I have called you here to teach you certain things.
You made a good beginning, all agreed.
Last Sunday's trance was deep and absolute.
I held your fainting form against my brreast
Whilst spirits jostled at those pretty lips
To speak their pure consoling speech, though some
Forced through their vileness that your innocence
Could never in its waking hours have framed
In thought or word. To these I cried "Avaunt!"
And fought them off, and in my listening ear
I heard the spirit voices bell-like sing
That you were chosen as their crystal cup
Their bright translucent Vessel, where ev'n I
With all my weary wisdom, might drink deep
A draught of power, and sweetness to refresh.
I mean that now I choose you to conduct
My seances with me, my partner sweet,
My Helper now, and in some future time
Who knows, a Seeress of Power yourself.
You know the ladies who will come tonight.
The Baroness is exigent. She mourns
A fat pug dog, who gambols in the Fields,
The flowery fields Beyond, and can be heard
To yap in satisfaction, as it used.
Beware of Mr Holm. He is a Judge,
In whom the injurious Sprite of scepticism
Dies hard, and rears his head, once laid to rest,
At any sight or sound that's untoward.
Most promising-that is, in spiritual terms-
Most heart-torn, and most sorrowing, is the young
Countess of Claregrove, who has lost her child,
Her only son, a year since, when he was
Scarce more than lisping Babe of two years' growth
Snatched by a fever in a summer Tour.
His small voice has been heard in broken sounds-
He makes, he says, perpetual daisy-chains
In wondrous meadows-but she weeps and weeps,
And will not be consoled, and takes with her
Where'er she goes, a lock of his bright hair
Cut from his marble brow as he lay cold.
More than all else she longs to touch his hand,
To kiss his little cheek, to know he is
And was not claimed by Chaos and the Dark.
I tell you this because-I tell you this-
In fine, I tell you this, because I must
Explain how we, to whom the Spirits speak
Eke out their wayward signals and the gifts
Vouchsafed from time to time of sight and touch
And otherworldly hearing, with our own-
How shall I say?-manifestations
We fabricate to demonstrate their Truth.
Sometimes, 'tis true, our Visitors ring Bells,
Lights dance about the room, and heavenly Hands
Touch mortal flesh. Sometimes there are Apports-
Glasses of flowery wine, or fragrant wreaths,
Or snapping Lobsters from the ocean Deep.
Sometimes the Power falters and is dumb.
Yet on these blank days, when my aching frame
Is lumpish flesh of flesh and no voice sounds-
The anxious Seekers gather with their Cares,
Griefs unassuaged, and incredulities-
And I have asked the Spirits and been taught
A way of helping out, to improvise
Display and substitute the mysteries
And thus console the sad, and thus confound
The savage sceptics with a visible Proof.
White gloves and gossamer threads move and amaze
As disembodied hands do; angel-wreaths
Descend on finest threads from chandeliers.
And what one Medium may do, my sweet,
Two may improve on almost endlessly.
Your figure is so fairy-fine, my Love,
Could, at a pinch, glide between these two screens?
Your little hands in kidskin could take hold
In teasing mode, of sceptical male knees
Or stir a crinoline, or brush a beard
With a hint of wholesome perfume, could they not?
What's that you say? You do not like to lie?
I hope you may remember who you are
And what you were, a pretty parlour-maid
Whose mistress did not like her prettiness
Or soulful stare at the young man o' the house.
Who helped you then, I ask you, gave you home
And home's essential comforts, bread and clothes,
Discovered talents in you quite unguessed,
Cosseted you and turned your soulfulness
To use both spiritual and lucrative?
You are grateful? So I should suppose. Well then,
Let Gratitude hold ope the door to Trust!
Our small deceptions are a form of Art
Which has its simple and its high degree
As women know, who lavish on wax dolls
The skills and the desires that large-souled men
Save up for marble Cherubs, or who sew
On lowly cushions thickets of bright flowers
Which done in oils were marvelled at on walls
Of ducal halls or city galleries.
You call these spirit mises en scène a lie.
I call it artfulness, or simply Art,
A Tale, a Story, that may hide a Truth
As wonder-tales do, even in the Best Book.