chapter 14 Benefit Ball at the Savoy
BENEFIT BALL AT THE SAVOY
Bennett, Jones, and Crowley spend the late afternoon examining Crowley’s flat and making arrangements for Bennett’s move. When Jones and Bennett finally leave, Crowley has a chance to write in his diary.
“What wonders I have seen this day. An initiate for less than a week, and my adept master has appeared, descending from the clouds like the dove of the holy spirit.”
Overcome by a renewed sense of dedication to the Great Work, he rises from his desk and moves to face the large mirror near the coat rack. He solemnly puts his hand on the reflection of his chest over his heart and closes his eyes.
“I, Aleister Crowley, swear this oath before the gods of magic that I shall cleanse myself, body, mind, and spirit; that I shall not poison my temple with strong drink and will yearn only for the wine of the Holy Spirit. I solemnly promise and swear that I shall be as chaste as a monk until I lie rapturously united in the embrace of mine own Holy Guardian Angel. I furthermore swear before all the gods of magick that I will—”
He is interrupted by a knock at the door. He opens the door and is greeted by the sight of Mrs. Horatio, dressed in a magnificent black-and-white gown, a fur stole, and yet another unforgettable hat.
A large cigar protrudes from the center of her mouth. She holds a magnum of champagne in each hand. She is drunk.
“Put on white tie, darling.” She extrudes her words around the cigar. “I’ve been invited to a ball.”
Crowley doesn’t ask her in. She enters just same.
“What ball? Who invited you? Why must I come?”
She sets the bottles down on the desk (one of them upon Crowley’s diary). She takes the cigar out of her mouth and coughs out a huge plume of smoke.
“Oh, I’ve forgotten who. It could be any one of a dozen of mummy’s Irish chums. Darling, please, I really must attend, or who knows who I’ll be snubbing. The coachman has the address. Now be a dear and get pretty for me.”
Crowley seems mildly amused. “Do you really think you’re in any shape for a ball?”
“Are you complaining about my shape?” She lifts her breasts to realign with her dress. She then presses her body against his and ruffles his hair with her hands.
“Please, my poet. I really can’t go unescorted, now can I? Be my gentleman. You wear such nice clothes . . . especially when you’re not wearing mine.”
“Milo? It looks like you’re enjoying this.”
“Yes, Sir Francis. I think I’m following this okay. But I’m really unclear where this all is taking us.”
“At this point, you’re not supposed to know where it’s going. You just need to know where we are! And right now, we are going to shift our attention back and forth between several locations.”
“Cuts!”
“Yes, Milo. Quite a few ‘cuts’ coming up. First, we’re going to see what’s going on at that ball Mrs. H. is dragging Crowley off to. So, let’s just pretend we hear the music of an orchestra playing a beautiful waltz, as we see a sign posted in front of the glittering Savoy Hotel. It reads:”
Artist’s Ball—For the Benefit of
The National Theatre of Ireland
Recitations by Miss Florence Farr, Miss Maude Gonne she is wearing Crowley’s jacket and Dinky’s top hat and trousers.
Dinky, his bare legs exposed, has Mrs. H.
’s fur stole wrapped around his waist and what appears to be her garter around his neck.
The doorman tries to prevent them from entering, but their drunken staggering eludes his efforts. They barge through the ballroom doors just as the music builds to a climax.
Maude Gonne is still spinning and crashing into couples right and left. Everyone is pointing and laughing. Finally, she spins solidly into Crowley and falls to the floor. On her way down, she clutches the waistband of his trousers and pulls them down around his knees.
As the music stops, Yeats and Farr, Stoker and Annie finally release one another. Stoker catches sight of Crowley and friends. This is the perfect end to his nightmare.
“Crowley!” he shouts at the top of his lungs.
The others turn to see.
“My goodness!” is all that Annie Horniman can say.
The ballroom is completely silent. Every eye is fixed upon Crowley, Mrs. H., and Dinky. After only a moment of this intense and awkward silence, Mrs. H. vomits violently into Dinky’s top hat.
Dinky clears his throat. “Evening all. Do carry on.”
Back in Mathers’s hotel room, Moina stands behind her husband. She puts her hands on his shoulders. “I hope you damned them to hell.”