Sir John leaned forward, suddenly interested. “I think I begin to understand you a bit,” he said. “You are saying that I am living in a Gothic novel, while you prefer to live in a Zola novel.”
“Not that at all,” Joyce said. “The Zola school is one-dimensional. I am seeking multi-dimensional vision. I wish to see deeply into Gothic novels, Zola novels and all other masquerades, and then beyond them.”
“Fascinating,” said Einstein. “Fascinating.”
The other two looked at him expectantly.
“Your parable of Araby,” Einstein said to Joyce, “reminds me curiously of a parable of my own. Imagine that we three are physicists seated here in this room. Unknown to us, this room is actually an elevator—a lift, Sir John—which is rising rapidly through outer space. Since we do not imagine that we are inside an elevator, but are educated in physics and curious about our environment, we begin to conduct experiments. We find that objects dropped from our hands fall to the floor. We find further that if the objects are thrown horizontally instead of dropped, they also fall, but in a parabola. We find, in fact, that as we experiment and write the simplest possible mathematical equations to describe our observations, we can derive the whole Newtonian theory of gravity. We decide that beneath this box in which we find ourselves is a planet which ‘draws’ objects to it.”
“Is that true?” Joyce asked, startled. “It is more wonderful than anything you have told me of your theories thus far.”
“I am in the process of proving it,” Einstein said, “in a paper I’m writing. Now, it so happens that one physicist in the room, or the elevator, by some strange process of creative reorganization of sense-data—perhaps akin to these mind-bending Cabalistic experiments of the Golden Dawn people—has made the leap to another way of thinking. He conceives of the room as an elevator and imagines the cable and the machinery that is rapidly drawing us upward. He sits down and performs his own experiments and writes his own equations. He derives eventually the whole theory of inertia as found in classical mechanics. There is no planet beneath us at all, he decides.
“Now,” Einstein said, “we are in the predicament that the doors are locked and we cannot get out of the room. How do we determine who has the correct explanation of the lawful phenomena that we observe—those who attribute them to gravity [a planet beneath us], or the one who attributes them to inertia [a cable above us, pulling us through free zero-gravity space]?”
“Oh, I say,” Babcock murmured, “that is a bit of poser, isn’t it?”
“Both are correct, in a sense,” Joyce said firmly. “If both systems of equations will describe our situation, there is no reason to prefer one over the other, except esthetic preference. Within the terms of the problem we can never see the planet beneath us or the cable above us. You set us up for the wrong answer by telling the situation from the point of view of the man outside.”
“Precisely,” Einstein said. “Any coordinate system acts like the room I was talking about, and if there is an outside observer we cannot scientifically know it. From inside the room—inside any coordinate system—there is no way of saying whether gravity or inertia is the true explanation of the phenomena we observe. It is the same with Sir John’s narrative—that is to say, it is either a random series of odd coincidences and Freudian dream symbols, given a totally artificial meaning by Sir John’s occult beliefs, or it is a series of real occult Omens, depending on the interpretation of the observer.”
“Precisely,” Joyce said. “I can do as well as Sir John, in the department of odd coincidences. For instance, my first teaching job was at a school on Vico Road in Dublin. More recently, in Trieste, I have had to walk the Via Giambattista Vico twice a day, to go to and from the home of one of my language students. Then I had a student who was fascinated by Vico’s theory of the cycle in history. Naturally, I became interested in the life and philosophy of Vico after all that, and I found numerous parallels with my own life and thought, so that now everything I write is influenced by Vico. You may interpret this sequence in whatever way you choose. Either, Unum, the gods arranged for me to encounter Vico’s name over and over in order to influence my writing; or, Duum, it was mere coincidence, and I gave it meaning by taking it seriously. There is no way of proving either hypothesis to the man who insists on seeing it the other way.”
“Not quite,” Einstein said sharply. “When it becomes possible to choose between two theories, we should choose the one that best accords with the facts. Or, we should develop a higher-order theory that reconciles the differences between the two conflicting interpretations—as I am trying to do with this gravity and inertia conundrum. Without such creative effort to make our concepts square with our percepts, our thought is just an exercise in wish fulfillment.”
