Chambers Of The Senses
This story, remembered as if through mist, does seem distinctly odd.
I neither edit nor romanticise; I present the curious little affair uncut, unembroidered.
It was the late summer of 1965. I was 16. In some respects doubtless pretty silly, but with interested eye and ear, a sensitive creature.
My parents had driven to see my aunt Jasmine at her country house, Sandburg, in the hills above a village in Devon, home to the Glasher-Lamb family.
It was an imposing building, many windows and chimneys, a Bösendorfer grand in the sitting room, oil paintings, oriental rugs, two enormous Great Danes.
I sat in the back, subdued, sulking, letting all know that I hadn’t wanted to go; it was the school holidays, I’d been set on a day of sketching, dancing, riding my bicycle in the woods.
We swept into the drive, past the Lodge, Rhododendrons.
There was some family concern or other: when we arrived the adults convened in the kitchen; their voices, at first softly undulating, soon became raised, heated.
Listening at the door, I gathered that the boathouse was slowly subsiding into the river; the talk was of what was to be done.
I was directed to spend time with my cousin Sulamith, 6 years older than myself, of striking appearance; tall, slender, striking cascade of fair hair, retroussé nose, dark brown eyes.
I had been to the house, and met her and other assorted cousins, several times before. Over preceding years, when mentioned, she was often referred to to as being ‘temperamental’, a little wayward.
I gathered she’d been expelled from school, two in fact, for misdemeanours unknown to me; she’d been tutored at home, then went to art school, before being sent to ‘finish’ at Villa Pierre.
I spent, perhaps, just three hours with her that day, we were back at the house in time for tea, but I recall it having felt much longer.
Sulamith leading, we went outside: across the lawns, past the pond, in the centre of which was a statue of her sister Rosalind, past the giant rhubarb, the croquet lawn, the sloping rockeries.
For a while we took turns with her air rifle, shooting at targets pinned to trees.
Then to the Mews, converted stables. Upstairs were rooms for the staff, underneath were garages, I remember an Alvis, a Triumph Roadster, an old dusty black Bentley.
S)
Sulamith asked if I would care to see her ‘special things’
A stirring!, my mind raced, what on earth might these be? I had rather hoped she was going to take me somewhere where we would kiss and cuddle (I’d long had a ‘crush’ on her).
Instead, probably to my disappointment, she took me to the lodge; we descended stone stairs to a large basement, she motioned me to sit on an upturned box.
Then, to my surprise, she began to sing to me, some rather peculiar inventions I think.
There were several sung passages, each an expressive little story. From written notes, she provided an explanation of her material.
In between the songs, she invited me to improvise dances to music she had composed. This I did.
I recall her “Chambers Of The Senses”..... five dedicated to the recognised ones.... taste, smell and so on; plus ones devoted to such things as movement and shape.
At first a little embarrassed, the occasion nevertheless held my attention, made an impression on me; her ‘performance’ seemed sure-footed, precocious certainly, altogether quite remarkable.
First, Sulamith gave an introduction...
Sounds, Touch, Colour; Taste; Movement; Smell; Shape, Disposition,
Before which I have registered Astonishment.
"I sing to you of the Plum Chamber for SOUNDS...
I’m 14, in my room, twilight, Choral Evensong in the distance, alarm call of a blackbird flying into the bushes.
On the radio, Byron:
“And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! How much it costs us!..
”I remember: tenebrous opening of The Firebird; scampering of Pathetique 3rd; bustling mountain streams; cascades along the fjords; ripples by the loch.
I imagine: a brace of French Horns in a woodland glade; heroic, ecstatic passages, rolling, sighing, echoing to the Carpathians....
On the radio, Eliot:
“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea...”
Most adorable sound of all...ballet shoes brushing and thudding on stage, the most sensual sound.
Reverie interrupted.... exciting rumble of a V8 engine, father’s Maserati. What will he bring me? What will he bring? (..... I wanted an oboe).
I got a trumpet, cold, wretched! Oh, I do not like it, I am so disappointed. I hated the trumpet until hearing Khachaturian.
From the radio, Britten’s Evening Quatrains:
“...the fainting Sun has but a little way to run...”
Mornings: lying in bed, wondering at the abrupt end to the wood pigeon’s phrase....da da
da - da da da; da da da - da da da, da’.......
And from the Larch, the danger call of the squirrel.
The radio, Butterworth’s Lad:
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas, But not your heart away...”
Then, tears, the opening ascent of the first Ballade.
Life punctuated by radio plays and readings, a constant love.
Feeling besieged by random noise, of people and things, I now rejoice only in quiet, blessed quiet.
Goethe, my companion:
“...Often in silent groves I go walking, When all is quiet...”
The Second:
"I sing to you of the Amaranth Chamber for TOUCH...
An early memory: on a carpet before the coal fire, pushing arms and legs against the fibres; kicking-against.
Perhaps, even then, rebelling, unreconciled, antagonistic towards surroundings, obstacles, surfaces; seeking pleasure / relief in rituals.
I’m 10. Best Christmas present: an Amerindian headdress, crown of feathers, the feel of the long train down my back, thrilling over bare shoulders.
