A Smile in the Mind's Eye

4

The desultory autumn set in — the economy of France had begun to founder with the resulting labour troubles due to the high cost of petrol. The Arabs had overturned the apple cart of our economy and there would be no way back to prosperity and full employment in my lifetime. Well, what did it matter after sixty? In Paris, sauntering the quais, I came upon a Collected Oscar Wilde and to my astonishment saw it in a review of the Tao Te Ching by his hand; paradoxically enough it had been written for a ladies’ fashion magazine of which he had once been editor. It was, if my memory serves me right, a review of the first London translation, by Giles. And Wilde’s sympathetic little notice suggested that he had thoroughly understood the doctrines of the old sage. It must have dated from his more impecunious period when he was forced to turn to journalism to make ends meet. (He wasn’t the only one. Mallarmé among other great poets was also forced once to edit a fashion magazine for the same reasons.)

I returned south. Came the harvest, the bullfighting, the wine, followed by the morose period of storms and mists which heralded a premature winter. It was to be hard, according to the weather forecasts. So it proved to be. Once more I spent it alone with the owls — they uttered no complaints. There must have been plenty of stranded mice and bats in the old park with its tall trees. I was trying to write two books at once, and it wasn’t the sort of thing one should try. Then came a summons from the Tibetans to share their New Year celebrations in early February. I had followed with interest the fortunes of this little monastery whose existence (now in financial danger) was due to the sudden influx of refugees after the fall of Tibet.⁴ It was certainly the most interesting and forceful centre of Buddhism in France and the old chateau which had been made over to the order was ideally situated (by its remoteness among rather melancholy woods, not far from Autun) to the introspective studies and retreats and initiations which the Tibetan lamas promised a virgin audience of students. I had never so far been able to go — my travels had always drawn me out of France during the period when the Abbey was in full activity. But the link was firm — after all, the Kagu Ling clan had descended directly — by word of mouth, by breath to breath, by bouche a la bouche, of initiation — from the national poet of Tibet, Mila Repa, whose poems and teachings I had known since I was sixteen, and which summoned up for me at once the strange life I had lived in Darjiling, with its scripture classes, its Sunday School excursions to Tiger Hill (no tigers now!). Then, too, my father was curious and adventurous, and during the period while he looked after the tiny railway (Siliguri-Darjiling) he took us on many excursions, rides and walks in the wide Teesta valley. Once he went as far as Kalimpong, and often we were visitors to Buddhist monasteries when they were en fête. But from that early epoch onwards I had had no direct contact with things Tibetan. The little pamphlet came at a time when I was much in need of it — for my personal affairs were in disorder and I was plagued by a dozen different nagging contingencies. In spite of the weather — the whole of France was under snow and the long tally of snow damage and flood catastrophe completely filled the news bulletins — I decided to motor up in my little camping-car, hoping that if I went cautiously I could avoid trouble and arrive safely at my destination.

As usual, the reality seemed a good deal less dramatic than journalism suggested, though the autoroute was indeed swept by the wind and a dense thistle-swishing rain, with packets of visibility floating about, punctuated by white blackouts of sheer mist. One had the curious illusion that whole chunks of landscape were being shifted about by invisible scene-shifters, now advancing, now receding. At Lyon the usual smog-stained darkness set in as it always does, winter or summer. What ugliness, what ‘urban growth’! Moreover what a fate to have overtaken the Mecca of gastronomy in France! Everyone dreads Lyon now, dipping into the great squat hollow in which the city lies — and on this beautiful arm of the river, too! It is no more a provincial capital but a suburb to end all suburbs. One comes out the other side with a sigh of relief — like a patient emerging from an anaesthetic. But its spirit is creeping down southwards and even my own little village is sending souls north to Lyon in search of work — hostages to the smog and smoke. In five years Sommières itself will be simply a dormitory for pale aspirin-ravaged city workers who wonder why they cannot sleep … North of Lyon the skies darkened and dense patches of fog called for headlights over long stretches; I had calculated on a landfall around five in the evening and I saw that I would not be far out in spite of these hazards which imposed caution and stealth.

