such a Babel, in which Theosophists argued with Confucians, Christian Scientists with Rosicrucians? Here were devotees praising the coming of Lord Maitreya; there, blood-sucking wizards hurling curses. And lo, there came forth Millenarians crying Doom; and behold, Hitler arose brandishing his fylfot, which in his ignorance or malignity he gave the name of the symbol of good: swastika.
In the throng besieging the sick man of Crowley End even my personal favourite, Raja Rammohun Roy, was just another voice in the cacodemonic crowd.
Bang!
And, at last, silence. Requiescat in pace.
By the time I got back to Wales, Lucy’s brother Bill had called the police and undertakers and had spent heroic hours in the spare room cleaning the blood and brainsoff the walls. Lucy sat sipping gin in the kitchen in a light summer frock, looking dreadfully composed.
‘Would you go through his books and papers?’ she asked me, sounding sweet and distant. ‘I can’t do it. There may be enough of the Glendower thing. Someone could pull it into shape.’
It took me the best part of a week, that sad excavation of my dead friend’s unpublished mind. I felt a page turning; I was just starting to be a writer then, and Eliot had just stopped being one. Although in truth, as I found, he had stopped being one years ago. There was no trace of a Glendower manuscript, or any serious work at all. There were only ravings.
Bill Evans had stuffed three tea-chests with Eliot’s typed and scribbled papers. In these chests of delirium I found hundreds of pages of operatic, undirected obscenities and inchoate rants against the universe in general. There were dozens of notebooks in which Eliot had dreamed up alternative personal futures of extraordinary distinction and renown, or, alternatively, self-pitying versions of a life of genius-in-obscurity ending in agonising illnesses, or assassination by jealous rivals; after which, inevitably, came recognition by a remorseful world of the greatness it had ignored. These were sorry reams.
Harder still to read were his fantasies about us, his friends. These were of two kinds: hate-filled, and pornographic. There were many virulent attacks on me, and pages of steamy sex involving my wife Mala, ‘dated’, no doubt to maximise their auto-erotic effect, in the days immediately after our marriage. And, of course, at other times. The pages about Lucy were both nasty and lubricious. I searched the tea-chests in vain for a loving remark. It was hard to believe that such a passionate and eager man could have nothing good to say about life on earth. Yet it was so.
I showed Lucy nothing, but she saw it all on my face. ‘It wasn’t really him writing,’ she consoled me mechanically. ‘He was sick.’
And I know what made him sick, I thought; and vowed silently to remain well. Since then there has been no intercourse between the spiritual world and mine. Mesmer’s ‘influential fluid’ evaporated for ever as I plunged through the putrid tea-chests of my friend’s mad filth.
Eliot was buried according to his wishes. The manner of his dying had created some difficulties regarding the use of consecrated ground, but Lucy’s fury had persuaded the local clergy to turn a blind eye.
Among the mourners was a Conservative Memberof Parliament who had been at school with Eliot. ‘Poor Elly,’ this man said in a loud voice. ‘We used to ask ourselves, “Whatever will become of Elly Crane?” And I’d say, “He’ll probably make something half-way decent of his life, if he doesn’t kill himself first .” ’
This gentleman is presently a member of the Cabinet, and receives Special Branch protection. I don’t think he realises how close he came to needing protection (against me) on a sunny morning in Wales long ago.
But his epitaph is the only one I remember.
At the moment of our parting Lucy gave me her hand to shake. We didn’t see each other again. I heard that she had remarried quickly and dully and gone
In the throng besieging the sick man of Crowley End even my personal favourite, Raja Rammohun Roy, was just another voice in the cacodemonic crowd.
Bang!
And, at last, silence. Requiescat in pace.
By the time I got back to Wales, Lucy’s brother Bill had called the police and undertakers and had spent heroic hours in the spare room cleaning the blood and brainsoff the walls. Lucy sat sipping gin in the kitchen in a light summer frock, looking dreadfully composed.
‘Would you go through his books and papers?’ she asked me, sounding sweet and distant. ‘I can’t do it. There may be enough of the Glendower thing. Someone could pull it into shape.’
It took me the best part of a week, that sad excavation of my dead friend’s unpublished mind. I felt a page turning; I was just starting to be a writer then, and Eliot had just stopped being one. Although in truth, as I found, he had stopped being one years ago. There was no trace of a Glendower manuscript, or any serious work at all. There were only ravings.
Bill Evans had stuffed three tea-chests with Eliot’s typed and scribbled papers. In these chests of delirium I found hundreds of pages of operatic, undirected obscenities and inchoate rants against the universe in general. There were dozens of notebooks in which Eliot had dreamed up alternative personal futures of extraordinary distinction and renown, or, alternatively, self-pitying versions of a life of genius-in-obscurity ending in agonising illnesses, or assassination by jealous rivals; after which, inevitably, came recognition by a remorseful world of the greatness it had ignored. These were sorry reams.
Harder still to read were his fantasies about us, his friends. These were of two kinds: hate-filled, and pornographic. There were many virulent attacks on me, and pages of steamy sex involving my wife Mala, ‘dated’, no doubt to maximise their auto-erotic effect, in the days immediately after our marriage. And, of course, at other times. The pages about Lucy were both nasty and lubricious. I searched the tea-chests in vain for a loving remark. It was hard to believe that such a passionate and eager man could have nothing good to say about life on earth. Yet it was so.
I showed Lucy nothing, but she saw it all on my face. ‘It wasn’t really him writing,’ she consoled me mechanically. ‘He was sick.’
And I know what made him sick, I thought; and vowed silently to remain well. Since then there has been no intercourse between the spiritual world and mine. Mesmer’s ‘influential fluid’ evaporated for ever as I plunged through the putrid tea-chests of my friend’s mad filth.
Eliot was buried according to his wishes. The manner of his dying had created some difficulties regarding the use of consecrated ground, but Lucy’s fury had persuaded the local clergy to turn a blind eye.
Among the mourners was a Conservative Memberof Parliament who had been at school with Eliot. ‘Poor Elly,’ this man said in a loud voice. ‘We used to ask ourselves, “Whatever will become of Elly Crane?” And I’d say, “He’ll probably make something half-way decent of his life, if he doesn’t kill himself first .” ’
This gentleman is presently a member of the Cabinet, and receives Special Branch protection. I don’t think he realises how close he came to needing protection (against me) on a sunny morning in Wales long ago.
But his epitaph is the only one I remember.
At the moment of our parting Lucy gave me her hand to shake. We didn’t see each other again. I heard that she had remarried quickly and dully and gone
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