December 15
The twenty-fifth of December is fast approaching. The date meant little to me in the Borders, for bondagers worked that day as on any other. But the fragrance of spices in the kitchen has reminded me that in London Christmas is a season of festivity. And tonight I am quite foolish with excitement over a promised Christmas treat.
Mr. Grenville-Smith came round this afternoon, to say that he had been given tickets to The Yeomen of the Guard, and would be glad of company. The Countess did not feel she could leave HPB for the whole of an evening (it being quite out of the question for HPB herself to attend) and neither of the Keightleys it seems are fond of operetta. But Mr. Mead, though he always seems so solemn, confessed a great affection for the works of Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan.
“Splendid,” said Mr. Grenville-Smith. “And Miss Guthrie? You’ll join our party?” This invitation, offered so offhandedly (perhaps a little too carefully offhanded?) took me by surprise, and I could not think what to answer.
“Ah,” he said, colouring a little, “but of course you must have another lady to keep you company. Since the Countess has declined, perhaps Mlle David . . . ”
“Yes, of course,” said I, all flustered and thinking what a gowk I must seem. “I will send to ask her.”
And so on Wednesday we are to go by carriage to the Savoy Theatre. Needless to say I have nothing suitable to wear and Alexandra’s skirts are too short for me, but the Countess, who is slender and about my height, has very kindly found me a plain skirt in bronze coloured silk, with a lacy bodice. I think it will do very well.
December 20
Last night I felt for a few hours like the heroine of a novel. Alexandra, arriving early by cab, did my hair in loops tied up with a ribbon, and made frizzy curls round my face. “Voila!” she said. “No more the jeune fille, now you are a woman of the world.” And truth to tell, I scarce recognized myself.
“How elegant you both look!” declared Mr. Grenville-Smith when he came to collect us. That made me blush, though I’m sure the compliment was directed to Alexandra, who looked thoroughly Parisienne in her pearl grey satin. When one is strong and tall as I am, elegance is a forlorn hope. The very most one can wish for, I suppose, is to be considered handsome. As for Mr. Grenville-Smith, he looked quite splendid in his silk top hat and swallow-tail coat; though I believe I like him just as well in his soft cap and country tweeds. When our carriage pulled up to the entrance off the Thames Embankment, he took my arm and Mr. Mead took Alexandra’s, and so I felt like a lady of fashion in my silk and lace.
The Savoy is quite a modern theatre, and the very first to be lit by electricity, and so we stepped out of the dark and fog into a great dazzle of light. The interior is very grand — all plush seats and gilt and rose-red walls, marble columns and hundreds of glowing incandescent lamps. Our seats were in the first row of the balcony, so we could look down and admire the gentlemen in their evening dress and the West End ladies in their low-cut bodices all aglitter with beads and sequins. Presently the lights dimmed, the rustle of programmes and chocolate wrappers stilled and the orchestra struck up.
Mr. Grenville-Smith had brought opera glasses so that we could see close up what was happening on the stage. The songs were clever and the voices seemed to me enchanting (though Alexandra, who has trained as a singer, was more critical than I). But the story was not so comic as I had expected.
When Wilfred, the Assistant Tormentor, made his vulgar advances on poor Phoebe the Sergeant’s daughter I could feel my stomach knotting and a flush spreading over my cheeks.
I knew if I dwelt on bad memories, untoward things might happen — lamps begin to sway, lights flicker; so I stayed as calm as I could, and thought instead of the play, and the sad plight of the dashing Colonel Fairfax, unjustly condemned to death . When he sang so plaintively, “Death, when e’er he come, must come too soon” I had to take out my handkerchief, and Mr. Grenville-Smith gave me a quizzical look .
Before long the plot grew so complex, with so many mistaken identities, that I was quite lost attempting to follow the twists and turns, hoping only that in the end Phoebe would marry Colonel Fairfax, whom she loved. But it was not to be so. When the curtain fell, everyone seemed to be married to the wrong person, which in novels seldom happens, though I think often enough in real life. I thought how fortunate that Miss Zhelihovsky and Mr. Charlie Johnston had found each other, if even in an operetta things could go so badly awry.
December 21
Now that both volumes of The Secret Doctrine have been published, HPB has become even more famous, and several gentlemen from the newspapers have come to interview her. HPB is pleased with the articles, and the journalists all seem very impressed with HPB. Of course we have saved the clippings.
Mr. Willie Wilde — brother of the famous Oscar — writes for the Telegraph, and is a regular visitor to Lansdowne Road. He does his best to make sure that nothing written in his paper is unflattering to HPB. But other journalists seem equally susceptible to her charms. The gentleman from Picadilly (November 2, 1888) writes, “A Russian by birth, and of good family, Madame Blavatsky was as a child endowed with extraordinary powers of clairvoyance, and following the guidance of her intuition, she gave her whole energy to the study and development of her higher faculties, and to the source of those mysteries and occult powers which underlie the secret wisdom religion of the ancients.” And he says he cannot do justice to the “eloquent words that fall from the lips of this gifted woman.”
And here is the article in The London Star (December 18) which says that Madame Blavatsky “reveals herself as a lady of exceptional charm of manner, wonderful variety of information, and powers of conversation which recall the giant talkers of a bygone literary age.”
This is the side of HPB that visitors see, and the Theosophists who every Thursday evening sit at her feet in silent adoration. We who live with her every day are aware that she can also be rude, and stubborn, and selfish, and infuriating. No one knows this better than the Countess Constance, who has dedicated her life to HPB’s service. I think that even the Countess came close to losing her temper, on the day that HPB was to have her photograph taken in Regent Street. Because the day of the appointment was wet and windy, HPB refused to leave the house, announcing that the bad weather would surely cause her death. “See, I do not even own a cloak,” she said, “because I never set foot outside. Besides, who would want a picture of this loathsome, ruined old face?” The Countess, who can be just as stubborn, went round the house borrowing furs and shawls and scarves, and found a sort of Russian turban with a veil to tie over HPB’s head. Still Madame B. refused to stir from her chair — no matter that the cab had been sitting outside for hours.
“I cannot go,” she declared. “You must want me to die. You know I cannot step on the wet stones.”
“Enough,” said the Countess. “Jeannie, ask the cab to wait a little longer.” She told us to fetch some carpets and lay them from the front door all the way to the carriage. When gusts of wind lifted up the carpets, the faithful Countess — who had once been the wife of the Swedish Ambassador — held them down with her own hands.
HPB’s friend Mr. Edmund Russell, who had suggested the photograph, went along in the cab, and later told us the rest of the story. “Disembarkation was even worse! I had to coax her into the studio, saying ‘Come along, Your Majesty’ — and once up the stairs, she flatly refused to sit for the photo.”
But Mr. Russell made her laugh, and in the end, she agreed. We all thought the photograph turned out well, HPB looking wise and dignified and serene, with one hand propping up her double chins.