21

THE MAGIC SQUARE

To the right of the title of this article, in parentheses, we find the word “nouvelle,” which can mean either a news item or a novel. This was certainly intentional on Naglowska’s part, leaving us forever in doubt as to whether it really happened. Chances are very good that it did, because Maurice Magre, writing as René Thimmy, gave an account of what was probably the same event.¹The article was signed “Hanoum,” one of Naglowska’s pseudonyms.

Last year I made the acquaintance of a very strange woman. She exuded an undeniable force of attraction around herself, and ignited violent passions in those who approached her. At the same time, nothing in particular stood out about this woman: neither wealth nor beauty, nor extravagant attitudes. Her name was Vera Svetlan. She had traveled a great deal, and spoke all sorts of languages. Her French was impeccable.

A group of followers soon formed around this woman. I became involved, and that is how I came to know all of them. Strange men and women, to be sure.

One of them, for example, a tall and thin individual, with the mannerisms of an automaton and with a look that was always darkened by intellectual over-excitation, did not hesitate to prophesy, in his own name and in that of Vera Svetlan, an imminent new era that would necessarily be preceded by terrifying cataclysms. He even gave the exact date and place. Was he crazy? I don’t know.

Another enthusiast of Vera Svetlan’s group was serious. His long black hair advantageously framed his handsome face with its regular features. His gestures were those of a priest, and his gait, slowed by a war wound, was imposing. His friends gave him the title of Master, and surrounded him with a very marked respect.

Before commencing his discourse, the Master raised his right index finger and took on a mysterious air. “What I wish to say is not for you,” his look seemed to say, and he continued in a low voice. “Isis, the Queen of the World, will incarnate soon. She will choose the body of a poor prostitute, a young woman condemned, humiliated, ill. She will come into this hall”—at this place in his discourse the Master wrapped the whole room in the café where we met every evening with a mysterious look, and, lowering his voice still more, he added: “She will come in the form of a ball of fire, spreading a strong odor of sulphur as she passes through. The ball will enter into the one chosen, and the poor girl will immediately be transformed: from sick and ugly, she will become beautiful and healthy; from scorned and humiliated—venerated and glorified. All those who shall have the good fortune to find themselves in this café on that day will have their part in the glory of Isis. . . . But there will be those who will be punished, my friends, some will be punished!”

Then the Master enumerated the various punishments reserved for the impious. It seemed that this man, with the air of a priest, took an evil pleasure in mentally torturing every woman and every man who in his eyes had been lacking in respect or admiration. But the Master was not a bad person, I can attest to that.^*9

As tall as him and perhaps even more impressive was another friend of Vera Svetlan. He was called “Spring,” no doubt because of his fresh and attractive mood, which sowed gaiety wherever he passed. He had a large face, square brow, the shoulders of an athlete, and harmonious gestures, full of natural elegance.

Why had he come into this group of crazies, where he maintained an attitude of benevolent criticism? Vera Svetlan said that he was her most precious friend and that her “work” would certainly fall apart if Spring left her. But why? No one ever explained that to me.^†2

Spring had many female admirers. One of them, an elderly actress in retirement, surely joined the Svetlana group only to contemplate him. It was a need with her, and a need that was also understandable, because in a few days Spring had made himself seem at least ten years younger.

The ex-actress was also an enterprising woman. It was she^‡2 who one day invited the whole group to experience Magic at her place. She tasked a young Spanish painter with the job of transforming her dining room into an “ardent chapel” for this occasion. The painter went to work with an enthusiasm worthy of his youth, and requisitioned from the studios of his comrades the lewdest and most significant things available. When one asked Vera if this decor, thus chosen, was really necessary, she answered: “He no doubt takes us for satanists.” I must admit that this response seemed to me to be almost logical.^*10

The most beautiful woman of the Svetlan group, a vague American of oriental origin, always very elegant and exquisitely kind—perhaps the only one among these nuts who allowed herself the three regular bourgeois meals—was charged with sending out the invitations: little pink cards furnished with a charming quotation from Miss Dorville, the ex-actress.

We were on time at the rendezvous. The séance could begin at 10 o’clock.

We arranged nine cushions in a circle on the soft carpet, and each one took his place, legs ritually crossed.

Vera Svetlan sat in the place of honor, at her left the Master, at her right Spring. Beside Spring, of course, was the palpitating Dorville, and, next to her, the thin, exalted prophet. After the prophet came the beautiful American, the Spanish painter, and a couple about whom we have not yet spoken, but who merit being described in a few words. They were two strange creatures, always silent, endlessly hungry, and invariably entwined once they found themselves seated somewhere: in a café, if someone offered them a glass, on a bench on the boulevard, when the charitable heart was lacking: a man and a woman for whom death waited, two beings resolved to die together. Seated upon the bulky down of the hospitable Dorville, the man and the woman melted into each other and took no part in the “preliminary” conversation that began.

