War” type, with rows and rows of little plaques.
We searched in vain, though there were some near-misses. She tried to recall where.
An amusing sideline was provided by two smartly dressed men—lawyer types—who were also in the mausoleum and were evidently freemasons for, with exaggerated secrecy, they whispered together in urgent tones, “I say, did you notice the names on that row added up to ninety-nine?” “Yes, I bet there are ninety-nine of them too.”
Suddenly she became excited and said, “Follow me.” We dashed up some marble stairs and into a sort of library, where she rushed over to a bench and sat beside some young boys. “Look!” she said, and smiled at them while they, in turn, looked up and smiled back. There was a strong resemblance; I can't think how, for the boys were blond.
They were called “Snell-Thompson”. The oldest had to leave to be beaten, and as we followed them the girl, excited to be on the trail, turned and said, “They went to Eton!”
As we waited outside the room, we heard the swish of cane. What had he done wrong? He'd carved some Latin nonsense on a form, which had included the word “Snell”. She got excited and asked LS to write in my own writing, “Lionel Snell cometh” (or something like that). We compared it with the boy's crude carving and realised that it could be read as that.
This was the clue we needed for the rest of the truth to come out! Near the old abbey was an old pool with a notice saying that in times of invasion the bell would summon all the young men, and any who did not come at once would be denounced as traitors.
Years ago, one “Lionel Snell” had received this summons, and he had been supposedly slain in battle. The bodies were put on a great tip and burnt with chemicals—quicklime presumably. These chemicals would kill anything, so Lionel Snell could not have survived.
Here, young Snell-Thompson spoke up: “See that dog?”—it was a wretched, maimed and limping white mongrel amongst the debris—“a short while ago that dog was as stiff as a board. I kicked him there.”
So that was it! Lionel Snell had not died, but had revived and got away.
The lad pointed to a tree that was supposed to be a silver birch, but was hideously deformed by the chemicals. One branch struggled off sideways like a pointing arm. “You see that tree? They say that when there is just one deformed tree like that it is Jesus Christ pointing the way for the dead souls to depart.” The tree pointed downstream to the sea. So Lionel Snell of old had risen from the dead and struggled downstream to the ocean and, presumably, across it to another land where he had founded the family de LionelSnell…
I recall thinking that the last section was bad cinema: the part about the dog was a bit overdone and, although the tree was grotesquely hideous, it was by no means the only tree that was deformed. But LS and Therese were happy that they were able to solve the enigma, and they left in a lover's state of bliss.
“Will you marry me then?” said she.
“You really are very forward for a nun!” laughed he. “Of course I will!”
I wondered how she would stand up to the test. After all, marrying a girl like this is all very well, but it would not help Abramelin. I went up to her, but to my surprise she cringed.
“You say you went to a nunnery,” said I. “In that case you'll have no trouble reciting the Lord's Prayer with me, will you?”
She cringed and struggled as I recited it, and under her cloak she seemed to shrivel.
“Show me your face!” I cried repeatedly, though I half regretted it, expecting some awful Alfred Hitchcock type revelation! Eventually the hooded head rose black before me. I said it once more, but as I did so it occurred to me: “Hold on! Isn't this the face that turns men to stone?” and I woke up.
This dream was very exciting, but also a bit disturbing. It was a nice example of temptation refuted by devotion (well-aimed at my attraction to physically beautiful girls—and she was great—and my snobbery, or rather, my desire to be a bit posher).
But with my Taoist hat firmly on the other foot (as it were) I do realise the need to cool it morality-wise, lest all future nights are disturbed by this sort of “good versus evil” playacting. Just as, in the cold light of day, this paragraph is “cooling it morality-wise” playacting.
In penitence, I was up before sunrise to sweep the oratory, burn incense, and light the lamp. I took my beeswax polish, but did not use it. The damp atmosphere made the morning feel very cold.
After break I read Abramelin—very necessary—and the first fifty psalms. They were not much better than Genesis, which I read yesterday and which almost bored me to tears, except for the amusing little “Jewish” touches, like Abraham “doing business” with God as to how many good souls there needed to be in Sodom in order for it to be spared! So far, The Gospel of John is by far the best.
Today I committed adultery (on my old bed, so I had to bathe afterwards). Abramelin will really love me for that. But, could there almost be a possibility of classifying it under “charitable work”? I did dedicate the operation to the Earth Mother (whom I've been very lax in thanking for my good food) because fecundity was its object. It was this latter fact that finally moved me—I would not have been so happy about a fuck just for fucking's sake! So my conscience is not so much troubled by that (perhaps it should be), but it is troubled by my inability to remain composed. Seven days is not enough to fortify oneself against seven hours of “female” chatter (“I do understand what you are doing, really I do; and I really admire you for it…”) like the Mistral unceasingly blowing sand against my rickety foundations. I slowly collapsed. Outwardly, I did not change a lot, but inwardly, composure and calm desiccated to aridity and numbness. Women fear to see men set out on projects because they fear the projects will change the men, whereas they would rather make the changes themselves.
Monday 18 April
Dreamed of a tornado racing across a field towards R and me. Did not feel scared as it seemed slow in the distance, but as it approached me I could see how fast it was. It gouged a channel in the field and would have struck me but for a tree that broke its force (and was itself damaged by the suction). Later I was trying to do my evening oration but without success as I had chosen a place right outside the front door and was disturbed by the family next door coming and going, and felt particularly idiotic kneeling in B's sight.
Frosty morning—not very inspiring. Hard to get up.
Further thoughts on last week: the greatest benefit of “sin” is the stimulus it gives to my sanctity. My most humble orations have followed my worst misdemeanours. I suppose this is another example of a low-grade “pact”.
My “circulating the light” seems to have built up something I was unaware of until yesterday, prior to screwing. I felt a ball of fire in my inner belly quite distinct from the usual sexual feeling. I'm not sure I handled it correctly.
This morning's meditation was slightly feeble.
After break, I read St. Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises (up to the first week). I think I must lend them to K.
The trip to see K was excellent. I took some tools, books, and vegetables along with my lamp, on which I had done some early work beforehand. She welcomed me and we shared her delicious lunch. It was a real joy that she thought the lamp looked good. I stayed and chatted awhile before a nice cycle back.
I was haunted by Majesty today. Read about the Hellfire Club during my morning cocoa, and have been drinking odd glasses of sparkling Rheingold to test my champagne stopper. At K's I read about the amazing private car collection of some eccentric Alsatian industrialists, who have an enormous number of Bugattis. Majesty, akin to nostalgia, is a powerful and neutral spirit that I must come to terms with.
Tuesday 19 April
Did some good reading today: Crowley's Tao Te King for an hour after break and after lunch while sunbathing for the first time this year—the shade