by LYNN RUSSELL

LESLIE and the small party of friends received an enthusiastic welcome in Castellaneta from

my friend Franco Loglisci and his family who acted as hosts, and also from the Mayor and

the members of the Club Valentino. Leslie placed a magnificent wreath of red gladioli on the

War Memorial on August 23rd, 1960, and brought back some very interesting photographs

and cine film. But the strangest incident among several, was of such casual unimportance at

the time of its occurrence that it barely registered. It happened while the visitors were staying

in Taranto. It was decided to explore the surrounding countryside before the semiofficial visit

to Castellaneta (which by the way proved to be much bigger than was expected, having

approximately 16,000 inhabitants), so when in the late afternoon they saw a bus bound for

this place, and indicating a very indirect route, they could not resist boarding it. Being so

conspicuously tourists, each armed with a chic-camera, they attracted more attention than

they desired.

One young man of about eighteen seemed quite fascinated by them, and after Leslie had

offered him a cigarette he attempted to make conversation, especially when he found their

destination was also his, with the result that he took them to his home to meet his family and

his brother Reno who could speak English. It transpired that Reno had been granted special

leave from the Italian Air Force to act as interpreter on the following day to a party of English

visitors who were representing the Valentino Memorial Guild! You can imagine the

amusement all this caused as the facts were made clear. The young boy Bruno was very

proud of his chance meeting, especially as it led to an invitation to visit London if the

opportunity should ever arise. Chance meeting? That is what it seemed; just another fleeting

holiday acquaintance.

When the travellers returned home we took part in a wonderful séance at which Rudy was

the only communicator, and he devoted the first part to the holiday, speaking later from the

“Rudy-Plus” level of personality on more serious subjects. On account of space, however, I

can quote only isolated phrases of the greatest significance, which I hope will not be too

disjointed, and I will enter them under the various subtitles that I used in my record book.

Rudy: “Not only was I present the whole of the day but with me were my Mamma, my Papa,

my sister [Beatrice who passed over as a child] and many others connected with the town; in

fact there were more people from Castellaneta on Our Side than there were on yours! The

impression you have made there is a lasting one which will increase with time.. You will

become very much part of the town eventually, and already you have started something

which will take a long time to bring to fruition, for you are being used by Higher Forces, not

only by me, but by Those much higher than I, to do the work that will influence various

people to develop a Higher Plane of thought and help us to break down the barriers. To put

Truth in place of falsehood, and give comfort to those who see no light. There will be a

broadening of vision, and those who respond will be given the opportunity to serve, as you

serve. This is a part of our work that requires great patience.”

“The things that happened to you were not coincidences; they were pre-arranged by me and

by others, and one day you will see more clearly the pattern of the tapestry which is being

woven. For instance, you will be able to give assistance to the young man whom you met on

the bus. He is a member of our Group, an old soul, much older than you imagine. There is

much within him that is fine and good, but he is like a bird in the nest that needs to use its

wings, and you can help in this direction, but do not be too anxious; bide your time. This is

on, reason you were sent to Castellaneta; it was not only to see the house where I was born

and to take photographs. My work in films matters little to me in comparison with the

influence I have been able to exert over many people since my death, and this influence has

been felt in a much higher sense. Through this young man I shall be able to help others, but

you will understand more of this in a year’s time.”

“My coming to you is not what it appears on the surface. We do not think of Life as merely a

journey from the cradle to the grave.We think of Life as something flowing through many

bodies, through many periods of history, when we are all caught up and bound together for a

while. Sometimes we lose each other, only to come together again until such time as the

work we have been set to do will be finished.”

“Eventually material conditions disappear and we are free. This freedom of Spirit is

something we cannot describe; it is a freedom that we feel; yet, free though we are, we are

still bound one with another, but with the freedom of love that is eternal.”

“I am grateful for all experience and for all that has transpired in my existences, whatever I

may have suffered. Indeed, it is only through suffering that Man eventually rises to the

Heights.”

“Each one is set a task which is part of the Whole Plan. As each one fulfils his allotted task

so he goes a little further forward, and this enables him to help the others. There are many

people whom you have yet to meet who are bound to us in the Chain of Life, which also is

eternal. The Time element is of little consequence because the Spirit is only confined within it

during its sojourn on Earth, and our brief earthly life is an infinitesimal period in Time Itself.

Do not look upon one life as the beginning and the end, for It is one bead on the necklace

which one day you will see in its full beauty, and reasons, which at the moment are obscure,

will become clear and you will understand how the hand of Spirit moves. The words of the

Spirit which are engraved on the hearts of those who understand, shall be the unwritten Law

of Life; and we shall guide you spiritually beyond the confines of the Earth up to the Heights.

But do not despair if the Plan does not go according to your conception of it.”

“For Man’s ways are not always the ways we use. When the time is ripe the fruit shall be

plucked from the tree; not before. For some the tree has not yet borne fruit. Others have

seen the fruit but have been unable to reach it, but it will be theirs eventually. Some, who are

not ready, have picked up the fallen fruit only to discover it is of little use to them because

they have not struggled sufficiently to reach up towards that which was ripe, but have been

content to sit on the ground, waiting for it to drop into their laps. That is not the way! Neither

is it wise to climb the tree until the fruit is ready to be picked, and you must know the time

when it is fully ripe! In the years that are to be, you will see the truth of my words.”

There followed a short pause, and although the voice had not exactly changed, there had

been a difference difficult to explain, and Rudy sensed our reaction immediately as his next

words proved: “At times I know there are thoughts which cross your minds and you are

confused. Certain things cause you concern — even doubt, in some instances.”

The Soul that was Rudy “I would remind you that I do not come to you in the way that some

would expect. I come to you as I am NOW, not as I was; as I am now. The words that I use

are the words of my today. and not of my yesterdays.

“If you can, I want you to think of me as I am now and not as I was, even though it may be

difficult, because face and form are not important when compared with the part of man that

transcends Time and Space. I can approach you in many forms and you would not recognise

me! What you remember of me was the material body which once served me as a vehicle of

God’s expression, of which I am but a part. Through the body something of the Spirit shines,

and if by this I am remembered—then indeed I am happy. We think of those near and dear to

us by their outward form but we know that is not all, for what happens when death comes?

The body retains its shape, but the life is gone and no longer rests within the casket of the

body. Do not grieve for what has gone, think only of what it will become.

“In my last incarnation I was able to express something of the Soul and the Spirit, not of one

generation but of many, and my body was merely the vehicle used, I want to help you to

understand that in all humanity, and in all these ‘houses’ of the Spirit, is found the animating

force which is Love in creation.

“Since I left your world I have been privileged to meet many Souls whose names are familiar

to you. These Souls have become my companions, my friends, and among them is one who

often comes to our group when you sit together ... . Francis, the Francis as you call him,

Saint Francis of Assisi. He is very close to me, for he and I were together centuries ago in

Time. We founded the Brotherhood. This is another link in the chain of which I speak.”

“To those of you who are not familiar with what you call Reincarnation I say: Keep your mind

free and open. Be tolerant. Think not that God gives Man only a few paltry years upon Earth

to work out his salvation and his destiny. Man has assimilated much that has been essential;

he has learned also to discard much, and it is in the throwing away and taking upon himself

that he has found the Reality of God. In his time Man has created many gods, he has formed

many creeds and dogmas. He has worn the vestments which seemed essential to his day

and age, but as Man changed his thoughts, opinions and his gods, so has he changed in

himself, and with the strengthening of the Spirit he has gone forth in Knowledge and

strength.”

“A child at school has many masters, so it is with you; you have learned many things but

there is still much to learn, and various teachers will come to guide you in various subjects.

You will ask questions; some answers will be given, but if it is not considered the right

moment to give you an answer then you must wait until you advance to a higher class, where

the teacher will then be able to make you understand.”

“The problems are many—but they will be overcome. We will help you, but we can only do

so when you help yourselves. No moment need be wasted, no opportunity avoided; and, as I

said before, your visit to Castellaneta is the beginning of a new journey, not only for you but

for others.

“So my friends as I say good-night to you, I want you to remember these things. Be of good

faith, for we are with you always and our love is ever present. When you are in need, we are

conscious of it. When you are in doubt, we try to confirm the things we have said, and when

sometimes you feel low.

We are there endeavouring to uplift you. The doors that are closed shall be opened and you

shall see, not as now through a glass darkly, but face to face. Not only shall you see me, but

what is vastly more important, you shall see through the work we have done together . . . the

Master Himself. My love, my peace, my blessing be with you now and always. Good-bye.” In

October just before our next appointment was due, we received a letter from Leslie canceling

all future sittings, under strict orders from his guides.

After a short rest he was allowed to do a limited number of daytime sittings (never more than

two) and no weekend work whatsoever. It was impossible for us all to meet during these

stipulated hours, and as we had no idea that Leslie’s health was threatened it came as a

shock to be suddenly cut off, and I found it difficult to adjust myself. So when finally we were

able to arrange a sitting during the Christmas holiday, I was quite indignant when Charles

said that the situation had not done us any harm and had made us fall back on our own

resources. My voice was a trifle sharp when I replied, and Charles was equally severe with

me, but only for a moment. Then he said, “I’m sorry about this, but you must appreciate my

position. My work, or part of it, is to take care of this instrument of yours [Leslie], and the

demand for his services was becoming far in excess of his strength and unless something

had been done quickly his mediumship would have gone for ever!”

Since the opportunity of speaking to our friends was curtailed so abruptly we had to keep the

rest of this sitting and the following one, which only Jean and I were able to attend, to

personal matters and instructions regarding our own circle. It was during the séance at which

only Jean and I were present that Rudy asked me to contact his sister. I complied with this

request immediately, but unfortunately Maria did not reply.

In the early spring of that. year, the six-year-old daughter of a friend of John’s had developed

a severe illness following measles and was in the Children’s Hospital, Great Ormond Street,

where Charles had once worked. The complication was diagnosed as encephalitis. In spite

of our prayers and the prayers of a number of other people of different faiths, Roman

Catholic, Christian Science and Church of England, she lapsed into a coma and was in this

state when we had our next group sitting on Good Friday, March 31st, 1961.

John was tense, knowing that so much depended on Charles’s verdict, for which the

distraught parents were also waiting. We talked occasionally between ourselves, and then

lapsed Into silence broken only by Leslie’s breathing which denoted a semi- trance state.

Half an hour passed . . . three-quarters .. . an hour! We heard the tape run out and the full

spool whip round noisily. Suddenly Mickey whispered, “Did you think we wasn’t coming?” But

before we could reply Charles’s voice broke in with barely an audible whisper. “I’m so

sorry . . . so sorry. This is awful for you . . . but we can’t get through.!” We gasped! Then he

tried again, calling the little girl by her name. “Susan will pull through, but it is a most difficult

case. Can you hear me? She will come through, but the illness will take its course, You’d be

amazed at the concentration of help that is surrounding her...

