Possession

  And Shushila: “You won’t agree with that, Professor Stern? Being an American?”

  And Leonora: “I think the letters should be in the British Library. We can all have microfilms and photocopies, the problems are only sentimental. And I’d like Christabel to have honour in her own country and Professor Blackadder here, who’s the greatest living Ash scholar, to have charge of the correspondence. I’m not acquisitive, Shushila—all I want is a chance to write the best critique of these letters once they’re available. The days of cultural imperialism are over, I’m glad to say.…”

  Afterwards Leonora took his arm. “I’ll buy you a drink,” she said. “You need one, I guess. So do I. You did fine, Professor, better than I thought.”

  “It was your influence,” Blackadder said. “What I said was an awful travesty. I apologise, Dr Stern. I didn’t mean to imply that you influenced me to travesty, I meant that you influenced me enough to make me articulate at all—”

  “I know what you meant. I bet you like malt whisky, you’re a Scot.”

  They found themselves in a dim and beery bar, where Leonora shone like a Christmas tree.

  “Now, let me tell you where I think Maud Bailey is.…”

  21

  MUMMY POSSEST

  Look, Geraldine, into the stones of fire

  I spread my hands out on the velvet cloth—

  Come closer, child, if you would learn to scry

  And read the hieroglyphics of my rings!

  See, how the stones glow on the milky skin—

  Beryl and emerald and chrysoprase—

  The gifts of lords and ladies, which I prize

  Not for their cost,” but for their mystic sense

  The subtle silent speech of Mother Earth.

  Your hands, like mine, are sweetly soft and white.

  I touch your fingers, and the electric spark

  Springs twixt our skins—you sense it? Good. Now see

  The shifting lights move on the stones and see

  If any vision show itself to you

  As, it may be, a mystic Face, all flushed

  With floating radiance of actinic light,

  Or, it may be, the interlacing boughs

  Of God’s unearthly Orchard of Desire.

  What do you see? A spider-web of light?

  That’s a beginning. Soon the lines will form

  The blessed showings of the Spirit World.

  Lights are Intelligences in our minds, whose force

  We no more comprehend than here, in these

  Glittering jewels, we can say how rose

  Or sapphire blue or emerald steady shines,

  Or what makes all the brilliant colours glow

  Along the throat of the Arabian bird,

  Whilst here, in milder air, her neck is grey

  Or in the Polar void a brilliant white.

  Thus in God’s Garden the stones speak and shine.

  Here we may read their silences, or scry

  Eternal forms in earthly blocks of light.

  Take up the crystal ball, sweet Geraldine.

  Gaze on the sphere. Observe how left and right,

  Above, below, reverse themselves in this

  And in its depth a glittering chamber lies

  Like a drowned world with downward-pointing flames,

  This room in miniature, all widdershins.

  Look steadily, and you will see all shift

  Under the veils of spirit vision, see

  What is not here, but comes from o’er the bourn.

  My face, reversed, shall bathe in rosy fronds

  As in her rocky cave, Actinia

  The sea-anemone, puts out a cloud

  Of hidden halo of odylic force—

  And after mine, you shall see other Forms

  In other lights, come swimming into view,

  You shall, I swear it. Still be patient.

  The force is fitful, and the vital spark

  Which kindles in the Medium and lights

  Conductive channels for the venturesome

  Friends in the Spirit, leaps and dies again

  Like Will-o-the-Wisps, or marsh-lights flickering.

  I have called you here to teach you certain things.

  You made a good beginning, all agreed.

  Last Sunday’s trance was deep and absolute.

  I held your fainting form against my breast

  Whilst spirits jostled at those pretty lips

  To speak their pure consoling speech, though some

  Forced through their vileness that your innocence

  Could never in its waking hours have framed

  In thought or word. To these I cried “Avaunt!”

  And fought them off, and in my listening ear

  I heard the spirit voices bell-like sing

  That you were chosen as their crystal cup

  Their bright translucent Vessel, where ev’n I

  With all my weary wisdom, might drink deep

  A draught of power, and sweetness to refresh.

  I mean that now I choose you to conduct

  My seances with me, my partner sweet,

  My Helper now, and in some future time

  Who knows, a Seeress of Power yourself.

  You know the ladies who will come tonight.

  The Baroness is exigent. She mourns

  A fat pug dog, who gambols in the Fields,

  The flowery fields Beyond, and can be heard

  To yap in satisfaction, as it used.

  Beware of Mr Holm. He is a Judge,

  In whom the injurious Sprite of scepticism

  Dies hard, and rears his head, once laid to rest,

  At any sight or sound that’s untoward.

  Most promising—that is, in spiritual terms—

  Most heart-torn, and most sorrowing, is the young

  Countess of Claregrove, who has lost her child,

  Her only son, a year since, when he was

  Scarce more than lisping Babe of two years’ growth

  Snatched by a fever in a summer Tour.

