A chapter from a novel

Mbaekwe and Harold

(i)

Criticism-self-criticism meetings, whether intentionally or not, have the effect of generating feelings of confidence among some of those who take part, while their victims are pushed down further into the ranks of the lost.  But the power felt by those whose spirits win the day is usually short-lived for most, and cannot be upheld for long after the event.  This is one of the strange, if not paradoxical, surely dialectical ways in which power works in a hierarchical, monolithic organization of this kind.

***

Harold had already approached Mbaekwe and expressed some doubts about where he was going.  It was one thing stuck on a student campus waving red flags at distinguished academics when you were on a grant (probably as well as some financial support from your parents) and quite another trying to organize anarchic types down in London with loads of passion and hatred but not an idea in their heads, with the continual worry that your parents would come to hear of what you were up to and cast you out of house and home with nothing to your name.  “Imagine having to sign on!” thought Harold anxiously.  Mbaekwe had said Harold was acting like a petit-bourgeois, and he should have more faith in the Revolutionary Party, in its cultural analysis, and in the proletariat –but then Mbaekwe was “signing on” with his rich father back in Kenya, and his father had told him when he visited the Ritz that year, “I don’t mind what you do, my son, as long as you do it well.  If you’re a communist, be the best communist.”  That would not have been the reaction of Harold’s father.

Mbaekwe used to joke about Harold’s upper class attitudes, calling him a gentleman comrade.  However, the cultural differences between them were expressed on both sides.  Mbaekwe had a habit of sitting with others, sometimes on the stairs, with his hand down his trousers, presumably reminding himself of the existence of his “privates”, while he talked.  Most people would politely say nothing, suspecting perhaps that it was something normal in his country.  However, on one occasion, a group of them, one of them a woman, had copied him, as a joke, and hoots of laughter rang out, and Mbaekwe laughed embarrassedly, but he still carried on.  Then, one day, Harold said to Mbaekwe in front of several people: “Hey, Mbaekwe, do you have to sit there with your hand on your balls?” “What,” said Mbaekwe just a little embarrassed that an English gentleman had dared to mention such a thing, “do you find it disagreeable?”  “Well, yes, I do, actually,” said Harold.  And Mbaekwe consented to stop –although whether he discontinued his habit afterwards is not known.

Each time he talked to Mbaekwe about his problems, Harold went away agreeing to struggle, but when he got back to the rented house he was living in with the rest of his unit he felt miserable, even though Claire was so kind and willing.  The fact was that he did not want to go on living like this –he knew where it was supposed to be heading but he could see where it was in the “here and now” and where it might well be leading for him.  If he did what the Revolutionary Party wanted of him, he might well drop into total obscurity and economic misery, with half his life served out in Her Majesty’s Prisons.  It would make him dependent upon the leadership and he despised such dependence –“and for what?” he asked himself.  He was a person of little faith… though quite possibly greater realism, despite his enthusiastic acceptance of Manu’s Party line.

So a few days later he went to talk to Mbaekwe again.

“You want to leave?  Just as David wanted to six months ago?  And yet you persuaded him to stay, didn’t you?”

“That was different.  David is very green.  He hardly knows anything,” said Harold.

“Don’t you think you’re being rather condescending towards him just because he hasn’t had your opportunities?” said Mbaekwe.

 “Well, I didn’t come here to talk about David,” said Harold.  “I came here…”

“To talk about your-self maybe,” said Mbaekwe, his eyes twinkling.

Harold paused and looked down.  “Yes, I know it sounds selfish, but there you are.  That’s my background –it’s not the same for me as it is for….” But he stopped here.

There was a pause as Mbaekwe sat reflecting.  “Really, Harold, are you that much of a snob?  Are communists supposed to be snobs?”

“I’m not being snobbish, Mbaekwe, just speaking the truth.  It’s the same with you.  You went to the best schools and then to Trinity.  You have a degree in medicine.”

