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Correspondence from George MacNie Cowie to Aleister Crowley
14 Glenisla Gardens, Edinburgh.
2 July. [1916]
Care Frater
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
Your last letter, dated I don't remember when, came too late for acknowledgement last mail day. This day, the date to it is the second July—You look at it, it might be the 5th November. This is the coldest wettest summer on record Mary [Mary Davies] comes tomorrow evening from Glesca and I will joy down things for your information as we go on. It's been a piece of good luck getting these rooms in Regent Street at so easy a rent, and with these as a basis I feel we can now begin to 'carry on'—It wouldn't have been possible, without Mary and is due to her.
From Hammond [Benjamin Charles Hammond] the Hopeless I haven't had a line up to now. It's most trying. I cannot even, without seeing what method he is following, consider the possibility of getting someone else to complete the engraving of the letterpress. A difficulty might be overcome by giving the detached pieces of the work to different hands, so that no-one man would be able to piece together the mystic information conveyed. But that would mean more l.s.d.
When we get fairly under weigh, i.e. when the rooms are cleaned furnished and available for all Members, I shall send out encore a circular stating that as etc etc.
It's not serious, so far, but things came to a sort of crisis with me this week. It was not altogether unexpected, and is merely one of these sudden changes of personnel, which have always bothered me, and bring new and trying conditions. End of last year, a firm of publishers (offices almost opposite B and H) failed (for lack of emergency funds, I believe). Our firm bought up the whole business, lock stock and barrel, and in a very decent way amalgamated it with their own, taking the two partners on to their own staff. Work was taken from others to provide for them, and a good bit of mine. I retained the charge of the pictures etc for the various 'libraries', this being a definite job in itself. I expect they found there was not enough work to keep all going, so the other day I was politely informed that Mr [?] was to be in charge of all the art-work, and that I was to consult him and get his approval for everything. What I am doing can't be done without reasonable freedom and the use of one's own initiative and I've had that for a goodish time now and no fault found that I am aware of. I couldn't fancy myself running like a boy to a virtual stranger with everything I did, and it seemed a tough problem just what to do. But for a certain commercial transaction about a Black Egg, I'd certainly have treated myself to the Supreme Luxury of good naturedly bidding the firm to go to Gehenna, and I'd have gone and lived the tranquil life of a scholar on an income just sufficient for my simple wants. There was a great temptation to do this, even on a totally insufficient income, but then there is not only myself to consider. Five years ago I was straining every nerve so that I could liberate myself, as I calculated I could on my 55th birthday. Curiously this crisis has come within a month of it.
I thought it over carefully and concluded that the best way was to yield to circumstances, but talk it over quite frankly with the villain of the piece who is a decent fellow, and whose work as a publisher I admired. I put my own point of view, which he quite understood, and arranged that he would come to Mohamet, and just see what was oding me. I knew it would come to that eventually I graciously offered to surrender the commissioning of all work to him. It deprives me of the most dignified and interesting work I've had, and I can't call myself an 'art-editor' now. Not that that's any odds. Besides my assistants are off to the war, so I've had to take my coat off for extra work and this arrangement will make it less difficult to get on. But I don't know how it's going to end, or if I'll stand it, so I have one reason added to many, in hope that 'They' will relent before too long and cease exposing you to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. The Pop, wot larx!
You know me well enough to understand it's not dross I'm keen for, nor the comfort of that ass G.M.C. [George MacNie Cowie] It is what F[iat] P[ax] can't advance fast, so long as he has to wait and stand aside while G.M.C. is footling over, and earning dross for their joint benefit—Dross alas is necessary. I was tempted to chuck it all up and see what happened, but it's rather a large risk.
This letter is a disjointed collection of bits written at different times, some on the same sheet. This bit is dated Jul 6 and I've written previously an account of other matters. The sheet previous to this should be destroyed as referring to private matters.
M[ary Davies] had a curious experience. She was billeted on a Mrs Crowley who dwelleth in Parkhead, Glesgie. Parkhead isn't precisely the fashionable quarter, and poor Mary couldn't feel to enet [?] the door, and left Mrs C[rowley] posing as the Dweller on her own Threshold, whilst she went to what she calls a 'Sockheels' Street Hotel.
Well I'm preparing to go up and see our Good Mary off to London again after lunch, and must think of winding up—to get this epistle registered and posted.
Made M[ary] D[avies] on another spare piece append her M[ost] W[orshipful] amiable sentiments so no more save—
Fraternally.
F[iat] P[ax].
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