Diary of a Drug Fiend

by Aleister Crowley

  In her earth-life, too, she became more obviously ill-tempered; and, as to a woman of her type revenge only means one thing, she amused the garrison exceedingly by attempting flirtations. The rule of the Profess-House happened to include the virtue of chastity, which is an active and positive thing, a passion, not that mere colourless abstinence and stagnation which passes in Puritan countries by that name, breeds more wickedness than all the vice on the planet, and, at the best, is shared by clinkers.

  She was clever enough to see in a few hours that she was only making herself utterly ridiculous; but this again did not tend to improve her temper, as many devout ladies, from Dido to Potiphar’s wife, have been at the pains to indicate to our psychologists.

  The situation grew daily more strained, with now and then an explosion which cleared the air for a while. The discipline of the Profess-House prevented the trouble from spreading; but Cyril Grey confided to Brother Onofrio that he was angrier than ever at the efficient way in which Edwin Arthwait and his merry men had been put out of business.

  “I’d give my ears,” said Cyril, “to see Edwin, arm in arm with Lucifuge Rofocale, coming up from the bay to destroy us all by means of the Mysterious Amulet of Rabbi Solomon, conferring health, wealth and happiness, with bag complete; also lucky moles and love-charms, price two eleven three to regular subscribers to The Occult Review.”

  But with June a great and happy change came over Iliel. She became enthralled by the prospect of the miracle that was so soon to blossom on her breast. Her sulkiness vanished; she was blithe and joyous from the day’s beginning to its end. She bore fatigue and discomfort without a murmur. She made friends with Sister Clara, and talked to her for hours while she plied her needle upon those necessary and now delightful tasks of making tiny and dainty settings for the expected jewel. She clean forgot the irksomeness of her few restrictions; she recovered all the gaiety and buoyancy of youth; indeed, she had to be cautioned in the mere physical matter of activity. No longer did she indulge morbid fancies, or take unwholesome pleasure in the contemplation of evil ideas. She was at home in her heaven of romance, the heroine of the most wonderful story in the world. Her love for Cyril showed a tender and more exalted phase; she became alive to her dignity and responsibility. She acquired also a sense of Nature which she had never had before in all her life; she felt a brotherhood with every leaf and flower of the garden, told herself stories of the loves of the fishermen whose sails dotted the blue of the bay, wondered what romances were dancing on the decks of the great white liners that steamed in from America to tour the Mediterranean, laughed with joy over the antics of the children who played on the slopes below the garden, and glowed with the vigour of the sturdy peasants who bore their baskets of fish, or flowers, or their bundles of firewood, up or down the lanes which her terraces overlooked. There was one wrinkled fish-wife who was perfectly delightful: old and worn with a lifetime of toil, she was as cheerful as the day was long; bowed down as she was by her glittering burden, she never failed to stop and wave a hand, and cry “God bless you, pretty lady, and send you safe and happy day!” with the frank warmth of the Italian peasant.

  The world was a fine place, after all, and Cyril Grey was the dearest boy in it, and herself the happiest woman.

  Chapter XXI

  OF THE RENEWAL OF THE GREAT ATTACK;

  AND HOW IT FARED

  DOUGLAS had been decidedly put out by the death of his wife. After all, she had been a sort of habit; a useful drudge, when all was said. Besides, he missed, acutely, the pleasures of torturing her. His suspicions of the bona fides of Balloch were conjoined with actual annoyance.

  It was at this painful moment in his career that Cremers came to the rescue. A widowed friend of hers had left a daughter in her charge: for Cremers had the great gift of inspiring confidence. This daughter was being educated in a convent in Belgium. The old woman immediately telegraphed for her, and presented her to Douglas with the compliments of the season. Nothing could have been more timely or agreeable. She was a gentle innocent child, as pretty and charming as he had ever seen. It was a great point in the game of the astute Cremers to have pleased the sorcerer; and she began insensibly to gain ascendancy over his spirit. He had at first suspected her of being an emissary of his colleague, “A. B.”, who might naturally wish to destroy him. For the plan of the sorcerer who wishes to be sole and supreme is to destroy all rivals, enemies, and companions; while the magician attains supremacy in Unity by constantly uniting himself with others, and finding himself equally in every element of existence. It is the difference between hate and love. He had been careful to examine her magically, and found no trace of “A. B.” in her “aura”. On the contrary, he concluded that her ambition was to supplant “A. B.”; and that went well with his own ideas. But first he must get her into his Fourteen, and have a permanent hold over her.

