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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry [Reincarnation Memory Diary] Sunday, 25 August 1918
5.10 P.M. The Heinrich van Dorn Incarnation appears to have been very black-magical, in an entirely futile way. It is a tale of grimoires and vain evil rites, of pacts at which Satan mocked, and crimes unworthy even of witches. Previous to this I was a Russian—I have not the name yet, save that I was always called Father Ivan. I was nominally librarian in a vast castle, belonging (it seems) to military monks. It was in South-Eastern Europe, hidden in a thick forest upon a plain with fairly high mountains on the horizon. I don't think it was in Russia; It seems more like South Poland, or the Balkans. I was of noble family, sent to Germany for education. There I began at once to study Magic. I took part in some war of a religious character, and subsequently joined these monks. I was deep in political intrigues; but magic itself was my real business. In this I had tremendous success; was a very full Major Adept; but used my powers horribly amiss. I was the brains of this order of monks, and controlled their secret service. My vices were sinister, not to be described, though I remember many details. I delighted in cruelty, especially toward women. I repeatedly, even habitually, invoked 'the Devil'. I had a round face—rather like Otto Kahn—ashen hair and moustache, a pale and ruddy skin, grey eyes, small even teeth, a short well-shaped body. My temper was like a snake's. I could be very suave and genial to a man I meant to kill, I was a profound Greek scholar, and apparently wrote some books of history of a private kind, not national. There was a witch in the forest with whom I had many dealings; werewolves and vampires were in this working, of which human sacrifice was the basis. This woman was an Hungarian; she was caught and burnt by peasants, and from that time my own affairs went ill. I actually died while attempting to perform a necromantic ceremony, on behalf of some prince or king, exiled, who had come to me to get his throne back. I was passionately fond of horseback riding, and subject to bouts of drunkenness, though ordinarily, most temperate, even ascetic. I had a favourite page, Stephen Otto,* who was my disciple in magic. I killed him in a fit of rage with my riding whip. In youth I was a great duelist. I had a famous prostitute for my mistress, and would fight to defend her reputation, I got into trouble with the university authorities, but escaped expulsion by defending myself in Greek so perfect that they were enchanted. The woman I remember well, thin, very dark, two moles on her face, a deep scar under her left eye, a long aquiline nose, a large thin mouth, a deep red flush. She was a good musician and singer. She was kept by a fat old official, alderman burgomaster sort of person, short, pompous, white-haired. She used to hide me in her room that I might watch the cruelties she practised on him, physical and mental. There was also a student who killed himself for her; and she was thrown out of the town. I remember her window as if it were yesterday; it was in a narrow street, and hung over. There were red flowers in the window; I can see her leaning out among them with naked breasts, and her white teeth gleaming as she called to me. She knew no magic, but through her I met "the Wicked Bishop", a mysterious person who used to ride into the town masked. Nobody seemed to know who he was. He began to talk Magic with me, but I had not known him long when he was assassinated. Even this did not clear up the mystery about him; but it was whispered that he was a special envoy of the Pope, on some very secret business. But he was not an Italian; a Norman, or Norman Englishman, more likely. I had a great deal of bad experience with quack magicians in this incarnation. I died at about 45, which puts my birth at 1650 or near it.
* Now, I believe, James Branch Cabell.
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