The Plato Papers

by Peter Ackroyd

Madrigal: You have to admit that they have their funny side. Who would have thought, for example, that our ancestors would look upwards for guidance?

  Sparkler: Ridiculous. Was that in Mouldwarp or in Witspell?

  Madrigal: Mouldwarp, I think. It is all rather confusing.

  Ornatus: Sparkler and Madrigal, hail and farewell.

  Madrigal: Where are you going in such a hurry? To meet your daughter?

  Ornatus: Plato has chosen a new theme. He is about to begin at the clerk’s well.

  Sparkler: Unfortunately, Ornatus, we are both a little tired. We will have to rely upon you for a report.

  23

  We have acquired some information about the actors and comedians of past ages, but our knowledge has been greatly increased by the chance survival of a comic handbook entitled Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious. The meaning of ‘unconscious’ is by no means clear, but it may be related to the idea of drunkenness, which even in our own time is the object of laughter. The joke book itself is the work of a clown or buffoon who was billed as Sigmund Freud—no doubt pronounced ‘Fraud’ to add piquancy to his stage character. In this volume he has compiled examples of what he calls ‘significant nonsense’, with comic routines concerning people who forget names or misread words, who use the wrong set of keys or knock over pots of black dye. Clearly Freud himself was an incomparable gamester, and it is easy to imagine him reciting these absurd misadventures with a serious face.

  His act would have been described as ‘smutty’ or ‘bringing out the blue bag’ and, with its emphasis upon sex, it was a well-known aspect of the primitive theatre. His ‘lingo’ was in turn based upon the confrontation between audience and performer, with the continual use of Freud’s famous catchphrase—‘I think I should be the judge of that!’—as the signal for more laughter.

  But the most hilarious examples of Freudian repartee took place when his partner, Oedipus, appeared on the stage. This ‘fall guy’ or ‘straight man’ may have been some relic of the old pantomimic tradition, since he wore loose white robes and displayed that glum expression characteristic of the pantaloon. He also adopted a peculiarly rapid and sliding walk known to devotees as ‘the Freudian slip’. He would try unsuccessfully to use it every time Freud began to question or ‘analyse’ him with a number of delightfully absurd questions.

  ‘Are you repressing something, Oedipus?’

  ‘Of course not. I am standing very upright, as the soldier said to the nursemaid.’

  ‘Now now, Pussy. None of your nonsense here. Tell me, what is your opinion of chair legs and train tunnels?’

  ‘Rather out than in, as the bishop—’

  ‘I think, Puss, you are beginning to prove my point.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about points. Not after last night.’

  ‘How do you feel about long noses?’

  ‘I’ve never felt one in my life!’

  ‘Come now. That’s no answer to one of my famous analytical questions.’

  ‘Well then, Sigmund, I will tell you the honest truth. I think that they should be blown.’

  ‘Oedipus, you must have been a very funny child.’

  ‘Funny? I had them screaming. Especially mother.’

  This dialogue known as ‘chaff’ or ‘patter’ must have reduced the Mouldwarp audience to tears of laughter, especially when Freud steps forward to inform them that ‘it is all the fault of my friend’s unconscious’—i.e. that he is drunk.

  It has often been noted that the people of Mouldwarp were preoccupied with sexual activity at the expense of all other principles of life; there is even some evidence to suggest that they identified themselves in terms of their sexual orientation. No. There is no cause for embarrassment. Our purpose is to understand, not to lay blame.

  Nevertheless, despite—or even because of—their obsession with sexual practice it is likely that they laughed as heartily at Freud’s antics as we do. We salute him, therefore, as a great comic genius of his age.

  24

  Sidonia: Have I interrupted your recital, Plato?

  Plato: No. Not at all. I have ended with a flourish.

  Sidonia: I wanted you to be the first to hear the wonderful news.

  Plato: Oh? What is it?

  Sidonia: A great pole has been found at the corner of Lime Street and Leadenhall. It came out of the earth so quietly and quickly that it might not have been buried at all.

