GENERISIS
presents THE GOLDEN DAWN
Episode
28 - MATA HARI'S DANCE of the VEILS
If
the Librarian was impressed by Mathers' rank he showed little envy, I shook the
dust of Arsenal off my clothes, consumed only coffee and cake in lieu of
dinner, so not to further cloud my senses, and arrived within the hour at the
door of the Temple Ahathoor on the Rue Mozart where my knock was answered by
Mathers' wife, Moira.
"My
name is Arthur Cameron," I introduced myself, "...I have the
documents for Papus, whom the Praemonstrator told me he would hold."
Madame
Mathers seemed to have only recently stumbled from bed, as evidenced by the
dishevelment of her hair and clothes. Perhaps this was an affect of
Bohemianism. "Oh," she remarked, "that is... nice... Zan is in
the temple, preparing incense for our Isis rites... I will tell him you're
here. I am Moira, but as my hermetic name is Vestigia Nulla Retrorsum... most
Adepts simply call me Vestigia, even Vess."
"Aren't
you the philosopher's sister?" I inquired, rather boldly. "A curious
fellow, Monsieur Jarry... short, involved with theaters, told me Bergson
inspired him at the Lycee with his discourses on "Laughter"..."
"That
one who wrote Ubu? Henri would be pleased," she remarked with evident
sarcasm, "to hear that he bears the responsibility for that! Let me call
Zan..."
Once
she had disappeared behind a beaded curtain, I took the opportunity to make the
sort of examination I had done in the Sar's gallery, inspecting the outer
offices of the Temple Ahathoor. It was a sort of curio shop of stuffed bears
and lynxes, duelling swords and Oriental vases high as a man's scalp. A coffin
rested on wheels and, bending over to inspect it, I apparently startled a young
lady in silks and chiffon enjoying a sort of nap therein.
"O
monsieur..." she started, bolting from her confinement with many flounces
and gestures.
"It's
alright," I tried to calm her, "perfectly all right... I've grown
quite used to this..."
"But...
you are not English?" the Praemonstrator's ghoul accused.
"No...
an American. Arthur Cameron, at your service. And you..."
"Margaretha
MacLeod, just a Scots girl... not very proper though," she giggled,
closing her lid of confinement behind her. She put a hand to her mouth.
"Have you been sent by Rudolph..."
"Whom?"
I asked.
"The
Captain... my husband... he's followed me from Java to kill me so I had to come
here... he's already poisoned our son. He has that disease that begins
here..." and Margaretha boldly placed a bejeweled wrist upon my groin,
stroking it through the wool, "then proceeds up to here..."
Her
hand traced a lascivious path up to my forehead which she tapped... twice...
reminding me of those rumours that the Praemonstrator supplemented his occult
earnings with those of that sort of a procurer whom Parisiens call
"lapines", even to the extent of leasing out his wife... accusations
Yeats spoke of with disgust and Crowley regarded admiringly. But here came
MacGregor Mathers himself, in whose presence I suppressed my curiosity as
Margaretha tamed her inclinations.
"Mister
Cameron... you have the Protocols, I presume? Dr. Encausse will be by after our
performance... Rita! save yourself for paying customers, Mr. Cameron's a guest.
No, don't go back into that coffin, I have an idea!"
He
seized the document, flipping the pages with a broad smile.
"Russian!
Can't make out a word of it so it ought to be just what Papus is looking for.
You've come through, Cameron... you deserve promotion! Let's say we make you
Theoricus."
"Mr.
Crowley said I might be promoted to Zelator within six weeks of my return, and
after completing all the reading..."
"Crowley
does what I tell him," the Praemonstrator interrupted, "and you,
Arthur, all you need do is lie still in this coffin and answer my questions.
Not to worry, they're all ritual, none of Aleister's tricks, and we'll rehearse
before the show."
"What
show?" I asked. "Is there to be a circle of twelve?"
"Leave
the details to me... I am Praemonstrator of the Golden Dawn which had ought to
count for something in this world, if not to Westcott. S'Rioghil est mi dhream!
