Wild Talent (13 page)

Alexandra goes on to tell how she has discovered the Musée Guimet, where she has been reading about the literature and philosophy of India and China. “There I believe I will find more mystery, more secret wisdom, than the inhabitants of the Boulevard Saint-Michel have ever dreamed of.”

And she writes with great enthusiasm of a new acquaintance she met at the museum: “The Countess de Bréant — a most brilliant and intriguing woman, a student of Jewish and Arab philosophies, of Pantheism, and also of the Vedantas. She has travelled in India, and was interested to learn that I too hoped one day to visit the Buddha's birthplace.”

Quite out of the blue this Countess invited Alexandra first for a cup of tea, and then to a meeting of the Pythagorean Society, of which she is a member. “As you can imagine, I was astonished and excited to learn that here in Paris there are devotees of the great Greek mathematician, who is almost a mythological figure, a veritable god of science. Of course I accepted her invitation.”

And thus Alexandra embarks on another adventure. Much to her disappointment, I suspect, she could only attend the meeting, which was open to the public, but not the ritual ceremony at which only initiates were allowed. “And of course if there was a Society, there must be initiates! Everywhere, it seems, are these crowds of devotees and disciples, dedicated to the arcane mysteries of Egypt and ancient Greece.

“The Pythagoreans meet in a pavilion at the end of a little Parisian garden. The meeting room is large and austere, but comfortably furnished — very different from the cramped and wretched atmosphere of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. We seated ourselves on velvet-upholstered benches. Below the speaker's platform was an inscription,
Même si elle est trop haute
, which means that one should strive always towards one's loftiest ideals, even when they seem impossible to attain.

“Such an idea has always appealed to me. It is the journey that counts, after all — the adventure of the road, the excitement of the ever-changing landscape, the perilous ascent to the high peaks, with no certainty of what lies behind the mists. Perhaps, I thought, among the Pythagoreans I could learn to experience that sense of awe that has so far eluded me — the
terreur sacrée
that overwhelms our reason and can take us to the very edge of the unknown.

“Alas,
chère Jeanne
,
quel désappointement
!”

The assistants, she tells me, distributed the text of a very long
récitation
printed on expensive paper. Slowly, gravely and interminably, the members intoned the words. Far from being inspired with sacred terror, she found herself drifting off to sleep.

“Then the speaker referred to the formula written on one of the walls, and based on the writings of Pythagoras:
Le
nombre est l'essence de choses
— ‘number is the ultimate reality'. I hoped he would discuss this enigma further, but no — instead he began to explain how human souls are formed from the ether which fills space, and how after the death of the body, our souls go to live on various other planets, according to how much merit we have earned in life. It seemed to me this had little to do with mathematics.

“I thanked Madame Bréant politely for her invitation and excused myself, pleading the demands of my other studies. Still, I am not discouraged. I shall continue my explorations, wherever they may lead me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

February 18

U
ntil now HPB has paid little attention to my comings and goings, so long as I was on hand when needed. However, my afternoon's outing to the Zoological Gardens did not go unnoticed, and as I passed by her desk on my return she fixed me with that riveting blue gaze. “About this young man from the Spookical Society —I have made myself entirely clear, I believe, on the subject of marriage.”

This was so disconcerting that I scarcely knew how to reply. “Madame Blavatsky, if you mean Mr. Grenville-Smith, surely you must realize he is just a friend. There's no danger of anything more between us.”

“So you say. But I know when someone is in danger of becoming a flapdoodle.”

I wished to put an end to this absurd conversation. “If Mr. Grenville-Smith marries at all,” I said, “it will be to someone of his own station.”

“His own station,” she repeated, with a hint of mockery. “And what do you imagine that station is?”

“He is the son of a lord, I believe.”

