Divine Fire (25 page)
Cain: Then leave me.
Adam: Never, though thy God left thee.
—Byron
A man who knows everything and also never dies.
—Voltaire on the Comte de Saint Germain
That which is striking and beautiful is not always good, but that which is good is always beautiful.
—From a letter by Ninon de Lenclos
The woman with red-gold hair and black eyes pushed the late-arriving Christmas cards aside and read the cable again. Her lips twitched at the
“C’est un vrai cinglé, ce type”
that concluded the brief report. Her informant was wrong, of course, though she understood his mistake. The great poet wasn’t a nutcase; he was just involved in some unusual projects that required somewhat suspicious behavior.
Which was fortunate for her, because it seemed that he had taken care of the Dippel dilemma with commendable thoroughness. There remained just one other difficulty for the good doctor’s few remaining projects—but she didn’t know if it was the proper time to openly challenge Le Comte de Saint Germain about his intentions.
“Will there ever be a time?” she asked Aleister, who politely cracked an eye at her meditative enquiry. The cat yawned, showing his dainty but very sharp teeth, which was his way of shrugging.
Je ne le crois pas
, his pea-green eyes said as he stared down from the mantel.
She sighed heavily, suggesting to the cat that she also thought not. “But what then do I do? What course is best for me to follow?”
Aleister sniffed once at the frangipani-scented air. He had no suggestions to make. That was regrettable, but then, really, it was not his problem. He had just eaten a large plate of fresh steamed shrimp, and it was time to drop back into a deep, contemplative state that closely resembled a nap but was actually where he thought about important cat things and listened to the sea where his next meal swam.
Being a perceptive creature—almost a feline, he felt—his mistress took the subtle hint and politely left him to his work.
The woman walked silently across the room, not disturbing the grass mats on the floor. Carefully she struck a match and lit one of the many candles on her old-fashioned writing table. The small flame was barely enough for a normal person to see by, but she didn’t bother to light any of the others. There was no need; she saw everything she wanted. There wasn’t a great deal to see. There was no computer on the desk, and no phone.
To write or not to write?
Several times in the nineteenth century, she had come close to contacting the poet. Then he had disappeared from Greece, not to be found again until the late twentieth century. It was tempting to look him up now because she could use an ally. She was quite aware of his continuing interest in her. But was it the right time?
No, she would wait. It wasn’t likely that anyone was following her yet, but it was within the realm of the possible that her position had again been discovered and she would have to move. She wouldn’t risk leading the Dark Man to Byron and his new consort. It was possible that Saint Germain didn’t yet know the poet lived. If so, she would not be responsible for bringing more evil into Byron’s life.
Sighing again, the woman who had once been Ninon de Lenclos folded the cable into fourths and then fed it to the candle’s greedy flame.
When the last bit of ash was crushed out and swept into the wastebasket, she turned back to the cat and smiled fondly at his delicate snores. She loved to watch him slumber. It was the thing she missed most from her old life, being able to sleep.
Still, there were other compensations.
“Trés bien,”
she said softly to the floral scented air that wafted in the window.
She leaned over and blew out the candle. As her silk blouse fell forward, any passing person might have observed the small golden scars over her heart. But there was no one passing by on this side of the island; that was why she liked it.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but this story contains at least three historical inaccuracies needed for the sake of the plot. In spite of this, the
character
of the characters is—I believe—completely truthful to what they were in life, and what they would be if they had lived into this century.
The first inaccuracy is the suggestion that there was only one portrait done of Ninon de Lenclos. There were two done in her lifetime that I know of, though the second was a rather inferior effort—almost a caricature. The other portraits I’ve seen are all copies of these first and were undertaken after her death, but there are possibly others in existence.
The second inaccuracy is in letting readers think that she held sex classes in the
rue des Tournelles
. She gave private lessons and shared her philosophy of love with chosen partners, but she didn’t have group orgies with a chalkboard and manuals. Thirdly, in spite of Brice Ashton’s complaints, many of Ninon’s letters and her
La Coquette Vengée
still exist in library archives and in the hands of scholars. It isn’t historians who have overlooked her; it is the general public—particularly in America—who have not made an effort to know this woman. Which is a shame, because she was an amazing person, liberationist, feminist and philosopher. She considered emigrating to the Americas, and I am sorry that she did not, because we might know her better today if she had made our hemisphere her own.
