THE
DEMON
LOVER
DION FORTUNE
This edition published in 2010 by
Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC
With offices at:
500 Third Street, Suite 230
San Francisco, CA 94107
www.redwheelweiser.com
Copyright © 1927 by The Society of the Inner Light.
Foreword © 2010 by Diana Paxson.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC.
Reviewers may quote brief passages.
ISBN: 978-1-57863-492-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
available on request.
Cover illustration by Owen Smith
Typeset in Caslon Antique
Printed in Canada
TCP
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
HIDDEN VIRTUES
PEOPLE WRITE NOVELS FOR ENTERTAINMENT, INSTRUCTION, inspiration, and to make money. Sometimes for all of the above. And sometimes the most obvious reason is not the most important one. Such, I think, is the case with Dion Fortune's first novel, The Demon Lover.
My own copy is a worn hardback that was given to me by Marion Zimmer Bradley. My husband, Jon DeCles, had been adopted into Marion's family as a teenager, so when we married in 1968, Marion effectively became my sister-in-law. Most of the family already belonged to the Aquarian Order of the Restoration (AOR), an occult lodge run by Marion and her husband that was based on the work of Dion Fortune. So my first magical training was in a group descended from the same tradition as the one portrayed in The Demon Lover, although I must say that the AOR was much more relaxed, egalitarian, and gender-balanced than the one for which Lucas serves as secretary.
In the 1970s, with the exception of Weiser Books and a few other publishers, the only sources of esoteric information were occult books from Britain. When one found a used copy of a work by W. E. Butler or Dion Fortune it was cause for celebration; dog-eared copies of The Mystical Qabbalah were passed around the lodge. Fortune's works were our basic texts, and in my opinion, their mix of common sense, ethics, and inspiration remain the standard for magical training.
And then there were the novels. Having written over two dozen novels myself, I can appreciate what's involved in writing about magic. Many writers of fantasy have created marvellous pagan theology. They must be getting it from the collective unconscious, because most of them would be shocked to learn that this stuff is real. The clue that identifies an author who has more than theoretical knowledge is the level and kind of detail with which he or she describes actual magical workings and experience. But even writers who know better take some liberties. In my books, for instance, the candles never blow out unless an omen is needed, and the rituals always work (except, of course, when the plot requires them to fail). For this reason, I suspect that even Dion Fortune's group, effective as it undoubtedly was, never achieved quite the consistent level of expertise we see in the lodge portrayed in The Demon Lover. I am happy to say that I have never personally encountered anyone like Lucas.
But now that I am writing non-fiction as well as novels, I have realized that one is free to explore things in fiction that cannot, or should not, be presented as fact. Did Dion Fortune ever actually encounter a case like that of Lucas and Veronica? I doubt it. But in her early work with the occultist Dr. Moriarty, Dion seems to have seen or heard of things that suggest that a sufficiently talented individual, driven by karma from previous lives and warped by experiences in this one, might seek such a path. In a novel, Fortune could perform a “thought experiment” in which to portray the possible outcome.
So what is actually going on in The Demon Lover, and what does the novel appear to be? On the most obvious level, the book is a thriller, a fine example of the kind of story that kept readers of the pulp magazines of the twenties and thirties supplied with romance, derring-do, and titillating horror. The year that the book was published, 1927, also saw the appearance of The Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft. But while Lovecraft's horrors populated a world whose secret was the essential insignificance of humankind, Fortune's apparently lurid tale hides a very different message indeed.
The Demon Lover is indeed just the kind of potboiler about a heroine in peril that one would expect from the times. The innocent Veronica, lacking friends or family, is the ideal victim for the magnetic Lucas with his sinister golden gaze. He hires her as a typist, but typing is not what he needs. Bent on using his considerable talents to acquire occult power by whatever means necessary, Lucas has no compunction about making Veronica his psychic spy to gather information and suffer the consequences. But presently he discovers that their connection is beginning to weaken the amoral detachment necessary to his plans. It is the first reversal in the standard plotline. (By the way, if you dislike being told how the story goes, this is the point at which you should stop reading and go directly to page one. However, if you don't mind a few spoilers, read on….)
When this unexpected weakness leads to discovery, Lucas and Veronica flee to an old country house that Lucas has arranged to inherit. Knowing that their respite is temporary, he meets the wrath of the Occult Order he has betrayed by allowing himself to be killed, leaving Veronica as his heir. But this is not the point at which a handsome hero carries Veronica off to live happily ever after. Veronica stays in the house, and in another reversal, it becomes apparent that Lucas, far from being dead, is now a vampire. Vampires were big in the twenties—the film Nosferatu was released in 1922. Now, one thinks, it is clear what the story will be.
But Fortune's work with the occultist Theodore Moriarty had given her a different perspective on vampirism as a spiritual problem. That does not change the fact that Lucas is now a killer. The vampire must be slain and Veronica set free. At this point, a senior mage with a positive attitude finally arrives on the scene. He, one supposes, will get rid of Lucas once and for all. But we are beginning to realize that the current incarnations of the two main characters are only the latest instalment of their relationship. The true plotline spans lifetimes. This is a drama of reincarnation and destiny transcending conventional concepts of justice.
