Goose of Hermogenes

by Patrick Guinness, Ithell Colquhoun, Peter Owen, Allen Saddler

  ‘This consisted of a proscenium, behind which was painted a sunset sky overarching a phantastic landscape of mountains and towers. In places, the towers seemed to be falling, while down through the mountains a broad road rushed like a river. As we feverishly followed this panoramic show, it came to me that this was the way to hell.’

  ‘Am I not a candidate for fame, to be heard in the song

  In Caer Pedryvan four times revolving!’

  – Taliessin.

  I seldom saw my Unde except at meals; his habits were elusive, yet I felt that none of my own movements went unnoticed by him, and that he had methods of knowing all I did and thought. I had no clear idea of how he occupied the greater part of his time; but I had the impression that he was given over to some obscure research or experiment, on account of which he rarely left his rooms. His particular sanctum was referred to by the Anchorite indifferently as ‘study’ or ‘laboratory.’ I somehow guessed that my Uncle wanted me in his house because of my jewels, which were beautiful as children’s sweets and very precious, and which he probably fancied to be possessed of alchemystic powers. But he had to obtain them from me by some not-too-openly disreputable means, and this was not easy, since I always wore them.

  One day I did not see my Uncle at all, for the weather being mild, I elected to spend the daylight hours in roaming about his extensive grounds. I say daylight, but the trees of the parkland were so grown with creepers and fungous mosses, that even at midday they cast a kind of diffused unnatural shade. I did not return till dusk and was let in by the Anchorite, whose manner was anxious and ill-at-ease. I gathered from his hints that my Uncle was displeased with me – that I had perhaps strayed too far from his influence, or lingered too near a part of the demesne which he would wish unvisited, and must therefore be regarded somewhat as a truant, or prodigal daughter. As I mounted the main staircase and made towards my own rooms to change my clothes, I saw the light underneath my Uncle’s door, (and was going to knock; but the Anchorite restrained me, advising me not to try and see him before half-past nine, our usual dining-hour. With these indistinct warnings he glided away; but I paused for a moment by the door, and heard to my astonishment sounds like growls or groans coming from the other side of it. Not knowing what to do, and considerably scared, I retreated along the main landing and glanced down the left-hand corridor. At the far end I had a glimpse of my Uncle’s draped figure before it passed noiselessly behind a curtained door. So faint was the apparition and so shadowy the air that I could be certain of nothing, not even if it were my Uncle, nor any being of human flesh and blood. But if indeed it were he, then the sounds I had heard from his study must have proceeded from some other creature, of whose existence I had been until then unaware.

  At dinner I did not seek to explain how I had spent the day; nor did I attempt to hide my doings – that, I knew, would have been useless. Neither did my Uncle question me, for the good reason that he was already well-informed. Needless to say, our mutual confidence was not such that I could ask him about the sounds which had so much unnerved me a short while before. The meal passed off as usual, with reserve on both sides.

  I had for some while suspected in my Uncle a faculty of relative omniscience – that is, an omniscience which extended to every person and thing contained in his demesne. Occasionally after I went to bed, and before I fell asleep, I was subject to a disagreeable sensation – as though someone were exploring me, not physically, but on some less palpable plane; or trying to influence me by acting directly upon my will, without the normal media of words or other suggestions. Once, the impression of psychic attack or invasion became so strong that I needed all my force to resist it. None the less, my will was instinctively bent on such resistance, since I felt that unless I succeeded in this, I should be irretrievably swept away. A kind of paralysis descended on my limbs as I fought; and so much energy was drained from my physical form that I found myself for some while unable to stir. But when it found me impenetrable, the influence left me and I could move again.

  One night I must have felt the atmosphere of the house so oppressive that I went into the grounds and strolled about, instead of trying to rest. Or perhaps I had dozed off and begun to walk in my sleep; however that may be, I found myself outside the house though near it, in company with the Anchorite, concealed behind some bushes. I do not remember how I fell in with him; whether I had visited the gate-house, or found him also taking the night-air; or whether perhaps he had been set to watch and follow me. In any case, he was at my side, and we were both peering through the darkness at a shadowy figure. This was my Uncle, prowling through the shrubbery which flanked the opposite wing of the mansion; he carried a light which he showed from time to time, and seemed to be playing some strange game of Jack-o-lantern, either with himself or in the hope of attracting a phantom searcher. I felt sure, however, that he did not wish me to come and find him; and presently, a suspicion that he was observed began to agitate him, and he flashed his lantern here and there in the hope of discovering the spy. Then he began to mutter, and it seemed that from the darkness about him some companion replied; he next called out, but neither the Anchorite nor I answered a word. A beam from the lantern fell and remained directly upon the sparse bushes that protected us; it passed between their slender twigs and lighted up my hands. The Anchorite whispered to me to remain immobile; it seemed inevitable that my Uncle would see me, and be angered by my nocturnal roving and prying; but all at once he put out or covered the light, and passed on.

