As Related by Betty May

 

from

 

TIGER WOMAN

Duckworth, 1929

 

 

 

THE MYSTIC

 

It was soon after this that I met Raoul and we began to go out a lot together. At the time I am thinking of it was past midnight and pouring with heavy, warm rain, as if it were coming down from a shower-bath.

     

Raoul [Raoul Loveday] and I were both in evening dress, without wraps or protection of any kind. We had been dancing at the Harlequin Club, and he had had one of his sudden impulses to go out as we were for a walk in the rain. It was the sort of mad thing he loved doing.

     

“It’s the most glorious sensation in the world,” he said to me. He was very clever, and had rather a deep voice and always talked in short, excited bursts. His age was twenty-three, but his complexion was that of a boy of fifteen.

     

We walked round and round Golden Square.

     

“The great thing is to abandon yourself,” he explained carefully and seriously. “Revel in wetness.” His collar and shirt were by now a slimy pulp. “My collar feels as if it were made of soft velvet. But if I had on a mackintosh every drop that penetrated to my linen would positively sear my soul. It’s just a matter of acceptance.” Then he branched off on a long description of how he spent a night naked on a moor, in the rain.

     

I did not listen very closely. I was thinking how extraordinary this all was. The war was over at last and life seemed to have become less hectic and muddled. By this time I was quite well known, and yet here I was on the point of getting married again with little prospect of it being more of a success than it had been in the past.

     

Who was this impulsive, clear-eyed boy? Why was I walking with him? The sane, sensible explanation was that he had fallen in love with me, and we were shortly to be married . . . . Quite simple.

     

I had often been told about him by friends of mine from Oxford, where he was regarded as something of a hero because of his roof-climbing and other escapades. I had always heard that he was a great woman-hater and that women bored him so much that he would hardly speak to them even if introduced. In this, at least, he was different to most other admirers I have had, most of whom have held quite different views on this subject. The first time I saw him was in the Harlequin. He jerked back his long fair hair when we were introduced and asked in his very man-of-the-world voice, “May I sit down?” I made room for him.

     

“So you are a woman-hater?” I said.

     

“All Antony’s love for Cleopatra,” he quite seriously replied, “was nothing to my love for you.”

     

That was typical of Raoul, toppling from reality into unreality. He made no answer to my bantering retort, except to whisper tensely, “Can I see you after dinner?” That evening we walked round and round Golden Square as we were doing now, and had done many times since, and he recited poetry to me eagerly without the slightest embarrassment. I was like Francis Thompson’s snowflake, he said. But I wondered. There was something of Bunny in Raoul, the same recklessness, the same topsy-turvy sense of proportion. How often had the same thing happened! Roy had left me behind with the same result, and now once more. I thought of Pretty Pet and of White Panther, and my apache days, but, dramatic as they had been, I had never felt so bewildered as now.

     

“I shall kill myself,” Raoul had said—and meant it “and I shall kill you too, if you won’t marry me.”

     

“But you must tell your mother about me,” I insisted, for he was such a kid really. And so I was solemnly taken to see his mother. It was all fixed up that we should get married.

     

The mad dream was materializing—in fact had materialized even to the extent of the engagement ring I was wearing. The ring was made in the shape of a curled snake with tiny rubies for eyes. It had, I believe, some symbolic meaning and was taken from an Egyptian model. Raoul was a keen Egyptologist, and in this favourite study his nature showed itself more conspicuously than anywhere else. A talented scholar—he took a first in history at Oxford, though no one had ever seen him work—he took an expert and scientific pleasure in papyri, inscriptions, etc. But at the same time he had a belief in the occult. He asked me one day to accompany him to the British Museum to see the mummy of the Princess Amen Ra. I consented, and on the way he told me legends of how she had brought death or disaster to all who had, however unwittingly, offended her. “So you must be very careful,” he playfully warned me. I protested my ignorance of Egyptian etiquette,—but promised to do my best.

     

I always find mummies rather disappointing. They are impossible to really believe in. I cannot manage to have the proper feelings in their presence. A mummy affects me far less than, say, an old photograph.

     

“Well,” I said to Raoul, “is this the touchy old lady?”

     

He nodded, then, like the child who reads the Lord’s Prayer through backwards just to see if the devil will really appear, I put out my tongue at the Princess Amen Ra. If I had guessed the effect that this piece of silliness would have on Raoul I should never have done it. It’ never crossed my mind that he really took all these things as seriously as he used to say he did. I thought it was all part of his strange way of talking.

     

“There now,” I said to Raoul, “if I get run over by a bus you’ll know who to—” Raoul’s face prevented me from finishing my sentence. He was pale and showed every sign of the most intense fear.

     

“Good God!” he gasped. It was no sham. Without a word he rushed me out of the Museum, took me straight back to where I was staying and told me to wait for him there.

     

“But where are you going?” I asked.

     

“Back to the Museum,” he answered, still pale, “to pray that she may take her evil spell from you and place it on me.”

     

I saw that he was not joking and that he meant every word of what he said, and I realized that I had really shocked him. This showed me that I must be more careful in the future, but it did not warn me where this belief in the occult would eventually lead both of us. He had taken my doom on himself. He, this boy walking beside me in the rain in his pulpy shirt, and relating how one night returning drunk from the Hypocrites’ Club in Oxford he had pushed a policeman’s helmet over his eyes—describing how a certain “aesthete” had kept a gang of “heartier” at bay with an umbrella—and telling how a friend of his had been sent down for going away for a weekend with a woman—yet even now he was going under the shadow of a vengeance from ancient Egypt.

     

We were married, in Oxford, shortly before the end of the summer term. Once again I stood in front of the registrar—this time, however, in my own shoes. Raoul, less experienced than I, was extremely nervous, and at the crisis of the ceremony dropped the ring, which rolled into a corner of the room. One of the witnesses crawled after it and stood dusting his trousers for the rest of the time. Raoul’s hand trembled as he slipped the ring on to my finger at the second attempt. I left the office feeling slightly uneasy. Had the dropping of the ring anything to do with the Princess Amen Ra? I knew it was an evil omen. Was my marriage again going to be a failure?

     

On the day of our marriage a thing happened which, although even at the time it filled me with a certain foreboding, I never imagined would return to me in such circumstances of horror. We were walking through the gardens of St. John’s and someone suggested taking a photograph of us both. We stood beneath one of the trees there and he took a snap. When this photograph was printed there was the ghostly form of a slim young man lying just over my husband’s head. It was as though the form was asleep or dead, and the arms were raised slightly behind the head, while the head drooped gently to one side. At the time I remember we were amused by this “spook” photograph, but I felt an indescribable feeling of anxiety, even though I laughed at it. Later on in my story you will learn how my fears were justified and how amazing a warning this was of what was to come.

     

That evening a party of us went to one of the dance halls forbidden to undergraduates. It was rather a sordid place, with a bad floor and a worse band, whose chief allurement must have been the fact that it was forbidden. Rather drunken undergraduates were dancing with cheap-scented girls of the town. Some of them greeted Raoul noisily. However, he was not in the slightest degree embarrassed, and treated them with his usual easy insolence of manner.

     

We stayed there a bit. It was not very amusing, but there did not seem to be anything else to do in Oxford at this time of night. I was dancing with Raoul, I remember, when at about eleven o’clock the alarm went round that the proctors were coming. There was a rush for the door, and I was left alone. Two undergraduates only had not fled, and they were hiding under a seat in the ladies’ cloak-room, protected by the skirts of their partners. The proctors, well up to the trick, and untroubled by modesty, searched that apartment as a matter of course. It was an exciting moment. They were just going when one of the idiotic girls laughed, and the proctors returned and dragged the fugitives ignominiously by the ankles from their concealment.

     

At last the proctors went away and some of our party returned, but Raoul was not among them.

     

I was very sick with myself for having suggested coming to the dance. Raoul, with whom I was quite unjustly angry for leaving me, had been against it, because, having got leave to go away for the week-end so as to be able to stay with me on our wedding night, it would have been fatal for him to be discovered in Oxford.

     

By now the place was closing down. What was I to do? Would Raoul come back for me, or would he expect me to follow him? I was undecided until my hesitation was overcome for me by a certain famous boxer, who had been with us, and now offered to take me back to the hotel where Raoul and I were staying.

     

I then gave way to one of those strange impulses that I get at times to do something quite unexpected. On this occasion it was nothing very dreadful, but it ended rather unpleasantly and uncomfortably for myself.

     

I was just about to ring the night bell when I thought it would be fun to walk out to the Trout Inn and see the river and the water meadows by moonlight. I was also not reluctant to punish Raoul for abandoning me at the dance hall.

     

The scenery around the old Trout Inn was delightful. For a long time I leaned over the bridge looking down into the water, half hypnotized. My soul lived in the water for a time. The water twisted and swirled. I thought of the time in the Café Royal when I had wanted to drown myself, and imagined my own hair rippling like smoke on a still day. And then I imagined that as I lay at the bottom of the river Raoul kissed me, but Raoul remained at the bottom of the river in my place. But who was Raoul 1 I could not remember.

     

At last my soul returned to me, and the river and I were ourselves again. I looked out over the flats dotted with trees and I felt a desire to explore. So I crossed the bridge and walked along the bank of the river that was to guide me into the enchanted country. I walked, it seemed, for miles, hatless, and I sang songs, but not aloud. The river bank was unfortunately both sloping and slippery, and I fell right in, head first.

     

It was very wet and very cold. I was furious with myself for having done such a silly thing. I splashed about for a bit, thinking I was going to be drowned, but it turned out to be fairly shallow, which was lucky.

     

I dragged myself out with some difficulty, getting very muddy in the process, and returned by the same way as I had come, but in a different mood. Unconscious of everything except my own discomforts, with no imaginations more exciting than of pneumonia or a cold in the head, I slowly trailed back to the hotel, and thus presented myself, a bride, to my third husband.