  His small voice has been heard in broken sounds—

  He makes, he says, perpetual daisy-chains

  In wondrous meadows—but she weeps and weeps,

  And will not be consoled, and takes with her

  Where’er she goes, a lock of his bright hair

  Cut from his marble brow as he lay cold.

  More than all else she longs to touch his hand,

  To kiss his little cheek, to know he is

  And was not claimed by Chaos and the Dark.

  I tell you this because—I tell you this—

  In fine, I tell you this, because I must

  Explain how we, to whom the Spirits speak

  Eke out their wayward signals and the gifts

  Vouchsafed from time to time of sight and touch

  And otherworldly hearing, with our own—

  How shall I say?—manifestations

  We fabricate to demonstrate their Truth.

  Sometimes, ’tis true, our Visitors ring Bells,

  Lights dance about the room, and heavenly Hands

  Touch mortal flesh. Sometimes there are Apports—

  Glasses of flowery wine, or fragrant wreaths,

  Or snapping Lobsters from the ocean Deep.

  Sometimes the Power falters and is dumb.

  Yet on these blank days, when my aching frame

  Is lumpish flesh of flesh and no voice sounds—

  The anxious Seekers gather with their Cares,

  Griefs unassuaged, and incredulities—

  And I have asked the Spirits and been taught

  A way of helping out, to improvise

  Display and substitute the mysteries

  And thus console the sad, and thus confound

  The savage sceptics with a visible Proof.

  White gloves and gossamer threads move and amaze

  As disembodied hands do; angel-wreaths

  Descend on finest thr
eads from chandeliers.

  And what one Medium may do, my sweet,

  Two may improve on almost endlessly.

  Your figure is so fairy-fine, my Love,

  Could, at a pinch, glide between these two screens?

  Your little hands in kidskin could take hold

  In teasing mode, of sceptical male knees

  Or stir a crinoline, or brush a beard

  With a hint of wholesome perfume, could they not?

  What’s that you say? You do not like to lie?

  I hope you may remember who you are

  And what you were, a pretty parlour-maid

  Whose mistress did not like her prettiness

  Or soulful stare at the young man o’ the house.

  Who helped you then, I ask you, gave you home

  And home’s essential comforts, bread and clothes,

  Discovered talents in you quite unguessed,

  Cosseted you and turned your soulfulness

  To use both spiritual and lucrative?

  You are grateful? So I should suppose. Well then,

  Let Gratitude hold ope the door to Trust!

  Our small deceptions are a form of Art

  Which has its simple and its high degree

  As women know, who lavish on wax dolls

  The skills and the desires that large-souled men

  Save up for marble Cherubs, or who sew

  On lowly cushions thickets of bright flowers

  Which done in oils were marvelled at on walls

  Of ducal halls or city galleries.

  You call these spirit mises en scène a lie.

  I call it artfulness, or simply Art,

  A Tale, a Story, that may hide a Truth

  As wonder-tales do, even in the Best Book.

  Consider this. Arts have their Medium—

  Coloratura, tempera, or stone.

  Through medium of paint the Ideal Form

  Of the Eternal Mother shows herself

  (Though modelled maybe on some worthless wench

  No better than she should be, we may guess).

  Through medium of language the great Poets

  Keep constant the Ideal, as Beatrice

  Speaks still to us, though Dante’s flesh is dust.

  So through the Medium of this poor flesh

  With sweats and groanings, nauseas and cries

  Of animal anguish, the sublimest Souls

  Make themselves known to those who sit and wait.

  And through this self-same flesh, they urge the skills

  That light the phosphor-matches, knot the threads

  Or lift the heavy chair from off the rug.

  The spirits weave them flesh and robes of air,

  Of air and matter of my grosser breath

  Whose warmth brushes thy brow in this my kiss—

  And if one night they neither come nor weave—

  Why you and I may make their motions felt

  With subtle fingers and the self-same breath

  Lifting the more corporeal veils of flesh …

  You catch my meaning?

  One night the flute is filled with spirit breath

  Swooningly sweet. The next, my breath, or thine,

  Tutored by them, must body forth their sound

  Since they neglect to whistle, but the notes

  The self-same notes breathe still the self-same sigh

  Of sweet regret and sweeter hope to come—

  Art tells a truth, sweet girl, though all her tales

  Are lies i’the law-court, or the chemist’s phial—

  We must be artful for the spirit’s truth

  In which we’re tutored by them, d’you see?

  You must not stare at me with fair large eyes

  Full of a question and a glittering tear.

  Drink up this cordial glass of wildflower wine—

  ’Twill settle you—come near—compose yourself

  And fix your eyes on mine, your hand in mine,

  And feel us breathe together. So. When first

  I mesmerised you, and your youthful soul

  Opened itself to mine, as morning flowers

  Open their cups to the warm Sun, I knew

  You were a being set apart, a Soul

  Responsive to my powers, and ductile too.

