The Greatest Works of Aleister Crowley. Aleister Crowley
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 reason or other I had connected this verse of Lou's mysterious chant with the personality of King Lamus.
Gretel Webster understood. She insinuated another dose of venom.
" Oh yes, Mr. Basil King Lamus is quite the ladies' man. He fascinates them with a thousand different tricks. Lou is dreadfully in love with him."
Once again the woman had made a mistake. I resented her reference to Lou. I don't remember what I answered. Part of it was to the effect that Lou didn't seem to have been very much injured. Mrs. Webster smiled her subtlest smile.
" I quite agree," she said silkily, " Lou is the most beautiful woman in London to-night."
" O Thou fragrance of sweet flowers, that art wafted over blue fields of air! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, I A O! "
The state of the girl was extraordinary, It was as if she possessed two personalities in their fullest possibilities-the divine and the human. She was intensely conscious of all that was going on around her, absolute mistress of herself and of her environment ; yet at the same time she was lost in some unearthly form of rapture of a kind which, while essentially unintelligible to me, reminded me of certain strange and fragmentary experiences that I had had while flying.
I suppose every one has read The Psychology of Flying by L. de Giberne Sieveking. All I need do is to remind you of what he says :
" All types of men who fly are conscious of this very obscure, subtle difference that it has wrought in them. Very few know exactly what it is. Hardly any of them can express what they feel. And none of them would admit it if they could.... One realises without any formation into words how that one is oneself, and that each one is entirely separate and can never enter into the recesses of another, which are his foundation of individual life."
One feels oneself out of all relation with things, even the most essential. And yet one is aware at the same time that everything of which one has ever been aware is a picture invented by one's own mind. The Universe is the looking-glass of the soul.
In that state one understands all sorts of nonsense.
" O Thou foursquare Crown of Nothing, that circlest the destruction of Worlds ! I adore Thee, Evoe ! I adore Thee, I A O ! "
I flushed with rage, understanding enough to know what Lou must be feeling as she rolled forth those passionate, senseless words from her volcanic mouth. Gretel's suggestion trickled into my brain.
" This beastly alcohol brutalises men. Why is Lou so superb ? She has breathed the pure snow of Heaven into her nostrils."
" O Thou snow-white chalice of Love, that art filled up with the red lusts of man! I adore Thee, Evoe ! I adore Thee, I A O ! "
I tingled and shivered as she sang; and then something, I hardly know what, made me turn and look into the face of Gretel Webster. She was sitting at my right ; her left hand was beneath the table, and she was looking at it. I followed her glance.
In the little quadrilateral of the veins whose lower apex is between the first and middle fingers, was a tiny heap of sparkling dust.