Several others tried to make contact, including Madam Blavatsky, but even her powerful

voice could not stabilise the vibration, and after a muffled “Good-bye” there was silence.

Dejected and bewildered we filed out of the room. Leslie was very gentle and sympathetic,

but he pointed out that this sort of thing must happen sometimes, and there is nothing

anyone can do. He invited us to stay for tea and make a little social evening. I made a

special effort to enter into the evening though the gaiety was forced, and I put on a fancy

dress and did a burlesque song and dance which reduced the company to helpless laughter.

But it was only make-believe, and when we returned home the storm broke! John exploded

like an ammunition dump in a fire. No one escaped his lashing tongue, least of all Rudy. But.

every bitter remark was (I hope) counteracted by my thoughts of love and understanding for

our Spirit friends and for John; for I knew his anger was not personal, but caused wholly by

frustration over the lack of advice for the child to whom he was deeply attached.

Following this abortive sitting and during our own meetings at borne, Stanley was used

occasionally for conscious control in regard to the little patient who was still comatose.

Should she rouse no one could say whether she would be in full command of her senses or

her memory; so much would depend on her first waking reactions, and when specialists were

doubtful as to the treatment to give her, we banded together and by sheer concentration

informed the Spirit doctors of the dilemma, and they, in turn, influenced the earthly doctors in

their decisions and so ensured that the right course was taken.

After almost five weeks she roused. She recognised her mother and father and when, after

an appropriate delay, they put a question to her, she softly whispered her name, and the

correct address! No one will deny the earthly doctors the credit due to them, but for every

incarnate healer there was a team of Spirit healers, and in this case a “power station” of

intense prayer. The day will come (perhaps not in this generation, more is the pity) when

there will be complete conscious team-work between this world and the next. It is then that

disease will be conquered.

This step in Susan’s long road to recovery took place in mid-April and on the 26th of that

month Jean and I had an afternoon appointment with Leslie in order to contact Rudy before

John,

Gwen and I left for Castellaneta the following week. For the first time Rudy addressed me in

Italian and after the greeting he remarked, “First, I must say how very sorry we were not to

be able to get through last time. It was most unfortunate, but no one was to blame. We can

only do our best. Today it is different. Conditions are much better and I cannot tell you how

thrilled I am that at last you are going to Castellaneta (as I prophesied) because it is

essential that you go there in order to strengthen the links. You have work to do there

eventually and there are certain things about which I am very pleased. Not because I am to

be remembered through the use of my name, but because so many will benefit, especially

the sick and the lonely. There will be a place where the old will find a refuge in which to finish

their earthly existence in some comfort. Eventually the scheme will also involve children.”

“Oh, Rudy.” I exclaimed, “I’m so pleased about this, but isn’t it strange that it should have

taken so long to get things moving?” “Well, each one of you has played a part, and the

constant correspondence which has passed between you and your friends in Castellaneta

has bridged the gap. Through the contacts you have made, we shall be able to help the

people of my country who are in need of physical and spiritual upliftment, for not only will we

help the sick in body, but the sick in mind. Castellaneta is beginning a new way of life, and I

can help them to put it on the map. I do not mind my name being used in connection with this

because it will bring a little more prosperity to the district —yet I find it difficult! Because, as

you know, I do not want my one-time personality to obtrude, and until now it has always been

my policy to remain in the background.”

I pointed out that in regard to his home town this was impossible, and he reluctantly agreed

and then said brightly, “When you go to Castellaneta I am arranging that you shall go over

my house. . . at least, my parents’ house. Usually this is not possible, but it will come about

this time. You’ve not heard from my sister?” he enquired.

“No, I’m afraid not,” I said regretfully.

“I’m sorry, I would have liked you to have met her, but, to put it into the shell of a nut. . . I

mean a nutshell!” he laughingly corrected himself. “She has had so much notoriety over the

years, I think she has tried to shut herself away; rather like my brother. I had grown away

from them so much, but my sister is in many ways . . . very sweet,” he said tenderly.

“I wish you could meet her. Oh! before I forget,” he suddenly exclaimed, “I would like you to

place a small Italian flag and a small English flag together with the flowers!” He evidently

knew of our intention to buy some! “I want it to be a tribute from England, combined with

Italia, you understand?”

“I’ll see what I can do. What a lovely idea!” I exclaimed. “I’d thought of taking flowers to the

cemetery or to the church. I don’t know which you prefer.”

“Whatever you do I shall appreciate,” he said humbly, “but very few people go to the church,

whereas many people go past the War Memorial. Unfortunately the younger generation is

not so concerned with the Church, except on special occasions, and I want your flowers to

be seen. The War Memorial is right in the main road and it can’t be missed! The flowers will

create interest er. .. you know, my people, especially in the South, are Inclined to be a bit

lazy, and often you have to force them to do certain things. That is why in comparison our

friend to whom you write [Franco Loglisci] is so alive! He wants to do so much to bring

prosperity to the place, and believe me, more has been done in this respect since the war

than by local governments for hundreds of years.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Rudy, because we are reading a book in class which describes the

south of Italy just before the war, and it sounds so awful . . . !“ (“Cristo si fermato a Eboli,”

Carlo Levi, 1935. English title: “Christ stopped at Eboli.’)

“I don’t suppose it is very exaggerated!” Rudy said. “When I last went there . . . !“ Words

failed him. “And I was born in the place! I knew of the conditions, but one forgets. That is why

I want to help now. How my parents ever existed there I don’t know. If my mother had not

had the money . . . I don’t know if you know anything about our private affairs?” “No, Rudy, I

don’t.”

“It was my mother who had the money, not my father. Her father died and left her a

considerable sum and it was she who kept the family. My father was a good man, he had

traveled a lot and always had something to do with animals, and the circus at one time, did

you know?”

“No, I know very little about your background,” I answered.

“I inherited something from him,” Rudy continued, “but I inherited more from my mother; she

was a fine woman!” he said with warmth, not realising he had unconsciously extolled his own

qualities, until we laughed!

“Do I know her, Rudy?” I asked eagerly.

“Why ask such a silly question!” he countered in a whisper. Yet by that ambiguous remark I

received confirmation that the person I had so often sensed very close to me, was his

mother. I could say more, but I will respect her wishes and leave it at that.

“Before I forget.” he said suddenly, “I must caution you not to get too excited. I don’t want

you to be sick and spoil everything. You must remain calm, and carry . . . er . . . S-s-s.

V-v . . . oh! Whatever it is . . . take it! The stuff to keep you calm I mean!” Between the

laughter, and the stuttering I realised he certainly was not up to date in this respect and had

probably never heard of tranquillisers!

“You mean sal volatile!” I suggested helpfully.

“That’s it! That’s it! Ah! But you’ll be all right. It will be rather hot, but not, too hot for you. After

all, a woman who has spent so much time in the sun should be used to it.”

“Eh? Sun?” I derided, not very politely. “Do you mean our half-day summer?”

“No no, I mean in your previous incarnations you were used to the sun.”

“Tell me of another one,” I pleaded, hoping it would be of a period other than the

Renaissance.

“There are so many!” he exclaimed and then added on second thoughts, “I wish you could go

to Florence.”

“You’ve said that before,” I reminded him. “Yes. You’ll go there again, and to other places in

the vicinity which were very much associated with you at one time, before the time of the

Borgias.”

“I’ve been delving into the history of earlier periods but I haven’t got very far with my

investigations.”

“When you go to Florence—not during this holiday but another time,” he said jauntily. “you’ll

see a picture or probably two pictures in the museum that will provide a clue, but apart from

the name ‘Angelo’ I’m not going to say any more. Of course this time you’ll go to the Vatican

and to the Villa d’Este at Tivoli, where there are links . . . oh! you’ll go to many places.”

“There’s one thing I want to ask you,” I interjected. “Is there anything to see at Nepi? The

Castle of Nepi?”

“Very little,” he replied without hesitation. “I think it would be interesting but your stay is not

long enough, nor is your pocket deep enough to do everything. I wish I could help you more

in this direction,” he sighed. “I know it is a sentimental journey and that you will walk back

into the Past deliberately, and I shall impress you and give you inspiration in regard to certain

places and certain people, but I want it to be a holiday too. John can go away now with a

tranquil mind, as the little girl has made a miraculous recovery, which has helped to

strengthen his faith in what was promised regarding her, and I know you will have a very

happy time and there are many aspects of the country that will interest and appeal to you.”

“Rudy, were you associated with John in the Past?”

“Not as friends! Does that strike you as odd?”

“No!”

“We’re good friends now, but it wasn’t always so. In fact there was very strong enmity

between us at one time, because our families were so opposed to each other. The houses

were at war; it wasn’t his fault or mine either. That is one reason why I want you both to visit

Florence, where you will sense the links with this earlier association.”

At this point Jean broke in to ask, “Do we fit into any of this, Rudy?”

“You fit in; you fit in but . . . in a different way, in a different sense.” He seemed to hesitate,

and I said, “Yet there is a very close bond between Jean and me.”

“Of course there is, because at one time she was very close to you, not in relationship but in

affection. She was the one who brought you up, nursed and cared for you, and considered

you more than herself.”

My “mind” went back five hundred years B.C. and I asked, “In a desert incarnation?”

“YES!” he said with conviction. I had waited exactly three years and three months for this

confirmation!

Jean now asked where Stanley “fitted in,” and Rudy said:

“Stanley was a rival tribesman in the time of which I speak; in the desert he was a chieftain.”

The power was beginning to wane and Jean hastened to enquire about her daughter

Barbara.

“Barbara?” Rudy repeated. “She is a new soul. She has work to do one day and she will

carry on the work of others . . . when I say she is a new soul, I mean comparatively new to

us,” he added, “but she will carry on when our work is finished. The power weakens but

before I go I must wish you again ‘Bon voyage!’ Remember, I shall be with you and at times I

shall impress you to say certain things and you’ll think, ‘Did I say that?’ and you’ll say to

yourself, ‘No, Rudy said it!’ My love to all, and my love and blessings to John in particular, as

I know how he has felt recently. I must go! Arrivederci.”

The week-end following and two days before our departure, Leslie left for Spain with the

intention of returning home shortly after us, but the warm sea and sunshine proved to be so

beneficial to his health that he prolonged his stay. A member of his development circle

owned a villa there and was on vacation at the same time, which enabled them to continue

their sittings, and Mickey kept them well informed about our holiday.

