Pagan
By Inez Baranay
3/5
()
About this ebook
Based on a true story, set in Sydney in the 1950s, Pagan is a story of the new music, the new migrations and the old magick. First published in 1990, it was described as brilliantly written and a narrative tour-de-force. To quote a review: As well as being very readable, it offers a highly intelligent analysis of the themes of Australia's 20th century cultural history set around a story that was to grab the imagination - and the tabloids - of the country. Baranay has a great sense of character, an acute mind which ranges through art, music, philosophy, politics and literature, and a profound and insightful comprehension of the dynamics of human behaviour. She also has a savage and urbane wit and a rare ability to evoke human tragedy in the most understated of ways. This new ebooks edition has Afterwords by the author.
Inez Baranay
Born in Italy of Hungarian parents Inez Baranay is an Australian writer; she has published over 12 books, seven of them novels, as well as short stories and essays in a range of publications. More biography and details of her books can be found on her website.
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Reviews for Pagan
4 ratings1 review
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Fictionalised account of the life of Rosaleen Norton, the Witch of King's Cross, told through the words of characters who knew her. Builds up an effective picture of the stifling conformity of post-war Australia and of the bohemian neighbourhood of Sydney that Norton escaped to and made her home. Covers the Goosens scandal, in which sex magical activities led to the downfall of a prominent orchestral conductor.Something of a literary curiosity, the format gives it the feel of a radio play, but well worth a Kindle purchase for anyone with an interest in this indomitable self-taught artist and magician.
Book preview
Pagan - Inez Baranay
Reviews of Pagan
Pagan is brilliantly written. As well as being very readable, it offers a highly intelligent analysis of the themes of Australia's 20th century cultural history set around a story that was to grab the imagination - and the tabloids - of the country ... Baranay ... has a great sense of character, an acute mind which ranges through art, music, philosophy, politics and literature, and a profound and insightful comprehension of the dynamics of human behaviour. She also has a savage and urbane wit and a rare ability to evoke human tragedy in the most understated of ways.
The Advertiser, June 10, 1990
The novel is a narrative tour de force.
Editions, (Sydney) March/April 1991
Pagan works on a number of different levels. It's concerned with exposing the parochial and puritanical nature of Australian society and the evil associated not so much with Evvi's witchcraft but with the narrow-mindedness of the Australian public and the vindictiveness directed towards anything different or remotely threatening: reffos, European cafes, ‘poofters' in white socks, artists, musicians and witches. ... Pagan is also about the creative instinct and the fine balance between the intellect and the imagination, the conflict between the desire to surrender completely to natural harmonies and the power of the intellect to discipline the mind.
Australian Book Review
Pagan ... chronicles a society in transition, contains a moving evocation of young love, and tries to unravel the circumstances of the Goossens scandal of reputed orgies and pornographic photographs. The novel also deals with the feminist tradition of Wicca - witchcraft - and the highs and lows that individual live can encompass."
The Sunday Herald June 3, 1990
For more reviews of Pagan and other books by Inez Baranay please visit
http://www.inezbaranay.com
Pagan
Inez Baranay
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Inez Baranay 2011
Originally published in 1990 by Collins Imprint (Sydney)
reprinted in omnibus reprint Three Sydney Novels in 2004
This Smashwords Edition includes new Afterwords by the author
http://www.inezbaranay.com
Cover design by Daniel Stephensen
http://forgetlings.net
Discover other titles by Inez Baranay at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Note
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
*
To my mother and my father
*
Contents
Prologue : Thirty Years Later
March 1956
The Thunderstorm
That Disappointing Day
Blew The Exclusive
The Last Concert
At The Cross
The Two Cities
After The Concert
The Witch Of The Cross
Migrations—Eduard
Migrations—Eveleen
Migrations—Nora
Migrations—Patrick
The Book
The Visit
Circus Music
Practice
Maestro
Becoming A Witch
Meetings
Bondi
The Great Rite: Sex Magick
The Great Rite: I Wasn't There
Daylight Insomnia
Getting Away
Same Old Story
Witchcraft Fiesta
Identifications
The Letters
It's A Terrible World
Acknowledgments
About the author
Afterword 1: Afterword to ebook edition
Afterword 2: Writings about Pagan
'We have difficulties in finding the silence from which music then emerges ...'
Prologue : Thirty Years Later
'He was a great conductor. He came here after the war. He was a tremendous force in Sydney's—and Australia's—musical and cultural life. He introduced modern music, he brought world standards, he made the orchestra great. People forget that. All they know is the scandal.'
'He was a victim of a parochial, puritanical society. Whatever that stuff was he was caught with, it'd be mild by today's standards, it'd be nothing, something you could get at the corner newsagent's.'
'That conductor—when he was here, Australia made recordings for the rest of the world. We never did anything for the rest of the world before.'
'He was obviously set up. He was framed.'
'There are powerful people in this town who are into very serious, very heavy black magic, they obtain placentas from hospitals, they obtain bones from morgues, and they don't want anything found out about what they do and if you ask too many questions you'll wind up in trouble, hexed, dead. Take my advice and drop this whole thing. Leave it alone. Write about something else.'
