Part 5

And then, some six months after her first visit, came the poem which follows, and which may be considered the real beginning of her larger works:

Long lines of leaden cloud; a purple sea; White gulls skimming across the spray. Oh dissonant cry! Art thou The death cry of desire?

Ah, wail, ye winds, And search ye for my dearest wish Along the rugged coast, and down Where purling waters whisper To the rosy coral reef. Ah, search! Ah, search! And when ye return, bring ye the answering.

Do I stand and call unto the sea for answer? Ah, wisdom, where art thou? A gull but shows thee to the Southland, And leaden sky but warneth thee of storm. And wind, thou art but a changeling. So, shall I call to thee? Not so. I build not upon the spray, And seek not within the smaller world, For God dwelleth not abroad, but deep within.

There is spiritual significance, more or less profound, in nearly all of the poems. Some of the lines are obscure, but study reveals a meaning, and the more I, at least, study them, the more I have been impressed with the intellectual power behind them. It is this that makes these communications seem to stand alone among the numerous messages that are alleged to have come from “that undiscovered country.”

An intense love of nature is expressed in most of the communications, whether in prose or verse, and also a wide knowledge of nature—not the knowledge of the scientist, but that of the poet.

All silver-laced with web and crystal-studded, hangs A golden lily cup, as airy as a dancing sprite. The moon hath caught a fleeting cloud, and rests in her embrace. The bumblefly still hovers o’er the clover flower, And mimics all the zephyr’s song. White butterflies, Whose wings bespeak late wooing of the buttercup, Wend home their way, the gold still clinging to their snowy gossamer. E’en the toad, who old and moss-grown seems, Is wabbled on a lilypad, and watches for the moon To bid the cloud adieu and light him to his hunt For fickle marsh flies who tease him through the day. Why, every rose has loosed her petals, And sends a pleading perfume to the moss That creeps upon the maple’s stalk, to tempt it hence To bear a cooling draught. Round yonder trunk The ivy clings and loves it into green. The pansy dreams of coaxing goldenrod To change her station, lest her modest flower Be ever doomed to blossom ’neath the shadow of the wall. And was not He who touched the pansy With His regal robes and left their color there, All-wise to leave her modesty as her greatest charm? Here snowdrops blossom ’neath a fringe of tuft, And fatty grubs find rest amid the mold. All love, and Love himself, is here, For every garden is fashioned by his hand. Are then the garden’s treasures more of worth Than ugly toad or mold? Not so, for Love May tint the zincy blue-gray murk Of curdling fall to crimson, light-flashed summertide. Ah, why then question Love, I prithee, friend?

This is poetry, but there is something more than liquid sweetness in its lines. There is a truth. Deeper wisdom and a lore more profound and more mystical are revealed or delicately concealed in some of the others.

I searched among the hills to find His love, And found but waving trees, and stones Where lizards flaunt their green and slip to cool Adown the moss. I searched within the field To find His treasure-trove, and found but tasseled stalk And baby grain, encradled in a silky nest. I searched deep in the rose’s heart to find His pledge to me, and steeped in honey, it was there. Lo, while I wait, a vagabond with goss’mer wing Hath stripped her of her loot and borne it all to me. I searched along the shore to find His heart, Ahope the lazy waves would bear it me; And watched them creep to rest upon the sands, Who sent them back again, asearch for me. I sought amid a tempest for His strength, And found it in its shrieking glee; And saw man’s paltry blocks come crashing down, And heard the wailing of the trees who grew Afeared, and, moaning, caused the flowers to quake And tremble lest the sun forget them at the dawn; While bolts shot clouds asunder, and e’en the sea Was panting with the spending of his might. I searched within a wayside cot for His white soul, And found a dimple next the lips of one who slept, And watched the curtained wonder of her eyes, Aflutter o’er the iris-colored pools that held His smile: And touched the warm and shrinking lips, so mute, And yet so wise. For canst thou doubt whose kiss Still lingers on their bloom? Amid a muck of curse, and lie, And sensuous lust, and damning leers, I searched for Good and Light, And found it there, aye, even there; For broken reeds may house a lark’s pure nest. I stopped me at a pool to rest, And toyed along the brink to pluck The cress who would so guard her lips: And flung a stone straight to her heart, And, lo, but silver laughter mocketh me! And as I stoop to catch the plash, Pale sunbeams pierce the bower, And ah, the shade and laughter melt And leave me, empty, there. But wait! I search and find, Reflected in the pool, myself, the searcher. And, on the silver surface traced, My answer to it all. For, heart of mine, who on this journey Sought with me, I knew thee not, But searched for prayer and love amid the rocks Whilst thou but now declare thyself to me. Ah, could I deem thee strong and fitting As the tempest to depict His strength; Or yet as gentle as the smile of baby lips, Or sweet as honeyed rose or pure as mountain pool? And yet thou art, and thou art mine— A gift and answer from my God.

It is not my purpose to attempt an extended interpretation of the metaphysics of these poems. This one will repay real study. No doubt there will be varied views of its meaning.

These poems do not all move with the murmuring ripple of running brooks. Some of them, appalling in the rugged strength of their figures of speech, are like the storm waves smashing their sides against the cliffs. In my opinion there are not very many in literature that grip the mind with greater force than the first two lines of the brief one which follows, and there are few things more beautiful than its conclusion:

Ah, God, I have drunk unto the dregs, And flung the cup at Thee! The dust of crumbled righteousness Hath dried and soaked unto itself E’en the drop I spilled to Bacchus, Whilst Thou, all-patient, Sendest purple vintage for a later harvest.

