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 Parnassus. I spent most of my twenties working on a book-length poem that I hoped would put me in the company of Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Yeats.”
“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.”
Tom thought about this as he sampled a bite of mushy peas, and quickly washed them down with a swallow of beer. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” he said, “until I see my book in print—if that day ever comes.” He paused a moment and then added. “Professor Lewis, can you think of any reason some Englishmen might resent this project of mine?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Lewis. “Perhaps they think Americans should be over here helping us fight the Nazis, not writing books.”
“Yes, that topic did come up,” said Tom with a nod. “But there was something more. I was accosted by two louts down in Somerset. They seemed convinced that I was up to no good, that I had something more in mind than just looking for the historical Arthur.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” answered Lewis. He looked straight into Tom’s eyes, then leaned in and spoke barely above a whisper: “I do believe, though, that beyond our history, in the usual sense of the word, is another kind of history. A sort of ‘haunting,’ you might call it.”
Tom leaned in, as if willing to hear more of the secret, and Lewis continued: “Behind the Arthurian story may be some true history, but not 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 Arthur’s time. Something called ‘Britain’ seems forever haunted by something you might call ‘Logres.’”
“Logres?” asked Tom. “The Welsh word for England?”
“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 Oxford lecturing this term. You should go hear him speak and ask him yourself what he means by his books.”
“Is he a colleague of yours at Magdalen?” asked Tom.
Lewis leaned back slightly. “Here in Oxford, we pronounce it ‘Maudlin,’” he explained. “And, no, he’s not at any of the colleges. He’s an editor at Oxford University Press. Their London office relocated here when the war started last September. He’s a brilliant man, an autodidact—writes poetry, plays, novels, biographies, histories, even theology.” Lewis paused, then added a surprisingly soulful note: “He’s a great man. I’m proud to call him my friend.”
“I will most certainly make a point to read his books and attend his lectures while I’m in Oxford,” said Tom. “If for nothing else, to find out the secret of Logres.”
Lewis grinned and asked, “And how long to you plan to be here?”
“I’m not sure. A few months, I expect. I’ll be using Oxford as my home base, making forays out to some Arthurian sites.”
“Say, I have another idea,” said Lewis. “Williams, Tolkien and I have a little band of brothers that meets here in Oxford, Tuesday mornings at the Eagle and Child, just for talk. Would you like me to ask the others if you might join us?”
“I’m honored that you would ask,” said Tom. “I had hoped to meet Professor Tolkien while I was here.” But then he added, rather diffidently, “But I’m not sure. I’m just an untutored colonial. I wonder how well I would fit in with a clique of Oxford dons, sipping sherry and discussing ‘The Meaning of Meaning.’”
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 consented. 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 England.”
“You don’t need to call me professor,” 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 other kind of history I was talking about before.”
As Lewis smiled and turned to leave, Tom pondered that last remark. He realized he’d
