Mrs Midnight and Other Stories

by Oliver, Reggie

  THE MORTLAKE MANUSCRIPT

  I

  What is it about dealers in rare books and manuscripts? One would have to go a long way to meet one who was not a little strange, and Enoch Stapleton was no exception to the rule.

  When I first met him he must have been in his late thirties, though there was something ageless about him. He was a pale skinned man with very light blonde hair, and, though not technically an albino, he gave that impression. I was reminded of some exotic plant that has been left to grow too long in darkness, not exactly fat, but somehow flabby. Etiolated, I believe, is the technical term. At whatever time of the day or night that you visited him at his flat, he would always open the door to you in slippers and a pair of old fashioned pale blue and white striped pyjamas. He was, of course, unmarried and had, as far as I knew, no ‘partner’ of any description. His sexual orientation was a mystery to all those who knew him, and possibly to himself as well.

  He took a lot of cultivating, but once he had decided that you were not a ‘yahoo’—the term he used for anyone beyond his particular pale—he could be extraordinarily helpful. His knowledge of the book and manuscript world was vast, and he had a great talent for persuading the possessors of valuable collections to disgorge their riches for sale or examination. Some normally reclusive and eccentric people can be extraordinarily charming when they want to be: Enoch was one such.

  An Oxford colleague, Professor Stalker, had put me on to him when I began my researches for a book about the poet Elias Tremayne (1611-1660), the so-called ‘Black Metaphysical’. I had chosen Tremayne, partly, I admit, because no-one else had ‘done’ him recently—academics have to take these sordid factors into consideration nowadays—but also because I genuinely admired his work. There are moments in his only published book of verse Aedes Caliginis (‘The Temple of Darkness’, 1659) when he equals Donne, Crashaw and Vaughan, even at times touching the sublime heights of the great George Herbert himself. His cast of mind, however, was melancholy in the extreme, even by the standards of his time, hence, one presumes, his sobriquet. There is a touch of scepticism, even nihilism about his writing which seems rather modern. Take the opening stanza of perhaps his most famous poem ‘Life Eternall’.

  When I doe contemplate Eternitie

  It seems to mee a ring of endlesse Night

  Not rounded with Delight

  But circled with dark palls of coffined Death

  Wherein no soule may draw sweet breath,

  Save by the mercie of obscure Divinitie.

  Notwithstanding his rather unconventional philosophical views, Tremayne was an ordained clergyman in the Church of England and for the whole of his relatively short adult life was vicar of the parish of Mortlake in Surrey where the Elizabethan magician Dr Dee had lived and died less than half a century earlier. Other than these meagre facts, little was known about him, or so I thought.

  Tremayne’s reputation had always been comparatively obscure, but there had been moments when he emerged from the shadows. He was greatly admired by some of the 1890s poets, in particular Ernest Dowson and Arthur Symons. Baudelaire professed to be an enthusiast, and I was told that he is mentioned somewhere in one of Meyrink’s books. Tremayne’s small circle of devotees had been diverse and select.

  I decided that even if I could not find out anything new about the man himself, I could at least explore his legacy and influence, which was where Enoch Stapleton came in. He was a renowned expert on the writers of the 1890s. If anyone could point me to the sources of Tremayne’s influence on the decadents, he could.

  So I spoke to Enoch several times on the phone. He had e-mail, but only used it on sufferance and regarded today’s twitterers and bloggers of cyberspace as ‘yahoos’. Finally, after an exchange of letters, I was allowed to pay him a visit at his flat which was the top floor of a very undistinguished semi-detached villa in Cricklewood. After getting over the initial shock of the pyjamas, I had somehow expected his apartment to be squalid and chaotic. On the contrary: though all the rooms I saw were crammed with filing cabinets and bookshelves; everything in them was spotless and orderly. What pictures he possessed were monochrome engravings or etchings. The walls were painted a neutral mushroom-coloured hue, the only real colour on show deriving from the rich bindings or bright dust-jackets of some of the books. The impression given off was ascetic and obsessive. This last quality was underlined when I expressed a desire to relieve myself and he showed me to what he called ‘the guest lavatory’.