A skeptical noise from Babcock caused Einstein to look at him expectantly.
“Surprising as it may be,” Babcock said wearily, “I agree with all you gentlemen have said. One of the first lessons I learned in the Golden Dawn is that perception depends on the mind of the observer, just as what is revealed through a lens depends on the angle of refraction. Your reminding me of that is a work of supererogation and does not at all relieve the fundamental terror of my position as one under attack by black magicians who have already shown their capacity to unhinge the minds of three people and drive them to suicide.”
“Well, as to that,” Einstein said mildly, “you are certainly a man with dangerous enemies, we all agree. What remains to be determined is whether they can actually manipulate the physical universe with their, um, magick, or whether they are merely superlatively clever at manipulating the minds of the human beings on whom they prey. In that connection, we would both be most interested to hear the rest of your story.”
“Yes,” Joyce said. “I certainly want you to get on with it. I have already formed a tentative hypothesis about what is actually afoot here—behind all the masques and masquerades—and I would be most intrigued to learn whether that theory will mesh with the subsequent facts.”
“Very well,” said Sir John. “To proceed, then.”
And, as the Föhn wind continued to batter the window, he told Joyce and Einstein a tale that confounded all their expectations.
DE ILLUMINATORUM OPERIBUS DIVERSIS
Sir John found Verey’s letter about the bat-winged creature so disturbing that he determined to learn all he could about the enigmatic Aleister Crowley—the man described by Jones as the leader of a false Golden Dawn lodge dedicated to licentiousness and black magick; the lover of Lola Levine, according to Ezekiel (or Ezra or Jeremiah) Pound; the wizard who had perhaps once turned Victor Neuberg into a camel; and, in Sir John’s growing suspicions, the human channel through which the crew that never rests had been set loose upon the Verey family.
He began at the British Museum, uneasily recalling the dream in which he had encountered Karl Marx there and heard a confusing history of Freemasonry all muddled together with the assassination of Julius Caesar.
Reviews of Current Literature for the past decade revealed that Crowley was the author of more than a dozen volumes of poetry, every one of which had received uncommonly mixed reviews. The critic in The Listener did not seem at all to be able to make up his mind about one of Crowley’s volumes, The Sword of Song, describing it as “fearless,” “serious and intrepid” and “increasingly repellent” in a single paragraph. The Seeker was more charitable: “Crowley has been reproached in some thoughtless or malicious quarters…. It is undoubtedly no easy task to follow the royal bird in his dazzling flight”; while The Clarion frankly gave up in despair: “We must confess that our intelligence is not equal to the task.” The Cambridge Review was simply furious at another Crowley volume, complaining that it was “obscene,” “revolting” and a “monstrosity” that “demands an emphatic protest from lovers of literature and decency.” The Arboath Herald, like the Clarion, surrendered to despair, designating Crowley’s verse as “so clever one finds some of it utterly unintelligible.”
The Atheist, on the other hand, grudgingly praised Crowley while denouncing him: “Far as we are from admiring his dreamy romanticism, yet his staunch denial of the supernatural, the divine, the mystical must command our respect”; but, paradoxically, the Prophetic Mercury found the same verses hopeful for the opposite reason, saying, “The ever-present sense of God in the mind of the poet leads us to the prayerful hope that one day he may be enlightened.” Again the Yorkshire Post was simply aghast: “Mr. Crowley’s poetry, if such it may be called, is not serious”; but the Literary Guide was rhapsodic: “A masterpiece of learning and satire.”
Q: Give a succinct and representative example of the controversial verse of Mr. Crowley.
A: From Konx Om Pax, 1907:
Blow the tom-tom, bang the flute!
Let us all be merry!
I’m a party with acute
Chronic beri-beri.
Monday I’m a skinny critter
Quite Felicien-Ropsy.
Blow the cymbal, bang the zither!
Tuesday I have dropsy.
Wednesday cardiac symptoms come;
Thursday diabetic.
