What’s Bred in the Bone tct-2
Page 34
“The writing oughtn’t to swear at the material, you see, so I learned to write like this.”
“Yes. Very nice. The only trouble is that it’s so easily forged.”
“Think so? I’m sure you could spot a forgery of your own fist.”
“Yes, I’ve done so.”
“There you go, being Le Beau Ténébreux. Could it have been the Dream Girl who appears so strongly in your chart?”
“It was. Clever of you to guess.”
“A lot of this work is clever guessing. Making hints from the chart fit in with hints from the subject. That girl is an important figure for you.”
“Thank God she’s gone.”
“Not gone. She’ll be back.”
“What then?”
“Depends if she’s still the Dream Girl. You ought to get wise to yourself, Francis. If she treated you badly, some of it was your own fault. When men go about making Dream Girls out of flesh-and-blood girls, it has the most awful effect on the girl. Some fall for it, and try to embody the dream, and that is horribly phoney and invites trouble; others become perfect bitches because they can’t stand it. Is your wife a bitch?”
“Of the most absolute and triple-distilled canine order.”
“Probably only a fool. Fools make more trouble than all the bitches ever whelped. But let’s look at your full chart. Let’s get down on the floor, where I can spread it out. Put some books on the corners to hold it down. That’s it. Now—”
It was a handsome chart, handsome as the zodiac can be, and as neatly annotated as a governess could make it.
“I won’t overwhelm you with astrological jargon, but take a look at these principal facts. The important thing is that your Sun is in midheaven, and that’s terrific. And your eastern horizon—the point of ascent—is in conjunction with Saturn, who is a greatly misunderstood influence, because people immediately think, Oh yes, Saturn, he must be saturnine, or sour-bellied, but that’s not what it really means at all. Your Moon is in the north, or subterranean midheaven. And—now this is very significant—your Sun is in conjunction with Mercury. Because of your very powerful Sun, you have lots of vitality, and believe me you need it, because life has given you some dunts, and has some others in waiting. But that powerful Sun also assures you of being right in the mainstream of psychic energy. You’ve got spiritual guts, and lots of intuition. Then that wonderful, resilient, swift Mercury. Psychologically, Francis, you are very fast on your feet.
“Now—here’s that very powerful and influential Saturn. That’s destiny. You remember about Saturn? He had it tough, because he was castrated, but he did some castrating himself. What’s bred in the bone, you know. Patterns necessarily repeat themselves. All kinds of obstacles, burdens to be borne, anxieties, depressions and exhaustion—there’s your Beau Ténébreux personality for you—but also some compensations because you have the strong sense of responsibility that carries you through, and at last, after a struggle, a sense of reality—which is a fine thing to have, though not always very comfortable. Your Mars supports your Sun, you see, and that gives you enormous endurance. And—this is important—your Saturn has the same relationship to your Moon that Mars has to your Sun, but it’s a giver of spiritual power, and takes you deep into the underworld, the dream world, what Goethe called the realm of the Mothers. There’s a fad now for calling them the Archetypes, because it sounds so learned and scientific. But the Mothers is truer to what they really are. The Mothers are the creators, the matrixes of all human experience.”
“That’s the world of art, surely?”
“More than that. Art may be a symptom, a perceptible form, of what the Mothers are. It’s quite possible to be a pretty good artist, mind you, without having a clue about the Mothers.
“Saturn on the ascendant and the Sun in midheaven is very rare and suggests a most uncommon life. Perhaps even some special celestial guardianship. Have you ever been aware of anything like that?”
“No.”
“You really are a somebody, Francis.”
“You’re very flattering.”
“Like hell I am! I don’t fool around with this stuff. I don’t make a chancy living by casting horoscopes for paying customers. I’m trying to find out what it’s all about, and I’ve been very lucky in discovering that old astrologer’s secret I told you about. I’m not kidding you, Francis.”
“I must say my remarkableness has taken its time about showing itself.”
