GENERISIS
presents THE GOLDEN DAWN
Episode 35 – CONCLUSION
RESOLUTIONS,
REMEMBRANCES, REGRETS!
For
the first time since a boyish dare impelled me to remove the skull of Wampanoag
from its dungeon, the future was out of my hands... I stood alone,
disinherited, alien, as much a stranger to New York as to its aboriginal
American tribes. With the few dollars remaining in my pocket I enjoyed a
leisurely meal at Delmonico's, then proceeded to the gallery of Steiglitz where, as arranged, Pamela Smith awaited my
return. Steiglitz had not yet received the acclaim
his photography would bring in later years... he seemed content running his
gallery, dabbling in photography. I should have accepted his offer to take a
picture of myself with Pixie... it would have been a souvenir of my occult
adventures, a means of proving they were more than just tall tales from an old
fellow with too much time on his hands.
Pixie
Smith told a few Jamaican stories, Stieglitz provided claret so she told
another and we were, consequently, tardy in arriving at the Metropolitan Opera.
Glossing over my personal difficulties, I paid for Pixie's ticket and my own,
even the cheapest of seats high in the balcony left me with but fifteen cents
in my pocket... the performances had already commenced and we entered to
strains of the Marche au Supplice of Berlioz.
"This
is all that survives of his Vehmic Opera," I
told my companion. "Long before conceiving his Fantastic Symphony, Berlioz
began les Francs Juges, but the work was so
interrupted by numerous odd circumstances that he finally abandoned it and the
drafts... save those parts reformed years after... quite disappeared. His
librettist Ferrand... a devout Catholic... died
thirty years ago, after his adopted son murdered his wife, so we may agree that
the opera was born under a curse and died treacherously."
"I
understand," replied Pamela Smith. "The confluence of certain musical
tones and sentiments with evil entities is taken for granted all over the
Caribbean."
Morgan
and his confederates had engaged the great Hall to ring in the new century with
short programmes from luminaries of dance, theatre
and music... even a few declamations, besides the cinematography. The financier
himself held court in his famous Box 35, with an entourage that included
Rockefellers, a visiting Rothschild, an Archbishop, and Vice President-elect
Roosevelt, a former Police Chief of New York. I saw my father there, also, and
with him, Vartanian... with his hawk upon his
shoulder... nodding across the orchestra to Stanford White in Box Nine, between
the Astors and one branch of the Belmont family.
At
eleven minutes to midnight, the famed actor Gillette took stage, holding palms
up against the applause that greeted his appearance. "Thank you!"
replied the man whom New York had taken to heart already as successor to Henry
Irving... a man perceived as belonging to that century quickly receding into
the past. "Thank you. To paraphrase Dr. Watson's observance, upon the
disappearance of Holmes over Reichenbach Falls with
the fiend Moriarty in his grasp... it is with heavy hearts that we approach the
aria of Madam Calve to mark the century's end, and the beginning of the year
nineteen hundred... also the centenary of the funeral of George Washington. But
before Madam's 'Carmen', it is my special pleasure to introduce a kinetograph of the forthcoming Exposition of Paris, City of
Lights!"
The
hall dimmed, a great white screen lowered, and music sprang up... the
"Dance of Death" by old Saint Saens. The
crowd stirred uneasily when a title appeared upon screen... "Death of an
Anarchist By Vartanian
Current!"... when next appeared a cell in the Bastille someone shouted out
"That is no Exposition!" others responding with cries of
"Silence!". The music sped to its ghastly climax as an object...
distant, at first, as had been the skull of Wampanoag upon my approach in the
Ossuary less than four months previous... enlarged and finally stood revealed
as a condemned man, strapped to a chair of thick, rough wood with leather
straps binding his wrists and ankles. The volume of music diminished, allowing
sounds of scuffling and struggling to be heard, and then the mouth of the
criminal moved, sawing this way and that. From the corners of the Opera a
torrent of French profanity issued forth, a gust which shocked the audience
more for its novelty than its content.
"Where
was Monsieur Melies able to fit a whole French
orchestra into this place?" Pamela whispered, for the musicians still
milled about, unpacking their instruments so to accompany Madam Calve's aria.
"There
is no orchestra," I answered. "Melies
recorded the screams of the prisoner on an Edison cylinder while filming this
execution and then re-recorded using three devices... a source of music, the
last words of the condemned and another cylinder to record both."
A
collective gasp rent the Opera as, onscreen, a jailer silenced the unknown
anarchist with a rag in his mouth. Still the man's vain strugglings
persisted. An angry hum rose from the private boxes... I even observed one of
the disreputable friends to whom Vanderbilt had sublet Box Six lean over the
railing to curse August Belmont, one of Vartanian's
patrons, in Box Four.
"Melies is a master illusionist," I said to Pamela
Smith, "but what happens next is no trick, it is unfortunate reality.
