by James Reese
“Your Ophelia,” resumed Penfold, “was sublime.” Whereupon Dr. Stewart, forgetting himself, set to nodding like a spaniel being offered sausages.
“I thank you, sir,” said Ellen, still feeling the fool.
“I very much envied the graceful death you conferred upon her.”
“Such compliments are attributable to Shakespeare,” she demurred, “more so than his players.”
“Ah,” said Penfold, “then I am right to disdain our Dr. Stewart for his refusal to free me; for surely he is the author of my fate, as Shakespeare was Ophelia’s. Perhaps, were he possessed of an ounce, of a scintilla of art, he’d see at least the romance in freeing me, if not the reason; but alas…”
“‘Romance’?” quoted the indignant doctor. “‘Reason’? I submit only to science, Penfold, in protecting you from yourself.”
“But I want no protection! How dare you condescend to me so?” And here came the bound patient, surging, as smoothly as his restraints allowed, to break upon the bars of his cell. Crack! went his jaw. His eyes fluttered, and it seemed he might faint onto the floor, but no…Here he was again, rather too lucid, blood spraying from his mouth as again he said, nay seethed, “How dare you?”
“Suicide,” answered Nurse Nurske, “is a sin! You’d roast for it, you would.”
“So, too, would you roast, if stupidity were a sin! No, I am wrong: Oily as you are, you’d not roast but burn, burn clean and quick.” The nurse clenched her fists, and in wringing between them something unseen…well, it was evident she very much missed the aforementioned stick just then. Best not to know what might pass at Stepney Latch after our departure, after Mr. Penfold launched his appeal in earnest; so:
“Mr. Stoker,” said he, imploringly, “I no longer wish to live. Living pains me.”
“Would not death?” I ventured.
“Dying, yes, perhaps; but not death. Death would be but…sweet oblivion, a surrender and a sinking away.”
“We cannot be sure of that,” said I in tones that would have won me no confidence in court.
“We cannot be sure,” he agreed. “But suicide, Mr. Stoker, is a topic upon which you have thought often, is it not?” His reddened chin rested now on a cross-rail of the bars. The blood that bubbled on his lower lip as he spoke was discomfiting, yes, but his words were worse. I stared at the man, whose eyes were fired now, fired by knowledge of…of me, or so it seemed. However could he know of my blackest moods, of Manhattan, of what had happened there? He could not. He was not prescient. I’d only endowed him with a like sight, and for an instant only. He was, in point of fact, merely mad; though Mr. T. M. Penfold can appear quite sane, quite; as when he next said:-
“I was yet a free man, Mr. Stoker, and myself a resident of Chelsea some six years ago—it was six, was it not?—when you so famously interceded in that suicide attempt upon the Thames.” Ah, at last: the explanation of how he’d known of me. Damnable Punch, damnable press.
“Mr. Penfold, I assure you—”
“Do you ever wonder, Mr. Stoker,” he interrupted, “if you ought not to have interceded? If you ought to have let that man die?”
“The man who leapt from the Twilight into the Thames did die, Mr. Penfold, as surely you know if you—”
“Do not mistake my point, sir. You did not let him die. And so I pose the question a second time: Do you, Mr. Stoker, ever wonder if you ought to have let the man die?”
The answer is yes. And I have often asked myself that question in the years since. But of course I said nothing of all that.
“And be assured, sir: I followed the press upon the case quite closely, as my own life had lately devolved to something…something I wished to rid myself of.”
Would he offer particulars? Ought I to ask for them? I hadn’t long to ponder, as Dr. Stewart then spoke of his patient in tones rather more sympathetic than he’d earlier employed, though still he spoke not to but of Penfold, as if he were not present.
“Penfold,” said he, “holds himself responsible for the deaths of his wife, two daughters, and an infant grandchild. Though the authorities deemed the deaths—by drowning: it was a boating excursion—accidental, still Penfold…” But Dr. Stewart desisted in his diagnosis, and indeed the look he then cast at Mr. Penfold was a pitying one. This was easily done; for there stood the man with tears in his eyes and blood on his lip, blood which must have tasted to him of the life he so disdained.
“It was after his first attempt at self-murder,” resumed Dr. Stewart, in softened tones, “that his in-laws—and the law proper—remanded him to Stepney Latch; and here he remains.”