For a few moments, Mbaekwe became serious –something in his head identified with Harold and he tried to fight it, but it wouldn’t go away, so he ignored it and said:

“And what will you say when the workers start coming around?  That you’re dealing with a bunch of uncultured dummies?  It’s laughable what you’re saying, Harold.  Haven’t you heard of learning from the masses?  You wouldn’t stand a chance where I come from –people believe in the most hellish superstitions there –oracles and witches.  How could you with that attitude expect them to make a revolution based on the scientific teachings of Marx and Engels, which is what we’re supposed to be about, isn’t it?”

And he looked at Harold a little wildly, as his earlier reflections on his own family back home returned –Harold sensed this:

“Look, I know we are supposed to be setting up a core group of professional revolutionaries.  OK, so some of us are more educated than others, but the workers and peasants are in a thoroughly different category from the students we’re gathering around ourselves.”  He was playing for time.

“And so you persuaded David to stay,” said Mbaekwe.  “You persuaded him to become what you want to relinquish.”

“You mean...” Harold’s voice trailed off.

“Yes, I mean that this is a party of leaders.  You no longer want to be a leader of the proletariat,” broke in Mbaekwe.

Harold looked embarrassed.

“And why?” said Mbaekwe.  And finding a track through his misgivings, he continued: “Was it because if David had left it would have made you look bad?  Is that why?  You know that he’s well thought of, and he was bullied by Carlos at that meeting, because Carlos is like that –a bully, an intellectual one.  Of course, David should have stood up for himself, but Carlos is not so easy to stand up to, especially in a crowded public meeting, even if you know a bit of Marxism and don’t take his statements too personally,” Mbaekwe smiled.

Mbaekwe and Harold sat looking at each other.  But then Mbaekwe came back on the offensive, this time with a will:

“You have no principles then!  Well, I care a lot.  Who’s to say Claire –or David –will not desert the ship just as you are doing when he hears you are going?  Then we’re back to square one.  Have you already told anyone you’re thinking of leaving?”

Harold remained silent, looking straight ahead of him.

“Christ, Harold!  Don’t you realize what you are doing?  Have you stopped being a Marxist-Leninist?”

“No.” said Harold.

“Then why leave the Party?”

“Because I’m unhappy.  I’m miserable, in fact.  I’m not myself.  This is no life.  We have no time for ourselves; I’ve almost forgotten who I am.”

Mbaekwe stood up looking agitated as Harold’s words hit a trapped nerve somewhere.  But he continued with his offensive mode:

“You are a petit-bourgeois.  All you think of is yourself.  You know the line of the Revolutionary Party: fight self and serve the people!  And yet you persist!”

Harold looked up at Mbaekwe as he said these words because it was clear to him that Mbaekwe was really addressing himself.  And as he said these words Mbaekwe, pining himself deep down for what he had been telling others, sarcastically, was a decent petit-bourgeois life, felt how hollow his words sounded.

Harold sat quietly looking ahead as if straining to hear something in the distance; he was thinking but also not daring to say: “If you want to throw me out, go ahead.  I’m ready to leave anyway.”

Mbaekwe looked at him, eyes blazing.  “O.K., Harold, I’ve got work to do, so you’d better leave, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?”  Harold said there wasn’t and left.  But when he had gone, Mbaekwe continued to think about him.  He liked Harold a lot, but he realized that he was going to lose him, no doubt about it, and he would have to make something out of this for the Party.  The Party, he thought to himself, must profit from such negative experiences, never mind how I feel –he had seen Harold as one of the pillars of his organization and yet his departure now looked inevitable.  It must be turned to the Revolutionary Party’s advantage.  And he continued to feel bouts of sadness and desolation.

Gradually, it dawned on him.  His thoughts ran roughly as follows: “Phone him in a week or two, ask him to come and see me for coffee, next Saturday, and make sure his unit and others are in attendance.  Then we’ll throw him out, basically doing what Manu taught me.  And maybe I’ll kill more than two birds with one stone –we’ll hold the initiative and the others will stick more closely to us –I hope.  Claire might be a problem, but I think he’ll just walk out on her.  The thing is to treat David and the others in the friendliest way, once Harold has been dealt with.”  Deeper down, he had already thought to himself: “If I fail on this, I’ll fail completely.  I’ll have been no good as a communist.”  What he thought would happen then can only be imagined.