     

For a moment Raoul could not recognize the miry apparition that met his eyes. Water dripped from me as I stood there. He asked me what on earth had happened and how I had managed to get like this. Had someone thrown me into the river?

     

“I thought I’d go for a walk,” I explained, “and I fell into the river.”

     

“Good God,” he asked, “is this what I’ve got to get used to?”

     

I was not going to be reprimanded at this early stage of our relationship, so I said, “And why did you leave me at the dance hall to find my way home alone?”

     

“The proctors.”

     

“I suppose you care more about the proctors than about me.”

     

But it was not really a very serious sort of quarrel!

     

However, it was not only Raoul who had to accustom himself to the new and surprising.

     

I have referred already to the superstitious side of his character as shown in the matter of the Princess Amen Ra. The following day I was to have more evidence of it, and to be involved to a certain extent myself. A great friend of his, he told me, whom he was very anxious that I should meet, was coming to dinner.

     

I did not know the name he mentioned and was not prepared for the rather striking-looking individual who turned up at dinner time.

     

He was tall and gaunt, with unblinking, almost lidless, eyes, like those of a cat. For some reason or other I felt an immediate repulsion for him. When he held out his hand I pretended not to notice it. I would rather have touched a dead rat or a toad’s belly.

     

He turned out, nevertheless, to be an excellent talker, and I was entertained as well as revolted by him. I got to know him better later on and discovered that he was really a very charming man. But even after I had got to like him I always felt that there was something uncanny about him I am very quick to sense this sort of thing by instinct. The conversation turned to poetry, about which Raoul was enthusiastic—he wrote poetry himself, which was published in various periodicals and in “Oxford Poetry.” He was vigorously defending the poetry of, I think it was, Dowson and Lionel Johnson, which his friend had said was sentimental and decadent.

     

“You’re just afraid to admire it,” he declared angrily. “You know that nowadays one has to be nice-mannered and impersonal, and you don’t want to appear unfashionable. I hate the Georgians. I’m a romantic.”

     

“Is there any living poet you admire?”

     

Raoul mentioned a certain professor and poet of the occult. I had met him once in 1914, at the Café Royal.

     

“What’s he doing now?” the other asked.

     

“Haven’t you heard?”

     

“No.”

     

“He’s started an Abbey in Sicily.”

     

“Oh, yes.”

     

The subject was dropped.

     

After a pause, during which he stared at me with embarrassing concentration, the cat-eyed man asked Raoul in a theatrically abstracted, far-away voice, “I wonder what she was in her last incarnation?”

     

Raoul got up and went into the bedroom. The guest and I uneasily conversed until he returned and solemnly announced,

     

“I know what she was.”

     

Our guest told him not to say at once. He then asked for some paper and a pencil and said that he would write down what he thought before he heard what Raoul had to say, and then the two theories could be compared. This was done, and he wrote for some minutes. Then he turned to Raoul and asked him what conclusions he had come to as to what I had been.

     

Raoul said that I had been a witch-doctor in some Eastern country where he had been chieftain of the village. He had loved me, but because of the power I wielded I had refused to give myself to him, and he had decided to kill me. He had therefore set me adrift in an open boat, which was capsized in a storm, and I had died of suffocation from drowning.

     

This story accorded so well with my queer preoccupation with death by water that my heart gave a jump on hearing it. I had been drowned, else how could I know the sensations so accurately? And was there not something of the witch-doctor in me yet? How otherwise to account for my psychic powers? Undoubtedly I was a witch-doctor still—I shivered—I with my strange, my sometimes baleful influence on men’s lives, I with my mop of coarse hair that had fallen about my face or been flung out horizontally as I spun in the dance, I whom Epstein with his deep insight had called “The Savage.”

     

The most extraordinary thing about the whole matter was that Raoul’s friend now showed us what he had written on the paper, and to my astonishment it was in its main facts exactly the same as the story my husband had just told. It was a remarkable and rather creepy thing.

     

I did not see Raoul’s friend for some days after this, and when I did I was to be further initiated into the occult. We were having tea in one of the teashops in Oxford, eating, I remember, some Swedish tea cakes, and talking about nothing in particular, when the cat-eyed gentleman, who seemed far less uncanny by daylight and in a crowd, suddenly interrupted our small talk by saying: “You will see me at midnight to-night.”

     

I laughed and answered by quoting the song, “Meet me in dreamland to-night.”

     

We said no more of it, and went on discussing the latest play at the New Theatre, or somebody’s cocktail party, or the most recent exploits of the mountaineering club, or whatever it was.

     

Nevertheless, at twelve o’clock that night I awoke with a feeling that there was a third person in the room. Terrified, I opened my eyes, and looked to see. Yes! There he was, standing close to the side of the bed. I woke Raoul.

     

“Look!” I said, “can you see him?”

     

“Yes,” he replied without surprise. “It’s ——. He’s sent his body out on to the astral plane.”

     

I afterwards learnt that this man was well known as a psychic and clairvoyant, and as a result of this incident Raoul was very angry with him for frightening me in this way.

     

We stayed in Oxford for a few days after “Commem,” and then returned to London and took a room at the Harlequin, which was run by one of the waiters who had been at the Café Royal. He was a Greek and was always known as Johnny. A very sad thing happened to him a short time later. He was sent to prison for some trifling offence—selling drink after hours or something like that—and, owing to his good behaviour, was let out two days before his time. He came back to his house, which collapsed almost as soon as he had got inside and killed him. If only he had not behaved himself so well in prison the house would have fallen down while he was still in there.

     

We were very hard up. Raoul had practically no money and had accumulated large debts with tailors and booksellers in Oxford. Nor was he in a position to earn any, since his ambition was to be an Egyptologist, for which, though he showed great aptitude, he had not yet had time for sufficient study. So to enable him to qualify for his chosen profession I took to sitting again. The pound a day that I made was just enough to keep the two of us. Raoul used to go to the British Museum or some other library or museum every day to continue his studies.

     

Among the books that my husband brought home with him I notified more than one by the occultist and mystical poet whom Raoul had talked about with such enthusiasm to his weird friend in Oxford. I looked at these with a certain amount of apprehension. I had always heard that their author was reputed to have an uncanny power over young men, and I was jealous of anybody in whom Raoul might take a keener interest than in myself. The event proved that my fears were justified.

     

One day when we were dining together in the Harlequin a woman friend came over to speak to me. I introduced her to Raoul, and the conversation worked round to occultism. Learning that he was interested, she said that he ought to meet this man. He leapt at the suggestion.

     

“I should like to very much,” he said. “When could it be arranged?”

     

“He’s staying at my house now,” she replied.

     

I tried to dissuade Raoul by refusing to go myself, but so eager was he to make the acquaintance of his hero that he went without me.

     

For two days and nights he did not return. I was frightfully worried, as you can imagine. I could not think what had happened to him. I wondered if he had been run over or had some other accident of some kind, and his body was lying unidentified, so that I should perhaps never hear of him again or know what had happened to him. On the night of the third day I was awakened by the sound of someone trying to open my bedroom window. It was Raoul. We were on the third floor in one of those tall houses in Beak Street, just off Regent Street, and he had climbed from the street. He was covered with dust and soot, and his breath reeked of ether. I put him to bed, where he lay in a doped sleep until the middle of the following day.

     

When he awoke I found out that he had spent the whole time he had been away with the great mystic, and that he had taken the drug to excite the mystical activities of his soul.

     

After my own experience of drug-taking I was naturally anxious to prevent him getting the habit, and I succeeded in extracting a promise from him not to take drugs again. The promise, however, given in a moment of remorse, could not restrain him from accepting a second invitation. I protested in vain. He went, and returned three days later in the same condition as before. I learnt, too, that all the time I was absent posing he spent with this man. It was not good enough. I told him plainly that if he did not give up this practice I should leave him. He could choose between me and the Mystic. And to help him to resist the temptation I engaged another room whose address should not be known. For a time this plan succeeded—until one day there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and, to my great surprise, beheld a ponderous man attired in a Highland kilt, standing in an attitude of benediction with both hands raised and in one of them a green wand about five feet in length, round which coiled a symbolic snake. On one of his very small hands was a curious ring. I remembered having seen him years before in 1914. He had dark, glowing, hypnotic eyes and a loose sallow skin, with very full red lips. He had a massive head, on which was placed a glossy, black curly wig. I discovered afterwards that his head was shaved except for a few strands of hair in front cultivated in a significant form.

     

“Do what thou wilt,” he pronounced in a slightly nasal accent, which made the words sound less impressive than they would otherwise have done, “do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.”

     

Like a verger leading a congregation in the responses, my husband intoned in reply, “Love is the law, love under will.”

     

Resisting an impulse to declaim “Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen,” I held out my hand to him, to which, bending over it, he pressed his small and red cupid’s-bow mouth.

     

Then he extracted a large bottle of hock from his sporran and announced his intention of remaining to dinner.

     

This insolence infuriated me. I snatched up my cape and prepared to go out. The Mystic tried to detain me with an imperious gesture of one of his dainty little hands, but I was not awed.

     

“I will not cook dinner for you,” I said.

     

Then the Mystic smiled. “A time will come,” he said, “when you will cook all my meals for me.” How stupid I thought that remark at the time! How little I guessed that he spoke of a time that was not far off.

     

I remarked over my shoulder as I went out, “There’s plenty of food—you can have mine.”

     

Raoul looked as if I had uttered blasphemy against the Most High.

     

I knew that the Mystic was looked upon by some as the greatest genius of modern times. One of his many books has been compared to Frazer’s “Golden Bough,” and as a master of Eastern magic he was unequalled. I mention these things to show that I had good reason to regard him as a dangerous opponent.