As for Lord Byron, he is still the stuff of which reallife heroes are made. Ignore the propaganda you were taught in school. Byron was the equivalent of a movie star in his day. His biographies were nearly all concocted by well-intentioned friends or worse-intentioned foes, and are about as reliable as what we read in the tabloids today. He was also government enemy #1. Because he traveled widely and reported on what he saw, Byron forced people to confront the war in which England had been embroiled for twenty years and what that war actually meant. He also advocated allowing Catholics the freedom to practice their religion without sanctions. And—
gasp
—he believed in educating women when they wished to learn.
However, the final straw saw something that will be difficult for those of our time to understand. Byron admitted to, and wrote about, human sexuality. He was the British voice of libido. This was still an era of Puritanical hypocrisy and he grievously offended much of the population with his frank poems and other writing.
The reference list at the end of this book gives the titles of works which more accurately portray the poet. Certainly he was flawed, but starting in his early youth, though handicapped by a lame foot, he demonstrated great physical bravery, often intervening on behalf of weaker children or animals. He retained this physical courage all his life, and as an adult added philosophical and political bravery to his list of assets. He was an advocate for the common man, and died helping others win their freedom. His death was a tragedy, and the burning of his memoirs by Hobhouse and Murray was a literary crime.
The heroine, Brice Ashton, is not me. She sounds like me and shares many of my opinions, but I have made my peace regarding certain things with which she still struggles. And she is far wiser and braver than I am. Luckier too: I would dearly love to find a copy of
La Coquette Vengée
.
As for Johann Conrad Dippel…he did exist and is probably the basis for Mary Shelley’s Dr. Frankenstein. He was an eighteenth-century grave-robber; however, I doubt he ever practiced grafting dead limbs onto his own body. That is my own horrific invention, as is his journal. According to history, he was born after Ninon’s death and long gone before Byron was of an age to consult him about curing his epilepsy. But isn’t it fun to pretend otherwise? Besides, he could have had a likeminded father and an equally twisted son to carry on the gruesome dynasty.
I mentioned two other women in this book and will be kind and spare the curious among you a hunt for an encyclopedia. Semiramis was Queen of Assyria who built the hanging gardens of Babylon, and in her spare time she conquered Egypt, Ethiopia and much of Asia. The other woman is Diane de Poitiers, a fifteenth-century beauty who was the mistress of Henry II of France and virtual ruler of that country for many years. These two, along with Ninon, Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, were supposed to have sold their souls for eternal beauty.
Of course, Diane de Poitiers claimed her greatest beauty aid was washing her face every day with clean well water. I believe her. Washing with anything would have been a great novelty at the time, and would have prevented many disfiguring ailments and diseases. Ninon followed that practice as well, at the command of the
“Dark Man”
who appeared on her eighteenth birthday and offered her lifelong beauty if she would sign his red book. Fortunately for Ninon, he was not actually the Devil, but rather a Jewish doctor who understood the power of the mind to heal a patient. His potions were placebos, which worked because people
believed
. Combining faith with cleanliness, his patients tended to live longer than the poor wretches who recoursed to the standard treatments of bleedings and leeches.
Lastly, my stories never get written in a vacuum. As always, there are people I need to thank for helping this book along. First and foremost in line for a share of gratitude is Harry Squires, who helped me with the gathering of reference material, and performed general cheerleading when I had moments of doubt about being so arrogant as to place undocumented opinions in Byron’s twenty-first-century mouth. Next on the list is my husband, who has been very patient with my yearlong raves of admiration about both Byron and Ninon de Lenclos (though, truthfully, I’ve raved about Ninon for a lot longer than that). Lesser men would have been jealous and probably bored, but my husband always manages to look attentive.