 (ii)

The meeting took place in a house that had been rented for a couple of weeks for “Party business.”  Everyone –about 20 of them –sat around the walls, some on cushions, some on chairs or stools, and so on.  Mbaekwe began by talking about culture, pointing to glossy photos of half-dressed models in magazines because he knew they had an effect on the men (because they certainly had an effect on him), and making critical comments about them, while unable to stop relishing them.  After that, he talked about the general situation in the world –the U.S. war in Vietnam.  The question of culture was intertwined with the discussion of world events –how the U.S. imposed its ”Coca-cola Culture” on the Third World, how terrible it was that the youths in Africa and India were listening to the Beatles, and so on.

They drank tea and ate some digestive biscuits.  Then Mbaekwe turned casually to Harold who was sitting beside him and said, “How is married life, then, Harold?”

Although Harold should have been expecting anything, he was taken by surprise at the audacity of this remark, dropping part of the biscuit he was eating on to the floor and using his foot to scrape it not very surreptitiously under his chair.  After all, he wasn’t actually married to Claire –they were just living together.

“If you mean living with Claire, it’s fine, very good,” he stuttered and tried to smile, looking questioningly at Mbaekwe who looked back at him, almost glaring, and not at Claire who looked bemusedly at him from across the room.  Then Mbaekwe’s eyes wandered around the room at everyone.

Finally, he said: “Good.”  Then, “I paid a visit to number 107 Elsingham Road last Wednesday.  Betty let me in as everyone else had gone to work or to whatever it is you do. The first thing I saw was cigarette ends –everywhere!”  He stopped as some people started giggling, but as he looked serious their faces also became serious.

“Kitchen sink full to the brim with washing up” –he made an embracing gesture with his arms and some people had to suppress their smiles –“plastic plates with half-eaten Chinese food all over the place –even in one of the bedrooms.  Unmade beds –I didn’t venture into your boudoir, Harold, just looked through the door...”

Silence.  And then: “I mean, is that how communists live?  Is this how the leaders of the proletariat conduct their lives?”

Harold and Claire and some others had started to look a bit amused, but tried not to blush as they took in the second part of the statement.  Mbaekwe turned to David:

“You live there, David.  What do you think of this?”

“It’s not very good,” said David in a low voice.

“Not very good,” Mbaekwe repeated with a confident air, and one could hear the tones of Manu there too.

“And you, Claire, what have you to say about all this?” said Mbaekwe.

Claire looked ahead with a nervous smile –she could say nothing except “Mmmm...  Aahh.”

“Come on, Claire, is that how communist revolutionaries live?” Mbaekwe demanded.

“N…no,” she said feebly –you could hardly hear her, and the entire room had fallen silent.

“Then,” said Mbaekwe, raising his voice a little, “why do you people stand for it?  Are you really communists, or are you liberals?”

“Communists,” said Harold quietly.

“Ah,” said Mbaekwe, holding his hand towards Harold, “so you are a communist.”  And he smiled at everyone.  “So, Harold Maxton, Esquire, although you have more experience being a communist than anyone else in your cell, why do you live like a lumpen?”

Harold winced –he reminded himself that he could have seen this coming and should have quit when he met Mbaekwe a couple of weeks ago –and said: “I don’t think that’s quite fair, My…”

Mbaekwe broke in –“You don’t think that’s quite fair.   How gentlemanly of you!  I suppose you speak as a parliamentary revolutionary, Harold, or are you just a petit-bourgeois communist?”

Harold looked across the room, expressionless.  Claire looked at the carpet, suppressing the sobs that started to well up in her throat.

“Hasn’t anyone anything more to say about this state of affairs?”

After some minutes had gone by, while people gazed in silence at the dull wallpaper and the peeling paint, David piped up from the other side of the room: “I agree with Mbaekwe that our house is a disgrace.  We should have a cleaning rota –but Harold has never implemented one.  He doesn’t spend much time in the house but comes back late and eats and then we talk together, but these chores get forgotten about.  He seems a bit high and mighty and wants us to do all the cleaning.  I don’t know what he does all day...”

