by Colin Wilson
The next thing that happened was that the wife had a baby—a daughter—and Cunningham dragged them off on some peculiar trip across Africa, apparently to learn about tribal magic. Radin is not sure of the details, but it seems that the three of them got abandoned by their servants when they were about two hundred miles from the nearest town. Cunningham then deserted his wife, made his own way to Durban, and sailed for England. The wife managed to get to the coast, but the baby died on the way, of some fever.
I must admit that this story shook me. A man can be forgiven for many things, but deserting his wife and baby in the middle of a strange country is not just weakness or even wickedness, but a repulsive kind of selfishness that disgusts me. However, I’d like to hear Cunningham’s version of the story. I felt that Radin, in spite of his ‘lack of prejudice’, actually hates Cunningham’s guts, and is looking forward to the day when the ‘scandal’ breaks. Even so, the facts look pretty damning for Cunningham. His wife returned to him in England, and lived with him for a time. Then he left her again, and was seen around London with another woman—an actress. The wife had some kind of a breakdown, and ended in a mental home. Radin says he believes this was the effect of drugs, alcohol, and the sheer craziness of life with Cunningham, who spent half his nights trying to raise the devil by long incantations and asked his wife to believe that he was the latest avatar of the World Saviour, sent to create a new age. (I gather that his wife is now living again with her father, but is a chronic invalid; she has divorced Cunningham, and has refused to talk to Radin about him.)
This summarizes all that Radin told me about Cunningham. We went out and had lunch in the Gay Hussar, and talked until well after three o’clock. Radin says that he lost touch with Cunningham about five years ago. He has no idea how or where he’s lived since deserting Clara; all he knows is that Cunningham spent all his money, and had to sell his property in Scotland.
I found all this fascinating, but difficult to believe. Radin assured me that it was all true, and that he would introduce me to someone who would verify it all. I was, to tell the truth, pretty sleepy and anxious to get home, but didn’t feel I could rush off since I owed Radin a lunch. I tried to find out exactly what Radin wanted me to do, but he wouldn’t be explicit. I imagine that he was simply curious to find out what I knew about Cunningham. He also, I think, relies on my future cooperation, and perhaps hopes that I’ll be a source of inside information about Cunningham’s plans.
He insisted that we call on someone in Soho, but the person was out. He then said that we could at least walk past the British Museum and see if we could find his friend there. So we went in, and Radin looked in the reading-room, and came out a few minutes later with a man I remember having seen there many times. His name is Frederick Wise, he’s an authority on heretical sects, and he’s a curious old man with a mop of white hair and an awful-looking goitre that gives him the appearance of a toad. He was rather brusque, declared he was too busy to talk at the moment, and finally came outside with us. However, he became more talkative when we sat down, and, as it was bitterly cold there, agreed to come across the road for a cup of tea. Radin explained to him that he’d been telling me about Cunningham, and that he thought I was in danger of coming under Cunningham’s influence; he asked the old man’s opinion. Wise said: ‘There’s only one thing I can say for sure about Cunningham—he’s one of the few really evil men I’ve ever met. Keep away from him.’ He then told the story of Cunningham’s marriage, but in a slightly different version from Radin’s, and, if possible, even more damning. But what interested me most was that Wise is plainly a believer in magic and witchcraft himself; this came out in several things he said. Finally, he jumped up and said he had to go and work, and vanished without further ado. Radin said: ‘It’s a pity he’s in one of his bad moods. When he’s talkative, he’ll go on for hours. He could tell you some astonishing things about Cunningham, and what’s more, he understands these things.’ I pressed him to explain himself, and he said: ‘What I really wanted Wise to tell you was his theory that Cunningham was always doomed to fail and to be unlucky in anything he attempted.’ Wise believed that Cunningham had taken various solemn oaths when he started to study magic—oaths binding him to use his power only for good, to keep his eyes fixed on the highest ideals, etc. It is also a part of these oaths that a man calls down upon himself the most awful maledictions in the event of his breaking them. I can easily imagine Cunningham taking such oaths and believing in his own sincerity; but I can also imagine that a character as mercurial and weak as Cunningham would forget them a fortnight later. Wise, apparently, believes that this is what happened, and that Cunningham has exposed himself to ‘formidable spiritual reprisals’ by breaking his oaths. He has definite knowledge that Cunningham found the disciplines prescribed by Abrahamelin the Mage too binding, and that he went off to Egypt (this was before the war) searching for a new ‘Bible for the Supermen’ in the museums of Cairo, and probably in certain tombs. At all events, he sent communications to various occult groups in London and Paris, declaring that he had received some revelation direct from Anubis, and that he had been ordered to proclaim himself the new leader of all such groups. Naturally, this caused a great deal of trouble; nobody was willing to accept his leadership at such short notice. At the meeting Wise’s group called to discuss the matter, a black raven flew into the room and blundered against the light bulb, causing it to fuse. Afterwards, they verified that there had been no window open to admit the bird, and concluded that it was a sign that Cunningham’s claims were to be taken seriously. However, Wise had the idea that all members should be searched before they left the room—he seems to have been shrewder than the others—and in the pocket of a man who was known to be friendly to Cunningham they found grains of corn and some feathers! This ended Cunningham’s hopes of becoming leader of the group, and also convinced everyone that he was to be treated as a charlatan who only wanted power.