THE day of our departure truly excelled itself in its efforts to discourage us, the climax being

no less than a violent thunderstorm, which did nothing to make our friends Jean and Stanley

feel any better about our going away. By the late evening, however, the storm had abated,

and when the car came to take us to the airport at 1.30 a.m. the clouds were only scattered

drifts across the moonlit sky.

The usual preliminaries over, we boarded the plane, and from a maze of coloured lights we

swept upwards like a dragon-fly from a bed of flowers. To me it seemed as unreal as a fairy

story. Fascinated, my gaze would linger on the label swinging from the hand luggage:

“Castellaneta via Naples” it read; then looking down I could see below us a glittering Never-

Never-Land of glow- worms and fireflies. Or were they gold sequins on blue-black velvet? My

musings were pleasantly interrupted by the aroma of coffee. We sipped, chatted and

speculated, and Gwen who had flown before seemed as enchanted as we were. There were

duty-free cigarettes to buy, and pamphlets to read with instructions regarding the flight. We

were cruising steadily at 300 miles per hour at a height of 21,000 feet. The tiny clusters of

lights below us now appeared at less frequent intervals, and occasionally disappeared

altogether beneath a trailing cloud. I discovered there was very little difference in seeing the

world from above, for I might have been looking up at the night sky and catching a glimpse

here and there of the shimmering galaxies, as looking at these little towns and villages which

seemed equally remote.

Never was a night more perfect. We seemed to be an encumbrance on the pellucid air, and

low down on the port side, Venus the morning star hung, suspended against a brightening

sky; a gay, sparkling, traveling companion in space. A moment before sunrise we knelt at the

cabin windows with cine-cameras “ the ready.” Now the sea of clouds turned pink and the

plane shuddered slightly as it breasted a change of air current, just as a car will tremble

when it travels with hard tyres over a cobbled surface, and the steward told us we were over

the Alps. With startling suddenness the sun broke through the clouds below and a sea of

molten gold heaved and swirled beneath us, and at several points the dark shape of a

mountain-top pierced the surface.

Now it was daylight, and we rose gently over every valley and swayed just sufficiently over

every ridge for us to see the scene below more clearly. Then we traveled over what might

have been a flock of sheep, but which was in reality the upper side of a mackerel sky, and

when this had dispersed we had left the Alps to the north and were now flying over cultivated

plains which looked like patches of green-and-brown linoleum. Large towns spread out and

passed under us as if they were being pulled along on a conveyor belt, and the blue sea set

with islands kept us constantly moving from side to side of the aircraft.

Fortunately the plane was not carrying her full capacity and we had permission to move

around. Sooner than seemed possible we were told to fasten our safety belts, and for the

first time I saw the “props” on the nearest engine nacelle as she slowed down in preparation

for landing, and the huge cream-coloured panorama of Naples which grew with alarming

rapidity as we swooped downwards with cine-cameras whirring at an awkward angle. There

was a slight bump as we touched-down and sped to a standstill.

Many hands, too many hands, reached for our luggage, and a gabble of language of which I

did not understand one word added to our confusion. After a breakneck drive, the Air

Terminal bus put us down at the stop in the centre of the town conveniently placed near a

taxi rank. Again a system of teamwork sprang into action, there being a man for every piece

of luggage, and each one was waiting for a tip. We had no idea where our hotel was situated

and I asked if it was far away. Naturally, I was assured it was quite a distance. My wits were

beginning to “tick over” and although I could not possibly understand the Neapolitan dialect I

knew enough to gather the instructions the bus driver gave to the taxi man. “Take them the

long way round,” he said. But there was nothing we could do about it, and actually it was as

well that he did take us the long way round because before we could check our belongings

we had arrived at the hotel! With one suitcase less, we could have walked it quite easily. As

it was, the duty-free cigarettes were missing, and the fare came to the equivalent of 12s 6d,

which sum was agreed on only after the intervention of the hotel receptionist.

Breakfast was served in our rooms, and after we had washed and changed into lighter

clothes we sallied forth. Already a little wiser, we decided to take a bus to the station to

confirm our tickets for the following day. I began to realise how alone we were, but at least I

was being understood when I made enquiries. It was the early morning rush hour in Naples

and, always provided the tyres hold out, there is no limit to the number of passengers who

crowd on to a vehicle, and somewhere in the crush—there we were! Suddenly my sense of

humour came to the fore and I began to laugh, then plucking up courage I started to talk to

my nearest travelling companions. In a matter of seconds everyone On the bus was directing

us to the Garibaldi station, which was at the far end of the town from where we were staying,

but under the deluge of instructions we could not have missed it!

I would have enjoyed wandering around the Piazza Garibaldi in front of the station,

absorbing the atmosphere of Naples, but unfortunately the touts made this impossible, for we

were accosted at every turn and nearly shanghaied into going to Pompeii. One could not

even be polite, and it was necessary to be almost aggressive before a refusal was accepted.

Rather foolishly, in view of the heat, we decided to walk back along the dock area,

photographing as we went. Hours later, our feet throbbing and the effects of a sleepless

night overcoming us, we found shelter in the gardens and a temporary escape from the

pathetic outstretched hands, or those which surreptitiously revealed a gold watch or Parker

pen. One man walked alongside us for twenty minutes before we convinced him that we

were not interested in his wares.

Of course we had expected something of this nature, but not such persistency, and this may

have been due mainly to our kind replies; we did not feel aggressive, only sorry at such a

state of affairs. The real poverty touched our hearts and the filthy little urchin who flung his

arms round my white pleated skirt, holding me prisoner until John gave him a few lire, only

made me question my right to be on holiday in such a place.

It was still too early to go back to the hotel and as we passed a cinema I suggested that an

hour or so in the cool darkness might refresh us sufficiently so that we might later continue

our exploring. Within minutes of settling down in our seats and before the main film, a short

programme was given of some old gramophone discs still in the Italian record library, one of

which was held up to view on the screen. The singer, I believe, was Caruso and the name on

the record was the one that had been “mine” over four hundred years ago! The timing was so

perfect that it ruled out coincidence and we no longer felt so alone.

Thoroughly refreshed after a good night’s sleep, we arranged for the hotel staff to order a

taxi to take us to the station, the fare on this occasion being the same as we had paid the

day before just to turn the corner! On arriving, two porters immediately descended on our

luggage and took upon themselves full responsibility for our welfare, advising us where to

buy the necessary packed luncheon for our journey, and even what to buy. The younger one,

an attractive man, spoke a little English and was most proud of the fact. We had allowed

plenty of time to catch the mid-day train to Taranto, so John and Gwen set off to find a bank

and change some travellers’ cheques. Meanwhile the young porter sat me down at an

outside table of the station bar, with a gesture that was both gracious and authoritative, and

piled the cases on a trolley at my side.

John and Gwen were away some time and my uniformed escort came back every now and

then to see that I was all right. Finally, when we had finished our coffee he and his

confederate came back to collect us, and now began a scene that might well have come out

of a comic opera! The train for the south was due to arrive at a lower level, which resembled

the London Metropolitan Line in the rush hour, for it was crammed with students going home

for the holidays. Edging us towards the brink of the platform our porters conferred together

and then proceeded to give us a “briefing.” First and foremost came the polite demand for

payment before the train arrived, as according to them it was liable to leave with such

punctuality that there would not be time to settle the account, which came to the usual

equivalent of 12s 6d each! They guaranteed us excellent seats, though the booking of them

in advance can, I believe, be something of a farce, which this was fast becoming! Bearing in

mind the three-quarters of an hour they had devoted to us and the milling mass of boisterous

young Italians around us, we paid up without demur.

Then with a fascinating smile our young Mend asked me if I could run! “Certainly I can run,” I

told him, as he pointed in the direction of the tunnel from which the train would emerge.

“There and back?” he asked. “There and back,” I said confidently. His companion was to

remain with the luggage, Gwen was to run towards me as the train came in and John was

placed midway between the luggage and our converging figures! But we were not to move

until the right moment or our strategy would be foreseen, and with an expressive shrug of his

shoulders he inferred we might be slaughtered. There is no limit to their eloquent

exaggeration.

With a tense face his friend peered into the distant tunnel and having once seen a certain

signal—we were off. Left, right, left, In and out, zig-zagging down the platform like a couple

of rugger players, with the six-footer in front of me ploughing his way through the bewildered

crowd, and as the train roared through the opening there was a breathless wait while the

carriages hurtled past and then, as nimble as a monkey, up went the porter on to the

footboard of the first class compartments, and holding on with one hand he waved his other

arm and held off any possible contestants. Fortunately the train was slowing down as I

sprinted alongside, keeping pace as well as I could on the narrow strip. Then I met Gwen

coming towards me, and as the train stopped, the doors crashed back and we were in, the

first of a tidal wave of people surging forward; the luggage was already hurtling through the

lowered windows, heaved upwards by the second porter and John.

Now there was a rapid exchange; the porter out, and John into the carriage, the whistle blew

(or whatever the signal is on Italian railways), and our friends reached through the window to

shake hands and take the proffered cigarettes, and with caps waving they wished us a happy

holiday. As the train drew out of the station we sank back into our seats, hysterical with

laughter.

I do not believe for one moment that any of it was necessary! The crowds were mostly

traveling second class, and our carriage of first class compartments was comparatively

sparsely occupied. But these incidents surely make or mar a holiday according to one’s

temperament, and we would not have missed this for anything. It is a seven-hour journey

from Naples to Taranto and for me in particular it was full of interest, because, as I have

already mentioned, during the last year at evening school we had been reading the Italian

classic of Carlo Levi, “Christ stopped at Eboli.” At the time of which he was writing, namely

1935, Southern Italy was known as the abandoned zone, and to a certain extent this

situation still exists. Most of my fellow students had been to Italy, or were going there, but no

one I had met had ventured into the hinterland for which we were now heading.

For a short distance we followed the coast, slipping in and out of tunnels that gave suddenly

on to magnificent views, where the mountains frayed out into the incredibly blue sea and gay

little towns were huddled together like barnacles on a rock. Then we turned from the coast

into mountainous country similar to that of North Wales but lacking the beauty of the Welsh

waterfalls and lakes.

Very little passed unnoticed, even to the colour of the red earth in the groves of orange trees

where the boundaries were edged with fresh green maize. Our excitement, and my obvious

recognition of the names of various places as we passed them, aroused the interest of the

only other passenger in our compartment. He was a slight man with aquiline features and a

small Vandyke beard, and after he had watched us successfully photograph Eboli station he

began to talk to me, slowly, using simple phrases, with the same patience in regard to the

language that was extended to me wherever I went. He proved to be a well-informed man

with strong political views, and of course was familiar with Carlo Levi’s book, and he too felt

deeply about the position in Southern Italy.

