by Alice Miller
“Please, take a seat. Just sit down.” From his bed, Second Lieutenant Pike spoke softly. The red-brown tufts of his hair were curved up like the horns of an owl. His eyes were unblinking and calm in the light from the weak electric lamp. It seemed to her at that moment as if he were offering her something of great worth, something she should remember. She walked to the chair beside his bed and sank down into it.
FOUR
WINTER 1914
Georgie and Dorothy had settled into a rhythm before the war, even for Georgie’s final year of school, taking regular holidays to the Continent—renting a little apartment with Olivia or another chaperone, and talking and drinking and smoking and painting, and meeting with whoever was passing through. In London they went to soirées and lectures and occasionally séances, and they gave false hope to the young men who wanted to marry Dorothy. Since her father’s death, Georgie had become more interested in séances, as if perhaps her father might use one to check in with her, to offer her a scrap of advice or reassurance. Although Dorothy had tried to get invitations to the occult order she’d heard about through one of her admirers, no invitation had ever arrived, and Dorothy seemed to have forgotten about it. But at one of Olivia’s soirées, Georgie thought to ask W. B. Yeats.
W. B. was Nelly’s age, in his late forties, and although he was a tall man, he bent over slightly to be closer to his audience. After she’d had a few glasses of wine, Georgie caught him when the woman he was speaking to excused herself to use the lavatory. As the woman left to go down the hall, Georgie stepped in front of him, and with a bravery she didn’t know she had, she said,
“Dorothy and I want to join the Order.”
W. B. stood up straighter and considered her. “Why?”
Georgie had rehearsed a scholarly answer, with reference to William Blake, Dante, and Swedenborg, which she thought would impress him. But standing there, she realised this answer was all wrong. She was speaking to a man, not a famous figure. He wanted something unprepared, something bare. His eyebrows were raised as he waited for her response, and the wrinkles of his forehead were like those curved lines blown into sand dunes.
“I’ll do anything,” she said, “to speak to the dead.” She glanced up to see Nelly approaching them, about to cut in on their conversation, and to stop that happening she hastily excused herself, turning her back on her mother and slipping off into another group of strangers.
She hadn’t had the chance to speak with him again. But a week later she received an envelope containing her first invitation to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It was a pale green card with her name in the corner, announcing an appointment that evening:
144 Bassett Road, 10 PM, Stella Matutina Branch
When Georgie saw Dorothy the same evening at the regular do at Eva Fowler’s, Dorothy said she hadn’t received a card.
“It must be a mistake,” Georgie said. It hadn’t occurred to her she would have to go to a strange house, late at night, alone.
“It’s all right,” Dorothy said. “I don’t mind.” She seemed distracted, continually turning around to look at the newly arriving guests, as if she were expecting someone. Georgie hoped that she didn’t have another plan to set her up with one of the men she knew. Every attempt before now had been embarrassing for Georgie; either the men had clearly preferred Dorothy, or their lack of imagination had offended her. How could Dorothy imagine she would be interested in them? Did Dorothy think so little of her?
“Have you met Hilda?” Dorothy said. A woman was coming over to them, and Georgie could already tell from the way Dorothy was acting that she didn’t like her. The woman was extremely tall, and had an arch expression, like a foal that has learned to gallop and is puzzled by why you are still lying in the grass.
“Hilda is a poet. From Pennsylvania,” Dorothy said, still looking behind them. “Georgie Hyde-Lees, Hilda Doolittle.” Georgie shook the woman’s hand.
“Have you been in London long?” Georgie said politely, but any answer was prevented by a thumping across the room. All heads turned towards the sound, before everyone realised who it was and returned to their conversations. Ezra was always a demanding and slightly ridiculous presence; tonight his side whiskers bloomed from his face, his shirt had enormous pale blue buttons, and he wore, dripping from one ear, a turquoise earring. He was banging his walking stick along the parquet as he entered, announcing his arrival like he was leading a charge. Behind him, W. B. smiled at his young protégé, with a look halfway between appreciation and bemusement.
The poets joined their circle, and before anyone could say anything, Ezra announced the topic for discussion. “The Eagle and I are squabbling about a prize.” W. B. was the more respectable of the pair; by far the senior, his poems were taught in schools; he wore an impeccable velvet jacket and stood with the confidence of a man who was planning to refuse a knighthood.
Another man had joined them and put his arm around Hilda, who kissed him fiercely in front of the group. Georgie averted her eyes and fingered the green card in her pocket.
“I don’t need it,” W. B. was saying.
“It’s not about that,” Ezra said. “It’s about the magazine’s recognition that you are the Greatest Poet in the English Language.”
“It can recognise that without awarding a prize.”
“But a prize makes it clear.”
“There is another man we could give it to. Who needs it more.”
“You can’t give it to anyone else. It’s your prize.” Ezra punctuated his final words with his stick, turning away from W. B. and towards Dorothy and Hilda. “He doesn’t listen.”
