November 11
I am writing this at the big table in the dining room, amidst a clutter of books and papers and tea-things. Rain is clattering on the roof; fog hides the drenched ruins of the garden. The curtains are drawn against the early dark.
There is little for me to do today. On this dismal late afternoon HPB has given up the struggle to write and instead has taken to her bed.
She is very ill. The Countess emerged from her bedroom just now, looking wan and tired. I know that she was sitting up with HPB for most of the night. Still, says the Countess with a pretence of cheerfulness, HPB has been nearer to death than this several times before, and astonished her doctors by a full recovery before the day was out.
Lately the weather has discouraged visitors, but on Saturday, when the sun broke through for an hour or two, some ladies from Bloomsbury came by to be entertained by mysterious knocks and rappings, vanishing objects and astral bells. In our audience as well was a tall, thin, sharpfeatured woman dressed all in black, who, sitting well apart from the West End ladies in their feathered hats, kept a keen eye on the proceedings.
But HPB was clearly not herself.
“I fear that my astral energies are at low ebb today,” she told them. I expected that she was about to beg off the usual occult demonstrations. (In fact, I was paying very little attention, for I was thinking how very alone I would be when Alexandra went home to Brussels; and also wondering when Mr. Grenville-Smith might pay another visit.)
All at once I became uncomfortably aware of HPB’s eyes upon me. There was an odd expression on that ravaged face — the look, I thought, of someone struck by sudden inspiration. “Miss Guthrie,” said HPB. “Be kind enough to lend me your assistance. If you will come over here and take my hand . . . ”
I rose at once and went to stand beside her chair. She reached up and seized my hand in hers. “What I require, Miss Guthrie, is to tap into your astral energy, and add it to my own.”
She must have seen my look of alarm, for she added, quite kindly, “Don’t be distressed, there is no risk to yourself. You are young and strong, you have energy and to spare, while mine is fast weakening; and it will not do to disappoint these ladies.”
I cannot describe exactly what happened after that. There was a sensation of warmth in our joined hands, and I could feel a pulse throbbing painfully behind my eyes — though that may only have been my nervousness and apprehension. I was shivering, and at the same time my face felt hot and flushed. That was all. But suddenly there were knockings and bangings all over room: beneath the table, in the cupboard, above the ceiling, behind the walls. These were not the genteel rappings of astral spirits with drawing room manners; but loud, disturbing noises like objects falling from a height, or hammer-blows.
Afterwards, the ladies were agreeably mystified, a little frightened, and undeniably impressed. I stole a glance at HPB. She looked wrung-out, exhausted; but as usual after these sessions, entirely pleased with herself.
As for myself, I took no pleasure at all in that curious performance. I felt dull and listless, wanting only to sleep.
I fear that from now on I may have a new role to play at 17 Lansdowne Road — one that I would never willingly have sought.
November 12
Today another note from Alexandra, who has something “très important” to tell me. I have arranged to meet her this Sunday for a walk in Kensington Gardens, if the weather prove not too inclement.
November 18
How splendid to escape for a few hours from Lansdowne Road! This morning a cold wind blew up and swept away the worst of the fog, so that the day, though chilly and damp, was clear enough for our expedition. The Countess loaned me a warm waterproof cloak with a hood, and as I set off on the short walk to Kensington Gardens, I was in quite good spirits. Alexandra was waiting for me by the Round Pond. The park was almost deserted today, being too late in the year for the children with their toy boats, and too early for skating. Alexandra wished to see the Gardens’ collection of rare shrubs and trees, hoping to find some from the oriental lands she planned one day to visit. As we strolled along the wooded paths, now slick with fallen leaves, I reminded her of her message.
“You said you had something important to tell me? More important than to say you are abandoning me to live in Brussels?”
Alexandra looked up from examining a botanical label. “C’est vrai! Much more important! I have been to the Reading Room of the Museum, for I wished to learn about this peculiar talent of yours.” She looked at me in that earnest way she has, when some new pursuit has stirred her interest. “I thought to find it only in the occult section. Of course we know what Madame Blavatsky believes — that such things are the work of elementals. And others say they are caused by the restless spirits of the dead, or by demonic forces. But quelle surprise! — there are also scientific papers written upon it. I found learned articles, by serious men of science — physicists and physiologists who have been conducting experiments. They call it psychokinesis, and they believe it may have to do with a superabundance of psychic energy.”
How my father would have approved of Alexandra! She is the scholar that he dearly hoped I would become. The more obscure the fact, the more arcane the topic, the greater delight she takes in hunting it down. But I was only half attending to Alexandra’s explanation. I was remembering instead a story from the Borders.
When Alexandra paused for breath I told her, “There was a kitchen maid in Galashiels who made all the crockery fall down and smash. When she was in the room, mustard pots and flat-irons hurled themselves at visitors, and washing hung to dry on hedges flung itself into the road. Everyone said she was possessed by the devil, and wanted to have her exorcised, or possibly drowned.”
“But you, ma chère Jeanne, I do not believe you are a demon, or a ghost, or an elemental spirit. You have a talent — a wild talent, certainement — but I do not think there is anything diabolical about it.”
So, I thought, perhaps I am not an instrument of Satan after all — merely a sport of nature. There was little enough comfort in that.
“Jeanne, why so désolé? This is a marvellous gift you have.”
A gift, I thought bitterly. What value is a gift that in one heedless moment of anger can make a murderess of you? But I could not speak of that to Alexandra. Instead, I told her of my fear that I must now assist HPB with her entertainments.
“And is that so very terrible? Perhaps she will increase your wages.”