To punish Lucas with physical death will only perpetuate the problem. What is needed is not revenge, but recompense that may one day lead to redemption. Through the wisdom of the mage and Veronica's love, Lucas lives once more, but in a last surprising twist, their roles in the relationship are reversed.
Five years before this book appeared, Fortune had founded the group that eventually became The Society of the Inner Light and was developing her own incarnation of the tradition that first became known with the Order of the Golden Dawn. The non-fiction works on esoteric magic that made her famous were still in the future. Hiding behind her fiction, she had the freedom to explore concepts she would later present as wisdom. Occultism is the hidden knowledge. In The Demon Lover, an apparently superficial story hides some very interesting ideas indeed.
—Diana L. Paxson
June 14, 2010
CHAPTER ONE
AT THE BACK OF ONE OF THE MASSIVE, OLD-fashioned houses in a Bloomsbury Square was a single-storied structure originally intended by the architect for a billiard room. It was connected with the main building by a short passage, and its windowless walls supported a domed roof of glass. The present users of the room, however, were apparently engaged in some matter which did not require a good top light, for a ceiling had been built across the span of the dome, and save for the ste
ady purring of an electric fan behind the louvre boards of the lantern, no sign of life was apparent from the outside, the windowless walls and double roofing rendering the building light and sound-proof. This suited admirably the purposes of its present users, whose work required absolute immunity from any sudden sound or change of light, and who had no wish to draw the attention of the neighbours to their proceedings.
Although the night was a sultry one, the group of men seated round the table seemed to suffer no inconvenience. The faces varied greatly in type ; the chairman of the meeting had the air of a prosperous business man ; on his right was an unmistakable lawyer ; on his left, a benign old gentleman with a long white beard ; next to him, a mechanic of the better class ; opposite was a journalist. At the foot of the table, however, there sat a man who could not so readily be assigned to a place ; he might have been a diplomat, he might have been a detective, or he might have been one of those pseudo-aristocratic adventurers who hang upon the fringe of smart society. With the exception of the mechanic he was the youngest man present, and the minute book in front of him marked him as the secretary of the meeting.
Though the members were of such divergent types, they had certain characteristics which marked them as men whom some common discipline had welded together. Each possessed the power of sitting absolutely motionless unless he had occasion to move, a far from common accomplishment ; each radiated a peculiar sense of poise and power ; and each, with the exception of the secretary, had a pair of absolutely expressionless eyes ; and even his did not respond to emotion as eyes generally do, by alteration of the muscles round the sockets, but marked his feelings by an expansion and contraction of the pupil itself, which produced an extraordinary effect upon the observer. The eyes, of a very dark hazel with greenish lights in them, together with the sallowness of the skin, gave an unpleasing impression which, in some way, the perfect regularity of the features intensified. It was the face of a man who might be exceedingly interesting, exceedingly charming, and exceedingly unscrupulous.
The meeting, proceeding quietly with the transaction of business, was redeemed from ordinariness by the fact that the seventh member lay asleep on a couch, no one taking the slightest notice of him except the secretary, who cast quick, sidelong glances in his direction in the intervals of note-taking, and seemed prepared to spring up and catch him should he show any signs of rolling on to the floor.
The discussion of business was carried on quietly, almost in undertones ; accounts for large sums of money being brought forward and passed without comment, when a peculiar sound broke the stillness of the room ; from the figure on the couch came a long-drawn-out sibilant hiss. No notice of this strange manifestation was taken by any person present except the secretary, who put a cross on the top of the pad on which he was taking notes. A short while passed, during which the committee still worked in hushed voices, and then a second prolonged hiss came from the sleeper, and the secretary made a second cross on his writing pad. A third and fourth hiss followed in quick succession, and successive crosses were added to the row at the top of the secretary's tablet. On the completion of the fourth he looked up as if anticipating a command. For the first time the other members of the committee glanced at the sleeping figure.
“If he is sufficiently deep in trance,” said the chairman, “we will put aside the accounts and proceed with the Housmann problem.”
“He is on the fourth hypnoidal level,” said the secretary.
“That will do,” was the answer, and with cautious movements the committee disposed itself so that the hitherto ignored seventh member became the focus of attention.
The secretary stretched out a thin brown hand and tilted the shade of the lamp so that the sleeper's face was thrown into still deeper shadow, then he left his chair and went and sat on the couch beside the recumbent man, who never stirred ; leaning forward, he tapped a certain spot on the unconscious head with a peculiar rhythm. Immediately, without stirring a muscle of his face, the sleeper emitted the most extraordinary sound that ever issued from a human throat—it could only be compared to the weird noises that arise from a faulty gramophone—and then the secretary proceeded in as calm and matter of fact manner as if he were using an ordinary telephone, to ask for a number, using the unconscious man as a means of communication.
“Fifty North, fourteen East,” he repeated several times, as if seeking to call up some invisible exchange. After a few repetitions the sleeping man replied in the German language, asking his interrogator who was calling.
“Thirty, nought,” replied the secretary. “Is that the Prague Lodge ?”
