DON

JESUS

DE

MONASTERIO

Don Jesus de Monasterio, ilustre lebaniego de fama

mundial, el mas grande msico nacido en la Provincia
de
Santander.
Nacio en 1836 y luego de llevar su msica a toda
Europa y ya con la consagracin lgica de un insigne
artista y ya harto de honores y al sentir su alma la
llamada de su tierra volvi a su casona de Cesar de
Periedo para no abandonarla hasta el dia de su
muerte. Y en una de las casas que en su artstica
trayectoria vivio en la calle de Bailen N 11 de Madrid
se pede ver la placa colocada por la Real Academia
de San Fernando que dice :En esta casa vivio el
insigne artista msico Exmo Sr. Don Jesus de
Monasterio. Hay un violin entre laureles. En el primer
dia de la primavera del ao 1936 suenan las
campanas sonaron las campanas de la iglesia de San
Vicente Martir anunciando el bautizo del nuevo
cristiano, la casualidad hace que en es mismo
momento en el otro extremo de Espaa en Sevilla
nacia el gran poeta Don Gustavo Adolfo Becker.
En la casona de potes da sus primeros pasos y
balbucea las primeras palabras, todo en aquel nio
era curiosidad, y se encantaba oyendo a su padre
contarle relatar fabulas maravillosas , historias de
osos y lobos y las leyendas lebaniegas que se han
repetido desde antiqusimos tiempos. El primer
maestro de msica fue sin lugar a dudas su padre don
Jacinto Monasterio, este encontraba en el violin un
sosiego a sus problemas lo habia aprendido a tocar en

Valladolid siendo estudiante de leyes , notaba que su

hijo cada vez que el tocaba se quedaba muy pegado
a el y a veces hasta notaba alguna lagrima en su
rostro,Por qu lloras hijo?---..---Padre es que la msica
me emociona---. Su padre no olvido le sensibilidad de
su hijo y se esmero en que que Jesus aprendiera
msica.
Enrique Henry Gauvreay
Hay gente que se pasa la vida haciendo cosas que detesta
Para conseguir dinero que no necesita
Para comprar cosas que no quiere
Para impresionar a gente que odia.-

El amor de los jovenes

No esta en el corazn
Sino en los ojos.-

Most shocking of all to Sir John was Sonnet VII of a sequence called "The Hermit," dealing
with a few weeks in which the poet was parted from Lola by relatives and friends who were
attempting to end the illicit affair. The poet wrote:
I will visit you, forlorn who lie
Crying for lack of me; your very flesh
Shall tingle with the touch of me as I
Wrap you about with the ensorcelled mesh
Of my fine body of fire: oh! you shall feel
My kisses on your mouth like living coals
Even Rev. Verey was not so ignorant of occultism as to misunderstand this or
attribute it to Atheism and Free Love. His footnote said explicitly, "This disgusting sonnet
seems to refer to the wicked magickal practice of traveling by the astral double." Sir John
sighed, remembering his own travels in "the body of fire" (as the astral double is technically
called) and his own terrifying encounter with Lola Levine, in which she had dragged his
unconscious body into unwilling sin.
For many days Sir John pondered and worried. Finally, he decided that he must act,
and he carefully penned a letter to Rev. Verey at the Society for the Propagation of

Religious Truth in Inverness, Scotland. He chose his words most carefully:

Babcock Manor
Greystoke, Weems
July 23, 1913
Dear Rev. Verey,
I have recently acquired a copy of your sad and terrible book, Clouds Without
Water, and was very moved by the tragedy recounted therein.
Before proceeding further, I must in honesty inform you that I am not, as you are, a
Presbyterian; but I am a fellow Christian and I hope [and pray] a devout and pious one.
What I have to tell you will be shocking and perhaps incredible to you but I beg you to
think deeply and ponder long before rejecting my most somber warning.
I know not how you came into possession of those terrible poems, and can
understand [although some bigots would not] why you considered it proper to print them,
with a running commentary showing the dreadful results of the life and philosophy
celebrated by the unfortunate poet. However, I do not think this book should ever have been
published, and I fear that you have touched upon an evil far worse than you realized.
Briefly, I am a student of Christian Cabalism, and, although loathing with all my
heart the perversions of Cabala employed by diabolists, I have of necessity learned a few
things about their beliefs and practices. You may find this hard to credit, but the poet is not
describing merely an adulterous love affair; he is, in fact, depicting -- in a kind of code, but
in a manner clear to students of these matters -- the horrible practices of what is called
Left-Hand Tantra or sex-magick; the devices, in short, of the Black Mass and of Satanism.
I am writing to you because it is obvious that the wicked woman who led the poet
into these fiendish paths [called only Lola in the text] must be an initiate of a cult of black
magicians. Such groups, I assure you, do not relish having their secrets published, even in
code -- especially when the code is, as in this case, quite transparent to any student of
Cabalistic occultism. Without wishing to alarm you unnecessarily, I think it possible that
this cult may wish to suppress the book, even though your Society circulated it only to
ministers of religion, since it is now beginning to appear in the used bookstalls [which is
where I found my copy]. It is even possible that they may seek revenge upon you.
If you do not dismiss this letter as the ravings of a superstitious fool, I wish to offer
you my friendship and aid, in case such black magick action against you is being taken or
plotted.
Until I hear from you, I can only conclude: May the blessings of our Lord be upon
you, and surround you, and protect you.
Sincerely,
Sir John Babcock
After posting this missive, Sir John began to have serious doubts about whether a
Scottish Presbyterian would, or would not, credit the continued existence of Satanic lodges
in the modern world. He also wondered if he had acted prematurely; but Jones was on
holiday in France and Sir John had no one else to advise him.
A few nights later, Sir John visited his cousins, the Greystokes, and met again the
aged Sicilian, Giacomo Celine, who seemed to be related to a South European branch of the
family. Somehow, the conversation turned to ghost stories after the brandy and cigars were
circulating.

"Lewis' The Monk is still the most blood-curdling book ever written," Sir John
ventured at one point.
"But that's technically not a ghost story at all," Viscount Greystoke remarked. "It's a
story of demons."
"Of course," old Celine said. "Ghost stories really are quite dull, actually. Mrs.
Shelley's Frankenstein is not a ghost story, either, and I think it at least as terrifying as The
Monk. And that young Irishman from Sir Henry Irving's theatrical corporation -- what's-hisname -- Stoker -- he has written the most frightening book ever: Dracula. And that doesn't
deal with ghosts, either. Ghosts are comparatively tame compared with the real horrors a
lively imagination can conjure up."
"That reminds me," old Greystoke said, "there's a novelette around that is more
terrible than anything we've discussed, and it has no ghosts, either. Ghosts, after all, are
only dead humans, and humans can be wicked enough as we all know, but it's the nonhuman creature of evil that really makes the blood run cold, as the saying goes. The nonhuman is not limited by the traits which even ghosts share with us."
"Quite so," Sir John agreed. "And what is the name of this novelette?"
"Oh, here it is," Greystoke replied, prowling among his bookcases. "If you want a
bad night, try reading this before bed." And he handed Sir John a slim volume of stories
entitled The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen.

DE MONSTRIS
ACTION
EXTERIOR. BABCOCK MANOR, MEDIUM SHOT
The penny-farthing bicycle in a garden. Sir John, age six, with a little girl, same age, he with
pants down, she with skirts up, comparing genitalia.
SOUND
Sir John's voice: "Oh, God, Jones, that thing. . ."
ACTION
EXTERIOR. BABCOCK MANOR, CLOSE-UP. A grinning statue of Pan above Sir John's
head.
SOUND
Voodoo drums.
ACTION
EXTERIOR. CLEAR SKY, CLOSE-UP.
Hawk shrieking.
SOUND
Hawk shriek; voodoo drums.
ACTION
EXTERIOR. CLEAR SKY, CLOSE-UP. The eyes on the statue of Pan turn and look at Sir
John.
SOUND