Stroking, fur of my rabbit, cats. Caressing intricate lacy ferns, water in the pond, fir cones, taffeta, fresh bed linen.
Touching... peeling paint on Croquet hoops, leaves on the fig tree, huge paving stones;
Brushing paper, notebooks, folders, diaries. I explore my form...tracing the curve behind the knee, neck to clavicle, under the arm.
Hours spent concentrating, placing beloved objects, of brass, copper, china, dark wood; arranging the Dolls House, the toy farm, my Scalextric cars....
Rubbing fingers over embossed volumes, tree bark, sea shells, the rasp of Chintz.
The feel of my feet in soft moccasins, ballet shoes, hands in soft mittens, neck in velvet choker, feel of the toboggan on the snow.
Each year cricket and games in the park: centring the ball on the springy middle of the bat, feel of shuttlecock, tennis ball, bare feet on the grass, legs on the rug.
Sad that we cannot properly feel, cannot really touch small delicate things due to clumsiness of hand.....petals, hair, fair down on a cheek, powdery snow, moss,
And the shuddering, upsetting misery of disorder; objects in the world not behaving themselves, disruption, unbalanced touches bringing disquiet.
I just long for stillness, for my arrangements of chosen things to be undisturbed"
The Third:
"I sing to you of the Dark Cherry Chamber for CHROMATICS, SATURATIONS, LUSTRES, TINCTS & GLOWS...
Oh, the colours: seductive Aubergine, irresistible Red Cabbage, ravishing Pomegranates; looking up through dense Apple Blossom.
I lick up the colours of Purple Iris, Hollyhock, Persian Lily, Grape Hyacinth, Clematis, Calendula, Columbine, Coreopsis,
Gazing, still, before Foxgloves, Sambucus Nigra, St John’s Wort, riotous gaudy Nasturtium, many plants etched / impressed / captured inside.
I wonder at the glow of Beetroot juice, dazzling moisture of Gooseberries, strawberries, blackcurrants;
above all, the bleeding nearly-black liquid of luscious Dark Cherries
At 15, I have a beautiful green coat, zip and toggles, wool lined, hemmed, around the hood.
It was later given away, given away!... along with my blue bicycle.
I wanted to wear pretty Sapphires with my white dress with the ruched midriff, Emeralds with the flowing azurite dress.
Now, the sunrise is enough,
and the silhouette of a crow in front of the moon,
the huge moon behind black branches"
The Fourth:
"I sing to you of The Olive Chamber for TASTE...
Each year, my birthday, a special dinner party for friends.
First... exquisite artichoke leaves, warm dressing; lambs lettuce with heady Coriander; avocado on matzos; tuna-stuffed lemons.
With a Chassagne-Montrachet
Then Sauerbraten; Schweinelendchen, Kartoffelpuffer; Lapin au Vin Rouge;
Dauphinnoise.
With a Gevrey Chambertin
Lastly....Grape and Ginger Syllabub; Sweet sticky Dates; Figs with cinnamon; Large juicy Italian peaches; Pistachios; Very very thin fine dark chocolate;
With a golden Barsac.
One year we played roulette afterwards; I was drunk, stained my dress, crawled up the
stairs, I was so sick, for hours.
But, next morning, the miraculous effect of a glass of Auslese.
Then we went to the Fox at Bay and had cheddar Ploughman’s and cider.
Now, things are changed, I gave up these diversions; no taking father’s whisky, no pre- lunch Sherry, no Brandy in my room. No more dinner parties.
I have fennel tea, fruit, cereals, my own Cauliflower with spiced lentils; baked aubergine with kale; squash with spinach.
it is nearly sufficient...
with, still, the evening promise of raspberry pavlova and very very thin fine dark chocolate!"
The Fifth:
"I sing to you of the Teal Chamber for MOVEMENT...
I’m 13. Flouncing in ruffled Ra Ra skirt, craving height, thinness, effortless poise, grace, disdainful attitude, perfection and impenetrability through exercise / ascetics.
I adore Fouettés, up practising at 4am; aching to be Kitri from Quixote, Échappés, fast Passés. At the piano... enraptured, lost in satisfying patterns of the ’48’ and the ’32’.
I want a decent stylish backhand at tennis, after many lessons, it develops, “step forward and strike through the ball”. I love swimming / diving, racing my Go-Kart, ten-pin bowling.
Ah, the writhing of Otters, stretching of Cats, chasing / tumbling of Squirrels, tail-wag of ducks, shaking of Dogs; gentle agitation of lily pads; shimmering of the silver birch, waving of catkins, swirling of starlings, falling of snow, slashing with my bayonet at the army of stinging nettles,
watching the lines through the corners at Goodwood, the parade of waves, my gyroscope, fascination of flame, Ice-skating,
Then, satiation, tiredness; alI became jumbled commotion, all too fast.
Now, I savour the cessation of movement, pulling of curtains, laying on the bed"
The Sixth:
"I sing to you of the Azure Chamber for SCENTS, FRAGRANCES...
With blush, coy, flirtatious, trying to attract, terrified of attracting; drifting along in a sweet cloud of Anais Anais or Samsara, just a little too much.