“It should start soon, if it hasn’t started already. Not worldly fame, but perhaps posthumous fame. There are things in your chart that I would tell you if I were in the fortune-telling and predicting business. Being at Düsterstein is very important; your chart shows that. And working with Saraceni is important, though he simply shows up as a Mercurial influence. And there are all kinds of things in your background that aren’t showing up at present. What’s happened to all that music?”
“Music? I haven’t been much involved with music. No talent.”
“Somebody else’s music. In your childhood.”
“I had an aunt who sang and played a lot. Awful stuff, I suppose it was.”
“Is she the false mother who turns up? There are two. Was one the nurse?”
“My grandfather’s cook, really.”
“A very tough influence. Like granite. But the other one seems to be a bit witchy. Was she queer to look at? Was she the one who sang? It doesn’t matter that what she sang wasn’t in the most fashionable taste. People are so stupid, you know, in the way they discount the influence of music that isn’t right out of the top drawer; if it isn’t Salzburg or Bayreuth quality it can’t be influential. But a sentimental song can sometimes open doors where Hugo Wolf knocks in vain. I suppose it’s the same with pictures. Good taste and strong effect aren’t always closely linked. If your singing aunt put all she had into what she sang, it could have marked you for life.”
“Perhaps. I often think of her. She’s failing, I hear.”
“And who’s this—this messy bit here? Somebody that doesn’t seem fully human. Could it have been a much-loved pet?”
“I had a brother who was badly afflicted.”
“Odd. Doesn’t look quite like a brother. But influential, whatever it was. It’s given you a great compassion for the miserable and dispossessed, Francis, and that’s very fine, so long as you don’t let it swamp your common sense. I don’t think it can; not with that powerful Mercury. But immoderate compassion will ruin you quicker than brandy. And the kingdom of the dead—what were you doing there?”
“I really believe I was learning about the fragility and pitiful quality of life. I had a remarkable teacher.”
“Yes, he shows up; a sort of Charon, ferrying the dead to their other world. What I would call, if I were writing an academic paper, which God be thanked I’m not, a Psychopomp.”
“Handsome word. He’d have loved to be called a Psychopomp.”
“Was he your father, by any chance?”
“Oh, no; a servant.”
“Funny, he looks like a father, or a relative of some kind. Anyhow—what about your father? There’s a Polyphemus figure in here, but I can’t make out if he’s your father.”
Francis laughed. “Oh yes, a Polyphemus figure sure enough. Always wears a monocle. Nice man.”
“Just shows how careful you have to be about interpreting. Polyphemus wasn’t at all a nice man. But he was certainly one-eyed. But was he your real father? What about the old man?”
“Old man? My grandfather?”
“Yes, probably. The man who truly loved your mother.”
“Ruth, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t get up on your ear. Incest. Not the squalid physical thing, but the spiritual, psychological thing. It has a sort of nobility. It would dignify the physical thing, if that had occurred. But I’m not suggesting that you are your grandfather’s child in the flesh, rather his child in the spirit, the child he loved because you were born of his adored daughter. What about
your mother? She doesn’t show up very clearly. Do you love her very much?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ve always told myself so. But she has never been as real as the aunt and the cook. I’ve never really felt that I knew her.”
“It’s a wise child that knows his father, but it’s one child in a million who knows his mother. They’re a mysterious mob, mothers.”
“Yes. So I’ve been told. They go down, down, down into the very depths of hell, in order that we men may live.”
“That’s very Saturnine, Francis. You sound as if you hated her for it.”
“Who wouldn’t? Who needs such a crushing weight of gratitude toward another human being? I don’t suppose she thought about the depths of hell when I was begotten.”
“No. That seems to have been quite a jolly occasion, if your first chart isn’t lying. Have you told her about your wife? Running off with the adventurous one?”
“No I haven’t. Not yet.”
“Or about the child?”
“Oh yes, she knows about the child. ‘Darling, you horrible boy, you’ve made me a grandmother!’ was what she wrote.”
“Have you relieved her mind by telling her that she isn’t really a grandmother?”
“Damn it, Ruth, this is too bloody inquisitorial! Did you really see that in this rigmarole?”