'We knew him very well, or thought we did. We had no idea what he was involved in. It was an immense shock to everyone. We never saw him again. He left. Then he died.'
'Someone saw him in London, after he had to leave here. They said he was a man encased in ice.'
'It was probably some jealous tuba player.'
'My dear, we all know who it was, look at who gained. Who took his place?'
'He was a great man, treated abominably. No one came to his defence.'
'He was into pederasty and black magic.'
'He was writing monthly cheques to a certain person for the rest of his life.'
'Only one person came to his defence.'
'These days, people would say so what?
. No one said that then. Not in public. Not in time.'
'There were threats, he couldn't tell the truth about why he was framed.'
'I could never get to the bottom of it, and you won't either.'
'It is better left alone, better forgotten.'
March 1956
VON KRONEN CHECK photos seized VICE MEN ACT—CIB Gets World Calls SUMMONS SOON FOR VON K Lady von K living at Paris convent VON KRONEN FACES INDECENT PICTURES CHARGE-TALKS TO MAIL VON KRONEN FAILS TO APPEAR IN COURT Hearing Put Off—Secret Report on von Kronen Tomorrow GIVES UP HIS TWO BIG JOBS—Von Kronen Case-—WORLD FIGURE—PARTY IS PUT OFF VON K MAY NOT APPEAR Too 111 To Go To Court VON K CASE OFF FOR A WEEK VON KRONEN GUILTY—Maximum £100 fine imposed THREATS ALLEGED GUILTY VERDICT: VON K CASE Pictures Result of Threats, says counsel. Books in Suitcase Crowds Jammed Corridors VON K BLACKMAIL STORY CONDUCTOR WILL LEAVE POST Board to Decide on von Kronen's Job VON KRONEN WON'T RETAIN MUSIC POST
The Thunderstorm
Sydney, 1917
When she was born she caused a thunderstorm. There were floods in the town. She would have known she was born in a storm, even if they had not told her. She must be born portentously, she must be announced. She, who loved the night and darkness, determined very early that thunderbolts and lightning would storm again at her command.
No one remembers their birth, they say. They say, they say, she would think in scornful fury. She remembered that dance of energies, the whirling cosmos. She remembered that, and before that.
That night, her mother told her, when you were born, and little Evie took up her crayons and began with a bright zigzag across the page, and there was the endless sky where nature danced her passion, stamped and whirled and wailed, her eyes flashed and sparks flew from her heels and Eveleen burst forth. Such pain, and I nearly died, her mother said. In a tiny town in a distant nation thunder announced her and the window panes rattled; she sucked life into herself, the rain wept and the gutters filled up and overflowed.
Then the lightning flashed.
Layers of thick drapes were drawn against the world. The room smelt of dust. She was hung by the heels and dealt a hefty blow. She bellowed in fury and they smiled.
And the thunderstorm blew itself out over the sea. Out there, out at sea, her father looked over his charts on a big Navy ship that was going to war.
The cat from next-door would come to sit with her and she would look into its pulsating slanted eyes. When she was one, the cat scratched her, deliberately, drawing three thin lines of
bright red blood. She felt a thrill. Then her mother suddenly materialised, clucking and fussing, so alarmed that her baby had been hurt. That naughty naughty cat, did you pull its tail and hurt poor kitty? A kiss to make it better and something wet and stinging on the arm in case of germs. Evie cried, but not because of the pain.
Her mother, with nanny standing by the door, wanted her to play with the toys. Mother knelt, Mother begged. Play with dolly; dolly is your baby; Mummy loves Evie and Evie loves dolly. I'm drawing, said Eveleen. The stupid pink rubber pretend human baby, she threw the wretched thing across the room.
When her mother had gone, Eveleen took up the crayon and remembered the scratch on her arm and began to draw. What is that, Evie? the big sisters said. A nothing. Looks like a funny kind of goat, or pig. It was shaped like a cloud, with long arms that were reaching and bending all over, and its head was a bit like a wolf or a bit like a lynx.
Eveleen, said the mother and held it out to her. It was a biscuit, her mother wanted her to eat it. No, I don't want it, said Eveleen. You don't say no when Mummy gives you a biscuit, you say thank you, Mummy. No, she said. Where's the please and thank you? demanded the mother. Take the nice bikkie, say thank you and eat it. No, said Eveleen, and felt the blow on her face. For a moment there was only sharp red pain. Then Eveleen screamed.
The mother said she must eat the nice biscuit and took hold of little Eveleen and pushed the biscuit into her mouth, to teach her not to say no like that. The sugary floury thing, she spat it out. Then the slap and then hate—didn't her mother understand that Evie could never be made to? So Evie was so sick that her stomach heaved and triumphantly she brought up all the things she had eaten long before the biscuit. Her mother suddenly had a raging fever and had to stay in bed for a week.