By sundown you'll be... a Zelator then, next week Theoricus... and then we'll
go off to Ubu, then eat. How I love Paris!"
It
appeared Mathers, like Crowley, opened ceremonies of Temple Ahathoor to paying
spectators. Probably the Beast, whom I was more kindly disposed towards since
my Alpine rescue, had borrowed the habit from his tutor... and if he, Yeats or
another took offense at my rapid rise through the ranks, it would be something
worth sorting out in London... after I'd delivered the Protocols (and their
insertion) to Coroner Westcott.
By
and by guests started arriving and, having put to memory the phrases Mathers
gave me, I entered the coffin and the lid was closed. Reminding myself to visit
Cafe Neant before returning to London, I concentrated on that which I could
hear through wood, and gradually became aware that I was the centerpiece of a
good-natured medley of paying customers from France, the English speaking lands
and other places - eight of whom apparently paid a premium to be admitted into
the circle with Zan and Vess, MacLeod and a spirited Parisian Adept who'd
introduced himself as Jules Bois.
"Fellow
neophyte Hermeticists," the Praemonstrator's voice boomed through the thin
wood, "I begin the ritual of Zelatorship, the first grade of initiation
after one receives his occult instructions... or hers, for we are a progressive
Order."
"Ist
dis du Sundenboch?" I heard one interrupt in the heavy tones of a
Berliner, reminding me of my zoological adventure.
"He
asks if this man is to be sacrificed," Mathers translated, "...no,
unfortunately, not tonight... that is a special rite for which the admission is
ten francs. A little humor..." and the Praemonstrator paused to allow his
gallery to laugh with him.
Instead,
another in American-accented English queried "Is that lady going to take
off her clothes?"
"Wait..."
Mathers counseled, "...and watch! First, the promotion ritual... we'll all
ask the questions together, they're on the papers I've given you and if you
don't speak English, just pronounce them, syllable by syllable. Fraters et
Sorores, the Neophyte Altius Resurgre, having made such progress in the paths
of Occult Science as enables him for advancement to Zelatorship - Soror
Vestigia, bring the Neophyte his Hermetic Cross!"
Vestigia
leaned over my coffin, held an iron swastika up for the gallery to wonder at,
then laid it upon my chest.
"The
Hermetic Cross," said Mathers' wife, "also called the Fylfot, Hammer
of Thor, or Swastika, is formed of seventeen squares of the greater square of
twenty five. Frater Altius, give the Seventeen Reasons Why, the holy, secret
names of God that open paths between the Good, under Archangel Metatron, and
Evil of Archangel Samael."
"These
Seventeen," I recited as Mathers had instructed, "represent the Sun,
Four Elements and Twelve Zodiacal Signs."
"The
Company shall join in reciting three Sacred Names of God to disperse the
Qlipperoth or Evil Demons who inhabit the planet contiguous to and just below
the Material Universe... Emor! Dial! Hectega!"
"Heck!"
I heard the American cry out again, "when's that lady up there going to
take off her clothes?" What disciplinary measure Mathers took upon the
upstart I could not see from the coffin but it was short, loud and, evidently,
effective for the Praemonstrator again called out "Emor! Dial!
Hectega!"
And
this time our audience responded... "Emor! Dial! Hectega!"
Jules
Bois briefly passed above, swinging his censer so that clouds of reeking
incense burned my eyes and throat while the lamps of Temple Ahathoor were
dimmed and red candles lit for Rita's dance of the veils. And so, because I was
obliged to repose like one dead, I missed my only opportunity to observe the
dance of she who later would be better known as Mata Hari, whose wartime
indiscretion with a German officer would have a tragic result despite the
intercession of illuminists, not excluding Debussy himself. Colette, the wife
of that critic Willy, who fought with Satie the night before, later divorced
him to begin a career of her own... she concurred with Isadora Duncan that Rita
was only a mediocre dancer... my absurd position in the absurd ritual of Temple
Ahathoor prevents me from either confirming or refuting this assessment. The
response of its paying guests was positive, enthusiastic even, but I do not
know whether the Praemonstrator, like his student Crowley, was in the habit of
dulling the faculties of his clientele with potions from a Loving Cup.