“I see the cuckold’s horns, painfully clear. But don’t fuss. It’s happened to better men. Look at King Arthur.”
“Bugger King Arthur—and Tristan and Iseult and the Holy sodding Grail and all that Celtic pack. I made a proper jackass of myself about that stuff!”
“Well, you could make a jackass of yourself about much more unworthy things.”
“Ruth, I don’t want to be nasty, but really this stuff of yours is far too vague, too mythological. You don’t honestly take it seriously, do you?”
“I’ve told you already; it’s a way of channelling intuitions and things that can’t be reached by the broad, floodlit paths of science. You can’t nail it down, but I don’t think that’s a good enough reason for brushing it aside. You can’t talk to the Mothers by getting them on the phone, you know. They have an unlisted number. Yes, I take it seriously.”
“But this stuff you’ve been telling me is all favourable, all things I might like to hear. Would you tell me if you saw in this chart that I would die tonight?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, when will I die? Come on, let’s have some hard information, hot from the planets.”
“No astrologer in his right mind ever tells somebody when they are going to die. Though there was once a wise astrologer who told a rather short-tempered king that he would die the day after the astrologer died himself. It assured him of a fine old age. But I will tell you this: you’ll have a good innings. The war won’t get you.”
“The war?”
“Yes, the coming war. Really Francis, you don’t have to be an astrologer to know that there’s a war coming, and you and I had better get out of this charming, picturesque castle before it does, or we may find ourselves making the journey on the Bummelzug that passes behind here every few days.”
“You know about that?”
“It’s not much of a secret. I’d give a lot to have a peep at that place, but the first rule for aliens is not to be too snoopy. I hope you don’t go too near there when you are out for spins in your little car. Francis, surely you know that we are living in the grasp of the greatest tyranny in at least a thousand years, and certainly the most efficient tyranny in history. And where there’s tyranny, there’s sure to be treachery, and some of it is of a rarefied sort. You don’t know what Saraceni’s doing?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
“You’ll have to know soon. Really, Francis, for a man with your strong Mercury influence you are very slow to catch on. I said you weren’t stupid, but you are thick. You’d better find out what you’ve got yourself into, my boy. Maybe Max will tell you. Listen—Mercury is the spirit of intelligence, isn’t he? And also of craft, and guile, and trickery, and all that sort of thing. Something of the greatest importance is very near you. A decision. Francis, I beg you, be a crook if you must, but for the love of God, don’t be a dumb crook. You, with Saturn and Mercury so strong in your chart! You want me to tell you the dark things in your chart—there they are! And one thing more: money. You’re much too fond of money.”
“Because everybody is trying to gouge it out of me. I seem to be everybody’s banker and unpaid bottle-washer and snoop and lackey—”
“Snoop? So that’s why you’re here! Well, it relieves me that you’re not just a lost American wandering around in a fog—”
“I’m not an American, damn it! I’m a Canadian. You English never know the difference!”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry! Of course you’re a Canadian. Do you know what that is? A psychological mess. For a lot of good reasons, including some strong planetary influences, Canada is an introverted country straining like hell to behave like an extravert. Wake up! Be yourself, not a bad copy of something else!”
“Ruth, you can talk more unmitigated rubbish than anybody I have ever known!”
“Okay, my pig-headed friend. Wait and see. The astrological consultation is now over and it’s midnight and we must be fresh and pretty tomorrow to greet our betters when they come from Munich, and Rome, and wherever the ineffable Prince Maximilian is arriving from. So, give me one more cognac, and then it’s goodnight!”
“Heil Hitler!” Prince Maximilian’s greeting rang like a pistol shot.
Saraceni started, and his right arm half rose in response to the Nazi salute. But the Countess, who had sunk half-way down in a curtsy, ascended slowly, like a figure on the pantomime stage, rising through a trapdoor.
“Max, do you have to say that?”