Dorothy laughed and Ezra smiled at her. Georgie had often wondered what it would be like to be so absolutely devoid of self-doubt as Ezra Pound seemed to be, almost as if he were gazing at the world from behind a protective film. She imagined it would be magnificent.
As Ezra switched his attention to Dorothy, W. B. said quietly to Georgie, “He’s too much sometimes.”
“Often, I should think,” Georgie said, and she added, “Thank you. For the invitation. It came through.”
He smiled. “You’re very well matched to it, with your interests,” he said. For now he didn’t mention Dorothy, so Georgie didn’t ask.
“Giddyup, Dante,” Ezra called over to him. He was already on his way down the hall, Hilda and the other man behind him, and he was gesturing with his walking stick for W. B. to follow. W. B. started across the room and Georgie started after him, but Dorothy grabbed her elbow.
“Wait,” she said, holding her. “Dear, I have to talk to you.” She paused. “I don’t want to worry you.”
“What?”
“It’s not official yet.” Georgie watched the others leave the room, and turned back to her friend. Dorothy’s pale cheeks were striped with red, as if she were ill. Worried, Georgie took her hand, and Dorothy burst into a kind of wild laughter.
“Ezra and I—we are going to marry.”
“Oh?” Georgie wanted to drop Dorothy’s hand, but instead she clasped it and embraced her. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. But what of their plans—to join the Order, to return to Italy this summer?
“It doesn’t change anything,” Dorothy said.
“Of course it does,” Georgie said, pulling back from the embrace. “Congratulations.” As she smiled, she noticed she was already trying to extricate herself, already guarding her thoughts and feelings. She had planned to ask if Dorothy had enjoyed the parodies of Ezra in the Egoist, but now that Ezra was her fiancé, she could hardly bring up a text that ridiculed him. Not now, anyway. Instead, Georgie swiftly excused herself, pretending not to notice Dorothy’s worried look.
She walked out of the room and towards the front door, and let herself out onto the porch of the Fowlers’ house. What had she thought would happen? That Dorothy would never marry, that they would keep being independent and wandering around the Continent, painting and drinking? Looking out, she could see the darkness which marked the edge
of Hyde Park. She walked around the porch until she could see inside the drawing room, which radiated a light that guaranteed that no one would be able to see her outside. She was grateful for the privacy, the invisibility. Inside, Dorothy still stood near where Georgie had left her, but there was Ezra, swooping back in to speak to her, presumably checking to see how their conversation had gone. Of course they would marry. Dorothy admired Ezra, and why wouldn’t Ezra, like everyone else, be unable to resist Dorothy? Behind the glass, Dorothy was making a sweeping gesture, looking concerned, but Ezra reached and caught her hand, and brought the hand up to her cheek, and they smiled at each other.
“It won’t last, you know,” a voice came from behind Georgie. “These things hardly ever do.”
She turned and found W. B. standing there.
“They’re getting married,” she said.
“Really?” He seemed surprised, and he stepped forward to peer more closely at them through the glass.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not official.” Inside, the couple were laughing together, secure in a delight that was only theirs. “Why did you think they wouldn’t?”
He was still watching them. “I don’t know. I didn’t think Ezra wanted to marry. Too obsessed with work. I think with the keenness of his intellect, his apprenticeship will be long. What do you make of him?”
“I think he’s wonderful,” she said, which was true, but she wanted to add that she didn’t think his work was wonderful, or not yet anyway. She thought it wild and self-conscious, rather like the man himself. It had the man’s bravado but did not show confidence, or consistency. W. B. was a far better poet. She remembered the parody of Ezra in the Egoist that she’d wanted to laugh about with Dorothy:
Come my songs,
Let us praise ourselves;
I doubt if the smug will do it for us,
The smug who possess all the rest of the universe.
She turned to W. B. to ask if he had read it, but his expression surprised her—a fierce expression, as if he were bracing for something—and seeing him like that, she forgot what she was about to say. She was already struggling with her own set of feelings, and here was a whole other person with his own feelings. She turned to the window to collect herself, and by the time she turned back, the poet had gone.
She went looking for him afterwards, but he must have left the party altogether. She found Nelly and told her that she was tired and she was going home early. Although she knew she should congratulate Ezra and say goodbye to Dorothy, she avoided speaking to either of them. Instead, she made her way to Bassett Road alone.
When the cab stopped outside the house on Bassett Road just before ten that night, Georgie almost ordered the driver to go back to Drayton Gardens. The Bassett Road house was white, suburban, unremarkable, but there was something in its plainness, its unassuming facade, that made her nervous. Who knew what might be inside? She hesitated, but having ordered the car here, she felt too embarrassed to do anything but pay the driver and get out onto the street.
As the car drove away, she walked up the steps to the house and rang the bell. She showed the servant her green card, and he took her down the hall and pointed to a heavy door.
“Please shut it after you, ma’am,” he said.