He described every aspect of the country as we followed the course of one of the rivers

which was nothing more than a central stream threading thinly over a wide pebble-strewn

bed, but which bore signs of a raging torrent. The pebbles were as large and flat as teaplates,

and in some places these had been gathered and laid on top of each other to a height

of four or five feet, and were double this in length. The two sides and the front walled-in by

roughly hewn stones rose to another tier and often to a third, and then the whole block had

been netted over with ropes. These blocks of irregular steps were used to reinforce the

banks of the river and railway. Our Italian friend told us that in this part of the country wolves

are still to be found.

I discovered he was the station-master of a small town called Tito, not far from Potenza, and

he traveled with us as far as there. His house was built on the station, and by the time the

train pulled away again he was leaning out of one of the top windows, accompanied by his

wife, and waving us on our way. As the journey continued it was good to see the signs of

progress, and this was particularly evident as we passed through the district near Matera,

where great blocks of new fiats stood silhouetted against the sky-line.

The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson over the dark waters of the Gulf of Taranto as our

train traveled once again along the sea coast, where the stunted pines meet the shore. Quite

suddenly it seemed we were drawing into Taranto station. It was a long train but as it drew to

a stop we saw Signor Loglisci waiting only a few yards from our carriage. From that moment

all responsibility was lifted from us. I had hardly time to notice more than the old-fashioned

horse-drawn cabs in the piazza than we were in the car, speeding along in a north-westerly

direction.

The road was smooth and even, and on each side alternate cypress and oleander trees were

etched against the jade and lemon sky, intensifying the shadowed road ahead. Young grape

vines covered the fields and a network of supports high above the tender shoots gave

promise of the future harvest. The ground began to rise and low stone walls and olive groves

were to be seen on each wide as we drew near to our destination. Franco gave instructions

to the driver and the car slowed down as there appeared before us in the twilight the first

pink-washed houses of Castellaneta, and is we turned into the softly lighted town we saw

that there were only a few houses on our right, while a modern promenade on our loft gave

an unobstructed view as far as the coast some ten miles away. But now the panorama was

lost in a darkness broken only by the twinkling lights of the fishing boats on the distant

horizon. The car came almost to a standstill in front of a cream-coloured house, which in the

half-light looked as unreal as I felt at that moment.

It was a flat-fronted solid-looking house with three arched doorways framing blue-painted

doors, which opened abruptly on to the street over a single high step. There were two arched

balconied windows on the first floor and the usual flat roof with a high coping, and a small

doorway, in line with the other three, led to where Rudy’s father had once worked in the

capacity of a veterinary doctor.

A short distance past the house we turned right and drew up in front of my friend’s home.

The entire family was gathered to meet us at the top of the wide staircase, and the greeting

was warm and friendly although the children were quiet and rather shy. Over supper,

however, and the exchanging of presents, the reserve soon melted, and when we left for our

hotel we were accompanied by the two eldest children, a girl and a boy. China (Keena) and

Enzo. The tiny hotel where we were to sleep was less than five minutes’ walk away. Franco

came up to our rooms to make sure that everything was in order, and jokingly mimed his

disapproval of twin beds so expressively that he left us standing on the balcony laughing

happily as he and the children waved us goodnight from the Street.

The rooms were very plain but scrupulously clean, and the hotel boasted all modern

conveniences; as usual, the people were most friendly. It had been an exhausting day and I

fell asleep immediately without even sending out my thanks to all our unseen friends, and

this negligence, I am sorry to admit, persisted while we stayed in Castellaneta. I could never

sleep during the afternoons, and if there is one thing the Italians do not appear to need, it is

sleep! At five o’clock in the morning everything sprang to life—invariably outside our

bedroom window! In any case I had no wish to drowse away the daylight hours and I used to

get dressed and watch from the balcony the early morning scenes of Castellaneta, many of

which I am sure are unchanged.

These cameos of everyday life I often recall when I think back to our holiday in that little,

unknown place; the square deep-sided mule-carts which roll leisurely by, the man with a

voice like a town crier proclaiming the excellence of his wares, “Eggs, new laid,” with two

enormous baskets full to the brim at six but already empty at nine. The shop on the corner

and the bakery not far away, the smell of newly-baked bread which rises temptingly as a boy

cycles precariously past with a huge tray of rolls balanced on his head.

One of the most vivid contrasts was presented by the “carbone” seller. Carbone is the

charcoal from olive wood which is used for cooking, and burns bright and smokeless. His

tinkling bell, reminiscent of the muffin man of long ago, muted abruptly one morning as he

stopped his frail hand-cart on the side of the street opposite our hotel balcony. A woman

came out of an adjacent house with a basket in her hand. The carbone vendor produced an

old-fashioned pair of scales which wobbled uncertainly as he laid the pieces of charcoal

across them before transferring them to the woman’s basket. A few coins were handed to

him, and he trundled off, quite unaware of the whirr of our cine-cameras above his head.

As the sun rose higher and the church bells ceased to ring, the children emerged from every

direction to go to school, all the girls dressed in white pinafores and the boys in black smocks

with a coloured ribbon at the neck, denoting the class to which they belong. It was into this

unchanging scene we stepped as Franco called for us on that first morning to escort us to his

home for breakfast, during which meal we were introduced to a local delicacy, a sweet

home-made bread which is not unlike spiced malt loaf.

Surrounded by the family we tied the small silk flags on to Rudy’s flowers together with a

card on which was written: “In memory of Rudolph Valentino, the great artist whose life

represented a strong and true bond between beautiful Italy and England.” The words were

the nearest I could use to convey the truth!

Now we went into the town to call for Franco’s father near the corner of the main piazza, and

to get there we had to pass the new Municipal Building.

A flight of steps led on to the square in front of this building and I knew from Leslie’s

photographs taken the previous year that in the centre of this square was the War Memorial

topped by a child angel. As we came level with the steps we stopped in amazement; the War

Memorial had vanished! Franco explained that the Council had considered the Memorial no

longer worthy of the new Castellaneta and it was to be rebuilt. I often wonder what he

thought of his guests, as we were unable to hide our amusement.

“How long ago was it removed?” I asked him.

Oh! Only about six weeks ago,” he replied.

Which showed that Rudy had not recently “seen” his home town, in a material sense,

although he knows so much in other respects. So when the time came to place the flowers in

position they were attached to the plaque outside La Casa Valentino. Afterwards we

wandered around the town and guided by Franco crossed the Piazza Umberto to the older

part, where the tiny narrow streets barely leave room for one car. The miniature shops were

clean and inviting and we enjoyed buying presents and postcards there, where everyone

was so friendly and helpful. One winding street led us to the Cathedral Square.

The cathedral was built in the 13th century and is quite imposing and different from anything

that I had imagined. We went Into its cool darkness and were enthralled by the soft beauty of

the green-and-brown marble columns. It was much larger than I expected and has a most

interesting history. As special guests we were allowed into the private rooms at the back.

The cathedral Is built on the extreme edge of the ravine which runs from the main road half a

mile away and curves slightly, like a crescent moon. Old Castellaneta is built along the ridge

of this immense cleft, which is the home of innumerable falcons. When we leaned out of the

windows at the back of the cathedral we saw a sheer drop of about 250 feet; at the farther

end where the ravine opens out we could see the railway viaduct that had been built by

Rudy’s grandfather, and in front of us in the hazy distance and on the summit of the next hill

the shining white town of Mottala, which looked for all the world like Bethlehem. In fact the

whole countryside has the same characteristics as one would expect to find in Judea.

I was surprised to learn that there were no fewer than eight churches in Castellaneta and a

convent of an enclosed order. One of the churches that Franco pointed out to us was also

built on the edge of the cliff, on the exact spot where, many years ago, a man dying of an

incurable disease had knelt to pray, after walking from the coast to seek a place in which to

die; but as he knelt a great light descended upon him from Heaven and he was cured of his

affliction.

Naturally we saw the font where Rudy was christened and other points of interest, but my

attention was focused in particular on the altar. The figure of Jesus was the loveliest I have

seen anywhere. He was not nailed in agony to a cross but standing triumphantly on a cloud,

dressed in white robes and a blue cloak which apparently was swirling in the wind. One arm

was raised and with the other He held a staff and flying pennant. He was looking up with

such an expression of joy and freedom that He symbolised Life and Victory, and as I gazed

with admiration at this beautiful interpretation the thought came to me: “Perhaps they had

good reason to think You came no farther than Eboli, but only temporarily I hope!” Franco

sensed my response, and he explained that this was the Church of the Ascension.

We returned home for lunch, the family being at the top of the stairs to welcome us as

before, but now the greeting was excited and boisterous as the children raced down the

stairs to reach us. They were lovely children, free, happy, unspoiled and completely

obedient; Franco never raised his voice to them. Fifteen of us crowded round the huge,

beautifully laid table, and the marvelous wine of Castellaneta flowed generously. It is a local

wine, which all the children drink when it is diluted with water. We used to see it delivered to

the shops in huge carboys. The meal was followed by a piece of rich spiced cake and a

glass of sweet Marsala—and then siesta.

On Saturday we went by car to Castellaneta Marina, a new seaside resort in the process of

construction. We were the first English tourists to go there. It is built in a forest of pine trees

which grow right down to the edge of the sea. The sand is silver and the water of the Gulf of

Taranto is clear, warm and unpolluted. Small wooden chalets built on stilts are dotted about

the woods. We were invited to go over one of them after having photographed a group of

workmen and shared cigarettes with them. The interior contains built-in furniture, with every

modern convenience, including a Calor gas refrigerator and cooking stove. It was here that

we saw the first stones already laid in position for “The Valentino Home for Retired Artists.”

Since our return we have heard that this home is to be not only for professionals, but for

anyone in need connected with the entertainment industry, such as carpenters, technicians

and stage hands, a modification that has met with much appreciation from Rudy. It will be a

holiday home as well as one of retirement.

Since our visit another site has been allotted for the purpose of an academy where children

of professionals or those wishing to enter the world of Art will be trained. A yearly scholarship

Is to be awarded, and the equivalent to an Oscar presented to the pupil who shows the most

talent and who excels abroad. The figure is to be a gold statuette of “Lo Sciecco” (The

sheik). Unknown to those who will control the activities of this academy there will be instilled

within the teachers and pupils a true expression of art and culture, by a group of souls,

including Rudy, who will influence and encourage the desire to create beauty and romance,

to cleanse the stage and screen of horror, violence and depravity. As he has said to us on

more than one occasion:

There is a great work of Spirit in progress. My name is used, but I am merely the figurehead.”