“Bravo!” said Mbaekwe, and he thought to himself, “David’s jumped for the bait!”  And David smiled shyly, savouring the moment.

Then Betty said: “Harold doesn’t go out every day.  He goes out in the morning for a little while but he doesn’t stay out long.  Then he comes back and reads and listens to his radio.”

“Aha!” said Mbaekwe, thinking “and now we’re getting somewhere.”  “But why don’t you do some of the cleaning, Betty, if you are at home so much?”

“I still clean up my own room and used to do a lot more than that.  But when I used to come home in the evening I could see that the place was all upside-down again.  I didn’t join this party to become an unpaid char-lady for others.”

“So even though Harold was at home, no cleaning was done?” said Mbaekwe.

“That’s right,” said Betty pertly.

And David came in again: “He treats us as if we are lower mortals.  He uses the place as if it was his palace and we are the servants.”

People started laughing and Mbaekwe laughed as well.  So their resentment was coming out nicely now, he thought, just as Manu said it would.

“Have any of you anything to add to this,” said Mbaekwe, looking round the room. “David?” he said, looking at him.

“Harold gets up later than anyone else and expects his breakfast to be made for him, and then he does who knows what all day.  We have to stick to the program, but he doesn’t seem to have one.  He goes down to see his parents every other weekend –I don’t know how he can afford it –so our meetings are all arranged around his life.  If we all did that we’d never have any meetings,” said David.

Harold looked at David in horror; then, as everyone gazed at him in wonder, he got up from where he was sitting, put his jacket on and put his satchel over his shoulder.  He had finally made a decision and was not going to be harassed any more by people who were just acting as Mbaekwe’s sycophantic instruments.

“Where are you going, Harold?” said Mbaekwe straining his neck round to look up at him.

“I’m leaving.  I’m obviously no use to you anymore and I don’t see any point in listening to any more of this –you can say what you like about me after I’ve gone –be my guest!  I resign.”  And he walked out of the door.  However, when he tried to close it behind him it got stuck in the carpet, so that he had to move the carpet back with his foot and carefully close it again without banging it in an attempt to make his departure as undramatic as possible.

***

Like a reflection of Harold’s recent departure, something else happened a little while later.  By this time, David was living in the house rented by Mbaekwe and some of the others, and on his way home, he saw a headline in the Evening News about Lin Piao, the second-in-command after Mao in China:

Lin Piao killed in plane crash.

That night, he told Mbaekwe about it.  Mbaekwe went on cooking and just looked across at him seriously over his shoulder.  “Is it true?” said David.  Mbaekwe smiled.

“But it’s on the front page of the newspapers,” said David –“I suppose you’re going to tell me not to believe everything I read in the papers.”  Mbaekwe smiled at him again over his shoulder.

Then Mbaekwe said: “Let’s wait and see what Hsinhua has to say.  For the time being I’m treating it as bourgeois propaganda.”  He had to wait several weeks for confirmation and little in the way of explanation.

So Mao was left but Lin Piao could be forgotten.  And if you did not forget him, if you refused to forget him, then you would have to be forgotten, and you too would have to be purged.  But if you forgot Lin Piao you would be washed clean again, all your sins would be excused.  And, however absurd you may think this was, there were strong reasons for staying.  However, we are not here to polemicize.

The Real Secret of the Comte de Saint-Germain

The account we reproduce below was retrieved from the attic of a certain M. X in 1978 when he was clearing out his family home. It was left unpublished until a visitor from England was told of its existence by the same M. X. He read it, translated it into English and published it a few years’ ago in the private journal of an obscure society dealing with the history of the laws of inheritance among Europe’s aristocracy.

The Comte’s life is much written about and has led to a cult and numerous secret societies, especially in France, where his name has been associated with all manner of esoterica, secret societies and the secret of Rennes le Chateau.

M. X, who prefers to remain anonymous, is the last inheritor of a fairly large family estate near the Jura Mountains, close to the border with Switzerland. His family has been traced back to Merovingian origins, and his forbears were on close terms with all of the great men and women of their day.

