chapter 6 We’re All in the Gutter, but Some of Us Are Looking at the Stars
WE’RE ALL IN THE GUTTER, BUT SOME OF US ARE LOOKING AT THE STARS
A tarnished brass plaque about the size of a book cover is bolted over the genitals of the otherwise magnificently sculpted angel adorning the tomb of Oscar Wilde.
A burly French laborer is in the process of chiseling through the bolts to remove it.
A clean-shaven young Aleister Crowley (wearing an overly ostentatious black cape) stands behind the workman. It is late at night, and the two are alone in the cemetery.
Crowley quietly reads aloud the tomb’s inscription.
And alien tears will fill for him,
Pity’s long broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.
The laborer obviously doesn’t understand a word of English. Crowley doesn’t care.
“Here lies Oscar Wilde, mon amie. Until I came along, he was the English language’s greatest wit.”
The man looks back and grunts, then returns to his work. As the “chink-chink” of the chisel continues, Crowley begins to talk to the tomb.
“Toast of the literary universe; crushed like a jeweled insect for loving the love that dare not speak its name. Even the moral guardians of Paris believed they needed to cover the shame of the world.” With the last few chinks, the plaque falls free, revealing the angel’s stone penis and testes.
The laborer hands the plaque to Crowley who smiles and gives him a few coins. The man runs away into the night.
Crowley gazes at the offending plaque, and then gazes up at the face of the angel. “Oh yes, divine Oscar. We are all of us in the gutter . . . but some of us are indeed looking at the stars.”
He turns the piece of metal over in his hands and smiles. “I know just the person I’m going to surprise with this trophy.”
A large, highly polished brass plaque is set in stone near the entrance of a posh restaurant on Regent Street, Piccadilly. It reads simply: Hotel Café Royal est. 1865.
It is early evening, and people stroll in front of the café. Carriages collect and drop their fares; pedestrians window-shop.
Inside, the café is warmly lit. Patrons are in evening attire (ladies in gowns, gentlemen in dinner jackets).
Seated at a prominent table are Jacob Epstein and a male dining companion. Both are smartly dressed and seem to be enjoying an after-dinner cognac. Epstein’s companion is a bit indignant, however.
“My god, Jacob! They can’t do that to you. And in Paris of all places! It’s an outrage! An insult! To do that to you! You! Perhaps the most celebrated sculptor in Europe.”
“They didn’t do it to me.” Epstein laughs.
“They did it to my angel on Oscar Wilde’s tomb.
A committee of some sort deemed angelic genitals too indecent to be displayed within sight of Voltaire, Balzac, and Chopin.
Constance, his widow, wired me. She is outraged and heartbroken, but what can we do? I’ve already been paid.”
The two are interrupted by a commotion taking place near the entrance of the café.
Every head turns to see Aleister Crowley sweep into the room.
He is wrapped in a hooded cape of deep purple.
It flows dramatically behind him as he whisks around tables and stops at Epstein’s.
His eyes flash with mischievous excitement.
The dining room falls silent, as all eyes turn to Crowley. He obviously loves the attention.
“Mr. Epstein, forgive the intrusion, but I have just returned from Paris with a special gift for you.” Crowley parts his cape to reveal that he is completely naked except for his shoes, stockings (with suspenders), and the angel’s brass plaque tied round his waist by a broad red ribbon.
It dangles strategically over his own genitals exactly as it once did on Epstein’s angel.
Epstein is at first mortified, but when he looks closely and reads the plaque, he understands. He breaks into a delighted smile. Joining in the fun, he pulls the bow of the ribbon, releases the plaque, and catches it.
Crowley keeps his cape spread open for what seems an uncomfortably long time. Epstein leans back in his chair and displays an amused nod of appreciation.
“Why . . . thank you very much, my good man. Thank you very much indeed.” He glances quickly again at Crowley’s nakedness, then warmly adds, “You will, of course, forgive me if I don’t offer my hand.”
Crowley dramatically closes his cape, whirls around, then swiftly exits toward the back of the dining room—his cape flowing behind him. Everyone in the room begins to talk at once.
“My god! Jacob, who the devil . . . ?”
Epstein turns and smiles broadly at his dinner companion, who is still gobsmacked. “Who the devil, indeed. That’s my friend Aleister Crowley. Quite the free spirit; a fair poet and, I might add, an accomplished mountaineer as well.”
Epstein looks at the plaque and smiles. “He also seriously fancies himself something of a black magician. I believe he thought he was being invisible again.”