  Plato: If it was found at the corner of Leadenhall, then it must be the great maypole that stood on the site for many hundreds of years. It was the centre of our city’s festivity and celebration.

  Sidonia: And there are words upon it, partly defaced but still visible. I noted them down.

  Plato: What is this? ‘Ove Arup and Partners. For the Lloyd’s Building.’

  Sidonia: I admit that I was puzzled. That is why I came to you.

  Plato: If it is in the same location, then it must be the maypole. Everything in our city’s history tells us that the first and original shape never dies.

  Sidonia: So?

  Plato: The Lloyd’s Building must have been the name given to the maypole. Ove and Arup and Partners were the deities guarding it.

  Sidonia: Can that be true?

  Plato: There can be no doubt.

  25

  Plato: There can be no doubt. Can there?

  Soul: It’s no good asking me. I have nothing to do with knowledge, certain or uncertain. I am all love and intuition.

  Plato: If you love me, then you will tell me. Can I be sure of what I say? Sometimes I feel that it is all pretence, and that I should take doubt like a dagger and plunge it into me. When I am wounded, then I might speak the truth.

  Soul: Ouch.

  Plato: You think I am being extravagant?

  Soul: I take the long view in such matters. Whatever is good for you is right.

  Plato: But surely you understand? You are the one who gave me my restlessness. My nervous fear.

  Soul: Why should I be blamed? You are what you are. I am part of you, I admit it, but I really cannot bear all the responsibility.

  Plato: So you are ashamed of me.

  Soul: Not at all. I do not always enjoy your arguments, but I find them necessary. When you give expression to your thoughts, you help to define me. Is that selfish?

  Plato: We were taught that the pattern of birds in flight was also an image of their soul. I suppose that you and I bear the same relationship.

  Soul: And we, too, are part of the soul of the world. Then beyond that—well, it becomes more mysterious.

  Plato: So you will never leave me?

  Soul: A body without a soul is an impossibility, although I admit that there are times when I long to ‘sup above’. But of course I would never deprive you of your—how shall I put it?—your spirit.

  Plato: Thank you. You lend me courage.

  Soul: It is not a loan. It is a gift. You may need it soon.

  Plato: You intrigue me.

  Soul: Hush. Look into your heart now and speak to the citizens about the wonders of creation.

  26

  The ancient myths of creation are of the utmost interest to those of us who study the poetry of past ages. It was believed, for example, that a god called Khnumu fashioned a great egg in which all of creation resided; another deity, Ptal, then broke the egg with a hammer and life spilled out. This was known as the ‘big bang’, from which the universe was supposed continually to expand. Of course the poets of creation did not realise that what they considered to be flying outwards was, in reality, the retreat or recession of their own divine energy. They had, as it were, taken a hammer to their own brains.

  From an ancient city named Babylon we have evidence of a creation song which is altogether more convincing. The two forces of light and darkness, otherwise called god and dragon, fight for mastery; god slays the dragon, but even in his death agonies darkness is able to sow the seeds of confusion in an otherwise enlightened universe. This was ‘chaos theory’, in which the drag
on’s mouth became known as a black hole or, in another myth, dark matter. Such legendary creatures as the white dwarf and the brown dwarf also appear in these wonderful sagas. Their central purpose has, perhaps, become clear to you? The singers and prophets of antiquity had such little faith in their own powers that they felt compelled to invoke some great and distant source from which they had come. The knowledge that everything, past and future alike, exists eternally—this was not given to them.

  That very interesting mythographer, Mennocchio, suggested that the four elements of the early myths— earth, air, fire and water—were once congealed together in a mass of putrefaction; that the worms who burrowed through it were the angels, and that one of those angels became God. This became known as the ‘wormhole theory’, which prompted much elaborate speculation. It was exceeded in inventiveness only by the story of ‘superstrings’, which can be tentatively dated to the civilisation that first propounded the music of the spheres. These ‘strings’ also appeared in other myths which emphasised the role of harmony and symmetry in the creation of the universe. When such fables were recited to the populace, we may imagine the ritual accompaniment of many instruments. It may seem peculiar to us that our earliest ancestors always looked back to some mythical point of origin, but no doubt our own speculations would have puzzled them. We now realise that creation occurs continually. We are creation. We are the music.