The whole Maconnais seemed to be under water — the flooding of inland lakes had altered the prevailing topography in the most dramatic fashion. Just the tops of the tall poplars stood out above the water which had risen to their necks. In this way one could trace the course of major roads which had now disappeared. Pylons have been overturned like ninepins, electric wires trailed everywhere. The Pompiers and the army were out in force — transformed, for the emergency, into sailors, rescuing floating cattle or individuals marooned on their own rooftops. Fortunately the great parapets of the autoroute rode high above these water-ravaged valleys, and by the time I quitted it, the land was much higher and drying, though under deep snow. They were not very high, the hills I had to traverse to reach Autun, but they were high enough for snow. Yet mercifully the snowploughs had turned out, and a light thaw had set in to help them. One could see the holes in the tarmac sucked by the spring-thawing snow as it drained away into the valleys. It had turned very cold. I had entered a melancholy land with winding roads running through dense areas of forest thick with unburnt leaves and rotting loam. Farms were few and far between, traffic nil, petrol pumps far apart. I tanked up with some care, and lowered pressures on my little battle-wagon. When not fully loaded she tends to float off into the sky at the slightest excuse — particularly when there is a high wind on the autoroutes. Now came Autun with its old-fashioned and solemn architecture and its pale population huddled into overcoats against the cutting wind which blew down upon them from the direction of Dijon. It is a market-town of some importance and rather beautiful in its cold way. The accent is somewhat sharp and rocky — it smells of the Dauphiné, of Grenoble. The people are brisk and brusque, indifferent to visitors, dreaming perhaps of selling up and moving south to where the sun shines. I traversed the old town and moved off into lowlands now — they formed a kind of pocket as if on a green billiard table, and cut off by a range of hills from the main body of France; down at the bottom of the pocket lay the remote chateau of Plaige in its cold woodlands. It took some finding. Hereabouts, too, there were streams which had jumped their banks, roads cut off, fallen trees and broken wires — but the road itself was clear, though by now night was signalled by fading light, and quite heavy snow was falling. It was appropriate, the snow; to rediscover the ambience of my childhood by any other element would have left something lacking. Moreover when, after coasting about among the white fields and asking my way of the occasional mortal I encountered in all the whiteness, I at last saw the tall prayer-masts of the chateau with their sodden drooping flags, I realized with a pleasant pang that the place the monks had been donated was itself a piece of old Nepal, of old Bhutan. It was precisely the sort of country-house-chateau which might be inhabited even today by a hill-Rajah. We had known some who lived in just such chateaux around Kuyseong and in the hills around Darjiling. Yet despite this tinge of Oriental appropriateness the old building still insisted, by its vast stables, hangars, greniers, that it was really an overgrown farm, and typical of the Norman north. I limped up towards it upon an execrable private road made viscous by the typical farm mud of the region, and after unearthing the monk in charge of the bookings signed the book and made myself known as a visitor for the weekend. There was some accommodation, and very pleasant too, in the well-heated chateau but I elected to sleep in my little car. I was used to it and liked the feeling of independence it conferred on me at night. So they allowed me to anchor it inside the walls of the grange, just outside the kitchen and refectory, an ideal strategic point. It was rather like being back at school again; dozens of people were arriving with every kind of transport and there seemed few who knew each other. Indeed it was very much like the first day of term at a public school. People floundered about, hunting down their accommodation, examining the premises, or else encountering friends last seen in India or Katmandu. The place was beautifully heated and the shrine room delightful. The hall notice-boards were sprinkled with announcements concerning the services to be held and more urgent if more mundane appeals against taking muddy boots upstairs. The atmosphere was one of calm elation, that special joy when Dharma-crafting beings meet together. There were one or two also who had not broken the chain of tobacco as yet, and they hid themselves among the snowy trees in the park to take a last drag at a Gauloise Bleu. I was so grateful to the yoga which had liberated me (I used to be a heavy smoker) from this cruel addiction for some eight years now, without relapse. Dinner passed with friendly animation and I made a couple of contacts, one a rather grim looking man with a long nose who looked as if he were an extreme sceptic. He did not actually say anything but his way of examining wall notices and looking around at his fellow diners (and sniffing) suggested that he was thinking to himself: ‘This is all my eye and monkey’s fur!’ No need to say that the food was good; the French lamas must have cooked it for some of the dishes were very superior — cream of chestnuts was one. But I was tired after my long drive, and glad that I had opted for the privacy of the car where I could roll down my bed, light a candle for pleasure, read a few lines of Donne or Mila Repa before falling into a hushed sleep, dimly aware of movements about me in the darkness — for the dormitories in the barns were slowly filling up with sleeping-bag novices who had arrived after dark. The snow hushed and lulled all sharp sound. But the frost was heavy, and when I woke about three and crawled out to express myself in the snow, the sky was brilliant with stars — dagger-points of frosty light — and a chill crackling wind whirled down from the north bringing more snow. Incoherent and unpatterned memories and impressions of the past filled my mind. I was glad that it was snowing, for in my memories it always snowed and always the white fangs of the Himalayan Alps across the valley held the blue glass-glitter of ice all the year round. Plaige was like a small yet faithful miniature of those grandiose landscapes of my extreme youth — it was the stage version, so to speak, of an epic scenery.

