by Dion Fortune
Jelkes had given Mona a straight talking-to, but as he expected, she had declined to be sensible.
“I won't be a party to any hanky-panky, Mona. Do you mean to marry Hugh or not?”
“Not at the moment, Uncle.”
“Why not?”
“Difficult to say. I like Hugh very much. There is something awfully nice about him; in fact, I might say I am very fond of him; but I wouldn't worry if I never saw him again. It doesn't do to marry a man on those terms, does it? Not fair to the man, don't you think? Especially a very rich man like Hugh and a church mouse like me.”
“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. Another dud marriage would be a poisonous thing for poor old Hugh. He would never hold up his head again.”
“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.”
“After all, Mona, the whole of our social life is built on repressions; if you pull out the underpinning, down comes the whole structure.”
Mona shrugged her shoulders. “It is one thing to build on repressions, but it is quite another to build on dissociations. Modern social life is a slum property, if you ask me; all divided up into maisonnettes, with bad tenants in the basement. A celestial sanitary inspector ought to come along and condemn it.”
“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 do him down, 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 Je1kes.
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, T. J.?”
“Go into the chapel, open up our subconsciouses, and see what comes.”
“Right you are. I'll go and put things into some sort of shape in the chapel.”
They parted, Hugh to the chapel, and Jelkes returning to the farm-house. There Mona joined him.
“Where's Hugh?” she demanded possessively. Jelkes cocked his eyebrow at her. There was a strong atmosphere of domesticity in the living-room of the smaller building, not yet handed over to Bill and Silly, pending their wedding, which was fast becoming a work of supererogation.
“Hugh's gone to get the chapel ready.”
“Is tonight the night?”
“Yes.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Take Hugh into the chapel, build up the Ambrosius phantasy, and then psycho-analyse it.”
“And me? Do I come on in this act?”
“Yes, you come on all right. 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. I'm tired of your haverings, and so's Hugh.”
‘Was ever woman in this manner wooed?' It was an odd mixture of ‘Richard III’ and ‘The Courtship of Miles Standish’, and Jelkes hoped it would prove efficacious.
Mona answered not a word, but turned on her heel and went upstairs.
Arrived in her own room, she lit every candle she possessed, 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 crepe dress and inspected it. It was badly creased, having lain a considerable time on the shelves of the uncle who was not Jelkes, and not having been unpacked since it was redeemed, 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, a cheap enough thing, but effective, as so many cheap things are nowadays.
She dived into her trunk again, and fetched out a pair of tarnished gold cocktail sandals, a tip from a client that had riled Mona unspeakably at the time, but which she had not dared to fling back at the donor for fear of giving offence and losing future jobs. They would come in handy now, however. Mona pulled off her stockings and inspected her toes. They would pass muster, thanks to her taste for brogues.
She strapped the cocktail 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 crepe of the dress. Then once again she dived into the ancient trunk, and brought forth a hand-bag, once handsome, also a tip from a client, fished about in the vanity-case it contained and produced a compactum of powder and a lip-stick. Now the bag had been an unappreciated gift to the donor, who was a blonde, and consequently the make-up kit it contained was designed for a blonde, and 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, for whatever was in Silly Lizzie had to come out.
“Oh, my, Miss, ain't you lovely!” gasped poor Silly Lizzie, quite overcome, and slowly pouring a stream of boiling water from the kettle perilously near her own toes. Mona rescued the kettle, 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' scandalised expression he turned round, as was only natural, to see the cause of the scandal. 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. Then suddenly, in the hall, clanged the gong for supper.
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 dangerous sports. It was because as soon as ever the fun began, Ambrosius took charge. Everyone always wondered how a rnut like me managed it. But it wasn't me, it was me plus Ambrosius.”
“Then who is it now, Hugh?” said Jelkes, watching him closely.
“God knows. I suppose it's the same thing. I'm feeling just like I used to on the track. Never mind supper, I'll put on my Ambrosius kit and 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 and the necessary equipment for getting it going.
Hugh lit up the candles and switched off his electric torch. leaving their soft radiance to penetrate the gloom into the wavering shadows beyond.
“Do you understand this?” he said to jelkes, and 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. Now a censer is a thing in which the, inexperienced can get very badly tangled, but Mona, who had expected to see red-hot charcoal all over the sanctuary, 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, regular as the chiming of a clock.
This task finished, he looked round helplessly at Jelkes, as if not knowing what to do next. All his experience lay in his hands. Little or nothing came through to the surface of the brain.
“Go and sit down over there, Hugh,” said the old bookseller. 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 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 keep on sliding off onto myself when I try to think of Ambrosius,” he said.
“Never mind,” said Jelkes. “Let's have whatever comes. We'll get through the surface layers presently.”
“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. That's to say, if I'd had Ambrosius' temperament, or he'd had my opportunities. I think he'd have gone through my restrictions like a clown through a paper hoop.”
“What would he have done?”
“Well, to 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, as well as turf your family?” said Jelkes tactfully, easing him off the sore point before the resistances could rise and jam it.
“Well,” Hugh hesitated, “I expect he'd have got onto my wife's game early in the proceedings, and turfed her too.”
“Do you think he'd ever have married her at all?”
“Difficult to say. I was only a youngster, and by Jove, she knew how to get her fingers on your nerves. I doubt if any man that ever wore trousers would have seen through her right away. Women would, I dare say, but men wouldn't. It's awfully easy to throw dust in a man's eyes, so far as I can see. But I don't suppose you realise that, T. J., being three parts of a priest yourself.”
“No, that was never one of my problems. Plain as a pikestaff and poor as Job. How long do you suppose Ambrosius would have stood your wife?”
“Not long, I reckon, 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.”
“Good God, Hugh, what do you mean?”
“Hadn't you realised I'd killed my wife?”
“But you didn't. You're imagining th ings. 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; and a sixty horse-power practical joke is—well—not funny.”
“Did you realise what you were doing?”
“There's a little imp inside me, T. J., that does things occasionally while I look the other way. And there's another thing you'd better know, if I had a row with someone I—really cared about, I could imagine myself turning pretty nasty.”
“I couldn't imagine you doing that, Hugh.”
“You ask Mona, she knows me better than you do; she's got no delusions about me, if you have. I could imagine myself getting my hands onto someone's throat and—and not taking no for an answer. That is, if I
were in my Ambrosius personality.”
“What is the relationship between you and Ambrosius, Hugh?”
“Dunno, T. J. He bloweth where he listeth. I've got to the point where I can invoke him, but I can't control him, and therefore I'm afraid to invoke because of the consequences to—to other people.”
“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.”
Mona's voice came again.
“What would Ambrosius do if you gave him his head, Hugh?”
“It is no good thinking about that, Mona, because it isn't a practical proposition.”
“Then what would you do if Ambrosius backed you up?”
Hugh thought for a moment.
“I'd go for the invocation of Pan that was my original idea. Only that isn't a practical proposition either, for if I go for the invocation of Pan, Ambrosius would get the bit between his teeth.”
“Then Pan and Ambrosius are really the same person?”
“No, I don't think so. Pan is a god, isn't he?”
“Have you ever heard of the idea of the Christ Within?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is a Pan Within as well, you know.”
“I see, and my Pan Within is Ambrosius? Then Ambrosius never had any real existence? Oh, but he must have had. He's historical, and they painted him.”
“What is time, Hugh?”
“God knows. I don't. What's time, Uncle Je1kes?”
“A mode of consciousness, laddie.”