Wild Talent (11 page)

“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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

December 22

T
his morning the weather was much improved, and I went with the Countess to Oxford Street to purchase Christmas cards. As we stepped into the bookshop I heard a familiar voice in conversation with the bookseller. My heart began to thump in a disconcerting fashion; and when I glanced into the natural history section there was Mr. Grenville-Smith taking down a large book from the shelf.

“Miss Guthrie!” he exclaimed, looking round. “What a pleasure to see you again!” And truly he did look happy to see me.

“Mr. Grenville-Smith! Will you be spending Christmas in London, then?” And as soon as the words were uttered I wished to have swallowed them, they sounded so coy and forward. How I envy Alexandra her Parisian aplomb and her gift of conversation.

“Alas, no, I'm off home to Wiltshire on the morning train.” Catching sight of Countess Wachmeister, he greeted her with a cheerful wave. “My compliments, Countess.” Then turning back to me he said, “I hope you were not too disappointed in
The Yeomen of the Guard.
It seemed to me a little dark, and perhaps not their best effort.”

“Oh, but it was wonderful,” I exclaimed — for I could not bear to think he imagined me disappointed.

“I only wish you could have seen
The Mikado,”
he said. “That was a splendid production. I hope one day there'll be a revival.”

Meanwhile he had set his book down on a table, and I stole a glance at the title. It said, in French,
New or rare
animals, collected during an expedition in the central
parts of South America.
He gave me a rueful smile. “In eleven volumes, and beyond my means at present. One rarely finds an unbroken set —I come here from time to time to admire it.” He lifted the book and opened it, almost reverently, I thought, to hand-coloured plates of exotic birds and reptiles. He unfolded a map to show me routes marked out in various coloured inks; and then turned to some tinted drawings of tropical landscapes.

“They're very beautiful,” I said. “And what place is that, Mr. Grenville-Smith?” At least I think that is what I said — we were standing very close and truth to tell I scarce remember, though I ken well enough what he replied.

“It's Brazil,” he told me. “A country that one day I hope to see for myself. But ‘Mr. Grenville-Smith' — how elderly that sounds. I feel when I am called that I should be wearing a long beard and carrying a walking stick. My friends call me Tom, and we are friends, are we not, Jean Guthrie?”

And then he smiled down at me, and held my gaze, and I knew it was not just the look of a friend, but something far more than that. I cannot describe the pure happiness of that moment — a happiness that surely I do not deserve. Though there was much I wished to say, all I could manage to do was to nod, and return his smile.

But soon after that we said our goodbyes, for it was growing late, and the Countess was fretting a little that Saturday visitors would arrive with no one there to receive them.

Before we left I bought a lace-trimmed card with cherubs for my mother, and one with a basket of kittens for the bairns, and I have put them into the post along with as many pound notes as I have been able to save.

As we drove home, I was happier than I have been in a very long time. When we came to Lansdowne Road there were carolers singing along the street, and I wanted to put my head out of the window of the cab and raise my voice along with theirs, in joyful celebration.

And then this evening a messenger came to the door and delivered a package with my name on it. I opened it to find a small grey paper-bound book of songs from
Th
e
Mikado
, and a card that was signed simply “Tom”.

December 26

We have had a quiet Christmas, much confined to the house, with Madame Blavatsky still unwell and the weather most days dank and murky. Also the papers were full of another horrible East End murder just five days before Christmas, so that even in Lansdowne Road we feared to venture out after dark to so much as post a letter. We had not bothered with a tree or decorations, but for tea on Christmas Eve we had iced fruitcake, and Mr. Archibald bought a bag of chestnuts to roast over the fire. There was of course no goose or turkey for Christmas dinner, but instead a special curried vegetable dish, with wine and plenty of plum pudding. The post brought a Christmas card from Alexandra, all silk-fringed and gilded and embossed, that was greatly admired. But she is about to leave for Brussels, which seems a long way off, and I know that when she is gone I will feel very much bereft.

December 31

Tonight, in these last hours of the old year, I have been thinking of New Year's Eves at home in the Borders, when I was a child and my father still alive. I remember how the Hogmanay fires burned the old year out, how the midnight bells rang, and how we waited for a dark-haired man to step over our threshold, bearing gifts of coal and salt, black buns and shortbread.

I wonder what they do to welcome the New Year in that great house (as I imagine it) in Wiltshire. Are there bonfires on the downs, and bells pealing out? Perhaps Tom Grenville-Smith is alone tonight, as I am, sitting beside the fire with a book on his knee while he dreams about Brazil. But no, most likely there will be a ball, and it will be waltz music that he hears; and he will dance with ladies in low-cut Paris gowns in a blaze of lamplight, under glittering chandeliers.

These winter nights when I am abed with the candle blown out and I am drifting towards sleep, I find myself thinking how it would be to leave this cold grey city and live once again among woods and fields: not in a ploughman's cottage as I once did, but in a grand house with servants and many rooms, and one room entirely to myself, with shelves for my books and a desk upon which to write. And sometimes as sleep overtakes me, though I know it is daft to do so, I think of the one person with whom I would wish to share that house — or any house, be it only a ploughman's cottage after all.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

M
a chère
Jeanne
,

C'est impossible.
I can no longer remain in dreary Brussels,
en famille
. And so I have made new plans.

Have I spoken to you of my father's friend Elisée Reclus? He is a famous old radical who fought on the barricades for the Paris Commune. He and his circle are great believers in education for women. They have encouraged me to pursue the interests closest to my heart. Instead of resuming my studies in music, I intend to enroll in the
College de France
and study Sanskrit under the Tibetan scholar Professor Foucaux. Mrs. Morgan has arranged for me to lodge at the Paris headquarters of the Theosophist Society, and I will write again upon my arrival.

Numéro 30 boulevard Saint-Michel

Chère
Jeanne,

So here I am in Paris, in the Latin Quarter, at the lodgings arranged for me by Mrs. Morgan. The Paris headquarters of the Theosophist Society occupies the third floor above a grocery shop. I think I must inform Mrs. Morgan that she has been deceived as to the nature of the accommodation. In comparison, my lodgings at the Supreme Gnosis seem the very height of luxury. There are no other members of the Society in residence at the moment, and I believe I understand the reason.

My room, which opens directly off the dining room, is sparsely furnished and quite shabby. There is no bathtub in the house, merely pitchers and a washbasin on a table in my room. Mme Jourdan, my landlady, has advised me to use the bath establishment down the street. Dinner last night was boiling water, in which there floated a few lonely fragments of potato and a soggy chunk of bread.

When I first arrived, I did not know whether to laugh or to weep. But then I told myself that this is an adventure, and I have never turned away from an adventure. And in any case, Jeanne, you know that I never cry.

Now I must go shopping, for the house is not well heated, and no one has offered me extra bedding. And after that I must look for another place to stay.