We sat up that night till two in the morning pushing the damned thingamajig around. We must have made a lot of connections in the astral realm, judging by the time which elapsed. As usual it was I who summoned the eccentric figures—Jacob Boehme, Swedenborg, Paracelsus, Nostradamus, Claude Saint-Martin, Ignatius Loyola, the Marquis de Sade and such like. Karen made notes of the messages we received. Said he would dictate them to the dictaphone the next day. To be filed under 1.352-Cz 240.(18), which was the exact index for material derived from the departed spirits by means of the ouija board on such and such an evening in the region of the Rockaways. It was weeks later when I decocted this particular record. I had forgotten all about the incident. Suddenly, in Karen’s serious voice I began getting these crazy messages from the blue … Eating well. Time hangs heavy. Coronary divertissements tomorrow. Paracelsus. I began to shake with laughter. So the idiot really was filing this stuff away! I was curious to know what else he might have tucked away under this classification. I went to the card files first.
There were at least fifty cross references indicated. Each one was battier than the previous one. I got out the folders and file boxes in which the papers were stored away. His notes and jottings were scribbled in a minute scrawl on odds and ends, often paper napkins, blotters, menus, tally cards. Sometimes it was nothing more than a phrase which a friend had dropped while conversing in the subway; sometimes it was an embryonic thought which had flitted through his head while taking a crap. Sometimes it was a page torn from a hook—the title, author, publisher and place always carefully noted as well as the date when he had come across it. There were bibliographies in at least a dozen languages, including Chinese and Persian.
One curious chart interested me enormously; I intended to pump him about it one day but never did.
As best I could make out, it represented a map of some singular region in limbo, the boundaries of which had been given him in a seance with a medium. It looked like a geodetic survey of a bad dream. The names of the places were written in a language which nobody could possibly understand. But Karen had given a rough translation on separate sheets of paper. Notes, it read: The following translations of place names in the quaternary decan of Devachan were volunteered by de Quincey working through Madame X. Coleridge is said to have verified them before his death but the documents in which the testimony is given are temporarily lost. The singular thing about this shadowy sector of the beyond was this: in its confines, imaginary perhaps, were gathered the shades of such diverse and interesting personalities as Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Longinus, Virgil, Hermes Trismegistus, Apollonius of Tyana, Montezuma, Xenophon, Jan van Ruysbroeck, Nicolaus of Cusa, Meister Eckhart, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, Asoka, St. Francois de Sales, Fenelon, Chuang Tzu, Nostradamus, Saladin, the Pope Joanna, St. Vincent de Paul, Paracelsus, Malatesta, Origen, together with, a coterie of women saints. One would like to know what had drawn this conglomeration of souls together. One would like to know what they discussed in the mysterious language of the departed. One would like to know if the great problems which had tormented them on earth had been finally resolved. One would like to know if they consorted together in divine harmony. Warriors, saints, mystics, sages, magicians, martyrs, kings, thaumaturgists … What an assemblage! What would one not give to be with them just for a day!
As I say, for some mysterious reason I never brought this subject to Karen’s attention. There was little, indeed, outside our work which I did discuss with him, first because of his great reserve, second because to introduce even a slight detail meant listening to an inexhaustible harangue, third because I was intimidated by the vast domain of knowledge which appeared to be his. I contented myself with browsing through his books, which embraced an enormous range of subject matter. He read Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Sanskrit with apparent ease, and was fluent in a dozen living tongues, including Russian, Turkish and Arabic. The titles of his books were alone sufficient to set my head spinning. What astounded me, however, was that so little of this vast store of learning seeped into our daily talk. Sometimes I had the feeling that he regarded me as a thorough ignoramus. Other times he embarrassed me by posing questions which only a Thomas Aquinas could cope with. Now and then he gave me the impression that he was just a child with an over-developed brain. He had little humor and almost no imagination. Outwardly he appeared to be a model husband, always ready to cater to his wife’s whims, always alert to serve her, always solicitous and protective, at times positively chivalric. I couldn’t help but wonder at times what it would be like to be married to this human adding machine. With Karen everything proceeded according to schedule. Intercourse too, no doubt. Perhaps he kept a secret file reminding him when intercourse was due, together with notes on the results—spiritual, moral, mental and physical.
One day he caught me unawares reading a volume of Elie Faure which I had dug up. I had just read the paragraph which opens the chapter on The Sources of Greek Art … On condition that we respect ruins, that we do not rebuild them, that, after having asked their secret, we let them be recovered by the ashes of the centuries, the bones of the dead, the rising mass of waste which once was vegetations and races, the eternal drapery of the foliage—their destiny may stir our emotion. It is through them that we touch the depths of our history, just as we are bound to the roots of life by the griefs and sufferings which have formed us. A ruin is painful to behold only for the man who is incapable of participating by his activity in the conquest of the present…
He came on me just as I had finished the paragraph. ‘What! he exclaimed. You’re reading Elie Faure?
Why not? I was at a loss to understand his amazement.
He hesitated a moment, scratched his head, then answered falteringly: I don’t know, Henry … I never thought … Well, I’ll be damned! Do you really find it interesting?
Interesting? I echoed. I’m mad about Elie Faure.
Where are you at? he asked, reaching for the book. Ah, I see. He read the paragraph over, aloud. I wish I had the time to read that sort of books—it’s too much of a luxury for me.
I don’t follow you.
One has to swallow such books early in life, said Karen. It’s sheer poetry, you know. Makes too much of a demand on one. You’re lucky you have time to spare. You’re still an aesthete.
And you?
Just a work-horse, I guess. I’ve put my dreams behind me.
All those books in there … I nodded in the direction of the library. You’ve read them?
Most of them, he answered. Some of them I’m reserving for leisure moments.
I noticed you had several books on Paracelsus. I only glanced at them—but they intrigue me.
I hoped he would snatch at the bait, but no, he dismissed the subject by remarking, as if to himself, that one could spend a life-time struggling to grasp the meaning of Paracelsus’ theories.
And what about Nostradamus? I asked. I was intent on getting some spark from him.
To my surprise his face suddenly lit up. Ah, that’s another story, he replied. Why do you ask—have you been reading him?
One doesn’t read Nostradamus. I’ve been reading about him. What excites me is the Preface which he addressed to his infant son, Caesar. It’s an extraordinary document, in more ways than one. Can you spare a minute?
He nodded. I got up, brought the book back, and hunted up the page which had inflamed me just a few days before.
Listen to this, I said. I read him a few salient passages, then stopped abruptly. There are two passages in this book which … well, they baffle me. Perhaps you can explain them to me. The first one is this: ‘M le Pelletier (says the author) conceives that the Commun Advenement, or Favenement au regne des gens du corn-mum, which I have rendered The Vulgar Advent, extending from the death of Louis XVI to the reign of Antichrist, is the grand object of Nostradamus.’ I’ll come back to this in a moment. Here’s the second one: ‘As an accepted visionary he (Nostradamus) is perhaps less swayed by the imagination than any man of a hall kindred type that one can mention.’ I paused. What do you make of them, if anything?
Karen took his time before answering. I surmised that he was conducting an inner debate, first, as to whether he could spare the time to make adequate answer to the question, second, whether it would be worth his while to waste his ammunition on a type like myself.
You understand, Henry, he began, that you’re asking me to explain something highly complex. Let me ask you first, have you ever read anything by Evelyn Underbill, or by A. E. Waite? I shook my head. I thought as much, he continued. Naturally you wouldn’t have asked my opinion if you hadn’t sensed the