Spring was moved by it:

“Lovely Venus,” he said to the elegant American, who really had that name, “how did you get the idea of inviting these two walking corpses to a séance for the formation of a magical chain?”

Venus did not have time to answer, for the Master had already raised his right index finger: “At any serious magical séance, Death must be present,” he said, as always, almost murmuring. “These torches of life that are being extinguished elevate the importance of our reunion precisely by the putrefaction of the flesh that they represent. But, Dorville, just the same you should offer them something to reanimate themselves.” “Indeed, what an unpardonable omission on my part,” Dorville exclaimed, very happy to be able to move about and attract the attention of Spring to her beautiful legs in green silk stockings. “I have ten bottles of excellent bubbly. Spring, would you like to help me to serve our friends?”

Spring, too, wanted nothing more than to be able to move his muscles. He got up with a movement that was harmonious and full of grace. A few minutes later, everyone had a glass of bubbly in their hand, and we were waking up the entwined, moribund couple to make them drink. But they only accepted a single glass for the two of them.

The wine did everybody some good: the prophet became exalted, the Master prophesied, Spring cheered everyone up. Without protesting, the American accepted a tender caress from the Spanish painter.

During this time, Vera Svetlan, her glass of bubbly set on the carpet beside her, contemplated or dreamed or prayed.

The moribund couple were the first to notice the strange magnetic current that began to be set up: the man shuddered, and the woman was afraid, hiding it on the shoulder of her lover. The others became silent and exchanged astonished looks.

“Let’s form the chain,” said Vera Svetlan, “and with a common desire let’s wish for the presence of the Guide among us. At this moment he is leaving the snowy crests of the Siberian mountains and he feels attracted to us.”

Spring still had strength to resist the spell, and said in an ironic tone: “I greet the venerable Guide, but I wish to know his name.”

“Spring, please be serious,” the American said.

“We will baptize him ourselves,” the Master whispered.

“The great Guide, who has left the Siberian mountains, is coming to us quickly,” the sick woman suddenly mumbled, raising her pale, blond head above the shoulder of her friend. “It is because we’re here, Marc and I, that he is coming here. It is our common Soul, our single soul, supported by two pitiful bodies that are ready to die, that attracts him here. Oh! I see him, he has frightening eyes.”

Wobbling, weak on her legs, Martha got up like a ghost and went to the middle of the circle. She had on a long dress of very thin material. This dress, which was black, seemed red to all those present.

Marc looked at her as if what she was saying was perfectly natural. Everything about him was calm, he did not make the least movement.

“Have you put a spell on him?” Spring spoke into Vera Svetlan’s ear, but she made a sign to him to be quiet.

“Listen to what she says,” she said in a loud voice, addressing everyone.

“The great Guide doesn’t have any need of the rest of you, of any of you gathered here. It is for us, for Marc and me, that he is coming here. I already feel in my legs the wind of his steps.”

Marc did not move. His gaze was fixed on Martha, but he did not seem to be interested in her. He looked through her, farther, beyond, and seemed to penetrate into a region where things other than life were important.

The Master asked him what he saw, but Marc did not hear him.

“Leave him in peace,” said Vera Svetlan. “His consciousness is not in him at this moment, it is in Martha, it is she who knows at this moment for the two of them. And try, everyone, to be a bit serious, because there is danger for the couple.”

“The old one, who is coming from Siberia, does he want to harm these two unfortunate people? Why do you evoke someone who is malevolent?”

“I don’t evoke anyone,” Vera Svetlan said. “We all wished for the presence of the Guide, and this presence was formed.”

The beautiful American was paying close attention. The red color that enveloped Martha intrigued her, and with her eyes she looked around for the electric lamp that must, she thought, necessarily be found in the hand of one or other of the guests. She had made up her mind, from the beginning of the séance, to discover all of the subterfuges employed. But the Master consciously held his palms pressed to his knees, well separated by the ritual crossing of the legs; he had nothing luminous on him. Vera Svetlan was not looking to fool anyone, it was obvious.

The jovial Spring could not be suspected, for, even more than Venus, he doubted and looked everywhere for concrete proof. The thin prophet was occupied with his neighbor, the palpitating Dorville, with the secret hope of stealing her away from Spring. It was his personal business, but in any case it removed him from any desire to actively get involved in the formation of any kind of occult presence. The Spanish painter, the big “baby” of the meeting, what could he do?

Venus was still reflecting, when Dorville let out a piercing shout: “Look, look, Svetlan, Martha is going crazy!”

Vera Svetlan got up with a bound. “Out of the way, all of you,” she ordered, “go to the back of the room and stay calm. Don’t make the least noise; I told you that there was danger.”

Venus, the Spanish painter, the thin prophet, Spring, and Dorville went to sit on the big divan that occupied the back of the room. The two women huddled one against the other, and the men became entwined with them as they pressed around them. Spring lay full length upon the floor, in front of the divan.