After leaving the quiet woods behind us we journeyed to Taranto. Unfortunately (or perhaps

fortunately for the inhabitants!) practically nothing remains of the old town, and what there is

left is built on an island, and the car ran round the outer walls In a few minutes. The city itself

of course is on a par with any modern continental resort. It has a wonderful shopping centre,

artistically laid out with a series of wrought metal arches spanning the streets, and these are

illuminated at night. There are fountains, gardens, trees, bandstands, and modern

architecture, but little that was of personal interest to us, apart from the fact that we were

happy to see the South of Italy gaining prosperity.

On the Sunday morning John and I accompanied Franco and his eldest son to the service at

the cathedral. Gwen had arranged to visit Bruno’s family to pay Leslie’s respects and by

some strange coincidence (if there is such a thing!) Bruno’s brother Reno had come home

on leave, unexpectedly. He was the one chosen the previous year to act as interpreter during

Leslie’s visit, so Gwen was able to have a long conversation with Bruno’s mother and low the

seeds of confidence for the time when he would leave home and come to England.

As we strolled round the town, we passed and re-passed Rudy’s home, but the door was

always closed. It was a private residence and we could not ask to view it, so had to be

content with photographing the house from different angles. In the evening of the same day,

together with Franco’s father we wandered along the new promenade; nearing Rudy’s house

we crossed over to look at the now faded flowers from which the flags had disappeared. We

were about to turn away when a young man on a motor scooter drew up at the kerb.

He greeted the Signori Loglisci and looked at us with smiling curiosity. Franco explained who

we were and just as we were leaving, the balcony windows opened and a lovely young

woman came out. She was evidently the young man’s wife, and leaning over the railings she

spoke to her husband. There was a rapid exchange of words and she nodded

enthusiastically. Her husband turned to Franco and said, “Would your friends like to see over

the house?” As he opened the door and ushered us up the steep stairway, my legs felt as if

they were giving way under me. The split-second timing of the “operation” stunned me for the

moment.

The long staircase opened out into a small hail; the kitchen, bathroom, and another bedroom

which we did not see faced the back of the house, and on our left we entered the large

oblong sitting-room. The casement windows were still open leading on to one balcony and

the room was cool and spacious. Like other old houses in Castellaneta the ceiling was

vaulted to allow a current of air to circulate. I wanted to take in so many details, but courtesy

demanded that I should give attention to the hosts who had so kindly opened their home for

inspection.

“I know you would like to see the room where Rodolfo was born,” the signora said to me, and

indicated the door on the opposite wall from where we had entered.

The light from a small lamp, and the evening glow through the windows that opened on to

the second balcony, gave to the shadowed room an atmosphere of stillness. Modern

innovations and furniture in the sitting-room left one’s imagination to look back into the past,

but not here! The room was of the past. The pale blue vaulted ceiling; the pastel blue walls

on which were hanging two beautiful oil paintings of Jesus and Mary. The bed of black

lacquer with tall carved bed-ends divided in the centre was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and

the covers were of rich satin. Beside the bed stood a baby’s cot of delicately wrought tubular

steel, draped in masses of white net.

For the space of a few minutes everyone was silent. John stood back against an oldfashioned

chest of drawers, while Gwen and I remained at the foot of the bed. We were

aware that Rudy’s presence came between us, while Sister Teresa “stood” on my other side.

I did not know how to conceal my feelings, and it was not sentiment that moved me so much,

but the tremendous power that announced the presence of many unseen souls. Gwen was

momentarily transfixed, and I noticed the colour had drained from her face. However many

opportunities may occur to return to that room in the years to come, those moments can

never be recaptured. The significance lay, not in the fact that a certain famous person had

been born there, but in the fulfilment of the prophecy of only ten days before.

The spell was broken in a charming manner as the second door leading from the bedroom

was pushed open and in ran a little boy of about eighteen months old. He stopped dead in

his tracks. His huge brown eyes opened wider and his little mouth quivered as he was faced

with a group of strangers intruding upon his domain, but his mother caught him up in her

arms and we filed back into the brightly lit lounge, where we took leave of our friends,

trusting to Franco’s eloquence to express our gratitude.

When we returned to our hotel later, we closed the shutters in our bedroom and the three of

us had a sitting. I was used for conscious control, and I spoke for several minutes with great

feeling, but never once mentioned anything appertaining to our holiday, to Rudy, or to the

wonderful response to the presence of the Spirit Group that we had experienced in the

Valentino borne that evening. The words I uttered were of wisdom and encouragement for

the work that lay ahead, and the person who was speaking through me inferred that the

séance in which we were taking part was probably the first of its kind to take place in

Castellaneta, but it would not be the last!

There was only one day left before we were to leave for Rome, and as a complete contrast

to the previous days of sight-seeing, meeting people, and accepting the hospitality of their

homes, our hosts arranged to take us for a picnic to an olive farm belonging to Franco’s aunt,

which was some miles away towards Lucania. The elder Signor Loglisci took the day off and

the children stayed away from school The intense heat and the number of people taking part

did not make the English interpretation of a picnic applicable. All the food was prepared

ready for cooking before we left, and wrapped in brightly coloured cloths which were

distributed among the three car-loads of guests.

On arrival at the farm, all the family and the farm-workers were there to greet us, and we

were seated in state in a barn-like room that had two long wooden tables against one wall,

and behind us were two curtained-off alcoves which concealed built-in beds. At the far end of

this room our hostesses were already busy cooking the dinner on what I believe were Calor

gas stoves. Here also there was an old-fashioned brick oven used in the winter for baking

bread, and outside the farmhouse there was a replica where baking was done in the summer

months. The fuel was olive wood, and the bread, baked in huge flat cakes a foot and a half

across, was delicious. Cool, slightly metallic-tasting water was drawn from a well in the

centre of the courtyard.

While we were waiting for the final preparation of the dinner a sun-tanned young man came

through the curtained doorway with a basket of broad beans. He passed along the row of

people and each took a handful. We had no idea what to do but Nonna (Granny) took mine

out of my hand, slit the pods open, rapidly peeled off the outer skin and handed me the

honey-sweet bean, still warm from the sun. This custom was as natural to them as it would

be for us to hand round a box of sweets to visitors. For centuries the people had lived off the

land, and their abundant energy, strong white teeth and wiry frames bore witness to the

wholesome food, but also to the difficulties of wresting nutriment from the parched earth.

These people for instance were up at four-thirty in the morning, and although the farm was

now large and prosperous, when the old couple had first come to live there they had worked

it alone.

Twenty-two of us sat down to “the picnic” and we fitted in as if we had lived here all our lives.

Either the wine was stronger than usual or the sun was more intense, but after lunch

everything became a riot. John, in a wide-brimmed farmer’s hat with a bottle of wine

balanced on top, was doing a Willam Tell act with the gun that had been hanging on the wall.

I was taken round the estate on the back of a motor-cycle hanging on for dear life, and

traveling over the most appalling ground. When I returned I found Gwen in hysterics on the

back of a mule that was plodding contentedly round the courtyard.

In spite of the hilarity we missed nothing of interest. We saw the vats and olive presses, the

cheese made from sheep’s milk, and most of the animals, rabbits, chickens and lambs, all of

which were in wonderful condition. Before we left the farm in the evening one of the

daughters took us upstairs to see her flat, which looked out over miles of rolling countryside.

Although the lower floor was unchanged by Time, the upper one was certainly not. The

beautifully draped bed with satin upholstered furniture might have come straight from a Bond

Street showroom.

Our last evening with the Loglisci family was tinged with sadness, relieved only by a small

incident which left another pleasant memory of these unspoiled people. Someone called at

the house to return the British and Italian flags which, having dropped to the ground as the

flowers died, had been picked up and taken to the “Bar Rudy” by a young boy, in order that

they might be returned to the rightful owner.

This action led me to ask Franco if the trees and shrubs that were being planted in the

various piazzas were ever damaged by youths. He smiled gently and shook his head. “I’ve

heard of juvenile delinquents, Linetta, but they are not found here. Castellaneta belongs to

the people and they are proud of it, and protect everything belonging to the town. These for

instance,” and he indicated the flags, “the child would not have kept them for himself.”

Franco walked over to the glass-fronted bookcase, and placed his favourite photograph of

Rudy on one of the shelves with the two flags crossed behind the frame. “There you are, my

friends! There will always be something of England here.” He paused, and turning to me he

said, “It is strange. All these years I have worked alone to keep his memory alive; now at last

something is to be done in regard to a monument. I have always kept flowers near his

photograph, and now you have entered my life to strengthen the bond.” He spoke slowly and

painstakingly so that I should understand and he was obviously touched emotionally and a

little puzzled. I could sympathise with him in his bewilderment, because I knew that the bond

that was affecting his innermost feelings had little to do with the personality of a film star.

Rudy had already told us that the link with Franco was of the soul, and unknown to himself

he was an instrument for the same Spirit Group. He was not the only one in Castellaneta.

There were others as well, apart from Bruno.

Perhaps it is the little things that leave the greatest impressions, no one such thing had

surprised me when I first saw it in the Loglisci home. It was a picture of two naked children in

front of an old-fashioned fireplace. One is squatting on the floor and the other one is standing

with outstretched arms towards the flames. A duplicate of it hangs in our bedroom at home. It

may be quite a well-known picture and is called “After the bath” but the fact remains that I

have never seen it anywhere else except in my mother’s home as far back as I can

remember.

We had to leave early in the morning and Franco accompanied us, past the “Bar Valentino”

with the bronze bust of Rudy and its famous ice-cream concoction called “The Kiss” and so

to the station, with its tiny water garden gay with flowers, and little wooden figures busily

turning the handles of a miniature windmill. Signor Rizzi, of the Valentino Club, and Franco’s

father were there to see us off and we were loath to part from the latter because he bad

endeared himself to us in many ways, particularly to John. As the silver bullet-shaped train

sped towards Ban and our final parting with Franco, who had insisted on coming that far with

us, an air of depression descended on the little party and our leave-taking, both at

Castellaneta and Ban, was very un-English.

It was a tedious and uninteresting seven-hour journey to Rome (or was it because we were

travelling north, I wonder?) and it seems ridiculous to admit that Rome was an anticlimax to

Castellaneta. Our first evening in the Eternal City was cold and wet; our hotel was

comfortable and no doubt with the best of intentions towards their English visitors they

served roast beef with its accompanying vegetables! The rain deluged down to the

accompaniment of a “rip-snorting” thunderstorm and the lightning jagged against a

blackened sky which was only a degree less oppressive than were our spirits. But of course

this mood soon wore off, and the eight days we spent in Rome were enhanced by the

knowledge of past links, and marred by the 20th century traffic I was petrified of it in the

daytime and tormented by it at night. Our hotel looked out on to the green glades of the

Borghese Gardens, but our bedroom, many storeys high, flanked the Corso d’Italia, and it

was bedlam!