Blow the fiddle, strum the drum!
Friday I’m paretic.
If on Saturday my foes
Join in legions serried,
Then on Sunday, I suppose,
I’ll be beri-beried!
Sir John next tried the newspapers. In the Times for 1909—the year Sir John himself had graduated from Cambridge and the mad Picasso had shocked the Paris art world with his first incomprehensible “Cubist” painting—Crowley had been involved in a lawsuit with MacGregor Mathers. The Times reporter was not sympathetic to either Crowley or Mathers, but Sir John was able to gather that the ostensible purpose of the trial—Mathers’ attempt to prevent Crowley from publishing, in a magazine called The Equinox, certain rituals of the original Golden Dawn—was only an excuse to air the real conflict between them, which hinged on the fact that each claimed to be the real head of the Invisible College of the Rosicrucians. Well, that was hardly news to Sir John; Jones had told him that Crowley, Mathers and others were operating fake Rosicrucian lodges in competition with the real Golden Dawn. The judge, Sir John learned with amusement, refused to allow the trial to degenerate into a debate about such claims, which by their very nature could not be settled in an ordinary law court, and had merely ruled that Mathers had no authority to prevent Crowley from publishing documents of unknown age and authorship which both litigants admitted, and even stipulated, were written by superhuman intelligences unwilling to take corporeal form to testify on their own behalf.
Sir John was also amused to find that Mathers, under cross-examination, was forced to confess that he had, on occasion, alleged himself to be the reincarnation of King Charles I. He also found a clue to further information about Crowley in a casual remark, during the testimony, indicating that Crowley regarded himself as the worlds greatest living mountain climber.
A visit to the Alpine Club quickly brought vehement denials of that claim. “Aleister Crowley,” said the Club’s secretary, a Mr. Mortimer, “is the world’s greatest living braggart. None of his climbs is accepted as authenticated by us.” But further questioning soon produced the usual ambiguity that seemed to cling to Crowley like fog to the London streets: it was obvious that the feud between Crowley and the Alpine Club went all the way back to the 1890s and that both sides had accused the other of lying so often that an outside observer could not form an impartial judgment. Mortimer did let slip one remark that suggested Crowley’s mountaineering exploits might not be entirely contemptible, admitting that Oscar Eckenstein, Germany’s greatest climber, had often called Crowley England’s best contender—“but,” Mortimer added hastily, “Eckenstein is a German Jew and has a grudge against us, so naturally he’d support Crowley’s lies.”
Sir John moved on to seek further clues to his enigmatic antagonist from various people who were reputed to know London high life extensively.
“Crowley is certainly a rascal, and an amusing one,” said Max Beerbohm. “Whether he also is a true scoundrel I cannot say, but he does devote a great deal of his energy to convincing the world that he’s a scoundrel.”
“Um, yes,” Sir John said doubtfully, “but just how do you distinguish a rascal from a true scoundrel?”
“A rascal,” said Beerbohm precisely, “doesn’t care a brass farthing for contemporary morals, but still possesses his own kind of honor. A scoundrel has neither morals nor honor.”
“Oh,” Sir John said, still dubiously. “Could you give me an example of Crowley’s, uh, rascality?”
Beerbohm chuckled. The heavy memories of Horeb, Sinai and the forty years showed as the daylight fell level across his face. “There are a thousand examples,” he said, the stiffness from spats to collar relaxing into grace. “My own favorite involves the statue of Oscar Wilde in Paris, by that very talented young man Jacob Epstein. The French, you know, put the statue up to show they were more broadminded about, uh, Wilde’s sexual proclivities than we are and would recognize a great artist whatever his, uh, peculiarities.” He chuckled again. “They weren’t quite broadminded enough for Epstein’s statue, which was a nude, you see. That was a bit thick, in connection with Wilde’s, um, reputation, but they couldn’t, ah, insult Epstein by rejecting the statue after commissioning it. So they hired some hack to attach a fig leaf at the ah-uh-um sensitive point, if I make myself clear. Well, sir, do you know what Crowley did? He crept into the park after dark, with a hammer and chisel, and removed the fig leaf. Then, to add scandal to outrage, he walked into Claridge’s here in London, that same night, wearing the fig leaf over the front of his own trousers!” Beerbohm laughed. “That is what I would call rascality, although I doubt it is scoundrelism.”
The beautiful Florence Farr, London’s most famous actress, was as paradoxical as most of the reviewers of Crow-ley’s poetry. “Aleister,” she said, “was, when I knew him ten years ago, the handsomest, wittiest, most brilliant young man in London. He was also the most unmitigated cad and blackguard I have ever encountered. From what I hear now and then about his life, these contradictions in him are growing more violent all the time. I am quite sure he will end either on the gallows or being canonized as a saint.”
Victor Neuberg, the young poet who had allegedly been turned into a camel by Crowley, refused to meet with Sir John at all, sending merely a card saying in tiny script: “No man living understands, or can understand, Aleister Crowley, but those who value their sanity will not get involved with him.”
Richard Aldington, the editor, commented: “Rodin considers Crowley our greatest living poet, but I fear that is due entirely to the fact that Crowley wrote a volume of verse glorifying Rodin’s sculpture. Personally, I can’t stand Crowley’s verse. It’s Victorian, and rhetorical, and windy. Totally without the modern note.”
Gerald Kelly, the most fashionable painter in England, looking like exactly what he was—a man who would soon be elected to the Royal Academy—said, “I can’t talk about Aleister Crowley, Sir John. You evidently haven’t heard that he’s my former brother-in-law. All I will say is that when my sister divorced him I was not unhappy.”
Bertránd Russell, the mathematician, stated precisely, “I have never met a layman who understands modern mathematics as well as Aleister Crowley, but aside from that his head is a swamp of mushy mysticism. I hear he plays excellent chess, so you might learn more at the London Chess Club.”
The London Chess Club turned out to be full of admirers of Crowley, all of whom regretted that he hadn’t devoted more time to the game. “He could be a Grandmaster,” one member said sadly, “if he didn’t waste himself on nonsense like mountain-climbing and poetry and was not constantly running off to the East to ruin his mind with Hindu superstitions.”
“Aleister,” said another chess buff, “is the only man I have ever seen, short of Grandmaster status, who can really play blindfold chess against several opponents and win most of the games. In
fact”—here he lowered his voice—“one of his sports is almost preternatural. He actually has, on more than one occasion, retired to a bedroom with his mistress of the moment and called out his moves to a player sitting at a board in the next room, and won. He says he does it to show us what real concentration means.”
Sir John blushed furiously. “What a contemptible way to treat a woman,” he said stiffly.
“Well,” said the informant with a leer, “from what I heard about it, the sounds from the bedroom indicated that the lady was having a most gratifying experience; or several gratifications, in fact.”
Sir John went off pondering that specialists can look right into the Devil’s face and not recognize it. What seemed a mixture of vulgar stunt and intellectual gymnastics to the chess player was obviously far worse, to anyone aware of the sexual aspects of black magick: it was part of Crowley’s continuous training for the ordeals of the ritual of Pan, in which prolonged sensuality is used to intoxicate the senses and open the door to the astral entities.
Sir John next went browsing in bookstores and after a frustrating search finally came upon one of Crowley’s books—a prose work entitled Book Four, which claimed to explain all the mysteries of yoga and magick in simple words that the man in the street could understand. Sir John purchased this at once and took it home for study.
When Sir John returned to Babcock Manor after collecting all this contradictory but disturbing intelligence about the Enemy, he found that a small package had arrived from the Golden Dawn post office box in London. That was strange, since Jones was still in Paris; but then Sir John did not know for a fact that Jones was in charge of these mailings. Perhaps some other officer of the Order sent out appropriate lessons to students at pre-arranged dates. Sir John opened the package, with a wistful hope that it might contain the secret of the Rose Cross ritual—something for which Jones had told him he might soon qualify.
Masks of the Illuminati Page 16