The letter, which was undated, except for the month, May, was found among a pile of manuscripts in a trunk belonging to M. X’s great grandfather, a man of leisure whose main interests in life revolved around such pursuits as wine-making and truffle-hunting, and who disappeared in the Himalayas during the 1920s.

I have expurgated some parts of the text which refer to things that have no relevance in this matter and have eliminated references to certain people to protect the privacy of their surviving families. The second two numbers of certain years mentioned in the text have also been erased.

I have to admit that not all readers will be convinced by this account, especially those who are already familiar with the various versions of the story of the Comte de Saint-Germain. Certain details may seem to contradict what is generally believed to be true; for example that he bought his title to San Germano from the Pope. However, far more of his life is unknown than the fragments of it that have been passed down to us. And if this really is another fragment, then it should be valued as another piece of a puzzle which still has to be solved. The reader may be puzzled by the writer’s final comments, as we were when we first read his account. However, it is now clear to us what he meant. The letter is addressed to the Comte de X and reads as follows:

My Dear friend, It is some time since we went on one of our truffle-hunting expeditions, and I owe you an apology for failing to write to you sooner as I had originally promised. …But I have not forgotten your interest in a matter upon which I commented during our last outing. Yes, it is true that I was on very close terms with the family of the Comte de Saint-Germain. In the year 17— I was present at the birth of his son. This was a sad event, because the Comte’s dear wife died during childbirth. But his son was a fine strapping lad who grew up to be a most intelligent person, and whose friendship I retained throughout his life. I can tell you that he bore a striking resemblance to his father. He was a brilliant person, had mastered three languages, apart from French, by the age of 12, and was studying the latest works on mathematics and philosophy in his teens.

The Comte had few friends of long standing, but one day an old aunt of his, Lady T, who died some months later, visited the estate and, upon meeting his son, was stunned by his appearance, believing that the man she had known when he was in his teens had somehow reversed time.

“Oh, my gracious,” she exclaimed. “Our rides to the woods on that lovely little black horse you … I mean I and your father used to have flooded into my mind for a moment. It’s absolutely extraordinary! You are his long-lost twin!” And she smiled pleasantly.

The young man smiled and replied demurely. “Oh no, you are quite wrong, Madame, I am indeed the Comte.”

“Then tell me the name of your dear horse,” she said, smiling at him.

“Niger,” he replied.

“And what did you always say when I jumped up beside you?”

“Why, it’s as clear as yesterday. I would shout: ‘Fly, Niger, fly.’ And Niger used to race off across the fields.”

The poor lady’s face went pale and her fingers trembled. I went over to her. “My dear lady, I said. “I cannot allow you to be taken in like this. Your nephew’s son is pulling your leg. He has heard all the stories about your rides on that horse from his father.”

“Of course, of course,” said the aunt, pulling herself together. “But the likeness is extraordinary, extraordinary.” As the Comte’s son slipped out into the garden, the Comte entered from the hall and greeted his aunt, who described her meeting with his son.

Her experience was not forgotten. The Comte had also been aware of the uncanny resemblance between himself and his son, but his aunt’s experience confirmed his feelings. One day, as I was in the library studying a work on Rumanian folklore, he came up to me and, bending his head close to my ear, said: “I wish to speak to you in private. Might we take a walk together?” Realizing from the serious expression on his face that what the Comte wished to tell me was of the utmost importance, I immediately set my book on the table and walked with him to the door.

We walked down the path together and out through the apple orchard into the fields that led to a forest he walked in most days, on those occasions when he was staying on the estate. After a few words about the wine-harvest and the weather, the Comte started talking about his son. “He is a very intelligent young man, don’t you think?” I replied: “You know, Sir, that I am not given to flattery, but I would say that his intelligence is quite unique. Indeed, I have never come across a young person whose mental faculties were so refined or have been put to such good use during the short time he has lived in this world.”

