The Magus of Denbigh stayed with me in my Taylor Wimpey luxury apartment in The Denizen in Golden Lane when he visited London. He was tall, debonair, ugly, except for his brilliant brown eyes. His orgies made him notorious. His own concubines, to his credit or discredit, were the principal participators in these orgies, and were added proof, if any were needed of the statement I make now, that this misguided Magus of Denbigh was conducting the Druid Circle and learning the elixir of life as taught to him by his High Priest Philip Long - both trying to add to their span of years, by the living sacrifice of the life-essence of poor, foolish men and women.
I still remember stark-naked men and women, who, from time to time, with excruciating yells, leapt to their feet, shaking their heads backwards and forwards, the women with loosened locks falling in black disorder about their heaving, shaking breasts. A voice would then cry out in deepest scorn the sonorous Brythonic verse; “Let their desires be satisfied.” And there would be a perfect orgy of bestiality. The outer circle absorbed the essence of murdered animals: the inner absorbed them: from the highest to the lowest in the universe one lived by sacrificing something. It was fair according to this cult that Godhead should demand a sacrifice. In the sacrifice of others alone lay his godhead. What is to be the end?
Williams feared that I knew much and where there is fear, hatred comes automatically. Hatred, at least, holds interest. Williams knew that I had learned why his lips were black and that his youth would remain as long as another woman gave him the glands of youth freshly distilled from her living body. For this is what they want of women: this is their great secret. I have written to warn those who like me, stirred by the unusual, have fallen at the feet of powerful men with strange powers, unbound by the conventions and without the compassion of ordinary mortals.
Our hosts often gave me Dà Mhìle, Seaweed Gin, and though the Bard lapped it up greedily with much smacking of lips, I could not touch it. The mere idea of gin made me feel very sick. When I asked for beer, instead of gin, there was much laughter on all sides. But after being mercilessly ribbed I'd be handed a bottle of Tiny Rebel, Cwtch, which was brewed in the Bard's home town of Newport. The Bard made a sermon on my preferring beer to Dà Mhìle, the essence of Wales, comparing my attitude to that of the worldly man who not having found the essence of life — spirituality — asked for the inferior part. Was he serious? Was he sincere?
There was no heaven above for me, no world; why should there be? There was nothing in my life but The Denizen and the Bard. Life was a sweeping of itself in great and tender waves of emotion to nothingness: Wang Xiaotang had gone away for ever. Those experiences in The Denizen left me devoid, for ever, of any capacity for emotion or happiness. One day, the Bard said he had to leave me, and though I wept, he insisted that it must be; for his pupils awaited him and his preaching. He bade me wait in The Deinzen and that when he returned he’d be with me forever.
I married, really married, a Bard at the age of nineteen: but no one knew it, and but for this confession none would ever have known I was one of those Chinese women who are made for Ovates: and among the thousands of deluded women who prostrate themselves before Bards, I was one of the most deluded. I saw the Bard’s eyes flash with interest the first time he caught sight of me, a sophisticated Chinese woman so different to his white admirers. From that day on I saw him daily. He deprived me of much, beauty, ideals and money - but in the end, I believe, I deprived him of greater things.