The Pendragon Legend

by Antal Szerb

  That was why, for all his self-control, he gave way to superhuman rage when anyone attacked the Eileen myth. Had I revealed at that moment that she had been my mistress he would either have refused to believe me, or he would have found some proof that she had been unable to help it: that she had been hypnotised, that it was all Morvin’s fault …

  “I beg your pardon, My Lord,” I said. “It was quite wrong of me to raise the subject.”

  “No, it is I who must apologise for my loss of self-control,” he replied, his old calm self again. “You must bear with me; I’m not fully in command of myself these days. While you were away there were more ‘happenings’.”

  “What? Another attempt … ?”

  “No, something quite different. Something altogether more horrible … ”

  “For God’s sake, My Lord … ?”

  “Doctor, Goethe’s Zauberlehrling … Die ich rief, die Geister … ‘I had a jewel in my hand/I dropped it on a snowy slope/It rolled and rolled and grew and grew/And soon became an avalanche’. But it’s quite another story, and not one you could possibly understand. Do please forgive my little outburst. You aren’t offended, I hope. So many people attack Eileen St Claire—it isn’t just you—and appearances certainly are against her. I can’t bear to hear them glibly passing judgement on an innocent person. It isn’t actions that speak, Bátky, not actions. Actions fall away from us like shorn hair. You have to see human beings independently of their actions, as God sees us … But perhaps we should be on our way?”

  It was dark by the time we reached the car and got in. The wind searched impatiently among the trees in the woods beside the road, and every so often the bloodshot face of the full moon lit up the clouds, as they chased each other eastwards in a wild, silent ecstasy.

  The Earl bore his tragic inner conflict like a rock. His silence was that of a man who intended to say nothing for months on end. The road twisted and swayed before us like a living thing.

  Approaching a bend, the Earl suddenly slowed.

  “Do you hear anything?” he asked.

  “Only the roaring of the wind.”

  We continued. But a few hundred yards further on he stopped the car and, without saying a word, got out. To my astonishment he lay down on the ground. It took me a while to work what he was doing. He had his ear to the earth and was listening intently. At last, with an inexpressibly care-worn face, he got back in the car.

  We drove on, but only for a few yards. Then he turned off the road, first into a field, and then slowly back, bucking and bouncing, the way we had come. Finally we stopped again.

  “I’m sorry about this little delay,” he said, and got out again.

  The part of the field in which we had parked was separated from the main road by a hedge. The Earl stood behind it, very tense, watching the carriageway.

  In the damp west wind, the place was bleak and uninviting. Here or there, in the dark, a clump of trees or the fantastic outline of a bush could be made out. It was the sort of field you find yourself in in a nightmare, with snakes coming at you from every direction.

  What can a man do at such a time? Light a cigarette.

  But I had hardly taken a puff before the Earl came dashing over to ask me not to smoke for a minute or two. With a pang, I threw the cigarette down.

  Gradually I began to hear what he was listening for. It was a dull, rhythmic thudding. Of course: horses’ hooves.

  At the same time something was approaching, very rapidly. I say something, because it wasn’t horsemen, it was some sort of thick fog, bowling along at terrifying speed down the middle of the road, as if driven by a gale or the chariot of Satan himself, and billowing out on either side like the smoke from a runaway train.

  Moments later the fog reached and engulfed us. It was only then that I realised it wasn’t fog but a suffocating smoke that made me feel dizzy, and whose odour reminded me of incense.

  From inside the car I could no longer see as far as the hedge, where the Earl had been standing. In that strange obscurity I wasn’t even sure if he was still there—or whether he was anywhere at all.

  I jumped down and made my way as quickly as I could through the dense blackness to where I supposed he might be. Eventually my outstretched hands came up against the low, thorny branches.

  I froze in my tracks.

  The sound of galloping hooves was now almost upon me, and then, with astonished eyes, I seemed to see a horseman flying past, at breakneck speed, down the highway.

