‘Hardly had the reverberations from this died away, when one of my companions in the room straightened in his seat somewhat, drew in a breath, and melodiously uttered a few bizarre phrases. I thought this an extravagant way to begin an address, but supposed these were quotations from some text with which I was unfamiliar, and I waited patiently for the exegesis which I assumed would follow. None did, and I was at a loss as to why the speaker had paused so long.
‘I was about to make some remark encouraging him to continue when another, from the opposite armchair, in a loungeful pose, cocked his head to one side and, in an almost singing voice, proclaimed some completely unconnected message of equal strangeness. I became a little restless after this, but we were then served with a tray of pleasing dishes by one dressed in traditional costume, so I held my peace.
‘There again followed a thoughtful silence, and I began to think that I was the dupe of some foolish hoax. Yet then a young woman repeated the procedure, venturing forth with a further high-flown metaphor, in which I thought I detected the merest passing reference to a fourth-century philosopher somewhat tangential to my own field.
‘As I mused upon this, in the silence that again followed, I experienced a gratifying lurch of comprehension. I began to see what the participants in this seminar with “a different perspective” were doing. A latecomer slipped into the room to join the gathering at this point, though I judged that he was no more certain of his role than I was, and he in fact did not contribute to the proceedings. Armed with my new insight, however, I began to enjoy the seminar more, and even joined in hesitantly a few times.’
The Professor beamed at us.
‘Well, you see, around the time of the late three hundreds A.D., when the thought and beliefs of Chinese civilisation, then the most advanced in the world, were in a state of great flux, there was briefly a movement of mystical philosophers who sought to combine the insights of the three religions known to them: the courtesy and dignity of Confucianism, the meditativeness of Buddhism; and the high magic of Taoism. They were called the Light Conversationalists—the phrase does not translate well into our tongue—and cultivated a technique of aspiring to shared spiritual insight by decorous gatherings whose speech would consist of fantastical flights of metaphor, followed by periods of silence in which to meditate upon the vision so conjured up. The supposed “seminar” was apparently an attempt to reproduce this practice. And I confess I thought they did exceptionally well. The images, you see, were those that the old Chinese alchemists most associated with the soul, or the beyond, so that several times—not every time, of course—I experienced a spontaneous shiver of what I can only call mystical insight, a silver light threading through my spine.
‘As you may imagine, the experience has led me to a certain re-evaluation of my perhaps too rigid association with the way of Confucius, and I am exploring with a new delight the insights offered by the other Ways that China has given us. I am really most indebted to the patron of this very curious seminar, but I have no idea who they may be. Have you, may I ask?’
The Connoisseur stirred a log in the fire before answering, sending up little glints of flame. ‘Not quite yet,’ he replied, ‘but I shall ensure you know as soon as I do.’
***
Mr Gabriel Larkland paid a further visit to my friend’s rooms in the mid-afternoon of the following day, a Saturday, and it is possible The Connoisseur had anticipated this, since he had invited me to join him. The young scholar of literary anarchism was somewhat breathless when he arrived, and his pale hair protruded in clumps here and there, unlike his previous, careful appearance. With barely the minimum of pleasantries, he flung himself into a wing-backed armchair, which uttered a demurring creak at this treatment, and proceeded to relate:
The Adventure of the Café Conspiracy
‘It is my habit,’ he began ‘to frequent a certain modest eating-house at around the same time, Saturday just after noon, every week, as a way of marking the end of my researches, for I devote the rest of the day and Sunday to other pursuits.
‘I had taken my usual seat towards the rear of the place, on those tall black settles topped with brass rails and rather horrible gingham curtains, and was about to start upon my modest repast of a soupe paysanne augmented by a side-dish of black olives in lemon, with stout slices of coarse bread, followed by crab-apple seed-cake, when I discerned that other diners were being placed in the alcove behind mine, and my attention was at once arrested by their voices.