“Yes,” rejoined Penfold, glaring at his warder, “here I remain, years on.”
“Penfold”—and again Dr. Stewart resumed his distancing discourse—“is of so fixed an intent he is dangerous. To himself, primarily, yes; but we must allow for the possibility of his murderous intent being directed toward others.”
“Oh, make up your mind, Doctor! Is it me or society proper you’re protecting?”
“Both,” said Dr. Stewart.
This raised Penfold’s ire once again. “Nothing, Doctor, nothing in my past life can possibly lead you to presuppose that I would be a danger to society if I were released. Nothing, I say. I have never hurt a fly.”34
“I ask you,” parried Dr. Stewart, “if, if I were to release you, would you set out immediately to harm yourself?”
“‘Harm myself ’? No, Doctor, I would not seek simply to harm myself. I would, however, seek egress from life by whatever means. Such is my right.”
“God gave you life,” interjected the nurse, “and only God—”
“God gives us two-legged brutes such as you to live amongst! By those lights, it would seem He plays rather loosely with the gift of life, and mightn’t look too harshly upon its occasionally being refused, with due reason.”
“‘Reason,’” quoted Dr. Stewart, addressing us. “He has reasoned thusly since his arrival at Stepney Latch, and so you see: My hands are tied.”
“No, Doctor, only my hands are tied.” Penfold spun round to show the long cuffs of his coat tied off behind him. “Free me, Dr. Stewart, and I shall gladly pardon you the pun. As for your persistence in keeping me penned up so…”
“I believe,” said a worn Dr. Stewart, “we ought to proceed with our tour. This patient is overly excited.”
“‘Excited’? Excited, you say?” Whereupon Mr. Penfold—and I came to begrudge Dr. Stewart his refusal to address his patient politely, to deprive him of the proper appellative—whereupon Mr. Penfold, I say, began to run his forehead across the bars rather as—and here I must beg pardon of a simile no better suited to the situation than the doctor’s accidental pun—rather as a lesser pianist would run the keys to finish off a drinking song with a flourish. He did so down the length of the barred wall, and back. The sounds of it—bone on bar—were as horrid as the sight.
Dr. Stewart stood staring, stunned, whilst Nurse Nurske sprang into action: from a hook beside the cell, she took down a heavy hood sewn of canvas, its inside rubberised, and she entered the cell, brought the inmate to the floor with moves vaguely Eastern in origin, and fastened the hood over his broken and bleeding head. She took evident pleasure in pulling its laces tight to the patient’s skull. All the while, Penfold cried to be let to die. Never have I heard words so plaintive. I confess that my breath caught in my chest, and I might well have given myself over to tears were it not for the needs of an already-crying E.T., the which I tended as best I could, saying:-
“We will go, we will go…” and I continued to whisper cold comfort into her ear, and ever louder, as now the ward rang with the imitative cries of its inmates; meanwhile, Mr. Penfold’s two warders—for Dr. Stewart had sprung into action at his nurse’s bidding—settled him upon his mat. He quieted as doctor and nurse left the cell, but still his shoulders heaved as high as they could whilst he cried. I saw now how the strait-jacket constrained his every motion: not only had he to move like a diap
ered child, bow-legged and sway-backed, when upright, but bedded down he could not even cry freely. The man’s humiliations were, nay are, manifold, and for his sake I hope he is indeed mad; but this I have reason to doubt. Rather, he wants death. Simply so. And doubtless Mr. Penfold saw a measure of sympathy in my eyes; for he then struggled onto his haunches and cried out:
“Mr. Stoker, wait!”
“Yes, Mr. Penfold, what is it?” I went nearer the bars. I had to kneel in order to hear the now-sane-seeming Penfold, for his words were muffled by the hood, through the mouth-slash of which blood seeped, just as tears moistened the crudely sewn eye-slits. “If, Mr. Stoker,” said he, “if you believe, as I do, that I have the right to end my own life; and if, Mr. Stoker, you were to convey that sentiment to whatever persons of power granted you access to this place to-day; I, Mr. Stoker, would remain indebted to you until the day my death be achieved. Do you understand me, sir?”
I stared at the man. I knew not what to say. I could not countermand Dr. Stewart, of course, but neither could I dismiss Mr. Penfold’s plea: Let me die. I waited, and with silence did neither. “Good day, Mr. Penfold,” said I, finally.