In the evening, just before dinner, there had come the sound of some pretty smart drumming and crashing and I was told that the resident lamas — the dignitaries had not yet arrived to preside over the major ceremonies — practised a little in the evenings for the morning service. It is an unforgettable sound, this mixture of tooting and booming, of mice and elephants. It brought back so many forgotten impressions of the past — for this was the ordinary musical scheme of Nepal, Bhutan and all points north. It contrived to combine the sounds of an Alban Berg concerto with that of a goblin being castrated. But the noise did not last, it died away as the dinner gong sounded. Apparently the resident lamas enjoyed quarters on the third floor. Theirs was the music and prayer which would draw us inexorably towards this galloping continuum — the natural force of the cosmos: the Tao!

Most everyone was up before dawn; I saw the kitchen lights switched on and heard the pop of the gas stove which manufactured strong tea for the visitors. I was glad of it, for it was mighty cold, and a heavy dew had turned into frost on my windscreen which I would have to scrape. I tried hot water but it froze as fast I cleared it. The opening service was early also and the virtuous were already abroad, all creased and yellow and yawny from a night of icy sleep in the outbuildings. I was not going to miss the morning service for anything — I knew it would be full of memory-soliciting sounds and shapes. Irrationally I heard the voice of F saying: ‘Our cosmology is a skandah short in their terms.’ There was the smell of incense and muddy gumboots and milk on the stairs. The house was very warm and the friendly throne room as yet almost empty. It is pleasant to arrive a little early and prepare oneself by a quiet breathing and concentrating exercise. (There is nothing specially Tibetan about it: it is equally true for religious services in hallowed places consecrated to this kind of psychic activity, like cathedrals or Christian shrines. You have to make an effort if you want to suck out the marrow of things!)

