Prelude to Eternity. Brian Stableford
heroic conqueror had built the “original keep”, in order that the Norsemen should never conquer the shallow valley in which his lands were situated.
Almost everyone except the present Lord Langstrade and his dutiful mother—including his wife and daughter—believed that the legends of Harold Longstride and the Dedalus Maze were the pure stuff of dreams, but that did not matter to Michael. It was in expectation of celebrating the millennial anniversary of Harold’s supposed duel with Emund Snurlson that the new Keep—or the Folly—and its surrounding Maze had been built over the course of the last seven years; Michael, like Signor Monticarlo, Augustus Carp and Gregory Marlstone, had been invited to Langstrade Hall in order to provide an apt commemoration of the occasion. Lady Phythian had been included in the party because she, like the absentee Geoffrey Chatham, had long been a regular visitor to the Hall, while Hope and Escott had been preferred to the present Earl’s other acquaintances because of their auspicious meeting in the ruins of Knossos.
Michael was able to take some comfort in the fact that he seemed, at present, to be the only intended contributor to the supposedly-momentous occasion whose contribution seemed fully assured. Gregory Marlstone’s time machine had already failed to function twice at more widely-advertised and much better-attended exhibitions, and the London newspapers had turned against him in no uncertain terms, branding him a philosophical failure and freely referring to his third intended trial, even in advance, as “the folly in the Folly”. Augustus Carp’s reputation as a mesmerist had also taken a severe knock since he had suffered the sudden loss of his long-time somniloquist, a woman of delicate constitution carried off by the influenza; the replacement he had recently recruited was said to be mediocre at best. To cap it all, Carmela Monticarlo—who usually accompanied her father on the piano when he played sonatas—had sprained her wrist badly, forcing the violinist to restrict his intended program to solo pieces, in the performance of which he was reputed to be far outshone by his more famous contemporary, Signor Paganini.
Taking everything into consideration, Michael thought, as he stared out of the window of the carriage, looking over Lady Phythian’s bulky shoulder, his performance with the brush ought to be the most reliable on offer—but that had to be balanced against the fact that he was far less famous in his own field than any of the other three “performers” was in his, and none of them had the burden of anxiety that arose from being hopelessly in love with his host’s daughter.
CHAPTER THREE
LADY PHYTHIAN AND THE LANGSTRADE GHOSTS
“I don’t agree that the current vogue for Medievalism, of which Langstrade provides a prime example, is inherently anti-progressive,” Quentin Hope said to his loyal adversary—presumably in the response to the suggestion that it was, although Michael had not returned his attention to the argument in time to catch Escott’s last remark. “Progressiveness doesn’t require the past to be forgotten—quite the contrary. Without a keen awareness of the past, progress couldn’t be perceived, let alone properly measured and appreciated, and it’s entirely right that we should loyally celebrate centenaries and millennia of every sort, including imaginary ones. Centenary and millennial celebrations are inherently comparative, forcing us to observe and calculate how far we have come in the interim. It’s entirely justifiable for the present Earl of Langstrade, as the heir to an industrial fortune forged in loudly-clattering automated mills and secured by democratic hegemony, to set himself up in contradictory juxtaposition with the legendary Harold Longstride, a pre-feudal chieftain for whom life was little more than eternal agricultural labor, punctuated by occasional bloody struggles against violent marauders.”
“Langstrade’s not interested in drawing comparisons to demonstrate the superiority of modern civilization over ancient barbarity,” Escott retorted, scornfully. “His interest in the past is a purely nostalgic one, which represents a calculated antithesis to the mechanized source of his fortune and status. He’s trying to identify himself with the imaginary Harold Longstride, who was invented by his father for precisely that Romantic purpose. The reason that Langstrade is so insistent that his fictitious ancestor still haunts the grounds of the Hall, along with his retinue—even though the modern building bears not the slightest resemblance to whatever might have stood there in the ninth century, and in spite of the fact that no presently-discernible trace of any keep existed before the foundations of the Folly were laid—is that aristocratic privilege is based in the prestige of the past, and requires endorsement by it. The imaginary ghost of Harold Longstride is a quasi-paternal figure, symbolic of an imagined heritage, and his actual non-existence is testimony to the force of the longing that Langstrade experiences to turn his back on the bewildering present and the prospect of an even stranger future: a longing for continuity, stability and an end to the madness of progress.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Escott,” Lady Phythian put in, sharply, “but the ghosts of Langstrade are certainly not non-existent, any more than they are quasi-paternal. As you know perfectly well, I have seen the phenomenon with my own eyes, on more than one occasion, and the number of other witnesses, in the course of the last twenty years, must run into the hundreds.”
“With all due respect, Lady Phythian,” said Hope, his voice dripping skepticism in spite of his conscientious attempt to feign a polite and placatory tone, “you can’t be sure that what you saw was Harold Longstride and his retinue tracking Emund Snurlson, as the more credulous witnesses to the phenomenon contend.”
“I never claimed that the apparition was Harold Longstride and his retinue tracking Emund Snurlson,” the dowager replied, tartly. “That was Old Harry’s interpretation, and it is not for me to question his opinion, but I had no way of attributing any particular identity to the apparition myself. I never had the slightest doubt, however, that what I saw and felt was supernatural in origin. Over the years, in fact, I am convinced that I have got to know it very well, and can certainly feel its presence whenever it is manifest—but I am still uncertain as to whether it is the spirit of a human being, or several spirits of several human beings. I am hoping that Dr. Carp might provide some illumination on that point, although his present somniloquist is something of a disappointment.
“The mere shadow of her predecessor, no doubt,” Escott suggested, merrily. In spite of his deep interest in the mysteries of the past, Michael concluded, the pessimist was obviously a Sadducee when it came to apparitions of the dead and other spiritual entities.
“I know that you have never seen any apparition when you have visited Langstrade in the past, Mr. Escott,” Lady Phythian said, sternly, “but that does not give you the right to disparage those who have. I’m no somniloquist myself, but I am sensitive to such otherworldly manifestations in my own fashion. I must insist on the absolute reality of the Langstrade ghosts, although I reserve my judgment as to the nature and identity of the spiritual entities in question.”
“That’s very wise as well as conscientious, Lady Phythian,” Hope was quick to put in. “Progress in the nascent science of psychognosis has been slow, I fear, compared to recent progress in mechanics, despite the best efforts of men like Dr. Carp, but people with open minds hope and expect that the situation will improve dramatically as time goes by. Your attitude does you credit, as does your insistence.”
The dowager did not seem particularly grateful for this intervention, and obviously suspected that Hope was insincere. Michael had the same suspicion.
“We’re being a trifle rude, I fear,” Escott countered. “We have three people with us who have not visited the Hall before, and even if Mr. Laurel has heard tales of the ghost, Signor Monticarlo and Signorina Carmela surely have not. Perhaps, Lady Phythian, you’d care to explain to them what it is that you have seen?”
Lady Phythian looked at Signor Monticarlo. Obliged to respond—and perhaps grateful for an opportunity to make a contribution to the conversation at last—the violinist nodded his head. “Si, Milady,” he said. “I will be most grateful—and Carmela too.”
Carmela nodded in agreement, and smiled, but could not manage even the faintest of “si’s.”
Lady Phythian nodded in her usual imperious fashion, then paused for effect before continuing, apparently slightly inflated by pride now that the distinguished violinist’s