  She, on the other hand, appeared singly desirous of making herself a treasure to him. She knew the one torment that gnawed continually at his liver, the hate of Cyril Grey. And she proposed to herself to win him wholly by offering that gentleman’s scalp. She sharpened her linguistic tomahawk.

  One fine day in April she tackled him openly on the subject. “Say, great one, you ’n I gotta have another peek at that sperrit writing. Seems t’me that was a fool’s game down there.” She jerked her head towards the river. “And I don’t say but that you done right about Balloch.”

  Douglas glanced at her sharply in his most dangerous mood. How much did she know of a certain recent manoeuvre? But she went on quite placidly.

  “Now, look ’e here. We gotta get these guys. An’ we gotta get them where they live. You been hitting at their strong point. Now I tell you something. That girl she live five years with Lavinia King, durn her! I see that bright daughter of Terpsichore on’y five minutes, but she didn’t leave one moral hangin’ on me, no, sir. Now see here, big chief, you been bearin’ the water for them fish, an’, natural, off they goes. For the land’s sake! Look ’e here, I gotta look after this business. An’ all I need is just one hook an’ line, an’ a pailful o’ bait, an’ ef I don’ land her, never trus’ me no more. Ain’t I somebody, all ways? Didn’ I down ole Blavatzsky? Sure I did. An’ ain’t this like earin’ pie after that?”

  The sorcerer deliberated with himself a while. Then he consulted his familiar demons. The omens were confusing. He thought that perhaps he had put his question ambiguously, and tried again in other words. He had begun by asking vaguely “whether Cremers would succeed in her mission”, which had earned him a very positive “yes”, flanked by a quite unintelligible message about “deception”, “the false Dmitri” and “the wrong horse”, also some apparent nonsense about Scotland and an island. This time he asked whether Cremers would succeed in luring Lisa to her destruction. This time the answer was more favourable, though tremulous. But ever since his wife’s death, his demons had behaved very strangely. They seemed the prey of hesitation and even of fear. Such as it was, however, their voice now jumped with his own convictions, and he agreed to her proposal.

  They spent the evening merrily in torturing a cat by blinding it, and then squirting sulphuric acid on it from a syringe; and in the morning Cremers, with Abdul Bey for bait, set out upon her journey to Naples. Arrived in that favoured spot, she bade Abdul Bey enjoy the scenery, and hold his peace. She would warn him when the hour struck. For Cremers was a highly practical old person. She was not like St. James’ devils, who believe and tremble; she disbelieved, but she trembled all the same. She hated Truth, because the Truth sets men free, and therefore makes them happy; but she had too much sense to shut her eyes to it; and though she doubted the causes of magick, and scoffed at all spiritual theory, she could not deny the effects. It was no idle boast of hers that she had destroyed Madame Blavatzsky. Together with another woman, she had wormed her way into the big-hearted Theosophist’s confidence, and betrayed her foully at the proper moment. She had tried the same g
ame on another adept; but, when he found her out, and she knew it, he had merely continued his kindnesses. The alternative before her was repentance or brain fever; and she had chosen the latter.

  Her disbelief in magick had left her with its correlate, a belief in death. It was the one thing she feared, besides magick itself. But she did not make the mistake of being in a hurry, on that account. The strength of her character was very great, in its own way; and she possessed infinite reserves of patience. She played the game with no thought of the victory; and this is half the secret of playing most games of importance. To do right for its own sake is Righteousness, though if you apply this obvious truth to Art the Philistine calls you names, and your morals in question.