     

I went out into the street in a rage of jealousy. I had been turned out of my own house by this man. He had decisively won the first round. Fear and pride were raging inside me. I dreaded to lose Raoul, and yet I could not humiliate myself either before him or before my rival. Above all, not before my rival.

     

I therefore stayed out until well after midnight, when I was sure he would be gone, and then looked carefully to see if there were a light burning in our flat before I went in. There was. I waited for half an hour in the shadow of a doorway, fearing any moment to be had up for loitering with felonious intent. Even if I were, I reflected bitterly, Raoul probably wouldn’t trouble to bail me out. I was just his drudge now, his drudge and his woman. I thought of the times when we used to walk round Golden Square, and cried. I continued to stand outside.

     

After an interminable half-hour the light was still there. I could wait no longer. I decided to creep up the stairs and listen outside the door to hear if there were still voices, since it was possible that Raoul had repented and was waiting up for me. This, however, was not so, for just as I emerged from my lurkingplace I saw our street door open and the bulky, kilted form of the Mystic step out on to the pavement, where he stood chatting for a few minutes to Raoul. They made another appointment and parted with the utmost cordiality. My heart burst with pity for myself and hatred of the Mystic. Raoul didn’t care, nobody cared, what happened to me, I felt. I had better go away quietly, and die. But how could he prefer this man to me.

     

I allowed time for Raoul to go upstairs and settle down before I followed him. I opened the door timidly. My pride was worn down by what I had been through. If only he would be even kind to me . . . . I crossed over to where he was sitting and fell at his feet, saying only “Raoul.”

     

He looked down at me as if he had not observed my entry, and raising his eyebrows, asked if I had had a good time.

     

“Oh, Raoul,” I said, crying again, “what is it?” I felt him shrink from me.

     

“What’s what?”

     

“You know. You don’t like me any more.”

     

“Nonsense.”

     

“Well, why are you angry”

     

“You were extraordinarily rude to my guest.”

     

“Please don’t have anything more to do with him,” I entreated.

     

“This is intolerable,” he replied, getting up and starting to walk about the room. “You can’t dictate who shall be my friends.”

     

“But I don’t like him.”

     

“Nor do I like a lot of your friends, but that doesn’t prevent my being polite to them when I meet them.”

     

I saw that Raoul was really angry and that it was no good talking to him in this mood or trying to bring him to reason and to see my point of view. At last he said,

     

“If you like I’ll arrange so far as possible to see him when you aren’t there. But I insist that if he comes here again you are to be civil to him.”

     

This was not at all what I wanted, so I gave up the argument and tried to win Raoul over by endearments. But he remained angry, and I could get no response from him except a number of sarcastic remarks such as, “He is an extremely intelligent man, and I must have some intelligent conversation even if I am married.”

     

At length I gave up my attempt at conciliation, and said that since he no longer cared for me I no longer intended to work for him.

     

However, our quarrel was not of long duration. We had fallen out because we were in love and we soon made it up for the same reason.

     

And then came a piece of marvellous good fortune which delighted us both, and which I thought was going to do away with all my difficulties and fears. A well-known titled man whom we had recently met offered Raoul a job at a salary of, ₤1,000 a year. I was in favour of closing with the offer at once, but Raoul would not take it at once on the excuse of completing some research work he was engaged on at the moment, and I agreed not to insist about it. It was arranged that Raoul should take up the appointment in six months’ time. Now everything seemed all right. All our troubles were at an end. I was full of excitement at the prospect of having some money and being able to live more comfortably.

     

I had meanwhile seen nothing of the Mystic for some time, and in the excitement caused by Raoul’s new prospects half forgotten about him. But his influence over Raoul remained as strong as ever. They continued seeing one another while I was out at work, and must have then decided, though I was not informed of it till later, that Raoul should join him at Cefalu in Sicily, whither he was about to return, in the capacity of the Mystic’s private secretary.

     

For this purpose money was required. It was as much as we could do to live, much less get to Sicily. Accordingly the Mystic sent word to Raoul that he must visit a certain man whom he described as a great White Magician, but whose business in this instance was nothing more supernatural than to advance enough money for our fares to Sicily. This was the first definite reminder of the Mystic that I had experienced since the night he came to dinner, and my fears awoke all the more vigorous for their rest. Fearful for Raoul, and doubtful of either his ability or his desire not to get further involved with this business, I insisted on accompanying him to the house of the White Magician. At least I could keep an eye on him in this way.

     

The White Magician turned out to be a pleasant and a cultured man. His wife too appeared a sensible person. They were very kind to us both. I began to feel a little reassured. But even here, even in this sane and comfortable household, the thing made itself felt. Even here the name of the Mystic was mentioned with reverence, almost with awe. It annoyed me to hear this otherwise normal man referring to the Mystic as if he were something superhuman. And it frightened me too, a little. Was there no escape from him? Should I too become involved?

     

A few days later I saw him once more in the flesh. I was dining with Raoul in the Harlequin with a party consisting of some other models and one or two friends of Raoul’s from Oxford. I think they were Dolores, Chequita, Allan Porter, Bertram Higgins, Arthur Read, and one or two others. We were having a very gay time. Raoul was in excellent form, and evidently much enjoyed hearing new anecdotes about familiar members of his old university. I as always enjoyed the company of undergraduates. In the end we were very hilarious, as were many of the parties at neighbouring tables. Then suddenly I saw in the doorway the figure of the Mystic, dressed as before in a kilt, and holding his green snake wand aloft in one hand.

     

“Do what thou wilt, shall be the whole of the law,” he boomed.

     

This was greeted with a roar of laughter from everyone in the room except Raoul, who as solemnly replied, “Love is the law, love under will.”

     

A further peal of laughter followed, even louder than the first.

     

I cannot describe to you how extraordinary a scene it was in this night club seeing a man dressed in these clothes and behaving in this way.

     

The Mystic moved across to our table, where Raoul immediately invited him to sit down. Mindful of my promise to Raoul, I treated him with all the civility I could manage. The others looked at him in astonishment.

     

Conversation was stifled by his presence, and I could see he was delighted by the embarrassment he was causing. His eyes rested mesmerically on each of the girls in turn, and from time to time he broke the oppressive silence with a remark usually of the most curious kind. To me alone did he take any pains to be pleasant. He complimented me on my appearance and smirked and smiled in a rather ridiculous manner. Then his eye lighted one of the paintings of me by Kramer that hung just over the fireplace opposite the door. He placed his chair in front of it and sat in silent contemplation—not, I am sure, unconscious of the attention he was attracting—for the space of about five minutes. On his return he declared himself much impressed with the artist’s capabilities, so much so in fact that he had decided to commission him to do a full-length picture of himself in all his hieratic robes.

     

Before he went he fixed me with a meaning stare and said, “It is destined that your path shall cross mine.”

     

I too felt that this was not improbable, and was determined to make every effort in my power to avoid such a thing. But my confidence was beginning to wane. In spite of all my scheming and protests Raoul continued to see this man, and came more and more subdued to his influence. He repeatedly stayed away for days on end, and always returned reeking of ether. The struggle certainly seemed to be going in the Mystic’s direction.

     

I did not know what to do. There seemed to be absolutely no way of getting hold of my husband and really persuading him to give up all this sort of thing.

     

On more than one occasion I had actually fetched Raoul away from the house in Holland Park where the Mystic was staying, and where he had temporarily established a temple of his cult.

     

Once when I went there on my usual errand I was admitted by the Mystic himself. He did not seem in the least surprised to see me.

     

“I have been waiting for you,” he said. “Come in.”

     

“Oh, yes,” I answered jauntily, “is Raoul here?”

     

His only reply was, “Follow me.”

     

I did, expecting to be conducted to my husband, but instead of doing this he led me upstairs to a bedroom, where he seated himself on a chair and commanded me to kneel at his feet. I laughed in his face. I could not help it. He was furious. Among his followers his word was law, and his person very nearly an object of worship. He lived in a carefully maintained atmosphere of veneration, and here was I, an impertinent little slip of a model, practically putting out my tongue at him. I could see that he was almost as surprised as angry, and pressed home my advantage by pretending to find him even more comical than I really did. At length he stood up and denounced me at the top of his voice. This brought the lady of the house running to see what was the matter. I demanded of her to be taken to my husband. She complied, and I left the Mystic glowering. But my personal triumph was entirely counteracted by Raoul’s refusal to accompany me.

     

“I’ll come later,” he promised.

     

This was ominous, as he had never before refused to come away when I went to fetch him.

     

He returned a day or two later suffering more severely than I had yet known him to from the effect of drugs. It was useless to argue with him. I could only try by the exercise of especial tenderness to regain my partially lost ascendancy over him, and to supplant as far as possible that of the Mystic. In his remorseful state Raoul was an amenable subject. With my own experience of drugging I made a sympathetic nurse, taking him out for walks in the park, and cooking him the most delightful little meals (I am a very clever cook), and striving in every way to interest him in ordinary life and to cure him of his obsession. My efforts met with unexpected success. The Mystic was never mentioned by either of us. Our earlier affection revived. I even persuaded him to take up the position he had been offered at once without waiting until the remainder of the six months had passed.

     

When he had agreed to this, I felt once more that our troubles were at an end. If I could only keep him to his promise I felt that he would become interested in his work and would give up this side of his life.

     

But I was not to have so easy, even if so delayed, a victory. I was preparing our evening meal while Raoul read in the sitting-room, feeling happy about the present and confident for the future—we should be extremely comfortable on ₤1,000 a year. I even began to plot out how we should spend it when my attention was called by the sound of something being put heavily down on the kitchen table and by the voice that of all voices I least desired to hear, saying, “Cook that.”