The third person who deserves a generous share of appreciation is my cousin, Richard, who reminded me that there are horror classics other than
Dracula
, and that
Frankenstein
was more closely associated with Lord Byron anyway.
Endless thanks go out to the author of the poem
Le Chevalier sans Paix
, which is printed in its entirety following this Author’s Note. I needed a poem for Damien, and knew that I could never do him justice. It was an act of great generosity to let me borrow this work.
And lastly, I must thank my editor for being a brave soul. Some people might have shied away when they heard a working title of
Lord Byron vs. Frankenstein
. But he had faith that somehow I would carry it off.
As always, I love hearing from you and can be reached through my Web site at www.melaniejackson.com, or through snail mail at PO Box 574, Sonora, CA 953700574.
May you be warmed with sweet dreams of your own divine fires.
—Melanie Jackson
Invoke my memory and gift me peace:
that which I have sought, which thou art made
by seraphim straight and cherubim crook’d,
and wet thyself in my tears; thou art born
as I have released thee to thy valiance.
At home, nestled beneath my robes and quilt
I drift, without my liege, nor my honor,
ton chevalier sans le mot de ta coeur
.
Awake! Arouse thyself as I could not
bear to breed bitterness and pain for naught,
and here we whiled past le lac de St. Clair:
a pretty pond, yet vaster than thy heart.
Presently, and pastly too, I had been found
bestridd’n by devils, weaker than my mind.
Et donné pas de nom a ma peine, Ami
,
c’est toi
, and christened thus I must leave thee,
shivering there, behind thine appointed.
Ignite me, O fire of isolation!
It hath not been long since I felt thine ice
and my soul’s ticklish tears upon my cheek.
I have burned before, and stayed unscathed,
despite the draw of death: undenied:
yet unrequited, and undermighted
to take so strong a keep as mine without
twelve-score men, and twenty-eight, for siege,
forsooth I shan’t be beat without a fight.
Approaching now, armies of
l’avenir
:
avenging angels, a catalogue of crime,
mine own, and yet not mine alone.
Within this tower built of pride and pain,
in this keep on the bordering kingdom,
aye, I prepare alone for the coming siege.
The marble floor, crack’d with age,
doth suffice to grant rest to this tired old
kavalier
.
But dreams shall tireless flock to withered men
and ever show what brought their fall.
Awake, probing the gloom with sightless eyes,
I think of thee,
ami
, and thus succumb.
Ah! A memory imbibed—tasting of mist,
etherial wafts of wondrous dreams
and songs to thy immortality mine:
a gift given by my memory of late.
Eternal beauty, the soft solemn of thy lips,
the stormy cumuli collect beneath thy brows.
Lightning rolls thus to sea, pushed by winds no less divine
than that which moves thy slender form and figure faint.
On course, it is a river I see—
washing clean the banks of that Ann’s arbor.
The roots ravish the soil there and rapids rape the shore,
carrying—nay, crevassing and abandoning—
the spoilt yet blessed earth which,
eager to be borne leaps lightly,
swallowed by foam and lusty waves,
digesting thus the whole and leaving mighty embankments
mellowed for the ages, worse for wear.
And yet the river bends on, babbling.
It is splashing away its rage,
while the oars of youth violate its ice-sheen surface
and push through temples to Neptune or naiads
who sing and dance naked ’neath the silent hills
of wat’ry swirl, capped by white,
softer than the mossy mounds; sought,
found by sailors for an anchor
which might save the vessel
tempest-tossed but for the stay of a line
parting the darkness
and tied to that which stands at the heart of the ship—
an open craft in stormy sea;
a rocking, roiling, rigorous pull.
Warm salty splashes from oars,
deeper and deeper they sink—trying,
praying desperately to banish the flames
which light the poles;
the sails have torn free, flapping about thy shoulders,
and yes! You are there my love—
your eyes are more violent than the storm.
Shaded, glass’d perhaps, but it is thee
and thou art greyer than this toil.
Now, thrice, the shrieks of boys erupt
and echo loudly ’cross this toiling tide.