  Look up into my eyes, I say. You see

  The love of a good woman there, whate’er

  The spirit lords may else reveal, my dear.

  Draw in the influence fearlessly. Now drowse

  And calm your pulses, whilst my stronger arm

  Supports your softnesses. Here, Geraldine.

  My love is merciless to do you good.

  Know you not that we Women have no Power

  In the cold world of objects Reason rules,

  Where all is measured and mechanical?

  There we are chattels, baubles, property,

  Flowers pent in vases with our roots sliced off,

  To shine a day and perish. But you see,

  Here in this secret room, all curtained round

  With vaguest softness, all dimly lit

  With flickerings and twinklings, where all shapes

  Are indistinct, all sounds ambiguous,

  Here we have Power, here the Irrational,

  The Intuition of the Unseen Powers

  Speaks to our women’s nerves, galvanic threads

  Which gather up, interpret and transmit

  The unseen Powers and their hidden Will.

  This is our negative world, where the Unseen,

  Unheard, Impalpable, and Unconfined

  Speak to and through us—it is we who hear,

  Our natures that receive their thrilling force.

  Come into this reversed world, Geraldine,

  Where power flows upwards, as in the glass ball,

  Where left is right, and clocks go widdershins,

  And women sit enthroned and wear the robes,

  The wreaths of scented roses and the crowns,

  The jewels in our hair, the sardonyx,

  The moonstones and the rubies and the pearls,

  The royal stones, where we are priestesses

  And powerful Queens, and all swims with our Will.

  All mages have been tricksters. We are no

  More and no less than all High Priests have been

  Holding the masses to the faith with shows

  Of firework and magic to impress

  With symbols of Heaven’s brightness those dull eyes

  Which won’t conceive our meanings from our speech.

  You are calmer now. That’s good. That’s good. I stroke

  The blue veins in your arms with my ringed hands

  And power flows from me to you. You feel

  The benefit of it. You are calm. Quite calm.

  You call yourself my Slave. Not so, my dear.

  Avoid extravagance of phrase or tone

  If you would taste success in this new Sphere.

  You are my Pupil and my dear, dear friend,

  You are, who knows, the next Sybilla Silt,

  But now you must be decorous and show

  Deference to the ladies, gentle tact

  To the rough male-folk, bring them cups of tea

  And smile, and listen, for we need to know

  All that their innocent gossiping reveals.

  Here, as you see, the gauze lies hid, and here,

  The flowers to let fall, and here the gloves

  Ready to make the airy passes with.

  I need your help with Lady Claregrove’s son.

  She is almost mad to feel his touch, and grasp

  The tiny fingers. If the room is dark—

  And you creep—so—and rest your elbow—so—

  Briefly—and touch her cheek—your fingers are

  Most exquisitely dimpling and fine.

  What’s that you say? How can it do her hurt?

  Her will to Faith’s a good, and our small tricks

&
nbsp; Our genial deceptions, strengthen that,

  And so are good too, in their harmless way.

  Here is a lock of hair—the housemaid’s hair—

  As golden as her son’s, and just as fine—

  Which at some aptest moment you let fall

  You understand me—in her lap—or on

  Her clutching fingers—that will do such good—

  Will give such Happiness that you and I

  May grow and prosper in its lovely warmth.

  We shall have gifts and she her moment’s hope,

  Nay more, her certainty …

  Caetera desunt

  22

  Val was in the stand at Newmarket, watching the empty track, straining her ears for the sound of the hooves, seeing the small bunch of dust and regular surging turn into a stream of shining muscle and brilliant silk, and then come past in a flash, bay, grey, chestnut, bay, so much waiting for so short a time of thundering life. And then the release of tension, the sweat-streaked beasts with flaring nostrils, the people congratulating or shrugging.

  “Who won?” she said to Euan MacIntyre. “It was so quick, I didn’t see.” Though she had cried out with the rest.

  “We won,” said Euan. “He won, The Reverberator. He was great.”

  Val flung her arms around Euan’s neck.

  “We can have a celebration,” said Euan. “Twenty-five to one, not bad, we knew he would come good.”

  “I bet on him,” said Val. “To win. I put some money on White Nights, each way, because its name was nice, but I bet on him to win.”

  “There,” said Euan. “You see I’ve cheered you up. Nothing like a gamble and a bit of action.”

  “You didn’t tell me it was so beautiful,” said Val.

  It was a good day, an English day, palely sunny, with patches of mist out at the edges of vision, out at the invisible end of the track, where the horses gathered.

  Val had had the idea that racecourses were like the betting shops of her childhood, smelling of beer and fag ends and, it seemed to her, sawdust and male piss.

  And this was grass and clean air and a sense of cheerfulness, and the dancing lovely creatures.

  “I don’t know if the others are here,” said Euan. “Want to look?”