‘It became evident that there were two of them, a melodious-voiced man and a woman whose tone had something of a jaded drawl in it, though not over-done: and it seemed to me that I recognised these intonations.
‘After a certain amount of bustling around with the menu and so forth, there was a pause, and they then began a most curious and, frankly, chilling conversation. Despite the incident of the blue jar, I can assure you that it is far from my custom to eavesdrop, but on this occasion the vague familiarity of the voices and the very oddness of their talk justified me, quite apart from my public duty. It went as follows:
‘ “It’s all worked out very well, so far, hasn’t it?”
‘ “Yes, it’s been very diverting, and we’re getting our message across, I think.”
‘ “Still, don’t you think we’re playing with fire a bit? We’re not in complete control are we?”
‘ “Surely that’s part of the point. But how do you mean, in particular?”
‘ “Well, the wolf’s head, for example.”
‘ “Yes, that was peculiar. But there may be nothing to it.”
‘ “Mmm. And well now, how about tonight? Are the devices ready? Will they get him do you think?”
‘ “Oh, they’ll get him all right.”
‘ “I admire his vigour. But he is one of our bitterest opponents.”
‘ “Yes.”
‘ “He must be quite exploded.”
‘ “No doubt of that. And he will be. I am fairly sure of it. Tonight we shall try to make him ascend to another world. He will go up . . .” there was a dramatic pause, “in smoke!”
‘It was the languid woman who uttered these last remarks, and they were concluded with a dreadful little snigger whose sheer heartlessness sent a thrill of disgust coursing through me. The man’s voice resumed:
‘ “Everything is ready?”
‘ “Yes, but I have left last-minute instructions and they are carrying out final checks at the warehouse now.”
‘ “So much for him then. What about her?”
‘ “Oh, I think we shall get her too.”
‘ “How?”
‘ “Firing the great cannon ought to be enough.”
‘ “And are we all set up and in working order?”
‘ “Yes, I think so. The others are seeing to it. I told them to be careful with the adjustments. After all, there’s not much of her. She could be blown across the room.”
‘Then there was again that dreadful purring-sniggering sound from the young woman.
‘Well, it was all I could do to stop myself from leaping up and denouncing them then and there as the cruel incendiaries they undoubtedly were. But I reflected that I should scarcely be believed, so completely and calmly terrible were the words. Who would suppose that in a quiet little café such deeds could be under discussion? Although I listened carefully, nothing that they said divulged the precise details of their plot, so I felt increasingly helpless to counteract it, until at the very end, as they rose to go, she said: “Seven-thirty, then”, and he replied, breezily, “Yes, but I think I shall go there now. I want to put everything in place early. I like to get ahead, you know.”
‘You can very well imagine with what a start I heard those words. I peered carefully around the high back of my settle, and was just in time to see the retreating form of the tall young man I met on the train, you understand, the one with the hat-box, the one that gave me those misleading directions to Corvel House. I hurriedly paid my bill, finishing the s
eed-cake with unseemly gulps—the ripe, tart, taste was quite wasted—and at once tried to dart after him.
‘It was obvious he must hold some key to these strange episodes and this wicked conspiracy. I fancy he spotted me though, for he was off in a trice, loping with long strides along Great High Gate, with that dark travelling-cloak flapping behind him.
‘I was about to break into a canter to catch him up, when that wretched ass of a library assistant bumped into me and tried to detain me with some chatter about a book I should be interested in. I bustled him to one side and dodged on after my quarry, who I could just see veering off down one of the little cobbled slopes, with their pastel-painted houses, that lead to the river quay. I raced to the corner, oblivious to the remonstrations of other pedestrians, and saw that I was only just in time to observe him slip into a mews behind one of the warehouses there. I kept a mental picture of the exact spot, until I had got there, and then followed where he had gone. It was a dead end of blank walls, with the exception only of a wide arched entranceway into one of the warehouses.
