|
Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gerald Kelly
[Undated: circa 1901?]
Dear Kelly and Care Frater E[ritis]. S[imilis]. D[eo].
I am rejoiced exceedingly at much news. Glad you're bucking up—at last!
You said I could not write in Montezuma met a puma-metre. Bliar! Vide enclosed.
I also send you my "Tannhäuser".
Without your criticism and advice I am a thing of nothing. Therefore I charge you by all the most sacred everything that you write me a full and ruthless general and special essay on the poem. Every bad line, every weak situation, or strong one missed, you shall and must curse; that I may reform it altogether. And let me have this as soon as you can. Take a pride in smashing it up: if you are wrong I shall scorn you for a scullionly knave: if your remarks are just I will take heed to my ways that with my tongue offend not. Send me more over the scenes of the King's Friend.[1] I have the plot (typewritten copy) but my scenes altered some details, I can't remember which.
Just off to hills. What are you doing?
My very kindest regards to Mrs. Kelly and Eleanor.
Be good and y w r b.
Fraternally yours.
P[erdurabo].
The Ring and the Book by Algernon Robert Charles Brinburning [Aleister Crowley]
O destiny baneful and bilious I take up my horrible pen To spin you the yarn of Pompilia's Adventures with different men Observe I've a ring—it's a gold 'un— My tale be eternal likewise! A book—it's a yellow and old 'un And devilish wise. One Guide, a count, rather surly A shade disappointed and old Put in for a sweet little girlie Just ready and ripe to be sold. One fact they omit in the invoice The lady that Guido adores No child of Mamma with the thin voice She was, but another lady's Well Guido got hastily wedded Pompilia scuttled around Saw someone—her eyes were imbedded In shame on the floor, or the ground. A courtly and beautiful Canon What wrote 'canzonets' and such truck Observed—"Dropped God e'er such a man on Such oceans of luck?"
The husband they duly evaded And then took a notion of flight No good folk would e'er do as they did Selecting the dead of the night. One word left behind as they bolted: "Dear Guido, you're simply a beast! For me, I'm a daughter revolted And he—is a priest!"
The Count he pursued 'em like Hades And caught them asleep at an inn. "I'll show that the fracture of ladies O'th seventh commandment is sin!" Impossible further to blink him She grabs his sword under his nose And instantly starts in to pink him Through all his fine clothes.
They post off to Rome with the story Each bolsters his separate claim Each gets a centavo of glory And a big double eagle of shame 'Tis hard for poor Guido—admit it!— But worse when the woman gives birth To a sweet little neat little tit-tit The dearest on earth.
The kettle boils over for Guido He struts in his castle and cusses Talks big of the blades of Toledo Of poison and blundering busses Four youth for the service selecting (A deed not unworthy of praise) He tackles the job of correcting His wife's little ways.
He bangs at the door of their villa: Out burbles the Borgias beast The mother—a minute to kill her! Hors d'oeuvres to a glorious feast Out totters the father—they stab him! The wife—and they slash her about. Off clumps he (for fear they should nab him) He'd rather be "out".
Alas! as he sleeps in an orchard A Roman gets hold of the count He's taken, imprisoned, and tortured A perfectly awful amount Condemned by the lawyer fraternity He frankly appeals to the Pope "While trusting of course to eternity, In time I would hope!"
The Pope is apparently callous And reads in the "Book of the Dead" Then; like the bad monarch in "Alice", Says "Off with that infamous head!" Poor Guido admits he's a liar And talks for a deuce of a time Retires up the stage and Mammaia Avenges his crime.
I won't let this chance, though, deny me: To show the deceit of the heart; To beg that the public will buy me; To say—what a wonder is Art! Ars longa sed vita—to read me Indeed, take a million lives What matter? I have—do you heed me? The finest of wives!
A.R.C.B.
1—[King's Friend. A play that Crowley was writing. It does not survive. Gerald Yorke.]
|