     

“Go to Hell!” I retorted. It was too much. All my hopes were destroyed. I knew Raoul would not be able to resist. Nevertheless I attempted one trial of strength between my own influence over him and the Mystic’s. Quickly putting on my cape and hat, I went into the sitting-room, whither the Mystic had returned, and said, untruthfully, to Raoul, “Oh, Raoul—I forgot—we’re dining with the Epsteins to-night, so I’m afraid we can’t ask the gentleman to stop.”

     

I waited anxiously for his reply. Would he?—no, he couldn’t let me down in front of a third person. It was an agonizing moment, a turning-point.

     

“Nonsense,” said Raoul petulantly.

     

“You must have forgotten,” I replied defiantly, and with equal insolence. “I will make your excuses to them and say that you’re ill.”

     

With that I walked out of the flat, knowing, but not yet admitting to myself, that I was beaten. I went out and had a miserable meal by myself. I now felt there was nothing to be done. It was useless to struggle against fate. I felt that perhaps my foreboding was exaggerated, and yet it was too strong for me to get rid of altogether. I wished desperately that I could win Raoul back.

     

Raoul now resumed all his old ways, seeing the Mystic every day and often not returning home for several nights on end. One of the people who was very kind to me during this awful period was Euphemia Lamb, and I can never be grateful enough to her for it. I was in despair. As a last resort, when he had been continuously absent for a longer period than ever before, I went to the Epsteins, on whom I could always, rely in times of trouble. Epstein, with his bulk and his kindliness, was somehow a reassuring thought, as was his sympathetic and capable wife, Peggy. I went to them and related all that had happened, and asked them to come with me to fetch Raoul away. They were charming. I was soothed and comforted and no longer felt that I was fighting alone against some malignant and intangible force. They told me not to be frightened and promised to accompany me to Holland Park after we had had lunch.

     

Accordingly, Epstein, Peggy, another model and myself, set off in the early afternoon for the tabernacle, or temporary temple, of the Thelemite cult.

     

We were shown into a splendid reception room, where, after a dignified interval had elapsed, the High Priest (who was, of course, the Mystic) came in to us, attired in all his robes and jewels of office.

     

After the greetings were over he squatted on the floor in a position he had learned during his travels in India and Tibet, and delivered a long, and, I am bound to admit, interesting talk on the occult, quoting his own works on the subject, which were numerous. He was certainly an astonishing man. I will try and tell you as much about him as I have been able to discover during the time I have known him and from things I have heard about him since. A great deal of it is uncertain, but the facts seem to be as follows. His origin and early life are obscure, but it seems he had spent many years studying mysticism at first hand in the East, and that he is known to have practised for a time the extremely arduous profession of a fakir. Before and during the war he was in America founding a chain of temples of his cult. The professed aim of the Thelemite creed is to penetrate into the deeper mysteries of creation, and to free the spirit from the trammels of the flesh. As far as I could gather, the method of liberation they adopt is to satiate the senses with the idea of, so to speak, coming out at the other side. It is not difficult to realize that some of the weaker vessels never succeed in emerging, or perhaps do not even wish to do so. Certainly the cult became associated with practices which met with great opposition from the American authorities. The Mystic left America, as he was soon to leave the house he was staying in now.

     

The present visit was, for me at any rate, very upsetting. When we succeeded at last in breaking into his discourse and making our reason for coming known; Raoul was summoned, and himself, a second time, refused to leave.

     

My misery at Raoul’s refusal was mitigated by the news he brought to me on his return, that the Mystic had actually left for Italy. With that man out of the way, I thought, I still had a chance of rescuing Raoul from his domination. But I was wrong.

     

For some time we lived happily together as we had done before during the period that Raoul was more or less under my influence, and I had had hopes that I could win him back again. It really looked this time as if things would be all right.

     

Then one morning among our letters I noticed one with an Italian stamp, addressed to Raoul. I hesitated whether to give it to him or not, and to this day I am sorry that I eventually decided to do so. It was an invitation, or rather a summons, from the Mystic to go out to him in Cefalu. After reading it Raoul announced,

     

“We are going to Italy.”

     

The blow had fallen. There seemed nothing more to be done. As you can imagine, to go to Sicily was the very last thing I wanted to do. There I knew I should have even less control over Raoul than here.

     

“You go alone.” It was my last card: I watched his face intently, trying to follow the course of his inward struggle. When he spoke I knew I had lost.

     

“Very well,” he agreed, “I go alone.”

     

I have never felt so hopelessly unhappy.

 

 

THE ABBEY

 

My threat had of course been pure bluff. As soon as I saw that nothing, not even losing me, would stop Raoul from going to the Abbey, I promised to accompany him. He was delighted at this, for although I know he would have gone without me if I had refused to go, I also knew that it would be a terrible wrench for him to do this. He seemed very relieved and did not stop from explaining to me that all my fears were quite groundless. We began making arrangements to go at once.

     

We spent a week on making preparations for the journey. Lack of money, for Raoul had only secured just enough from the White Magician for our fares, made it necessary that we should take very little luggage with us. I had a hard time selecting what we should pack and what we should leave behind. At last everything was ready down to the last of Raoul’s shirts, about which he was very particular, and which, in an impish moment, I had “twinked” all the colours of the rainbow. He was very angry when he found out what I had done.

     

Before leaving, we gave a farewell dinner at the Harlequin. Epstein and Peggy were sitting in one corner, and many others of my friends in different parts of the room.

     

This had been my life, and these my friends, and I was leaving them.

     

After we had had our coffee I went over to speak to the Epsteins to say good-bye. It was Epstein who had first spoken to me in the Café Royal, when I was a little girl. At that moment he symbolized for me all the life that I was leaving. I thought of the days I had spent in his studio posing for “The Savage,” and of all the times since then that I had resorted to him to help me out of a difficulty. Could he not help me now? After all, I was still here. No one could force me to go away. So I reflected, knowing, however, all the time that I had to go, that it was fated I should go. And yet I half hoped that he would be able to extricate me from my position. Surely he would be able to suggest some way out that I had not thought of. But even Epstein could only say, “Don’t go, Betty. If you do, one of you will never come back again.”

     

That night we left Victoria for Paris.

     

How can I describe the unhappiness of our journey? I was weighed down with gloom. And perhaps because of this I remember it as vividly as if it had happened but a week or two ago. Raoul was depressed too, though he would not admit it, and he was helped by being buoyed up with a sort of excitement.

     

The sky was cloudy and a strong, cold wind was blowing when we arrived at Newhaven. As we got out on to the platform I could just distinguish some way off at the quayside the black bulk of our boat and the sailors and porters scuttling up and down the gangway with luggage on their backs. There were no lights in the station hotel and none in the bleak little town. Only, now and then, one of our fellow passengers (I felt each of them must be the possessor of a guilty secret or the victim of a great misfortune) would light a pipe or a cigarette as he marched up and down the platform to keep warm. Occasionally I caught a whiff of French tobacco, or a scrap of French conversation, which reminded me of my previous adventures across the Channel. The wind smelt of the sea and stung as if it were full of minced ice.

     

While Raoul and a porter were getting our baggage on board I stared across the shiny rippling water of the harbour at the round black hills on the other side, and followed the line of them round to the narrow harbour mouth where I could just distinguish the solitary winking eye of the lighthouse. Beyond the Channel waves were all crested. We were to have a bad crossing.

     

Lack of money had compelled us to travel third class all the way, and I found that the quarters below were so crowded, and with such unpleasant people, that in spite of the cold it was better to spend the night on deck. I got hold of a comparatively sheltered place and prepared with the aid of a rug and a little brandy to face the discomforts of the voyage. Raoul preferred to remain below.

     

The first hour passed slowly enough. The next three seemed endless. As we drew out of the harbour I watched the lighthouse until it dropped out of sight. “One of you will never come back,” Epstein had said. Which of us, I wondered, would die? And in what state would the other return?

     

I felt that our farewell dinner had taken place ages ago, although in fact the sun had not risen since. For a time I was afraid and exhilarated. But gradually cold, hunger, stiffness and fatigue entirely took the place of any other feelings, and we might, for all I cared, find the devil himself on the other side, if only we found also a cup of hot coffee.

     

At last I found myself in the train for Paris, where I was suffocated instead of frozen. Part of the time I slept. The rest I occupied in looking out of the window. It was November. A weak yellow sun only succeeded at intervals in breaking through the grey cloud banks. The wind had dropped and mist hung around the bare looking orchards. The last time I had seen Normandy had been in spring.

     

By the time we reached the outer suburbs of Paris my chief emotion was of excitement at the prospect of revisiting old scenes. Those had been astounding days. My life then was a story to be told and to be wondered at. And now the Tiger-Woman was returning to Paris—in tailor-mades and a wedding ring!

     

On arriving at the Gare du Nord, we walked all the way to Montparnasse to save the few pence it would have cost to have taken a taxi. I do not know how far it is. It seemed miles and miles and miles. We were worn out when we at last reached the Latin Quarter and sat down to a meal. We then had to spend the time until ten o’clock, when our train left for Rome. Inevitably we found ourselves at the Rotonde, where, as was likely, we met several acquaintances. Among them was Lord———, who was going to give Raoul a job at ₤1,000 a year. He was surprised to see us in Paris, as he imagined Raoul was studying archaeology in London.

    

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked.

     

Raoul told him that we were going to the abbey of the Mystic in Cefalu. He was indignant. Getting up, he said in a freezing manner, “I’m sorry, but in that case I do not wish to have any further dealings with you.”

     

It was more or less what I had expected. I felt that he had a certain right to be annoyed after all he had tried to do to help us and by his kindness in offering Raoul this job.

     

This incident brought home to me the folly of what we were doing, and determined me to make one last effort to frustrate Raoul’s design. If only I could persuade him to spend just one night in Paris our funds would be too exhausted for us to go on to Italy. I became very gay, hoping that he would drink a good deal, and in that state not think very much of putting off our departure for a day. But alas, Raoul showed a great resolution. Paris could offer him no temptations to make up for any unnecessary delay in seeing his hero. My efforts were of no avail. We arrived at the station in good time for the train, and Raoul bought the tickets with what was—very nearly our last franc.

