The Magus, A Revised Version (91 page)

Four men appeared in the white corridor. They were carrying a black sedan chair, so narrow that it looked almost like an upright c
off
i
n. I could see closed curtains at its sides, and in front. On the front panel was painted in white the same emblem as the one above my throne
–
an eight-spoked wheel. On the roof of the sedan was a kind of black tiara, each of whose teeth ended in a white meniscus, a ring of new moons.

The four porters were black-smocked. On their heads they h
ad
grotesque masks
–
witch-doctor faces in white and black and then rising from the crown of each head enormous vertical crosses a yard or more high. Instead of breaking
off
cleanly, the ends of the arms and the upright of these crosses burst out in black mops of rag or raffia, so that they seemed to be burning with black flame.

They did not come directly to the centre of the table, but as if it was some host, some purifying relic, carried their c
off
in-sedan round the room, up the left side, round in front of my throne, between me and the table, so that I could see the white crescent-moons, the symbols of Artemis-Diana, on the side panels, then on down the right side
to
the door again and then finally back to the table. The poles were slipped out of the brackets, and the box was lifted forward to the central empty place. Throughout, the other figures remained staring at me. The black porters went and stood by the brands, three of which were almost extinguished. The light was getting dim.

Then the thirteenth figure appeared.

In contrast to the others he was in a long white smock or alb that reached to the ground; whose only decoration consisted of two black bands round the end of the loose sleeves. He carried a black staff in red-gloved hands. The head was that of a pure black goat; a real goat
’
s head, worn as a kind of cap, so that it stood high
off
the shoulders of the person beneath, whose real face must have lain behind the shaggy black beard. Huge backswept horns, left their natural colour; amber glass eyes; the only ornament, a fat blood-red candle that had been fixed between the horns and lit. I wished I could speak, for I badly needed to shout something debunking, something adolescent and healthy and English; a
‘
Doctor Crowley, I presume.
’
But all I could do was to cross my knees and look what I was not
–
unimpressed.

The goat-figure, his satanic maje
sty, came forward with an archi—
diabolical dignity and I braced myself for the next development: a black Mass seemed likely. Perhaps the table was to be the altar. I realized that he was lampooning the traditional Christ-figure; the staff was the pastoral crook, the black beard Christ
’
s brown one, the blood-red candle some sort of blasphemous parody of the halo. He came to his place, the long line of black-carnival puppets stared at me from the floor. I stared down the l
ine: the stag-devil, the croco
dile-devil, the vampire, the succubus, the bird-woman, the magician, the c
off
in-sedan, the goat-devil, the jackal-devil, the pierrot-skeleton, the corn-doll, the Aztec, the witch. I found myself swallowing, looking round again at my inscrutable guards. The gag was beginning to hurt. In the end I found it more comfortable to stare down at the foot of the dais.

Perhaps a minute passed like that. Another of the brands stopped naming. The goat-figure raised his staff, held it up a moment, then made to lay it on the table in front of him; but he must have got it caught in something because there was a comforting little hitch in the stage business. As soon as he had managed it, he raised both hands sacerdotally, but fingers devil-horned, and pointed at the corners behind me. My two guards went to the projectors. Suddenly the room was flooded with light; and, after a moment of total stillness, flooded with movement.

Like actors suddenly
off
-stage, the row of figures in front of me began removing their masks and cloaks. The cross-headed men by the brands turned and took the torches and filed out towards the door. But they had to wait there, because a group of twenty or so young people appeared. They came in loosely, in ordinary clothes, without any attempt at order. Some of them had files and books. They were silent, and quickly took their places on the tiered side-benches to my right. The men with the torches disappeared. I looked at the newcomers
–
German or Scandinavian, intelligent faces, students
’
faces, one or two older people among them, and three girls, but with an average age in the early twenties. Two of the men I recognized from the incident of the ridge.

All this time the row of figures behind the table were disrobing. Adam and my two guards moved about helping them. Adam laid cardboard folders with white labels in each place. The stuffed cat was removed, and the staffs, all the paraphernalia. It was done swiftly, well rehearsed. I kept flashing looks down the line, as one person after another was revealed.

The last arrival, the goat-head, was an old man with a clipped white beard, dark grey-blue eyes; a resemblance to Smuts. Like all the others he studiously avoided looking at me, but I saw him smile at Conchis, the astrologer-magician beside him. Next to Conchis appeared, from behind the bird—
head and pregnant belly, a slim
middle-aged woman. She was wearing a dark-grey suit; a headmistress or a business woman. The jackal-head, Joe, was dressed in a dark-blue suit. Anton came, surprisingly, from behind the pierrot-skeleton costume. The succubus from Bosch revealed another elderly man with a mild face and pince-nez. The corn-doll was Maria. The Aztec head was the German colonel, the pseudo-Wimmel of the ridge incident. The vampire was not Lily, but her sister; a scarless wrist. A white blouse, and the black skirt. The crocodile was a man in his late twenties. He had a thin artistic-looking beard; a Greek or an Italian. He too was wearing a suit. The stag-head was another man I did not know; a very tall Jewish-looking intellectual of about forty, deeply tanned and slightly balding.