How could she speak so lightly of my predicament? For Alexandra, this fearful talent was a curiosity to be studied; for me, it was a burden weighing down my soul.
“But how am I to control this power? It only comes to me when I am angry, or afraid.”
Alexandra laughed. “Living at Lansdowne Road, I would not find that so very difficult.” But then I think she saw how upset I had become, for she added more seriously, “Surely you are controlling it when Madame Blavatsky joins her energies with yours?”
“It seems so,” I admitted. “But her energies are quickly failing.”
“To me,” replied Alexandra, “the answer is clear. One refines whatever talents one may possess, by determined practice. Listen, chère Jeanne. I have been reading about the sorcerers of Tibet.” (What a lot of Alexandra’s sentences begin with, “I have been reading about . . . ”!) The ones who are called lung-gom-pas have mastered strange powers through special training. It is said that they can cross in a few days a distance that should require a month of travel; or by special breathing make their bodies light enough to float. And some, it is said, can even project their thoughts. All this is accomplished, I believe, through mental concentration.”
“But why would I wish to levitate, or let others hear my private thoughts?”
“Don’t be a goose,” said Alexandra. “That is quite beside the point. I am saying that you must learn to master your own gift, so that it is under your command.”
“But how shall I do that? And if you please, Alexandra, no more talk of Tibetan sorcerers!”
“As I have explained. Through mental concentration. You must promise to begin practising, this very night.”
And so I promised, though I find the prospect disturbing, and I have little idea how to begin.
We had planned to cross the Serpentine into Hyde Park to watch the ladies of fashion promenading, and the gentlemen riding their thoroughbred steeds along Rotten Row; but now the wind had dropped and a dank yellow fog was settling in. Wiser, we decided, to seek the warmth and safety of our lodging places; and so we embraced and parted.
Now, while I have an hour before bed, I must put down my pen and practise this peculiar art of mental concentration.
November 19
We are shut in by fog so thick and black that it is like darkness fallen at midday. It presses against the windowpanes, a smothering mud-coloured wall. HPB has taken to her bed; the rest of us, heavy of spirit, move about in a perpetual gloom. Since I have no tasks with which to occupy myself, I will write of what took place last night.
“A superabundance of psychic energy,” Alexandra had said. An energy that arrives unbidden, with the power to maim and to kill. But also an energy that can serve me, and serve Madame Blavatsky, if only I can learn to summon it at my command.
How to begin? I set the inkpot in the middle of my writing table and stared at it, rapt with contemplation. Concentrate as I might, it remained steadfastly in its place.
Fear. Anger. Those were the keys that could unlock the power. But who would wish to relive the worst moments of her life?
Nevertheless.
Memories came to me: of how HPB had so unjustly berated me; of how a man who might so easily have been the Whitechapel killer stepped out that night from the fog. I thought of George’s sly, hateful grin as he tormented me. I recalled with shame and horror the sight of his spilled blood, and his terrible, accusing ghost. My heart began to race, my teeth chattered, my jaw clenched with remembered dread.
Pens rattled in their jar. Loose papers flew about as though scattered by a gust of wind. The inkpot skittered like a mouse across the polished surface and teetered on the table-edge. I snatched it up an instant before it toppled to the floor.
November 24
Word has spread across London, it seems, of last fortnight’s psychical performance, and so yesterday we had a great crowd of ladies come to call, including Lady Margot Asquith and two of her friends. There was also a gentleman from one of the London papers. As well, Dr. Conan Doyle, the author, had come up from Portsmouth. When by chance I found him standing at my elbow I gathered up the courage to address him: saying how much I had admired his “Study in Scarlet” that I had read in Beeton’s Christmas Annual.
How often I had imagined this, when I was a foolish lass still under my father’s roof: the ladies in their crêpe de chine and velvet, the learned gentlemen, the clever talk of plays and books. I had seen myself as the centre of such a gathering — a woman of letters, celebrated in my own right. But I am no less a hireling here, than in the Borders. No one, seeing me hovering at HPB’s side in my plain skirt and shirtwaist, would imagine me anything but a servant. Still, Dr. Conan Doyle was cordial enough, and promised to send me a copy of his next detective story.
But Madame Blavatsky was not, as they imagined, restored to health and vigour. In fact she has been so ill that she was barely able to rise from her bed. And so, with the greatest reluctance, I agreed to help with the proceedings. Everyone gathered in the dining room to await the celebrated thumpings and bangings and chiming of invisible bells. But this time, there was no warmth, no sensation of shared energy when I reached for HPB’s hand. Clammy and lifeless, it lay inertly in my clasp: the hand of a woman sick unto death.
It is hard to recall what thoughts went through my mind at that moment. HPB had been kind to me, after her fashion, had taken me into her household, and for that I was forever in her debt. I did not wish to see her humiliated before her admirers, or belittled in the press. My God-fearing Scottish parents had taught me to be honest, always, for to practise deceit is to do the Devil’s work. Yet how much deception had I already practised, since the day that I murdered George?
And so, in her name, I did what HPB was no longer capable of doing. What had been unconscious and unwished for, now became a purposeful act. This time I found it easier. My thoughts reached down to that painful knot of memory, and as quickly glanced away.
It was enough.
Unseen objects clattered and thudded in cupboards. Bells rang. The gaslights flared, dimmed, and flared again. Sheets of paper fluttered through the air. A bookshelf leaned out and flung its contents to the floor.
The newspaper gentleman scribbled urgent notes. From the London ladies, there were gasps of astonishment and delight; from HPB, pale and exhausted in her chair, an enigmatic smile; and from the Countess Constance, hovering in the doorway, a glance that told me she understood more than she was likely to reveal.