  Then the fog was gone.

  The moon came out, revealing the last billows disappearing rapidly down the road.

  “So,” I said to myself, “the Rosicrucians’ claim to invisibility was only half true.”

  The Earl was back at the wheel, sitting with his head in his hands. I dared not accost him. I climbed in, and he set off for Llanvygan.

  At breakfast next morning I gave Cynthia a brief outline of what had happened. Naturally I avoided any mention of Eileen St Claire; nor did I tell her about Lenglet du Fresnoy’s vision (or whatever it might be termed). I also did not tell her I had encountered the midnight rider.

  There are some things that are true only at night. There was no way I could have discussed them. I would have been ashamed to. One is ashamed of the incomprehensible, the irrational, as though it were a form of mental illness. I tried to avoid thinking about it.

  Besides, it was such a perfect summer’s day. There was nothing but Cynthia in the world—Cynthia, and her little favourites, the farmstead piglets. We ambled up to the top of a hill, sat ourselves down and basked in the sun.

  When silent, she was a vision of beauty. Sitting there on the brow of the hill overlooking the farm, in the clear Welsh sunlight with the towers of Llanvygan in the background, she was the fulfilment of everything I saw in imagination, and loved: the Lady of the Castle, innocent and remote from the cares of man. Only piglets, chickens and mighty oak trees can understand the touching, faintly comical yet utterly sublime mystery of young womanhood—when the young woman is well-to-do. A girl who is poor is never young in quite the same way: the seriousness of her daily cares makes her more like a man.

  With her fair hair glistening in the sun, Cynthia had the silent beauty of a line of Theocritus. It was that special, brief moment of summer when you could believe time stood still and all was well with the world.

  It seemed she had given herself up to the pleasure of sunshine on skin and the well-being of the body, and that there was nothing going on in her head. I felt supremely at ease myself.

  She sat up, rather anxiously, and announced:

  “You mustn’t get the idea I’m not thinking about anything. I can’t abide girls who just live for the moment.”

  “And what are you thinking about, Cynthia?”

  “I read in the morning paper that the number of unemployed in South Wales has risen by another five per cent. It’s dreadful to think that here we are, sitting on this hill, and all the time … ”

  “That’ll do,” I cried, rather rudely.

  It was as if she’d poured a bucket of cold water over my head. I can tolerate any form of sentimentality better than the bogus sympathy of the rich for the poor. It’s every bit as unnatural and offensive as a manual worker denying that he envies the boss’s wealth. Let the classes carry on with their mutual hatred—it’s the proper order of things—and leave me at peace in the sunshine: it happens so rarely in these islands.

  “Oh, Cynthia! … ”

  But there were two Cynthias. The words she had just uttered were not at all in harmony with the person I saw in her.

  The Cynthia of my imagination was the sort of girl who, on the one hand, would swoon if she caught her beloved devouring a hot dog, but, if the need arose, would be capable of giving her maid a thrashing. She was the Lady of the Castle, proudly enthroned in her fairytale tower, blissfully ignorant of entire nations dying of hunger.

  I had not yet abandoned the hope that Cynthia really was the person I believed her to b
e, it was just that she hadn’t been brought up properly. No doubt her mother was to blame. Under the influence of who knows what disappointments of her own, her mother must have dunned into her the great middle class myth that intellect mattered, and that every one was equally human.

  “Cynthia, let the poor feel sorry for the poor. You should be proud and pitiless. If I were in your place … my whole life would be an unending parade of low-level sadism. It would be a byword for nonchalance and aloofness. I would never once take up a book, not even by accident. I’d fill my days with golf, or, if there is some sport even more exclusive and boring, I’d go in for that. I’d travel. I’d visit galleries and decide that Leonardo painted rather well considering he was so common. I would say very little: pride is so much more easily expressed through noble gestures. I don’t suggest it would be very amusing, but to do one’s duty never is.”

