The Complete Simon Iff

by Aleister Crowley

  "But why should she take so extraordinary a means to cope with her secret anguish? One could only see an answer by invoking the Psychology of the Unconscious. I began to probe the persons concerned. Mrs. Smith was clearly guiltless. She had not the physical strength or adroitness; besides, she was not there. Unless all three were lying, Mamie was alone with her father. Andall three were not lying, if they had been, they would have invented some commonplace story of accident.

  "So we contemplate Mamie, the plain, flat-chested unconsidered nullity, not wanted save for household drudgery. It was she, surely, who, if she became neurotic, as she was almost certain to do, might accentuate her compensating fiction to the point of attacking the social condition which oppressed her in the person of its representative, the 'Father-Governor'. He, too, was personally responsible for most of her misery, since he had begotten her female and not male, or (as she put it in that cipher) had robbed her of manhood. Also, he was--in the eyes of her Unconscious self--'the Man', that is, she was as an infant unconsciously in love with him. The incest-barrier (as we call it) baulked her here; and as, when she came to the experience of sex-need, she was not able to obtain other men to represent the Father, she threw back on him the responsibility for her emptiness.

  "Now then, was William Smith her accomplice? At first sight--or rather hearing, for I got all this, so far, in New York from this lady's account--it seemed probable, for material, if not psychological, reasons. But when I discovered that he was expressing himself freely and fully as the 'superior male', capable, ambitious, enjoying himself without restraint in Boston, I absolved him. Morals are the cause of madness. Unmoral people never go mad, except in the case where insanity is a symptom of some disease like tuberculosis. Madness is caused by a conflict in the will. Immoral, as opposed to unmoral, people often go mad; for their 'conscience' reproaches them--Satan divided against Satan. And moral people go mad too, for their suppressed desires reproach them; and this is worse than conscience, because conscience is a factitious thing, an Intruder on Nature. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. The penalty of disobedience is insanity.

  "So this book of poems, which the writer herself never properly understood, fully and wholly, leads us to this grave. Here is the stick, the symbol of authority, broken by the blow which shattered the skull of its living parallel, the Father. Now we are ready to continue our reading.

  "The next few poems are short and joyous. The magic has succeeded. But look here! Nineteen nine, April. Isn't this strange? 'The Pipes of Pan'. Last verse.

  "'O Syrinx, we were glad indeed

  To hear thee, changed into a reed;

  Thine, losing Pan, was all the loss,

  Thou female Jesus on the Cross!'

  "Still no sense of humour! But are not these strange words from the Chosen Virgin? No; for her father's murder has been successful. She feels that she has conquered reality; so she faces it at last. The murder is only a substituted satisfaction of her real need; but it has given her confidence. The idea comes into her mind: 'I may be able to fulfill myself sexually after all.' Now watch is idea grow. Here are poems passionate, even sensual, one after another. 'The Night is Short,' 'My Dove,' 'Abelard', and so on. She still wants to triumph over man, but now it is in the normal way. All this means that she sees a chance to marry. But with this comes the note of doubt, of lack of confidence in herself. In the world of her psychic compensation she had conquered completely; but in this real life she was still unproven. We are near the end now--ah look!"

  The poems had all been fair copies in her superbly delicate caligraphy; but this last page was a hurried scrawl, with blots. It was as if she wished to symbolize, even by means of external form, the sudden ruin of her life. The poem was entitled 'Red'.

  "'O flame of hell! how I have hated thee,

  Thou God, thou Father, thou creative curse,

  Red robber, red smutch on virginity,

  Red energy of this vile universe.

  I conquered thee, I blotted thee quite out,

  Abolishing thy presence like a dream,

  But when I came to thy my triumph out,

  Again I found the accursed red supreme.

  O vile! O serpent! I had crushed thee firm

  When I destroyed, annihilated Man,

  But thou, disguised, o execrable worm,

  Hast by a prostitute upset my plan.

  Thou art the Sun, thou God and Father, thou

  Red-Headed Harlot, scarlet Babylon

  That took my triumph. O, I see thee now

  And him thy red mouth, harlot, fixes on.

  I see thee pass me in a flash of light,

  The chariot of the Sun. Then what's to do?

  I will die virgin, for my soul is white,

  Spilling the red in me, my fault all through!'"

  Simon Iff hesitated a moment, as if puzzled.

  "Excuse me, Sir," said Dobson, "but I can explain one bit of that. She was in the village as we raced through. Miss Madison didn't see her because (begging your pardon, Miss) she was all over the parson, kissing him, with her hair down."

  "I have never been accused of lack of thoroughness," cried Mollie, her shame taking refuge in pert affrontery.

  "I think it's all clear now," said Simon Iff, very sadly. "At the last moment Reality defeats her by that very symbol of Red which she thought she had destroyed. Then the true horror was revealed to her as by an angel; the Red was in herself all the time. the 'Virgin' compensation was a fraud, after all; the red blood was in her heart. Ah well, that could easily be cured."

  He closed the book, and put it into the hands of William Smith.

  Then he locked his hands behind his back, and went with bowed head out of the house.

