I left and sat down on the nearest bench where I laughed and laughed and laughed. Of course this was irreverent behaviour but there was nothing I could do about it. Even when I was still a young woman I was occasionally overtaken by spasms of uncontrollable laughter, always in public. Once I remember in a theatre accompanied by my friend Marlborough I had to be almost carried out because a man in a frock coat got up to recite some very dramatic poetry. Whether this was a nervous reflex or the poetry seemed to me really comic I cannot remember. Marlborough always seemed to be present when I was overtaken by my spasms, which he was pleased to call Marian’s maniac laughter. He always enjoyed seeing me making an exhibition of myself. This got me wondering how Marlborough was enjoying Venice. He must be constantly floating about in a gondola, possibly accompanied by his crippled sister. Again I asked myself what could possibly be wrong with this sister that I had never even seen a snapshot of her during thirty years’ friendship with Marlborough? It must be something quite spectacular like having two heads. In this case he would hardly take her out in gondolas unless, perhaps, she sat behind a gauze curtain. Thick gauze, or even cheesecloth.
Marlborough comes from a rather aristocratic family so one could expect some kind of peculiarity. Although I had a mad grandmother, and my family was not aristocratic at all. But can cows be aristocrats? two-headed calves are quite common in fairs.
I was thinking all this when I was joined by Mrs. Van Tocht, who sat down ponderously. She was still breathing heavily from the exertion of the Movements.
“Somebody is singing ‘O Sole Mio’ to Marlborough who is floating around in a gondola with his two-headed sister,” I said, and stopped abruptly. Really I must learn not to say my thoughts aloud. The image had been so clear that I had seen her two heads through the lemon cheesecloth curtains of the gondola. Mrs. Van Tocht ignored what I said and leaned on me in a conspiratorial fashion so that I had difficulty in adjusting my hearing trumpet.
“You may confide your life’s tragedy to me,” she said, puffing and panting. “We all have our trials and sorrows on the path of life till we see the light.”
“I have had my difficulties,” I replied with the intention of complaining about Muriel and Robert. This would have been highly agreeable, but just as I was beginning about the television set she interrupted me with an impatient gesture: “Yes, I understand all. There are few dark corners in the human heart that I have not probed with my special insight. I am not a visionary like Mrs. Gonzalez, Natacha. Dear Natacha. But I have astral insight which enables me to help and comfort my fellow creatures. In my own humble way I have turned many erring souls to the light, yet my poor gifts are nothing compared to the wonderful powers of Natacha. She is controlled you understand, spiritual control is a rare and beautiful gift. Natacha is the Pure Vessel through which unseen powers are made manifest to us. ‘NOT I BUT THAT WHICH WORKS WITHIN ME.’ Those are Natacha’s constant words, she has a great limpid humility like the Master whose miracles were worked with the words ‘Not I, but my father which is in Heaven.’ ”
During the pause I hastened to get back to Robert and the television set. “My grandson Robert,” I said, “has an unpleasant addiction to television. Before he installed this horrible apparatus in the house I used to sit in the lounge after dinner and keep the whole family amused with fairy tales and anecdotes of my past life. I pride myself that I can tell a very amusing story when I wish. Nothing vulgar, of course, but witty and even spicy when I am not too troubled with my rheumatism. Rheumatism of course is a great hindrance to funny stories. Now my daughter-in-law, Muriel, is very unsympathetic to rheumatism. She is also very greedy with chocolates which she always hides, a very unpleasant habit. I often wonder how Galahad could ever manage to marry a person like Muriel . . .”
I was beginning to enjoy myself but Mrs. Van Tocht soon stopped me talking with an imperious gesture, “You should never pride yourself on anything. Even something as trivial as a comic anecdote is a spiritual plague if used as a source of self-love. Humility is the fountain of light. Pride is a disease of the soul. Many people come to me seeking advice and spiritual comfort. When I lay my hands on them to calm their anxiety and fill them with Love and Light I always say ‘First be Humble. A full cup cannot receive.’ ”
She was almost sitting on top of me, I could hardly breathe, yet I was determined to tell her more about Muriel: “My daughter-in-law started giving bridge parties after Robert brought the television set to the house. At least it would have been bridge, in my day. Now they call it Canasta Party. They actually turned me out of the lounge when people came in to play this ridiculous game. The first evening I refused to leave the room and told fourteen Parrot stories without forgetting the end of more than six.”
