“Perhaps. I often think of her. She’s failing, I hear.”
“And who’s this—this messy bit here? Somebody that doesn’t seem fully human. Could it have been a much-loved pet?”
“I had a brother who was badly afflicted.”
“Odd. Doesn’t look quite like a brother. But influential, whatever it was. It’s given you a great compassion for the miserable and dispossessed, Francis, and that’s very fine, so long as you don’t let it swamp your common sense. I don’t think it can; not with that powerful Mercury. But immoderate compassion will ruin you quicker than brandy. And the kingdom of the dead—what were you doing there?”
“I really believe I was learning about the fragility and pitiful quality of life. I had a remarkable teacher.”
“Yes, he shows up; a sort of Charon, ferrying the dead to their other world. What I would call, if I were writing an academic paper, which God be thanked I’m not, a Psychopomp.”
“Handsome word. He’d have loved to be called a Psychopomp.”
“Was he your father, by any chance?”
“Oh, no; a servant.”
“Funny, he looks like a father, or a relative of some kind. Anyhow—what about your father? There’s a Polyphemus figure in here, but I can’t make out if he’s your father.”
Francis laughed. “Oh yes, a Polyphemus figure sure enough. Always wears a monocle. Nice man.”
“Just shows how careful you have to be about interpreting. Polyphemus wasn’t at all a nice man. But he was certainly one-eyed. But was he your real father? What about the old man?”
“Old man? My grandfather?”
“Yes, probably. The man who truly loved your mother.”
“Ruth, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t get up on your ear. Incest. Not the squalid physical thing, but the spiritual, psychological thing. It has a sort of nobility. It would dignify the physical thing, if that had occurred. But I’m not suggesting that you are your grandfather’s child in the flesh, rather his child in the spirit, the child he loved because you were born of his adored daughter. What about your mother? She doesn’t show up very clearly. Do you love her very much?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ve always told myself so. But she has never been as real as the aunt and the cook. I’ve never really felt that I knew her.”
“It’s a wise child that knows his father, but it’s one child in a million who knows his mother. They’re a mysterious mob, mothers.”
“Yes. So I’ve been told. They go down, down, down into the very depths of hell, in order that we men may live.”
“That’s very Saturnine, Francis. You sound as if you hated her for it.”
“Who wouldn’t? Who needs such a crushing weight of gratitude toward another human being? I don’t suppose she thought about the depths of hell when I was begotten.”
“No. That seems to have been quite a jolly occasion, if your first chart isn’t lying. Have you told her about your wife? Running off with the adventurous one?”
“No I haven’t. Not yet.”
“Or about the child?”
“Oh yes, she knows about the child. ‘Darling, you horrible boy, you’ve made me a grandmother!’ was what she wrote.”
“Have you relieved her mind by telling her that she isn’t really a grandmother?”
“Damn it, Ruth, this is too bloody inquisitorial! Did you really see that in this rigmarole?”
“I see the cuckold’s horns, painfully clear. But don’t fuss. It’s happened to better men. Look at King Arthur.”
“Bugger King Arthur—and Tristan and Iseult and the Holy sodding Grail and all that Celtic pack. I made a proper jackass of myself about that stuff!”
“Well, you could make a jackass of yourself about much more unworthy things.”
“Ruth, I don’t want to be nasty, but really this stuff of yours is far too vague, too mythological. You don’t honestly take it seriously, do you?”
“I’ve told you already; it’s a way of channelling intuitions and things that can’t be reached by the broad, floodlit paths of science. You can’t nail it down, but I don’t think that’s a good enough reason for brushing it aside. You can’t talk to the Mothers by getting them on the phone, you know. They have an unlisted number. Yes, I take it seriously.”
“But this stuff you’ve been telling me is all favourable, all things I might like to hear. Would you tell me if you saw in this chart that I would die tonight?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, when will I die? Come on, let’s have some hard information, hot from the planets.”
“No astrologer in his right mind ever tells somebody when they are going to die. Though there was once a wise astrologer who told a rather short-tempered king that he would die the day after the astrologer died himself. It assured him of a fine old age. But I will tell you this: you’ll have a good innings. The war won’t get you.”
“The war?”
“Yes, the coming war. Really Francis, you don’t have to be an astrologer to know that there’s a war coming, and you and I had better get out of this charming, picturesque castle before it does, or we may find ourselves making the journey on the Bummelzug that passes behind here every few days.”
“You know about that?”
“It’s not much of a secret. I’d give a lot to have a peep at that place, but the first rule for aliens is not to be too snoopy. I hope you don’t go too near there when you are out for spins in your little car. Francis, surely you know that we are living in the grasp of the greatest tyranny in at least a thousand years, and certainly the most efficient tyranny in history. And where there’s tyranny, there’s sure to be treachery, and some of it is of a rarefied sort. You don’t know what Saraceni’s doing?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
“You’ll have to know soon. Really, Francis, for a man with your strong Mercury influence you are very slow to catch on. I said you weren’t stupid, but you are thick. You’d better find out what you’ve got yourself into, my boy. Maybe Max will tell you. Listen—Mercury is the spirit of intelligence, isn’t he? And also of craft, and guile, and trickery, and all that sort of thing. Something of the greatest importance is very near you. A decision. Francis, I beg you, be a crook if you must, but for the love of God, don’t be a dumb crook. You, with Saturn and Mercury so strong in your chart! You want me to tell you the dark things in your chart—there they are! And one thing more: money. You’re much too fond of money.”
“Because everybody is trying to gouge it out of me. I seem to be everybody’s banker and unpaid bottle-washer and snoop and lackey—”
“Snoop? So that’s why you’re here! Well, it relieves me that you’re not just a lost American wandering around in a fog—”
“I’m not an American, damn it! I’m a Canadian. You English never know the difference!”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry! Of course you’re a Canadian. Do you know what that is? A psychological mess. For a lot of good reasons, including some strong planetary influences, Canada is an introverted country straining like hell to behave like an extravert. Wake up! Be yourself, not a bad copy of something else!”
“Ruth, you can talk more unmitigated rubbish than anybody I have ever known!”
“Okay, my pig-headed friend. Wait and see. The astrological consultation is now over and it’s midnight and we must be fresh and pretty tomorrow to greet our betters when they come from Munich, and Rome, and wherever the ineffable Prince Maximilian is arriving from. So, give me one more cognac, and then it’s goodnight!”
“Heil Hitler!” Prince Maximilian’s greeting rang like a pistol shot.
Saraceni started, and his right arm half rose in response to the Nazi salute. But the Countess, who had sunk half-way down in a curtsy, ascended slowly, like a figure on the pantomime stage, rising through a trapdoor.