Madame

by Antoni Libera

  I froze. It wasn’t him after all! How awful! ‘Your son, I mean,’ I stammered.

  ‘Oh, you mean Freddy!’

  I breathed again.

  ‘For a moment I couldn’t think who you meant, you made it sound so formal. Yes, of course, he’s still teaching at that little school.’

  ‘School?’ I repeated, with a return of anxiety.

  ‘Well, what else would you call that university of theirs nowadays? A kindergarten – not even a high school! Before the war it was a university, but now . . . it’s a joke.’

  ‘Seriously? Is the standard so low?’ I asked in a worried tone.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s a waste of breath even to discuss it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you told me, because that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t know if you remember, but this is my last year of school. Soon I’ll have to decide what I’m going to study at university, and I’ve been thinking about Romance languages. But I haven’t quite made up my mind; I’m still hesitating. So I thought Professor . . . Freddy, I mean . . . might be able to give me some advice, since he lectures there, and he got his degree there as well. Do you think that might be possible?’

  ‘I would even say it was advisable,’ he replied wryly.

  ‘That’s wonderful. Thank you so much. There’s just one thing . . .’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘If you could keep it all to yourself. Especially as far as my parents are concerned. You see, they’re quite irritated by my leanings toward the humanities. They’d like me to do some sort of science.’

  ‘Well, actually, they’re right.’

  ‘Yes, I know you agree with them, but still, I’d be grateful if . . .’

  ‘Yes, all right, I won’t tell them. But I’m warning you in advance, I’ll do my best to make sure Freddy puts you off the idea. That won’t be difficult, anyway: he’ll do it himself without any prompting from me. He has a very low opinion of the whole enterprise.’

  ‘I’ll listen carefully to what he has to say, and I’ll take it to heart. I’d especially like to hear anything he has to say about his own student days – that would be important in making up my mind, more than anything else, I think. In fact, it might be crucial. So – when and where?’

  ‘Freddy’s coming over for lunch next Sunday. Why don’t you come around at about five? He’ll be all yours.’

  ‘Thank you. See you then.’ I put down the receiver and fell exhausted onto my bed.

  Over the next few days, like a chess player preparing for an important match, I practised over and over in my mind every possible variant of every conceivable strategy I could use in the conversation that awaited me, so that I would never be at a loss for the next move. There was no doubt that the subject that interested me would come up sooner or later: at some point he was bound to ask who my French teacher was, indeed it seemed quite likely that he’d start off with that very question. But even if it didn’t arise, it would be easy enough to provoke it. The problem was, what then? What if Madame’s name evoked no reaction at all? If Frederick Monten, for whatever reason, just ignored it, as if he had never heard of her? Of course, I could always throw out a casual question like ‘I don’t suppose you know her, by any chance?’ But that would be a last resort. The main thing was not to expose my design; he mustn’t have the slightest suspicion of what I was after. The thought that someone might find me out, might discover that I was in thrall to Madame, was terrifying.

  It was shame – shame, the enemy of experience. That was the tyrant that held me in its grip, forcing me to act undercover, always pretending, always in disguise.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the very sound of the name overwhelmed Dr Monten with an uncontrollable flood of memories, so that he fell into a sort of narrative trance and began, unprompted, to recount tale after tale from the life of the young Madame? And I would sit there and listen to him with feigned indifference, interjecting the occasional ‘Well, well,’ or ‘Really? How extraordinary!’ This, however, seemed highly improbable.

  The Song of Virgo and Aquarius

  As I waited for Sunday, I was also waging an inner battle, for I was tempted to make some use of the things I had already learnt, and while I tried to resist the temptation, I also spent much time reflecting on how this might best be done.

  At the next French lesson, the time usually devoted to conversation was given over to reading aloud from an article in a glossy magazine devoted to popular science about the structure of the universe. Madame would write some of the basic concepts up on the blackboard – ‘Solar System’, ‘Milky Way’, ‘Big Dipper’ – and we were supposed to copy them down into our notebooks. We ended up with some dozen new phrases to learn and, to extend our vocabulary in this domain, were set an essay on any subject connected with the universe or the celestial dome.

