by Dion Fortune
Hugh scribbled his resignation on a half-sheet of paper, tossed it into the secretary’s office, and set out for Marylebone.
In response to the clang of the bell the old bookseller appeared through the ragged curtain just as he done that night so short a while ago that had marked the turn of the lane in Hugh’s life.
Hugh walked through into the inner room without waiting to be asked. He was much more at home here than he had ever been in his club. ‘Going to give me a cup of tea, T.J.?’ he said, and they indulged in desultory conversation while Jelkes fished a cup out of a pile of dirty crockery and gave it a rinse. Settled down with the pot on the hob, Hugh got to business. ‘Uncle Jelkes,’ he said, ‘I’m going to seduce Mona.’
‘So this is what comes of invoking Pan, is it?’ said Jelkes quietly.
‘Well, what did you expect? Pan was a whale on nymphs.’ Jelkes sighed. He shrewdly suspected that if Mona saw Hugh in his present mood, no assistance would be needed for the seduction. Pan had been evoked most effectually.
‘Now look here, T.J., just remember that you are talking to a sight better priest than ever you were. I was running my own monastery before you had cut your pin-feathers, and it took a Pope to scrag me. Yes, I’ve absorbed Ambrosius, together with all his kick and go. I’ve only got to look at people and they wilt nowadays.’
Jelkes nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’ll give you self-confidence if he gives you nothing else. Given that, you can get a lot of things out of your subconscious that never went into it.’
‘I don’t mind what you call him, T.J. A rose by any name will smell as sweet. He’s a dissociated complex, or a past incarnation, or anything else you fancy so long as you’ll lend me a hand with him. As you said yourself, time is a mode of consciousness.’
‘Very good, then,’ said Jelkes. ‘We’ll take Ambrosius at his face value. If he isn’t real now, he very soon will be. I’ll do what I can for you, Hugh. The reason I wouldn’t help with the job before was because I reckoned you’d just make use of Mona and then go back to your own kind.’
‘You were wrong, Uncle Jelkes, I’m not that sort.’
‘Well,’ said Jelkes, ‘you got Pan at the first go-off; whether he is subjective or objective doesn’t matter. You mean business, and that is an effectual invocation. He will introduce you to every blessed thing you’ve got in your subconscious, and to every blessed thing in the racial memory that’s behind you, and to the biological memory behind that to the morphological memory of all your organs, and the physiological memory of all your functions—’ Jelkes stopped for breath.
‘Of course the whole thing is simply the opening-up of the subconscious,’ said Hugh, ‘only there’s a sight more in the subconscious than most people suspect. I’ll leave the metaphysics to you, Uncle, I want to get on with the composition of place. It is my idea to equip Monks Farm with absolutely modern stuff instead of the mock-gothic, which was my original notion. How do you think Ambrosius will like it?’
‘Well, laddie, he was a modernist in his day. What you want to recapture is not Ambrosius’ limitations, but his spirit, just as he was trying to recapture the Greek spirit.’
‘Then in that case we might as well go to the fountainhead and see what word the Greeks had for it.’
There was a clang of the shop-bell, and Jelkes dived through the curtain to deal with the customer, but returned instead with Mona. He watched the pair of them closely as they greeted each other. It seemed to him that there was a humorous twinkle in Hugh’s eye, as if he had got something up his sleeve for Mona, but she herself was carefully noncommittal.
‘Well, what luck have you had?’ said Hugh.
Mona did not reply, but began to unpack a small brown paper parcel she was carrying, and there appeared a little terracotta figure of the dancing Pan, skipping along with his pipes and glancing over his shoulder with a very comehither look in his eye indeed.
‘Huh,’ said Jelkes. ‘Very suitable. But I should keep him done up in brown paper for the present, if I were you.’
CHAPTER NINE
The days that followed were fascinating ones for Hugh and Mona. She took him among the craft-workers, disdaining shop-fronts and show-cases, and he realized the peculiar life conveyed to an article by the hand of a creative worker who is putting himself into it. Always, everywhere, through all the studios and workshops, Mona went looking for the creative spirit. Hugh was amazed to see how much of it was abroad.
