become my full-time pursuit over several years, as I read the professor’s academic books and plays; perused Lucy’s diaries; read through their copious correspondence located in Pusey Library in Harvard University, and the British Library in London; strolled through the district of Noroton, in Stamford, Connecticut, where Kingsley was reared; visited their mansion, Elmwood, in Cambridge, Massachusetts; said a silent prayer for all the Porters and Hoyts who were finally at rest beneath my feet in Woodland Cemetery, Connecticut; walked the last known route that Kingsley Porter trod on Inishbofin island, before his sudden disappearance.
2. Lucy and A.K. Porter at Elmwood, photograph, c. 1920.
Harvard University Archives, HUG 1706.125 (15).
I took the final tour that day in Glenveagh Castle. The tour guide brought us through several rooms that had been decorated by the Porters and had never been altered. The pale-gold library still contains the four paintings presented by the poet Æ (George Russell) to his friend, Kingsley. The sumptuous master bedroom is dominated by the mahogany four-poster bed that Lucy Porter brought with her to Glenveagh. Walking through the shadowy corridors I began to feel that Professor Porter wanted the truth of his life and disappearance to be finally told. And so it is that this most singular tale of a brilliant but complex man is here unravelled and transcribed. For only then can all concerned be set free.
Lucy Costigan, 12 March 2012
Chapter one
The Search: Inishbofin, Co. Donegal, 8 July 1933
Lucy Porter hurried towards the cottage.The storm was beginning to rage now, tugging at her coat, threatening to pull off her hat and scatter her grey-speckled hair to the four winds. She leaned in close to the window and anxiously peered inside, her stomach lurching as she surveyed the empty chairs still arranged around the kitchen table. Nothing stirred within. So he hadn’t had a change of heart. He hadn’t put off his plan to write outdoors and instead come back early for another cup of coffee or to share some idea that had suddenly flashed across his mind. She stood staring for several moments, then slowly turned to face the full blast of the wind. She glanced furtively up and down the beach but it was deserted.
The wind had risen considerably in the past hour since Kingsley and Owen McGee had gone out to secure the curragh. If the weather had stayed fine they’d be rowing back by now or perhaps they’d already have reached Magheraroarty. They might even have been on the road to Glenveagh, where they could have spent a leisurely afternoon doing some weeding or maybe a little reading, waiting for the arrival of their dear friend, Æ.
In the distance, the dark mass of Inishdooey momentarily caught her gaze. The sea was turning silver grey and the angry currents were whipping the waves wildly towards the shore. It was no weather to row a curragh across the sea. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down her spine and she pulled her coat tighter, crossing her arms to shield her body from the relentless wind.
3. Inishbofin Island, Co. Donegal.
Michael Cullen.
A sudden thought gripped her and she began to half-walk, half-run away from the cottage. Maybe Kingsley had passed the hut and gone towards Meenlara? Lucy was breathing hard now as she struggled to keep her footing. Boulders were strewn across the rough, uneven terrain. The makeshift path would have been easier going but crossing the hillock would ultimately save more time.
It seemed to take ages to reach Cave Arch. Lucy fretfully surveyed the craggy coastline but it was deserted. She searched in vain, desperately trying to discern the tall, stately figure of her husband amid the rocks and waves and sky.
Lucy’s heart was thumping now. Where was Kingsley? She tried to piece together the events of that morning, searching for some clue that she might have missed, just before he had left the cottage with Owen McGee. They had sat down to breakfast at 9.30. Then Owen had arrived at 10 and she had made breakfast for him. Kingsley had decided that it was too rough to cross back to Magheraroarty and that, instead, they could spend some time writing. He had chosen to stay indoors while she went for a short walk with Owen. When they returned, Kingsley told Owen he’d give him a hand securing the curragh since there was a high tide expected.
She turned her back on Meenlara. An enormous gust of wind hit her a fierce blow. The last words he’d spoken were something like:’Here are your pencil and paper if you start first.’1 She could feel the tears of panic and frustration begin to trickle from her eyes, blown sideways by the force of the wind. That parting phrase had been so mundane for a man who was brilliant with words. He hadn’t called her ‘My Bobbie’,2 or spoken of all they’d meant to each other for the past twenty-one years, through the spectacular heights of passionate love and sparkling success, to the seeping despair of lonely nights and shattered dreams. But there was no time for crying. Kingsley had to be found.
It was around 10.30 when he’d left the cottage with Owen. She had spent a short while tidying up after breakfast and by the time she’d gone out to join him it must have been 10.40. She had walked to the Head side of the island where they often went to sit and write, close to the cliffs.
As the sight of those treacherous cliffs came into clear view in her mind’s eye, a cold shudder ran through her. He was always stepping too close to the edge, seemingly oblivious to any mortal danger. His need for adventure was never far from the surface, his restless spirit demanded constant travel and exploration. Freedom! Perhaps for the first time many small pieces began to form themselves into a giant jigsaw, with Kingsley’s lifelong search to be whole, to be free, to be true to himself becoming illuminated at the core. For Kingsley had been tethered all his life. A brilliant mind shackled, even by Harvard, by dear friends, by the need to always conform. Even bound by the love of his devoted wife. But surely he wouldn’t have left the island without her?
Lucy picked up her pace again, retracing her steps to the cottage. Even some distance away she knew that the approaching figure was Owen and not Kingsley. He hadn’t seen Kingsley either. Almost dazed now, she left Owen and walked back towards Meenlara. This time she walked nearer to the caves and began to call out: ‘Kingsley! Are you there, Kingsley?’
As she called, the faces of friends and foe began to assail her: Her sister, Ruth; Kingsley’s brother, Louis; the dear smiling eyes of Æ; the shadow of a young man who was sadly lost; the stern countenance of President Lowell. A bout of anxiety assailed her and she ran, almost stumbling, back towards the cottage. Owen was still working where she’d left him.
‘Owen!’ she panted, struggling to catch her breath.’I’m uneasy about Mr Porter. Come with me at once and we’ll look for him.’Thus began their search of the island. It was almost noon by the time they’d searched the Meenlara side of the Peninsula. Lucy had gone out to Gobrinatroirk, sending Owen towards Ilannamara. She continued to search along the Tory side, marking the point she had reached with her handkerchief. The two of them criss-crossed the island, going as far as Horn Head.
Exhausted, Lucy sat down on a rock to take a minute’s rest. It was now 3 p.m. and the thunderstorm was beginning to team down in torrents. She closed her eyes and let the elements soak her. Kingsley’s handsome face materialized before her. It was a snapshot, a moment when Kingsley sat in his rowing boat, smiling, happy to be back on his beloved lake. The words he had once written to her also formed in her mind: ‘I love you more than the seven worlds or the nine heavens. I only live because of you and when I am beside you. Every moment when I am separated from you is a moment of living lost from my life. I love you.’3
All