A splash, and foam erupts, explodes!
The metal sheen—the shining hull
hast bared its sharp-edged belly and swallowed:
warm water engulfing all, and salty;
yet not those salts which spice the sea
but the tang of youth which swells
and strays near the foundering forms
and ’neath the narrow straits.
Ripped by rocks; caressing, nuzzling nymphs
grip his legs and lick his lips
and he is breathing beneath: resting deep.
A crackling like lightning and
voila
!
He is born anew to the sea,
sundered bonds and freedom offered.
He must swim, crawl through the eddies,
seeing the forms—shielded shapes
which neither bugs nor tailors
could discern themselves—forces of men
forces of God, thwarted thus and
thou art dry as I am drenched.
And eyes, grey and green, meet here
stopp’d not by shades nor shores
nor haughty pride and struggling here
I must not drown before my port.
This ship’s new-built—its virgin sails
beg billows and breaks ’gainst gales
’fore sinking darkly to the deep.
I must find a parched plateau,
an isle, a cove, on which to dry
and light a fire with which to warm
these youthful yearnings that doth swarm
and sum this pair of eyes orbiting
thoughts too tired or timeless to think.
(I, a wraith, a waterlogged daemon, yes!
But dry within and kindling a flame
which smolders still, and has burned
bright in its day and in its place.)
The blue enclosing steel, the seating soft
in this, that horizon which I have flown.
Still I drip, still I drain
and see before me, above me, reflected
clouds again, shining somehow like grass
kiss’d by morning sun and spider silk
of night’s clear dew which sheathes
the broken blades, as well as whole—
’tis thine eyes; they are thin, tight,
and yet they open the gates of God.
The best-laid plans, tailor made,
have placed me here—behind—
but thou hast sought me out.
I am here: Thou hast sought me and I am staid
behind sarcasm, words, lies, songs, stares—
the arsenal falls, distended and dysfunctional
for I am thine from henceforth and hereon.
Knight kiss’d, sailor subjected. Princess poor
and landless hath yet won a champion
from life through death eternal.
This frigid eve, again art placed
within its rig’rous grip,
and on this marble porch they crouch, in silent secrecy,
the torch of the King and Queen’s dominion yet bright,
flickering o’er their hunkered forms in night,
stridently proclaiming these thoughts bonds in sin.
He raises the gate; the light illumines
the door, the yard beyond, and steps across
with her: that treasure which must be returned
to this, a palace not far removed
from that grosse pointe where they had strolled
’til night full beckoned them home to weary beds.
“It hath begun,” he whispers to the moon,
which failing, falling from the sky’s embrace
makes way for journey home in deep’ning dawn.
She turns, her slender fingers caress skin;
his lips have met her neck, and she whimpers,
caught first by novelty and next by heat:
liquid drizzled o’er the tender skin—gasp!—
gentled breath hummed with kisses lighting
on virgin flesh and stillborn sighs which live
and force flush, painful pure to cherry cheek,
pierced by evening’s chilly archer,
shafts fletched by youth and loosed in innocence.
Nutted hair, straight to slope and shoulder sleek,
falls fair and fiery for that torch above,
and door shall ope soon enough:
that vigil kept, by Queen above.
Tonight must be all for two but born,
and who wait on ripe age where time shall be their own.
She is stolen behind barrier black, and gate closed,
and he must return to his own keep.
“O guarded citadel, you shall be mine,”
he vows, and turns him headlong home.
Time sighs, stretching.
Its slender limbs lengthen as a yawn,
worn and weary, escapes from wizened lips,
and beneath its gaunt gaze, inept for an instant,
the eons ease and a century dallies in a day.
Oh, what wondrous whims!
What sanguine sweetness can overcome the angst of youth,
giv’n the rein to follow its fearless fancy!
Youth’s sweet knight and princess pure find joy
in starless skies and each embrace is such
that misery is missed, its mastiffs eluded,
misdirected—thus they are prey no more
to terror, sadness, or to strife. They are safe.
Her class is naught, for now,
and know not that they must fail by century’s end.
