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Correspondence from Nancy Cunard to Gerald Yorke
Lamothe Fénelon, Lot, France.
Oct 24, 1954
Dear Mr. Yorke,
Here are the copies of the few, how few, notes and letters from Aleister Crowley. It has been a pleasure to copy them for you, but alas that none of us will ever see him again. Anyone not versed in his little ways would think from these letters that we must have known each other "reasonably" well? Nothing of the kind! As you will see when I am able to set down those few moments, which I will do next week. I am going to Toulouse, Grand Hotel, Toulouse (it sounds rather a Crowleyish hotel!) for two months, to sit and work in a warmed room on a little book of memories of George Moore. But I will start with those of Crowley, for you.
La! . . . What a picture it evokes, even this short sequence: there he was, in an excellent inn, see how well fed, with plenty of coupons etc. And the references to the tailors of Oxford. . . . the war's ways simply did not exist, you'd think, from his expectations of a BRAND NEW SUIT, all in a fortnight. I did try, of course. . . . Norman never got to Aston Clinton; it was one more of those misfires; for I would have dearly loved to see them together!
And thank you very much for the last letter. What a galaxy of people he did offer himself to! This particular point seems practically the pivot of the man—man or magus—does it not?
I should have hated all the "hoolie-goolie" stuff, but that seems to have been long before. I can well imagine him absolutely terrifying many people—serpent's kiss and all (I have had the honour; no trouble whatever; it lasted about ten days, very pretty, on my right wrist.) That Portuguese story . . . really, what spoof. As the mason here says quite simply: "Dans quel but?"
I have put the seal on the letters, having several more. But who now has the beautiful ring?
Very sincerely,
Nancy Cunard.
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