“The youngest son of a baronet, to be precise,” said HPB, and I knew from her tone that she intended to have the last word. Or in fact a great number of last words. “Since he won't inherit, he'll be expected to make his own way in the world, and since he has chosen to mess about in science, he'll be hard put to rub two shillings together. If he has any sense, he'll see that a healthy young wife with a good head on her shoulders will be more use to him than some anemic debutante.” She stubbed out her cigarette with considerable force, by way of emphasis. “Marriage for a woman is a fatal step, Miss Guthrie. She is tied hand and foot to a master whom she is required by law to honour and obey. One should run from marriage as from mortal danger.”

And that of course was what HPB herself had done. But I remember how Miss Vera's cheeks had glowed with happiness when she married Mr. Johnston; clearly, she saw her wedding as the beginning of joy and not the end of it. But sadly, I am not Miss Vera, whose beauty draws every eye, and makes men want to cherish and protect her.

Exactly as though she had read my thoughts (and most of the time, I believe, she does!) HPB said, “You sell yourself short, Jean Guthrie. You may not be a raving beauty, but you have those splendid green eyes — though you would not think it now, men have worshipped me for my eyes. You have an enviable shape, a graceful carriage, and a fine head of hair, if you would only look after it better. A good brain also counts for something. Tom Grenville-Smith is smitten, mark my words. You must take great care not to become entangled.”

If only it were true! How willingly would I become entangled! But Tom I think sees me as a sort of younger sister, someone with whom to share his love of books, and theatre, and country rambles. It's only in novels that the sons of baronets fall in love with parlour-maids, or, less likely still, with the girl who hoes the turnips.

February 23

Professor Lodge has arrived, along with two of his colleagues from the Psychical Research Society. I caught a glimpse of them as I retreated from the dining room to HPB's study, where I am to remain till I am needed. I may be here for some time, so I have brought my journal with me, by way of keeping occupied.

I am feeling very anxious, thinking what I must do, and knowing how much the outcome of this day depends on me.

Madame Blavatsky has gone out to greet her visitors. Even with the Countess's help she could scarcely lift her great bulk from her chair. She seems immeasurably weary. Her eyes, once so piercing a blue, are dulled with pain.

As for Professor Lodge, he is a gentleman of middle years, with a full dark beard going a little grizzled, and a high gleaming forehead. He has a rather stern, intimidating look, and even Countess Constance, I think, is a little frightened of him. At the moment he is taking tea and talking to some journalists. From where I sit I can hear their conversation. Just now one of the journalists was asking the Professor, “How is that a man of science like you is interested in spiritism?” And the professor answered, rather sharply, “You mean in psychic phenomena? Is that any stranger than that I should be interested in x-rays? Not so very many years ago, those too would have been considered occult claptrap.”

It is customary to have the subject of the investigation thoroughly searched, to be sure she has no apparatus concealed about her person. I remember that is what was done at the séance in Crouch End. But of course in the case of Madame Blavatsky, such indignity was out of the question. Just now I heard Professor Lodge conferring with the Countess, saying that without safeguards, the experiment would be flawed; followed by the Countess's whispered protestations, and then HPB's indignant roar: “Sir, do you imagine I am some humbug medium, conjuring up spectres in the dark? I, who am an impenetrable mystery of nature, an enigma for future generations? What need have I, for wires and devices?” And then there was a series of thumps, and I guessed that she was banging her walking stick on the floor for emphasis. Old and tired and sick she may be, with her powers failing, but her fierce pride is undiminished. It saddens me, to think that her reputation should depend on yet another sort of trickery.

But now I gather that they have found a compromise: HPB is to be seated well out of reach of any table, wall or cupboard that might conceal a mechanism; to which arrangement she has grudgingly agreed.

I hope that Professor Lodge does not expect one of HPB's celebrated miracles — like the chair made so heavy that three men cannot lift it, or the closed piano made to play as though by invisible hands. I cannot stretch and elongate my body so that I can touch the ceiling, nor can I produce the ghostly image of a Mahatma, emerging like fog from my head and shoulders. Unlike HPB, I cannot make solid objects vanish, still less make half a dozen appear where there was one before.

But I can make an entertainment of my own devising that I think will bemuse and astonish our distinguished visitor.

Now I can hear the tea-things being cleared away. It is time for me to play my part in this charade.