Now, within the grip of knight’s new graces,
rising and refined, they ride, a couplet
in a madrigal’s mad refrain: bawdy. Adventures wild.
At the Hill of Freedom they while in eves:
elves feasting on the merry meat of madness,
yet rapturous of all,
despite the pats on backs of friends of Yore.
Klucks of disdain hardly heard and overcome as well.
Fêtes, and feasts and
le renaissance
,
and here, to him, bestow’d her blade
to swing by side and shine for all: her steel
in his sheath, at his side, forevermore.
And on an eve, some three months hence,
hidden deep, dark beneath the palace keep,
that knight fell hard, and knelt for princess sweet.
In sobs they shared, shouldered a load,
which none have borne in better name
than theirs, and Tristan and Iseult could smile,
replete in that they—replaced, reborn—
might merge again, and joy and jubilance
reigned here, in dark and dirty dungeon.
The solemn smiles, the tortured tears,
simply symptoms of brighter bliss.
Queen and King above are watchful, but bow
their regal brows in silent submission,
beat’n by bond which conquer’d Cath’lic church
through human need and mortal mode.
Christus et Amor; Chrétien est Amoureuse.
The cue thus came for mighty union—
as faith founders, love stumbles scared;
’til gauntlet and glove grasp, grip tight the hand
of saving grace: the other.
In chivalric code, he is the mold:
honor, vigor, and loyalty here pledge
faithful force for love’s new lass eternal.
But vigor’s mighty arm grows weak with age,
and true, honor’s thorough thought grows dim.
But loyalty: That great heart rules proudly ’til death
has silenced it within its vast cathedral.
For love’s holy hymn, she is the harp,
evoking the melodies of a thousand songs,
but none named, all rapt’rous and still the soul.
But sweet strains, without an ear, grow stale,
so loyal lad who lends an ear gains all.
This new borne night, this newborn knight
has loved his liege and his liege learned love.
Months have pass’d, and bear weary witness
to tortured times and dimming dreams.
That flame which burned so brightly above
the porch of King and Queen, the torch afire
with passion’s light burns low, and threats it gives
to plunge the night through deepest dusk
unheeded by the sentries posted here at home.
So seldom are guarded our hidden treasures,
so secure we see their secret’s safety sure.
The princess? The knight? Where didst thou flee?
You sir! To urban ’scape where glory’s made?
Princess? The same, and for your own renown?
What came of love and its rewards? And how?
Since your claim forsakes him not, where is thy love?
Ah. On thy sleeve, and nowhere else.
Both, look to thineselves, for thou hast lost thy
footing and thy defense in one slick step’s descent!
Know not that thou art cursed before begun?
Princess, did not thy friend warn thee of this?
She, who told the tale of Priam’s ruin;
she who Clytemnestra slew, since silent,
warned not this pair of lovers doomed?
Kavalier
! Hast not thine own might and pow’r
taught thee sense? Dost thou seek glory too?
You will find it, buried deep in ennuyeux.
And hence they parted, company kept,
but somewhere, somehow, they disregarded
what once had made them one in two.
Spring hailed its mighty foe and Winter
fled once more to chilly clime whence had come.
Behind it, left: Hibernia’s wake,
and visions of what happened here in haste.
She’s courted now, and Sheep King’s cry is such
that taken for a time she is by Greek glory.
Castoff knight, guilty of guarding greed,
leaves to find fortune in the art of gore.
Man the keep on the bordering kingdom!
Arm the farthest reaches of the fiefdom!
Now alone, he shrinks, scarred each sunset
by the loss of love and princess pure.
Her blade, sheathed for shame within his heart—
his melee since with footman’s lance.
Wounded in battle at Belgrade Lakes,
in that damned mainland far removed,
he falls, faint—is nursed at Nottingham.
“Princess, please, your pilgim’s poor!
Canst thou not see me in my shame?
Arm me again with thy sharp steel
which soothed my strength and saved my soul!”
She whose holy word he won’t abuse,
she, whose name he woos on waking,
comes unknownst to him, hidden from all sight.