Avert your eyes if you feel faint..."
"Nonsense!"
Pixie replied, "...I saw many horrible things while growing up in Jamaica;
I certainly can stomach a French execution..."
"Not
of this sort..." I warned.
The
jailers stepped aside like Shakespearean messengers and Deibler,
the Executioner, stepped forth... that merry fellow who drank with Melies and Toulouse-Lautrec. There was a rupture... a
common jump cut from the whole man in his hood to Deibler's
hand, a cinematographic trick common enough these days but, for the time less
than five decades ago, this was black magic. The hand threw a switch and the
hissing and snapping of Vartanian current was as
captured in sound as was the anarchist by his chains... the prisoner began
writhing as his head smoked and the veins on his neck burst through the skin.
"Sacre bleu!" remarked an unseen witness.
Black smoke arose from the anarchist's scalp as the murmurings of Opera patrons
swelled to angry cries and their expressions turned horrible but the operator
of the cinematograph had been prepared... he turned up the volume of Melies' device as the dying man spit out his bloody gag...
screams and a hideous death rattle joining with Saint Saens
in a tarantella of the condemned. As he finally slumped silent the music rose
to its crescendo... and, just to ensure the audience remembered who had been
the agent of this infamy, the closing title repeated and embellished the
opening credits...
|
Death of an Anarchist by Vartanian Current! |
|
|
Un film por G. Melies, Montreiul |
|
When the lights came on, a man in
the orchestra rose, pointed to Morgan's box and shouted...
"That's
the devil... up there!"
A
thousand heads, enraged, turned with him. "Down with Vartanian!"
someone cried.
"Long
live Edison's current..." another called back.
And
that was the last we could understand or I can, with a clear conscience,
repeat. A torrent of noise and invective was launched at the inhabitants of the
unfortunate box, "Fiend!" and "Murderer!" being only two of
the most polite oaths. Morgan recoiled from his protege
coldly, following his example Richard Cameron did also... even Vartanian's hawk took flight from the inventor's shoulder
and began to circle the hall, shrieking... the inventor, rising, glowered at
his patrons.
"You
are not Christians at all," he charged my father and the others, "but
rather fanatical Mussoulmen!"
And
in his ridiculous high cork heels and chimneylike hat
the defeated scarecrow stalked off, shoving angry theatre patrons aside - his
hawk circling in ever-widening gyres, screeching as perhaps Willie Yeats heard
of, all the way back in Ireland... perhaps through Pixie or through Waite, to
whom she returned for a time after the Steiglitz
exhibition to draw his Tarot.
As
for Vartanian... well, he went mad and, though he
still survives, lives now as an ancient eccentric in the Waldorf with pigeons
as his only friends. The gyre of his falcon's genius widened beyond reason's
pale... he is an object, at the last, of pity or contempt. Willie Yeats is dead
eight years now, having indeed become an Irish politician of General O'Duffy's Blueshirt persuasion...
suspect for his Nazi apologies but not derided so vehemently as Pound, nor
Wyndham Lewis or Charles Vierek. His reputation shall
most likely recover as, before death took him, he renounced Hermeticism
and all the moonishness of youth...grasping his
rosary, as Chesterton, saying "He whose name is Legion is at our doors
deceiving our intellects with subtlety, and we have no trust but in
Thee..."
Most other Adepts have also passed through the
veil... Twain and Stoker, Florence Farr... of the cancer in Ceylon... and
Mathers, to whom Yeats dedicated an elegy after the so-called Great War turned out
to be only a prelude to our current epoch of catastrophe.
|
"I thought him half a
lunatic, half knave, |
|
And told him so; but friendship
never ends..." |
And in a later essay, Yeats even
put on the Praemonstrator's mask... saying "All
my life I have seen myself in dreams, making a man by some means like that.
When I was a child I was always thinking out contrivances for galvanising a corpse into life."
It
may be the Golden Dawn that's a corpse now... lesser mortals gnawing at its
bones as rats that follow the jackals that follow wolves, who pounce on the
kill once lions have eaten their fill... I believe that a credible chapter does
survive in the Antipodes. A few accompanied Crowley to re-establish an Abbey of
Theleme in Italy... after that venture failed, one
penned a sad, unintentionally hilarious account of quarrelsome days in dank
Frogmore, UK, surviving upon "...dismal soups of half-cooked barley and
whole cabbage leaves, like green linoleum..." blindly attempting to
rekindle extinguished Vestal fires.
"All
that's beautiful drifts away," lamented Yeats, "like the
waters." And only poetry left to hold the bridge.
Incredibly,
Dr. Encausse died a heroic death in the Great War,
while the unfortunate Sar Peladan
was dispatched to Paradise by a more ignoble agent not long after Armistice...
a bad oyster of Montmarte. Most merry Parisians had
danced their way into early graves by that time... Jarry
and Lautrec before the end of the first decade of this century, along with that
unhappy exile who called himself Sebastien Melmoth...