Gradually the little chapel filled up, the doors were opened, the congregation took up its dispositions on the floor, many adopting the lotus pose. And then the gay body of lamas entered, their square humorous faces smiling, their tough square little bodies bustling forward with an irresistible momentum — the energy of mountain folk who have come to terms with cold and wind and who enjoy rude peasant health. The head lama was brimming with good nature and light and he took his routine in a competent and relaxed way. The youngest lama was a boy of twelve or so. It reminded me a little bit of a Greek Orthodox service where you are apt to come upon a couple of fine, if piratical-looking, old priests assisted by a dissolute-looking beadle and a shaky-looking adolescent who from time to time strikes a triangle and looks around with cretinous joy and astonishment. It was not quite that, for this little Tibetan was in charge of drums which would have rejoiced the heart of ajazz drummer. The chief lama paid the preliminary obeisances to the various goddesses and gods of the various shrines. He walked round the altar, so to speak, bending down to croak a prayer, barely audible, to the divinities, yet on a deep raucous note which reminded one of a tree frog at mating time. There was also something minatory about this serious survey — he was rather like a mastiff checking that all was well. You felt his scrupulous attention and awareness. Then he swept us with a glance and took his place and the service began. It is quite impossible to describe the pleasure and reassurance this ordinary little service gave me. The bongo drums and squiffy fifes brought it all back to me. It was like the plunging hooves of pack mules as they floundered on one of those narrow paths before falling into the ravines below. In a trice the rocky landscapes came into my mind. Always the question of height was the thing. The abysses were literally measureless for on those mountain paths the bandages of dense mist floated below as well as above you. Often one threw a boulder and stood waiting to see when, if ever, it would strike bottom. The waterless mountains of Nepal with their richly-oxygenated air and eternal snow-cloud shapes hiding secret monasteries — I could recover it all through this weird and tilting music. The drumming of hooves on rock! On those vertiginous paths, of course, mules frequently did go overboard — being such foolishly obstinate creatures. There was no room to manoeuvre so that the story was frequently told of them plunging over these precipices in a shower of stones. I had forgotten so many little things! I had forgotten just how physically dirty one could become for lack of water, living in a lamasery at ten thousand feet. Those sweetly enticing cloud-shape monasteries which look so good in photos were often pitiless and barren nooks good for nothing except contemplation and self-discovery through the altering of the mind’s axis, through the art of breathing. At some point, in the stuffy intellectual attic of the quotidian mind a key clicked home, or a pane of glass was smashed, and the pure air rushed in to oxygenate the spirit of the contemplant. Water was as precious as it is in the waterless islands of the Aegean, and what was left over from the winter storms was kept for tea. Illness is comparatively rare up there in those fastnesses probably because though the lama’s spiritual search is strenuous his daily life is anchored to a notion of living without tension, without stress — and the primal root of the disharmony which, in Taoist terms, set off illness is precisely stress. I recalled all this while the service rolled on its way with the chanting and drumming; here and there in it, too, there occurred passages which sounded suddenly as if they were of Indian, even western, provenance. Graceful light airs which suggested Indian peasant songs, or even Scottish ballads; these only hovered for a moment and then returned back to the central gruffness of the two-tone melodic scheme, driven onward by the quavering trump of the bagpipes — squash a goose or a three-month baby slowly and you would get something like this hellish quaver. Then sizzle-bang-boom, the triangles and the big drum took over and the monks began their prostrations; some of them were young Frenchmen, and one hoped it was not just a romantic fad with them to learn Tibetan and turn Buddhist; or just a despairing backlash from the mental self-indulgence of Paris with its tedious mystagogues relentlessly complicating the obvious by giving it fancy names … From Fraud to Freud and back again. Mind you, there would be much to excuse if this were actually the case. I know that if I were condemned to be a French intellectual of today I would certainly leap on the nearest mule and head for Lhasa. Slowly the service ran out of current like an electric train and, sliding down an inclined plane, came to rest on the pulse-beat of the bongo drum, while everyone relaxed and smiled round at his or her neighbour in congratulation; as if it had all been a huge success and entirely due to the wholesale co-operation of us all, which perhaps was really the case. It was breakfast time now, and everyone was thoroughly awake and good-humoured. One saw people more clearly, saw their natures and the roles they played in coming here for the Tibetan New Year. There were one or two very beautiful old ladies and some handsome young girls from Paris. There were also one or two silly-billies aged sixteen whose epithets began and ended with vachement chouette and who expressed the sort of excitement with the service that one might over a fine performance by a company of actors. Particularly the part of the service where the priest launches into a sort of marionette dance of the hands and wrists. Then there was an Australian who apparently found some special virtue in whirling a prayer-wheel as he ate — he looked like a mentally deficient pot-boy. ‘You can buy electric ones now,’ I told him. ‘They run off a torch battery.’ He looked at me with unfeigned disgust. I could almost here him whisper to himself: ‘Mechanized Buddhism! What next?’ Later I saw him in the library immersed in a translation of the Mahamudra still absently twirling his propitiatory wheel. May a Tibetan demon fly away with him!