Voodoo drums.
Voice: "There is an evil power behind it all. . ."
ACTION
BABCOCK MANOR. INTERIOR, DINING ROOM. MEDIUM SHOT.
Dr. BENTLEY BOSTICK BABCOCK and VISCOUNT GREYSTOKE dining. SIR JOHN, age
twelve, at far end of table.
SOUND
Voice [Dr. Bentley B. Babcock, continuing]: "Just look at the record: 1900, King Humbert of
Italy assassinated; 1901, Bogolyepov, the minister of education, assassinated in Russia and
President McKinley assassinated in the United States; 1903, King Alexander of Serbia
assassinated."
ACTION
INTERIOR. BABCOCK MANOR, DINING ROOM. CLOSE-UP.
SIR JOHN listening to the adults with horror.
SOUND
Dr. Babcock's voice-over: "It has to be an international conspiracy, I tell you."
ACTION
Pan To:
At the far end of the room, in a huge overstuffed red chair, GIACOMO CELINE, smiling
privately. He is reading Not the Almighty with the eye-in-triangle design on the cover.
SOUND
Voodoo drums.

Sir John retired to bed with Machen's The Great God Pan around eleven and indeed
he had a bad night. He quickly became convinced that he had discovered another member
of the Golden Dawn and one who knew a great deal about the dark Satanic lodges working
in opposition to the Great Work. "There are sacraments of Evil, as well as of Good,"
Machen wrote, and his title story was a most daring approach to almost describing the
sacraments of Evil explicitly.
Even worse for Sir John's peace of mind, Machen recounted, as fiction, a weird and
terrible story of which Clouds Without Water might actually be a missing chapter or a
sequel. The Great God Pan tells of two men, Clarke and Villiers, who share a common
interest in the bizarre and mysterious side of London life. Although Clarke and Villiers do
not join forces until the climax of the story, each of them finds, working independently of
the other, parts of the history of a most strange and dangerous woman, called "Helen" in the
text. In each chapter, either Clarke or Villiers encounters a victim of this woman, or hears a
yarn of incredible events which seems to relate to her mysterious doings. When Villiers and
Clarke finally intersect each other's investigations and begin to compare notes, most of the
truth begins to emerge, although not all of it, since Machen restricts himself to hints and
euphemisms. What is clear, however, is that "Helen" is a worshipper of the Horned God,
who has lured countless men and women into unspeakable erotic practices -- sexual
excesses leading at first to ecstasy and then to a chain of nervous breakdowns and suicides.
It could almost be the story of Lola Levine; and Sir John wondered if it were, in

fact, her story.

How much of Machen's terrifying tale was fiction, and how much fact? Why had
Machen published, even as fiction and even with the worst of it veiled in vague hints, so
many dreadful secrets which the world was better not to know at all? Why had the Secret
Chiefs of the Order allowed Machen to publish this dreadful tale, for that matter? Sir John
found himself thinking, without humor, of the Rev. Verey's dark warnings that the world
was entering the last days and the final conflict between Good and Evil would soon be upon
us all. The Greystokes, who had family connections in every branch of the government, it
often seemed, were worried more and more lately about the possibility of a greater war than
the world had ever known. . .
Sir John uneasily climbed out of bed and looked again at the most disturbing
passage in Clouds Without Water, in which the Rev. Verey said:
Unblushing, the old Serpent rears its crest to the sky; unashamed, the Beast and the
Scarlet Woman chant the blasphemous litanies of their fornication.
Surely the cup of their abominations is nigh full!
Surely we who await the Advent of our blessed Lord are emboldened to trust that
this frenzy of wickedness is a sure sign of the last days; that He will shortly come. . .
Could it be that the true purpose of the Golden Dawn was not merely to raise the
human mind to communication with the divine, but to train warriors of God to do battle
against the forces of diabolical magick threatening the planet? Why did the first teaching
say so harshly, "Fear is failure, and the forerunner of failure," if the members were not
expected, eventually, to confront the most fearful evils and do battle against them?
Sir John performed a most earnest banishing ritual, drank a double shot of cognac,
and crept back to bed, severely troubled in his mind. His dreams were not pleasant.
The Hermit carrying a rotlantern was leading him down a Naranhope alley in some
low, disreputable neighborhood of London. Orofaces out of Hogarth's etchings and Dor's
illustrations of Dante's Inferno glared gorm on all sides; Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred
Douglas rose up from a violet cellar muttering incoherently, "the love of Jesus and John. . .
the love of David and Jonathan. . .