  We sat at a table by the window on hard chairs, each with a cup of weak, milky tea—the only beverage he ever offered—and discussed Tremayne. I discovered that he knew a great deal more about the man than I did, which made me feel rather fraudulent. However, I told myself, I was a scholar, an Oxford don no less, while Enoch was a mere antiquarian, which meant that his knowledge, though extensive, lacked system and discipline. It was a distinction which comforted me at the time, less so now.

  I asked about Tremayne’s connection with the 1890s men.

  ‘Of course,’ said Enoch, ‘you know Tremayne was an occultist.’

  I nodded glumly. I had guessed as much from some of the obscurer images in his poems, and had rather hoped this was to be my discovery. But apparently it was known already.

  ‘His poem “The Tree”. You know it, of course.’

  I nodded. It was Tremayne at his most knotty and metaphysical and I could make very little of it.

  ‘It’s almost impossible to make head or tail of it until you realise that the ten verses correspond to the ten Sephiroth of the Cabbala. Tremayne is trying to equate them with the wounds of the crucified Christ. Take the first verse:

  An earthlie wounde, eternall diadem,

  Pointes of the thorne, one pointe in Paradise.

  Those rubie drops transmute to many a gem

  Upon the crowne wherein the Deathless dies,

  Th’ Unmanifest yet shines for mortall eyes.

  ‘Not Tremayne at his best, I grant you, but it begins to make sense when you realise that he is equating the Crown of Thorns with Kether, the Crown, the supreme sphere or “path” on the Sephirotic Tree. And of course there is another general equation with the “tree” of the cross. There’s a woodcut from a Syriac New Testament printed in 1555 which does much the same thing. You’ll find it reproduced in Gareth Knight.’

  He darted to a bookcase, pulled out a volume with a rather anaemic dust jacket and showed me. I was convinced.

  ‘Then of course, there’s the stuff about him in Aubrey. You know about that, I suppose?’

  I was beginning to be irritated: not so much by Enoch’s omniscience, as by his mistaken assumption of mine. But he anticipated my thoughts.

  ‘You may not. The material was discovered muddled up with some of Anthony à Wood’s papers at the Ashmolean by Oliver Lawson Dick shortly before he committed suicide, and he intended to add it to his standard edition of Aubrey’s Brief Lives. Unfortunately he died before he could. I only know about it because some of Dick’s papers passed through my hands at one point, but I believe it has been published in a journal somewhere. I’ll look it out for you. As usual Dick has edited it down very efficiently from scraps written by Aubrey at different times and on different pieces of paper. No wonder Anthony à Wood called Aubrey “magotie-headed”.’ Enoch went to a filing cabinet and, after a brief search, fished out a single sheet of photocopied typescript.

  ‘Here we are. You can keep that. I have another copy.’

  I read:

  ELIAS TREMAYNE

  Naturall s. of Sir Thos. Tremayne of Pengarrow in Cornwall. He was a man of melancholique humour and black complexion, but of a very good witt. His mother thought by some to have been a Blackamore whom Th. Tremayne brought home from his voyages. At Oxford (Univ. Coll.) shewed himself most ingeniose and took holy orders. Found favour with W. Laud A. B. Cant [William Laud, Charles 1st’s Archbishop of Canterbury] and appointed to the living of Mortlack, but thereafter, though much in hopes of preferment
, was disappointed, causa ignota [for an unknown reason].

  Scripsit: Aedes Caliginis (Oxford 1659) sacred poems, but some so darke and tainted with esoterique doctrine, they invited much cencsure. Moreover, he had been of the King’s party in the late Civill Warres. Mr Ashmole did shew me once a treatise of Mr Tremayne’s in M.S., De Rerum Umbris [Concerning the Shadows of Things] which he did not lett me read. Later he told me he had destroyed the M.S. which he sayd he was loath to do, but he greatly feared lest it fall into the hands of giddy-heads and those who foolishly dabble in quod latendum [what should remain hidden].