Evie wanted to stay home to sleep by day. Even at the age of four she did not want to sleep at night. When they all said 'good night' she yelled and stamped. Good night, good night!
The night was good, yes, good for watching the world all shadows and shades; good for sitting at the window and listening to the darkness. 'Good night!' Let them go to bed, let them leave her to the night, her own dear sinister night.
And then the teacher. At drawing she walked round the room and looked over the shoulders and stopped behind Evie. 'That's not how a cat goes,' she said. 'Here,' and she took the crayon from Eveleen who had already been drawing forever. 'It's not a cat!' said Evie. 'Oh, it looks a bit like a cat. What is it? And is this one an octopus?' 'It's a nothing.' 'Oh, everything has a name,' said the teacher. 'What is its name?' 'Nothing, it's a nothing,' said little Evie, angry now. 'Do you want to draw a real cat?' said the teacher. 'NO!' screamed Eveleen, her face hot and red, her eyes wet. 'No!' she screamed, and she threw all her crayons onto the floor. The teacher couldn't speak, she had lost her voice for the rest of the day.
And Eveleen, although she had been named for the heroine of a pink-covered romance, proudly took her rightful place as the bad girl. Sometimes the other children would follow her. Don't do that, Eveleen told them and they would not. Do this, she said, and they did it. The teacher always knew that Evie had made them, and Evie always took the blame. She did not like other children, they wanted to be led and never blamed; they brought presents for the teacher a flower picked on the way to school, a cake their mother had made, a picture postcard from an aunt in England. They would beam at the teacher as they held these things out: aren't I good? The other children did not like her, Eveleen knew, but they always did what she told them, often enough anyway, and that was better than liking her, which would have been of no use at all.
At home the big sisters brought her lots of coloured pencils and paper. Do a drawing, they said, do another nothing.
Next-door's cat came and sat in the window. Evie drew the best nothing-beast even it moved and danced around the page and Evie chased it with her pens, finding its shapes and colours. The cat blinked at her and the nothing writhed on her page, and between its legs was stuck a thing like she'd seen on dogs in the street. Evie coloured the thing purple and it grew up out of the beast and then she fell to the floor with her head ringing burning pain and the mother crying and scolding: bad bad Evie, horrible drawing horrible cat. And she shooed the cat away. Later Evie made more of these drawings.
Then a year after school started, so she was six, she woke in her little bed. Beside her was the shiningest beast there ever was. She had never seen one like this, its scales like goldy-green jewels. It was standing like a lizard, like a cat, like a scaly bear, but also it shone and shimmered. There was no sound—not only no sound, but the normal faint noises she could hear when she listened hard on a quiet night awake and alone were not there— so it was no-no-sound all around and it stood and shimmered by her bed, come there so she would know they really existed, and sometimes could be seen.
Later she found that this beast was called a dragon, and that people say that dragons 'do not exist'. It had a name, and there were pictures of dragons (though none so still and luminous as hers). And yet they say that these pictured, named beings do not exist! They say! Eveleen knew that she had seen the dragon, she knew she would see her dragon again, and stranger creatures too. She knew she would draw them, these creatures. She knew she would create even greater pictures to horrify mothers and teachers. She knew that her life forever was connected with affirming the existence of denied beings.
That Disappointing Day
It felt all wrong, how quiet it had been that night. The chops had been kept warm for his tea, the radio had been on in the kitchen and soon he would go to bed. 'Tomorrow you'd hear about it, though,' he had consoled himself. 'You'd hear plenty more tomorrow, for sure.'
When Detective-Sergeant Trevor Thomas thought of that disappointing day in March 1956, he got angry. He had expected to be celebrating at the end of that day; for the rest of his life, in fact. He had expected pats on the back. Thirty years later, he was still waiting for them.
'The abominable crime of buggery' was the only crime in Australia's law books to be blessed with its own adjective.
'I had the proof I needed,' he would say, telling his story. Still, he hadn't been able to make his arrest, and had been so close to it, and that was why it had turned out a gravely disappointing day. He had achieved a fantastic result then hadn't been able to get the warrant he needed. An arrest like that would have made his career. He had worked hard on the case, and then he'd been sabotaged. That's what he said. The people higher up were looking after each other.
At the end of that day, Trevor Thomas sipped his beer while the wife did the washing-up. She had the radio going in the kitchen. She'd told him that the news had been on the radio all day. She wasn't sure where she had heard of the man they'd caught, then Joyce next-door reminded her that he was the one with the American wife who always used to be in the social pages. 'Remember her piled-up hair in the Sunday papers,' his wife said from the kitchen.
It should have been a day of great triumph: the mighty fallen, the high-and-mighty vanquished. And so he was. The Maestro was back that night in his north shore home with a pretty good idea by now, and all housewives in their kitchens, and even their relaxing hubbies, would agree that you didn't get away with things like that here. Not in Australia. 'Whatever they get up to over there,' Thomas muttered. He thought about how he could get hold of some of the pictures that were found that day. You could show a few people how twisted some of these foreign types really were, being let into the country, corrupting