  It was then that I became certain that he wanted my jewels; I was wearing rings and bracelets, and it was only by a miracle that the rays of the lamp had not glinted on their gold. The resolution came to me that I must leave his precincts; I turned to the Anchorite, and kissing the ends of his girdle in a gesture of farewell, I slipped away from him. For a moment a gleam from the fitful moon illumined the depth of his eyes, and he gave me a look which I could not interpret. Then I made off towards the gate-house. I had formulated no plan, but hoped that through pity or negligence he might have left open some way of escape.

  Soon the dusky mass of the building loomed before me; I strained my eyes to see whether by any chance the heavy doors under the archway were parted and had ceased to bar my way to the world outside. Yes, a square patch of twilight appeared between their massive lintels; and as I came nearer I saw that both gates were drawn back, inviting me to freedom. I ran forward as if to embrace the universe; but found that I could not pass beyond the shadow of the walls. The same nightmarish immobility which I had experienced several times while in my room now weighted my limbs; but this time I could not even struggle, let alone resist successfully. I knew with a sickening sense of futility that my greatest efforts would be unequal to the power which imprisoned me. The open gates were a mockery; invisible barriers more powerful than any bolts of theirs restrained me from going through.

  I could but turn away from the tantalizing prospect of a freedom which I might not achieve. Sauntering forlornly up the narrow avenue on my return to the mansion, my steps obscured by the shades of night as well as by a double line of sentinel firs, my foot struck an object lying in the centre of the pebbled way. It was a quarto volume, large but slim; and I am certain that it had not lain there on my outward path. I hastened towards a gap in the trees and waited impatiently for a lingering veil of cirrus to bare the moon. The succeeding misty glimmer did not last more than a few minutes, and was only just strong enough to show me what I had found; but I could see that the book was bound in parchment, somewhat browned with age, and fastened with ribbons of a jaded rose-colour. There was no title on the outside, but when I opened it and turned a few leaves, I found that it was called Corolla’s Pinions, and that it was not printed, but written out most carefully in a copperplate hand. The unknown scribe must have used, I should think, a crow-quill dipped in sepia. The frontispiece was set out as a complete work, but I recognised it as a detail engraved from a painting, and traced this original to the grotesquely
-beautiful Garden of Delight of Hieronymus Bosch. It consisted of that portion which represents a juicy stem balanced above a pool, and budding from its elaborate calyx, as of some bizarre growth, a globe of glass – scrying-crystal, medusan nacre, lunar milk-orb, prismatic bubble-film, who knows what? – that contains within it a promise of the future as personified flower-organs, the lover-twins. The boy and girl recline side by side on a bank, for the first time essaying together the touches of love. Their naked thighs already meet in a caress, but their slender hands and unslaked lips still hesitate before the votive titillations. These couching figures, scarcely differentiated as to sex, are utterly absorbed in one another; and they do not look outward from the amniotic sac, delicately-veined as a petal, which encloses them, though its transparency enables others to watch their nascent pleasure, which even on completion, will never discard its innocence.

  I closed the book and hurried back to my room, where by the light of my candelabra, I glanced through a few paragraphs. I became rapidly engrossed, finding myself as completely identified with the heroine as though the story had been a record of my own past or future, and I now read every word.

  ‘... it seemed that our two natures blent

  Into a sphere from youthful sympathy;

  Or else, to alter Plato’s parable,

  Into the white and yolk of the one shell.’

  – Yeats.

  Corolla’s Pinions

  On the occasion of the Duke’s twenty-first birthday a large house-party had gathered for the week-end at the Hall, and it was thought that from among those invited the young Duke would choose a bride.

  He was a delicate silverhaired boy who looked much younger than his years, for he had an ethereal face and the bones of a bird. He was an orphan; and his family in its wooded fortress of huge trees and oaken beams had been left, an inviolate island, by the Reformation untouched. He had been brought up by his Aunt Augusta, a large brown woman, now in the fifties, whose mouth would open to show formidable rows of yellow teeth. Everyone was nervous of her, including the family chaplain.

  She wished to remain the sole guide of her young nephew’s destiny, and, if the truth must be told, did not wish him to marry at all; but she recognised as clearly as anyone the importance of the line’s continuance. This acknowledgement which she owed to posterity, and pressure from other quarters, had proved too strong even for her; and so it came about that many of the Duke’s elderly collaterals had assembled round him, each with a protégée, to celebrate his coming-of-age, and to influence, if possible, his choice. The candidate whom Aunt Augusta looked on with least disfavour was a niece of hers, the Countess Astarte’s daughter, a massive red-haired girl a year or two older than the Duke.

  Corolla scarcely knew how it was that she came to be included in this rapacious gathering, since she had of herself no great position, and no one from among the elder generation to further her interests. Someone must, however, have obtained an invitation for her, perhaps simply as a courtesy due to cousins of the blood, however remote; or even partly on the ground of her sheer harmlessness and inability to rival more eligible young women.

  What then must have been the general consternation, albeit wisely masked, when, on her being presented to the Duke Oriole, she was immediately marked out as his special favourite! From that moment he interested himself in no one else, and took no account of the elaborate festivities arranged in his honour, but evaded them whenever he could in order to wander off with her.

