Perdurabo

by Richard Kaczynski

  Now, my dear son, I will close this long letter in the eager hope you will follow my advice in all respects.

  Love is the law, love under will.

  Your affectionate father.103

  Also visiting that summer was Harvard scholar Richard David Ellmann (1918–1987), who had a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation to write a biography of Yeats. Born in Highland Park, Michigan, to Jewish Romanian immigrant James Isaac Ellmann and Ukrainian immigrant Jeantte Barsook, Ellman graduated from Yale University with exceptional distinction in English and received his MA in 1941. His position as an instructor at Harvard was interrupted by the United States’s entry into the war and his army enlistment. In 1945 he found himself in London with the Office of Strategic Services, where that September he met W. B. Yeats’s widow. Impressed with Ellmann’s knowledge of Yeats, she granted him access to her archive. Thus he began writing what would be Yale University’s first doctoral dissertation on a twentieth-century writer.104 Clifford Bax had passed AC’s address along to Ellmann, who wished to interview Crowley about his “magical war” with Yeats in the GD days. The result of this interview was a colorful article titled, “Black Magic against White: Aleister Crowley versus W. B. Yeats.”105

  As his health deteriorated, AC had difficulty making more than an occasional diary entry or remembering names and dates. Reuss’s advice echoed in his mind, “Trust not a stranger: fail not of an heir.” He had already hastily awarded IX° honors to several students, ensuring the secret would survive his death. Now he wrote to McMurtry:

  It seems a long time since I heard from you. This is a great mistake: I will tell you why in strict confidence. In the event of my death Frater Saturnus is of course my successor, but after his death the terrible burden of responsibility might very easily fall upon your shoulders; for this reason I should like you to keep closely in touch with me.

  I am sending you a bound copy of “Olla” to remind you of me.…106

  Shortly thereafter, he wrote similarly to Frederick Mellinger (1890–1970):

  Any time you can spare a moment think of me, and remember that you can bring no greater happiness into my life than by dropping me a brief note: never mind whether there is anything to say or not.

  I am very anxious indeed that you should keep in close touch with me, if only because I think it quite possible that after Frater Saturnus and myself have moved on into the next stage, you may find yourself saddled with the whole responsibility of carrying on the work of the Order. It is most important that you should have paid the greatest attention to practiced experience of every side of the work, because whenever you become the supreme head of everything you will find that people write to you from everywhere and anywhere asking all sorts of the most impossible questions, and you have to answer them not merely with tact and discretion, but with detailed knowledge.

  Please remember this above all things … you never know at what moment you may find yourself in a position of supreme responsibility, and you must not shirk it or dodge it.…107

  Mellinger was an actor in both his German homeland and in the United States, to which he emigrated as a Jewish refugee. He had a long-standing interest in the occult, publishing in 1933 while still in Germany Zeichen und Wunder: Ein Führer durch die Welt der Magie (Signs and Wonders: A Guide to the World of Magic).108 He became a U.S. citizen in the mid-to-late 1930s and traveled to Europe on occasional military assignments. Living in Los Angeles he had various bit parts in Hollywood films109 and in 1940 met W. T. Smith. They became instant friends, and Mellinger joined both OTO and the AA under Smith’s sponsorship. In 1945, with Germer’s financial help, he returned to Germany and visited Crowley at Hastings. Judging from the above-quoted letter, he certainly made an impression. However, in the years following Crowley’s death, he would remain on the periphery of the Thelemic circle.

  Although it may appear that Crowley was willing to give the IX° to anyone, he had a definite plan in mind. He described it to Germer:

  You seem in doubt too about the succession. There has never been any question about this. Since your re-appearance you are the only successor of whom I have ever thought since that moment. I have, however, had the idea that in view of the dispersion of so many members, you might find it useful to appoint a triumvirate to work under you. My idea was Mellinger, MacMurtrie [sic] and, I suppose, Roy.… I shall leave it entirely to you to decide about your triumvirate after my death.110

  After writing his letter to McMurtry, Crowley prepared his last will and testament. Then, before he even finished correcting the proofs of Liber Aleph that August, he added Golden Twigs to the print queue.

  Karl Johannes Germer (1885–1962), Crowley’s successor in OTO. (photo credit 22.5)

  As AC grew progressively ill that summer, the Netherwood housekeepers prayed for his own sake that he would die soon. Karl planned to come to Hastings that autumn to care for Crowley, but British authorities denied him a visa. Thus, when Lady Harris found Crowley dirty and neglected, she asked him if he had any money for a trained nurse. “I have over £400 in banknotes in the strongbox under my bed,” he explained, “but that’s not for my personal use. It’s money from America, earmarked for the order.” Especially now, when publishing his works was so important, Crowley refused to dip into his publication fund. So, that September, Frieda hired a nurse herself. In addition, Mr. H. Watson of the Ridge Stores also helped look after him.

  When Crowley turned seventy-two in October, his grip on life was slipping. “I have myself been very ill, confined to bed for six months or more,” he wrote.111 Wilkinson noticed the light fading in his eyes. Laying pathetically helpless in bed, he reflected despondently on his life and realized he hadn’t obtained the recognition he felt he deserved; he hadn’t completed the Great Work he had set out to accomplish. He was only a front-page sensation for the newspapers to trot out whenever circulation slipped. Even now, he insisted that reporters were hiding in the bushes, waiting for him to die. With a sigh, he remarked, “This is a good world to leave.”

  Louis replied, “Don’t talk that way.”

  “You are my greatest friend, Louis.” Crowley smiled sadly. “I’m sorry you have wasted your time visiting a log.” Those were his last words to his oldest friend.

  On the anniversary of his GD initiation, Crowley sent a cable to Karl:

  GERMER:

  PERDURABO BORN 49 YEARS AGO. THERION SENDS DEEPEST LOVE HIGHEST BLESSING YOURSELVES AND THELEMITES, THE UNIVERSE.

  To Frieda, Louis, and Karl—the ones who really mattered—Crowley had said his piece and given his farewells.

  His condition became so severe that Pat and her children, including Ataturk, came to his side on the last day of November. Frederick Mellinger and his wife also made the journey, finding Crowley disoriented and unsure of where he was. When he finally passed, the stillness of the day was interrupted by a peal of thunder and a gust of wind that blew the curtains across the room. “It was the gods greeting him,” recalled Deirdre.

  On Monday, December 1, 1947, at 11 a.m., Aleister Crowley died of myocardial degeneration and chronic bronchitis. In his pocket was an Abramelin talisman “for a great treasure” and an old letter, tattered from repeated unfoldings and foldings. Dated September 10, 1939, it read: “The Director of Naval Intelligence presents his compliments and would be glad if you could find it convenient to call at the Admiralty for an interview.”

  Wilkinson took the phone call at Netherwood, where he was staying to arrange Crowley’s funeral. Lifting the receiver to his ear, he greeted, “Hello,” then firmly replied, “I’m sorry, but the funeral is a private affair.” Since his death, everyone was calling for details of the evil Aleister Crowley’s demise; Wilkinson grew intolerant of the reporters, remembering how his friend, shortly before death, believed they were waiting outside his window for him to die. How right he was. The newspapers said it all in their headlines:

  Black Magician Crowley Dies: “Wickedest Man in Britain.”

  World’s Worst
Man Dies.

  Awful Aleister.

  Rascal’s Regress.

  Aleister Crowley Dies; Once the “Invisible” Man.

  Mystic’s Potion to Prolong Life Fails.

  “Worst Man in the World” Dies, Leaves Weird Pictures.112

  Crowley gained no respect while living and received even less in death. When it was discoverd that his attending physician, William Brown Thomson (c. 1889–1947), of 12 Park Way in Greenford, died within twenty-four hours of his patient,113 rumors of a curse fueled further headlines, like “Crowley’s Doctor Dies: ‘Curse Put on Him.’ ”114 The fact that Thomson was fifty-eight years old did nothing to deflect conspiracy theories of postmortem revenge.