  Cremers was a genuine artist in malice. She was not even glad when she had harmed a friend and benefactor, however irreparably; nothing could ever make her glad – but she was contented with herself on such occasions. She felt a sort of sense of duty done. She denied herself every possible pleasure, she hated happiness in the abstract in a genuinely Puritan spirit, and she objected to eat a good dinner herself as much as to consent that anyone else should eat it. Her principal motive in assisting Abdul Bey to his heart’s desire was the cynical confidence that Lisa was capable of pouring him out a hell-broth at least forty per cent above proof.

  The summer was well begun. The sun had turned toward the southern hemisphere once more; he had entered the Sign of the Lion, and with fierce and noble heat scarred the dry slopes of Posilippo. Iliel spent most of her time on the Terrace of the Moon at her needlework, watching the ships as they sailed by, or the peasants at their labour or their pastimes.

  It was a little before sunset on the first of August. She was leaning over the wall of the Terrace. Sister Clara had gone up to the house to make ready for the adoration of the setting of the sun. Up the uneven flagstones of the lane below toiled the old fishwife with her burden, and looked up with the usual cheery greeting. At that moment the crone slipped and fell. “I’m afraid I’ve hurt my back,” she cried, with an adjuration to some saint. “I can’t get up.”

  Iliel, whether she understood the Italian words fully or no, could not mistake the nature of the accident. She did not hesitate; in a moment she had lowered herself from the wall. She bent down and gave her hand to the old woman.

  “Say,” said the woman in English, “that boy’s just crazy about you; and he’s the loveliest man on God’s earth. Won’t you say one word to him?”

  Lisa’s jaw dropped in amazement. “What? Who?” she stammered.

  “Why, that perfectly sweet Turk, Abdul. Sure, you know him, dearie!” Cremers was watching Lisa’s face; she read the answer. She gave a low whistle, and round the corner Abdul Bey came running. He took Lisa in his arms, and rained kisses passionately on her mouth.

  She had no thought of resistance. The situation entranced her. The captive princess; the intrigue; the fairy prince; every syllable was a poem.

  “I’ve longed for you every hour for months,” she cried, between his kisses; “why, oh why didn’t you come for me before?” She had no idea that she was not telling the truth. The past was wiped clean out of her mind by the swirl of the new impulse; and once outside the enchanted circle of the garden, her vow in tatters, there was nothing to remind her.

  “I’m – here – now.” The words burst, like explosions, from his lips. “Come. I’ve got a yacht waiting.”

  “Take me – oh, take me – where you will.”

  Cremers was on her feet, spry and business-like. “We’re best out of here,” she said. “Let’s beat it!” Taking Lisa’s arms, she and Abdul hurried her down the steps which led to the Shore-road.

  Brother Onofrio’s patrol witnessed the scene. He took no notice; it was not against that contingency that he was armed. But at the summons to the Adoration he reported the event to his superior.

  Brother Onofrio received the news in silence, and proceeded to perform the ceremony of the Salutation.

  An hour later, as supper ended, the sound of the bell rang through the House. The visitor was Simon Iff.

  He found Cyril dressed in everyday clothes, no more in his green robe. The boy was smoking a cigar upon the Terrace where he had read his poem on the day after Walpurgis Night.

  He did not rise to greet his master. “Tell the Praetor that you have seen Caius Marius, a fugitive seated upon the ruins of Carthage!” he exclaimed.

  “Don’t take it so hardly, boy!” cried the old mystic. “The man who makes no mistakes makes nothing. But it is my duty to reprove you, and we had better get it over. Your whole operation was badly conceived; in one way or another it was bound to fail. You select a woman with no moral strength – not even with that code of convention which helps so many weak creatures through their temptations. I foresaw from the first that soon or late she would throw up the Experiment.”

  “Your words touch me the more deeply because I also foresaw it from the first.”

  “Yet you went on with it.”

  “Oh no!” Cyril’s eyes were half closed.

  “What do you mean – Oh, no!” cried the other sharply. He knew his Cyril like a book.

  “I never even began,” murmured the boy, dreamily.

  “You will be polite to explain yourself.”