  This time the nature of the assignment accorded well with my aims. The idea came to me during the lesson, and by the time I got home, all I had to do was put it into good French. This is what I wrote (I give it here in translation, for the convenience of the reader):

  When we talk about the sky, the stars and the planets, we are naturally led to think also of astrology – the older sister of the Queen of Sciences, as the study of the universe was once known. Astrology is based on the assumption that the celestial bodies in our stellar and planetary system have an influence on the earth, and in particular that they influence us – our character and our destiny.

  The basic concepts of astrology are the horoscope and the Zodiac. The Zodiac is a stellar ring on the celestial sphere, consisting of twelve constellations, along which our sun wanders in the course of a year. Each of these constellations has its own name and sign. Their origins are lost in the mists of time, in the myths and strange legends of the ancient world.

  In the light of modern science the domain of astrology tends to be dismissed as poetry or childish fantasy. However, there are still people – and by no means only the uneducated – for whom it is a genuine area of knowledge. For astrology represents a sort of challenge for modern science. It is synonymous with mystery; it is a different path toward knowledge.

  The best and most famous expression of scepticism about the value of science, and of fascination with Magic, is to be found in Goethe’s Faust. At the very beginning Faust talks about how, despite all his learning, he is no further forward than when he began:

  To Magic therefore have I turned

  To try the spirits’ power and gain

  The knowledge they alone bestow;

  No longer will I have to strain

  To speak of things I do not know.

  A moment later, on picking up a volume of the predictions of the sixteenth-century doctor Nostradamus (a Frenchman, incidentally), considered to be the greatest astrologer of the modern era, he says:

  What secrets lurk in this old book

  In Nostradamus’s own hand?

  Perhaps it’s here I need to look

  To grasp the stars’ mysterious flight;

  I’ll learn what Nature has to teach;

  I’ll hear, endowed with magic’s might,

  The spirits whisper, each to each.

  My own attitude towards astrology and horoscopes was always extremely sceptical until one day I, too, like Faust, picked up the ‘mysterious book of Nostradamus’ – his Centuries Astrologiques, written in 1555 – and began to read. I studied it thoroughly; in particular, I checked my own horoscope very carefully to see how accurate it was. I was astonished at the result: everything fitted, everything was confirmed.

  I was born in September. On the tenth of September, to be precise. Which makes me a Virgo.

  Virgo – the Virgin – is an earth element, and earth represents certainty and stability. People of this element have a clear aim in life and are unwavering in their progress towards it. They are logical and rational, precise and industrious. They never give up before they find a solution to a problem; they think everything through and approa
ch it methodically. Their love of order can be excessive, even pathological; in such cases Virgos become slaves to their own principles. Finally, Virgos have excellent memories and are good at music and chess.

  Is this not the perfect portrait of me? Let those who know me well be the judge.

  I know, I know: you’ll say a portrait like this is easily coloured to suit. All right. But what if there is more than just this vague portrait – what if there are other things that fit, traces of deeper connections?

  What I am about to tell you shook me profoundly when I first came upon it.

  Up to now the thing more or less held together. From here on, however, it became unadulterated drivel:

  We must start with the myth of Virgo and Aquarius.

  Each of us must surely have wondered why the signs of the Zodiac are mostly animals, and why these particular animals and not others; and why Libra – the Scales – is among them, and then why two humans are also among them. Most important, we wonder why these two people are not just a man and a woman but the Watercarrier and the Virgin.

  The ancient legends that lie at the source of this intricate construction tell the story of the Cosmic Division.

  In the beginning there was Monos, a homogeneous entity, closed and infinite like the surface of a sphere. But the defining principle of his existence was flawed: Monos, in his monomania, folded in upon himself, sank deeper and deeper into his Monosity, and sought his own destruction. Finally, when he reached the critical moment, he spoke. It was the last instinct, perhaps, of his fading will to exist. He said ‘I’: ‘I am.’ Having spoken, he heard himself; and, having heard himself, he ceased to be a monolith: he became Hearing and Voice. He split himself in two. In short, by his act of speech he became Heteros.

  This new principle of existence remains the foundation on which the world is built.

  The Zodiac is an ingenious expression of this dualism. Everything that is, is a duality: it has its ‘thesis’ and its ‘antithesis’, and these, in their eternal conflict, cause the world to oscillate. All forms of life embody this duality. Hence we have two Fish (Pisces) and the Twins (Gemini). Nearly all the animals exhibit some sign of it: the Ram (Aries), the Bull (Taurus) and the Goat (Capricorn) have two horns; the Scorpion (Scorpio) and the Crab (Cancer) have two front pincers.

  The most perfect embodiment of this dualism is to be found in the human pair: the Virgin (Virgo) and the Watercarrier (Aquarius). Alone, each is incomplete; together, they form a unity and a whole. And while Leo (the Lion) and Sagittarius (the Archer) form a hostile pair, expressing man’s conflict with the beast that lurks within him and his desire to destroy it, the Virgin and the Watercarrier together express love; they are the ‘north’ and the ‘south’ of the universe, its two poles, which, bound by the force of mutual attraction, create a magnetic tension.

  This beautiful idea was echoed as early as the fourteenth century, in the work of the divine Florentine. This is how Dante ends his Divine Comedy:

  The love that moves the sun and the other stars.

  But that isn’t all the ancient legends have to say about the Virgin and the Watercarrier. It turns out that these two figures, which move the world by the force of their mutual attraction, have other, deeper and more complicated meanings. They appear to be the figures of a young girl and a mature man, but when we look at what they are doing, it turns out that each of them represents an element that contradicts this embodiment.

  Aquarius, the Watercarrier, is presented in a desert landscape, giving water to fish. He pours it out carefully from a jug that is always full. The Virgin, meanwhile, sits or kneels gazing dreamily into the distance, a goose-quill pen in her hand.

  What is the significance of these objects, these poses and these occupations?

  Let us note, first of all, the fundamental difference between the two figures: while Aquarius is clearly busy with something (pouring water from a jug), Virgo cannot be said to be doing anything much. She dreams, she gazes – perhaps she wants to write? – but this cannot be called work.

  Next, let us recall what water symbolises. Water invariably signifies a source, a beginning. It is the materia prima. In the Indian tradition, for instance, water is the source of the Cosmic Egg; in the Hebrew Genesis, at the dawn of all things, the spirit of God moves upon the face of the waters. For this reason water is always associated with the female element, with fertility, with dark, unknown depths and life-giving powers.

  And indeed, did life not begin in water? Did it not creep out to land from the dark womb of the sea?

  Aquarius, then, although embodied in the form of a man, actually represents all that is female. By giving water he gives life; he watches over life’s creation. And at the same time, with the sound of splashing water, he beckons, he tempts.

  And what about Virgo? We have already observed that she sits idle, lost in thought, holding a goose-quill pen and gazing off into the distance. The goose-quill pen symbolises the art of literature – originally a male domain. Our word poetry comes from the Greek poiein, which means to make, to produce or create. The ability to create – especially out of nothing – is a divine attribute, and God as a causative force is always male. (Woman does not create out of nothing; she transforms what there is.) Thus the poet is essentially male, even if physically a member of the fairer sex. Look at Sappho, for instance – we know what she was like.

  Virgo, then, although embodied in the form of a woman, actually represents all that is male.

  This is also expressed in her name, associated with virginity, purity and innocence. These may appear to be female characteristics, but in the sphere of ideas virginity is a male attribute. Womanhood, in fact, is never a state of virginity: Woman is always initiated. The Male, on the other hand, cut off from blood – menstruation, defloration, giving birth – not only is in a state of virginity but cannot be otherwise. Maleness is by its very nature always inexperienced, always uninitiated.