That left the witch on the extreme right of the table. It was Lily, in a long-sleeved high-necked white woollen dress. I watched her pat her severely chignoned hair and then put on a pair of spectacles. She bent to hear something that the
‘
colonel
’
next to her whispered in her ear. She nodded, then opened the file in front of her.

Only one person was not revealed: whoever was in the c
off
in-sedan.

I sat facing a long table of perfectly normal-looking people, who were all sitting and consulting their files and beginning to look at me. Their faces showed interest, but no sympathy. I stared at June-Rose, but she stared back without expression, as if I were a waxwork. I waited above all for Lily to look at me, but when she did there was nothing in her eyes. She behaved like, and her position at the end of the table suggested, a minor member of a team, of a selection board.

At last the old man with the clipped white beard rose to his feet and a faint murmuring that had begun among the audience stopped. The other members of the
‘
board
’
looked towards him. I saw some, but not many, of the
‘
students
’
with open notebooks on their laps, ready to write. The old man with the white beard gazed up at me through his gold-rimmed glasses, smiled, and bowed.

‘
Mr Urfe, you must long ago have come to the conclusion that you have fallen into the hands of madmen. Worse than that, of sadistic madmen. And I think my first task is to introduce you to the sadistic madmen.
’
Some of the others gave little smiles. His English was excellent, though it retained clear traces of a German accent.
‘
But first we must return you, as we have returned ourselves, to normality.
’

He signed quietly to my two guards, who had come back beside me. Deftly they untied the rosetted white ribbons, pulled my clothes back to their normal position, peeled
off
the black forehead patch, turned back my pullover, even brushed my hair back; but left the
gag.

‘
Good. Now … if I may be allowed I shall first introduce myself. I am Doctor Friedrich Kr
e
tschmer, formerly of Stuttgart, now director of the Institute of Experimental Psychology at the University of Idaho in America. On my right you have Doctor Maurice Conchis of the Sorbonne, whom you know.
’
Conchis rose and bowed briefly to me. I glared at him.
‘
On his right, Doctor Mary Marcus, now of Edinburgh University, formerly of the William Alanson White Foundation in New York.
’
The professional-looking woman inclined her head.
‘
On her right, Professor Mario Ciardi of Milan.
’
He stood up and bowed, a mild little frog of a man.
‘
Beyond him you have our charming and very gifted young costume designer, Miss Margaret Maxwell.
’
‘
Rose
’
gave me a minute brittle smile.
‘
On the right of Miss Maxwell you see Mr Yanni Kottopoulos. He has been our stage manager.
’
The man with the beard bowed; and then the tall Jew stood.
‘
And bowing to you now you see Arne Halberstedt of the Queen
’
s Theatre, Stockholm, our dramatizer and director, to whom, together with Miss Maxwell and Mr Kottopoulos, we mere amateurs in the new drama all owe a great deal for the successful outcome and aesthetic beauty of our … enterprise.
’
First Conchis, then the other members of the
‘
board
’
, then the students, began to clap. Even the guards behind me joined in.

The old man turned.
‘
Now
–
on my left
–
you see an empty box. But we like to think that there is a goddess inside. A virgin goddess whom none of us has ever seen, nor will ever see. We call her Ashtaroth the Unseen. Your training in literature will permit you, I am sure, to guess at her meaning. And through her at our, we humble scientists
’
, meaning.
’
He cleared his throat.
‘
Beyond the box you have Doctor Joseph Harrison of my department at Idaho, and of whose brilliant study of characteristic urban Negro neuroses,
Black and White Minds,
you may have heard.
’
Joe got up and raised his hand casually.
‘
Anton
’
was next.
‘
Beyond him, Doctor Heinrich Mayer, at present working in Vienna. Beyond him, Madame Maurice Conchis, whom many of us know be
tter as the gifted investigator
of the effects of wartime traumata on refugeee children. I speak, of course, of Doctor Annette Kazanian of the Chicago Institute.
’
I refused to be surprised, which was more than could be said of some of the
‘
audience
’
, who murmured and leant forward to look at
‘
Maria
’
.
‘
Beyond Madame Conchis, you see Privatdozent Thorvald Jorgensen of Aalborg University.
’
The
‘
colonel
’
stood up briskly and bowed.
‘
Beyond him you have Doctor Vanessa Maxwell.
’
Lily looked briefly up at me, bespectacled, absolutely without expression. I flicked my eyes back to the old man; he looked at his colleagues.
‘
I think that we all feel the success of the clinical side of our enterprise this summer is very largely due to Doctor Maxwell. Dr Marcus had already told me what to expect when her most gifted pupil came to us at Idaho. But I should like to say that never have my expectations been so completely fulfilled. I am sometimes accused of putting too much stress on the role of women in our profession. Let me say that Dr Maxwell, my charming young colleague Vanessa, confirms what I have always believed: that one day all our great practising, as opposed to our theoretical, psychiatrists will be of the sex of Eve.
’
There was applause. Lily stared down at the table in front of her and then, when the clapping had died down, she glanced at the old man and murmured,
‘
Thank you.
’
He turned back to me.

‘
The students you see are Austrian and Danish research students from Doctor Mayer
’
s faculty and from Aalborg. I think we all speak English?
’
Some said, yes. He smiled benignly at them and sipped a glass of water.