There is no need to give a detailed account of our visit to Rome, as holidays abroad fall

within the experience of many people these days, but as the purpose of this book is to

accentuate the psychic and Spiritual power that surrounds everyone I will deal mainly with

this influence in relation to the places we visited.

Naturally, in view of the information given me regarding one aspect of my soul evolution, I

expected startling reactions as I walked into the Vatican Museum and the Borgia apartments.

It is true I could have spent many more hours there, and my interest was keener than it

would have been without the knowledge of the past, but as for soul-stirring reactions—they

were conspicuous by their absence! I could not keep at bay entirely the old feeling of

aversion to this period, although I was deeply impressed by the exquisite beauty and

workmanship of all I saw, and I found that it is by these treasures that the family is

remembered and not by the notorious crimes it committed. I stood gazing at “my” portrait

with a profound feeling of relief that I was now just an inconspicuous tourist. I could not

sense Rudy, or “Alfonso di Bisceglie” as he was in 1499. In fact as an experiment of

reincarnation awareness it was rather disappointing!

Some days later, however, a visit to the Castel San Angelo left no doubt as to the validity of

my earlier incarnation. Here I sensed great personal fear, and on one staircase built by “my

father,” Pope Alexandra VI, I literally felt sick! In one room of this stronghold there is an

enormous marble plinth bearing the name, I presume, of “my” infamous brother, Cesare

Alessandro Valentino.

Three times I walked back into this period, the other occasion being when we visited Tivoli

and the Villa d’Este. As we entered the ornate hall leading out on to the loggia an Englishspeaking

guide announced in a loud voice to her party of visitors, “This magnificent villa was

rebuilt and transformed by the son of the most beautiful woman of the Renaissance, Lucrezia

Borgia.” It was a wonderful day and the villa was glorious, and everywhere I saw the symbols

so often given to us clairvoyantly: cloisters and porticoes, the white unicorn of Cesare, the

heraldic lilies and white eagles of d’Este, and the coat of arms of the Cardinal of Ferrara. Not

that I had any influence over “my second son “— at least not a material influence, because

he was only ten years old when “I” closed the chapter on that incarnation in 1519.

We covered a great deal of ground in the short time we were In Rome, spending a day in the

Borghese Gardens and Galleries, and also in the zoo where I had my photograph taken with

a lion cub on my lap. But the place to which we returned more than once was the Palatine

Hill, because there we all felt a sense of familiarity. As always happened when there was

something of special interest, on our first visit there one of the attendants singled us out and

commenced a conversation, drawing attention to certain objects and recounting the history of

the place. It was in this manner we learnt much about ancient Rome, and in spite of the

barbarity of the period it is one to which I am very drawn.

It was on the third day, however, that the most puzzling reaction occurred, and this was at

the Catacombs of San Sebastiano on the Appian Way. Gwen had selected these, and as

Rudy had so often impressed her during our holiday to do certain things, we never

questioned her choice. In keeping with other catacombs in the vicinity these had been used

as a secret meeting place for the early Christians, and it is believed the bodies of St Peter

and St Paul lay in these tombs for a considerable time. The tiny crypt into which the monk

who was our guide led us was very dark, although the eyes soon became used to it. As he

was explaining in good English the significance of the place, I was standing with my back to

a marble bust of San Sebastiano that depicted him as a young and handsome man; it also

showed an arrow through his breast, which had been the form of martyrdom he had

undergone. In fact he had been martyred twice, once by thrashing and once by arrows.

I felt a warm sympathy towards him as the monk described his brutal end, and I was

conscious of an inward disturbance as we wended our way down the twisting passages of

the sepulchre. What these dear souls had suffered for their Faith! As we came out of the

catacombs we stepped into the dazzling beauty of the church or basilica that is built over this

sacred spot. It was like a wedding cake in white and gold, and so light and spacious that it

was almost austere. There was an altar on my right as I emerged from the doorway where

the monk left us, and I walked towards it, alone. It was the altar of San Sebastiano, and low

down in a recess was lying the marble figure pierced with arrows. It was so natural in posture

that I could hardly believe it was not flesh from which the blood had drained away. One knee

was drawn up, one hand rested on the bare chest and the other arm lay heavily against the

body; the curly head, thrown back in a slightly twisted position, lay on a make-shift pillow

made from the uniform of a Roman soldier and revealed the beautiful upturned face from

which the lines of agony had hardly faded.

In complete contrast to the stark pallidity of the figure, along the edge of the recess and

equally realistic, trailed the green leaves and brilliant blue blossoms of “Morning Glory”

convolvulus from which hung five hearts, two of them framed in jewels.

I saw nothing else in the basilica; I just stood rooted to the spot, quite at a loss to explain the

feelings that swept over me. It was as if I felt a terrible grief, but as it was not coming from an

emotion connected with my conscious brain it was a disembodied grief. . Yet it was mine! It

was not a condition I was picking up, it was much too acute for that. I had to exert my willpower

to join John and Gwen as they walked towards the door, and not to sink down on my

knees weeping! I did not want to leave, because I felt there was something of mine being left

behind, something that with all due respect had little to do with San Sebastiano himself. By

the time we had walked some distance along the Appian Way I could not suppress my tears

any longer.

Thank goodness Gwen and John were understanding and waited until the tension had spent

itself, and we lingered longer than necessary in the tiny Church of Quo Vadis, where we

were the only visitors. A monk was playing the small organ, and under the influence of the

paintings of St Peter and St Francis of Assisi the sadness lifted from me as quickly as it had

descended. Although I have spoken to Rudy about it since, he can offer no explanation other

than my extreme awareness of the tragic atmosphere surrounding the catacombs.

After some introspective thought, however, it seems to me that there are several psychic

levels within the human consciousness, as illustrated by what I have referred to as “the

approach” which In the first instance registers on the emotional level, though often

penetrating to a deeper stratum. Then there are the soul-stirring mystical perceptions that

come as sudden revelations and visions, or inward reactions to certain situations or

conditions not registered by the brain and for which no explanation can be found. Lastly

comes the composed, quiescent at-oneness of tactile experience devoid of emotion, that I

had perceived in full daylight in the hospital ward on the two occasions already described.

There may be other levels, but I can speak only of those which I have experienced

personally. The rest of our stay in Rome passed all too quickly, and when the day came for

us to leave there were still many places we had not visited.

We boarded our Comet at 5:15 in the morning of our departure and in a few minutes had

swooped out over the sea at a great height, and a little later as we passed over the Alps we

were able to photograph some wonderful views of snow-covered peaks that looked like

scenes from Antarctica. We touched-down at London Airport two hours and ten minutes after

leaving Rome. Jean had prepared everything for our arrival, and within half an hour of our

homecoming we were asleep.

When we awoke the sun was pouring in at the window and the room was heavy with the

scent of flowers; nothing had changed, and the speed of our return from Rome, in itself,

created a sense of unreality and my eyes wandered from the familiar photograph of Rudy

that Franco liked best, to the replica of the picture of the two naked children, and had it not

been for these and the link they now represented, the whole sentimental journey would have

seemed merely a dream.

LESLIE’S protracted holiday in Spain and the rule of no evening sittings, wisely imposed

upon him by Charles, enforced us to wait until August 10th before we could speak to our

friends again. There were many questions I wanted to ask about our holiday, but the

conditions of the séance were favourable for the expounding of Higher Philosophy about

which Rudy talked for nearly an hour, and my questions remained unasked. I have included

an extract from this talk in the preface to this book.

In September the Rudolph Valentino monument was unveiled in Castellaneta with all the

usual Italian enthusiasm in the presence of theatrical personalities, military dignitaries,

journalists, and radio and television units. The monument is purely representative. The figure

is draped in an Arabian costume in brilliantly coloured ceramics flanked by three vertical

plinths decorated with coloured reliefs which symbolise the era of the silent screen and show

cameras, arc lights, megaphones and all the studio equipment. The appreciation of the

people of five continents is depicted by five pairs of applauding hands.

In the speech at the unveiling it was pointed out that the monument stood also for other

Italians who had left their native country to find a new way of life and, like Valentino, had

found that their path was not strewn with roses, but more often with thorns. The speech went

on to say that at the beginning of his film career be had been chosen to play rough and

sordid roles, but through his refinement and ability he succeeded in portraying beauty and

romance in such a way that he had started what has since been called the Romantic

Revolution.

It is very disappointing to note those ambitious aspirations to do something worth while for

the people of Castellaneta have not yet been realised. This is because since 1961 a certain

political faction containing several obstructionists has suppressed the idea of a Home for

Retired Artists, and the building erected has now been opened as an hotel The Boys’ Club

which showed so much promise has been closed because of lack of support on the part of

the Government. Yet Rudy remains confident of the eventual success of the plans to use his

name for the benefit of those in need and explains that in this project, as in all things, there is

an ebb and flow, but that a change of party will bring progressive moves in the future. Bruno

came to London for a brief holiday In the autumn and while here he sought permission to

work in England. A permit was granted under certain conditions with which he complied, and

he returned here the following spring to settle down to a new life. So another of Rudy’s

prophecies made thirteen months before was fulfilled.

Direct voice séances were now so few and far between that while Leslie was in Spain, I had

booked several sittings with a trance medium at the Spiritualist Headquarters. Unfortunately

space does not allow me to deal with this contact at length, but it has proved to be a

wonderful link with our Spirit friends and a most satisfactory means of collaboration. It has

also added a great deal to my Spiritual Knowledge, especially in regard to reincarnation

about which most of the communicators talk volubly through this instrument. It was not until

quite recently, after some twenty-four sittings with Mr. Ronald Kelly, usually with Jean and

occasionally with the full circle, that he told me he personally did not accept the theory of

individual return, but rather favoured the Idea of a returning Life Force enriched by the mass

experience of Humanity. Being a medium, however, he had learned a long time ago to keep

an open mind on all subjects.

The first time I sat with him I went alone, and my mother, Charles, Sister Teresa all verified

their personalities, and also I met several wonderful communicators of various nationalities

and long-past eras who have since become dear and trusted friends. The hour was almost

gone when Mr. Kelly sank into a deeper trance state and speaking with difficulty he said,

“There are more instruments than one! Try—to-—understand—me. There are more

instruments than one.” It was Rudy’s voice! Or should I say it was his individual

pronunciation coming through another channel? Before I could answer, Mr Kelly returned to

consciousness with alarming suddenness and exclaimed in a surprised voice, “That was

somebody strange!”

