July 9
The worst is not, so long as we can say, “this is the worst.” My father used to quote that, when everything in our lives seemed to gang agley. It comes from King Lear, and it means, I suppose, that as long as we still have our wits, and breath to speak, we have not come to the worst place of all.
Yet how can I believe that worse is still to come? There is no pretending now that George’s wound was a small one, quickly healed. For certain he is dead, and by my hand. And am I any less a murderess, not remembering how I came to strike the blow?
Nor do I remember much of yesterday, after waking in confusion from my faint. I recollect Mrs. Brown, the medium, looking pale and discomposed, I suppose because of the disturbance I had caused, and perhaps also because her china candlesticks were smashed. I remember the odd way that Alexandra looked down at me, as I first came round. And I remember the kindness and concern in Mr. Grenville-Smith’s eyes, as he gave me his arm and helped me to a cab. But I deserve neither his good opinion nor his friendship. I shrink from the thought that he might one day learn the truth.
July 15
I can scarcely bear to write of what happened yesterday, it gave me such a fright. After dinner HPB was vigorously holding forth on the Spirit World to the usual gathering of visitors, when she broke off with a kind of shudder in mid-sentence. Her next words so shocked me so that I nearly cried out. She said, “A murderer has just passed below our window.”
A ripple of excitement ran round the room, and everyone turned to stare at HPB. Lady Asquith, who was sitting near the window, looked out at the street, but said she could see no one. My heart was thudding wildly as I waited for HPB to turn accusing eyes in my direction. This was a woman who could see what was invisible to others, who could peer into the darkest corners of my heart. Surely she must suspect that the murderer, far from being in the street outside, was under her very roof.
All last night I lay awake, listening to the clock strike the hours, fearful of what the morning might bring, and yet HPB has said nothing. Perhaps she is only biding her time, because for the moment I am useful to her. But she is not a patient woman, and she has no tolerance for mistakes. Suppose one day she should fly into a rage with me, as she does sometimes with Mr. Bertram? There are names she could call me far worse than the ones she calls poor Mr. Bert.
How foolish I was, to think I could find refuge in a city where no one knew me, nor cared what I once was.
July 21
Now that Madame Zhelihovsky and her daughter have arrived HPB seems in much better spirits, and I believe her health has also improved a little. It is hard to be downhearted in the younger Vera’s presence. She is such a blithe and carefree young woman, quick to laugh, and every bit as pretty as the Countess described her. Needless to say she is much admired by the gentlemen of the household, and has especially caught the eye of one of HPB’s protégés, Mr. Charlie Johnston. He has just graduated from Dublin University, and is to leave for Bengal in the autumn, but in the meantime is spending every possible moment at Lansdowne Road. Of course, this romance has greatly annoyed HPB, as she is much opposed to the whole institution of marriage.
At barely seventeen, it seems, she married General Blavatsky, a man three times her age. When at the altar the priest said, “Thou shalt honour and obey thy husband,” HPB clenched her teeth and muttered, “Surely I shall not.” And promptly ran away to Central Asia.
All the same, I believe that Mr. Johnston and Miss Z. will marry. He is as handsome and clever as she is charming, and it is clear that they dote upon one another. But I felt a little melancholy this evening, as I watched the two of them stroll through the garden arm in arm. I remembered how, when I looked in Edith’s mirror for the face of my future husband, there was naught to see but darkness.
Meanwhile, next month we are expecting a Colonel Olcott, who is coming from America to see HPB on some contentious matters of Theosophical business, which I will not attempt to explain. All these things seem to conspire against the timely completion of the book.
August 26
It’s weeks since I have written in this journal. I think sometimes it would be better not to write at all, so there will be no record of this awful summer. The entire household is caught up in HPB’s frantic efforts to prepare The Secret Doctrine. This vast work is soon to be published, and still she makes changes and additions, until we are all driven to distraction. Some of the corrections are HPB’s own, but others appear on her desk as pages of foolscap covered with notes in blue pencil handwriting — the work, we are told, of the Tibetan Master Koot Hoomi, delivered by astral post office.
To make matters worse, HPB herself is unwell. She suffers from a great many ills, any one of which, says Mr. Archie, would kill an ordinary woman. In consequence she flies into tantrums for the most trivial of reasons.
Yesterday one of the foolscap sheets from Master Koot Hoomi was misplaced, and by afternoon, in spite of all our efforts, still had not been discovered. Just as we were sitting down to our tea, the two Messrs. Keightley, the Countess, Mr. Mead and myself, HPB came raging out of her study to demand why we had given up the search. “Here you all are, lazing about, doing nothing, and without this information it is quite impossible for me to continue!”
Mr. Archie said mildly, “We will continue to look, HPB, as soon as we have had our tea. Surely the paper cannot have vanished quite as mysteriously as it appeared.”
This seemed to enrage HPB still further, and now, to my dismay, she turned her fury upon me. “You, Miss Guthrie! Why do you sit there like a flapdoodle? Do you imagine you are being paid to gossip and eat toast?” I must have turned bright red in my embarrassment and confusion. Though she constantly berates poor Mr. Bert, HPB had never before spoken to me in this manner, and I was speechless with mortification. Though I half-rose to my feet, thinking to leave the table and continue the search, HPB would not be mollified.
“Here am I, day and night bent over my desk, wearing holes in the elbows of my sleeves, surrounded by flapdoodles, and as for you, Miss Guthrie, you are the most useless of all.” And then she called me some names I would blush to write in this book. Even the steward, in my days as a bondager, had not so belittled and abused me. My throat felt tight, my eyes prickled. And then anger overcame humiliation. This woman I had so much admired now seemed to me a selfish, foul-tempered, ungrateful old harridan. Murderess I might be; but like everyone in the household, I had missed meals, lost sleep, laboured to exhaustion for her sake. I felt quite dizzy and sick with indignation.
HPB had worked herself into frenzy. She would not leave off shouting at me. All at once the teacups began to rattle in their saucers, and the milk jug, of its own accord, jiggled about on its tray and overturned. The open jam pot flew off the table, dragging the tablecloth after it, and almost landed in Mr. Archie’s lap.
In the sudden silence we looked at one another in dismay. HPB, meanwhile, was staring at me as though it were I and not herself who had drenched the tablecloth and splotched the India rug with strawberry jam. Next time, I thought, she may aim the jam pot straight at my head.
Now it seemed sure that I would be turned out of the house to fend for myself. And at that moment I did not much care.