The poems sometimes contain irony, gentle as a summer zephyr or crushing as a mailed fist. For instance this challenge to the vainglorious:

Strike ye the sword or dip ye in an inken well; Smear ye a gaudy color or daub ye the clay? Aye, beat upon thy busom then and cry, “’Tis mine, this world-love and vainglory!” Ah, master-hand, who guided thee? Stay! Dost know that through the ages, Yea, through the very ages, One grain of hero dust, blown from afar, Hath lodged, and moveth thee? Wait. Wreathe thyself and wait. The green shall deepen to an ashen brown And crumble then and fall into thy sightless eyes, While thy moldering flesh droppeth awry. Wait, and catch thy dust. Mayhap thou canst build it back!

She touches all the strings of human emotion, and frequently thrums the note of sorrow, usually, however, as an overture to a pæan of joy. The somber tones in her pictures, to use another metaphor, are used mainly to strengthen the high lights. But now and then there comes a verse of sadness such as this one, which yet is not wholly sad:

Ah, wake me not! For should my dreaming work a spell to soothe My troubled soul, wouldst thou deny me dreams? Ah, wake me not! If ’mong the leaves wherein the shadows lurk I fancy conjured faces of my loved, long lost; And if the clouds to me are sorrow’s shroud; And if I trick my sorrow, then, to hide Beneath a smile; or build of wasted words A key to wisdom’s door—wouldst thou deny me? Ah, let me dream! The day may bring fresh sorrows, But the night will bring new dreams.

When this was spelled upon the board, its pathos affected Mrs. Curran to tears, and, to comfort her, Patience quickly applied an antidote in the following jingle, which illustrates not only her versatility, but her sense of humor:

Patter, patter, briney drops, On my kerchief drying: Spatter, spatter, salty stream, Down my poor cheeks flying. Brine enough to ’merse a ham, Salt enough to build a dam! Trickle, trickle, all ye can And wet my dry heart’s aching. Sop and sop, ’tis better so, For in dry soil flowers ne’er grow.

This little jingle answered its purpose. Mrs. Curran’s tears continued to fall, but they were tears of laughter, and all of the little party about the board were put in good spirits. Then Patience dryly remarked:

“Two singers there be; he who should sing like a troubadour and brayeth like an ass, and he who should bray that singeth.”

* * * * *

These examples will serve to illustrate the nature of the communications, and as an introduction to the numerous compositions that will be presented in the course of this narrative.

The question now arises, or, more likely, it has been in the reader’s mind since the book was opened: What evidence is there of their genuineness? Does Mrs. Curran, consciously or subconsciously, produce this matter? It is hardly credible that anyone able to write such poems would bother with a ouija board to do it.

It will probably be quite evident to a reader of the whole matter that whoever or whatever it is that writes this poetry and prose, possesses, as already intimated, not only an unusual mind, but an unusual knowledge of archaic forms of English, a close acquaintance with nature as it is found in England, and a familiarity with the manners and customs of English life of an older time. Many of the words used in the later compositions, particularly those of a dramatic nature, are obscure dialectal forms not to be found in any work of literature. All of the birds and flowers and trees referred to in the communications are native to England, with the few exceptions that indicate some knowledge of New England. No one not growing up with the language used could have acquired facility in it without years of patient study. No one could become so familiar with English nature without long residence in England: for the knowledge revealed is not of the character that can be obtained from books. Mrs. Curran has had none of these experiences. She has never been in England. Her studies since leaving school have been confined to music, to which art she is passionately attached, and in which she is adept. She has never been a student of literature, ancient or modern, and has never attempted any form of literary work. She has had no particular interest in English history, English literature or English life.

But, it may be urged, this matter might be produced subconsciously, from Mrs. Curran’s mind or from the mind of some person associated with her. The phenomena of subconsciousness are many and varied, and the word is used to indicate, but does not explain, numerous mysteries of the mind which seem wholly baffling despite this verbal hitching post. But I have no desire to enter into an argument. My sole purpose is so to present the facts that the reader may intelligently form his own opinion. Here are the facts that relate to this phase of the subject:

Mrs. Curran does not go into a trance when the communications are received. On the contrary, her mind is absolutely normal, and she may talk to others while the board is in operation under her hands. It is unaffected by conversation in the room. There is no effort at mental concentration. Aside from Mrs. Curran, it does not matter who is present, or who sits at the board with her; there are seldom the same persons at any two successive sittings. Yet the personality of Patience is constant and unvarying. As to subconscious action on the part of Mrs. Curran, it would seem to be sufficient to say that no one can impart knowledge subconsciously, unless it has been first acquired through the media of consciousness; that is to say, through the senses. No one, for example, who had never seen or heard a word of Chinese, could speak the language subconsciously. One may unconsciously acquire information, but it must be through the senses.

It remains but to add that the reputation and social position of the Currans puts them above the suspicion of fraud, if fraud were at all possible in such a matter as this; that Mrs. Curran does not give public exhibitions, nor private exhibitions for pay; that the compositions have been received in the presence of their friends, or of friends of their friends, all specially invited guests. There seems nothing abnormal about her. She is an intelligent, conscientious woman, a member of the Episcopalian church, but not especially zealous in affairs of religion, a talented musician, a clever and witty conversationalist, and a charming hostess. These facts are stated not as gratuitous compliments, but as evidences of character and temperament which have a bearing upon the question.

PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE