of falconry. I say, Blessings upon his head!”
“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 King Arthur Hotel! It has cement walls, stamped to look like stonework, covered with an absurd miscellany of armor—a Highland shield next to a faux medieval breastplate, jostled by a helmet from Cromwell’s time. And right there in the main lounge you will find THE Round Table, of course, complete with all the knights’ names embossed in their proper places!”
“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 Cadbury—really, it’s just a tall green mound ringed with ancient earthworks. But in my mind’s eye, I could see a stout timber palisade on the hilltop, a great gate swinging open, two hundred horsemen, with leather helmets and crosses on their shields, galloping out to fall upon a Saxon host. For me, the actual site didn’t betray my imagination. Rather the place was transfigured by it.”
“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 Wicklow Mountains in the south of Ireland. As my brother and I were cycling around, the whole landscape seemed to me like something right out of Wagner. The entire time we were there, I kept expecting to see the fair Sieglinde just around the hill. Or I’d peer down into a crevice and wonder if I might see Fafnir the dragon guarding his horde. I loved nature for what it reminded me of before I learned to love it for itself.”
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 Cornwall, I also went to Bodmin Moor, to Dozmary Pool.”
“Ah,” said Lewis, “the Lady of the Lake. Where Arthur received Excalibur.”
“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