There was a very heavy frost and the milky light offered no promise of sun. Moreover trouble lay ahead for me — engine trouble. In cleaning up my little car, scraping off the ice and checking the heater, I realized that a vital part had worked loose and would have to be replaced or the thread would bite off. It was most vexatious; but if I left her there to freeze away to death I might have to wait for spring before I could move her! And the old chateau was miles from Autun where I might presume upon a technical sophistication to supply the missing part. I thought then that towards evening I would limp back along the road to Autun in the hope of mending the breech. It gave me the day for contacts and studies, and I used it to the full. The library was good and much in demand. There were a number of good lectures listed and almost continuous Tibetan classes with professors of whose proficiency one could have no doubt. The whole thing was organized effortlessly and well and clearly there was some master-brain behind the enterprise. But by late afternoon I felt it wiser to take advantage of the light and stalk back in all precariousness to Autun. This I did, and arrived only to find everything closed against the approaching weekend and the only decent garage in the place out of spares. They would have to be sent down from Paris, which would take a night; but with the coming strike on the railways … So went my Tibetan New Year. A draughty night in a cold hotel in Autun did nothing to assuage my irritation. Yet, in another sense, I felt that I had seen what I had come to see — the functioning of the abbey and the general state of instruction prevailing in it. The thing was serious. Tibet was here to stay, so to speak. I wondered if perhaps instead of going back to Kagu Ling as I had intended I should not head away down south; the weather reports were so uncompromisingly gloomy that my concern was pardonable. Snow, ice, floods … The spare did not arrive till late on Monday, and the car was not put right until Tuesday morn — by now the Tibetan dignitaries would have taken to the air like swans, heading back to India where the founder seminaries were situated. Yes, I would sneak home.