Another
coincidence... if it be so... Margaretha's body was taken forthwith from the
firing squad to a Coroner for dissection by medical students and so reported
lost. Another enterprise of the League of European Coroners?
At
any rate, my eyes burned only from candlesmoke and incense when MacGregor
Mathers presented himself at the foot of my coffin. "Thou has taken the
oath of Zelator, transcending all the realms of the material. Seekers of the
path between light and darkness," the Praemonstrator offered, turning his
back to present me with a view of the leopard-skin robe, "I am available
for counsel Tuesdays and Thursdays by appointment. Photographs of the lovely
Rita... priestess of heat and light... are two francs; appointments to receive
her Merciful Influx or Vestigia's Influx of Severity also may be made."
I
heard a shuffling of feet and the openings and closings of the door, but
Mathers had been firm in obtaining my promise to remain becoffined until his
own signal. So there I remained as the last paying guest departed, through the
entrance of Dr. Encausse, also known as Papus... that Martinist who, from his
words, appeared to have the manners of a French lawyer. Out of the corner of my
eye I could perceive Mathers swigging greedily from a flask of brandy.
"Your
astral body never shall be reconciled with physicality so long as your
spiritual advisers are grapes," Dr. Encausse scolded the Praemonstrator.
"Bacchus,
dear Papus, is wiser than Minerva and stronger than Thor...
"Where
are the Protocols?" Papus demanded in his lawyer's voice.
"Cameron!"
Mathers bellowed and I was gratified to reply from the depths of the coffin.
"Can
I get out of here?"
I
had been using the documents as a pillow... rising, I must have seemed a
spectre appearing to present them to Encausse as a gift from the Great Beyond.
"Does
he read Russian?" I asked Mathers.
"I
do," replied the fierce little doctor, "...and English and many other
tongues also, for who knows what bodily form the King of Heaven takes?"
"Papus
and the other Martinists about... Peladan among them, Jules here and a doggedly
sensualist Count de Guaita, who passed over two years back... worked for
Merovingian restoration until the death of their last Pretender, Chambourg.
Since they now lack candidates for the throne of Louis the Sixteenth,"
Mathers allowed, "they've transcended the search for the Seventeenth Louis
on to loftier ambitions, preparing for a King of the whole world..."
"Or
we shall make one!" Papus began but Margaretha brushed up against the
mage, smiling as she collected her scarves.
"Don't
forget Tuesday's recital at Neant!" When she had departed he winked at
Papus. "Admit it... you desire her, but I forget... you marry
them..."
"I
am a Christian occultist," the doctor replied stiffly. "And now, are
these the Protocols?"
"They
are!" I responded with, as I recall, some offense... of which Papus took
no account of at all as he stuffed the Protocols into his very large, very
lawyerly satchel.
"You
are a resourceful fellow," the Martinist admitted, "Mathers tells me
you..."
The
rest was lost to a knock... Papus yanking a revolver from his briefcase. He
trained it upon the door, then gave me a glare of positively demonic aspect,
growling "Your Zelator must have sold us out to the Russians!"
I
remained quite incapable of improving my predicament, but before Papus could
fire a voice called out from behind the door.
"Moira?"
"It
is only my brother-in-law," sighed the Praemonstrator. "Jules!"
Margaretha,
more or less clothed by now, passed we three conspirators with a wave; Vestigia
followed into the temple and Jules Bois ushered in a scholarly, reproachful
man... the sourest Professor of Comedy it ever has been my pleasure to behold!
He embraced his sister warmly enough but regarded the rest of us as do those
whose obligations include the succor of disagreeable relations and their
entourages... the look he gave Margaretha would drive a clown to church.