“My dear cousin, forgive my little joke. May I?” And he kissed her affectionately on the cheek. “Saraceni, dear old chap! Dear little cousin, you’re prettier than ever. Miss Nibsmith, how d’you do? And we haven’t met, but you must be Cornish, Tancred’s right hand. How d’you do?”
It was not easy to get a word in with Prince Max. Francis shook his outstretched hand. Max did not stop talking.
“So kind of you to ask me to spend Christmas with you, cousin. It’s not celebrated as cheerfully in Bavaria as we remember, though I saw a few signs of jollification on the road. I came by way of Oberammergau, because I thought that there, if anywhere, the birth of Our Lord would be gratefully acknowledged. After all, they must sell and export several hundred thousand board-feet of creches and crucifixes and holy images every year, and even they can’t utterly forget why. In Switzerland, now, Christmas is in full, raving eruption. Paris is en fete, almost as if Christ had been a Frenchman. And in London people otherwise quite sane are wallowing in the Dickensian slush, and looting Fortnum’s of pies and puddings and crackers and all the other artifacts of their national saturnalia. And here—I see you’ve put up some evergreens—”
“Of course. And tomorrow there will be Mass, as usual.”
“And I shall be there! I shall be there, not having eaten a crumb or drunk a swallow since midnight. I shall not even clean my teeth, lest a Lutheran drop might escape down my gullet. What a lark, eh? Or should I say, ‘Wot larks’, Cornish? Should I say ‘Wot larks’?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Oh, not sir, please! Call me Max. ‘Wot larks’ because of Dickens. You must be a real Dickensian Protestant, no?”
“I was brought up a Catholic, Max.”
“You don’t look in the least like one.”
“And exactly how does a Catholic look?” said the Countess, not pleased.
“Oh, it’s a most becoming look, cousin, an other-wordly light in the eyes, never seen among Lutherans. Isn’t that so, Miss Nibsmith?”
“Oh, but our eyes shine with the light of truth, sir.”
“Good, very good! No trapping the governess, is there? Are you taking on any of that light, Amalie?”
“Ah, a real Bavarian Christmas, just like childhood! How long will it last, eh? I suppose so long as none of us are Jews we shall be allowed to celebrate Christmas in our traditional way, at least in privacy. You’re not a Jew, by any chance, Tancred? I’ve always wondered.”
“God forbid,” said Saraceni, crossing himself. “I have worries enough as it is.”
Amalie found her tongue. “I didn’t know Jews celebrated Christmas,” she said.
“Poor devils! I don’t think they get much chance to celebrate anything. We’ll drink to better times at dinner, won’t we?”
The Prince had arrived in a small, sporting, snorting, coughing, roaring, farting car, loaded with packages and big leather cases, and when the company assembled for dinner, these proved to contain presents for everybody, all speaking loudly of Bond Street. For the Countess a case of claret and a case of champagne. For Amalie, a photograph of Prince Max in dress uniform, in a costly frame from Asprey’s. For Miss Nibsmith a beautiful if somewhat impractical diary bound in blue leather, with a gold lock and key—for astrological notations, said Prince Max, slyly. For Saraceni and Francis leather pocket diaries for the year to come, obviously from Smythson’s. And for the servants, all sorts of edible luxuries in a hamper from Fortnum’s.
Of course there were other gifts. The Countess gave Francis a book that had been written about the Düsterstein pictures by some toilsome scholar many years before. Amalie, with much blushing, gave him six handkerchiefs which she had embroidered with his initials. Saraceni gave everybody books of poetry bound in Florence. Francis won high distinction by giving the Countess and Amalie sketches of themselves, done in his Old Master style, in which he had taken special care to emphasize the family resemblance. He had nothing for the men, or for Miss Nibsmith, but it did not seem to matter. And when the gift-giving was finished, they sat down to a dinner of greater length than usual, with venison, and roast goose, and a stuffed carp, which was nicer to look at than to eat. And when cheese had been consumed the Countess announced that in special compliment to Francis they would conclude with a traditional English dish, which the chef identified, he being an Italian-Swiss, as Suppe Inglese. It was a dashing attempt at a sherry trifle, rather too wet but kindly meant.