The cold grey stone of the old buildings made a wonderful background for the modern colours. The stark line of modern design was at home with the simplicity of the ancient builders, though their simplicity was of necessity dictated by primitive tools and materials. Everything was ripe for the return of Pan.
The nuptials of Bill and Lizzie were due for celebration in the near future — officially, that is. Unofficially, of course, they had been in full blast for some time. The problem of housing had to be considered. Bill and Lizzie, in their dunder-headed, shuffle-footed, faithful, easy-going fashion, suited the Monks Farm ménage uncommonly well. The obvious thing was for the newly-married couple to move into the farm-house end of Monks Farm, and for Mona and Hugh to move out into the main building and settle down as they meant to go on.
Jelkes had given Mona a straight talking-to, but as he expected, she had declined to be sensible. ‘Do you mean to marry Hugh or not?’
‘Not at the moment, Uncle.’
‘Why not?’
‘Difficult to say. I like Hugh very much. In fact, I might say I am very fond of him; hut I wouldn’t worry if I never saw him again. It doesn’t do to marry a man on those terms, does it?’
‘Lots of women have made happy marriages on much less raw material.’
‘Maybe, but not folk like me, who’s been a cat on the tiles. You see, Uncle, if Hugh didn’t give me all I needed in marriage, I’d find it very difficult to stick to him. I’ve not got the makings of a Penelope in me. It is no good promising what I can’t perform.’
‘You could make him a good wife if you made up your mind to it.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t. I am not the stuff of which good wives are made. I’d be a top-hole mistress to the right kind of man, but I’d be a domestic fiend to the wrong one.’
‘Mona, my dear, how can you say such things!’
‘What a pity it is, Uncle,’ said Mona, looking at him meditatively, ‘that you suffer so much from repression and all your occult knowledge is wasted.’
‘You are a very immoral young woman, as I’ve told you before,’ Jelkes said.
‘On the contrary,’ said Mona. ‘I am exceedingly moral. If I were what you say I am, I’d marry Hugh, and clear out on the alimony.’
The Eve of Beltane drew near; the moon was waxing towards the full, and everyone knew, though no one said a word, that a crisis of some sort was approaching. Finally Jelkes heaved a sigh that came from the depths of his heart, for he liked a quiet life and preferred theory to practice in occultism, packed his rush basket, locked up the shop, and took a Green Line bus.
Getting off where the lane met the by-pass, he trudged the three long uphill miles to Monks Farm, his rush basket under his arm, and arrived rather weary, for the day was close and he was not as young as he had been. However, the warmth of his welcome offset the heat of the day.
‘How’s the furnishing going?’ asked the old man, as they sat on the bench in the angle of the wall, listening to distant church bells and bees.
‘First-rate,’ said Hugh. ‘You wouldn’t believe how well modern stream-lined stuff fits in with Ambrosius’ notion of what was appropriate in a monastic establishment. The only things that look out of place are the beds. But I’m not going to sleep on a plank bed in order to imagine I’m Ambrosius. I’m going to sleep on a decent mattress, and Ambrosius can imagine he’s me.’
‘I shouldn’t make the drains too realistic, either, if I were you,’ said Jelkes.
The sun sank red behind the fir-trees; the bees packed up and went home,
and the church bells stopped ringing. Mona went in to prod the loving couple in the kitchen into activity, tactfully treading heavily as she approached the back premises.
Jelkes turned to Hugh. ‘Laddie, we’re tackling the job this evening.’
‘What’s the plan of campaign?’
‘Go into the chapel, open up our subconsciouses, and see what comes.’
They parted, Hugh to the chapel, and Jelkes returning to the farmhouse. There Mona joined him.
‘Where’s Hugh?’ she demanded possessively.
‘Gone to get the chapel ready. Tonight’s the night!’
‘What do you propose to do?’
‘Take Hugh into the chapel, build up the Ambrosius phantasy, and then psychoanalyse it.’
‘And me? Do I come on in this act?’
