As Related by Preston Sturges

from

PRESTON STURGES

Adapted and edited by Sandy Sturges

Simon and Schuster, 1990

(pages 75-78)

Mother [Mary d'Este-Sturges] never did anything by halves, and over the years we all suffered, if not acutely, from her delvings into, her readings aloud of, her quotations from, and her commentaries on the Koran, the dialogues of Buddha, the Analects of Confucius, and Greek and Norse mythology with those exciting goddesses Freya, Frigga, Hel, Sif, Nanna, Ithunn, and Sigyn. These always made me think of our Swedish maids. We learned all about Valhalla before moving on to the beliefs held in the true land of the gods, India, and the teachings of Bramha, Vishnu, and Shiva, among others.

The study of so many conflicting theories, however, led my mother further and further away from any of the true ones. It is better and much less confusing to stick to one belief, right or wrong. It pains me to report that eventually my mother's dabblings led her into a little bout with black magic. I wish I could deny this and prevent many of her descendants from being burned at the stake, but unfortunately she not only wrote and signed a small treatise on the subject under the influence of a sinister buffoon called Aleister Crowley, but she is also mentioned either under her true name or under an alias in all books about this rancid character.

At just about the time I was becoming acclimated to the Ecole des Roches in Normandy, quite unaware, as usual, of what Mother was up to, Mother was in London acclimating herself to Aleister Crowley.

The practitioner and staunch defender of every form of vice historically known to man, generally accepted as one of the most depraved, vicious, and revolting humbugs who ever escaped from a nightmare or a lunatic asylum, universally despised and enthusiastically expelled from every country he ever tried to live in, Mr. Crowley nevertheless was considered by my mother to be not only the epitome of charm and good manners, but also the possessor of one of the very few genius-bathed brains she had been privileged to observe at work during her entire lifetime. Ask me not why! Much as I revered her, my mother was still a woman, one of that wondrous gender whose thought processes are not for male understanding.

It is possible of course that at this time, around 1910, Mr. Crowley had not yet developed the full panoply of his nefarious reputation.

My mother, under the appellation of Soror Virakam and under the delusion that she was temporarily a Babylonian uhu or call girl, took down in spiritualistic shorthand an entire manual of black magic known as Book Four [Book 4 - Part I and Book 4 - Part II]. This work was dictated to her from the dark blue yonder by a Babylonian pimp working under the name of Abduliz [See the Ab-ul-diz Working]. Mother's spiritualistic shorthand turned out later to be just her ordinary handwriting, also illegible, and it further developed that Abduliz had been vibrating on the vocal chords of one Fra Perdurabo, who, it will surprise no one to learn, was Brother Crowley. The minutes of these scholarly séances are duly recorded in a book called The Great Beast, written by John Symonds. Herewith, quoting Mr. Crowley, a sample:

We reached Naples after two or three quarrelsome days is Rome and began house hunting. . . . Virakam's brat was to join us for the Christmas holidays, and on the day he was due to arrive we motored out as a forlorn hope to Posilippo before meeting him at the station at four o'clock or thereabouts. But the previous night Virakam had a dream in which she saw the desired villa with absolute clearness. . . . After a fruitless search, we turned our automobile toward Naples, along the crest of the Posilippo. At one point there is a small side lane scarcely negotiable by motor, and indeed, hardly perceptible. . . . But Virakam sprang excitedly to her feet and told the chauffeur to drive down it. I was astonished, she being hysterically anxious to meet the train, and our time being already almost too short. But she swore passionately that the villa was down that lane. . . . "There," she cried, pointing with her finger, "there is the villa I saw in my dream!" I looked. No villa was visible. I said so. She had to agree, yet stuck to her point that she saw it. . . . The lane grew narrower, rougher, and steeper. . . . The chauffeur protested that he would be able neither to turn the car nor to back it up. . . . Virakam in a violent rage insisted on proceeding. We drove a few yards. . . . then the chauffeur made up his mind to revolt and stopped the car. On the left was a wide open gate, through which we could see workmen pretending to repair a ramshackle villa. . . . Virakam called the foreman and asked in broken Italian if the place was to let. He told her no. . . . With crazy confidence, she dragged him within and forced him to show her over the house. . . . Some irresistible instinct compelled me to take out my notebook and pencil and jot down the name written over the gate: Villa Caldarazzo. . . . I added up the letters. Their sum struck me like a bullet in the brain. It was 418, the number of the Magical Formula of the Aeon, a numerical hieroglyph of the Great Work. Abduliz had made no mistake. . . . I was entirely overwhelmed. I jumped out of the car and ran up to the house. . . . The instant I entered I understood that it was entirely suited for a temple, the very shape of the room seemed somehow significant. . . . as if it were filled with a peculiar emanation. . . . Virakam, of course, was entirely certain that this was the villa. . . . to consecrate the temple and to begin the book. The idea was as follows: I was to dictate; Virakam to transcribe. . . .

Mr. Crowley's reference to me as "the brat" doesn't bother me because, compared to the way I refer to him. it is a compliment. I lived in the Villa Caldarazzo for some weeks with Soror Virakam and Fra Perdurabo and apart from its supernatural features, it had little to recommend it. It was cold and damp, few of its windows closed properly, it was completely inaccessible and the plumbing leaked.

One of Mr. Crowley's little characteristics that I particularly loathed was his haircut, an unpleasing variation of the nauseating style popular with the very young set some years ago known as the Iroquois. Like some early Yul Brenner, Mr. Crowley had his entire skull shaved except for one small tufted square in the exact middle of his cranium. On this lawn, or village green, he promenated his fingers as if they were dogs one had taken out of water.

Another of his eccentricities, which I recall with something less than pleasure, was his repugnant reaction each time my poor mother had so far forgotten his teachings as to utter in his hearing a singular personal pronoun like "I" or "me" or "mine." The instant his ears were so assaulted, he solemnly withdrew an open penknife from his robe, raised his arm so the loose sleeve of his robe fell back to expose his bare forearm, and then with the penknife slashed a small fresh slice under the ladder of slices he had already incised into his forearm, cut by cut, for each time Mother had had a similar lapse of decorum. I remember these demonstrations well.

Reading about some of his subsequent exploits, I realize that my mother and I were lucky to escape with our lives. If I had been a little older, he might not have escaped with his.

I was glad to see the last of the Villa Caldarazzo and especially glad to see the last of Mr. Crowley and get back to school.

I don't suppose there was any connection, but in January 1911, Father filed for a divorced from Mother. I also don't suppose anybody bothered to mention it to me at the time.

Happily, when I got back to the Ecole des Roches, I was never asked to write a composition about how I spent the Christmas holidays that year.