The autoroute was lashed with wind and rain, and the traffic on it — many heavy trailers, few private cars — set up chains of spray as if they had been heavy motor boats in a choppy sea. One good souse from their back wheels and one had to slow down and set the wipers to work at speed. And the wind swung me about like a pendulum. It was really hard and disagreeable driving and I felt half dead with fatigue. I thought I would climb off the autoroute and down into a valley but I did not want to land myself in a flood area so I waited until I saw the turn-off for Orange signalled; this part of the land I knew well, and it is rarely flooded. So it proved to be, and I felt I might manage to rest my weary limbs in Avignon for a night before rolling back home across the garrigues. I knew that the Rhone was danger-high but had not jumped its banks as yet, and when I crossed it despite the flailing wind and rain (not to mention the invisible mountain snows melting into its sources and tributaries) it had not yet swallowed the islands, while the new bridge rode high and clear into town. But the town itself was sodden as a wet mattress, spectral, winter-locked. I don’t know what put the Vaucluse fountain into my mind — but yes, I do. I saw an advertisement for some article of domestic ware called Vega — and my thoughts turned to a girl I had known under that starry name. The star on the advertisement reminded me of the intense bright blue — almost sapphire — of her eyes. Vega, pole star of the ancients, had always been my favourite fixed star. How often have I lain on the deck of a caique or a liner in the Aegean watching that marvellous gem-like stare, unwinking, unmoving, all-seeing. The girl had some of this in her own steady regard — the uncompromising brightness of a cat’s eyes, a Persian kitten, say. When she was interested in something or someone she sat so still that she didn’t seem to be breathing, she could have been dead, fixing you with these ‘blue lamps of heaven’ — let us indulge her memory with a seventeenth-century conceit from Darley. But here in Avignon on that rainy afternoon I suddenly thought of her and wondered if I should not lay that night in the little hotel we knew once by the roaring waters of Petrarchian Vaucluse. She too had been a Taoist with the requisite look of melting mischief as required by the recipe of Chang. I had first come under this disquieting gaze in Geneva. A little group of psychiatrists — all Jungians — had asked if they could meet me and ask a few questions. I think they were just curious to size me up and see if I was quite right in the head. It was not the first time that such a thing had come about. They were friends of other friends, and so I agreed and we met in the rather pleasant brasserie and beer-hall — a chop-house, really — called Bovard which should have been ‘classé’ and which has now been swept away and turned into a bank. Anyway in the background there sat Vega staring at me — looking right through me, as if she could count all the small change in my pocket. And the conversation was lively and full of pith. I gathered that she was the wife or mistress of one of the doctors present though I could not decide which one. Nevertheless, the evening came to an end and off we all went home. A fortnight later I ran into her in Bounyon where I was trying to buy a cheese called Vacherin. I had forgotten her, actually, and she had to jog my memory by references to this pleasant but unmemorable evening. We went to have a coffee together and it was here in a shady cafeé that I started to get to know Vega. To cut a long story short in the midst of a thousand trivia she said that she was a real old-fashioned reader. Every year she chose one author and read everything about him. She added that this year the lucky author was Nietzsche and she was in mid-channel. Why did this remark make an instant impression on me? Because I myself had been doing more or less the same sort of thing — an echo of it, so to speak. I had been collecting and sifting information about Lou Andrée Salome with the vague notion of writing an essay on this remarkable and gifted enchantress, who as a young girl bewitched Nietzsche, then had a child by Rilke and ended up in old age as Freud’s most deeply cherished pupil and friend. How extraordinary that none of her many books, including the capital essays on Nietzsche and Rilke, were available in English! Actually my project was hopeless, I knew, because of my lack of German. Nevertheless this strange frieze of characters gave me food for thought; I had planned to press the story of their lives forward as far as the lake of Orta, which I was then proposing to visit. It was here that the thirty-year-old philosopher proposed to the eighteen-year-old girl, it was here that he outlined the whole scenario of Zarathustra! Once one has read of the notebooks in which they played question-and-answer games and riddles based on philosophic questions it seems quite possible that passages of the great classic could actually have been written by her. The idea, however far-fetched, intrigued me. And with this end in mind I obtained a commission from an American paper to write a vignette on the Borromean Islands which lay hard by on the the larger lake, Maggiori. ‘How odd!’ I said, and she echoed me, ‘Why odd?’ I said that I was doing the same sort of thing and added, ‘I am going down to Orta next Sunday for a week. I want to see the little lake where they were so happy when they were young. I have some notions about her making a contribution to Zarathustra — which I shall never be able to check because I have no German.’

‘Orta?’ She was looking at me very strangely indeed; then she started to laugh. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I have just come from the station.’ And extracting from her bag a railway reservation she placed it before me on the table. I saw it was a return ticket to Stresa which I knew was, so to speak, the railhead for the lake of Orta. The date was for the following weekend! The coincidence was unbelievable and we both laughed.

‘I want to visit the little sacred hill with all the chapels to try and see which was the one in which he proposed to her only to be rejected — quite properly; he was not fit to be married to a woman and she would have made a wretched wife, always on the move, always disappearing.’

‘The Monte Sacro?’

‘Yes. I have never been.’

‘Nor have I.’

I produced a travel brochure with some pictures of the lake, and she produced an identical one.

‘But your ticket is a single — are you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then can we meet? Shall we meet?’

‘Of course. I will bring the books I have.’

‘Yes, so shall I.’

It was one of these strange encounters which are all too rare in life and which make it echo. We shook hands rather awkwardly as we said goodbye; the blue regard set up a memory in me of some half-forgotten poem which mentioned the ‘vernal twinkling of butterflies’ in Coleridge — I had tried in vain to trace the quotation; nor could I now remember who had written the poem. All I remembered of the blonde girl now was the blue regard of a fixed star, staring down from mid-heaven upon the smooth lake. In my absent-minded way I had forgotten even to write down her name and phone number — in case of any change of plan. It was better perhaps. It gave her a kind of anonymity. I motored back to Provence during the night to collect my affairs and make my dispositions for Italy. I did not intend to rush it, and in my little camper I could easily make Novarra in one day; I would dawdle, I thought, round Maggiori and landfall at The Dragon in Orta well before Saturday. Then I would meet her train at Stresa — though she did not know this as yet!