March 10

A fortnight has passed since I last wrote in this journal — a fortnight spent in shame and vain regrets. Yet had I foreknowledge, would I have acted differently?

I have determined to make this an honest record, not leaving out the things that are difficult to write. And so I must set down the disastrous outcome of Professor Lodge's visit.

Before our visitors arrived, the Countess asked Mr. Archibald to set up a tall japanned screen at the end of the dining room, just in front of HPB's study door. There I was to stand well out of sight, while HPB occupied her usual place in full view of our audience. I could see that the Countess was as anxious as I was myself. As I went to conceal myself behind the screen, she put a hand on my arm and said, with an apologetic smile, “Dear Jeannie, you do know that we would not ask this of you, if Madame were herself, and her powers not so weakened?”

I nodded, wondering as I did so, what hope there could be of Madame ever recovering her powers. How much more often was today's performance to be repeated, until that indomitable spirit finally succumbed?

I could hear HPB talking at some length about the Mahatmas, and how their invisible presences might manifest themselves. She was speaking, I thought, directly to Professor Lodge. Then came an expectant silence. I took a deep breath and focussed my thoughts. Countess Constance had placed a large vase filled with hothouse roses in the centre of the dining room table. Though I could not see the faces of my audience, I heard their delighted gasps as an invisible hand snatched up the blossoms and tossed them high into the air. There were appreciative murmurs, and a scattering of applause. I imagined Professor Lodge sitting astonished with a lapful of crimson roses, stray petals caught in his beard; while HPB acknowledged the applause with a faint smile and an imperious nod of her several chins.

Some extra chairs were ranged against the far wall, and now I set them teetering and hopping in a demented two-step. The trick with the roses had been easy enough, but now, with this greater effort, I felt the first hint of dizziness and nausea that I knew would soon grow more intense. But who could deny, when they saw those madly dancing chairs, that this was psychic energy, and not mere sleight of hand?

What I planned next I knew would leave me weak and gasping, but that was a small price to pay, I thought, for proof of HPB's powers. I focussed my mind upon the dining room table, heard it creak and groan in all its joints. I might have been lifting a mountain on my shoulders, as I strained against its inert weight. My head began to ache as though a chain was tightening round it. My heart pounded, my face was damp with sweat. And then I heard excited exclamations, and knew I had succeeded. The table (as I was told later) rose several inches into the air and hovered there for a breath-held moment before it thudded to the floor.

But the effort had left me with blurred vision, a terrible fatigue, a weakness in all my limbs. I felt my knees give way, and unthinking, thrust out a hand to recover my balance. To my dismay, I managed to topple the flimsy Japanese screen.

And that would have been disaster enough, as I stood revealed hot-faced and flustered in front of everyone. But worse — unimaginably worse — was gazing into the startled eyes of Tom Grenville-Smith.

He had arrived late, I suppose, and slipped in quietly. And now he was looking back at me with surprise and puzzlement, and something else that made my heart contract.

While Mr. Bertram was setting to rights the screen I fled into the refuge of HPB's bedroom, and would not come out till everyone had left. I'm not sure what Professor Lodge or our other visitors thought. Perhaps, as the Countess insists, they only thought me clumsy or unwell — for none of them, not even the Professor, has questioned Madame Blavatsky's latest miracles.

But Tom has guessed the truth. Or a part of the truth. I could see it in his face. What else can he believe but that I was assisting HPB in a cleverly stage-managed deception? In Tom's eyes, now, I am a shameless fraud who should answer for her misdeeds like any ordinary criminal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

March 14

I
am glad to be distracted by another of Alexandra's entertaining letters.

“Further adventures, chère Jeanne! When I left London I thought I had also left behind the world of spirits and séances; but I find they are not so easily escaped. I recently made the acquaintance of the Duchesse de Pomar, an elderly, eccentric Spanish lady, once married to a Scottish lord. The Duchesse and her circle are adepts of what in French we call
spiritisme.
The Duchesse hosts séances in her mansion on rue de la Université, and somehow, against my better judgment, she has persuaded me to attend.”