  27

  Waiter: Welcome to the museum of noise, sirs. What do you lack?

  Madrigal: What do I lack?

  Sparkler: That was the way people talked. He is asking whether you would prefer wine or coffee.

  Madrigal: Why does he want to give me wine and coffee?

  Sparkler: This is meant to be a coffee-house. It is the custom. Of course you are expected to pay for it.

  Madrigal: Who does he think he is?

  Waiter: Please, citizens, what is it that you lack?

  Madrigal: Yes. I lack a sense of place. Where are we supposed to be?

  Waiter: On the corner of Lombard Street. Just before the Mansion House.

  Madrigal: There is no noise at all. We might as well be in the museum of silence.

  Sparkler: Hush. Can you hear that footstep? Like a heartbeat? Now you can sense the sound of more steps against the stone. Others are joining them.

  Madrigal: They are becoming too loud.

  Sparkler: They are the steps of countless generations.

  Madrigal: Now they grow low and remote.

  Sparkler: It is evening time. Can you hear laughter and conversation at the other tables? And the noises from the kitchen below?

  Madrigal: Is it all real?

  Sparkler: That is not a question anyone can answer.

  Madrigal: I believe that I will have wine, after all. What do you call the young attendant?

  Sparkler: Waiter.

  Madrigal: Waiter! I will pay for wine!

  Sparkler: Good. And now you can tell me about Plato’s oration on Penton Hill.

  Madrigal: Were you not there?

  Sparkler: No. I had been chosen to work.

  Madrigal: Congratulations!

  Sparkler: I was fortunate. But I was sorry to have missed the performance. How did it begin?

  Madrigal: This seat of wood is very hard.

  Sparkler: It will help you to concentrate. Tell me what Plato said.

  28

  Approximately six hundred years ago a long strip of images, embossed upon some pliable material, was discovered among the ruins of the south bank; they became visible when held in the light, which caused some historians to suggest that they were a form of palpable or concentrated luminescence. Two words have been reconstructed, ‘Hitchcock’ and ‘Frenzy’, but the nature and purpose of the strip are still unclear. We have lit the images in various ways; we have moved them in several directions, and at different speeds, but their meaning remains mysterious.

  Even in its incomplete state, however, ‘Hitchcock Frenzy’ is a magnificent discovery, since we soon recognised that the images themselves were representations of Mouldwarp London. Imagine our surprise when we saw the ancient people hastening down their lighted pathways and engaged in ritual action! The first picture was of a stone bridge with a dark tower upon each bank. Surely the river beneath it was too narrow and turbulent to be the beloved Thames? But then her familiar tidal pattern was noticed. This was our river, after all, yet one filled with shadows and pools of darkness.

  There are even more extraordinary scenes when it becomes clear that a creature or person is diving and swooping above the river. It cannot be seen, but it sees all. It sees tall buildings and lighted rooms; it sees streets and faces; it sees strange grey birds and small boats upon the water. It rises and falls, gliding invisibly through the London air. Could it be some high priestess, called Hitchcock Frenzy? We have no knowledge, however, of astral magic in the Age of Mouldwarp. It has been suggested that it is the work of an angel, who excreted the material strip of light while flying over the city, but there has been no confirmation of this interesting hypothesis.

  We remain perplexed, therefore, and can only look with wonder upon these images of ancient London. The first of them depicts a group of people gathered beside the Thames; they seem to be engaged in some tribal rite, during which they clap their hands and smile at one another. Perhaps they intend to worship the river, or to offer a sacrifice to the city, since the next scenes are those of a naked woman, with a band of striped linen around her neck, floating upon the water. It is possible that this body was part of an elaborate ceremony designed to summon up the dead from the depths of the river, but the very texture of Mouldwarp life is too rapid and discontinuous to allow any certain judgement.