The Comte smiled contentedly and continued: “I am concerned about a serious problem. Although we have been intimate friends for some time, you will not be aware that my family bears a terrible curse.” We had reached a sunlit glade in the forest and I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at him. “A curse? But surely you have long since put aside beliefs in witchcraft and the like?” “This has nothing to do with witchcraft,” he said. “It is an affliction caused by Nature.” “Do you refer to a medical condition?” I asked him. “Yes, I do,” he replied. I was stunned. “But, we have always been so open with each other. How is it possible that you have never mentioned this to me before.

“My own father mentioned it to me only when he was on his death-bed,” the Comte replied. “His father mentioned it to him in the same way.” “Are you sure that this condition is untreatable?” I asked. “I am constantly searching, but have found no cure,” he replied gravely. Now I understood why he made such long journeys each year across many countries.

The Comte motioned me to sit down on a log, in the mellow autumn sunshine. “We Comtes suffer from a condition that allows us to live on this earth only into our mid-50s. It is an incurable condition, and over the years, although cures have been sought, we have come to accept it. However, there is another problem that complicates things tremendously. The inheritance of this estate is determined by a clause in the agreement under which the property cannot be passed on to the next of kin until the present holder has reached the age of 60. If the owner dies before, then the property is returned to the State. The intention, foolish though it seems today, assumed that by the time the existing owner died, his eldest son would be an adult who would be mature enough to understand the value of his inheritance. It was supposed that this would prevent idleness and ensure that the inheritor knew what it was to do a hard day’s work.

“For many years, the titles to our estate have been kept in our house. When my father told me the secret, he believed the death clause had been forgotten. But two years’ ago, some people –we do not know exactly who they were, although I have my suspicions –sent spies who came to work as servants in my home. They penetrated the place where the titles are held and took them to their masters, who had them copied, returned the originals and made it known to me in various ways that they were aware of the special clause.”

“And do they also know about the … medical condition?” I asked him.

He looked me full in the face and said with a smile, “No!” Silence. A weasel ran across the forest floor, rustling the dead leaves slightly. Then he said: “You are the only person who knows beyond myself.” And then: “The people I mentioned just now know that my father died in his early 50s, but they cannot prove it. Thus the estate remains in my hands. Knowing this, though, they probably expect me to pass away before I reach 60. Indeed, they may try to make sure that I do! So far, I’ve managed to outwit them, but I cannot outwit my own body.

“What would they gain from your death?” I asked him.

“Nothing at all, as far as I know. The estate would pass into the hands of the State, as I said, and it would then be sold to the highest bidder. However, if they discover that my father’s death certificate or my own death certificate is forged they will use this to blackmail me.”

He went on looking at me, his sad eyes fixed on mine, a nervous smile playing on his lips, while I saw a scheme unfolding in my mind. Our discussion lasted several hours and the sun was going down as we returned to the house.

In essence our plot was as follows: No one else was to be brought into it, except his son. And, in a break with tradition, his son would be informed of the family curse ahead of time, in my presence. In the meantime, the Comte would gradually become more reclusive, and his son would begin to take over his duties, would, in fact, assume the Comte’s identity, would come to know the key incidents in his life and the faces and personalities of the people he had known, but would appear at only a limited number of public gatherings, so that he would be recognized but not tested by people who were too probing or sceptical. When the Comte’s old friends noticed how young the Comte had stayed, he would say that it was due to a secret remedy for old age which he had discovered on his trips to the East. When the Comte died and his son inherited his title and the estate, nothing would be known to anyone else. I should be the sole repository of the truth outside the Comte and his heir.

The people who would be looking for a falsified death certificate would be put off their guard, but we did not want to raise their suspicions too much. There were several problems, of course. They knew the Comte had a son, but they had not known the Comte when he was a young man, so they had no knowledge of the great resemblance with his son. Few society people had come face to face with the Comte’s son. However, he did have local friends, including a Mademoiselle N, to whom he was in danger of becoming betrothed. For multiple reasons, it, therefore, became necessary to send the Comte’s son abroad.

First, it was thought of arranging for the Comte’s son to have an “accident” abroad. Then, we decided that it would make more sense that the Comte’s son be lost, that no record of his death survive and that he be treated merely as “missing”. Thus, any interested party would know that he could turn up at any time.