  Old Goodwife Faldo (a Natif of Mortlack) told me that Mr Tremayne did often aske her histories of Dr Dee whom she had known when he did live in that place. It was rumoured that Mr Tremayne had an M.S off an old servant of Dr Dee’s house which this person had kept (or purloyned) from the same, and that the sayd M.S. contained a relation of a magicall encounter not to be found in Mr Ashmole’s collection. Moreover it showed by many Alchymicall signes and formularies how certain wonderfull giftes may be obtained through intercourse with angells and daemons. (She sayd.) When I asked if this M.S. was extant still, Goodwife Faldo replyed that she knew not, but that certain persons in Mortlack tell how in the last year of Mr Tremayne’s life (anno 1660) a very tall black man did come and take away his papers, leaving Mr Tremayne much affrighted. Thereupon he fell into a great distresse of mind and dyed. But this mere whim-wham and idle gossip, no doubt.

  Here at least was a scrap more information on the man’s life, and it was sufficiently unknown to count as a discovery. An academic with a reputation to burnish knows how to make bricks with very little straw.

  ‘I expect the “black man” who removed his papers was some Puritan busybody,’ I said. Enoch said nothing, but I could tell that he was irritated by my remark. There was a pause.

  ‘Those papers may not have disappeared altogether,’ he said. ‘There are clues to their subsequent history. Horace Walpole is said to have had some Dee material, and then there is an item in a catalogue of Bulwer Lytton’s manuscript collection which has never been properly identified. The catalogue entry reads something like: “Mortlake MSS. Occult writings in the autograph of Dr John Dee with additional comments by a later 17th c. hand.” Could that be Tremayne’s? Then in about 1900 A.E. Waite mentions something called “The Mortlake Manuscript” in a letter to his friend Arthur Machen. It is obviously of occult significance. He says something like “Perdurabo”—that was Crowley’s magical name in the Golden Dawn—“claims he has the Mortlake Manuscript and will make use of the keys”. I don’t know. These things could mean nothing, but a number of us have been on the lookout for the Mortlake Manuscript for some time now. We believe it could be out there.’

  ‘Who is “we”?’ I asked, rather expecting an evasive reply, which I duly received.

  ‘Just a figure of speech. Would you like me to keep you informed of progress? It might be useful to have an Oxford don to authenticate it.’

  I merely nodded. This was no time to take offence at his condescension.

  I kept in touch with Enoch Stapleton and he fed me scraps of information that he turned up about Tremayne. There was an essay on the Metaphysical Poets in which Arthur Symons praises Tremayne, and the unpublished preface to The Angel of the West Window by Gustav Meyrink which contains the following cryptic sentences:

  It was the cleric Tremayne who best understood Dee until these present times. I have but once been afforded a brief glimpse of that elusive document The Mortlake Manuscript, but it was sufficient to convince me. Who among those of us who have seen it would not give all their worldly goods for a further study of such a priceless treasure?

  ‘Meyrink must have seen it when he became associated with The Golden Dawn,’ said Enoch. ‘Perhaps Crowley himself showed it to him, though there’s no record of them ever meeting. As you know, both Meyrink and Crowley were interested in Dee. Crowley actually believed he was the reincarnation of Dee’s medium and nemesis, Edward Kelley. That Meyrink reference from about 1930 is the last we hear of the Mortlake Manuscript. . . .’ Enoch stopped and looked at me intently. ‘You don’t seem very interested,’ he said.

  ‘No. I am. I am. I’m just not terribly into this occult stuff. It all seems to me such dreadful rubbish.’ I paused, suddenly realising that I might have caused offence. ‘Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘Not at all, Not at all. It’s really rather refreshing. You see, when I mention the Mortlake Manuscript to the few who would understand what I meant by it, a sort of gleam comes into their eyes. It’s like . . . I suppose I can best describe it as a look of lust. Yes, once one becomes bitten by the occult, the sensation can be very like sexual lust. A lust for spiritual rather than carnal knowledge, one might say. Your scepticism makes you immune. That could be useful.’