‘Knowing now that I was in the presence of very ruthless conspirators, I decided not to investigate that archway directly, but instead stole quietly along the environs of the warehouse.
‘At last, by carefully ascending an iron fire escape and peering in a murky window, I was able to make out a few details of the interior. Below me were several tall, gleaming machines, which stood upright upon tripod legs and whirred softly to themselves, at intervals emitting sudden great puffs of pale fumes. There was no sign of the dark young man, but a haughty-looking woman with a mass of black hair moved calmly about, turning keys and pushing levers on the machines, while an apprentice in baggy overalls, wearing a workman’s beret and with a face smeared with oil, scurried about replenishing them from several different spouted vessels.
‘Craning myself forward, I could also make out rows of iron benches like unfurled scrolls around the walls and a raised platform at one end, covered with dark hangings. I have no doubt that this conceals some other monstrous machinery. I dared not stay much longer, however, so after satisfying myself that I should see nothing more, I came away.
‘I have marked in my mind and on a sketch map where it is, and it remains only for us to gather the necessary forces together and foil the whole affair. For it is perfectly clear to me that devil’s work is under way here, and that these laughing assassins have assembled an armoury of infernal devices to enable them to perpetrate some violent outrage.’
Gabriel Larkland leant back in his chair, jutted out his chin, and eyed us eagerly. The Connoisseur made a placatory gesture, pointed out that as yet there was no tangible evidence of definite crime to justify any kind of raid upon the warehouse, and promised to arrange matters so that such forces as were required would be available that evening well in time to halt anything untoward. For a while, Larkland remonstrated that more immediate action was required, but at length he acceded to my friend’s calm reasoning, and agreed to stay a while to meet someone whom The Connoisseur thought might help to illuminate some aspects of the affair.
In due course, The Connoisseur’s other caller arrived. We rose to greet a mature woman in the early prime of life, with an inclination to the portly, long greying hair that streamed onto her shoulders and a shrewd look about the eyes. She introduced herself as Dr Felicity Dowerley, and thanked my friend for his invitation.
‘I think you said, did you not, that you might be able to help me find my friends of the masque? But how you knew that I had been to such a performance or that I should so like to make the acquaintance of the troupe responsible, I do not know.’
The Connoisseur did not respond to the implied question but instead said it would be useful if she would relate the exact circumstances of her experience. At this, she murmured ‘Quite so,’ and we listened to her:
Diversion Concerning a Wild Masque
‘I am the author of Milton & The Light of Reason, in which I explore how the great poet maintains the cause of intellectual virtue throughout his career. A few weeks ago I received an invitation to attend a performance of his early work, Comus, a Maske, which was to take place in a village about forty miles from here—Helderfield, do you know it?
At this two of us nodded, while Larkland leant forward eagerly and eyed Dr Dowerley more keenly.
‘I hesitated, because of the distance, but was persuaded to accept by the considerations that the masque is not often performed at all, that this was to be an al fresco performance, which is even more unusual, and that the patron of the event, whoever they were (for that was not very clear from the particulars) had been so far generous as to enclose rail tickets for the journey. I felt I could scarcely refuse. Furthermore, my researches often involve me in long hours in the Octagon Library, and though I enjoy this, I cannot disguise that I often feel the need for wider horizons.
‘I followed my instructions to the village hall, which had evidently been hired for the occasion, and on my arrival was exceedingly startled to find myself plunged at once into the play. Two young people greeted me with a quaint adaptation of some of the opening verses of the play and then, lapsing into everyday speech, indicated that I was to play the leading part, that of the Lady. I balked at this at first, but they were so charming and persuasive, and so clearly delighted with the idea of the masque, that I had not the heart to refuse altogether. However, I said that, though I knew the verses well, I certainly did not have all of the Lady’s part by heart, so should I be able to recite from the book instead?