Meanwhile, the Comte would go off in search of his son for a few years and his servants would be let go and gradually replaced, so that upon the son’s return, I could present him to the new household as the Comte. His unsuccessful search for his “lost” son would justify his reclusive life, with continued long periods abroad, during which the son would seek a cure for the family curse. The Comte himself would return to the estate secretly and in disguise, and would remain reclusive or disguised for the remainder of his life, while I would act as intermediary between him and the outside world.

The plan went very well. As the months and years rolled by, the Comte began to show signs of lethargy, and both he and I knew that he was close to death. By now, his son had taken up all of his duties and had impressed everyone who visited or worked on the estate that he was the Comte. In 1760, the Countess von Georgy met him at the court of Louis XV. He appeared to her to be totally unchanged in over fifty years. But the Comte’s son had been well prepared for this meeting by his father, and was able to convince her with some details about the existence of a birth mark in a rather intimate place that he really was the Comte.

The same experiences went on for several years, and the Comte’s son’s brilliance –he spoke English, French, German, Spanish and Portuguese fluently, had great facility in Latin and Greek, and through his journeying had been able to pick up Chinese, Sanskrit and Arabic –only made our story more convincing, leading to the belief that his wisdom had allowed him to discover the secret of eternal youth.

Then, in 17--, his father died. He was 57…

However, the hardest test was to come. Property came before all things and the son who had become the Comte also had to have an heir, or when he should die and, if his pursuers were still on his heels, once again the estate would pass into the hands of the State. It was therefore necessary to find a child-bearer for his heir. The young man had had a few affaires in Europe’s Courts, but had not become attached to any of the young ladies involved. In general, he remained aloof from romantic entanglements, his early infatuation with Mademoiselle N. having been long forgotten and she having conveniently moved to another part of the country.

The search would have to be carried out rapidly but with great stealth. Moreover, we would have to find someone who was sufficiently close in appearance to the Comte’s wife, whom only I had known directly, to increase the chances that the desired son resemble his father. The Comte’s son himself decided that marriage would be out of the question and that we should look instead for a young woman who, without knowing his identity, would be willing to bear his child. With these ends, I engaged a midwife from a village half a day’s ride from the Comte’s estate, whom I had known for some years, a trustworthy woman who knew the secrets of many a young lady in the area. I told her that my client was searching for a young woman and gave her a description and showed her a drawing of the late Comte’s wife. I visited the midwife a week later, but she had nothing to tell me. Two weeks later she took me out into a remote valley, and told me to sit down with her some distance from a humble cottage and to watch the door. Presently, a young woman came out of it carrying a bucket. She was a handsome but careworn young woman who bore the required resemblance. Her husband had died a soldier and she had few ties with the rest of the world.

Through a series of “chance” encounters, the Comte’s son, dressed as a farmer, won her heart and she became pregnant with his child. They were rewarded with a child, a boy. As the child grew up, I was pleased to see a good resemblance between him and the Comte’s son. He was not his image, but, in many ways, he was very much like his father. However, it was important that he be brought up as a man of property, not a farm labourer. The problem, therefore, was how to remove him quietly from his mother and from the cottage. We looked for our chance, but we knew that if no opportunity presented itself we should have few alternatives to exploit.

But our opportunity came. One day, when the boy was five, snow covered the ground and the lakes were frozen over. A group of children had chosen to play on the ice. A terrible disaster occurred. Four children were dragged down into the water. Their screams alerted the local people. A strong young man ran across the frozen lake but he too was dragged down with the poor children. Mothers were running around everywhere shouting out their children’s names and different versions of what had happened were circulating. By chance, I was visiting the place that day, and the mother was out working. The “Comte” had taken his son for a ride on his horse and I was cooking them a meal in the cottage. Suddenly the mother flew in distraught. “Some children have drowned in the lake!” she shouted in horror. I immediately saw our chance, knowing that they had gone another way. I clapped my hand on my brow and ran out of the cottage telling her that he had gone to the lake. She ran after me, and I told her to go straight on to the lake while I took another path, just in case they had gone that way. She agreed, and I went running off to where I knew they must be.

