chapter 11 The Illustrious Members of the Golden Dawn
THE ILLUSTRIOUS MEMBERS OF THE GOLDEN DAWN
In the men’s dressing room, Crowley, Jones, and the other members and officers are changing back into street clothes. Crowley is tying up his floppy bow tie and trying to hide his tears. He moves close to Jones and quietly asks for a word with him.
“I am completely overwhelmed, George. For once in my life, I’m speechless.”
Jones laughs softly but says nothing.
Crowley gestures to the other members in the dressing room. “Look at them—casually pulling on their trousers, when just moments ago they were possessed by gods of Egypt. How is it done?”
Jones smiles. “You’ll learn, old man. Now hurry up. The others are waiting to congratulate you.” Jones ushers Crowley into the spacious reception room.
Their appearance draws polite applause, and most of the members crowd forward to offer Crowley their congratulations. Arm in arm, Annie Horniman and Florence Farr are the first to reach Crowley.
Farr holds out her hand. “Brother Crowley, let me be the first to offer my congratulations. I am—”
Crowley doesn’t let her finish. “You hardly need an introduction, madame.” He kisses her hand. “All London, indeed, all the world is in love with the incomparable Florence Farr. I fell in love with your Rebecca in Ibsen’s Rosmersholm. I haunted the Avenue Theatre three nights running.”
Farr seems mildly flattered. “So kind of you, Brother Crowley. May I introduce you to Miss Annie Horniman?”
Horniman offers her hand. Crowley, still reeling from the memory of Horniman in her ceremonial role as the breathtakingly radiant hierophant of his initiation, takes her hand as if it were the most fragile object in the universe.
“Honored Miss Horniman.” Crowley is, for a moment, struck dumb with awe, and searches is brain for something else to say. “Your family is in tea, is it not?”
“Her family is tea, Brother Crowley!” Florence Farr interjects with delight. “And there’s no more dedicated and generous champion of magic to be found on earth.”
Bram Stoker walks by, not intending to stop to congratulate Crowley. Horniman, however, snags him and draws him face to face with Crowley and makes the introduction.
“Brother Bram Stoker, you must meet our newest member, Mr. Aleister Crowley. He’s a writer, too, we understand.”
Stoker looks very uncomfortable. His detestation of Crowley is apparent. Crowley doesn’t seem to notice. He has to search for Stoker’s hand to shake.
“Not the Bram Stoker who wrote Dracula?
“One and the same,” Horniman chimes in with pride. “And soon to be theatrical producer, aren’t you Abraham?”
Crowley pumps Stoker’s hand. “I enjoyed Dracula so very much. Most terrifying. I loved your use of multiple diaries.”
Stoker is at a loss for words.
Crowley doesn’t seem to know when to stop.
“Great fun! Of course, we know that real vampires are rather pathetic creatures and not at all afraid of the light. I’ve encountered several.
I’d be happy to share my journals if you’d care to have a look.
” Crowley is truly not conscious that his words are insulting Stoker, who finally finds his voice.
“Mr. Crowley, I must speak frankly. I don’t believe you are the kind of—”
Stoker is interrupted by Yeats and Maude Gonne, who appear from the left. Stoker seizes the opportunity to withdraw himself from Crowley’s presence.
Gonne offers her hand. “Welcome to the world of magic, Brother Crowley.”
Jones, who along with nearly every other man in the room is in love with Gonne, rushes to introduce her to Crowley. “Miss Maude Gonne, may I formally introduce you to my good friend, and our newest Brother, Mr. Aleister Crowley.”
Gonne releases Crowley’s hand and squeezes Yeats’s arm affectionately. “We understand you are a poet, Brother Crowley. I’m sure you are familiar with the verses of our Brother William Butler Yeats?”
“Indeed I am. An honor, sir.”
Gonne looks at Yeats and gushes, “We plan to free Ireland with his songs.”
“How very nice,” Crowley responds. “I wish you the best of luck with that. I’m afraid my poems are only an attempt to free myself.”
Curiously insulted, Yeats and Gonne remain smiling and politely start to take their leave. Yeats parts with a bit of advice. “Magic needs more poets. Study hard, Brother Crowley.”
“I shall, Brother Yeats.”
When the congratulations are over, Crowley pulls Jones aside and asks, “How do they do it?”
“Do what, old man?”
“How can they veil their glory so completely when not in temple?”
On the other side of the reception room, Allan Bennett leans lightly on his walking stick and eyes Crowley and Jones. He coughs into a white handkerchief but continues to stare. Crowley sees this and shudders.
“Now there’s someone who cannot veil his glory. I saw him for a moment in temple. He frightens me.” To Crowley’s horror, Bennett walks directly toward them. “Oh dear god! He’s coming.”
When he arrives, Jones attempts to make the introductions. “Mr. Allan Bennett, may I introduce our newest neophyte, Mr. Aleist—”
“Take off your coat!” Bennett demands.
“What?”
“Your coat! Your coat! Take it off.”
Confused, Crowley removes his jacket.
Bennett places his hands on Crowley’s back and feels the scourge welts through his shirt. “Little brother, you’ve been dabbling in black magic, have you not?”
Crowley quickly puts his coat back on. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir.”
Bennett slaps Crowley on the back making him wince in pain. “In that case, little brother, black magic has been dabbling with you!”
Jones attempts to lighten the moment. “Aleister, I hope I won’t embarrass Allan when I tell you that he and Mathers are the greatest magicians of our time.
Since Mathers moved to Paris, Allan’s the highest initiate we have.
A true adept! Why, I once saw Allan take that blasting rod of his and . . .”
Bennett glowers at Jones. Jones stops his chattering and suddenly searches his coat pockets.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” Jones hands Crowley an envelope. “Your magical homework, old man. Study it well; there’ll be a test.”
Crowley opens the envelope and sees the Hebrew alphabet and some planet and zodiac symbols. He looks confused and a little angry. “What’s this? Are these the magic secrets I just swore a blood oath never to reveal?”
Bennett snatches the papers from Crowley. “Magic is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with will, little brother.” He slaps the papers back into Crowley’s hand. “Will you be able to make magic with just your will and the Hebrew alphabet?”
Others in the room notice the attention Bennett is giving Crowley. Several stop their conversations and stare. Bennett becomes self-conscious and tempers his attitude. He puts his hand on Jones’s shoulder.
“Brother Jones, why don’t you and our new member come round to my flat Wednesday morning at ten. We’ll give our brother a proper magical orientation.”
There is an obvious but silent reaction among the other members. Jones is surprised and stammers with gratitude.
“Yes! Would be an honor. Thank you, Allan. Yes, of course. We’ll be delighted.”
Bennett again slaps Crowley’s back then turns to exit. As he does, he casually twirls his walking stick like a baton. Members nearest him scramble to avoid the stick being pointed at them. Others look on in disbelief and talk amongst themselves. Bram Stoker is especially incensed.
Crowley notices and asks Jones, “What’s going on?”
“I believe they’re jealous, old man. Bennett’s never invited anyone to his home . . . no one but Mathers. I hardly believe it myself. He’s taken an interest in you.”
As Bennett reaches the door, he quickly tucks his stick under his arm. It appears to be pointing directly at Bram Stoker, who is standing near a window holding a saucer and a cup of tea. The window shatters, sending Stoker and a handful of others scurrying like mice.