  Crowley’s will named Frieda Harris, Louis Wilkinson, and Karl Germer as his executors, charged with settling his debts. Revoking all previous bequests, he left his copyrights to OTO, which was to ensure Pat and Ataturk’s care. He named Wilkinson and Symonds his literary executors, charging them to collect his literary remains and ship them to Germer in New York. He asked that no religious service be performed at his funeral, wishing instead for Yorke or Wilkinson to read selections from his works.

  Friday afternoon of December 5 was cold and dank. Mourners and spectators gathered inside the chapel at the Brighton cemetery where, at 2:45, Crowley’s flower-covered coffin was solemnly brought.

  Carrying a copy of The Book of the Law and Magick, Louis Wilkinson took the rostrum and looked out at the group of fifteen mourners, including, according to the press, “five well-dressed women and six youths in need of haircuts.”115 Among those he recognized were Gerald Yorke, Frieda Harris, John Symonds, J. G. Bayley, Pat and Aleister MacAlpine, and Kenneth Grant and his wife, Steffi. Yorke counted three reporters.

  Wilkinson, tall and dignified, began without hesitation. “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.” Deep and articulate, his voice filled the chapel as he read “Hymn to Pan,” excerpts from The Book of the Law, the Collects from the Gnostic Mass, and the “Quia Patris” from “The Ship,” which Crowley had read at Raoul Loveday’s funeral:

  Thou who art I, beyond all I am,

  Who has no nature, and no name,

  Who art, when all but thou are gone,

  Thou, centre and secret of the Sun,

  Thou, hidden spring of all things known

  And unknown, Thou aloof, alone,

  Thou, the true fire within the reed

  Brooding and breeding, source and seed

  Of life, love, liberty and light,

  Thou beyond speech and beyond sight,

  Thee I invoke, my faint fresh fire

  Kindling as mine intents aspire.

  Thee I invoke, abiding one,

  Thee, centre and secret of the Sun,

  And that most holy mystery

  Of which the vehicle am I!

  Appear, most awful and most mild,

  As it is lawful, to thy child!

  For of the Father and the Son

  The Holy Spirit is the norm:

  Male-female, quintessential, one,

  Man-being veiled in Woman-form.

  Glory and worship in the Highest,

  Thou Dove, mankind that deifiest,

  Being that race—most royally run

  To spring sunshine through winter storm!

  Glory and worship be to Thee,

  Sap of the world-ash, wonder tree!

  Glory to Thee from gilded tomb!

  Glory to Thee from waiting womb!

  Glory to thee from virgin vowed!

  Glory to Thee from Earth unploughed!

  Glory to Thee, true Unity

  Of the eternal Trinity!

  Glory to Thee, thou sire and dam

  And Self of I am that I am.

  Glory to Thee, beyond all term,

  Thy spring of sperm, thy seed and germ!

  Glory to Thee, eternal Sun,

  Thou One in Three, Thou Three in One!

  Glory and worship be to Thee,

  Sap of the world-ash, wonder-tree!

  Mourners’ ecstatic or tearful interjections of “Io Pan!” and “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” punctuated the recital. The reporters just looked at each other, nonplussed.

  Wilkinson closed the book and solemnly ended with “Love is the law, love under will.” He sat down, and Pat threw a spray of roses on the coffin. Rollers turned, and the coffin entered the furnace.116

  Reporters formed a gauntlet around mourners as they left the chapel, barking out questions and jotting down quotes to include in the next edition of their tabloids. “Beware what you write,” Symonds said, locking eyes with one reporter. “Crowley may strike at you from wherever he is.” The heavens released a downpour, and Wilkinson, riding back to Hastings, remarked of the weather, “Just what Crowley would have liked.”