“It is,” replied the sleeper, speaking in English, with a slight foreign accent.
“We want particulars of Brother Hermann Housmann, a German American, last heard of at Prague, who is suspected of attempting to negotiate with the Vatican for the sale of information concerning the Brotherhood's policy in regard to the French loan.”
“He left here early in May for Switzerland. Try the Geneva Lodge,” replied the sleeper.
Again the secretary repeated his tapping, and again the peculiar note, half-way between the hoot of an owl and a telephone bell, was heard.
“Forty-six North, six East,” said the secretary, and the sleeping man replied in French this time, asking again who called.
“Thirty, nought,” replied the secretary again, and again enquired of the sleeper for news of Hermann Housmann, and was informed that he had left Geneva at the end of May and proceeded to Naples and thence to New York.
Yet once more the secretary repeated his tapping, and elicited the same peculiar sound from the sleeper.
“Forty, North, seventy-four West,” he repeated several times, and finally a voice with a strong American accent replied. News of Hermann Housmann was again demanded, and this time obtained.
“He came here early in June by the White Star liner Cedric, and got in touch with the Tammany bosses. We sent him a summons to attend Lodge, and he got in a panic and started West. Then it was decided to send him an order of execution by means of the Dark Ray of Destruction.”
The men round the table stirred uneasily and looked at one another.
“With what results ?” asked the interrogator.
“He stopped off at Buffalo, took the cars to Niagara, and went over the suspension bridge.”
“Over into Canada ?”
“No, over into the river,” replied the sleeper, his expressionless countenance strangely contradicted by the challenging note in his voice.
The men in the dimly-lit room looked at each other. The mechanic covered his mouth with his hand to hide a nervous smile ; the journalist shrugged his shoulders ; the lawyer fidgeted with pens and paper, and the pupils of the secretary's eyes opened and shut like those of a cat. It was the patriarch on the chairman's left who broke the silence.
“I don't like it,” he said. “I don't like it at all. I cannot approve of these methods. For God's sake let us leave the issue to higher intelligences then ours, and not take the law into our own hands.”
“There is a spirit growing up in the Fraternity,” said the chairman, in a deep, booming voice, “which can lead to nothing but disaster,” and he glared at the secretary as if he were responsible for the American's death. The pupils of the secretary's peculiar eyes completely disappeared, and the irises filled with green gleams like the fire in a black opal, but it was the journalist who took up the defence.
“This is no time for half measures,” he said “Be sure your policy is right, and then go ahead and make a clean job of it. Look at the difference in our position since the new spirit came into the Fraternity, from being a group of antiquarians, we have become a factor to be reckoned with in international politics.”
One after another they spoke with considerable feeling, but the secretary kept silence ; he, although he was never directly addressed, seemed to be regarded by the others as responsible for the new spirit. Finally, each having said his say, silence fell upon the men round the
table. The secretary raised his peculiar eyes to the chairman.
“Shall I bring him round ?” he enquired.
The chairman nodded glumly. The brown hand of the secretary passed swiftly across the face of the sleeper with a peculiar snatching movement several times repeated, who thereupon stirred slightly and snuggled down into the cushions. It was apparent, however, that the death-like passivity had given place to natural sleep. In a minute or two he stirred again, roused, sat up, and blinked dazedly at the lamp. The secretary poured a cup of steaming coffee from a vacuum flask and handed it to him, for close though the night was, the man was shivering with cold. The hot drink speedily restored him to his normal consciousness, and he enquired whether any news had been obtained of Hermann Housmann, and the words that had issued from his lips were repeated to him. At the news of the suicide he gave a long whistle and stared hard at the secretary.
Presently the meeting broke up, the members departing in twos and threes ; at the door each of these sober-minded men of the world did a peculiar thing, they turned and genuflected as if leaving a church, for in the shadows in the far end of the room the dim outline of an altar could be discerned on which a red light was burning.
Among the last to leave was the old man with the long white beard. Pausing before the secretary, he held out his corded old hand. After an almost imperceptible hesitation, the thin brown fingers were placed in it.
“Lucas,” said the old man, “no one appreciates more than I do what your work has meant to the Fraternity, but I hope to God you will never want anything you ought not to have.”
CHAPTER TWO
LEFT ALONE, THE SECRETARY SWITCHED OFF THE electric fan and silence shut down upon the room like a thing palpable. He paused for a moment with his hand on the switch, as if uncertain what to do next, then he crossed over to the table and stood looking down at the scattered papers, but made no movement to gather them up ; he was evidently deep in thought, going over in his mind the events of the evening and trying to interpret their significance. It had been quite evident that he was not in good odour ; even his supporters had been apologists and his opponents had been among the weightiest members of the Fraternity, and the evening's proceedings had served to bring to the surface a dissatisfaction that had been smouldering for some time. Lucas's doings were not liked, so much had been made quite clear to him ; and if his doings were not liked, then he must be prepared to mend his ways or there would be serious trouble, for, as most people are aware, it is one thing to get into an occult fraternity, but quite another to get out of it.
Demon Lover Page 1