‘At this, I received my second surprise of the evening, for the young people told me that they intended to perform only the action of the play, not the words. I said rather drily that this was a somewhat novel way of honouring Milton’s fine text. However, I decided to enter into the spirit of things, now that I was there.
‘To abbreviate my account somewhat, I found I had been inveigled into a most wild and extemporised rendition of the masque, accompanied by quite excellent members of Comus’s retinue, adorned in most convincing masks. You will recall, I am sure, how the Lady is lured to the lair of the demi-god Comus, deep in the woods, where she finds herself among his animal-headed companions, whose dancing, chasing and revelry almost entice her from her devotion to reason, proportion and harmony. She is searched for in vain by a young boy-Prince, who at length has to invoke divine aid to release her from the thrall of the libertine godling.
‘It was this mythic element of the masque that the young troupe wanted to explore, and we did it most thoroughly indeed, I can tell you, going out into the benighted woodland above the village and reenacting the whole thing, without Milton’s sonorous verse it is true, but with all of the drama that was also his, and which we so often miss in our hard-headed studies.’
There was an audible spluttering sound from Mr Larkland, who was evidently beginning to understand his own experiences in Helderfield rather more fully than before.
‘At first,’ the literary Doctor continued, ‘I was a little abashed at such a very loose and improvised performance and did not quite know what I should do. But soon I quite felt the excitement of the chase, the thrill of the dark, the strangeness of the beasts on hind legs, with their glorious masks, all glowing eyes and gleaming muzzles, and frankly the sheer freedom of doing something entirely outside my usual ambit. I took part with great enthusiasm. It was a most profitable escapade.
‘Afterwards, I joined the small cast of four or five young people—a Prince, Comus, and his crew—at the village hall for a generous supper, which had been laid on.
‘The Prince, dressed in a most fetching white tunic and plumed hat, was an exceedingly self-possessed little creature. I noticed she had very striking hazel eyes that shone with a wicked glee, not quite in keeping for her part, since she was meant to be the very model of innocence… .’
There was an expostulation from The Connoisseur’s other guest. ‘Describe her further, if you please,’ he requested, curtly, ‘Had she hair which finely m
elds white and gold and glints around her ears and cheeks like a Roman helmet?’
Felicity Dowerley smiled. ‘I suppose it might be described in that way, yes. Do you know her?’
‘Not yet.’ There was a brittle pause. Then the Milton scholar resumed her account.
‘Well, she introduced me to all the others, very ceremoniously, something as follows: “Comus here—Oliver Morrish—he’s also our mask-maker, and these, when we are done with them, shall go on exhibition. We must restore them all carefully in their carrying-packs,’—she indicated a row of what looked like hat-boxes, and which had evidently been used to bring the masks. A tall, very dark young man bowed, and I noticed what seemed to be a cut above his eyebrow, and asked if he had been hurt in the wood. He explained, however, that he had done his own mask, that of Comus, last, and that the vermilion paint upon the eyes had been not quite dry and had smeared his brow a little.’
There was a further exclamation from Mr Larkland.
‘Then she introduced me to the rest, who were, as she put it, her friends the wild boar (a languid young man, Adam by name, whose face seemed vaguely familiar—I had the sense I had seen him at the Octagon Library), the wild hound (Verity, a woman in her early thirties, I should say, with hair neatly tied behind with a firm red bow) and the wild cat (a very elegant young woman with a great mass of dark hair, and a long-drawn-out falling in her voice, so that her words seemed to all end in a purr—Eleanor, apparently).’
Mr Larkland rose from his seat and paced up and down, murmuring.
‘After I had been introduced, I said how delighted I was to meet them, and added that, so far from any vexation at their little tricks upon me, I felt I owed them a great deal, for the insight they had given me into the ludic discourse—I checked myself at this, and said I meant the liveliness, the waywardness of Milton’s imagination. Then I asked if there were not one other whom I had not met and I could see from their puzzlement that they did not know what I meant.
The Collected Connoisseur Page 10