  Simon’s lips took a certain grimness of grip upon themselves.

  “This telegram has consoled me in my grief,” said Cyril, taking with languid grace a slip of paper from his pocket. “It came last week.”

  Simon Iff turned it towards the light. “Horatii,” he read. “A code word, I suppose. But this is dated from Iona, from the Holy House where Himself is!” “Himself” was the word used in the Order to designate its Head.

  “Yes,” said Cyril, softly, “I was fortunate enough to interest Himself in the Experiment; so Sister Cybele has been there, under the charge of the Mahathera Phang!”

  “You young devil!” It was the first time that Simple Simon had been startled in forty years. “So you arranged this little game to draw the enemy’s fire?”

  “Naturally, the safety of Sister Cybele was the first consideration.”

  “And ‘Horatii’?”

  “It’s not a code word. I think it must be Roman History.”

  “Three Boys!”

  “Rather a lot, isn’t it?”

  “They’ll be needed,” said Simon grimly. “I have been doing magick too.”

  “Do tell me.”

  “The Quest of the Golden Fleece, Cyril. I’ve been sowing the Dragon’s Teeth; you remember? Armed men sprang to life, and killed each other.”

  “But I don’t see any armed men.”

  “You will. Haven’t you seen the papers?”

  “I never see papers. I’m a poet, and I like my lies the way mother used to make them.”

  “Well, Europe’s at war I have got your old commission back for you, with an appointment as Intelligence Officer on the staff of General Cripps.”

  “It sounds like Anarchism. From each according to his powers; to each according to his needs, you know. By the way, what’s it about? Anything?”

  “The people think it’s about the violation of solemn treaties, and the rights of the little nations, and so on; the governments think it’s about commercial expansion; but I who made it know that it is the baptism of blood of the New Aeon. How could we promulgate the Law of Liberty in a world where Freedom has been strangled by industrialism? Men have become such slaves that they submit to laws which would have made a revolution in any other country since the world began; they have registration cards harder to bear than iron fetters; they allow their tyrants to bar them from every pleasure that even their poverty allows them. There is only one way to turn the counter-­jumper into a Curtius and the factory girl into a Cornelia; and I have taken it.”

  “How did you work it?”

  “It has been a long b
usiness, But as you know. Sir Edward is a mystic. You saw that article on fishing, I suppose?”

  “Oh yes; I knew that. But I didn’t know it was more definite.”

  “It was he did it. But he’ll lose his place; he’s too fair-minded; and in a year they’ll clamour for fanatics. It’s all right; they’ll butt each other’s brains out; and then the philosophers will come back, and build up a nobler type of civilisation.”

  “I think you accused me recently of using strong medicine.”

  “I was practising British hypocrisy on you. I had to see the Prime Minister that week. Excuse me if I answer a humourist according to his humour. I want to show you how necessary this step has been. Observe: the bourgeois is the real criminal, always.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  “Look at the testimony of literature. In the days of chivalry our sympathies go with the Knight-errant, who redresses wrongs; with the King, whose courage and wisdom deliver his people from their enemies. But when Kingship became tyranny, and feudalism oppression, we took our heroes from the rebels. Robin Hood, Hereward the Wake, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Rob Roy; it was always the Under Dog that appealed to the artist. Then industrialism became paramount, and we began – in Byron’s time – to sympathise with brigands and corsairs. Presently these were wiped out, and today or rather, the day before yesterday, we were reduced to loving absolute scoundrels, Arsene Lupin, Raffles, Stingaree, Fantomas, and a hundred others, or the detectives who (although on the side of society) were equally occupied in making the police look like fools. That is the whole charm of Père What’s-his-name in Gaboriau, and Dupin, and Sherlock Holmes. There has never been a really sympathetic detective in fiction who was on good terms with the police! And you must remember that the artist always represents the subconscious will of the people. The literary hack who panders to the bourgeois, and makes his heroes of millionaires’ sons, has never yet created a character, and never will. Well, when the People love a burglar, and hate a judge, there’s something wrong with the judges.”