Since that time this contact has been kept open and is perfected to the extent that a

conversation started at Leslie’s is often continued several weeks later through Mr Kelly, and

the subject recalled by Rudy without any prompting from us. A subject is dealt with in

scientific detail through this medium, and Rudy gives me time to take down notes which I

have recorded in my files and from which I shall gather some of the material for a later book

which he wishes me to write, under the title of “The Philosophy of ‘Valentino ‘.“ No doubt this

too will extend over a period of years. It was through Mr Kelly’s excellent mediumship that we

were able to receive a report of Leslie’s health and give him absent healing while he was still

abroad.

During the direct voice séance in January 1962 we were given the first real intimation of our

part in the plan when Rudy said, “I am planning for the day when you will have a large house

divided into two flats and so be able to combine forces spiritually and materially. There will

be a Sanctuary where you will hold meetings and give help and enlightenment to many

people. It is going to be my house as well,” he said with a “smile” in his voice,” and I shall be

responsible!” It was not until the late spring that we were given the name Kelvin which was to

be linked with this property. From then onwards it became known to us as Kelvin Lodge, and

stood for all that we had been taught over the years: Knowledge, Enlightenment, Love,

Verity, Illumination, Natural Law.

“The Sanctuary,” Rudy told us, “is to bring illumination where there is darkness,

understanding where there is ignorance, truth where there is falsity, and spiritual joy where

there is emptiness in the world.” As our spirits rose at these inspiring words his quiet voice

cautioned wisely, “But remember, you are only the instruments, and without the Power of

Spirit nothing is possible. I know you are very sincere and through you I have been able to

do part of my work, and this will expand. You will be given greater development but it is

essential that you remain as you are now. When we have our Centre we shall augment the

group and obviously other people will be involved, and these you must accept as part of

yourselves, as one family. I do not mean they will live with you, but they will be brought to

you, and you must work together in complete harmony. Each one will be developed in

varying degrees, for each way is a way of service. There is no such thing as ‘one way only’

or ‘one method of development.’

“The Power of Spirit can be likened to a reservoir of water and each one of you is a separate

channel flowing to a different place. The human element cannot be completely eradicated,

but where there is true knowledge and love this danger to our work can be overcome,

together with the small irritations.”

I have explained before that we live in very close proximity to our neighbours and during the

following three months the longing for Kelvin Lodge increased every week. Work began to

pall more than usual and unconsciously we became a little less tolerant. On May 5th when

we were due for a sitting we had a slight argument on the way to the station, caused by

someone not correctly hearing a casual remark. I was not the culprit but unknowingly I had

been the cause of the misunderstanding, which was so small that we had brushed it aside

long before we arrived at Leslie’s and consequently he knew nothing about it.

Rudy came through almost before Mickey had greeted us and his voice was unusually

serious. He gave a long address on the Importance of living, rather than existing, and leading

up to the subject of the Sanctuary, he said, “You have to make it possible by your thoughts

and your actions. As always, the trivialities are proving harder to bear than the heavy

crosses, but if you cannot now at this stage be at peace with one another, obviously

something is lacking! You must learn to live with each other and not ‘fly off the handle’ and

so create a bad atmosphere. Especially when you come here to talk to us!” he said severely.

“Today we have submerged the atmosphere to some extent but it still is not good. It worries

me when I see you argue with each other about nothing at all . . . now I suppose you think

I’m telling you off?” There was no reply from the abashed group and he continued softly, I

come more often than you think.”

Still there was no reply. “Sometimes I am amused . . .“ he hesitated and we felt him look

round the circle, “but there has been an atmosphere recently which has caused me a certain

amount of dis—I was going to say displeasure, but I realise I have no right to be displeased

with anyone . . . er . . . but I do feel upset.” He was obviously distressed at having to speak in

this fashion and his voice wavered.

“You all like to think that you are on the same level of development, but I would put it to you

clearly that this—is—not—so! Some of you are lagging behind, some of you are not such old

souls, while some who are, show signs of becoming a little imperious. I talk to you like this

because of today’s childish Incident . . .“ Words failed him! “Yet, you are adults and should

know better! You know, people are always saying, ‘Oh! The state of the world!’ But it is not

only the politicians who create the state of the world, it is the people!

“You are, what Christ used to refer to as the shepherds, and unless you are good shepherds

you cannot do your work properly. It is by your desire for service that you will save the lost

sheep. You will gather them in and then, when you are able by your very example to justify it,

then, shall you find the place ‘where you can rest your head.” Again his voice trembled with

emotion and a severity that does not come easily to Rudy, and he spoke the next few words

slowly and sadly. “Do—not—ask—me yet awhile to bring about that which we all long to

have, until you yourselves (not through financial help) make it possible. Believe me, when

you are ready it will come, that Sanctuary of the Spirit, created through living thoughts of love

and friendship. The whole atmosphere must be of God, and if it is not, then it is useless! I so

desperately want you to be true to what you have been taught,” he said pleadingly. “To be

true to the love that flows from This Side so abundantly.

Be true to each other in simplicity. Yours is a great responsibility, but yet you are highly

honoured and I want you to realise how important it is to us that at all times you should

reflect the love, the beauty and the power of Spirit, for you are our mirrors. If any of you

consider you are the weak link in the chain, strengthen yourself! Because this weakness can

hold us back. I must go now, but I leave you with my love. Don’t think I have been unjust or

unkind, for surely we now know each other well enough to be able to speak truly, as

brothers, in kindness and understanding. In a few months you will see the beginning of our

work in a greater sense. I must go. Good-bye.”

Tactfully Leslie waited a few minutes before putting on the light. He seemed as shaken as

we were and he hastened to console us, yet at the same time he stood by everything that

Rudy had said by saying that it was a fair and just criticism, and of course we agreed. No

one resented the reprimand. After all we were giving ourselves in service, and were being

accepted by a soul who had proved himself a loving and patient teacher, and therefore has

the right to reprimand his pupils if need be. It was this that shocked us. We had not realised

we were slipping, but later after due reflection we admitted he was right on every point.

Leslie explained gently that many people go to him, for various reasons. They get comfort,

material or spiritual help according to their needs, but few are expected to aspire to the level

which had been set us.

“Obviously there’s a good reason for it, Lynn,” he said. “Rudy evidently expects you all to be

a reflection of himself, as he is now, and he must know what he is asking of you. I’ve had

many similar things said to me over the years, and naturally I try—but I don’t always

succeed. If I could constantly aspire to a higher level my mediumship would be superb! So

don’t upset yourselves, for if you think about it logically, it is a great compliment that They

should be so concerned about you all.”

It was not until almost a year later that another part of the plan was made clear when Charles

was discussing the circle. He told us that we were being used collectively for a new

technique and the voice box was not being built around one medium but with the combined

powers of all four. It had already been constructed and held for over an hour but was not yet

stable enough to use. To assist the experiment it was agreed to have a small table in the

centre of the circle on which to place a microphone connected to an amplifier and loudspeaker.

A camera with a Sensitive film was also added in the hope that some image of the

build-up of power might be photographed.

Rudy asked me about the book and expressed the wish to have a series of sittings with me

as there were one or two things he wanted to make clear in regard to the Borgia incarnation.

He enquired if I had ever had a vision of him on a white charger during that period. But I had

no recollection of this, and he advised me not to build up a feeling of resentment towards that

particular era, because if I were more receptive it would make it easier for him to discuss it.

Finally he added, “I wish I could do more for you to help you with that one thing you need . . .

that is for us to break through audibly! And don’t give up hope about our Sanctuary, you

know it is always so difficult for us to estimate Time.”

“Did you expect it to have come our way before this, Rudy?” I asked tentatively.

I did,” he said warmly. “I anticipated it long before this, but I have not become discouraged. If

a thing is put back for a while there is a good reason, one even I may not know about, but it

will come! Please believe me, it will come.”

The special direct voice sittings I was to have with Leslie began on April 5th, 1963, and

naturally I was extremely thrilled. We had been sitting for half an hour when I noticed that a

strong light was shining through the blue velvet curtain over the door recess leading into the

lounge. I could see Leslie’s outline and he seemed to be in trance. I waited a little longer and

then decided to rouse him because the light had now spread across the floor and around my

feet. It was impossible for any communication to take place. I called him quietly, “Leslie, I’m

sorry but it’s no use sitting any longer,”

“Eh?” he mumbled. “What did you say?”

“It’s no use, they can’t get through because of the light. The lounge door has swung open!”

He roused and leaned forward in his chair. “The lounge door? That’s impossible! What’s that

light, Lynn?”

“It’s sunlight. The door must have swung open, and the light is coming through the curtain.”

“That’s not sunlight, Lynn, that’s psychic! I’ve not seen that in twenty years!” he exclaimed. It

seemed as if a cloud had passed over the “sun” and the light faded. I got up to investigate.

The door was locked on the inside and only a thin pencil of light came under the bottom

edge.

The next time I had a private sitting I checked the door and windows myself, and apart from

the small chink along the bottom of the door the room was blacked-out. Ten minutes later it

was bathed in silvery light and I was able to take a photograph, not a very good one but

enough to show the rays of light penetrating the folds of the velvet curtain, but this time

through the misty haze came Rudy’s voice. “Linetta, look! Watch the light. As I speak it

fluctuates. I couldn’t get through last time. Don’t ask me what it is; we don’t know! It’s most

puzzling. There’s quite a crowd of scientists here trying to make out what it is that builds up

when you two sit together. It’s a unique power, and others being present on your side seem

to impede it. Watch a moment, both of you, I want you to be quite sure. If I continue to speak

it gets fainter but it would build up again if I were to remain silent.” He paused while we

watched the light glow, then fade as he began to discuss the subject in hand.

It was during these afternoon sittings that I was given a further intimation of our work which,

through the book, was to illustrate the fact of reincarnation as applied to us. The period of the

Renaissance not only afforded the example already referred to, but in Rudy’s Life experience

was of particular interest, as it demonstrated a case of immediate return.

The life of the young Alfonso di Bisceglie was in constant danger through political intrigue,

and opportunities to evolve in the desired manner were thwarted by overpowering

circumstances. Therefore, another aspect of the same Higher Self sought entrance into

material life, and within three months of Alfonso’s brutal murder a long-awaited son was born

to a devoted couple in Florence. They called him Benvenuto (which means “Welcome”)—

Benvenuto Cellini (1500-70).

When John read Cellini’s autobiography he was enthralled by this swashbuckling, reckless,

magnificent artist who in his opinion conformed more to “Rudy” than did the gentle, peaceloving

Alfonso. It was revealed later that John had served his apprenticeship as a silversmith

under Cellini. Personally, I prefer the more recent “Rudy” manifestation that shows a

modicum of both characters, and the only thing I have in common with Benvenuto Is the

visionary revelation of the sun taking shape and form, which he describes in his

autobiography. This came to him in the dungeons of the Castel San Angelo during a time of

great privation.