  One hesitates to use the phrase ‘love at first sight;’ and not merely on account of its triteness, for the attenuated skein linking them was untouched by that tragic tension which, until this time at least, has always in the West been associated with romantic love. Indeed, it is doubtful whether even the Orient could provide a counterpart to this strange ‘elective affinity;’ though its origin may be sought in that hidden impact of the Levant on Europe, from which the Magian consciousness arises. Plato, perhaps, was looking eastward when he wrote of two beings contained in a single sphere to form a hermaphrodite whole, the androgynous egg. It seemed that Oriole and Corolla were in some sense the same person, a kind of Euphorion, and for this reason their link was without passion, a vegetative growth; or as if two clouds floating towards one another should coalesce-yet with something of apocalypse, as though mutually and for each, the other side of the moon were suddenly revealed. And since this was so, no intrigue however persistent, and no convention however strict, could finally keep them apart.

  Corolla had not come to this visit primed with the well-defined ambitions of many of the other guests, and had no thought of attempting to make herself particularly alluring, still less of monopolising the Duke’s attention. Yet the bond of sympathy was immediately established between them; though she could only guess at what formed it – whether the fact that they were both orphans and both of the same age, and that they shared some unexpected facial resemblance, had anything to do with it, she could not tell. She only knew that when she saw him, his rank and possessions meant nothing to her – she forgot all about them; and would equally have forgotten their lack, had she met him, a forlorn beggar, on some outlandish shore.

  The celebrations at the Hall were not only social in the strict sense but religious also, and on Sunday morning the private chapel was full. Corolla sensed a certain tension in the atmosphere which she could neither define nor explain; Aunt Augusta seemed to be in her most dictatorial mood; and an instance occurred to justify the priest’s apprehension of her, for on his making a slight slip in the ritual, she had no hesitation in loudly correcting him before the assembled company. Cousin Alicia, also, gave Corolla a very hard look as they were coming out of the chapel; and this was one of the first intimations she received that the Duke’s preference for her was not approved. She realised, of course, that it could not have gone unremarked; no doubt there had already been some gossiping in boudoirs; perhaps she had been branded as ‘scheming’ or ‘a dark horse’, as the saying goes, when in fact she had done nothing but flow unresisting with the tide of fate. There may even have been established overnight two rival camps – one composed of Alicia, her mother the Countess Astarte and their supporters; the other, of those, who, though envious of Alicia yet had little chance themselves, and so were inclined to side with Corolla against her from sheer desperation.

  Meanwhile, the companionship of Corolla had become Oriole’s chief delight, and they would roam together for hours through his extensive grounds, or go exploring in the ancient passages and chambers of his mighty mansion. Separate from the main building, but not far away, was a church of fair size, though not now in use, since the family preferred the more convenient chapel which had recently been built into the fabric of the house itself. The interior of this abandoned fane was very beautiful, and not neglected, but kept clean and in good repair. Oriole particularly loved the place, as he could be alone there to muse for hours without being disturbed; and to Corolla he displayed enthusiastically all its beauties and curiosities, telling her legends of the saints and heroes, many of them connected with the family, whose images appeared in stained-glass, carved wood or painted ceiling.

  Some of the upper panes of the windows and the carvings in the roof could not be seen clearly from the ground, so Oriole proposed that they should fly up and look at them. Corolla demurred, thinking she would be unable to leave the floor, or would become giddy after a few feet; but Oriole said he would teach her. Hand in hand they rose into the air, through pallid beams of sunshine which poured across the spaces of the interior, gilding their suspended dust. It was with a sense of great elation that they floated about near the roof, examining its treasures one by one; but as Oriole was telling her the story of some coloured figure in the great east window, the young girl suddenly realised how far below her was the ground, and lost confidence in her power of being upborne. She began to tremble and lose her balance; but Oriole steadied her, and they sank to earth gently, hand in hand as they had risen.

  It did n
ot occur to Corolla as strange that they should be able to fly, though she dimly perceived that, had they demonstrated their power before the other guests, profound disquiet would have resulted. She felt that Oriole would not wish them to use this faculty unless they were by themselves; also, that it was perhaps primarily the intuition of such latent gift which had attracted him to her. It was a delightful secret between them; and after their first flight she knew that they were affianced.

  However, her visit was by no means entirely filled with such enchanting episodes as this; as already related, by Sunday morning Corolla had begun to sense that her behaviour was being looked at askance, and by the afternoon she had definite proof of it. She was strolling in the garden, alone for the moment (though she had no doubt but that Oriole would soon join her) near some magnificent yew hedges fully twenty feet in height and almost as thick, when she heard, muffled by these multitudinous twigs and leaflets, the sound of voices.

  ‘Come here, Oriole,’ she heard Aunt Augusta say. ‘There is something I want to tell you.’

  ‘What is it, Aunt?’ Oriole’s crystalline voice responded. He did not wish to be delayed.

  ‘My dear, I had rather you did not see too much of your cousin Corolla; you have other guests to consider, and she cannot be helpful to you.’