Possession (66 page)

Look, Geraldine, into the stones of fire

I spread my hands out on the velvet cloth—

Come closer, child, if you would learn to scry

And read the hieroglyphics of my rings!

See, how the stones glow on the milky skin—

Beryl and emerald and chrysoprase—

The gifts of lords and ladies, which I prize

Not for their cost,” but for their mystic sense

The subtle silent speech of Mother Earth.

Your hands, like mine, are sweetly soft and white.

I touch your fingers, and the electric spark

Springs twixt our skins—you sense it? Good. Now see

The shifting lights move on the stones and see

If any vision show itself to you

As, it may be, a mystic Face, all flushed

With floating radiance of actinic light,

Or, it may be, the interlacing boughs

Of God’s unearthly Orchard of Desire.

What do you see? A spider-web of light?

That’s a beginning. Soon the lines will form

The blessed showings of the Spirit World.

Lights are Intelligences in our minds, whose force

We no more comprehend than here, in these

Glittering jewels, we can say how rose

Or sapphire blue or emerald steady shines,

Or what makes all the brilliant colours glow

Along the throat of the Arabian bird,

Whilst here, in milder air, her neck is grey

Or in the Polar void a brilliant white.

Thus in God’s Garden the stones speak and shine.

Here we may read their silences, or scry

Eternal forms in earthly blocks of light.

Take up the crystal ball, sweet Geraldine.

Gaze on the sphere. Observe how left and right,

Above, below, reverse themselves in this

And in its depth a glittering chamber lies

Like a drowned world with downward-pointing flames,

This room in miniature, all widdershins.

Look steadily, and you will see all shift

Under the veils of spirit vision, see

What is not
here
, but comes from o’er the bourn.

My face, reversed, shall bathe in rosy fronds

As in her rocky cave,
Actinia

The sea-anemone, puts out a cloud

Of hidden halo of odylic force—

And after mine, you shall see other Forms

In other lights, come swimming into view,

You shall, I swear it. Still be patient.

The force is fitful, and the vital spark

Which kindles in the Medium and lights

Conductive channels for the venturesome

Friends in the Spirit, leaps and dies again

Like Will-o-the-Wisps, or marsh-lights flickering.

I have called you here to teach you certain things.

You made a good beginning, all agreed.

Last Sunday’s trance was deep and absolute.

I held your fainting form against my breast

Whilst spirits jostled at those pretty lips

To speak their pure consoling speech, though
some

Forced through their vileness that your innocence

Could never in its waking hours have framed

In thought or word. To these I cried “Avaunt!”

And fought them off, and in my listening ear

I heard the spirit voices bell-like sing

That you were chosen as their crystal cup

Their bright translucent Vessel, where ev’n I

With all my weary wisdom, might drink deep

A draught of power, and sweetness to refresh.

I mean that now I choose you to conduct

My seances with me, my partner sweet,

My Helper now, and in some future time

Who knows, a Seeress of Power yourself.

You know the ladies who will come tonight.

The Baroness is exigent. She mourns

A fat pug dog, who gambols in the Fields,

The flowery fields Beyond, and can be heard

To yap in satisfaction, as it used.

Beware of Mr Holm. He is a Judge,

In whom the injurious Sprite of scepticism

Dies hard, and rears his head, once laid to rest,

At any sight or sound that’s untoward.

Most promising—that is, in spiritual terms—

Most heart-torn, and most sorrowing, is the young

Countess of Claregrove, who has lost her child,

Her only son, a year since, when he was

Scarce more than lisping Babe of two years’ growth

Snatched by a fever in a summer Tour.

His small voice has been heard in broken sounds—

He makes, he says, perpetual daisy-chains

In wondrous meadows—but she weeps and weeps,

And will not be consoled, and takes with her

Where’er she goes, a lock of his bright hair

Cut from his marble brow as he lay cold.

More than all else she longs to touch his hand,

To kiss his little cheek, to know he
is

And was not claimed by Chaos and the Dark.

I tell you this because—I tell you this—

In fine, I tell you this, because I must

Explain how we, to whom the Spirits speak

Eke out their wayward signals and the gifts

Vouchsafed from time to time of sight and touch

And otherworldly hearing, with our own—

How shall I say?—manifestations

We fabricate to demonstrate their Truth.

Sometimes, ’tis true, our Visitors ring Bells,

Lights dance about the room, and heavenly Hands

Touch mortal flesh. Sometimes there are Apports—

Glasses of flowery wine, or fragrant wreaths,

Or snapping Lobsters from the ocean Deep.

Sometimes the Power falters and is dumb.

Yet on these blank days, when my aching frame

Is lumpish flesh of flesh and no voice sounds—

The anxious Seekers gather with their Cares,

Griefs unassuaged, and incredulities—

And I have asked the Spirits and been taught

A way of
helping out
, to improvise

Display and substitute the mysteries

And thus console the sad, and thus confound

The savage sceptics with a visible Proof.

White gloves and gossamer threads move and amaze

As disembodied hands do; angel-wreaths

Descend on finest threads from chandeliers.

And what one Medium may do, my sweet,

Two may improve on almost endlessly.

Your figure is so fairy-fine, my Love,

Could, at a pinch, glide between these two screens?

Your little hands in kidskin could take hold

In teasing mode, of sceptical male knees

Or stir a crinoline, or brush a beard

With a hint of wholesome perfume, could they not?

What’s that you say? You do not like to lie?

I hope you may remember who you are

And what you were, a pretty parlour-maid

Whose mistress did not like her prettiness

Or soulful stare at the young man o’ the house.