  Unable to fathom the meaning of the funeral, reporters described Crowley’s last rites as a Black Mass, running headlines like

  Cremating “Great Beast”

  Desecrated by Black Magic

  The scandalized Brighton Town Council met to discuss this spectacle and assured the public that such a thing would never happen again.

  They were right.

  Epilogue

  He was wasted in England. In Persia or India or Japan, millions would have followed him.

  —Andrew Green1

  His poetry undoubtedly ranks among the finest ever written.

  —Hereward Carrington2

  Crowley’s story after death was as colorful as it was in life.

  Karl Germer accepted Crowley’s nomination as Outer Head of the Order and took over OTO business. With the help of Yorke and Harris he sought high-ranking British members to identify the new X° for Ireland, Iona, and all the Britains. Symonds, whose address appeared in Olla as the order’s, acted as an administrative assistant to Germer but was not actually an OTO member. E. N. Fitzgerald had received the IX° from Crowley, but according to Germer, “He does not however know what it is about.”3 Therefore the nod went—briefly—to Gerald Gardner, who had been chartered by Crowley to operate an OTO camp. But Gardner reported, “owing to ill health I so far haven’t been able to get anything going. I’ve had some people interested, but some of them were sent to Germany with the army of occupation, and others lived far away, and so nothing happened.”4 And nothing ever would. Agape Lodge remained the only active OTO body under Germer. Since he never performed nor liked rituals, and discouraged the lodges from initiating new members, Agape struggled to endure. Germer instead focused on seeing Liber Aleph and Golden Twigs, which were in press at the time of Crowley’s death, to publication. The difficulty of conducting transatlantic business forced him to abandon the projects by November 1948.

  Yorke pleaded with Germer, “Please do not send me Power of Attorney to act on your behalf.… It would not be honest for me having refused to have official business relations with him [Crowley] since at least 1932 to take them up after his death.”5 Yorke, however, did spend his life keeping his vow to preserve Crowley’s papers, often purchasing them from creditors, forgotten storage facilities, solicitors, auction houses, and acquaintances. These materials he readily shared with Germer, who, possessing the bulk of Crowley’s papers, lent material to Yorke to copy. Both men believed that only a later generation would understand and appreciate Crowley’s literary legacy, and they hoped someday to store archival copies of all his papers on each continent. Yorke’s collection is currently kept at the Warburg Institute, part of the postgraduate School for Advanced Studies at the University of London, and is the world’s largest public archive of Crowleyana.

  Frieda Harris, meanwhile, published a booklet commemorating Crowley’s funeral. Titled The Last Ritual, it contained the text of his funeral and boasted an original cover by Harris; she asked for a contribution of $1 per copy to defray printing costs. One year after his death she carried out another of Crowley’s last wishes by arranging a curry party in his honor. Held at 7:30 p.m. on December 1, the din
ner party attracted about fourteen of AC’s acquaintances, who retired afterward to Yorke’s home for the evening.

  Not all of Crowley’s acquaintances remained so loyal, however.

  “Now that Crowley is safely dead, do you think his story can be told?” John Symonds voiced the question which typified the unfortunately common reaction to Crowley’s death. Symonds went on to write The Great Beast (1951), a sensational and critical portrayal of Crowley’s life. At least one publisher turned the book down for fear of libel, but London publishers Rider eventually bought it. Those loyal to AC saw it as a betrayal of trust, and Yorke’s catalog of the book’s inaccuracies is a lengthy and damning document. Nevertheless, the book remained the primary source of information on Crowley throughout the second half of the twentieth century; ironically, its sensational tone may well have contributed to Crowley’s enduring propularity.

  Longtime student and friend J. G. Bayley pulled an equally remarkable about-face. Although he had joined the AA in 1910, visited Crowley regularly in his last years, and paid his respects at the funeral, he wrote Germer a surprising letter two years after Crowley’s death: