‘Joseph, come in here, would you?’ he calls into the speaking tube connecting to Beezley’s office in the neighbouring room, a summons obeyed instantly.
‘A note for your diary, Joseph: I shall require the carriage to take me straight from here to the Lodge dinner this coming Friday - shall we say at 5 p.m?’ he states as the dark, bespectacled aspect of his private secretary appears at the doorway, looking unaccountably amused for some reason and endeavouring, not very successfully, to hide it. ‘Would you contact Mrs Peters at Craigmull and remind her to return to London and to meet me here at least half an hour ahead of that, at 4.30, no later.’
A nod is sufficient to assure his boss all is perfectly understood - and upon which the peculiar fellow turns and leaves at speed. And if it is true that many listeners still have difficulty adjusting to the new bearer of that name, the new Mrs Peters, this is not the case with Beezley. Even though one might be a poor imitation of the other, his personal preferences are immaterial. The job is as good as done. But he really must, he tells himself, try to wipe that smile off his face.
Chapter 26
‘So, Mister Wilson,’ the gentleman begins, after a wait of some time on Herman’s part before he is permitted to present himself, ‘I trust your sleeping arrangements were to your satisfaction? You wish, I understand, to apply to our society as a novice and that you carry with you a personal recommendation from one of our senior representatives in Switzerland, Doctor Gross of Bern?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Herman answers, assuming once again his identity as a lone Englishman abroad as he gazes across the desk at the far end of a large hall-like chamber into the probing eyes of a certain gentleman who apparently serves here as both registrar and treasurer and who, not being permitted to divulge his full name, he says, wishes to be addressed simply as Walter. He would, Herman estimates, be somewhere in his sixties, with a long pendulous nose and a duelling scar partly concealed by rather old-fashioned mutton-chop sideburns adjoining his moustache. Paradoxically, he has a receding hairline with a considerable area of shiny baldness on top - a singular aspect further enhanced by being dressed exotically in loosely fitting robes of a subdued purple colour with a gold sash, monk-like and austere apart from the fact that the sash itself appears to be of silk woven with gold thread. Speaking excellent English - far better English than Herman’s German - and skilled in the art of appearing amicable, he even strives, in the time-honoured way of many an accomplished stage magician or salesmen, to replicate the tone and tempo of Herman’s voice as he speaks.
‘I must tell you, Mr Wilson, all this is just a little irregular,’ he continues with a casual air. ‘Under normal circumstances, a novice would never begin his association with the Society at such an important and, well, as you have discovered, such a secluded location as Schloss Lethe. This is, after all, our headquarters, and those who attend here are usually destined for the executive branch of the Society. Doctor Gross has evidently considered you to be suitable material, however, and I am willing to take his recommendation on trust. Our initial fee for training to the grade of novice is 200 pounds sterling in advance. I understand you have already arranged for this sum to be transferred into our Swiss bank account this morning?’
‘That’s right,’ Herman confirms. It will take some days until the letter reaches …’
‘Oh yes, don’t worry. We will inform you if anything goes amiss in that respect, do not fear. You are fortunate in coming when you did, since we are just about to embark on a new induction course - with two other young people. Our classes are small and exclusive, you understand - often comprised of visitors from overseas and therefore usually conducted in English. In fact we prefer not to extend invitations to the locals due to … well, let us just say the inhabitants of the village below simply regard us as a rather eccentric educational establishment, and we are content with that. We are, however, very serious about what we do. Upon attaining the grade of novice, your subsequent goal, as of every aspirant who journeys to us here, will be that of seeking adeptship or initiation into what is termed the Inner Temple. This is usually a lengthy process, without any fixed time scale. Some may rightly consider it to be their life’s work. It is the grade I have attained - as signified by my distinctive robes of office. It is a difficult and challenging path you have chosen, Mr Wilson. To advance beyond the stage of novice, you will be required to surrender all possessions to our legal department.’
From what their young friend Dieter in Cologne had told them to expect, this commitment to surrendering worldly goods comes as no surprise to Herman, but is no less palatable. ‘Am I free to decline this?’ he inquires.
The registrar appears stunned. ‘Why, yes, naturally, you may refuse. In those circumstances, you cannot advance beyond the simple foundation level and will be asked to leave once the training is over. This would be your loss. But there is no obligation to renounce material goods until then. You have, in other words, a good few days to decide.’
Herman nods his understanding. This really is a most unusual room, he thinks, taking the opportunity to look around during a moment in which Walter busies himself with some documents. Unlike almost anything else in the castle, which largely retains its original seventeenth century appearance, the furnishings here are modern in design and almost entirely void of decoration, except for the presence of a mural taking up a good proportion of the space behind the treasurer’s desk and upon which some exotic ceremony or ritual is depicted. It features a number of men in similar purple-coloured robes as Walter himself; in particular one seated upon a throne and who, by indication of a small golden scroll painted above him, goes by the already familiar name of Rascham (the semidivine being whom Gross had mentioned the other day).
The perspective of the painting is also unusual insofar as the floor leading up to the throne is shown as if from above, and this most elaborately decorated or tiled with a twelve-pointed star. A number of acolytes with trumpets to their lips float, angel-like, in the air above each point of the star, and each has a lantern of some kind beneath - all bearing an uncanny resemblance to what was described by his voices some weeks ago, and likewise featured in the painting he had discovered in Heidelberg with the signature of Deborah’s daughter upon it. The certainty now of having been directed to the right place makes Herman’s heart beat fast with anticipation, but also with a certain anxiety - for the castle really does have the most intimidating atmosphere. He has experienced it continuously ever since his arrival here yesterday, this gloomy, secluded place in the mountains where no one ever smiles.
‘Excellent!’ the registrar concludes with a strained attempt at cordiality as he sets his papers down and returns his pen to the inkwell. ‘Before uniting you with your fellow students and showing you to the quarters you will occupy for the first few days, I wonder if I might present you with something to wear about your shoulder, a sash you will display at all times as an indication of your status as an aspiring novice.’
And as Walter passes across his desk a voluminous green and saffron-coloured sash, and as Herman slips this hesitantly across his shoulder, two more young people, a man and woman, are shown into the room, each adorned with a similar accessory and looking every bit as self-conscious as Herman himself feels until all the necessary introductions are completed.
After surrendering their passports, along with any jewellery or timepieces, they are taken to what is called the ‘induction room’ - an unfriendly, empty shell of a chamber whose meagre illumination comes from a small unglazed skylight. Here, they are left for the remainder of the afternoon with not much more than a few candles and a set of books containing speeches and meditations by Rascham himself, and which they are expected to read in silence, until the last of the guttering candles eventually fails and a cavernous darkness descends, dropping like a curtain and against which the skylight far above can make little or no impact, for by then the sun has set.
Herman is aware of someone else entering the room then. ‘Welcome to
the grade of aspiring novice,’ a harsh voice cries out ‘Repeat after me the holy mantra:
‘Rascham, Rascham, Rascham,
All-powerful Son of God,
Rascham, Rascham, Rascham
All-powerful Son of God,
Rascham, Rascham, Rascham ...’
The repetitions continue … and continue. For a while all three novices join in, but after ten minutes, and even though the mantra is still pressed upon them with unerring zeal by the speaker, they begin to flag. After twenty minutes, Herman feels at his wits end. All this, moreover, after a whole afternoon of uninterrupted study.
‘Surely there has been a mistake. Must we keep repeating this?’ the young woman, whose name is Marie, asks a short while later - and already in a voice of some anxiety. She is, Herman surmises, French or Italian, judging by her accent.
‘Refrain from idle talk!’ the speaker snaps loudly. ‘Return to your mantra.’
Rascham, Rascham, Rascham,
All-powerful Son of God ...
‘We’ve had enough. We’re hungry!’ Herman’s other colleague protests - a smart and well-groomed young American who goes by the name of Andrew.
‘Silence, I say!’ the teacher barks in still harsher tones.
And it is not until some time later - impossible to judge precisely how long - when a lamp is finally lit, their instructor falls silent and the door by which they entered so long ago - it might have been yesterday, for all they know - slowly opens to allow in a whole group of other people, processing in single file and all clad in similar robes of purple with gold sashes, carrying aloft lanterns and also a life-size portrait in a gilded frame of the holy man himself - Rascham presumably - the same richly bearded individual as Herman remembers from the mural on the wall of the treasurer’s office. They, too, then begin chanting, a somewhat more melodious rendition of the same mantra, while the portrait is processed with all due ceremony around the chamber a couple of times before being carried out, and at which it seems the day’s instruction has finally reached its most welcome conclusion.
‘The women and men are to be separated,’ states one of the ushers who has stayed behind, a severe matronly sort of lady with an air of authority about her and who, they learn, goes by the name of Frau Weiss and whose purple robes of initiation, though comprising of skirts do not countenance even the faintest suggestion of any lace or embroidery. And so Herman and his male companion Andrew are led away down one end of a corridor, while Marie, looking most perturbed is guided in the other direction by Frau Weiss herself.
‘What do you make of it?’ Andrew asks that evening after an austere supper of cold rice and lentils has been brought to their chamber, and they have retired to their bunks.
‘Not altogether pleasant, I suppose,’ Herman replies, glad to be able to converse at leisure in English with someone of a similar age to himself, though still adhering to his assumed name of David Wilson at all costs. ‘But I’m ready to sacrifice everything if it leads to Rascham,’ he adds, wanting still to play the part of a dedicated disciple, for he is still not entirely sure whether he can trust his companion - there being always the outside chance he has been planted on him as a spy, to test his sincerity.
Their quarters are, indeed, cold and spartan, with only the most rudimentary provision of water and sanitation, and Herman feels distinctly grubby as a consequence - though this segregation from the main life of the castle is only a temporary measure, they are assured, all part of the essential process of self-denial and deprivation required during the early days of training for the novitiate
‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ Andrew mutters brushing the by-now limp and grubby brown hair from his forehead with a nervous movement. ‘This is not at all what I’d expected. I think I am going to ask if I can leave tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Herman remarks, his voice conveying a sense of shock.
