The Diary of a Drug Fiend. Aleister Crowley
this time the waiter had approached. " Sorry, sir," he said to Owen, who had ordered a '65 brandy.
It appeared that it was now eight hours forty-three minutes thirteen and three-fifth seconds past noon. I don't know what the law is; nobody in England knows what the law is-not even the fools that make the laws. We are not under the laws and do not enjoy the liberties which our fathers bequeathed us; we are under a complex and fantastic system of police administration nearly as pernicious as anything even in America.
" Don't apologise," said Lamus to the waiter in a tone of icy detachment. " This is the freedom we fought for."
I was entirely on the side of the speaker. I hadn't wanted a drink all evening, but now I was told I couldn't have one, I wanted to raid their damn cellars and fight the Metropolitan Police and go up in my 'plane and drop a few bombs on the silly old House of Commons. And yet I was in no sort of sympathy with the man. The contempt of his tone irritated me. He was in-human, somehow; that was what antagonised me.
He turned to Owen. " Better come round to my studio," he drawled; I have a machine gun trained on Scotland Yard." Owen rose with alacrity.
" I shall be delighted to see any of you others," continued Lamus. " I should deplore it to the day of my death if I were the innocent means of breaking up so perfect a party."
The invitation sounded like an insult. I went red behind the ears; I could only just command myself enough to make a formal apology of some sort.
As a matter of fact, there was a very curious reaction in the whole party. The German Jew got up at oncenobody else stirred. Rage boiled in my heart. I understood instantly what had taken place. The intervention of Lamus had automatically divided the party into giants and dwarfs ; and I was one of the dwarfs.
During the dinner, Mrs. Webster, the German woman, had spoken hardly at all. But as soon as the three men had turned their backs, she remarked acidly:
" I don't think we're dependent for our drinks on Mr. King Lamus. Let's go round to the Smoking Dog."
Everybody agreed with alacrity. The suggestion seemed to have relieved the unspoken tension.
We found ourselves in taxis, which for some in-scrutable reason are still allowed to ply practically unchecked in the streets of London. While eating and breathing and going about are permitted, we shall never be a really righteous race !
Chapter II.
Over the Top!
It was only about a quarter of an hour before we reached " The Dog " ; but the time passed heavily. I had been annexed by the white maggot. Her presence made me feel as if I were already a corpse. It was the limit.
But I think the ordeal served to bring up in my mind some inkling of the true nature of my feeling for Lou.
The Smoking Dog, now ingloriously extinct, was a night club decorated by a horrible little cad who spent his life pushing himself into art and literature. The dancing room was a ridiculous, meaningless, gaudy, bad imitation of Klimmt.
Damn it all, I may not be a great flyer, but I am a fresh-air man. I detest these near-artists with their poses and their humbug and their swank. I hate shams.
I found myself in a state of furious impatience before five minutes had passed. Mrs. Webster and Lou had not arrived. Ten minutes-twenty-I fell into a blind rage, drank heavily of the vile liquor with which the place was stinking, and flung myself with I don't know what woman into the dance.
A shrill-voiced Danish siren, the proprietress, was screaming abuse at one of her professional entertainers -some long, sordid, silly story of sexual jealousy, I suppose. The band was deafening. The fine edge of my sense was dulled. It was in a sort of hot nightmare that I saw, through the smoke and the stink of the club, the evil smile of Mrs. Webster.
Small as the woman was, she seemed to fill the doorway. She preoccupied the attention in the same way as a snake would have done. She saw me at once, and ran almost into my arms excitedly. She whispered something in my ear. I didn't hear it.
The club had suddenly been, so to speak, struck dumb. Lou was coming through the door. Over her shoulders was an opera cloak of deep rich purple edged with gold, the garment of an empress, or (shall I say ?) of a priestess.
The whole place stopped still to look at her. And I had thought she was not beautiful !
She did not walk upon the ground. " Vera incessu paluit dea," as we used to say at school. And as she paced she chanted from that magnificent litany of Captain J. F. C. Fuller, " Oh Thou golden sheaf of desires, that art bound by a fair wisp of poppies adore thee, Evoe ! I adore thee, I A O ! "
She sang full-throated, with a male quality in her voice. Her beauty was so radiant that my mind ran to the breaking of dawn after a long night flight.
" In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look ! the land is bright ! "
As if in answer to my thought, her voice rolled forth again :
" O Thou golden wine of the sun, that art poured over the dark breasts of night ! I adore Thee, Evoe ! I adore Thee, I A O ! "
The first part of the adoration was in a sort of Gregorian chant varying with the cadence of the words. But the chorus always came back to the same thing.
EE-AH-OH gives the enunciation of the last word. Every vowel is drawn out as long as possible. It seemed as if she were trying to get the last cubic millimetre of air out of her lungs every time she sang it.
"O Thou crimson vinta-e of life, that art poured into the jar of the grave ! I adore Thee, Evoe ! I adore Thee, I A O! "
Lou reached the table, with its dirty, crazy cloth, at which we were sitting. She looked straight into my eyes, though I am sure she did not see me.
" O Thou red cobra of desire, that art unhooded by the hands of girls ! I adore Thee, Evoe ! I adore Thee, I A O ! "
She went back from us like a purple storm-cloud, sun-crested, torn from the breasts of the morning by some invisible lightning.
" O Thou burning sword of passion, that art torn on the anvil of flesh ! I adore Thee, Evoe I I adore Thee, I A O ! "
A wave of almost insane excitement swept through the club. It was like the breaking out of anti-aircraft guns. The band struck up a madder jazz.
The dancers raved with more tumultuous and breathless fury. Lou had advanced again to our table. We three were detached from the world. Around us rang the shrieking laughter of the crazy crowd. Lou seemed to listen. She broke out once more.
" O Thou mad whirlwind of laughter, that art meshed in the wild locks of folly ! I adore Thee, Evoe ! I adore Thee, I A O ! "
I realised with nauseating clarity that Mrs. Webster was pouring into my ears an account of the character and career of King Lamus.
" I don't know how he dares to come to England at all," she said. " He lives in a place called Telepylus, wherever that is. He's over a hundred years old, in spite of his looks. He's been everywhere, and done everything, and every step he treads is smeared with blood. He's the most evil and dangerous man in London. He's a vampire, he lives on ruined lives."
I admit I had the heartiest abhorrence for the man. But this fiercely bitter denunciation of one who was evidently a close friend of two of the world's greatest artists, did not make his case look blacker. I was not impressed, frankly, with Mrs. Webster as an authority on other people's conduct.
" O Thou Dragon-prince of the air, that art drunk on the blood of the sunsets ! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, I A O! "
A wild pang of jealousy stabbed me. It was a livid, demoniac spasm. For some