by Antal Szerb
“I don’t either. To be more precise, how did it come into your possession?”
This was difficult. I ought to have told him of my meeting with Eileen St Claire, but I don’t like breaking my word. I gave a nervous cough, and said:
“I can’t tell you that. I gave my word of honour not to reveal who I got it from, even though this was the first time I’d ever met that person and I’ve no real idea who he or she really is. All I know is that Maloney introduced us.”
“Very good,” said the Earl. “I know who it was. So shall we continue?”
“Given the situation, you were absolutely obliged to take some security measures against your guests.”
“I’m really sorry, Doctor. I have to confess I gave Rogers only the most general instructions. I have no idea what he actually did.”
“The first thing I noticed was that the cartridges had been removed from my revolver.”
“How very embarrassing,” he said, and reddened.
“Apropos of what happened, may I ask your Lordship to have them returned to me? I’ve no others in my possession, and I hope I never will have. But I don’t sleep well if my revolver isn’t loaded. I can’t help it—it’s become a habit.”
“You shall have them back at once.”
He got up and rang the bell.
“Do please continue.”
“At the same time my suitcase was searched and a small packet removed from it.”
“Do you know what was in the packet?”
“The fact is, I’ve no idea. Maloney gave it to me because he said it wouldn’t fit into his rucksack.”
“There was trinitrophenol in it. Again I’m terribly sorry, but one is sometimes nonplussed by the unexpected. I’ve never had a guest bring high explosives before. I’d already gathered, by the way, that it came from Maloney.”
Rogers re-appeared. The Earl instructed him to have the park searched to see if anyone was hiding there, and to return my cartridges.
“Thank you for your confidence, My Lord. But may I now ask a few questions?”
“Please do, Doctor. I’ll answer them if I can.”
“I’d like to know how my innocence was established. Because I have to admit, appearances were all against me. I feel every bit as awkward as a rather nervous person would who was told someone had picked his neighbour’s pocket and taken his gold watch. I’d like to believe I was free of suspicion.”
“Well, it became more and more evident that Maloney was up to no good. The only way to shoot at me was through that window, and only a wonderfully gifted acrobat could have climbed the caryatids to the second floor.”
“But that isn’t proof that I wasn’t an accessory.”
“Gradually I got to know more about you through things Cynthia and Osborne said. I made inquiries in London, and I saw you flirting in the Library … ”
“Excuse me?”
“With my books. Your way of life isn’t compatible with premeditated murder. I don’t think you’d even pick a flower, you have such a horror of any form of violence. I don’t intend any praise by this. You are neither a good man or a bad man: the intellectual type cannot be forced into either category. You could be capable, out of selfishness or love of comfort, of omitting to do things which any decent man would do for his fellow creatures. But you would be incapable of doing anything which might deliberately hurt another. You’re too passive for that.”
“Thank you for the diagnosis. I’m afraid it’s an accurate one, My Lord. But would such psychological inferences be enough to acquit me?”
“Absolutely. People rarely do things that are diametrically opposed to their own natures. Our friend Maloney will never take an interest in neo-scholastic theology. Cynthia will never become a professional singer. Osborne will never succeed in doing up his tie in the approved manner.”
“From which it follows that Maloney, instead of engaging in neo-scholastic theology, will continue to make attempts on your life.”
“Quite certainly. I have no doubt I’ll meet him again. Or, if not him personally, then someone else. My enemies are as patient and resourceful as the Borgias. At times I feel almost proud of them. And there’s so much money at stake I can understand why they spare no expense or effort.”
“So you do know, My Lord, whom you’re dealing with.”
“Of course.”
“William Roscoe’s heirs?”
“Let’s leave it there. It’ll all come out in the inquiries after my death.”
I could see that I’d reached an impasse. His natural reticence would allow him to say no more.
“And what do you propose doing to protect yourself?”
“Not a lot. I try to keep out of harm’s way.”
“By what means?”
“For the time being I’ve sentenced myself to house arrest in the castle. With Maloney gone there’s little danger now in Llanvygan. I’ll bide my time here. He who laughs last … And I would urge you, Doctor, to stay with me, as long as you possibly can. I know how selfish it is of me to ask, when I simply want to keep you here to enliven the tedium of my imprisonment. But I’ll do whatever I can to ensure that your time isn’t wasted.”
“My Lord … ” I began, trying to devise some grand formula to express how glad I would be to stay after what had been said. It was the simple truth. But I always have trouble with these little speeches.
“So you will stay,” he pronounced. “A wise decision. The books you’ve seen so far are certainly not the most interesting. I haven’t yet given you access to the family archives that hold the truly rare material. Now it’s all there for you. And, as far as I can with my limited knowledge, I’ll give you whatever information you want, with pleasure.”
He opened a mirrored cupboard that stood behind him—I hadn’t even realised it was there—and a pile of ancient yellow pages was spread across the desk.
We sat there reading for ages, thoroughly absorbed and in raptures of delight. Every so often we would read out some specially interesting sentence to each other, and discuss it. Here was Fludd’s correspondence with Asaph Pendragon, the text of Fludd’s unpublished treatises and the minutes of the English Rosicrucians, all material of incalculable scholarly significance.