No one spoke, for what was to be seen was completely new.

On the carpet, in the middle of the room, the Master and Marc remained immobile: two

Hindu Buddhas could not have been more placid. Vera Svetlan, standing, in front of Martha, resembled a wild-animal tamer, galvanizing a ghost. Martha, red and transparent, slowly brought her bare, thin arms up to her head.

Was Vera Svetlan commanding Martha’s movements, or was she trying to moderate them? Later on, this was the subject of ardent disputes and violent quarrels, but while all this was going on, no one among the five spectators who had taken refuge in the back of the room could tell.

Still, Martha’s hands stopped their slow ascension at the temples of her head, and her fingers appeared to sink themselves into her skull—so tight was their contact with the skin of her temples—and slowly, very slowly, because of the weight that they carried, Martha’s arms took up again their movement of elevation, detaching her head from her neck, like a crown from one’s hair.

When Martha’s arms, puny and transparent, formed only a single column at a right angle to her body, we saw, between the raised head and the neck of the young woman, something like a luminous prolongation of the latter.

Vera Svetlan then, with a rhythmed step, approached the phantom-woman, extended her arms in a wide symbolic gesture, and slowly brought them together at the height of the luminous column that separated Martha’s head from her neck.

Vera’s hands crossed in the luminous column and came out of it, the right hand to the left, and the left hand to the right. This spectacle was terrifying, for at the precise moment when Vera’s hands crossed in Martha’s luminous neck, the latter’s mouth let out an untranslatable moan, like the whistling of the wind in a chimney.

Vera Svetlan took a step backward and crossed her arms over her chest. Then Martha’s head descended again to her neck and the luminous column fell to the ground, transformed into a ball.

Marc and the Master remained all the while immobile.

Vera Svetlan, after a short meditation, ordered Martha to pick up the ball with her hands. On the obeying palms of Martha it at once took on the expression and the features of a human head.

Martha presented this head to the audience, her arms held out in front of her, as one does in the Orient.

“Each one of you has the right to ask a single question, concerning the future. The head will answer,” said Vera Svetlan, turning toward the five people who had followed this scene with bated breath; “Spring, begin.”

Spring sat at the feet of the women, leaned his head against the knees of Dorville, and asked: “Will I find what I am looking for?” “No,” answered the head.

“Your turn, Dorville,” said Vera.

“I don’t know what to ask,” simpered the poor Dorville, terrified, “well, this: will I be happy?”

“No,” was the response.

“Your turn, Prophet.”

“Will I be healed?”

“No,” the head said again.

“What must I do?” asked Venus.

“Love.”

“And me?” mumbled the painter.

“Seek.”

Spring was, to be sure, the least fearful of the group, but he, too, felt chills in his spine when the head, which had just pronounced the word “seek,” suddenly took on the expression of one who is making an immense and painful effort.

Only Vera understood what the head wanted. Moving rapidly, she stripped off her jacket, her thick, woolen skirt, and her low shoes. She now had nothing on her but silk: a thin, white blouse, a pink culotte that hid half of her thighs, and long, flesh-colored stockings.

Vera got on her knees in front of Martha, who seemed to not see her. The luminous head, which had spoken and was now suffering, was thus exactly above Vera’s head, and as the lights scattered through the room were deceptive, it seemed, from the divan, where the three men were grouped around the two anguished women, that at this moment Vera had two heads: one covered with thick hair, and the other, unreal, made of fire.

The ends of Martha’s fingers, between the two heads formed six black points with a disturbing aspect.

Vera held her arms in front of her, meeting the hidden sex of Martha, and pronounced in a firm voice, repeating them three times, three syllables of an oriental language.

Martha then shuddered slightly and like a barely-animated doll, she spread her feet a little, in such a way as to leave a passage between her two legs.

Vera then slowly bowed to the ground. She extended herself flat on her stomach on the carpet and passed her head between the absolutely unfeeling feet of Martha. The nape of her neck was thus under Martha’s sex, and the beginning of her thighs was beneath the luminous head, whose suffering continued.

This scene was suggestive. The two women, one petrified and standing, the other stretched out on the ground, formed a living square, whose volitional center immediately connected up with the exact place where the head was, supported by the rigid hands of Martha. Then, the suffering of the head ceased and a new look shone from its eyes. This was a real ray of something that individually struck the five persons huddled on the divan. This something ignited them, and there was, in the group, an immediate sexual transport that precipitated the men upon the women: three against two!

And while this was going on as we have described, Marc and the Master remained immobile at their first places behind Martha, who was unaffected by it all.

But when the five humans had accomplished, because they could not do otherwise, the habitual rite of terrestrial love, Marc called Martha, and she leaned back into the arms of her lover, while Vera, still prostrate on the ground, recited a new prayer.

No one had seen how the luminous head had disappeared.