Colin Wilson on Denis Wheatley
The Devil and All His Works Denis Wheatley (Hutchinson £4.50) The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware Denis Wheatley (Hutchinson £2) For some years now I have been intrigued by the Wheatley phenomenon. There is a Wheatley cult that is as fanatical as the Tolkien cult, although its members tend to be somewhat older. Most of these people, While not highly literate, are far from stupid. One of them told me seriously that Wheatley is a great writer, who is underestimated because he is a best-seller. So, periodically, I buy a paperback of Wheatley, and make another attempt to understand what it is all about. But — I admit with shame — I have never succeeded in getting far into them. To begin with, the style thoroughly upsets me:
The Duke de Richleau and Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cut had gone into dinner at eight o'clock, but coffee was not served till after ten . . . Both had been blessed with an ancient name, good looks, brains and charm, which had made them outstanding figures in the European society of their day. That day was Passing, but they had made the most of it, and regretted nothing of their tempestuous early years when they had fought and loved to the limit of their capacity . . .
At this point, I begin twitching nervously, waiting for the next blow; and It is never long in coming: "A mocking little smile lit the Duke's grey eyes, which at times could flash with such piercing brilliance . . " And if the quality of the Writing fails to improve from book to book. this is largely because he prefers to repeat himself, often word for word. The above paragraph is from page one of Strange Conflict (a Black Magic Story, as the cover proclaims); the opening sentence of The Devil Rides Out reads: "The Duke de Richleau and Rex Van Ryan had gone in to dinner at eight o'clock, but coffee was not served till after ten," and within a few paragraphs: "The grey eyes of almost piercing brilliance which gave such character to the Duke de Richleau's face, lit up."
The plots combine the improbabilities of Batman with the style of Daisy Ashford. In Strange Conflict (1941), the Duke (shouldn't it be Duc?) and Sir Pellinore have met to discuss the methods of Nazi Spies, whose success baffles the War Office. Richleau explains that this is because Hitler is a Black Magician, and the spying Is being done by necromancy. When spies fall asleep, their "astral bodies " float away into the ether, where they meet and exchange information, or read secret Papers over the shoulders of unsuspecting admirals. A few chapters later, the Duke and his cronies (who seem to be modelled loosely on Bulldog Drummond's gang), also In their astral bodies, lie in wait for the Spirit of an enormous Nazi Negro, who Promptly changes himself into a flying black beetle, while the Duke's crowd become other insects, and engage him in aerial battle; the Negro becomes a vulture, the Duke becomes an eagle; the Negro becomes a cobra; the Duke becomes a
mongoose . . . . and so on for page after page. This is, of course, literally fairy tale material. (T. H. White used a similar episode in the first edition of The Sword in the Stone, but took it out later, perhaps afraid of being suspected of being Mr Wheatley.) But in most of these Black Magic novels — I have tried to read three — there occurs a chapter, usually about the reality of Black Magic and the reality of Evil. The lecture begins with remarks on Persian mythology — Ormuzd and Ahriman, the powers of light and dark, then moves on with glances at Buddhism and Hinduism to the teachings of Jesus, after which there is a quick run through the Voodoo cults of Madagascar and early witchcraft cults in which babies were sacrificed. This, I suspect, is where the Wheatley fans feel that they are getting their money's worth — good, sound theology, with a bit of history thrown in. This man is obviously no mere spinner of adventure stories... And at the front of The Devil Rides Out, he has a note assuring his readers that, in spite of his obviouAy exhaustive knowledge of the Black Arts, he himself has never practised them.
But how great is his knowledge of occultism? With the publication of The Devil and All His Works, the reader has a chance to judge for himself. This is a rather nicely produced coffee table book, with plenty of excellent colour photographs, covering a wide field from ESP to Voodoo and modern witches. I had better mention immediately that the title is pure gimmickry. The devil hardly enters into it. and Mr Wheatley does not suggest that mesmerism, hypnotism and telepathy are the devil's work. In general, he takes the sensible attitude that the human mind has a wider range of powers than we suspect, and that these powers are, in their way, 'natural.' The style is inoffensive, if at times definitely sixth-form, with touches of 1066 and All That: This resulted in the persecution of the Huguenots. Many thousands of these French Protestants were dispossessed of their homes and property and driven into exile. Satan's work was well carried out by the disruption of the lives of these honest, hardworking citizens, who only wished to worship God in their own fashion.
As can be seen from this, he is determined to drag the devil in somewhere. He explains in the Conclusion that Man was originally intended to live in the Garden of Eden, but the Powers of Darkness caused him to be thrown out. Ever since then they have been trying to drag man down, thwarted only by Great Teachers — including, I assume, the Duke de Richleau. Well, this is respectable enough, theologically speaking. I personally find dualism hard to swallow, but it is a tenable point of view. However, I become sceptical when Mr Wheatley asks: " Is it possible that riots, wildcat strikes, anti-apartheid demonstrations and the appalling increase in crime have any connection with magic and Satanism?" The answer, obviously, is Yes. (I always suspected the devil was behind the TUC
and Women's Lib.) Now I should say that, purely as a survey, this book is a competent piece of work, and I would be sorry to put any prospective customer off it. Because the text is fairly short (about half the space being occupied by pictures), it tends to be perfunctory, but it is adequate and informative. But anyone who hopes to discover the sophisticated, erudite author behind the tongue-in-cheek novels is in for a disappointment. Mr Wheatley has a way of taking the reader into his confidence and telling him incredible anecdotes, for which Mr Wheatley personally vouches: for example, that Aleister Crowley's magical powers were wrecked when he invoked Pan, and his son (MacAleister) was actually killed during the ceremony, that Rasputin was the lover of the Tsarina and her •four daughters, that Hitler founded a Magical Order and intended to be worshipped as a man-god. He also assures the reader solemnly that Churchill wasn't like that at all, that "our great war leader owned nothing to the Power of Darkness." Mr Wheatley is definitely allof-a-piece.
It is a pity that I have left myself so little space for reviewing his tenth Roger Brook novel, The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware, for I did my homework on this to the extent of glancing at six of the earlier novels. Roger Brook is Mr Pitt's secret agent, and takes part in Napoleon's campaigns. The historical background — and Mr Wheatley obviously loves history — has the effect of tying the story closer to facts, so it can be taken more seriously than the Black' Magic novels. There are whole chapters of historical facts that sound as if they have come straight out of Britannica, and these held my attention in a way that was beyond the Duke de Richleau. Then the story switches to Roger Brook, and we are back in the old familiar atmosphere of Boys' Own adventure, complete with tempestuous love affairs and frantic galloping around the countryside. Like James Bond, Roger is indestructible; even when half-frozen on the battlefield, pinned under his horse, with his leg broken, he can still strangle a brawny looter. The big set piece of the present volume is the retreat from Moscow; in spite of the style (" Often at nights their blood was chilled by the eerie howling of wolves . . .") it carries the reader along. Mr Wheatley has imagination and panache. But I am still no closer to understanding the enthusiasm of his admirers. Unless it is a subtle in-joke, like the novels of Amanda McKittrick Ros •or the singing of Florence Foster Jenkins.
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