Who helped you then, I ask you, gave you home

And home’s essential comforts, bread and clothes,

Discovered talents in you quite unguessed,

Cosseted you and turned your soulfulness

To use both spiritual and lucrative?

You are grateful? So I should suppose. Well then,

Let Gratitude hold ope the door to Trust!

Our small deceptions are a form of Art

Which has its simple and its high degree

As women know, who lavish on wax dolls

The skills and the desires that large-souled men

Save up for marble Cherubs, or who sew

On lowly cushions thickets of bright flowers

Which done in oils were marvelled at on walls

Of ducal halls or city galleries.

You call these spirit
mises en scène
a lie.

I call it artfulness, or simply Art,

A Tale, a Story, that may hide a Truth

As wonder-tales do, even in the Best Book.

Consider this. Arts have their Medium—

Coloratura, tempera, or stone.

Through medium of paint the Ideal Form

Of the Eternal Mother shows herself

(Though modelled maybe on some worthless wench

No better than she should be, we may guess).

Through medium of language the great Poets

Keep constant the Ideal, as Beatrice

Speaks still to us, though Dante’s flesh is dust.

So through the Medium of this poor flesh

With sweats and groanings, nauseas and cries

Of animal anguish, the sublimest Souls

Make themselves known to those who sit and wait.

And through this self-same flesh, they urge the skills

That light the phosphor-matches, knot the threads

Or lift the heavy chair from off the rug.

The spirits weave them flesh and robes of air,

Of air and matter of my grosser breath

Whose warmth brushes thy brow in this my kiss—

And if one night they neither come nor weave—

Why you and I may make their motions felt

With subtle fingers and the self-same breath

Lifting the more corporeal veils of flesh …

You catch my meaning?

One night the flute is filled with spirit breath

Swooningly sweet. The next, my breath, or thine,

Tutored by them, must body forth their sound

Since they neglect to whistle, but the notes

The self-same notes breathe still the self-same sigh

Of sweet regret and sweeter hope to come—

Art tells a truth, sweet girl, though all her tales

Are lies i’the law-court, or the chemist’s phial—

We must be artful for the spirit’s truth

In which we’re tutored by them, d’you see?

You must not stare at me with fair large eyes

Full of a question and a glittering tear.

Drink up this cordial glass of wildflower wine—

’Twill settle you—come near—compose yourself

And fix your eyes on mine, your hand in mine,

And feel us breathe together. So. When first

I mesmerised you, and your youthful soul

Opened itself to mine, as morning flowers

Open their cups to the warm Sun, I knew

You were a being set apart, a Soul

Responsive to my powers, and ductile too.

Look up into my eyes, I say. You see

The love of a good woman there, whate’er

The spirit lords may else reveal, my dear.

Draw in the influence fearlessly. Now drowse

And calm your pulses, whilst my stronger arm

Supports your softnesses. Here, Geraldine.

My love is merciless to do you good.

Know you not that we Women have no Power

In the cold world of objects Reason rules,

Where all is measured and mechanical?

There
we are chattels, baubles, property,

Flowers pent in vases with our roots sliced off,

To shine a day and perish. But you see,

Here in this secret room, all curtained round

With vaguest softness, all dimly lit

With flickerings and twinklings, where all shapes

Are indistinct, all sounds ambiguous,

Here we have Power, here the Irrational,

The Intuition of the Unseen Powers

Speaks to our women’s nerves, galvanic threads

Which gather up, interpret and transmit

The unseen Powers and their hidden Will.

This is
our
negative world, where the Unseen,

Unheard, Impalpable, and Unconfined

Speak to and through
us
—it is
we
who hear,

Our
natures that receive their thrilling force.

Come into this reversed world, Geraldine,

Where power flows upwards, as in the glass ball,

Where left is right, and clocks go widdershins,

And women sit enthroned and wear the robes,

The wreaths of scented roses and the crowns,

The jewels in our hair, the sardonyx,

The moonstones and the rubies and the pearls,

The royal stones, where we are priestesses

And powerful Queens, and all swims with our Will.

All mages have been tricksters. We are no

More and no less than all High Priests have been

Holding the masses to the faith with shows

Of firework and magic to impress

With symbols of Heaven’s brightness those dull eyes

Which won’t conceive our meanings from our speech.

You are calmer now. That’s good. That’s good. I stroke

The blue veins in your arms with my ringed hands

And power flows from me to you. You feel

The benefit of it. You are calm. Quite calm.

You call yourself my Slave. Not so, my dear.

Avoid extravagance of phrase or tone

If you would taste success in this new Sphere.

You are my Pupil and my dear, dear friend,

You are, who knows, the next Sybilla Silt,

But now you must be decorous and show

Deference to the ladies, gentle tact

To the rough male-folk, bring them cups of tea

And smile, and listen, for we need to know

All that their innocent gossiping reveals.

Here, as you see, the gauze lies hid, and here,

The flowers to let fall, and here the gloves

Ready to make the airy passes with.

I need your help with Lady Claregrove’s son.

She is almost mad to feel his touch, and grasp

The tiny fingers. If the room is dark—

And you creep—
so
—and rest your elbow—
so—

Briefly—and touch her cheek—your fingers are

Most exquisitely dimpling and fine.

What’s that you say? How can it do her hurt?

Her will to Faith’s a good, and our small tricks

Our genial deceptions, strengthen
that
,

And so are good too, in their harmless way.

Here is a lock of hair—the housemaid’s hair—

As golden as her son’s, and just as fine—

Which at some aptest moment you let fall

You understand me—in her lap—or on

Her clutching fingers—that will do such good—

Will give such Happiness that you and I

May grow and prosper in its lovely warmth.