     

For me the excitement of travelling had quite worn off. I no longer had any desire for new scenes. Fear and the longing for security were my only feelings. I had no desire for adventure. There was no joy in it for me as there was for Raoul. For me there were only senseless risks and a senseless throwing away of happiness. Why should I be called upon to make this sacrifice? I railed inwardly at the injustice, and was filled with fierce resentment against Raoul.

     

The violence of my feelings and the discomfort of the third class carriage combined to prevent my sleeping, and I got out of the train at Modane at 6.30 in an indescribably miserable condition, both of mind and body. Here we were delayed for five or six hours by the Customs, owing to the badness of Raoul’s university Italian.

     

Again it seemed that the journey would go on for ever. We were always having to get out and change trains, or get into other carriages for no apparent reason.

     

By difficult stages we at length arrived in Sicily. I cannot describe how awful that journey was. Italian peasants spat all over the place in the carriage. I am used to being uncomfortable, but I do not know how I survived it. Extremely hungry, we spent our last money on food, and Raoul announced that he would have to sell my wedding ring to pay our fares from Palermo to Cefalu. We found an English chemist who told us of a place where he thought we could dispose of the ring. We followed his directions and entered an evil-smelling cellar, in which we found a Sicilian who regarded the ring and ourselves with equal suspicion. After long negotiations, conducted mainly by means of gesture, a bargain was struck, and we returned to the station with the money, and bought our tickets, receiving only about the equivalent of one halfpenny in change. So that, I thought, is all I am to Raoul. My ring means less to him than the journey from Palermo to Cefalu. I was furious, and desperately humiliated. Very well then, I continued my train of thought, since I am nothing to him in comparison with the Mystic, there can be no place for me at the abbey, and acting upon this conclusion I flung down the suit-case I was carrying and ran out of the station. At first I had no idea of where I was going, and no intention except to get away from Raoul and not to return to the station until the train had gone. At length I became tired, and it occurred to me to go to the British consul and ask to be sent home.

     

Knowing no Italian, I was unable to ask my way, and spent some hours searching for the consulate, which as a matter of fact I could never succeed in finding. While I paused to try and think, I found I was surrounded by the most terrifying looking Sicilians. They were huge greasy men, and some of them came up and held out money in their hands towards me. One or two even stroked my arm, but I rushed away on my hopeless search. But during this time I experienced what is called a change of heart. I found it more and more difficult to believe that Raoul could possibly find these things more interesting than myself. As my search grew more prolonged and more hopeless, my doubt grew to a certainty. I had judged Raoul too hastily. The ring was, after all, the only saleable property he had with him, and we could not remain in Palermo without money. I ceased to believe he had any intention to slight myself, and gave him the credit of being only temporarily dazzled by the attainments of the Mystic.

     

I hardly knew what to do. I dared not stand about to try and collect my thoughts, in case I should be attacked by Sicilians. I hardly dared ask any one the way. In any case I did not know where I wanted to go.

     

I had by now given up all hope of finding the consulate, even if I wished to do so. My only alternative was, therefore, to return to my husband, which I did. I found my way to the station by imitating a train in the manner of children at play, a mode of expression which was luckily understood by the natives. At the station, as in the town, I found no one who could speak English, and had to resort again to dumb—show in order to find my husband. I was first taken to the luggage-room, where, to my relief, was a youth who knew about four words of English. He understood and complied with my request to be conducted to the waiting-room.

     

There, to my joy and surprise, I found Raoul sitting on the table and unconcernedly swinging his legs as though there had been nothing out of the ordinary in my desertion. I was not so unmoved.

     

Tears, kisses, confession and forgiveness left me happier than I had been since we started on our journey, and it was in a soft and loving mood that I entrained for Cefalu. For most of the forty-six miles my hand was in Raoul’s.

     

It was nine o’clock and pitch dark when we arrived at our destination. The village of Cefalu lies between a range of bare rock-strewn hills and the sea. The abbey, which is a white oblong farm-house, looks down on the village from the hills.

     

On alighting from the train, we made our way towards the village, but chancing to meet a man, Raoul tried his Italian once more. Probably from his accent the man realized that we were English, for he replied in that language. He turned out to be an Italian who had been for some years in America, and later on he was very useful to me.

     

“Do you want the High Priest?” he asked.

     

“Damn the High Priest,” I told him. “We want to see ———.” I mentioned the Mystic by name.

     

“He is the High Priest,” was the amazing reply, and rather than argue the point we said we should like to be directed to him, whereupon he offered to take us there, as otherwise we were likely to get lost, even if we did not fall over a precipice and kill ourselves. It was a long walk up the narrow winding mountain path, and I noticed with apprehension that our guide’s account of its dangers was not at all exaggerated. On the way we met various friends of the man who was directing us, and as no one ever seems to have anything to do in Sicily except wander about and talk, we were soon followed by an absolute army of people who helped to escort us on our way, awful looking ruffians most of them.

     

From time to time the lights of the village came into sight—further away on each occasion, and as we approached the end of our climb we could see a singlesteady light which we were told was the abbey. It was called the Friendly Light, since its purpose was to guide lost wayfarers thither, where they could always obtain food and shelter, and I thought with a sudden thrill of dread of the lighthouse outside Newhaven harbour, wondering whether I should ever see it again.

     

At last we came to the abbey. Raoul rapped on the door.

     

We waited a few moments. The door was flung open. There stood the Mystic in all the glory of his ceremonial robes. He had evidently prepared for our arrival.

     

He simply said, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law!”

     

Raoul replied, “Love is the law, love under will.” I was silent and angry.

     

“Enter,” said the Mystic to Raoul, as if inviting him only, and before I knew what had happened my husband had disappeared through the door, which was shut in my face. I was alone among these frightful looking Sicilians, who once more (as they had done when I had been left alone previously) crowded round me, chattering and shouting and trying to drag me away with them. I rushed up to the door and began to beat on it. At first nothing happened, and then after a few minutes the Mystic reappeared.

     

“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” he repeated.

     

I only said “Good evening.”

     

He was furious and absolutely quivering with rage.

     

“If you don’t say, ‘Love is the law, love under will,’ you will not be allowed into the Abbey,” he said. Obviously I could not risk staying outside, so I obeyed and was allowed in.

     

Once inside, the Mystic disappeared again and I found myself alone with a down-at-heel looking woman whose name I learnt was Shummy [Ninette Shumway]. I looked at her and saw she was with child and nearing her time.

     

“You poor thing,” she said to me, “you must be nearly famished. I’ll get you some tea.” She went out of the room, and I now began to look round to see what my new surroundings were like. They were just as extraordinary as I had expected them to be. I will try to describe them, but I shall have great difficulty in conveying the very curious impression they made on me.

     

I occupied the interval while she was fetching the tea in taking stock of my surroundings, so far as the dim light of a few candles permitted. The large, bare entrance hall had been fitted up as a temple of the cult. In the centre of the room stood the altar, a seven-sided erection about three feet in height. On it reposed a heavily bound book, surrounded by candles, only lighted on ritual occasions, and purchased, as I learnt later, second-hand from the church at Cefalu (which struck me as being rather comic). Two of the seven sides of the altar were painted yellow, two green and three purple. One of the panels opened and disclosed a sort of cupboard, in which were kept the incense and “cakes of light.”

     

The floor of the temple was of a dark red. Around the altar a circle was marked out in a deeper red, and within the circle was defined a star whose five points touched the circumference. This was painted blue. At one point of the star opposite one of the purple panels stood an impressive carved throne, the throne of the Mystic, or as he called himself, “the Purple Priest.” At the remaining four points were placed triangular stools, each about a foot high. In front of the throne stood a sacrificial brazier.

     

Shummy soon returned with a tray on which were two chipped and ill-assorted cups, a tea-pot with a broken spout, and some milk in an old chianti bottle. I was very grateful for the tea, although it was very nasty. Tea, I afterwards learnt, was very expensive and difficult to get. The milk had been obtained from a goat instead of a cow.

     

I had another look at Shummy. She was a poor, frightened looking creature, who had the appearance of always expecting, but never thinking to avoid, a blow. I tried to draw her gently into conversation. It puzzled me how she had got to this place. Hers was evidently not a nature for spiritual austerities—or indeed for bodily indulgence. Just a commonplace affectionate little thing, she appeared to me. But if so, how had the Mystic got her into his power? For that he certainly had, I could see plainly. She never gave her whole attention to what I was saying, but started continually and looked towards one of the doors leading out of the hall. Gradually I became infected with her apprehension, until I too was watching that door intently. I was expecting the Mystic, and was prepared for him in any dress or form. But I was not prepared for what actually appeared, and was as temporarily dazed. It was an apparition that would have startled most people as it startled me, but it was less out of keeping than Shummy with the cabalistic fittings of the temple. The door suddenly opened. A tall haggard-faced woman clothed from neck to heels in a scarlet robe fastened only at the throat, and with a monkish cowl hanging down the back, glided slowly towards us. Her huge dark eyes never left mine. In my overwrought state I was fascinated by them. I felt as if I were gazing over a black abyss. I could not move. As she approached us Shummy said softly, “This is Leah [Leah Hirsig],” and thereupon got up to receive the Mystic, who followed quickly on his forerunner. Both the other women regarded him with rapt, devotional ardour.

     

Raising his right hand, upon a finger of which was an emerald ring like a cardinal’s, he gave his customary greeting, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.”

     

“Love is the law, love under will,” all replied.

     

“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” uttered within sight of the magical pentagram, or five-pointed star. How odd it sounded.

     

Then he turned to me. “So you have come to me,” he said with sardonic playfulness, and I thought a note of triumph—“to cook, maybe.” He had some sense of dramatic irony. My mind flew back to the moment, months before, when I had refused to cook his dinner, and he had said, “A time will come when you will cook all my meals.”

 

I made no reply, and he went on, “There is a book here” (indicating with a gesture the volume on the altar) “containing the laws of the abbey. Everyone who remains beneath this roof must sign it.”

     

I went up to the altar, examined the book, which was bulky, and said to the Mystic, “I shall not sign until I have read it.”

     

“As you please,” he replied. “I will give you twenty-four hours, and if you haven’t signed it by then ———.” He shrugged his shoulders, and went out, followed by Leah.

     

Shummy and another girl called Jane [Jane Wolfe], who had slipped in unnoticed by me, pursued his departing figure with cow-like reverential eyes. I saw that I was a heathen in a nest of fanatics. To disguise my uneasiness from the others and from myself, I said with assumed carelessness, “Come, I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

     

Shummy showed me to our room.

     

Physical fatigue made me sleep, but my agitation stopped me from refreshment. Raoul remained with the Mystic talking until about five o’clock in the morning. They had retired to the Mystic’s room (called the Koshmar) to do this. I had the most exhausting and fantastic dreams, and it took me some time when I awoke the next morning to realize that my new home was not yet another place of nightmare.

     

The room I found myself in was oblong in shape, and measured some twelve feet by six by eight. There was no furniture except two chairs. We slept on a mattress on the floor. The absence of any washing things was explained later by the custom of the abbey, which was for washing to be done in public in the courtyard. And I may as well mention now that the abbey contained no sanitary arrangements of any kind. This was the simple life with a vengeance.

     

While lying between sleep and waking, I was wakened by the sound of a beaten tom-tom, succeeded by a woman’s voice proclaiming, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” And answered by a chorus in which I could detect the voices of children, “Love is the law, love under will.”

     

The now familiar words sounded rather beautiful as I lay watching the golden sun beating down against the white stone wall opposite.

     

We gathered that it was time to get up. Raoul, always something of a dandy, was horrified at the absence of toilet apparatus.

     

“Monstrous!” he exclaimed several times, tramping up and down the room. “How the devil am I expected to shave without any water? And there isn’t even a mirror.”

     

Luckily I had a small mirror in my bag, which I held up for him while he arranged his collar and tie with unnecessary precision and carefully parted his fair hair. But instead of being grateful for the smaller mercy, he remained thoroughly angry.

     

“How can I appear at breakfast looking like this?” he asked. “It’s all very well for you, you don’t have to shave. Here, let’s have another look in that mirror.”

     

I had dressed myself in worse conditions before, and was not so much put out, although I too should have liked to wash away some of the grime collected during our journey. But I am not sure that the sight of Raoul’s peevishness didn’t compensate for any such discomfort.

     

Meanwhile no one had come near us with any news of breakfast. I, ignorant of the domestic arrangements of an abbey dedicated to these strange beliefs, was uncertain and in favour of waiting. Raoul, however, had apparently no doubts, and strode into the temple, leaving me to follow.

     

Seen by daylight the temple was even more extraordinary than I had thought. One noticed more acutely the fact that the abbey was a converted farmhouse, and that the ritualistic furniture had an out-of-place, temporary atmosphere about it. It felt rather as if one had strayed into a theatre where one had seen a play the night before to find the scenery for the last act still erected the next morning. I also observed, what had escaped my previous notice, that the place contained a considerable library, which Raoul was now eagerly examining. They were nearly all books on magic and other occult subjects, and among others were all the publications of the Mystic himself.

     

We were interrupted by the entrance of Shummy, who requested us to come to breakfast. Following her into another room, we found the rest of the inhabitants of the abbey—with the exception of the Mystic himself and Leah—already assembled round a bare deal table, drinking coffee, eating long loaves of Sicilian bread and a kind of cream-cheese made from goat’s milk.

     

Here I saw the children whose voices I had heard earlier in the morning. They were two little boys about four years old, called Dionysius and Hermes, and a little girl of two-and-a-half called Lulu. They were delightful children, healthy and well-fed, and with no appearance of being oppressed by their unconventional surroundings. It quite cheered me up to see them here, and as happy as this.

     

The goat’s-milk cheese had a queer but not unpleasant flavour, quite unlike anything I had tasted before. I did not know then, however, that this cheese was one of the staple dishes of the abbey, and that in about two months’ time I should find it so utterly nauseating that starvation would be preferable to eating it. However, the coffee was delicious. Some of the best I have ever tasted.

     

During the meal nobody spoke, and on inquiring the reason for this, I was taken into the temple, where the orders for the day were posted on a notice board. These always included silence for the earlier part of the day, and sometimes for the entire twenty-four hours. And there were various other ordinances to be observed.

     

After breakfast I took the children for a walk, and Raoul occupied himself in the library, which, he told me, was an excellent one, containing a unique collection of books on the occult in addition to all the published writings of the Mystic himself. The children, I found, were not at all shy, and quite ready to talk. I questioned them about the Mystic, and found that they had no awe of him beyond what all children have for persons in a position to punish them. They referred to him, familiarly, as “Old Beast,” an endearing form of “The Beast 666,” which was one of the many mysterious titles that he delighted to call himself by.

     

On our return I found the Mystic, who as—a rule did not emerge from his privacy before five o’clock, awaiting me. He gave a slow smile. He remarked, “You will be ‘Sister Sibyline,’ and in future you will take over the complete household duties, as Shummy is about to have a child. To-night you will attend Pentagram at eight o’clock. (Pentagram was the principal service of the day.)

     

“I shall not be at Pentagram,” I replied, “either to-night or any other night.”

     

He met my defiance with confident assurance.

     

“We shall see,” he said meaningly, and stalked away.

     

I soon settled down into the routine of the abbey, although my relations with the Mystic remained almost those of open warfare. He took pleasure in appointing me to the most humiliating tasks he could think of, and I took an almost equal pleasure in disobeying him and in wounding his vanity whenever possible. I was rather grateful than otherwise for the necessity of getting up before the other members of the abbey, since I was thus enabled to perform my toilet in privacy—or so I thought, until one day when completely naked at my ablutions, I looked up to see the grinning face of the Mystic regarding me. Neither of us spoke.

     

Soon after our arrival the Mystic presented both Raoul and myself with razors, and told us that whenever any member of the abbey used the word “I” they must as a penance gash themselves with the razor. He only was allowed to say “I”—everybody else had to say “one.” I need hardly tell you that I did nothing of the sort. I spoke exactly as I should wherever I was. I believe I threw the razor away. But poor Raoul, who took the whole thing with deadly seriousness, could not prevent himself from constantly saying “I,” and he was so conscientious that he always wounded himself as a punishment, until his body was covered with cuts. This was undoubtedly one of the things that undermined his health in the first place.

     

All the men in the abbey had to shave off all their hair except for the one little symbolic curl in front. All the women had to dye their hair red every six months, and then black again. They also had to keep it cut fairly short.

     

Not only this, but everyone was supposed to keep a magical diary. The Mystic said to Raoul, “You must enter everything in it, you understand—everything. Even to your most innermost and sacred thoughts. And always what you say must be true.”

     

It was a fact that everyone kept a diary, and they were left about open for anyone to read who cared to take the trouble to do so. I read some of the diaries that had been kept in the past. They were amazing documents. There were terrible things inside them. Some of them were attacks on the Mystic. “Write what you please, write exactly what you feel and think, but let it be true,” he used to say. He had a huge collection of these diaries, which must be documents of quite extraordinary interest. And so life went on these lines.

     

It was my duty to do all the shopping and cooking, as well as to supervise the children when they were not doing physical exercises with Raoul. Our fare, as you have probably inferred from our breakfast menu, was of the simplest. Eternal goat’s-milk cheese, bread, tea, coffee and meat, when we had it, killed on the same day and unbelievably tough. The wine alone was good, as the Mystic was a great connoisseur of it. I had some of the best wine at the abbey that I had ever tasted.

     

We had only three meals a day. Breakfast at about nine, dinner at one and tea at half-past five. Everybody had to be present on these occasions, as for Pentagram in the evening, but apart from them, and from whatever duties they had to perform (Leah and Jane, for instance, acted as the Mystic’s secretaries and did all his typing, as he was always working and carried on a huge correspondence, sending letters all over the world), they could spend their time as they liked. The Mystic as a rule did not appear until tea time. He worked at his occult writings most of the night and slept until one o’clock, when he took his dinner in Koshmar,’ as his private room was called, with Leah.

 

I used to take great pains in the preparation of these meals; but I do not think I can quite explain why. It was no doubt partly pride. Although not on terms of friendship with the Mystic, I was aware that my independence had exacted from him a certain measure of respect, which I valued dearly, and consequently I was careful never to appear at a disadvantage before him. And he, I think, had something of the same feeling for me. For instance, I was always the person he selected to go rock-climbing with him. Despite his bulk, he was an excellent climber, cautious and yet daring, and of surprising agility. On these expeditions a tacit armistice was always respected between us, and he proved himself as good a teacher as he was an exponent of the art. Infinitely patient, he succeeded in inspiring me with a confidence I have never felt with anyone else, even with my husband. “Remember,” he always warned me as we set out, “it is I who will get hurt first.”

     

But these interludes had no lessening effect on our enmity within the abbey. As I have said, the Mystic usually made his first public appearance at tea time.

     

At meals he never used a knife or fork. He broke the food up with his fingers, but it was my duty to hold the towel and basin in which he did his ceremonial washing before and after eating. One day I purposely poured the water all over his head. He simply went on sitting there as if nothing had happened, and I went on with the meal without offering any explanation. Neither of us ever referred to the incident again. This sort of episode was not uncommon in the abbey.