"Henri...
you of course know Dr. Encausse... and this is Arthur Cameron, from New
York," Moira introduced hastily. "We've reserved Verlaine's table at
Procope," she remarked with an air of importance.
I
shook Professor Bergson's hand rather enthusiastically. "I have read
several of your essays in translation, Monsieur, and, in fact, was on my way to
a premiere by your pupil Jarry... he told me in that manner of his that he owes
all Ubu to your essay on Laughter."
"I
suppose our community shall blame me for Jarry too," the philosopher of
humor remarked icily, "...one writes on values and sentiments, hardly
expecting to be taken literally. I so often underestimate the foolish and
ridiculous..." and he glanced from Papus to Mathers, "...but as a
scholar I suppose I am fortunate to have so much source material. Coming,
Moira?"
Vestigia
kissed Zan as the vril-ya do, without affection, and departed with her brother
under the stern eye of Papus. Margaretha MacLeod had nimbly disappeared, like
the spy she would become, leaving behind her only brilliant but now-bedraggled
ribbons.
"I
at least admit and divorce my errors... you compound your misery at having
married a Jew by remaining in that state of deconsecration. It is the cause of
your drinking... Mr. Cameron, were you aware those so-called Jews of Bergson's
sort are not at all the noble Israelites of Solomon's time but usurpers who
crawled out of the muck of Roman decadence? We have great forces of magnetism
that circulate in Aryan bloodstreams; with this..." and he gave his
briefcase a mighty shake, "...we shall reclaim our heritage and destiny,
we..."
"Mister
Mathers, have you any gold for me? Mister Mathers?"
A
withered woman with the sharp, greedy eyes of a bird had wandered into the
Temple Ahathoor unbidden, through the door left open either by Margaretha or
the Bergsons... Mathers turned her round physically with his great-knuckled
hands...
"Not
today Madame but soon... soon..."
And
as the Praemonstrator guided her off, Papus and I stood staring at one another
until I heard the door firmly closed. Mathers, on his return, lifted flask to
his lips and drank with a challenging grimace.
"Some
enemy has informed all of the peasants in this old tenement that I near the
Alchemists' objective of spinning gold from straw... they are an unceasing
obstruction. That one pesters me especially... she has delusions that phantoms
creep into her bed, certain nights, in the aspect of decaying corpses. Very bad
taste... on both sides!"
And
Mathers withdrew an envelope of dried peas from his bureau, setting a drinking
glass atop a number of cardboard placards upon the altar. "I'll subject
them... and the renegade Hermeticists who guide them... to my Punitive
Current!"
"Might
that have something to do with the Horos couple?" I remarked off-handedly.
"Well
that... ah... they may no longer be quite so important as several weeks back. I
shouldn't worry about them... and you may assure Dr. Westcott!" the
Praemonstrator snarled, grasping the first of the peas. "Yes,
Cancellarius... you may be proud of your little spy. Now I anabaptize thee in
the name of the Secret Chiefs!"
He
dropped pea into glass, shaking it so violently that his robes fell askew,
sweat poured down his brow pasting his thinning hair to his scalp. Papus, with
an agreeable smirk, raised the briefcase containing Protocols and revolver,
among other artifacts... "We have all we need! Adieu!"
Mathers
took no notice of the departure of Dr. Encausse. "Frater DEDI, I
anabaptize thee..."
"And
I'd better be off to the Theatre," I said by way of excusing myself.
"Perhaps we'll meet after Ubu... I've heard it's the sort of drama people
talk about."
"In
the name of the Secret Chiefs!" Mathers finished. "And you...
American... protect yourself! I have heard theatre audiences in Montmarte can
be more dangerous than Apaches who frequent the Cafe des Assassins!" He
placed a third pea in the glass with its brothers. "Soror Sapienta, I
anabaptize thee in the name..."
Click
upon the visage of Pere Ubu to go back to THE GOLDEN DAWN homepage: |
|
|||
Click Mr. Beast to return to previous Episode: |
||||
|
|