I hoped that she would ask me to tell one of these stories, and I had just decided to tell her the Yorkshire Parrot story when she began again: “Wednesday evenings Natacha gives little groups in our bungalow. I am sure you would find great spiritual profit if you joined us. There would only be Natacha, Maude, you and myself, all very cosy and intimate. Natacha gives us the Messages, sent to each one of us individually from the great unseen, and then we hold hands around a little table and exchange our vibrations. There are times when we are favoured with materializations from the astral plane.”
I had only got halfway through the Parrot story when she heaved herself off the bench and said, “Then we shall expect you at eight-thirty on Wednesday evening at my bungalow. Do not mention this to Mrs. Gambit as she has great spiritual pride and is jealous of Natacha’s wonderful powers. Besides we keep the Circle a secret in order to concentrate astral energy.”
With these mysterious words she lumbered off, leaving me wondering how the Yorkshire Parrot story ended. Anna Wertz suddenly appeared on the path and I got up and turned towards my bungalow, pretending I had not seen her. But she walked faster than I and soon caught up with me. Anna did not really prevent me from enjoying the evening air and without my hearing trumpet her voice was a distant murmur like a crowd on a far-off football field. Making no attempt to listen, I saw with delight that Venus was out and sparkled over the tree tops. I longed to tell Anna how I loved this bright planet but I knew that would be out of the question. She was looking rather cross, probably she had been working dreadfully hard again, although I could not imagine what she did that was so exhausting.
How delightful it would be to find a few people, or even one person, unconditionally thrilled by what one had to say. I imagined telling an excited audience Parrot stories for hours on end without anyone interrupting or yawning. Or again to explain how very unfair Muriel and Robert had always been to me, and how Galahad used to have a strong character which was gradually sapped away by Muriel’s nagging. Mere daydreams, one might say, yet there are people who talk a lot and nobody ever dares interrupt them. What can they possibly have to say that is so interesting? Perhaps if one had ghostly visitations like Mrs. Gonzalez, it would be possible to excite interest in other people, especially if one talked to them about themselves. There, I suppose, was the secret. People only like whatever concerns themselves and I am no exception to this rule.
We all like to be popular but what a price to pay, always to talk about the other person and never about oneself. It is doubtful if one would get any enjoyment at all, unless of course one was constantly invited to tea with French pastries. Port wine might be served instead of tea if a very interesting person happened to prefer that. Especially if I was that interesting person and I only talked about other people. In that case perhaps they might consider changing beverages.
I saw myself sitting in a warm parlour with scarlet curtains surrounded by happy, confidential but vague faces. I drank glass after glass of rich Portuguese wine occasionally washed down with a tiny French eclair. Everybody got happier and happier, they burst into applause as I reached the lighthouse, Anna Wertz had disappeared. She must have noticed that I had not been paying attention to what s
he was telling me. Poor Anna, how terrible for her that nobody ever liked listening to her talk.
Venus sparkled over the trees and it was almost suppertime. I fancied a nice boiled egg for supper, but one had to eat whatever appeared on the table. Although Dr. Gambit allowed me to abstain from meat I could not take two helpings of vegetables instead so I sometimes got up hungry from the table. He told us that as one grows older one needs less food, that overeating killed old people quicker than anything else. I dare say he was right, but we old people get a lot of simple pleasure from eating.
I wondered how Dr. Gambit and Mrs. Van Tocht kept so fat on our frugal meals. I supposed they did some private eating in their rooms, though how Mrs. Van Tocht managed to get extra food was a mystery. Mrs. Gambit was always watching over the kitchen like a lynx and the storeroom was kept locked.