Satie, Proust and Claude Debussy following a few years after. The surviving
society of congenials departed Montmarte
and fled across the Seine to the Left Bank for some years before Winnetou, like Ubu with a comic
moustache, snuffed out their candle.
A
generation after these events took place, Paul Morand
dismissed the fin du siecle as a wax museum of the
sort of moral turpitude denounced by Balzac: "The world had begun to live
on its nerves. It was given up to drugs and women; never has the body been so
insistent; there was worship of sex, of the hair; a fetishism of underclothing,
boots and furs. The languor of Turkish baths, that renaissance of forbidden
pleasures which appears whenver blood is about to
flow; pity which is cowardice and a taste for crime."
Sax
Rohmer's made a fair living from crime, of course, as did Machen... who used
Yeats for his "Man with Spectacles" as Yeats reduced Mathers to Michael Robartes. The
fortunes of George Melies rose and fell with
cinematography... he never did deign to employ sound on film for commercial
purposes and was bankrupted by those who did... I hear he ended up selling
candy and cigars from a kiosk in Montmarte, a bitter
man, contemptuous of those who came after... Chaplin, Houdini... as
counterfeits and thieves. In sixteen years he had made over five hundred films,
of which perhaps ninety survive... the first act of Ubu
not among them. In 1912 he produced and starred in his last film, "Knight
of the Snows" in which he rescues his beloved from the Black Knight by
gazing into a rose.
Rachilde, like Maud Gonne, survives... a couple of sharp
old maids they are; Pixie, after drawing Waite's Tarot, converted to the
Catholic faith and retired to the Cornish coast to open a hotel for weary priests.
Crowley designed a Tarot too as a reply to Waite... incredibly he's still
about, still in the thick of mischief though quite bald and large about the
middle... rather like the comedian W. C. Fields is Perdurabo
now, have I already said so? He did settle for a while in Sicily with
Marinetti, the self-styled "caffeine of Europe" but had a falling out
with the Futurist statesman Mussolini and was deported, his Rabelaisan
Academy closed humiliatingly. The French kicked him out too... they apparently
thought a coffee machine he brought back from Cefalu
was some sort of a bomb. During wartime, he exploited his connections with
German lodges to engage in a bit of intrigue with Winnetou's
deputy Hess, a son of Nevil Maskelyne... whose Egyptian Hall fell forfeit as a
consequence of the disastrous failure of "The Coming Race"... an
American of the name of Hubbard who, like Wells, Villiers and Lytton, writes
scientific romances on the side and a British spy by the name of Fleming... Ian
Fleming. The authorities haven't quite made their mind up whether my old
landlord was a spy or a patriot, whether to knight him, hang him... or both.
But that's another tale, and to be told at another time.
Three
weeks after my arrival in New York, a brief obituary was listed for John
Ruskin, a British architect, invalid for the last decade. No mention was made,
a few months after, of the reported demise of Friedrich Nietzsche though...
thanks to Winnetou... everybody knows him now.
I
hear, only tonight, that the Japanese city of Hiroshima was, yesterday,
annihilated by an explosion brighter than that of a thousand suns. Perhaps tens
of thousands blasted into the Azur, or what the
Dragons call it, and it's believed Emperor Hirohito prepares to sign articles
of surrender... it was not Vartanian's device, after
all, but fulfillment of the ghastly potential of the atom - that door to the
unknown men varied as Max Planck, Edison, H. G. Wells and even Arthur Machen
hinted at which has been flung askew. Now, we all stand on the lip of the
dragon's bowl.
And
I... I have become my own father, an investor, developer of better people's
energies, despised by my own sons, one of whom asked, after the fashion of the
youth of Europe Paul Morand recalled... "How is
it you could have been so simply bourgeois while pretending to seem dangerous,
to bare your teeth yet leave the war to us... to be so ugly, so absurd and so
happy?" And I have replied badly, I fear... renouncing my youth and, with
it, youthful hopes transient as the cardboard palaces of the Paris Exposition
of which naught survives save ruined cardboard and plaster, a few old
photographs, some faded dreams. So lies the way to our futures, as Hamlet might
have charged Horatio had they been moderns (or at least alive in the days of
the fin du siecle) - neither in Ninevah
nor evening's stars but in ourselves, mere survivors of a deluge, tossed
brutishly upon Reason's shore under the first pink crepuscules of a Golden
Dawn.
Arthur Cameron, Oyster Bay, New
York
August 7, 1945
FIN
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"THE GOLDEN DAWN"
BEGINS A NEW DAWN; STARTING with EPISODE ONE on the FIRST of JANUARY:
"WOLF and SKULL"