Naturally I wanted to ask a thousand questions when I next sat with Leslie, but conditions

were not favourable and no one spoke. I therefore booked a sitting with Mr. Kelly a day or

two later and as soon as he had gone into trance I put my questions to Rudy, who can now

take control of this medium at once. The first question was, “When does a soul establish its

right of entry, at conception, quickening, or at birth, and by whose authority is there an

immediate choice of return after accidental death?”

I scribbled down the following answer as it was given, and it was after this particular séance

that Mr. Kelly told me he did not accept the fact of reincarnation! Without a moment’s

hesitation Rudy said, “At conception. It is then a soul takes over the right of entry into the

world. Of course there is preparation beforehand, but we will keep to the material aspect. “As

an Individualised Soul begins to operate on a higher frequency—for want of a better

expression—the faster can be the return, if that Soul so desires. Remember it has become

individualised through Life Experience, and If it is at the stage of being able consciously to

choose a position in life in order to fulfill certain artistic or scientific gifts for example, it will

have the authority …… though I don’t quite like the word! It will have the absolute right by

Natural Law to fulfill its purpose in the chosen period of time, irrespective of circumstance.

”If for example through disaster, political issues or war that portion of the Higher Self cannot

fulfill its pre-ordained purpose on Earth, as this becomes apparent another portion can seek

entry. But this does not wipe out the existence of the previous personality.”

These examples illustrate a point that may cause confusion through the phrasing that we all

use when making certain statements. It is not strictly correct while in the material body to

say, “I was So-and-so in the past.” It would be more accurate to say, “In my Life Record

there is the experience of my life as So-and- so.” But once past the stage of a last return to

Earth, and speaking from the level of the personality Plus (the complete I composed of all the

portions), then the phrase “I was So-and-so” can be used with impunity. This is borne out by

Rudy’s next remark.

“Man is divine and operates on many levels, but the real man, the true spirit of man, has

many aspects. There are occasions, often when a passing is caused by accident, when the

same portion of the Soul reincarnates, especially if the passing is in childhood and therefore

not too many earthly ties have been formed. Sometimes a return is made through the same

parents, but this is the exception and not the rule. I am no exception. You are no exception,

and our ‘personalities’ are only separate aspects of a greater Whole, and therefore we have

many facets to our character. It must be so. I know you find this difficult because you are

making use (for the first time) of different levels of your own consciousness in order to

understand me, but you feel and sense the truth of my statements.

“Perhaps this will help you. The Intellectual brain concentrates. The Intelligence grasps. But

only the Higher Self can ABSORB. Every masterpiece that has been created and expressed

in a material form has come from a higher level of thought. The Garden of Created Thought

is coloured by the Higher Self.

“I do not think our friend Claude [Mr. Kelly’s guide] will mind if I use an expression which I

know is particularly his and which is: ‘There are no climaxes in Life and no anticlimaxes, only

changing circumstances.’ Remember too, no Time element is concerned. It does not matter

at all at some stages how long or how short a time elapses before another entry is made.

“We do not lose our Individuality on the Higher levels although we all work as one Mind.

Liken it to a business house. The executives, directors and managers have the work in hand

and their wishes are made known to others in less important positions. So on down through

the various departments the same subject receives attention, until it comes to the last point

of contact with the firm, and goes out to its destination. Each and every person dealing with

that particular order works with one mind and one purpose, but after the day is over and

each member of the staff leaves for his home he does so as a complete individual. So it is

with us.

We work as a Group and by that Group we are often set a task. That task will be completed

one way or another through various personalities operated by the Individuals of that Group.

Eventually the Group and the Individuals concerned evolve to a purely Spiritual State of

Consciouness, and operate on a Universal level.”

There was another incarnation referred to during my private sittings with Leslie, and it was in

complete contrast to the environment of the later one where several of us belonging to the

same Group Soul had carried the burden of wealth and power. Clairvoyantly I had often seen

ancient Judea and my feelings in the olive groves near Castellaneta had increased the

conviction that there had been a link with these times. When I questioned Rudy his voice

became “drowsy” as he concentrated on the past and looked down the distant corridors of

Time.

“At the time of which you speak we were just ordinary humble Jews. We were very

impressed with the teachings of the Christ but, like so many others, we did not put them into

practice. But we lived at the time of the Nazarene . . . our family was interested but we still

remained orthodox and kept to our own ‘church.’ We listened to the Nazarene but we did not

accept Him fully …. you realise there was great pressure. . . it’s difficult to explain today. In

those days the regulations existing for poor people . . . it was dangerous to take part in

something that was against all known religions. He was an outcast, and we were too afraid to

come out into the open like some did . . . we were very afraid.”

“I can understand that. One has to be cautious even today!”

“My name was Josephus and yours was Miriam,” Rudy continued, “they were common

names and we were just peasants working on the land. . . brother and sister.”

“We’ve been that before,” I said.

“Yes, several times.” His voice resumed in a more vital tone and the conversation continued

in another vein. I have found it advisable not to insist for too long on distant recollections,

because the strain of using the voice box and concentrating on questions such as these is

apt to cause confusion.

So the illustration of our past lives came to an end since Rudy considers the examples given

are sufficient for the moment. I will mention again that it is essential to have Life Experience

of both sexes, although it seems one sex predominates for several incarnations, and one

wonders if the change-over presents something of a hazard? But for the purpose of my

development I have been shown myself in ways that made recognition possible. At the

present time I feel it would be beyond my psychic sensitivity to become aware of a

personality of mine in a masculine form, though people with a natural gift of long-memory

seem to have no difficulty in recognising themselves. Naturally, Leslie, Gwen and our circle

members know something of their past lives too, but it is not necessary for me to reveal

personal facts about other people and their incarnations.

The “summer” weather of 1963 gave little compensation for the severity of the winter and we

did not feel inclined to venture tar away for our holidays, so we went to Brighton where I lived

during my schooldays. We had not been in the town nine hours when we took shelter from

the cold and rain in a cosy bar, to which we were led (by our unseen escort we discovered

later!) and placed judiciously in a position where we could not avoid overhearing a

conversation between two people about some tape recordings of Leslie Flint’s séances.

After appropriate hesitation we threw courtesy to the winds and “gate-crashed” the

discussion, with the result that later we were introduced to two well-known researchers who

devote their lives to Spiritual service. They have a library of over two hundred direct voice

tapes through Leslie Flint, and we had the pleasure of hearing some of the recordings when

we were invited to their home one evening.

Among their collection are many famous personalities from the literary, scientific and

theatrical worlds, also several Church dignitaries as well as religious and political world

leaders. Since we returned from our holiday our Brighton friends have given two interviews

and played certain recordings on the Southern Television Circuit which have aroused great

public interest, and shortly they hope to publish a selection of transcriptions from their

impressive library.

At our next sitting with Leslie ten days later a very jubilant Rudy told us that he had

“arranged” the whole affair as he was anxious that we should meet these friends. He

commented that it had not been too difficult to bring about as all the people concerned were

spiritually aware. During this same séance he expressed a warm interest in Barbara’s

forthcoming marriage and said he was speaking for all the Group, many of whom would be

present at the ceremony.

The wedding took place in August and was attended by only close relatives and friends, but

the unseen illustrious “family” was there in force. After the reception was over and before the

bride and groom set off on their honeymoon, they made history in Leslie’s career by

arranging a sitting with him. Charles was the spokesman in the early part and he said how

deeply touched they all were that the newly-weds wanted to share their special day with

them. Rudy was particularly tender, and we consider it a privilege to have been allowed to

hear the lovely recording that was made. When things hit a rough patch, as they must at

times, the playing of this tape will surely act like oil on troubled waters.

Jean and Stanley now had more time at their disposal and were able to help us with

transcribing the tapes, and because my correspondence grew as more and more people

became interested, composed the first news-letter called the “Kelvin News” which they

helped to duplicate. The blue motif of the Sanctuary of the Ascending Star heads the sheet,

and at Christmas we emboss the star with silver, as these colours were chosen for the

Sanctuary by Rudy. This sign is beginning to be known and the circulation of the news-sheet

is growing, and although we have not got the place yet, Rudy is overjoyed at the evidence of

our faith in starting the work under difficulties. At least we now have the satisfaction of

knowing that Kelvin Lodge is not being deliberately withheld because of our unworthiness to

receive help, and as encouragement we are often shown a white rose as our circle closes;

this is a symbol of Divine Love. Recently when addressing the circle Rudy said, “I think you

are marvelous. I wouldn’t have had one-tenth of your patience. I’d have picked up the

trumpet . . . remember we would have used one in my day, and I’d have...well...I wouldn’t

have had the patience to sit it out! I think you are remarkable people.” Then on second

thoughts he added warmly, “But if you weren’t remarkable people I wouldn’t have chosen

you in the first place! No one else would have the patience with me that you have.”

January 1965 saw our 435th sitting at home, and thinking back over the eight and half years

of progress, we can only marvel at the changes that have taken place already within

ourselves, and we look forward to the future with the hope and faith that our patience and

perseverance will soon bring the results that we long to achieve.

If in the reading of the book you have felt something of the wonder of this comprehensive

love, then we have truly laid the foundation of our Sanctuary, and at least you will know that

your own loved ones, like ours and the Great Souls of the past, are “just a thought away”

from you. But the real value of the book can be assessed only when compared with other

avenues of inspiration, of which there are thousands, and the more comparisons there are,

the more obvious it should be that it is not unique in content, although it may seem more

vivid on account of the communicator being such a recent glamourised personality. The fact

remains, however, that if the guidance and teachings had come from another Spirit person

on the same level of experience as Rudy, to any other group of mortals, the message within

this book would remain exactly as it is, apart from the difference in names and location of the

people concerned, both in this day and age and in the past.

We hope that between us we have offered a glimpse during the period of our probation of the

conditions which must be attained in order to communicate with the Great White Brotherhood

that longs to draw ever nearer to the Earth in her time of danger, and of the Wisdom that

provides mediums on both sides of the veil which makes possible the Spiritual breakthrough.

Above all we hope that we have shown a practical example of the Divine Will that provides

endless opportunity for progression in the Universal Plan of...

The petals of a flower are each a separate life.

Contemplate upon this thought and it will quell the strife

That causes constant turmoil in the mind that seeks solution

To this ever present puzzle of human evolution.

Ever anchored to the centre is each and every section

Leisurely unfolding that it may reach perfection.

Not until each separate petal is ready to unfold

Can emblazon forth the blossom, a glory to behold,

Though complete in all experience, still finds there’s more advancement

To be found before it’s worthy to grace the Gardens of Enchantment;

When the bloom is ripe for plucking, it is then perhaps, who knows,

That we shall find twin hearts encircled deep within the single rose?