I decided to discuss all this with Georgina who seemed generally well informed. There was another important question I decided to discuss with Georgina, that concerned the portrait of the nun which hung opposite my place at mealtimes. During meals Dr. Gambit would usually make long discourses on theoretical matters which I did not understand. While the doctor held forth I had plenty of time to examine the winking nun. My interest increased as time went on. Georgina was cultured and often mentioned famous artists that had been madly in love with her. So pretending my interest was purely artistic, I questioned her about the painting.
“It might be the Zurbarán school,” she said, looking uncommonly thoughtful. “Probably painted in the late eighteenth century. Spanish of course, an Italian could never have done anything so enchantingly sinister. A nun with a leer. Unknown master.”
“Do you suppose she is really winking, or is she blind in one eye?” I asked, anxious for Georgina’s opinion on a more personal aspect of the lady.
“She is definitely winking; the bawdy old bag is probably peeking at the monastery through a hole in the wall, watching the monks prancing around in their knickers.” Georgina had a one-track mind. “It is beautiful,” she added. “I wonder the Gams let it hang amongst their hideous possessions. Everything in the house ought to have been burnt long ago apart from the leering abbess.”
Certainly the painting had a force all of its own and I was pleased that Georgina was also impressed. She was such a cultured person, almost an aristocrat.
Really it was strange how often the leering abbess occupied my thoughts. I even gave her a name, keeping it strictly to myself. I called her Doña Rosalinda Alvarez della Cueva, a nice long name, Spanish style. She was abbess, I imagined, of a huge Baroque convent on a lonely and barren mountain in Castile. The convent was called El Convento de Santa Barbara de Tartarus, the bearded patroness of Limbo said to play with unbaptised children in this nether region. How all these fancies occurred to me I do not know, but they kept me amused, especially during sleepless nights. Old people do not sleep much.
“Yes,” said Georgina, “how those Spaniards understood the painting of black drapery. So much more superbly blackly depressing than anyone else’s black. The old lady’s habit has the texture of orchid petals and the colour of Limbo. It really is a wonderful painting. Her face surrounded by that white starched frill is as luminous as the full moon, and just as bewitching.” Somehow I felt that Georgina understood the painting of the leering abbess better than I ever could.
Three days after my arrival at Lightsome Hall I had my first private interview with Dr. Gambit. I was summoned to his study by a small piece of pink memorandum paper bearing this message: “Marian Leatherby kindly report to my office at six p.m. L. Gambit, Psych.”
The office, or study as it was called on ordinary occasions, was situated on the ground floor of the main building. It was a small room looking out onto a circular balcony and, further on, the lawn and cyprus trees which skirted the west wing. The room was stuffed to suffocation point with bibelots and heavy furniture. Books, magazines, brass Buddhas and marble Christs, archeological miscellanea, fountain pens and all kinds of other small accessories occupied every square inch of space. Dr. Gambit sat behind a huge mahogany desk which was half as large as the room. He looked professional as he told me to sit down. I found a free space with some difficulty.
“For weeks or even years we do not expect results from the Work,” said Dr. Gambit. “We do, however, expect Effort. This Institute was founded with the intention of introducing people to the Work. Inner Christianity. We choose our initiates from people already experienced in the sorrows and difficulties of life in three dimensions, people, in fact, already so disappointed with existence that emotional ties would be weakened with time and frustration. This condition is apt to open psychic doors for New Truth.”
He looked at me severely but I only kept nodding, as I do when I feel nervous. He wrote something in a notebook and then continued: “Every member of this community is closely Watched and Studied in order that they can receive Help. No Help can be of any avail if there is not collaboration and Effort on the part of the individual. Reports in your particular case show the following list of interior impurities: Greed, Insincerity, Egoism, Laziness and Vanity. At the top of the list Greed, signifying a dominating passion. You cannot overcome so many psychic deformities in a short space of time. You are not alone as victim of your degenerate habits, everyone has faults, here we seek to observe these faults and finally to dissolve them under the light of Objective Observation, Consciousness.
“The fact that You Have Been Chosen to join this community should give you enough stimulation to face your own vices bravely and seek to diminish their hold over you.”
I was somewhat confounded by this discourse and I might say offended. After mumbling a bit to get my thoughts in order I said: “Dr. Gambit, you are in error if you think that anybody chose me as an initiate for your Institution. I was sent here merely because my family wished to put me out of their way without having a murder on their conscience. My daughter-in-law Muriel chose your Institution as the only home for senile ladies which was financially within her and my son Galahad’s means. It is extremely doubtful that anybody within these walls had ever so much as heard of me, so how can you possibly insinuate that I was chosen by the Institution?”
“There are certain things that you must neither expect nor try to understand at the present,” replied the doctor mysteriously. “Live your daily tasks with attention and Effort. Do not try to interpret Higher Planes and their mysteries before you can extricate yourself from Automatic Habit. Vice and Habit mean the same thing. As long as we are victims of Habit we are slaves to Vice. I advise you to begin by giving up cauliflower. I notice you have an inordinate appetite for this vegetable, your reigning passion, in fact, Greed.”
Mrs. Gambit must have seen me steal a small branch of boiled cauliflower during the morning tasks in the kitchen. I must be more careful, I thought, nodding my head.
“I am happy and encouraged to see that you are already facing your Deficient Personality,” said Dr. Gambit. “Personality is a Vampire and True Self can never emerge as long as Personality is dominant.”
I wanted to say: “Yes, all that is true enough, but how can you criticize my greed when you are so much fatter than I am?” I could only mumble, however, and he seemed to think that I was asking for spiritual advice.
“Do not be discouraged,” he said. “Effort is always rewarded when we have renounced Recompense. Although Greed is deeply rooted in your nature, the fact that you recognize it as a destructive growth will help you to dislodge it, like a dentist extracting a decayed tooth.”
Surely anyone so fat must be at least as greedy as myself? Or was it Glandular? Fat people always say they have “Glandular” trouble, though they always eat more than anyone else, like Muriel, constantly stuffing herself with chocolates and never sharing them with anybody.
In any case all this talk about vicious greed no doubt helped the economy of feeding senile old women. The drawers in that colossal desk
of his were no doubt full of preserved fruits, sweet biscuits, jujubes and caramels. The top drawer was reserved, I supposed, for perishable foods such as cheese sandwiches and cold roast chicken, so they wouldn’t get forgotten under some account book in a bottom drawer.
“Glandular indeed!” I said aloud. “Never heard such nonsense.”
To my surprise Dr. Gambit looked pleased and replied immediately: “There you have one of the most important practical bases for Self Observation. Glands and their function are one of the first proofs of Will over Matter.”
“Glands yourself!” I replied, but I was so cross that my enunciation must have been worse than usual and he went right on telling me how to observe my glands. Fat Little Whippersnapper telling me about my glands!
I must have dozed off after this as the room was very warm. I woke suddenly as the door was thrown violently open. In came Natacha Gonzalez dressed like an apparition. She wore a long white nightdress and her abundant iron grey hair streamed over her shoulders. Her yellow face had two purple spots of rage on each cheek, and she pointed at Dr. Gambit like an avenging fury: “If you do not get rid of that woman,” she shouted, “I shall leave the Institute tonight.”
Pretending to be still asleep I put the trumpet cautiously to my left ear. Dr. Gambit stood up in some agitation and sat Mrs. Gonzalez in the nearest chair on top of a few paper-backed novels. “Be serene, Natacha, remember your Special Mission,” he said, lighting a cigarette and putting it in her mouth himself. I observed all this out of one eye. I must say Dr. Gambit had a most unexpected attitude to Natacha Gonzalez.
“Dear Lady, Serenity is the Tribute you must pay to the wonderful Gifts which flow through you. Serenity Natacha,” he repeated, fixing her with the two thick lenses of his spectacles. “Serenity Natacha, you are serene, perfectly blissfully calm and serene.”
The Hearing Trumpet Page 5