  “Would you really change places with me?”

  “Would I? This minute.”

  “I really don’t understand you. I’d so much rather be in your position. To devote one’s life to scholarship … to truth, and the service of mankind … ”

  “You may rest assured that my personal scholarship has never served mankind. Because there is no such thing as justice, no universal humanity. There are only versions of justice and different sorts of people. And it has always given me particular pleasure that my own scholarly efforts, let’s say, in the field of old English ironworking, have never been of the slightest use to anyone.”

  “You speak like someone who has no ideals.”

  “True. I am a neo-frivolist.”

  “And how does that differ from old-fashioned frivolity?”

  “Mostly in the ‘neo’ prefix. It makes it more interesting.”

  She was making a childish wreath from some yellow flowers called dandelions in English, and staring despondently into the distance. Our intimacy had come to a critical moment. I now bitterly regretted having said so much. What is the point of talking to the woman you love? It can only cause unpleasantness.

  “I’m afraid we don’t really understand each other,” she said, in the sort of far-away voice she might have heard in a theatre. She should have added a ‘sir’.

  Then she started to chatter with great animation about her lady friend, who did understand her.

  We set off back to the castle. I found it impossible to speak, as always happens to me when I have done something really stupid. And I felt rather sorry for myself. Only now did I realise how much she mattered to me, the little Lady of the Castle, who had lost her way.

  When we arrived there was a telegram waiting for me.

  OSBORNE CAPTURED STOP IMPORTANT TELL NOBODY STOP COME IMMEDIATELY—KRETZSCH

  I was back at the very heart of the battle.

  Morvin’s gang must have recognised Osborne as he followed Eileen St Claire in one of his ridiculous disguises. Assuming nothing worse had happened to him, they had now rendered him harmless. But of course, they were after his life too …

  I packed my bags at once. Though I had no idea what I might achieve, I could hardly wait to get to London.

  I did not tell the Earl or Cynthia the reason for my departure: I didn’t want to alarm them prematurely. I comforted myself that everything might still turn out well.

  I managed to get away on the afternoon train. London had never before seemed so far from North Wales, nor with so many superfluous cities in between.

  Arriving, I dashed to the hotel and enquired after Lene.

  “Miss Kretzsch … ? Miss Kretzsch?”

  A somewhat casual search for her began. She hadn’t been seen at lunch. No one had noticed her at breakfast. Finally, the cleaner reported that she hadn’t spent the night in her room either.

  Dinner time came, but no trace of Lene. By nine o’clock I could wait no longer. I left a note with the porter to say I’d be back by eleven. Then, like a tenderly grieving lover returning to scenes frequented with his dear departed, I went round every pub where at one time or another I had drunk with her. I knew she couldn’t possibly go to bed without her nightcap. If she were to be found anywhere accessible to reason, it would be in a pub.

  In my distress, and because my thoughts were entirely focused on her, I knocked back a couple of pints wherever I went. I did not succeed in finding her, but by the time I returned, some time after eleven, I was in a thoroughly pleasant beer-haze and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

  “Has anyone called for me?” I asked the porter, with less than perfect articulation.

  “Yes, sir. A gentleman.”

  “You didn’t recognise him? It was Miss Kretzsch, in disguise.”

  “That is indeed possible, sir,” he replied gravely. “He said he’d come from a Mr Seton, with an important message.”

  “What wonderful notions she has!” I said to myself. “She must be up in her room.” And I dashed merrily up the stairs.

  I knocked, but there was no answer. I hammered on the door and began shouting, in German:

  “Lene! Lene! Open up. It’s me, Bátky! Come on, open up, will you!”

  Roused by these barbaric syllables, the proprietress appeared, in her nightgown.

  The proprietress was a woman of strict moral principles. The hotel rejoiced in its reputation for the highest respectability, a virtue that in England calls for rigorous policing. Seeing me battering on a lady’s door she paled and gave me a look which, had I been sober, would doubtless have turned me to stone.