I finally left Radin at five o’clock and came back here. I think he’d gained what he wanted—to keep track of Cunningham’s exploits. As to me, I can’t drink during the afternoon without feeling fit for absolutely nothing in the evening. So I lay down and tried to sleep. However, after a quarter of an hour or so, Diana came and woke me up. I pulled her down on the bed and said: ‘Listen, I want to ask you something. Do you love me?’ She said: ‘How can I love you? I’ve only known you for a few days.’ ‘But you’ve slept with me.’ ‘That’s not the same.’ ‘You mean you don’t mind sleeping with a man you don’t care about?’ ‘I didn’t say I don’t care about you.’ ‘What do you mean, then?’ ‘To love someone, you have to be absolutely sure of them. So you have to know them well. I haven’t known you long enough.’ She looked at me so honestly as she said this that I was touched. I said: ‘Do you love your husband?’ Again she looked doubtful. ‘I do in a way.’ ‘But what?’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t talk about him to you—yet.’ It seems to me that she has an extraordinary honesty. It would have been so easy for her to say: ‘No, I don’t love him any more.’ Finally, I asked her: ‘Supposing I asked you to leave him and come to me?’ She looked surprised. Instead of refusing, as I expected, she said: ‘Do you want me as much as that?’ I nodded and kissed her, and said: ‘Don’t you believe me?’ ‘It’s not that. But. . . . I don’t think you’re the sort of person to stay with one woman. I think you like women too much.’ It took me some time to convince her that she was wrong, and that I really wanted her to come away with me. I pressed her about it; she temporized and said she couldn’t tell me immediately. Then she lay down on the bed, as if to say: ‘Make love to me, and excuse me answering any further questions.’ It seems that Kirsten was out again with Cunningham, so I decided it would be a pity to waste the opportunity, and undressed her. As I was making love to her, I said: ‘Supposing I give you a baby. You’d have to leave Kirsten then.’ She only nodded, her eyes closed. Half an hour later, she said she had to go out to get food, in case
Kirsten hadn’t eaten. But when she’d gone, I lay there and thought it all preposterous. I don’t want a love affair with her. I want to marry her. She seems to me the sort of girl I could live with for the rest of my life without getting tired. I am analytical enough to realize that this is because she’s curiously yielding—quite un-egotistical, and this is necessary for an egotist like me. She’d put up with me. I don’t think it’s success she needs in a husband—although I have never doubted that I shall achieve immense success one day—but simply affection and need for her. I feel that Kirsten doesn’t offer her much affection. A kind of need, perhaps, but nothing very personal, just the same thing he feels about his supper. I realize that I’m giving up my independence, and yet this makes no difference. I never valued it that much. Besides, I might never meet anyone like Diana again. But I wish I knew how much Kirsten needs her. . . .
Nov. 22nd.
I spent most of yesterday filling in my journal, which exhausted me. However, I didn’t finish. Kirsten returned with Cunningham again, and Cunningham came up to ask me out to supper. I told him I’d already eaten, and didn’t feel like another meal. (Luckily, he didn’t use his second-sight to find out about Radin!) But he persuaded me to go back with him. He was only slightly puzzled that I wouldn’t drink; I said I had a headache.
The truth was that the things Radin had told me had affected me; they made me see him in a different way, as a weakling. He could sense this, I think. He said something about magic, and I said that he should realize that I am, at present, one of the unconverted, and feel a slight derision when I hear the word. At this, his manner became rather quiet and serious, and he said: ‘But you must realize, Gerard, that magic is perhaps the only thing in the world really worth doing. Because in its broadest sense, magic means trying to summon up forces greater than your conscious self. Don’t you believe in such forces?’ I said I did, but not in wishful thinking. He said: ‘Is it wishful thinking? White magic is supposed to be a means of invoking the gods. Black magic means summoning up devils. Well, I can tell you now that these forces exist—forces for evil or good.’
He’s a cunning devil. He knows I can’t resist intellectualizing, and that the surest way to gain my attention is to say something intelligent. I told him that religion means trying to summon the God inside you—in the subconscious or superconscious or whatever you want to call it. Magic seems to mean trying to summon gods and demons from outside you. And they just don’t exist. Cunningham said: ‘Don’t think I’m trying to quibble. But it depends very much on what you mean by inside and outside. I could take you right now to a room half a mile away where you would be convinced of the reality of spirit-mediumship. I could introduce you to a woman who could tell you things about yourself and your life that she couldn’t possibly have learned from anyone. And she’s no charlatan. She doesn’t know herself how she does it. She doesn’t try to use her powers to get rich—although she makes a living by them. Where does she gain this power? From inside herself or outside? Most of her congregation at the Spiritualist Church will tell you it comes from outside, from the spirits of the dead. I don’t think it necessary to accept this idea. I believe it comes from some unknown, untapped resources that we all contain.’