I saw them at the edge of a field where the boy liked to go. “Quick!” I said breathlessly as I approached them. “You must waste no time. Take the child by horse –use the back-roads to get back to the estate. We have a story.” And I rapidly told him about the accident. He did as I told him. Then I ran on to the lake, and saw the women in tears, shouting and crying. It was a terrible situation. But it was excellent for us. The mother rushed up to me. I said I had not seen them. “Then what has happened?” I suggested we start searching everywhere. Of course, we turned up nothing. In the confusion, I managed to plant the story that her lover, his horse and her child had been among the drowned.

Some days later, after the funerals had taken place and I had left the poor woman with some compensation, I returned to the estate. The poor woman would have lived a miserable life after that, but I arranged with my midwife friend to find her another husband and I believe that she overcame her losses, had several children and led a happy life after that. Meanwhile, the “Comte” was very happy with his son, and so there began a new episode in his life.

…Again, the “Comte” grew older, and again it seemed prudent that we let his son into the secret. He was a bright child, though not as brilliant as his father had been. But, having been brought up as a young man of property, he accepted his role. Being acquainted with the personalities and the history of this affaire, as well as being more adept in the necessary manipulations, I coordinated things in such a way that as one “Comte” became more reclusive, so his son took over his duties and assumed his identity. Their absences abroad greatly facilitated this enterprise. Life does not stand still, of course, and there were several variations and not a few mishaps in all of this, but over time I became more astute at managing the situation and felt a promethean delight in moulding history a little, merely to satisfy the dynastic wishes of a line of property-holders.

…The Comte and the various “Comtes” became high-ranking members of the Rosicrucian Order, and hosts of other secret societies (the Knights Templar and the Order of Strict Observance, among others) which were secretly interlocking. They therefore gained a good knowledge of the occult, which they used to give a mystical explanation for Saint-Germain’s eternal youth, while doing a good turn to the Rosicrucian Order (et al), attracting prosperous new members who thirsted after the secret of longevity. Since this was not its real secret, the Order’s own need for secrecy and obscurantism grew, adding to its mystery, and increasing the flow of gold into the vaults of its controllers. And since it (and the other secret societies) always contained members who had great power over the State of France, the latter came to “understand” that it made no sense to expose the truth about the Comte de Saint-Germain –the value of his estate and its yearly income were easily exceeded in importance by the numbers of new members his longevity attracted to the Order each year. Thus, over time the original problem became the least of our worries, as the legend grew and a significant proportion of Europe’s aristocracy swallowed the story that the Comte de Saint-Germain had some kind of access to secret powers.

This game has now gone on for several generations and as we enter a new century of technological development, scientific investigation and instantaneous communication, I feel that the Order may have to rely on a legend from the past rather than a story that is verifiable in the present, if we are to evade capture and maintain the flow of funds.

…However, I do not think we shall meet again. I have told you the basic outline of the enterprise and I know that, being an honourable man, you would not do anything to harm the interests of your fellow gentlemen. I am sure that you will be intrigued by this strange business, though I trust that you will have noticed within it the revelation of a profound paradox. Do not pursue this matter. Do not let it concern you. We have known each other all our lives and I know that I can count on you to keep this final piece of business secret.

                                                        Sincerely,
                                                                                          Monsieur (illegible)

They of the past

They of the past, former adherents who had left under a cloud and whose names were associated with treachery, cowardice and the like, would come into conversations now and then of seasoned members who had known them.  Their names were fixed in the mind of the new entrant.  But what they had done, what they looked like, where they were from, and where they had gone – in short, who they were –these things were unknown to the new entrant.

That should have acted as more than a wake-up call that one should stay on the right track, but as a warning to the new entrant not simply of what you might become, but of what you were already becoming.

Philippe Danjeman, Gordon Wast, Silvia Sunshone… who were they?  Did you really spell their names that way?  And the new entrant wondered what they looked like, whether he might meet one of them in the street one day.  How he should prepare for such a chance encounter.  Perhaps at a meeting…

But he would not, and his knowledge of their antics would never become substantial.  He would never know their stories.