  The next representations, for example, are taken within some interior space where a male human is wrapping the same band of striped linen around his own neck. Is he one of the dead who has been reborn? Or is he about to become a willing sacrifice? There are no others in his presence, which suggests that he has been exiled from the city. Then he walks down to the ground by means of wooden steps or stairs and somehow reappears in a room filled with glass bottles. The nature of Mouldwarp life is disconcerting indeed, with sudden leaps of time and space which do not seem to affect the inhabitants of this continually evolving world. The exile pours liquid into a glass and swallows it in one gesture. This may be a form of awakening. He then places a tube of paper or cloth into his mouth and lights it; here we notice the worship of fire as well as water. He must be the only inhabitant of this bottle-chamber, since his name is inscribed upon a frosted glass exterior; he is called Nell Gwyn. Immediately opposite him dwells Henrietta Street, who cannot be seen.

  Once again, in one of those extraordinary transitions of ancient city life, Nell Gwyn has suddenly passed through a doorway into the thoroughfare beyond. Here, then, was our first sight of the primitive city. It has been a constant source of excitement and surprise to us, sometimes overwhelming to those observing it for the first time. We glimpse doors and stairways, which seem to lead into unseen interior spaces, and we are almost afraid that we will fall into the depths of the strange world! The narrow path itself is filled with human figures engaged in harmonious movement, as if being directed by some unseen power; there are many objects piled high behind glass windows, and in certain places people give notes or coins in exchange for these objects. Then, in a moment, all this has been transformed into a great courtyard where wooden containers are piled with variously coloured fruits. The name of ‘Covent Garden’ can be seen—it is likely that there were many such gardens throughout the old city. In the next image Nell Gwyn is being given a selection of green and orange fruits by a red-headed priest or servant, while behind them are posters encouraging the citizens to further efforts— ‘Courage’ can be seen as Nell Gwyn leaves the garden. No history of Mouldwarp had mentioned this, which serves to emphasise that our knowledge of the past is conjectural at best. By careful interpretation of these images, however, we have devised a model of ancien
t London in which every four thoroughfares meet in a garden, where food was freely distributed. From the evidence of Hitchcock Frenzy we have also concluded that each object in the Mouldwarp world was painted, and that the citizens coloured their own bodies. It is worth remarking that the paths and thoroughfares of London differ in size and length. The fact that some are wide and others narrow seems to have determined the nature of the people who inhabited them as well as the events which occurred there.

  Nell Gwyn has once more moved instantaneously to quite another dwelling. It has the characteristic frosted window with the name of the owner, Pig and Whistle, inscribed upon it. Pig and Whistle’s friends can be seen drinking from glass vessels and, like Nell Gwyn, they place lighted paper in their mouths; it is probable that this form of fire worship also provided food and energy to its devotees. Two citizens enter, taking coverings from their heads; perhaps the external air is harmful to them, or they need to be protected from its weight. Nell Gwyn has put a large piece of paper before his face, as if he were trying to conceal himself; yet perhaps the paper is speaking to him, since numbers appear before us: 4.30, 20–1. In this mathematical world, perhaps they conversed only in figures! Nell Gwyn salutes Pig and Whistle, and is seen walking down a stone thoroughfare. The grey birds cluster around him, but he alarms them with a sudden movement; it has been suggested that these flying creatures are the ancestors of our angels, subdued and darkened by the conditions of Mouldwarp, but at best this is conjecture. Suddenly it is night. We know this because the sky has gone, the colours have faded, and small lights have appeared in various dwellings. Hitchcock Frenzy also now fades into darkness, since the strip of images is broken at this point.

  29

  Plato: May I ask a favour of you?

  Soul: Whatever I have is yours.

  Plato: Tell me about the people of Mouldwarp. Were they as deluded as we are taught? As I teach?

  Soul: Who can say? I would never presume to contradict you, of course, but there may have been occasions when they wondered what was happening to them. There may even have been moments when they did not know what they were supposed to be doing. I can recall—oh, nothing.