     

I cannot describe how extraordinary it looked when we used to sit at deal tables in this bare room with only the roughest furniture in it, some wearing the magnificent robes I have described. It was too odd for words. However, this was our period of rest from the severe strain of mystical contemplation. But the conversation even then was of a solemn nature—laughter was never heard in the abbey—and more often than not consisted of a monologue delivered by the Mystic. At other times he would devote his whole attention to myself, in an attempt to put me at a disadvantage before my husband and the rest. However, I refused to be drawn or to give any sign of embarrassment in spite of the fact that—as he knew well enough—the gross things he used to say caused me acute discomfort.

     

On one occasion only did he really get the better of me. We were just about to begin our tea when the Mystic got up, walked over to the brazier, and taking up one of the sacrificial knives, turned to the other members of the abbey and announced in a casual tone, “We shall sacrifice Sister Sibyline at eight o’clock to-night.”

     

For a moment I thought I must have mistaken his meaning. But his attitude—testing the edge of the knife with his thumb—and his expression convinced me that I had not mistaken his intention.

    

“You will be ready, Sister Sibyline,” he commanded.

     

I was amazed. I was not conscious of having done anything particularly bad to merit this, but, as you can well imagine, one’s nerves were never in a very strong state at the abbey, and I always had a sort of lurking fear that something of this kind might happen.

     

I looked round at the others, expecting them to give some indication, if not of sympathy, at least of surprise, at the prospect of a human sacrifice. But no one, not even Raoul, showed the slightest emotion, remaining as unmoved as if the Mystic had said there would be chicken for lunch to-morrow. It was apparently a normal part of the Thelemite ritual.

     

“So you really mean to kill me?” I asked the Mystic, not yet convinced that he would dare to do so.

     

He nodded gravely.

     

“You are an evil spirit,” he told me. “You cannot be allowed to remain in the abbey to break every one of its rules in violation of the oath you took when signing the book.”

     

I had signed the book as I had come to the abbey, to be near Raoul. Surely, I thought, he cannot allow me to be butchered for having loved him too well, and to the exclusion of my own safety. Surely in becoming a devotee of this cult he has not entirely ceased to be a human being! I turned to him in mute appeal. His eyes were as impassive as those of the rest.

     

I was doomed, unless I could escape, which was not easy without money and in a strange country. All I could do was to get out of the abbey before the time of the sacrifice, and thereafter to make my way as best I could to Palermo and the British consul.

     

I felt pretty hopeless at this prospect, as I had some experience of what it felt like to be alone and penniless in Sicily, and also I knew the difficulty I should have in trying to find the consul, but I was too frightened for this to prevent me from taking the steps I did.

     

I slipped out of the abbey and hid in the hills until after midnight. I wandered about a bit there, feeling more and more wretched. Then, led by some impulse that I am unable to account for, I crept back to the abbey and past the lighted window of the Mystic’s study to the window of the room where I knew Raoul was sleeping. I stood outside for a few minutes, without any plan in my head. . . . And the next thing I was aware of was that the hand I had put through the window had been seized and a voice—my husband’s—was saying, “You silly girl—of course it wasn’t meant. Where on earth have you been?”

     

I must tell you how one day I was going through one of the rooms in the abbey when I nearly fell over a small chest that was lying in the middle of it. I opened it and saw inside a number of men’s ties. I pulled some of them out, and then dropped them, for they were stiff and stained with something. For the moment I thought it must be blood. Later I found the Mystic and asked him about the ties. He was in one of his kindly moods. “Sit down,” he said, “and I will tell you about them.” He then went on to say that these were the relics of one of the most mysterious series of murders that the world had ever known. They had belonged to “Jack the Ripper”!

     

“ ‘Jack the Ripper’ was before your time,” he went on. “But I knew him. I knew him personally, and know where he is to-day. He gave me those ties. ‘Jack the Ripper’ was a magician. He was one of the cleverest ever known and his crimes were the outcome of his magical studies. The crimes were always of the same nature, and they were obviously carried out by a surgeon of extreme skill. ‘Jack the Ripper’ was a well-known surgeon of his day. Whenever he was going to commit a new crime he put on a new tie. Those are his ties, every one of which was steeped in the blood of his victims. Many theories have been advanced to explain how he managed to escape discovery. But ‘Jack the Ripper’ was not only a consummate artist in the perpetration of his crimes. He had attained the highest powers of magic and could make himself invisible. The ties that you found were those he gave to me, the only relics of the most amazing murders in the history of the world.”

     

That is what the Mystic told me. I do not suggest that he did not say it only to frighten me. Quite possibly he did. But still it seems to me an extraordinary story which is certainly of interest. I have seen too many peculiar things happen to refuse to believe even anything so unlikely as this.

     

After tea the Mystic would retire again for about an hour’s meditation before Pentagram. I have never taken part in this ritual, though I have often watched it. The ceremony opened with the solemn entrance of the Mystic clad in the gorgeous robes of a Grand Master of the order of Freemasons. After he had seated himself on the throne before the brazier with the charcoal fire, around which hung the sacrificial knives and swords, the other members of the cult took their places on the triangular stools at the points of the star. They were dressed as a rule in robes like those in which I first saw Leah, with the cowls drawn down over their faces, and only their eyes visible through the narrow eye-slits. Clouds of incense hung about the room everywhere. When all were assembled, the Mystic rose from his seat, and taking one of the swords from the side of the brazier, held it pointing towards the altar while he intoned an invocation in a language with which I was not familiar. From hearing it every day, however, the sounds remain fixed in my memory.

 

“Artay I was Malcooth—Vegabular

Vegadura, ee-ar-la—ah moon.”

 

The last was a high-pitched note in contrast with the rest of the chant. Following this, he walked over to Raoul, rested the point of the sword on his forehead, and uttered a further rigmarole, finishing up with a loud shriek of “Adonis,” which was the name by which my husband was known in the abbey. Then he went through the identical performance in front of Leah, except that to begin with he stood silently in front of her for a full minute, breathing deeply the while—breathing in the soul of his priestess, as Raoul explained it to me afterwards.

    

These preliminary invocations done, the Mystic proceeded to execute a variety of ecstatic dances. This was both impressive and ludicrous. He lashed himself into an absolute frenzy, brandishing his sword, and dancing and leaping about in the magic circle. His eyes blazed. The words he chanted had a compelling monotonous and exotic rhythm, and his eyes were alight with fanatical enthusiasm. Every Friday night there was a special invocation to Pan, in which, as is shown by the hymn for these occasions, the doctrine of the cult became manifest. It was written in English, and I will quote the first few lines,

 

“Thrill with lissom lust of the light,

O Man, my Man;

Come careening out of the night

To me, to me;

Come with Apollo in bridal dress—”

 

The rest can hardly be reproduced here.

     

The children had their own Pentagram at five o’clock before going to bed at six. They took this very seriously and performed the whole service themselves without any help from the others. Even little Lulu seemed quite as solemn about it as any of the grown-up people. It was one of the most extraordinary sights I have ever seen.

     

After we had been at the abbey for some six or eight weeks—I forget which—Raoul’s health began to give me some anxiety. An extraordinary lassitude took the place of his previous high spirits. He no longer had the energy to take charge of the children for their daily physical exercises, and sat about all day in the main hall pretending to read. I hoped at first that his condition was the result of some psychological stress arising out of his mystical activities. But increasing weakness showed that he was suffering from something more physical than mere morbidity. The Mystic, who had a great affection for Raoul, was also perturbed, and decided to cast his horoscope. Although I did not put any great trust in this, I listened to the Mystic’s announcement of the conclusions of his investigations with dread.

     

“There is,” he said, “a great depression over you. A very gloomy depression. It looks as though you might die on the sixteenth of February at four o’clock.”

     

I caught my breath, sad he went on. “But you are young, and maybe you will pull through.”

     

I had two explanations of Raoul’s illness, neither of which, as it happened, turned out to be correct. The first was drugs. As I have said before, drugs are often used by occultists with the object of intensifying their mystical experiences, and in particular to enable them to separate soul from body and “go out on to the astral plane.” Large supplies of drugs were always available in Koshmar for anybody who wished to make use of them. (I ought to say here that it was the rule of the abbey that no door should ever be locked.) Opium, hasheesh, cocaine, heroin, morphia, veronal, were all openly displayed. Raoul, on the Mystic’s advice, and entirely against mine, had been taking a good deal of hasheesh, and this I still believe, though not the immediate cause of his illness, had done much to render him prone to infection.

     

Although all these drugs were left about, there was never anything in the nature of drug orgies that I had seen in England. Only once, on a sudden impulse, one of the women took an overdose of hasheesh. It was while Pentagram was in progress, and she crawled into my room, writhing with pain. I went straight to the Mystic, who was standing with his sword held aloft in both hands, uttering an incantation. I told him what had happened. He gazed at me with unseeing eyes, saying, “It does not matter. Go back to her.” He came about two hours later and scolded the wretched woman for having broken faith with him and with herself. “You may have your drugs,” he said, “you may have as much as necessary. But they are for you to use to further your spiritual self. But you have abused them.” He went on in this way for some time, and every moment I thought the woman would die. Then he turned to me and ordered me to make some black coffee. A few minutes after the woman had taken it she became herself again.

     

My second theory about Raoul was that he had been poisoned in another manner. It happened in this way. In the Thelemite cult cats are regarded as evil spirits. Nevertheless there were two, Mischette and Mischu, that used to visit the abbey regularly for surreptitious food given to them by myself. For a long time they continued undiscovered, until one day at tea the Mystic suddenly said, “There’s an evil spirit in the room.”

