"Colin Wilson - The Philospher's Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

I went into the Rochford Public Library and found Cuthbert ButlerтАЩs book on Western Mysticism and a
volume by Evelyn Underbill. More important, I found a gramophone record of FinziтАЩs Dies Natalis, a
setting from TraherneтАЩs Centuries of Meditation. The books on mysticism rather repelled me - my
scientific training was too deep rooted to swallow them easily - but TraherneтАЩs words were immediately
moving. They made it clear that I had to get to grips directly with the mystics.
It was then that I remembered about LyellтАЩs uncle. Canon Lyell, a cousin of the famous Sir Charles,
never achieved the rank of a Victorian celebrity. But his History of the Eastern Churches was
apparently considered the standard work on its subject - less readable than Dean StanleyтАЩs book on the
same subject, but more encyclopaedic and reliable. I also seemed to remember that he was the author of
a book on the English mystics, and had possessed one of the largest libraries of religious and theological
works in the country.
For some absurd reason - after all, I could have found all the books I needed in the London Library - I
wrote to AlecтАЩs brother George, who lived in Scotland, and asked him if he knew what had happened to
Canon LyellтАЩs library. A week later, a reply came, saying that he had no idea, but that perhaps another
member of the family, Aubrey Lyell, could tell me. He enclosed Aubrey LyellтАЩs address. It was in
Alexandria. I decided to make do with the London Library and the British Museum.
That weekend, the phone rang: it was Aubrey Lyell, calling from London. George Lyell had passed on
my message. He said he would like to come over and see me, and I said he would be welcome. He
arrived early on Saturday evening. He was younger than I expected - a few years older than I was - with
black hair and an olive complexion. He was tall and thin, and his figure looked oddly disjointed. He
spoke in a faint, breathless voice, as if too bored to raise it. But he seemed to be a cultivated, intelligent
man, and after the initial awkwardness of total strangers sizing one another up, we began talking as
openly as if we were old friends. At his suggestion we drove into Rochford for a meal. It was one of
those evenings when everything seems fated to go perfectly. The food was good; the carafe wine very
drinkable; and each of us was thoroughly interested in the otherтАЩs personality. I talked about Lyell, my
home background, and my life since AlecтАЩs death; he talked of poetry and mysticism, and told me about
a friend of his, a poet called Constantine Cafavey, who had died not long before.
Presently he said casually: тАШIтАЩd love you to come back to Alexandria.тАЩ
I asked with mild incredulity: тАШAre you sure?
тАШQuite sure.тАЩ
тАШAlright. Thank you. IтАЩd love to.тАЩ It had been decided within the space of a few seconds, and I felt a
tremendous exhilaration.
As we watched the approaching coastline of Egypt, Aubrey told me that a new chapter of my life was
opening. He was right, but not in the way he meant.
His house was a mile outside the city. I was impressed. It was far larger than I had expected, and stood
in a great garden with palms and lemon flowers. The grass of the lawn was watered all the time by
sprays. The rooms were big and cool, furnished in the European manner. I had spent two days in Cairo
with the Lyells and had been unimpressed; this struck me as calm and beautiful, giving me a sensation of
inner space. I had once tried to read Durrell, but given up, finding him too full of defeat and masochism;
now I understood him. Alexandria is a city to which one must surrender on its own terms, or ignore
completely. Admittedly, it made a difference to be staying in a house that overlooked the bay, away from
the dust and beggars and the noise of trams. The city was overcrowded - this was the year of the
Arab-Israeli war - and government organisations tried to persuade refugees to leave the fly-infested
slums and move to D.P. camps - apparently with no success. For Aubrey, the war was merely a
nuisance; it meant that it was more difficult to get to his favourite eating places; besides, an Englishman
was likely to be spat at.
I found Aubrey more likeable in his own surroundings; he relaxed, became more serious, took on the
confidence of a householder and a good host. At supper, we drank an Egyptian wine of a burgundy type,
which I had to admit was excellent, and he expounded his ideas to me at length. I was struck because
they corresponded roughly to what I had been thinking a few months before, after LyellтАЩs death. He