The following weeks and months, which I would devote to the thoroughgoing study of all these writings, rose up before my mind’s eye—as a processional dance of learned bacchantes, their faces lit with divine ecstasy, each brandishing not a thyrsus but a manuscript in her hand.
I was waving one myself—a codex, in a very old calligraphic style, the so-called Friar’s Gothic. I had no idea what it was, and couldn’t place the curious lily-patterned binding, or the remarkable parchment on which it was written. But there was something strangely solemn about its appearance.
“What exactly is this?” I asked.
“You light upon treasures like the magic wand of the Venetians. That is quite possibly the most valuable work in the entire library. It’s the T-book, the one the old alchemists and Rosicrucians wrote so much about.”
“You mean, the book actually exists?”
“It’s in your hand. It contains their ultimate wisdom.”
“So this is the book!” I cried. “This is the work mentioned in the Fama Fraternitatis. This was in the tomb of Rosacrux himself. It’s one of the secret holy books!”
The Earl smiled a strange little smile, and said nothing.
Rather as Faust did with the book of necromancy, I opened the codex and eagerly began to read. I was half expecting some instant miracle to occur: darkness would fall and, in a roll of thunder, the Spirit of the Earth would rise up before me in all its awesome grandeur.
The next moment I felt thoroughly ashamed of my naivety. The book was no different from all the others containing ‘the ultimate wisdom of the Rosicrucians’. Its message was allegorical and so opaque I understood not a word of it.
The only bits of text that stuck in my brain were those written in the familiar Greek—the delightful b
ut meaningless motto of the Persian sage Osthanes: ‘’E physis te physei terpetai. ’E physis te physei nika. ’E physis te physei kratei. (Nature delights in Nature. Nature conquers Nature. Nature governs Nature.)’
“When was this written, and by whom?” I asked the Earl.
“No one can say. It’s impossible to narrow it down by analysis of the contents. It may even be the Latin translation of an old Arabic text. The manuscript itself originates in the fourteenth century.”
“And what is it about?”
“So far as anyone can understand it, it’s about the way life can be prolonged for hundreds of years.”
“And does it give specific instructions, or does it, like the other books, confine itself to allegorical generalities?”
The Earl pondered a moment, then answered quietly:
“You could say, it offers instruction to those who understand.”
“Oh, My Lord … one question. Do you think anyone has ever understood these mysteries?”
“Oh, yes. Fludd, for one. And Asaph Pendragon.”
For a while he said nothing, but gazed at me searchingly.
“There is a fund of human wisdom, some primal revelation, of which all human knowledge is a mere dilution,” he went on, in the same quiet tone. “But people forgot it in the very process by which they became able to think rationally.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “This has almost become a scientific truth. The myth-system of every nation begins with the wisdom of an ancient lawgiver: Hamurabbi in Babylon, Hermes Trismegistos in Egypt … ”
“And all the great thinkers felt certain that truth had been given to man in some remote, primordial past. Think of Atlantis, in Plato’s Timaeus … There was once a world, a great island, that sank beneath the sea. The drowned island could be just a symbol of the magical modes of understanding sunk deep in human consciousness, that surface only now and then, in the form of dreams …
And there have always been individuals, or secret societies,” he went on, “who insisted they were the guardians of some ancient knowledge. From the Egyptian priesthood it was passed down to the mystery cults of Alexandria; from the Alexandrians to the Hebrew Kabala and the Gnostics; from the Gnostics to the Knights Templar and from the Kabala to the late-medieval mystics, Pico della Mirandola, Pater Trimethius, Cardano, Raimundus Lullus, Paracelsus and finally the Rosicrucians. The Rosicrucians are the last link in the chain … ”
“And then?”
“Then came the Age of Reason. People started to think methodically and scientifically. They invented the steam engine and democracy. So the ancient knowledge now exists as a paradox: our rational minds can’t fathom it, just as we can’t fathom the superstitions of the negroes. What followed—occult science—was nothing but fraud and parody: Rational Man’s fancy dress frolic with the irrational. The eighteenth-century Freemasons, the spiritualists, the theosophists, St Germain and Cagliostro all claimed to be thousands of years old. Of course they were lying. On the other hand, lots of people falsely claim that they know the Prince of Wales, but does that make his existence a mere superstition? We just can’t grasp these things with our modern patterns of thought. As we see it, the body is a machine which in time wears out and breaks down. But Asaph Pendragon and Fludd knew that human life could be prolonged at will. Physis physei kratei. Nature governs nature.”
He stood up again and crossed the room with his long strides.
“My Lord … so many people had the secret of making gold—even if none ever actually succeeded—so why is it that those who knew how to prolong life never tried to put that into practice?”
From somewhere in the depths of the enormous room his voice answered:
“Why are you so sure no one has?”
In that moment everything I knew about the Earl’s experiments flashed across my mind. The huge axolotls whose lives he suspended for years on end and then revived … and the rumour that he’d had himself buried and dug up again …
Then other, even wilder connections, began to dawn on me.