  They followed him. He ignored the car, and went slowly towards Potter's Place, none daring to speak to him.

  Smith and the coroner, walking some fifty yards behind with Miss Mollie Madison, saw that she was crying. Smith tried a stammering word of consolation. "Oh! Oh!" she said trembling, "there was never a man like Simon Iff. His soul is one fierce flame of love for humanity, and he--he--sees--too--much."

  ***

  *"it is certain my father has robbed me of ALL he was afraid to have two boys lest they should be strong enough to kill him thus man is all evil I am chosen to redeem the world by virginity by this means man will be destroyed" - Editor

  Sterilized Stephen

  "Take an arm-chair, young lady," said Simon Iff genially. "Every man and every woman is a star. Dobson, tell Nankipoo to bring the drinks and gaspers."

  The woman addressed sank into a chair rather than took it. She covered her face with her hands and began to wipe away the tears with a corner of her ragged gawdy skirt. Iff scrutinized her in silence.

  "Explain the Law," said he when Dobson returned from his errand. "After that, leave us alone."

  "It's this way," said the chauffeur, "as I understand it. Mr. Iff says that we are all really sort of gods who have disguised ourselves as men and women for the sake of the experience; and life on earth is always so painful and hideous that we are all first-class heroes simply for getting ourselves born. We ought all to respect each other for what we really are and for what we have done. It doesn't make any odds what particular rig we've got ourselves up in. Sit up and smile, lass, and talk to Mr. Iff as if he were your own twin brother."

  "That'll do, Dobson," said Mr. Iff; "I am her own twin brother."

  The girl lifted her head. The bitter years had taught her to read strange men at a glance. She saw respect and sympathy in the magician's face. There was no hint of patronage or anything else that could wound the most sensitive spirit. She smiled timidly. Dobson left the room as the Japanese servant served the refreshments.

  "Not bad stuff. May I fill your glass again?"

  The girl nodded. The stimulant had given her courage.

  "Righto," said Simon, "tell me the whole trouble, Young un."

  She began to stammer--"I don't know how I'm here," she man
aged to get out at last.

  Iff answered her. "Simple enough, my dear. It's one of Dobson's duties to keep his eyes open for beauty in distress. Whenever he spots any one in need of any kind, he helps them out; and if he finds the job beyond him he brings the business to me."

  "I thought he was your chauffeur," said the girl, as if the magician's statement were somewhat surprising.

  "So he is," cried Iff. "But then, what is a chauffeur? Doesn't the word mean one who warms things up? He saw you shivering in the cold world. That's all."

  She still seemed puzzled. Simon sighed.

  "Alas, I see that you have been taught to think of a servant as somehow inferior to his master. Dobson is my colleague, a star whose business happens to be to shove another star along the streets."

  The wine was beginning to work in the girl. She began to recover from the obsession of her surroundings. She had never imagined the possibility of so gorgeous a room as Iff's. The sober splendour frightened her. She connected it instinctively with wealth and power, and to her wealth and power meant only the hidden horror behind the police--that monster, many-armed, that might pounce upon her at any moment without reason and without warning.

  "What kind of a star am I?" she asked, and trembled at her own audacity.

  "It's my business to find out," said he; "to find out why you happen to be in this particular disguise; to put you on your proper course; to free you from the forces which have dragged you off it."

  She shook her head very slowly and sadly but with decision.

  Iff eyed her narrowly.

  She sat up straight, gripping the arms of her chair. There was something like a sneer on her lips, something like contempt in her voice.

  "Looking for lost sheep? That game's no good. I'm a goat, and you can't get mutton from me."

  "Great," cried Iff. "That's the spirit I like. I'm a bit of a goat myself. Goats will be goats. Did you ever hear what one of the greatest poets and prophets that ever lived said about goats? 'The lust of the goat is the glory of God.'"

  The girl's animation increased. It was a new experience for her to be addressed by an apparently respectable member of society except in one of three ways: either it was the coarse familiarity of casual admirers, the sanctimonious severity of professional philanthropists, or the savage menaces of the police. Iff understood.

  "Why the hell should I want to reform you?" he laughed. "I suppose you've had a streak of bad luck. I prescribe a new dress, a new hat, some gloves, and silk stockings with change of scenery. I admit that 8th Avenue, with all its charms, may seem monotonous in the long run. Help yourself," he concluded, tossing his bill-fold into her lap. "Try what the Board Walk will do for you."

  To his surprise, the girl sprang up as if his action had broken some spell that had bound her. She crossed the room like a queen, and handed back the case. Then she burst into a torrent of tears which shook her slight shoulders with tempestuous violence.

  Simon Iff took her back to her chair and soothed her. As soon as she was calm, he spoke with curt authority.

  "Tell me the whole trouble."

  His tone made her mistress of herself.

  "All Morgan's millions wouldn't help me--you don't understand. How could you? I've been sick, I've starved, I've been in gaol! I haven't a friend--I've nothing before me but death--I'm sliding; no one can save me. I con't want to be saved. Thanks for the money--at least for the thought in your heart. But a glimpse of joy would only make my wretchedness harder to bear. I haven't cried for five years."