‘Yes. You will sit opposite Hugh and pick up the transference as it comes across. What you do with it after you’ve got it is your look-out.’
Mona answered not a word, but turned on her heel and went upstairs.
Arrived in her own room, she dragged a battered cabin-trunk into the middle of the floor, and took out a brown paper parcel, tore it open, and held up a green crêpe dress and inspected it. It was badly creased, but it would have to do. She stripped off her dingy brown jumper and skirt and slipped the clinging, flowing green over her head. It fell in long straight folds, held in place by a loose girdle with a barbaric jewelled clasp. She dived into her trunk again, and fetched out a pair of tarnished gold cocktail sandals. Mona pulled off her stockings and strapped the sandals round her bare ankles. Smoothed her thick, page-cropped hair with her brush, and bound round her sleek black head a broad swathe of the green crêpe of the dress. Then once again she dived into the ancient trunk, and brought forth a compact. By the time Mona had applied the powder and lip-stick to herself with a generous hand, the result was startling. But Mona didn’t care. Something in her, that Jelkes had always known was there, had taken the bit between its teeth and was running blind.
She went downstairs to give instructions concerning supper, and was greeted with round-eyed amazement by Silly Lizzie. ‘Oh, my, Miss, ain’t you lovely!’ Mona gave her instructions, and retreated, lest the distraction of her presence should do more harm than good.
She opened the door of the sitting-room and walked in defiantly. Jelkes looked at her amazed and raised his eyebrows. Hugh had his back to her, but at the sight of Jelkes’ scandalized expression he turned round. Mona heard him gasp and saw him stiffen, and in another moment Ambrosius was in the midst of them.
The change-over was so quick that there was no moment of dazed uncertainty; so quick, in fact, that the two personalities coincided and Hugh himself was conscious of the change. For a moment the hawk-eyes in Hugh’s head wavered, then they steadied and regained their calm. He stood looking down at Mona with a fixed regard. Then he turned to Jelkes.
‘Now I understand something I never understood before,’ he said. They both gasped, for this was Hugh, whereas they had thought it was Ambrosius.
‘I understand why I went in for fast cars. It was because as soon as ever the fun began, Ambrosius took charge. Everyone always wondered how a mut like me managed it. But it wasn’t me, it was me plus Ambrosius. We’ll go to the chapel and tackle the job before the effect wears off.’
They made their way round the west front to the chapel, the brilliant moonlight making electric torches needless. Hugh leading the way, robed and cowled and sandalled; Jelkes following, looking like a great moulting bird in his Inverness cape; and Mona with a dark velvety rug from the car thrown cloak-wise over her thin dress.
When they reached the chapel they saw how Hugh had spent his time. Upon the altar of the double cube that represents the universe — ‘as above, so below’ — stood the figure of the Piping Pan. The Glastonbury chairs formed a triangle in the sanctuary, one facing the east, and the other two facing each other. High triple candlesticks stood on either side of the altar, and in a small niche in the wall beside it was a large brass censer.
Hugh lit up the candles and switched off his electric torch, leaving their soft radiance to penetrate the gloom into the wavering shadows beyond.
Mona sat watching them, two weird figures in the uncertain light, as they wrestled with the reluctant charcoal in the censer. Then Jelkes rose upright and whirled the thing on its yard-long clashing chains round and round his head, clouds of smoke and showers of sparks flying in every direction; his enormous shadow stretched far across the vaulting of the roof, grotesque and demoniac, the cloak of his ulster flapping like the wings of a bat. Hugh, his face invisible in the shadow of his cowl, stood silently watching him. Mona clutched the arms of her chair, her heart beating in her throat and nearly suffocating her. Jelkes and Hugh, tall men in any case, looked enormous in the uncertain light. Hugh was in very deed the renegade monk returned from the tomb; Jelkes a being of another order of creation altogether.
