But my most precious memories are of creative moments when simply to look at the world is wonder and delight. God-given moments when every common thing blazes with beauty—when the familiar is raised in glory—when the whole of one’s being sees, not merely the habit-shrouded eyes. Moments when the ephemeral reveals its eternal aspect. Moments when nothing is known, understood, possessed—when all is miraculous—when to see is to pray.
My work depended on these creative moments (these “Fredrika” moments, as I always call them) and it was during them, and only during them, that I became free. This freedom—the freedom of child-like contemplation—seemed so inevitable that I dreamed it would be permanent.
I soon discovered, however, that sensitivity had a dual aspect. To respond to one type of stimulus involves susceptibility to inducements emanating from a very different direction. It has been said that: “To become sufficiently refined to appreciate Beethoven is merely to have transferred oneself to the level on which one can, for the first time, realise the significance of the Marquis de Sade.” It is terribly true. Most artists are pendulous between mighty opposites. Only the greatest effect a marriage between heaven and hell.
I soon discovered that my “Fredrika” moments ended as abruptly as they began; then, exiled from Eden, I found myself confronted by the desert of actuality. Temperament and upbringing had made me open—almost mediumistic—to psychic environment, consequently, directly I became negative, I had no defence against the demons which infect the fear-crazed modern world. Although this may have been the case with me to an exception extent, it was a common enough experience, during the years between the wars, for countless people suddenly to feel compelled to fling themselves into excesses with no more volition than automatons. Heaps of men and women have told me that, in an instant, will-power deserted them, and they committed follies which, in retrospect, seemed to belong to a nightmare.
Years ago, I read in one of my father’s less esoteric books on occultism that sensitive persons are susceptible to “other world” influences which cannot penetrate the phlegmatic. All sensitive people are subject to periods of depression and, during these, they easily become obsessed by evil entities. “The denizens of the next plane and especially the excarnated minds of depraved men and women utilise mankind for the purpose of vicarious enjoyment. In cases of emotional insanity, where a man temporarily loses self-control and murders another, could the matter be investigated psychically, it would be seen that the murderer was often an unconscious victim of a disembodied fiend, who desired to commit the murder, and used the unfortunate sensitive as an instrument.”
The author developed this theme at some length and although I imagine we must accept responsibility for all our visitors, whether they be physical or “excarnate,” the theory interested me because it does give an explanation of the sudden paralysis of my will which always preceded degradation; and it does stress that those subject to depression are most susceptible to malevolent influences. Hamlet evidently knew this, or he would not have said that the devil
Anyhow, be that as it may, all I know is that directly my imagination ceased to be creative, I frequently became subject to a depression which left me defenceless against the assault of astral forces.
Most modern pleasure-seeking and most modern vice is a despairing attempt to escape from the knowledge of inner emptiness. The days when physical excess represented overflowing exuberance vanished long ago. Then, the body had a fling; now, the mind tries to. It is frustration, boredom, bewilderment, dread of the future, which goads moderns to drink, sex, drugs. This was certainly the case between the wars, when fear was as enveloping, and as formless, as drifting fog.
What amazed me was the suddenness with which depression would overwhelm me, especially in the stony maze of a great city. In an instant, the streets, the passers-by, the barrack-like buildings, the noise, became unendurable. I would look at my watch, discover that it was three in the afternoon, and experience a feeling not far removed from terror at the thought of the hours ahead. The most annihilating type of isolation—the isolation of an individual lonely in a crowd—numbed me. Anything that was different from this monotony—anything that was a total contrast to grey uniformity—became irresistibly alluring. There are moments when hell seems infinitely preferable to the pavement.
It was in this mood, and only in this mood, that desire for Carol dominated me. It was revolt against the apathy, the inertia, the emptiness of mechanised existence which goaded me to her.
None knew better than I the results of an “expense of spirit in a waste of shame,” but this knowledge did not deter me. You are not particularly susceptible to the censure of logic when your will has melted like wax in a furnace.
Carol became so associated with these moods that she symbolised them. She was the only woman with whom I have had continuing relations, but I do not know what those relations meant to her—apart from their financial aspect. I visited her only under compulsion and knew nothing of her history, and wanted to know nothing. She was a drug. I hated her knowledge of me, her power over me, and dreamed of the day when I should be free of her for ever. . . .
I remember every detail of our first meeting at Harrington’s house—remember it so clearly that I can watch it like a sequence in a film.
One November afternoon in 1939, when I was depressed by the prospect of being marooned for an indefinite period in London, I decided to return a book which had been lent me by the eminent painter, Hartley Harrington, who had taken an interest in me for many years and to whom I owed much.
It was one of those November afternoons which make you certain that the sun is a legend invented by despairing humanity. It would have been difficult to say which was more desolating: to look at the iron sky, or the gloom-bound streets. Everything seemed to be apathetically awaiting the end of the world.
When I reached Harrington’s house, which was near Ebury Street, the maid said that he was working in the studio, so I went down the long passage leading to it, then opened the door.
He was not there but, near a screen, stood a model who had just started to dress. I do not know how long we gazed at each other, because I was wholly concerned with the exciting knowledge that here—at last—was a model for a nude! The first I had seen in a long experience.
Then, looking more closely, I became convinced that the compression of the full lips and the bewilderment of the blue eyes were effects of recent experience, for they gave an enigmatic expression to the almost child-like candour of the features.
Meanwhile, she was studying me as if trying to place a previous meeting between us, and was so absorbed in the task that she remained unaware of present circumstances, until, eventually, she remembered them—and disappeared behind the screen.