  The natural question shot through Simon's mouth. "Then why were you crying to-day?"

  "Not for myself--I'm too hard and too proud. Look at this paper."

  Her trembling hands fumbled in a shabby plush bag. She handed a slip torn from the columns of an "Evening Journal" to Simon. It was a police report. It recorded the conviction of Stephen Adams, aged 23, assistant cashier in the office of a well-known firm of stockbrokers. The charge was 'theft' of a number of Liberty Bonds. Few details were given; but the method of the robbery had been the abstraction of a number of bonds from a packet, detection having been postponed by replacing them by Bolshevic-manufactured forgeries. The sentence had been Draconic. Even the employers had asked mercy on the ground of the boy's previously good character, and the element of doubt as to his guilt caused by the failure of the prosecution to trace either the disposal of the stolen goods, or the way in which the Russian bonds came into his possession.

  But the judge was 'determined to stamp out that sort of thing', and put on his heaviest boots.

  Simon returned the paper to his guest with a gesture of inquiry.

  "Stephen's my brother," she said.

  "And you are very fond of each other?" asked Iff.

  She hung her head dejectedly. "He cast me off when I went wrong. I haven't seen him since."

  Iff's respect for the girl increased once more. Why should she take so much to heart the punishment of the Pharisee? Her intuition read his thought.

  "I was like a mother to Stephen," she murmured. "I'm seven years older. Mother died when he was born, and father two years later. Aunt Dorcas, his sister, brought us up. She did her best for us both. She was ever so kind; but dreadfully strict. I was always bad at heart, I'm afraid. I wanted my own way, and it brought me to what I am. But he was a dandy kid, clever and good as any one could possibly be. He seemed to take naturally to all her ideas. He was the model boy of the whole town. I'm sorry to say, I despised him for his goodness. I thought he was a sissy; maybe that's why I mothered him so much. I was 20 when Aunt Dorcas died. She left us all she had--it wasn't much, just over $2,000. We stayed on in the flat. Stephen finished his schooling; but I couldn't send him to college, though he was such a splendid scholar and took heaps of prizes. I might have worked it if I hadn't run wild. But as soon as I found myself free, I was like a crazy thing, and before I knew it I had gone wrong with a boy who came down our way fishing for the summer. He knew all the tricks. When he knew what he had done, he wouldn't marry me, but he sent me to a wicked doctor. I was sick for a long while, and somehow they found out in the town what my trouble was. When I tried to get back to my old job, I was thrown out. It was the same everywhere. I came to New York and begged my boy to be decent; to help me out about Stephen. He got him a job in his father's office.

  "As for me, he was tired of my troubles. He wanted pleasure without paying for it. I got work, and found it wouldn't keep me from starving. I and another girl decided to do the usual thing. We went for the high lights on Broadway; and year after year we were driven further and further to skulk in the shadows."

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. Iff seemed to be looking, not at her, but beyond her. His eyes glowed with angry bitterness. He was thinking of the stupidity of society.

  "Don't you feel any resentment against your brother?" he asked tonelessly.

  "Why should I? I'm proud that he is good. He's right to disown me."

  "It seems that we are likely to quarrel," snorted Iff. "I prefer your career to his. You only obeyed your nature: your misfortunes come from other people's meanness, while Stephen, with every chance in his favour, turned thief and stole so stupidly that I haven't a spark of sympathy for him; his virtues make him viler."

  The woman flared up in fury. "But he isn't guilty," she shouted, "how dare you?"

  Iff was impressed. "I suppose you are so sure of him because you know him so well. But let me tell you that it never surprises me to find puritanically virtuous people coming a cropper, especially when they prefer their respectability to natural human feelings."

  She remembered a good many similar cases. Her faith staggered for a moment, and then asserted itself with augmented certainty.

  "Not Stephen," she cried. "He was always genuinely good. He never had the idea of revolt."

  "My dear girl!" said Iff, "I admire you tremendously, but can't you see that you are simply arguing against yourself? Stephen, as you describe him, is simply a straw man, a weakling with no
will of his own. Temptation would knock him over like a ninepin."

  "Oh, how I wish I could show you how wrong you are! He wasn't merely obedient, he loved goodness for its own sake. He was active and eager to be better than he was asked to be. You know how dirty boys are; they seem to enjoy mud. Stephen could never endure a speck of dust on his clothes. His linen, his hands, his shoes--you couldn't have found dirt on them with a microscope. A boy can't do that just by passive trying to please. After Aunt Dorcas died, instead of getting slack and being influenced by my own carelessness, he got almost crazy about keeping himself clean. He read lots of learned books about germs. He was always disinfecting everything, from saucepans to doorknobs. He wouldn't kiss me for fear of germs. He always wore gloves, even at night, because of the story in a Sunday paper about the danger of infection from finger-nails. He was a joke in the office--they called him Sterilized Stephen."

  Simon Iff had been twisting his mouth as if a curious flavour had touched it. He cleared his throat as he rose from his chair.