At school, in the common room, I recall the smell of oranges mingling with the cedar wood of my tuck box.
In the walled garden, by the Flint House, the Delicious scent of Sweet Peas, lime trees, Night-Scented Stocks, Blackcurrant bushes.
Lying in the garden, beneath the laburnum and the lilac. I breathe in... Honeysuckle; Meadowsweet; Heliotrope; Angelica; Feverfew.
In the kitchen, there is nutmeg, cardamon, cinnamon, coriander, bergamot and pear.
Now: hours wandering alone in the woods, petrichor rising, a path of springy pine needles"
The Seventh:
"I sing to you of the Dark Violet Chamber for SHAPE and Remembering Beautiful Things Seen...
The play-haberdashery shop I created at home, all the cotton reels, coloured threads and ribbons, the black sewing machine with golden decoration.
The low fast cobalt streak of barreling Kingfishers, dipping flight of woodpeckers.
A carved bedhead at Neuschwanstein, contours of Spitz, lake at Hallstadt, island on Königsee, symmetrical patterns of Islamic decoration.
Curve of a clear-water bay under a perfectly blue mediterranean sky.
How I have adored the work of Dulac, Moreau, Doré, Rackham, Jessie King; the trees in Greenwich Park; Dutch Snow Scenes; Georgian Script, the prettiest writing in the world; the D-type Jaguar, Ducklings, Goslings
The librarian's A-line tartan tweed skirt, the supermarket checkout Girl With The Flaxen Hair.
High Tracery, Pleats, Fine Porcelain, small finely-proportioned delicate feet, rock pools, Waterhouse paintings, Crewelwork embroidery, Tortoiseshell fur, Lindt chocolate teddy bears, Asparagus left to run to tall seed, laden apple trees.
Up a steep cobbled path to a room in a Cornish seaside town; I enquire...”What is that you’re wearing?; ”Broiderie Anglaise” she replies, promising, next time, a black velvet Basque..."
The Eighth:
"I sing to you of the Indigo Chamber for Attributes of DISPOSITION, QUALITIES, CHARACTER...
I’m fastidious, meticulous.
I prefer demureness, refinement of speech, delicacy of manner, quietness of step, and,
above all, modesty in behaviour.
I value courage, fearless expression, steadfastness.
I have not always displayed these virtues. I have sometimes been mean-spirited, self- centred.
I try to appreciate myself, be encouraging of myself, forgive what I believe needs to be forgiven, establish some equilibrium, balance, continuity.
I would like more tolerance, patience.
I do not deny my passions, the poetry arising from emotions, but sometimes they held me captive"
The Ninth:
"Finally, I sing to you of the Charcoal Chamber for THOSE THINGS I DO NOT LIKE And So Gladly Leave Behind...
Too much noise and light;
Stupid entertainment shows on TV;
Gross appetites;
All boring magic tricks and puzzles;
Circuses, Zoos.
A preoccupation with the 'supernatural';
The appalling worlds of Marinetti’s Futurist Manifesto, Huysman’s ‘Against Nature’,
Milk, Terrible Yoghurt;
Ouspensky, Blavatsky, Gurdjieff, Crowley, all the other ‘esoteric’ nonsense. All those writers claiming that their country has a mystical and wonderful mission to bestow a unique spiritual / cultural gift to the world.
Leaders of Cults who tell people how to live, what to eat / wear / think.
Picasso; Braque; all the ugly entwined muscular bodies in Michaelangelo.... thank goodness for the superior Northern Renaissance.
Cold ugly architecture of glass, concrete;
The paucity of ‘Minimalist’ music"
She then made a dedication:
"I dedicate these songs to my heroine Rachel Carson, author of
'Silent Spring' "
Her voice had been mostly high, clear, filling the cellar, mixing with the first scents of autumn. At the end, I clapped; she reddened, but did nod solemnly in acknowledgement.
I’d heard the term ‘performance art’; was this what I had witnessed, been part of? Even when older, having seen much of all sorts, I remained struck by how original-a-thing she had presented.
Afterwards, she made some black instant coffee. We returned to the main house, for a while dangling our feet in their small swimming pool. She didn’t mention her singing further.
Having had tea, our family returned to Dorset. I gazed out of the window, feeling nauseous, a rising horror at the thought of the start of the new school term.
I didn’t see Sulamith again. There was once an invitation to attend an exhibition of her botanical drawings, I didn’t go.
It seems she carried out her declared intention that day to withdraw from things. She became more-or-less a recluse, though apparently devoting much time to rescuing stray dogs.
Sadly, she was taken by meningitis when just 29 years old.
A little later, I set down my memories of the scene, using as many of her words as I could remember
Some twenty-five years passed before I returned to Sandburg. The house was up for sale. I went to help an ageing, very fragile Aunt Jasmine clear out some things.
In the Lodge were the crates, colours gone, contents perished. There too the written notes, much faded; these I took, being pleased to discover that I’d reproduced the texts fairly accurately.
A further 20 years passed. Rummaging in the attic I rediscovered the notes. Guided by these I set the scene to music. This I have presented to you here.
Peter Jennings
East Sussex
July 2023