“Good day, Mr. Stoker,” said he; and I am left to wonder what he heard in my non-words, in all I’d left unspoken. And what was it I’d meant to convey, exactly? I am left to wonder that myself. And to know, too, that for some while to come, Mr. T. M. Penfold shall people my dreams, both waking and otherwise.
“Miss Terry?” said he as we made to leave, Ellen and I both having grown eager for the world beyond the broken walls of Stepney Latch. “It has been my honour.”
“Mr. Penfold,” said she, turning back to Penfold. “I shall pray that if ever we meet again, it shall be under auspices pleasanter to yourself.”
“You are kind, Miss Terry; but if I were inclined to pray, it would be that I never see your sweet face again, for the only auspices more pleasant to myself would preclude it…. Good day, Miss Terry.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Penfold.”
And hastily we took our leave of the asylum at Stepney Latch, having first to refuse Dr. Stewart’s odd-seeming offer of tea.
The 2.20 from Purfleet brought us back to the Lyceum with Henry none the wiser. The ride was silent, save for:
“Ma, did you see that…that horrid something in the eyes of poor Mr. Penfold as he spoke so accusingly to Dr. Stewart of his confinement? It unnerved me, quite.”
“I am sorry, Ellen. Perhaps we oughtn’t to have come.”
“But did you see it, Bram? I believe it is that eye-fire, if you will, that marks the lunatic amongst us.”
“I am sorry,” I repeated. “I saw no such thing.”
“Curious,” said she, “most curious. I surely saw something in his eyes…something I hope to never see again. And perhaps you are right: perhaps we oughtn’t to have come. It was folly on my part, Bram, for which I apologise. And if I learned anything at all, I fear I’ll not know it for a long, long while.” Whereupon silence was resumed, and we each retook to the landscape as it rolled through the frames of our respective windows.
Of course, I had seen the something Ellen had referenced. It sparked in the inmate’s eyes. But what was it? I was less inclined than she to attribute it to lunacy. Menace, perhaps; the menace of the monomaniac, fixed upon his one idea, his one intent. Oh, but why admit as much to E.T. and scare her worse than already she was? For, had I spoken truly to my friend, I’d have had to say that yes, I saw the eye-fire—as she called it—at Stepney Latch, in the eyes of Mr. Penfold, just as I’ve lately seen it in the eyes of Francis Tumblety.
Who, if he shows at the Order’s meeting on Friday, having inveigled an invitation from some principal fallen prey to his mesmeric ways, I shall cut most cleanly, most pointedly. Let Caine be damned and done for! Now I see I have indeed written past midnight into Thurs., 31 May; and so, one day more.
Pray let sleep fall fast as a final-act curtain. Pray let it be dreamless. And pray, pray may Friday’s meeting hold meaning.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL35
Sunday, 10 June, ’88.—He was there.
A thing, something, I know not what…Brief: Something of lasting moment occurred Friday week—the 1st—such that now I feel that I write these pages for reasons other than my own. I must record, put down every detail as it occurred, yet by the use of cipher I will secrete these pages till passing time completes them. Yes, now more than ever, I am cognisant this is a Record I keep, though presently I have but a few fears and facts to commit to it.
I arrived at the appointed place at the appointed hour.36 I was met upon the street corner by a boy who bade me follow him to a nearby door, numberless and red. He knocked upon same and fast disappeared, the coins thusly earned jangling in his pocket. The door opened, and there in the shadows stood C.W.,37 who wordlessly ushered me down into an unadorned room whose high half-windows were at the level of the curb. She drew dark curtains. Naught but candles lit the scene now. It seemed not the time for pleasantries: neither families nor friends were asked after, and C., cryptically, said only:-
“Qui patitur vincit.”38
To this I knew no reply. Thankfully, none seemed requisite. Rather, C. directed me to a corner of the room—it now seemed an antechamber of sorts—where there stood a tri-fold partition of carved mahogany upon which, despite the semi-dark, I could discern signs and sigils. C. herself repaired to the opposite corner and slipped behind a like partition. By the rustle of her silks, I knew she was changing. Finding a robe, a rope, and slippers—all white and approximate to my size—hanging before me, I followed her lead, removing my jacket yet wearing still my waistcoat beneath the belted cloak; but let me here state that were scepticism water, my kettle would have been fairly aboil by now. Had it not been for my fondness for Constance39 and the fact that Billiam comes of reputable stock, I might well have taken my leave of the Order then and there, before learning the least of its rites, rituals, and raisons d’être. And would that I had; for it is most decidedly not for me, this Order.40
Alas, I did not leave. And so, to continue:
Constance came from her corner dressed in a black tunic, a white cord wrapped thrice about her waist. Her slippers were red; they showed beneath the black bell of her robe like splashed blood as she approached me where I stood. She rose onto tiptoe to tilt my hood up over my head, kissing me first upon the cheek and whispering—quite incongruously, or so it seemed to me then—something about Sir William, pride, &c., whereupon she lowered my hood and, having donned her own, led me from the Pronaos41 to the Temple proper.
There were twelve of us, total, in the Temple: ten adepts and two neophytes, of which I was one; but it was some while before I could count the costumed members of the Order, struck as I was by the Temple itself.
It—the Temple, or Hall of the Neophytes—was neither large nor architecturally grand. In fact, the structure itself was obscured by the extraordinary décor. The walls were impermanent: mere panels of painted canvas stretched taut over wooden frames, done much like the scenery of the Lyceum. There were seven such panels—each 8' or 10' high and 10' or 12' wide—set end to end, thus rendering the Temple heptagonal, tent-like. From these panels there swept upwards, towards the top of a golden pole standing center-all, as a support, great swathes of white silk. These, too, were painted, though “painted” does not suffice as description. Here was high artistry, all of it betokening what little I’d learned of the Order’s tenets, for:
All was Egyptian. As I stood in wonderment, staring at the walls whilst doubtless being stared at in turn by the adepts, I daresay my interest in the Order of the Golden Dawn grew. Constance had indeed referenced Egypt in drawing me towards the Order, but nothing she said had prepared me for what I now saw; however, all my hours in Sir William’s library had prepared me to identify my sudden surrounds.
The seven silken panels that rose from the walls to comprise the ceiling illustrated the Am Duat, or Book of What Is in the Underworld. More specifically, upon t
he panels were painted the hieroglyphs and accompanying art that told of the King’s nightly death—his journey through the Underworld with the sun god, Ra, in the Night Boat—and his rising, or reincarnating, the next day at dawn alongside the sun. There at the prow of the Night Boat stood Set, Protector of the kingly mummy depicted on the Temple ceiling with his spirit/soul in ascendance.42
As for the wall panels themselves, they were dense with depicted deities. Amongst these Hermes-Thoth was preeminent, as it is he—the Greco-Egyptian god of all mind-work—whom the founders of the Golden Dawn reverence, culling his Hermetica for the secrets of the ancients. Other deities I identified easily: jackal-headed Anubis, cat-headed Bastet, hawk-headed Horus, and bovine Hathor. Of course, Isis, Osiris, and Set were represented as well. Indeed, two whole panels were devoted to their story, which events soon to unfold upon these pages deem that I detail; so:
The reign of Osiris and Isis—brother and sister, husband and wife—is held to have been sublime, albeit short: it was brought to an end by the jealousy of their brother, Set. Assuming saurian shape, Set is legended to have slid into the Nile to tear his bathing brother, Osiris, to pieces. Isis, however, finding those body parts not fed to frogs and sundry other fauna, reconstituted and revivified Osiris long enough to conceive by him.
Suspecting that Set would seek to slaughter the rightful heir of Osiris, the pregnant Isis hid in the Nile Delta. There her son Horus was born. There, too, as feared, he was killed by Set. Isis, via rite and ritual, restored life to Horus as well; whereupon she rose in station to equal the great god Ra.
As for the heir himself, Horus would avenge his father and himself against the usurping Set. He appealed to a tribunal which decided in his favour: Horus was given the crown; Osiris—resurrected to have his heart weighed favourably against the Feather of Maat—was named Ruler of the Underworld and Judge of the Dead; and Set was banished to the desert, fated to evolve into the Evil One, the enemy of Egypt.
There stood Set on the Temple walls, devolved from Protector to be depicted as species-less, with an aardvark’s snout, ass-like ears, &c. The portrayal was uncommonly horrid in aspect; the more so as…things progressed.