Discover who The Alchemical Master had been—that was a certainty and it would give the wiseacres a great deal to chatter about, anatomize, and discuss in articles and even books. Lives would be written of The Alchemical Master, but would they ever come close to the truth, or even the facts? In the picture in which, Saraceni had said, he had made up his soul, both as it had been and as it was yet to be, the figure of Love was indeed the two figures at the very centre, but it was love of the ideal wholeness that was shown there, and not the real loves of his life. Would they read his allegory, as he had once read the great allegory of Bronzino? In that picture, so dear to him, Time and his daughter Truth were unveiling the spectacle of what love was, as some day Time and Truth would unveil The Marriage at Cana. And when that day came there would be, to begin with, a great deal of harsh talk about deceit and fakery. But had not Bronzino said much that was relevant about deceit and fakery in the wonderfully painted figure of Fraude, the sweet-faced girl offering the honeycomb and the scorpion, whose lower parts were depicted as the chthonic dragon’s claws and swingeing serpent tail? This was Fraude not simply as a cheat, but as a figure from the deep world of the Mothers, whence came all beauty, and also all that was fearful to timid souls seeking only the light, and determined that Love must be solely a thing of light. How lucky he was to have known Fraude, and to have tasted her enlarging, poisoned kiss! Had he, at the end, found the allegory of his own life? Oh, blessing on the angel in The Marriage at Cana who declared, so mysteriously, “Thou hast kept the best wine till the last.”
Francis was laughing now, but laughter was such an effort that there came another shock, and he dropped deeper into the gulf that was enclosing him.
Where was this? Unknown, yet familiar, more the true abode of his spirit than he had ever known before; a place never visited, but from which intimations had come that were the most precious gifts of his life.
It must be—it was—the Realm of the Mothers. How lucky he was, at the last, to taste this transporting wine!
After that, nothing, for to any outward observer it would have seemed that Francis had stood on the threshold of death some time before, and now he had taken the last step.
SO YOU STOOD BY HIM to the end, brother, said the Lesser Zadkiel.
—The end is not yet. Though he had sometimes defied me, I obey my orders still, said the Daimon Maimas.
—Your orders were to make him a great, or at least a remarkable man?
—Yes, and posthumously he will be seen as both great and remarkable. Oh, he was a great man, my Francis. He didn’t die stupid.
—You had your work cut out for you.
—It is always so. People are such muddlers and meddlers. Father Devlin and Aunt Mary-Ben with their drippings of holy water, and their single-barrelled compassion. Victoria Cameron with her terrible stoicism masked as religion. That Doctor with his shallow science. All ignorant people determined that their notions were absolutes.
—Yet I suppose you would say they were bred in the bone.
—They! How can you talk so, brother? Of course, we know that it is all metaphor, you and I. Indeed, we are metaphors ourselves. But the metaphors that shaped the life of Francis Cornish were Saturn, the resolute, and Mercury, the maker, the humorist, the trickster. It was my task to see that these, the Great Ones, were bred in the bone, and came out in the flesh. And my task is not yet finished.
“I’VE BEEN thinking.”
Arthur had returned from his two-day absence, and, having eaten grapefruit, porridge with cream, and bacon and eggs, had now moved into the coda of his usual breakfast and was busy with toast and marmalade.
“I’m not at all surprised. You think quite often. What now?” said Maria.
“That life of Uncle Frank. I was wrong. We’d better tell Simon to go ahead.”
“No more worry about possible scandal?”
“No. Suppose a few drawings turn up at the National Gallery that look like Old Masters but are really by Uncle Frank? That doesn’t make him a faker. He was an art student once, in the days when a lot of them copied Old Master drawings and even drew that way themselves, just to find out how it was done. Not faking at all. The Gallery people will spot them at once, though of course Darcourt mightn’t. Nothing will come of it, you mark my words. Simon’s a literary type, not an art critic. So let’s give him the go-ahead, and get on with the real work of the Foundation. We ought to get some applications soon from needy geniuses.”
“I have a few on my desk already.”
“You call Simon, darling, and tell him I’m sorry I was arbitrary. Could he come in tonight? We could look at your letters and get on with the real job. Being patrons.”
“The modern Medici?”
“No immodesty, please. But it should be sport.”
“Blow your whistle, Arthur, and let the sport begin.”
Robertson Davies, What's Bred in the Bone
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