  “Mr Bátky! … ”

  With what bleakly chilling tones she could prolong that unfortunate first syllable!

  But I was drunk, my sight and hearing blurred the harsh edges of reality, and I was in an optimistic frame of mind.

  “Hello, Mrs Stewart! How are you?” I exclaimed happily. “Do you know, you’re putting on weight.”

  “In my establishment ladies do not receive male visitors in their rooms, especially at this time of night. Mr Bátky, you astonish me. Go downstairs at once. I must ask you to kindly remove yourself from this hotel at your earliest … ”

  Cowering under the weight of her authority, I crept back to my room and was soon fast asleep.

  I woke early the next morning, stone cold sober. I dressed rapidly and hastened down to the porter. My head was buzzing with all the steps I had failed to take the night before.

  “Is Miss Kretzsch back yet?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  I had a vague notion that someone might have enquired after me the previous day.

  “Who came asking for me?”

  “A gentleman. From a Mr Seton.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he’d call again this morning. He asked if you would wait for him without fail.”

  This reassured me to a certain extent. My gravest omission of the night before had been not to let Seton know what was happening. But apparently he was already fully informed. Lene must have been in touch with him. My visitor would make all this clear.

  I finished my breakfast and passed the time restlessly perusing the papers. I simply glanced at the headlines, rather cursorily. But one suddenly hit me:

  CHILD ABDUCTED

  MYSTERY HORSEMAN IN ABERSYCH

  Strange occurrences have been reported over the past twenty-four hours in Abersych, Merioneth. Sian Prichards, thirty-six, a local farmer, was woken some time after midnight by someone at the door calling his name. Not recognising the voice, and filled with a sense of foreboding, he debated for some time whether to go out, but eventually decided to do so. Outside he found a man on horseback. He appeared to be very old, and was dressed in black. His enormous size, his striking costume and pale face struck terror into the witness. The man then uttered something in a strange tongue, after which Prichards remembers nothing more. When he recovered consciousness he was standing where he had been, outside his front door, but the stranger had disappeared, and with him Prichard’s ten-year-old son. The Police are understandably treating his repo
rt with caution. Initially they were concerned that the informant might be mentally disturbed, but his reputation in the village is that of a sober, respectable citizen who has never been known to do anything unusual or eccentric. The boy’s mysterious disappearance lends a degree of credibility to his story. The police are baffled. No trace of the horseman has been found, and no one other than Pritchards has seen him.

  Abersych was perhaps six miles from Pendragon …

  I was in no doubt as to the identity of the abductor. But what possible motive … ?

  However I gave it no further thought. The whole thing was beyond rational understanding. The mere fact of its happening was a slap in the face for logical analysis. If indeed it had happened …

  But then from the depths of my mind, used as it was to making historical associations, rose an alarming image: that of Bluebeard. It seemed to me to explain everything.

  I wasn’t thinking of the legendary Bluebeard, who killed his wives, but the historical one.

  His real name was Giles de Rais, Marshall of France in the fifteenth century, at the time of the Maid of Orleans and the Hundred Years’ War. He spent his entire, very considerable, fortune on alchemical experiments, without result. In the end, he decided to turn to the dark powers for help.

  To win favour with Satan he hunted down and murdered small children by the hundred. The entire province became depopulated as if smitten by plague.

  And, as the notes of the subsequent inquiry reveal, these murders became increasingly cruel and satanic. At first he merely tortured the children and chopped them into pieces; then he came up with the idea of roasting them over a slow fire. The next refinement was to use them for various obscene acts while torturing them to death. As he later confessed, the greatest pleasure of all involved squatting on the butchered bodies of his victims. In the final phase, they were sexually violated.

  None of this had any effect. The Devil did manifest himself on a number of occasions, but was unremittingly hostile. At one point he flogged one of de Rais’ friends, an Italian alchemist, almost to death. The Devil is not a kindly master.