  That virginity and maleness are indissolubly linked is a truth so glaringly obvious that it hardly needs stating. It even finds expression in some Romance languages, especially in French: the French virginité and virginal come from the Latin vir, which means man, or male. What further proof could one want?

  Virgo and Aquarius, then, the royal pair united by love, only appear to be a young woman and an older man. In fact they are a young man and a mature woman. It is he who gazes into the distance, innocent and inexperienced, daydreaming and composing poetry; while she, experienced and knowing, well aware of what is important, beckons to him enticingly with the splashing sound of water. ‘Come, here is the source,’ she seems to be saying, ‘come to me and I will let you drink; I will quench your thirst.’

  Let us now leave these celestial heights and descend from the firmament to the earth.

  Since the day I discovered this myth and learnt the deeper significance hidden in the signs of the Zodiac, I have been testing it, checking how much of it is confirmed in practice, and whether Virgos really are in some way connected with Aquariuses. Naturally, I began with myself. To whom am I drawn? Who, I asked myself, dazzles me? Who has the power to captivate me, to charm and beguile me like the Erl King? Is there such a person? Yes – Mozart, the greatest genius who ever lived. His music enthrals me, enraptures me; I could listen to it forever. He is the love of my life, the altar at which I worship.

  And what is his sign? On which day of what month did he come into the world?

  The date of his birth is engraved in my memory like holy writ; my music teacher drilled it into me from my very first lessons:

  the twenty-seventh of January

  The sun on that day was in the first decade of Aquarius.

  And I am not alone. My case is a common, even classic, one.

  Take, for example, the greatest of the Virgos – Goethe. (Goethe, let us recall, was born on the twenty-eighth of August.) As we all know, Goethe had a rich life. He knew hundreds, even thousands of people, and to many of them he was bound by some special circu
mstance or connection. But three people stand out particularly on this list: Mozart, Mendelssohn and Franz Schubert.

  Goethe saw Mozart just once in his life, at a concert in Frankfurt-am-Main. He was fourteen and Mozart was seven. The child prodigy played the most difficult compositions on the piano and the violin and then, without looking, gave a musical definition of the pealing of bells and the chiming of clocks. He made such an impression that Goethe couldn’t get him out of his mind; he is said to have mentioned him even on his deathbed. ‘I see him, I see him clearly,’ he is supposed to have whispered through withered lips. ‘Little man with the sword . . . don’t go! . . . More light!’ And when he was younger he listened constantly to Mozart’s music, with wonder and adoration. When he became director of Weimar’s famous theatre, Mozart’s operas were the main ones staged there. He was so taken with the beauty of The Magic Flute that he spent many years trying to write a sequel. He also couldn’t get over his disappointment that Mozart hadn’t set Faust to music. ‘Only he could have done it,’ he is supposed to have remarked in his old age. ‘He could have done it, and he should have done it! The music to my Faust should be like the music to Don Giovanni!’

  Then there is the story of Goethe and Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn appeared fairly late in Goethe’s life, when the latter was seventy-two and the former eleven – barely older than Mozart. And the result of this first meeting? Within an hour the cocky little imp had the mighty Jove at his feet, ecstatic with admiration, devouring him with his eyes and ears, utterly captivated.

  But what role was the child playing? What was it, exactly, that little Felix was doing when he performed before the Master? Why, yes, of course – he was teaching him! Opening his eyes and ears, playing Beethoven and Bach, whose music Goethe had never heard, initiating him into the mysteries of harmony and technique. Educating, instructing, enlightening. In short, the child was teaching the old man. Extraordinary! Unbelievable!

  Unbelievable? It might have been if the child hadn’t been an Aquarius. But Felix, too, like the divine Mozart, was born under that sign (on the third of February). He was thus a female element, older by definition.