I must admit that Cunningham has a brilliance that makes it impossible to dislike him for long. I wish I could have asked him outright about the story of abandoning his wife and daughter, but I didn’t want to tell him about Radin—partly because Radin made me promise so solemnly (I almost suspect that he’s afraid of Cunningham).
When I said that I’d like to study a case of ‘genuine medium-ship’ before I made up my mind Cunningham looked thoughtful, then said: ‘I might be able to do better than that. I wonder. . . .’ Then he said suddenly: ‘Wait here for a moment while I telephone.’ He went out, and came back ten minutes later. ‘Would you like to see a haunted house?’ I said cautiously that I might find it interesting. He said: ‘All right. Come on.’
By this time, my headache had disappeared completely. We went down to Whitechapel High Street and got a taxi, then drove to Hanover Square. On the way, Cunningham explained that he couldn’t promise any manifestation, but that if there was anything, it would convince me far more than any case of mediumship. Then he explained that we were going to a house near Hanover Square. ‘Have you ever read Lytton’s Haunted and the Haunters?’ I said yes. ‘This place is the house that Lytton was supposed to have based the story on. It was empty for a long time. Now the ground floor has been turned into a flat, and the upper part is used as a storeroom for paintings. I know the son of the man who owns it.’ As we went along, he told me the story of the house—the usual thing about a wicked Victorian who beat his wife to death and let his niece starve because she wouldn’t marry the man of his choice; the niece committed suicide by jumping out of the window—which is on the second floor—and the wicked uncle died in his sleep, after living alone in the house for some time. Thereafter, the room in which the niece had been starved and the wife had died was haunted, and the story has it that people who stayed in the room have been driven insane. Cunningham agreed that all this is unauthenticated, and that the story about people going insane and dying of fright and delayed shock sounds like the usual exaggeration. However, there are a number of reports from people who testify to a definite ‘presence’ in the haunted room, and the house did remain empty for ten years or so—in spite of its position in the middle of the West End—until the firm of art dealers bought it.
We called at a house in Hanover Square, and Cunningham collected the key from a servant, then we walked round the corner to the house itself.
There is no point in going into detail about this. The room didn’t strike me as in any way peculiar, except it was hellishly cold. We switched on a large electric fire, and it gradually warmed up. It was pretty uncomfortable, having only one chair and a mattress in it; it was full of dust, smelt very stale and depressing; the light bulb was also very weak; I think a decent 150-watt lamp would completely dissipate its spooky atmosphere!
When we were settled, Cunningham declared that we ought to have brought some booze, and insisted on going down to get some. I think this may have been a ruse for leaving me alone there and trying to get me into a state of nerves. However, the room didn’t impress me, and I sat there until Cunningham came back (loaded with drink) without noticing anything that made me nervous.
We sat there for a couple of hours. Cunningham said that we would leave at one in the morning if we saw and heard nothing. We drank whisky out of tooth-glasses we found in the bathroom next door, and talked. I must admit that Cunningham showed no disposition to try to ‘set the atmosphere’ by talking about ghosts. Instead, he went into a quite brilliant discourse on logical positivism. Some of it struck me as so sound that I note it here. He attacked the position that philosophy must confine itself to what can be proved or tested. He said that many propositions of vital importance are unproveable. For example, someone once said that no man dies until he has accomplished whatever he has inside him—that if Schubert and Keats and Wolf had lived thirty years longer, they wouldn’t have added substantially to their achievement. Now this proposition is plainly of the utmost importance; a man of genius who accepted it and believed it implicitly would be freed of the usual gloomy fatalism and would work twice as hard. There is not a single human being who wouldn’t derive some benefit from believing it. And yet how is it possible to test it? Not that it has to be swallowed blindly. But you can only apply to it the test of your own intuitions and experience, and they may be quite incommunicable to another person.
Cunningham’s talk always excites me, and I drank more than I intended to. Before very long, I noticed it was after midnight. It was then that I observed that the room was horribly cold. At first I thought the electric fire had gone out. But it hadn’t, and I got up, went over to it, and warmed my hands. Yet even as I sat there, the back of my neck was freezing. I suddenly s
hivered, and had an awful sense of foreboding, as if something had crept up on us without our noticing it. Cunningham was smiling oddly. Then he said: ‘Well, how do you account for that?’ ‘For what?’ I said, my teeth chattering. ‘This cold. It wasn’t like this half an hour ago.’ He pointed to the fire, which was large enough to warm any other room, and I saw his point. However, I commented that it was, after all, after midnight, and probably the temperature outside had dropped a great deal. The creepy feeling had quite vanished. We drank more whisky—I wasn’t feeling too good, not because of the cold, but simply because it doesn’t suit my stomach to get slightly drunk twice in one day—and I tried not to be sick. Suddenly I felt a great deal of pity for the poor girl who had starved in this room. It was a hell of a room to be sick in. The wallpaper—mid-Victorian and pre-Morris—was the most depressing I’ve ever seen. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ‘evil influence’ of the room isn’t something to do with the smell and awful pattern on that lousy wallpaper. Finally, I suggested we go. Cunningham said all right, and we went out. Then I got a surprise. Although the rest of the house smelt musty enough, it was nowhere near as cold, and when we got outside, the night seemed warm compared to that room.