Hugh put out his hand, and Jelkes handed the censer to him. Mona observed that Hugh handled it with the silence of an expert; there was no clashing of metal as it swung to the steady jerk of the wrist; no looping or twisting of the perverse tangle of the chains. Standing in front of the cubical altar, he censed it in due form, catching the fuming censer with a musical clash on its own chains at each return. Five swings to the left, and five to the right, instead of the orthodox three that affirms the Trinity: for five is the number of man, and ten is the number of Earth, according to the Qabalists. Ten musical clangs rang out in the shadowy darkness.
This task finished Jelkes said harshly: ‘Go and sit down over there, Hugh.’ Hugh did as he was bid, taking the chair facing Mona, and setting the smoking censer carefully down on the stone floor beside him. Jelkes watched the hands that remembered to arrange the trailing chains in such a manner that it could be picked up again without capsizing, and wondered what would be coming to the surface as the barriers went down.
‘Now,’ said Jelkes. ‘Make a mental picture of Ambrosius, and look at it, and tell me what comes into your head.’
Hugh dutifully did as he was bid. They sat for a few minutes in silence. Mona could not take her eyes off the black cowled figure, sitting with bowed head intent, across on the opposite side of the sanctuary. Hugh’s bare foot in its thonged sandal showed under the hem of his robe in just the same way that Ambrosius’ foot had shown in the minute vignette in the psalter. Hugh she could like and pity, but Ambrosius — Ambrosius was an altogether different story.
At length Hugh raised his head and spoke.
‘I think of Ambrosius going round this place keeping an eye on things while it was building, and then I think of myself doing the same thing. I think of him planning the chapel for his stunts, and I think of the kind of stunts that I’d like to have here. I think of him barging into all sorts of restrictions because he was a Churchman, and I think of myself up against things because — well, because of the way I was placed.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought you would have bumped into many restrictions with your resources,’ said Jelkes.
‘Well then, because of the way I was built,’ said Hugh sulkily, and silence fell again. It is not easy to do psychoanalysis in front of a third person, especially if that person is one for whose opinion you care very deeply.
‘Go on, Hugh,’ said Jelkes. ‘It’s like a tooth-pulling, but go through with it.’
‘I was just thinking,’ said Hugh, ‘what Ambrosius would have done if he’d been me. For a start with, he’d have made short work of my family.’
‘You seem to have made pretty short work of them yourself recently.’
‘That’s Mona’s doing. They tried to come between her and me.’ Hugh pulled up abruptly, furious at his unguarded utterance.
‘What else would Ambrosius have done?’ said Jelkes tactfully.
‘Well,’ Hugh hesitated, ‘I expect he’d have got on to my wife’s game early in the proceedings, and turfed her out too if she played him up the way she played me. But then she
mightn’t have played Ambrosius up.’
Mona gasped. That was so exactly her sentiment.
‘How do you reckon he’d have disposed of her?’ said Jelkes.
‘Same way I did — killed her. Hadn’t you realized I’d killed my wife?’
‘But you didn’t. She died in a motor-smash when you were miles away.’
‘I bought a car for Trevor that I knew he couldn’t handle. It was a kind of practical joke.’
‘Did you realize what you were doing?’
‘There’s a little imp inside me that does things occasionally while I look the other way. If I had a row with someone I— really cared about, I could imagine myself turning pretty nasty. I could imagine myself getting my hands on to someone’s throat and— and not taking no for an answer.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, laddie, you fetch Ambrosius along and I’ll undertake to control him.’
‘T.J., I’m thirty-four and you’re rising seventy. Besides, you aren’t here all the time.’
There was an awkward silence. Then Mona’s voice came to them out of the shadows. ‘I can manage Ambrosius.’
Hugh gave a short laugh that had no mirth in it.
‘Yes, I bet you can — by letting him have his own way. I know Ambrosius — he is the foundation on which I am built. He’s my subconscious, or part of it, anyway, and when anything happens to bring my subconscious to the surface, Ambrosius comes up with it and takes charge. It is my solemn conviction that Ambrosius is normal, and it is Hugh Paston who is the pathology. But we can’t let Ambrosius loose on polite society. I know Ambrosius if you don’t.’
‘I can cope with Ambrosius,’ came Mona’s voice again from the shadows.
‘No, you can’t,’ said both men, hastily and simultaneously.