“My Lord,” I shouted, as I sprang to me feet. “This afternoon we went to the old castle.”
“I know,” he said.
“You know? Were you in the tower at the time?”
“No. It’s not important where I was. I also know that you went down into the crypt. And I believe you solved the mystery of Rosacrux’ identity.”
“He and Asaph Pendragon were one and the same person, were they not?”
“Yes. Asaph was the Master. The others were mere disciples—including Fludd, who was by no means the outstanding pupil. He wasn’t from a very good family, and he was desperate to publish everything he knew. That’s why he wrote so much that now looks so ridiculous. Every explanation falsifies the original truth. Real scholars don’t express their knowledge in words. Asaph hadn’t the least desire to acquaint greengrocers with his discoveries.”
I felt he was trying to evade the main question.
“Then where is Asaph’s body? The tomb is empty … ”
For a long time he made no answer.
“He might have been removed to some other place. Possibly to the park here in Llanvygan. The tomb was opened by John Bonaventura, the thirteenth Earl.”
John Bonaventura! I’d come across the name before, reading the family history in the British Museum. And even then I’d had the feeling I encountered it somewhere else before that. Suddenly I remembered where.
“That’s right. He opened the tomb because the hundred and twenty years had passed.”
“How do you know about that?” the Earl exclaimed.
“I read it in the memoirs of Lenglet du Fresnoy.”
“Lenglet du Fresnoy? Who wrote that history of the alchemists, around 1760?”
“Exactly so.”
“What else is in those memoirs?”
“I don’t recall … but there was something rather strange. Something about Asaph Pendragon not having died at all … but the details have escaped me.”
“How did you come by du Fresnoy’s memoirs? Where are they?”
“The manuscript was a bequest of the Viscount of Braedhill. We catalogued it about a year ago. That’s when I came across it. It’s now in the British Museum.”
“What are you saying? In the BM? That’s horrible!”
He was pacing back and forth with his huge strides. I suddenly grasped that the dimensions of the room had been calculated for just those strides. The floor reverberated and the half-dressed old worthies on the shelves were trembling and nodding furiously.
“We must do something, Doctor; we must do something. I can’t bear the thought that every Tom, Dick and Harry should have access to the most carefully guarded secrets of my ancestors. I feel as I would if a public promenade had been driven through the family crypt … And besides, I have to know what is in those memoirs. We must get hold of that manuscript … But right now I can’t go to London … those gangsters … I have it! Doctor, you must go to London on my behalf.”
“With pleasure, My Lord.”
The Earl grew calmer, and returned to his seat, like the great wave that follows the storm.
“The BM is to some extent in my debt. When I succeeded to the title I presented them with a number of interesting volumes. You must call on the Director of the Reading Room and offer him an exchange. What do you think we might put his way?”
“One of the Persian codices, perhaps.”
“A splendid idea. Tomorrow morning we’ll draw up a list of everything we have in that line. You can tell him they are free to choose. Any one of them, I should think, is worth ten times the Fresnoy. If there are any problems, refer to my solicitor, Alexander Seton, of the Inner Temple. Call on him anyway, and talk the whole business through. I’ll go and write the letters straight away—one to him, and the other to the Director.”
“My Lord,” I said, with real feeling. “I shall be very proud to mount the Museum steps as the emissary of Llanvygan.”
There was a knock at th
e door, and Rogers entered. He handed my cartridges to me.
“I saw nothing suspicious in the park,” he intoned.
“Take another close look at all the doors,” the Earl replied. “And set a guard on the stairs going to Cynthia’s and Osborne’s rooms. Since that business with the trapdoor you can never be sure … ”
I took my leave and went off to bed.
I was sitting in my room, smoking a cigarette and feeling generally agitated. On a night like this it was hard to imagine how a pipe of peace could bring philosophical serenity to the human countenance.
Tomorrow I would be on my way to London, on a commission for the Earl of Gwynedd. And how much had happened today! Rosacrux’ tomb, the trapdoor, Maloney’s sudden revelations and subsequent disappearance; the secrets buried in those books like so many winding subterranean passages. Who could sleep at such a time, between walls as changeable as theatrical backdrops?
There are times when everything seems to take on a deeper significance. Through the open window drifted a subtle blend of scents and aromas: the fragrance of flowers, the altogether more solemn exhalations of the trees, the rank odour of straw and stables, and something quite bitter that I could not identify. At times like this we feel the melancholy of the sixteen-year-old in despair at ever finding love, mingled with an anxious hopefulness about the days to come; we drink to great achievements we have yet to accomplish, and we register every tremor of noise within a radius of ten miles.
We become aware that there is a stir and bustle in the kitchen below, and that someone—a belated gardener?—is walking beneath the window. The light is still on in Cynthia’s window: how I would love to go to her now. She is, no doubt, typing a letter. Every other day she writes a twenty-page epistle to her mysterious woman friend.
It is summer, yet I am intensely aware that it will again be winter—white-robed Christmas, when even tea has a somehow different taste. How I would love to be on a boat in the emerald lagoons of a coral island … How I should savour the experience, and surrender to all my desires.
