Wild Talent by Eileen Kernaghan

The gentleman from Picadilly (November 2, 1888) writes, “A Russian by birth, and of good family, Madame Blavatsky was as a child endowed with extraordinary powers of clairvoyance, and following the guidance of her intuition, she gave her whole energy to the study and development of her higher faculties, and to the source of those mysteries and occult powers which underlie the secret wisdom religion of the ancients.” And he says he cannot do justice to the “eloquent words that fall from the lips of this gifted woman.”
    And here is the article in The London Star (December 18) which says that Madame Blavatsky “reveals herself as a lady of exceptional charm of manner, wonderful variety of information, and powers of conversation which recall the giant talkers of a bygone literary age.”
    This is the side of HPB that visitors see, and the Theosophists who every Thursday evening sit at her feet in silent adoration. We who live with her every day are aware that she can also be rude, and stubborn, and selfish, and infuriating. No one knows this better than the Countess Constance, who has dedicated her life to HPB’s service. I think that even the Countess came close to losing her temper, on the day that HPB was to have her photograph taken in Regent Street. Because the day of the appointment was wet and windy, HPB refused to leave the house, announcing that the bad weather would surely cause her death. “See, I do not even own a cloak,” she said, “because I never set foot outside. Besides, who would want a picture of this loathsome, ruined old face?” The Countess, who can be just as stubborn, went round the house borrowing furs and shawls and scarves, and found a sort of Russian turban with a veil to tie over HPB’s head. Still Madame B. refused to stir from her chair — no matter that the cab had been sitting outside for hours.
    â€œI cannot go,” she declared. “You must want me to die. You know I cannot step on the wet stones.”
    â€œEnough,” said the Countess. “Jeannie, ask the cab to wait a little longer.” She told us to fetch some carpets and lay them from the front door all the way to the carriage. When gusts of wind lifted up the carpets, the faithful Countess — who had once been the wife of the Swedish Ambassador — held them down with her own hands.
    HPB’s friend Mr. Edmund Russell, who had suggested the photograph, went along in the cab, and later told us the rest of the story. “Disembarkation was even worse! I had to coax her into the studio, saying ‘Come along, Your Majesty’ — and once up the stairs, she flatly refused to sit for the photo.”
    But Mr. Russell made her laugh, and in the end, she agreed. We all thought the photograph turned out well, HPB looking wise and dignified and serene, with one hand propping up her double chins.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    December 22
    T his morning the weather was much improved, and I went with the Countess to Oxford Street to purchase Christmas cards. As we stepped into the bookshop I heard a familiar voice in conversation with the bookseller. My heart began to thump in a disconcerting fashion; and when I glanced into the natural history section there was Mr. Grenville-Smith taking down a large book from the shelf.
    â€œMiss Guthrie!” he exclaimed, looking round. “What a pleasure to see you again!” And truly he did look happy to see me.
    â€œMr. Grenville-Smith! Will you be spending Christmas in London, then?” And as soon as the words were uttered I wished to have swallowed them, they sounded so coy and forward. How I envy Alexandra her Parisian aplomb and her gift of conversation.
    â€œAlas, no, I’m off home to Wiltshire on the morning train.” Catching sight of Countess Wachmeister, he greeted her with a cheerful wave. “My compliments, Countess.” Then turning back to me he said, “I hope you were not too