     

He looked about for a few seconds. A moment later he reached under the table and dragged out a large sandy cat, squirming, spitting, biting and scratching, which I recognized as Mischette. She succeeded in scratching his arm severely before he flung her on the ground. Then Mischette fled from the temple, and the Mystic retired to Koshmar to put some iodine on his wounded arm. On his return he commanded, “That cat must be sacrificed within three days.” Raoul was appointed to perform the sacrifice.

     

Leading from the temple was a little scullery where I used to do some of my cooking and the washing up. It had a row of bars, and in between these and the window Mischette often used to sit. This used to happen even after the incident I have just described, and more than once I took the cat and carried her a long way from the abbey and drove her away, so that she might escape being sacrificed. But she always used to return and sit in the same place, so that at last I decided that it was no good trying to help her any more. Then suddenly the Mystic came into the scullery. At first Mischette jumped up as if to escape. The Mystic held up his wand and made the sign of the Pentagram. “You will not move till the hour of sacrifice,” he said to the cat. The animal stiffened and became as if petrified. And then her eyes got that red look which animals get when they are really frightened. The next morning I got up early and once more carried the cat, which allowed me to touch her, some way off to the rocks. Within an hour Mischette was back again in the same place. I threw her food, but she would not eat it. There she remained for three days.

     

A few hours before the ceremony was to take place, Raoul was ordered to capture the cat, put her in a sack and deposit her in Koshmar. This he did, although he was the gentlest of men who would not have hurt a fly in the ordinary course of events.

     

Everybody took their accustomed position, except that for this occasion Raoul, as he was to be the executioner, changed places with the Mystic. The cat was brought out and placed, still in the sack, on the altar. The opening of the rite was the same, as the Pentagram, which I have already described. The air was thick with incense. Raoul recited the invocation, and walked with upraised sword towards Leah and the others and placed its point on their brows while he uttered the usual formula. I sat outside the magic circle and watched the gruesome performance.

     

Presently, when much of the ceremony had been gone through, I saw Raoul take a kukri (Gurkha knife) from its place by the brazier and approach the altar, on which was the squirming sack. He untied it, drew forth the struggling and terrified Mischette by the scruff of the neck, and held her with his left hand at arm’s-length above his head. In his right he held the kukri with its point towards the brazier. The Mystic stilled Mischette’s struggles by applying a dab of ether to her nose. All was now ready for the sacrificial invocation, which Raoul had written specially for the occasion, and which he now had to recite in the fatiguing posture that I have described.

     

It was a long invocation, and before it was half done I could see his left arm quiver with the strain. As he approached the point where the killing was to take place Leah stepped down from her triangular stool, and taking a bowl from the altar, held it underneath Mischette to catch the blood, none of which is supposed to be lost. At last the moment had arrived. I saw him lift back the kukri, and then closed my eyes till it should be over. The sound of low exclamations caused me to open them again, and I saw a horrible sight. My husband, unused to yielding such an awkward weapon as the kukri, had not struck truly, with the result that he had only partially cut through the neck of the cat, which had escaped from his nerveless hands and was darting about the floor of the abbey, spitting and foaming at the mouth, and blood issuing from the gash in its neck in huge spurts. I was splashed where I sat in the shadow outside the magic circle, and a ghastly nausea came over me. Next I saw the Mystic approaching my husband with the bleeding beast in his hand. The whole business had to be performed again. I was almost as sorry for Raoul as for Mischette. Indeed I hardly believed that he would be able to play his part, he trembled so. Even Leah, who must have been more inured than he to such scenes, could not hold the bowl steady. But with a supreme effort he held out, and when the moment came made no mistake at his second attempt to kill the cat, whose head was nearly severed by the blow. Then swaying slightly, he laid the carcass on the altar. This done, his resources were exhausted, and the Mystic had to take over the conducting of the ceremony.

     

Having concluded the invocation, he took the bowl containing the blood, uttered some consecratory formula over it and handed it to Leah, who was standing by. Together they approached Raoul. The Mystic then flung back the cowl from Raoul’s face, and dipping a finger in the blood, traced the sign of the Pentagram on his white, glistening forehead, and so to all the others, himself last.

     

The final rite, the most disgusting of all, now alone remained to be performed. It makes me sick even now to think of it. The Mystic took a small silver cup, into which he scooped some of the blood from the bowl and handed it to my husband, who drained it to the dregs.

     

For a time I was convinced that Raoul had been poisoned by the blood of Mischette. But when he got steadily worse and a doctor was summoned I found out that he was suffering from enteric, a not uncommon disease in those parts. It was then that I remembered how he had almost certainly caught this disease. One day the Mystic had told Raoul and me to go off for an expedition together. He was in one of his kindly moods and he said Raoul needed some relaxation. He suggested that we should go to a marvellous monastery about thirteen miles off, where the monks would entertain us with food. But he warned us of one thing, which was on no account to touch any water.

     

We were both delighted. We started off. It was one of the most wonderful days I have seen. We went to the monastery, where the monks gave us bread and soup and showed us all over it. On the way back the heat was appalling. We were both so thirsty that we did not know what to do. Suddenly we came to a mountain spring, bubbling up out of the ground. It was an awful temptation. I do not think that at that time either of us realized how important it was not to touch the water. Although the Mystic had done his best to impress on us the dangers of drinking, the spring looked so cool anal fresh and pure that Raoul could not resist. He knelt down and drank, but in spite of my thirst I managed to restrain myself, though with great difficulty. I suppose I saved my own life.

     

Anyway, I am certain that this is how Raoul caught the disease. He was at once given the right treatment, but no improvement was effected, and he sank fast.

     

At this juncture I was expelled from the abbey for disobedience to one of the Mystic’s most arbitrary and unreasonable commands. Every fortnight I had been accustomed to receive the English papers from Raoul’s mother. Then one day, without either warning or explanation, the Mystic forbade me to go to the village to fetch them, saying, “In future no papers are to be brought into the abbey, nor must any of the members read them. Disobedience will entail banishment from the abbey.”

     

Needless to say, I did not submit to his decree, but fetched my papers as usual, and retired after lunch to read them in my own room. I had not been reading long when the Mystic strode in, his face twitching with rage. He ordered me to go. There was a terrific scene. I should have said before that there were several loaded revolvers which used to lie about in the abbey. They were very necessary, for we never knew whether brigands might not attack it. The Mystic used to shoot any dogs that came anywhere near the abbey. With his revolver. He was an extremely good shot. It so happened that I had found one of these revolvers lying about the day before, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a wise precaution to hide it under my pillow. I now seized it and fired it wildly at the Mystic. It went wide of the mark.

     

He laughed heartily. Then I rushed at him, but could not get a grip on his shaved head. He picked me up in his arms and flung me bodily outside, through the front door.

     

I was well aware how it would distress Raoul and endanger his slender chances of recovery to be parted from me at this time. And yet I knew that no amount of persuasion would induce the Mystic to allow me to return. I therefore determined to write to the British consul at Palermo and appeal for his assistance.

     

I found temporary accommodation in the village, and at once proceeded with my design. However, while I was still engaged in writing I was intruded upon by one of the women of the abbey, who saw what I was doing before I had time to take any measures of concealment, and immediately reported it to the Mystic, who from what followed must, I think, have been somewhat perturbed by my intention. For the next day this same woman brought me a note from Raoul begging me to return even if I had to climb through the window. I went straight to the abbey, where the Mystic greeted me with the ultimatum that I must sign a paper denying the statements about the abbey that I had made in my letter to the consul. For Raoul’s sake I complied and was allowed to remain.

     

The next morning Raoul was much worse. The Mystic was visibly alarmed and sent an urgent summons to the doctor. On seeing Raoul, the doctor at once dispatched me to the village for some special oil which was to be injected by means of a hypodermic syringe. I made all the haste I could, and as a result of my exertion combined with a natural anxiety, fainted in the shop. When I came to I saw the Mystic standing over me. He said kindly, “There, that’s better. You’re all right now.”

     

There was a cab waiting outside in which we drove as far towards the abbey as the track allowed, continuing our journey on foot. It was late in the afternoon, and the setting son touched the arid rockstrewn hillside with pink. Then suddenly, just as the sun was about to disappear beneath the horizon, the Mystic stopped, and said.

 

“We will take adoration” (a daily rite in the abbey), and raising his hand he pronounced the customary and to me then beautiful invocation. Before he had finished I observed that tears were running down his cheeks, and for his sympathy and love for Raoul I forgave him everything.

     

The invocation done, we went on our way. Nut before we had gone far a woman from the abbey met us. She was distressed.

     

“Is he worse?” I asked fearfully.

     

“He’s dead,” she answered. I fainted again.

     

When I came to I was led into the room where my husband had died. He lay there on the bed, his arms raised slightly behind the head, while the head was drooping forward slightly, in exactly the same position as the spirit form on the photograph that had been taken on our wedding day. It had been a warning.

     

In Italy a corpse may not remain in the house after sunset. Raoul’s body was placed in a coffin, which was then carried to a sort of greenhouse at the side of the abbey. The coffin lid was removed, and Raoul lay inside looking just as if he were asleep. All night long the Mystic in his robes paced round the coffin, tapping it with his wand and muttering incantations. I shall never forget that tapping. For months it echoed in my head. At last morning came. Raoul could not be buried actually inside the cemetery as he was not a Catholic, but a piece of ground was got outside just by the road, along the hillside. I did not join the service, which was conducted by the Mystic clad in his most magnificent vestments, with precious stones gleaming on his hands, with the women of the abbey round him, weeping. I watched from a little distance off. I have never seen such crowds as those that came to poor Raoul’s burial. From miles round peasants came in, for the abbey was known all over Sicily. The sun made the white domes of the sepulchres sparkle. Away below the cliff the sea dashed itself on the stones. The Mystic stood with his magic wand raised. It was at least such a burial as Raoul himself would have wished for.

     

Three days later money arrived through the consul, and I left for England.