‘Yes. I was assuming this was to be a socialist commune, something with more of an intellectual ethos. I sure wasn’t expecting some guru to grovel to, with sermons lasting all day. How credulous do they think we are, anyways? They say he’s a god, don’t they, this Rascham guy. They say if you part with seven dollars you can have some hair from his beard in a locket. And for another ten you can have a litre of his bath water. They say it has healing properties. Don’t you think that’s all a bit sick?’
‘No, not at all,’ Herman answers, ever mindful that somebody could well be eavesdropping. ‘We should at least wait until we have a chance to meet him. We should be humble.’
‘Humble!’ Andrew laughs. ‘Well, good night to you, my humble friend,’ he adds, sliding into his bunk beneath Herman. ‘I’m off tomorrow, and that’s final.’
And with this emphatic gesture of repudiation, the young fellow turns over to face the wall and by the sounds of it falls asleep almost instantly.
Herman remains awake, however, listening to the various noises within the building - sufficient he hopes to determine more about the layout of the place. Occasionally a chant would rise up, or the sounds of chattering voices escaping as a door along some distant passageway or stairwell would open. Hushed voices would also sometimes be detectable passing by outside their chamber, the footsteps accompanying them soft and muffled. It really is an odd kind of set-up, he concludes - a combination of a school and a monastery, with a good helping of prison life thrown in for good measure. And he wonders whether they might have actually locked the door into their room - to which he gets up to check. As anticipated, it is secured from the outside.
In the event, Herman’s colleague Andrew does not leave the next day, nor the next. Always there are some honeyed words of encouragement to keep the would-be novices at their task. The work itself is always conducted indoors, in a windowless chamber, and includes arduous physical disciplines such as yoga; lots of books they must read; and only now and again a proper lecture. The subjects are usually comparative religion, a field of some expertise already for Herman, but which transpire here to be little more than a strange mishmash of disparate ideas featuring again and again symbolic images of the human form, diagrams suspended from a blackboard - all anatomically accurate but also redolent of Tibetan or Hindu depictions of energy wheels or chakras as they are called - and often with linear connections between the lower and upper body, between the genitals and the brain indicated upon them.
There is still for Herman something disconcerting about it all. He feels repulsed by such primal possibilities and all the sexual-magical connotations the diagrams proclaim, ideas and sensations of which he has only a limited personal knowledge. This is surely the fabled kundalini force of the Tantric traditions, the ‘serpent power’ coiled dormant at the base of the spine; ignited by sexual desire and transformed to psychic energy in the brain. But such a process is rarely explained in any practical detail. Instead, there are always vague promises of clarification, of more practical demonstrations later on after the stage of novice had been attained. The study-time itself is, in any case, forever being interrupted by additional lengthy sessions of chanting - until after a few more very long days, and with still no liberty to leave the castle building itself for exercise, the training finally comes to a welcome end and they are ready to embrace the grade of novice at last.
Today is, in fact, the very day chosen for the ceremony of initiation. The trainees have been summoned to the main hall of the castle. And it is here, beneath a vaulted ceiling in a large open interior, carpeted and furnished to the highest standards, where they become reunited with Marie who has, she tells them, also adhered unflinchingly to her own regimen - though she does not, in fact, look at all well for the experience, being much paler and thinner than just a few short days ago. She is, however, looking forward to being accepted into the grade of novice, she tells them, of furthering her spiritual development - which is, after all, why she is here.
But then, without warning, the ceremony itself is postponed - due, they are told, to news of a surprise arrival on the way - none other than th
e great man himself: Rascham the All-Powerful. He is due, they are told, within the hour. Dashing back to their rooms to grab their coats and hats, they meet again outside upon the crenellated walls flanking the tower of the gatehouse to view his coming - the first breath of fresh air in days for Herman and his fellow neophytes. It is a sunny afternoon with good visibility revealing a stunning alpine landscape stretching away far into the distance. The air is clear and refreshing, and Herman is especially alert, since this event, with everyone coming out to observe the arrival of their leader, will surely reveal the full extent of the population within the castle itself. Would Deborah’s daughter be among them, he wonders? Such a miracle would, indeed, be a cause for rejoicing. But to his surprise there are not so many people. He eventually counts just over a dozen individuals as they emerge from the various doorways and climb to similar vantage points on the towers or battlements, including several by-now familiar faces, such as the registrar, Walter, and the redoubtable Frau Weiss. There are also a couple of the blue-uniformed staff that Herman recalls from his arrival the other evening. But, sadly, other than his fellow novice Marie, there is not a single young woman to be seen.
‘How on earth do they know he is coming at such short notice?’ Herman wonders aloud, sharing his curiosity in the company of his two fellow students. There is no evidence of any telegraph wires to such a remote place. By what means have the tidings reached them unless by a messenger?
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 25