  ‘Does that mean you think you know where this document might be?’

  Enoch smiled. He said: ‘Meyrink was right. It is “elusive”. It almost has a life of its own.’

  After that he fell silent and I could tell that he did not want to say any more on the subject. When he offered me another cup of his horrible weak milky tea, I felt it was time to go. The drive back from Cricklewood to Oxford was always a tedious one.

  II

  I had more or less forgotten my last meeting with Enoch when a few days later I was invited to dine on High Table at Latimer College. My host was Francine Stalker, Yates Professor of Renaissance Studies, and fellow of Latimer. It was she who had recommended Enoch to me.

  I had never been quite sure why Francine sought out my company. We are admittedly both in our thirties, though she is a few years older than me and has a far higher profile. Even when I was an undergraduate and she was doing her PhD, she already had a reputation as one of the most brilliant scholars of her generation. About a year after I had become a fellow of University College we met at a symposium on ‘The Elizabethan Cosmos’, or some such title. My paper on the Sonneteers was quite well received, but Francine’s on ‘Occult imagery in Shakespeare’ was dazzling. Nothing else was talked about during the conference, and she could have ignored me completely, but she did not. She sought me out and showed that she had understood and appreciated my work.

  My immediate suspicion, I’m afraid, was that she was sexually or romantically attracted to me. I was and still am youngish, single, not bad looking in a rather ordinary way, but my vanity was very soon crushed. She was more than happy to talk, but I noticed that she shrank from the smallest degree of physical contact. If I put my hand on her arm to emphasise a point she would instantly draw it away; even if I leaned forward in the normal course of conversation she would move back so that there remained at least three or four feet of clear air between us.

  Was I attracted to her? In the light of what subsequently happened I find that a hard question to answer. Francine was certainly striking in an odd way: the overall effect putting me in mind of Miss Murdstone in David Copperfield. She was tall and angular, but her actual figure was concealed in flowing ankle length garments, nearly always dark hued. Her features were regular but severe, her lips thin, her eyes brown and slightly protuberant. What skin she showed was as white and smooth as a marble bust by Canova. Perhaps her most striking feature was her hair. It was lustrous, black and obviously very long, though she wore it wound up into an elaborate knot on her head, secured by a tortoiseshell comb. Would she one day in my presence take out that comb, shake her hair free and let it fall in an ebony cascade down her back? I admit: the question did occur to me more than once.

  Though her discipline was History and mine Literature, our paths crossed because our favoured periods, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, were the same. We maintained an intermittent, slightly bantering correspondence by e-mail, though I noticed that she was always keen to maintain her status as the senior colleague. There was, to be honest, no competition and when she was elevated to the Yates Professorship at an astonishingly young age, her superiority was i
rrevocably confirmed.

  The invitation to high table at her college was a new development which I was able to contemplate with interest rather than feverish excitement. I suppose that says something about my attitude towards her. Before and during dinner she was very lively and hospitable, though I noticed that she still maintained her physical distance, even to the extent of not allowing me to be sat next to her on high table. At dinner she spent much of the time being brilliant at expense of the other Latimer dons, which I found rather refreshing, though I could see that it was not going down too well with her colleagues. In case you had illusions about it, I have to tell you that conversation at an Oxford High Table is usually as boring as it is at any other kind of dinner table, especially when it concerns that dullest of all dull subjects, university politics.

  When the company withdrew to the Senior Common Room for coffee, Francine suggested we take ours out into the Fellows’ Garden. It was a warm night in May and I wondered what this portended. It had rained earlier that evening, the air was now clear and the blue dusk smelt richly of earth and undergrowth. She gestured me to a teak bench under a lime tree and I noticed that she sat herself on it as far away from me as possible.

  ‘Thank God for that! Rupert, I must apologise for the drabness of the conversation tonight. My colleagues, are, I’m afraid, irredeemably second-rate.’ It was the first time Francine had addressed me by my Christian name face to face, though our e-mails had been on first name terms.