She entered a completely dark room. When she closed the door, she heard the click of a lock. She could tell she was standing in a large room, although she could not see the walls. All around her she could hear people breathing. She wished her eyes would adjust. She took a few steps forward into the darkness.
Something was moving towards her. It was a figure in a long black robe, with arms out. The figure was cradling a black mass, and offered it to her. She took it. It was a long robe, with a large hood. She shook it out; it smelled of aniseed and another woman’s perfume. Although the fabric was heavy, Georgie found as she pulled the robe on, she felt lighter. She stepped back and walked into someone.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, as the body ducked away. The world seemed to be retreating from her. She wanted to reach out to feel what was in front of her, to understand where she was, but instead she stood and waited.
As her eyes began to adjust, she could see the outlines of a series of figures around the room, a crowd, all wearing hooded robes, all turned to her. Dozens of silent figures. She couldn’t work out which were men and which were women. Eventually, someone came forward and took her hand, and led her slowly to the far end of the room. The figure took a match, struck it, and the flame shuddered as it was carried over to light a bright torch.
Now she could see in front of her a golden altar, laid with red cloth, and on top of that a knife, a rope, and a silver cup.
She turned to look at the other figures in the light. Each one had a hood pulled down to cover his or her face, and each robe displayed a symbol on its front: a bird with human fingers; a planet on fire; a blind man dangling from a tree.
The hooded strangers all faced her. They seemed to expect something from her. She turned back to the altar. She noticed a pair of red shoes on the floor, and she slipped off her own shoes and put the red shoes on. They were a bit too big for her and felt sticky on her stockinged feet.
The figure who had led her to the altar now spoke to her. “I am the Hiereus,” he said. “Do you swear to persevere in the labours of the Divine Science?”
She smiled under her hood. Although he still had his own hood down over his eyes, she was certain from his voice that it was W. B. His robe was black with a white cross on his left breast. He was picking up the knife from the altar, and he dipped it into the silver cup, up to his fingers, and brought it over to her. He placed it in her hand—it was wet—and she could smell red wine on her fingers.
“I am the expounder of mysteries,” he said, and he put his hand around her hand and guided the knife up until the wet blade was against her neck. The touch of his hand on hers was firm, each finger pressing the underside of her hand. “Repeat after me.”
With the blade against her skin, she repeated:
And as I bow my neck under the dagger of the Hiereus
And as I bow my neck under the dagger of the Hiereus
so do I commit myself
so do I commit myself
through the ancient texts found by the countess
through the ancient texts found by the countess
into the hands of the Order’s Divine Guardians.
into the hands of the Order’s Divine Guardians.
He took the knife away and she looked up at him. She wanted to pull his hood back from his face. The people around the room were facing them, all with hoods still pulled low over their eyes, all gathered around and watching her. They were murmuring approval.
FIVE
WINTER 1916
She arrived too early for her shift at the hospital, and while she was wandering around the area, she found herself outside a small jeweller’s shop. There had been air raids recently not far from here, but the possibility that a bomb could fall from the sky onto this particular cobble-strewn, sunlit street felt as likely as the sparrows opening their beaks to debate Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Georgie entered the shop, the glittering of the bell above her head, to find a small array of gold and silver items under glass. She was still alone in the shop as she walked slowly around the glass cases. It was strange to be in a room that wasn’t the hospital, where things might be bought and sold, and there was no muffled speech, no creaking beds or clinking glasses, no strained breathing.
She stopped above a large golden ring. It was a man’s signet ring, but it appeared to be blank, with no engraving.
“See something you like?” A boy of around nineteen had appeared from out the back. It had been a while since she’d seen a young man out of uniform. He was a cautious salesman, staying back from the glass cases.
“Why is there nothing on it?”
“Sorry?” He was not close enough to see which ring she was looking at, and he allowed himself to come a litt
le farther into the room. He peered into the case. “I see what you mean. I’ve no idea. I’ll check the notes.” He went over to a scrapbook that was hanging on a string on the wall, and flicked through the pages. “My brother says . . . it belonged to a Frenchman . . . down in the Pyrenees. No more information than that, I’m afraid. Perhaps his family disowned him, and they had the engraving removed?”
She looked closer at the ring, with its plain round face, but it looked entirely smooth. She thought of W. B., who believed you could access the Great Memory—all the memories of the dead—through symbols. Here was an opportunity to imprint the symbols herself, to stamp them into gold. She noticed the boy watching her.
“Would you like to have a closer look?” He had plucked a key from his pocket. He was wearing thin white gloves, and he unlocked the case with some difficulty, pried the ring from its glass holder, and passed it to her.
It was heavy. She turned it around in her fingers.
“It’s so strange there are no markings,” she said. She wondered what she might imprint on this ring, what memories of the dead she might wake.
“A blank canvas,” the boy pronounced. “Quite rare, I should think.”
She handed it back to the boy, and he replaced it under the glass.
“I have a weak chest,” the boy said.
“Pardon?”
“I tried to sign up, but was refused.”