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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Jane Wolfe
Ex Aede Magi.
50 [rue Vavin] [Paris] VIe
5 - 3 - 21
Metonith, beloved Moon of mine!
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
Yours of Feb 27 pleased me mightily: I like you, almost best, for your sound sense. I always thought you and Russell [C. F. Russell] might find much work in common one day. But you both need the Great Magical Retirement to rid you of certain illusions (especially about relative values of things) which, if either of you took them seriously, as realities, would blow you to most everlasting Hoboken!
Your G.[reat] M.[agical] R.[etirement] is April or May: his, I hope, in September or even August; and we shall see what we shall see before the Sun is weighed in The Balances, and found not wanting!
Ever so glad you like the E-String—BUT!—Oh how I wish I could get a word of encouragement from some strictly business source! I want you to realize that I am so miserably hopeless about my work that (by Freudian forgetfulness, I can remember practically nothing of the plot of "The E-String". All work of the kind which might bring money is bothersome to me (even if it satisfies me as an artist), because the hope has been so constantly deceived. (And I need money so badly to keep the Abbey [Abbey of Thelema] going; it promises so well, and my whole hart is in it.) Do you realize how delicately sensitive I am? It's do bad that I have to bluff, even to being "gross at table" when too near the edge of a moral collapse! Do you realize that I dare not allow myself to love Lulu, because the death of Poupée was such a hellish agony—and is. I could never trust myself to cherish Lola (my living daughter in England) as her birth came too close after her baby sister's death. At 6 weeks old, I stood by Lola's sick-bed, and fought like a God for her life, though I had to lock her whisky-crazed mother in another room, and throw her meddling [illegible] grandmother clear down the stairs, in order to carry out the doctor's orders. I won; but I did it coldly and calmly, as I was that day in the Gully with you and Howard [Howard Shumway].
I love so deeply and fondly that I dare not love what is mortal: it may be that Poupée was sent to drive that lesson home once more—with poniard of glass, the blade snapped and left deep in my heart.
I love Léa [Leah Hirsig]? Yes, but with Magick; if she died, I should weep as I weep for a great man who is gone. "Ave atque vale!" I salute her with dignity, as a God, aware of Fate and accepting it. "Fare well, Guest-Goddess! go thy way, thou, my Sister-Star!"
I love Ninette [Ninette Shumway]? Yes: but with Wardenship; if she died, I should weep as I weep for a fond faithful dog. "Good-bye, old friend; we've been good pals, and played the game."
I love Cecil [C. F. Russell]? Yes: but with Comradeship and Coquetry. If he died, I should weep as I wept for a brother-in-arms. "It will be my hour soon. "Ay, and smile too: "I look my best in black."
I love the Boys [Howard Shumway and Hansi]? Yes: but with Pagan Greek decorum. If they died, I should weep only in poetry, and rail on Fate is mine.
I love you? Yes—you know it, though you will never know how much. But if you died, I should weep as I sometimes weep when I read beautiful things, tears dashed from sparkling eyes, and my heart bounding like a fawn for joy. For what I love in you, the real and only You, is not the thrall of Death. Your mortal envelope, postmarked Los Angeles, and with excess to pay, and soiled by clerks and carriers, and that ghastly U.S.A. stamp in the corner, has nothing to do with its contents, well-bidden by the coarse opacity of the cover. You, you whom I love, are a Word whirling on wings, one Silvern Truth of Troth writ exquisite on smooth and square ivory card, most virginal, and seemly shining, and firm-flexible. I should be yours, as you are mine, beyond the jurisdiction of the Divorce Court where Jude Death grants every man and every woman, will they will they, no cause shewn, the Absolute Decree.
My work at present is to tear open that Envelope from California. Whoso shall read the Silver Word, let him well note that neither date nor place is marked to tamper with our Troth!
Now then, my [illegible] beloved, do help me all you can to tear this tough and trivial envelope! I see your Word through the rents, a letter or two at a time. But I want the thing torn thoroughly. We will not throw the envelope away, just yet; we will put it underneath the Card. But now you have reached your destination, you must let your silver shine unmasked before me. You must (to drop metaphor) grow to full fruit of Knowledge of the necessary and intense nature of our reflection, rejecting what the world calls 'facts' with royal disdain. You must cease absolutely to take any interest soever in your bodily and mental costumes for the drama "My Earthly Adventure". Keep mind sane and body healthy, but only so that they shall not disturb you by complaints. Do not permit yourself to cherish any ambition about either. One keeps one's instrument clean and in safety; one does not try to improve them. If they are inadequate, one gets better ones. Do not let yourself doubt your Mission, or Me. Do not force things: the Oracles will come when the Priestess is purified, seated in silence; no need to urge her. Prepare in every way for the solemn ordeal before you: the test may be terrible, and failure most probably final, as far as your present incarnation is concerned. Fail yourself not. Fail Me not! "There is success."
The Beast 666.
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