As Related by Gerald Cumberland (Charles Frederick Kenyon)

from

WRITTEN IN FRIENDSHIP: A Book of Reminiscences

Brentano's, New York, 1924.

(pages 300-301)

Aleister Crowley. . . . When, in 1912, I was about to leave Manchester for London, I was told by theosophical friends that Crowley was a magician. They breathed the word softly, solemnly. "A magician!" said I. "How splendid!" But they protested against my light tone, for they really believed he possessed occult powers. My theosophical friends believe a thousand things I cannot believe, so I laughed at them. Had I been able to regard Crowley as they did, I should have sought him out. I should like to meet a real live wizard.

If you frequent the Café Royal persistently enough you will, so they say, meet all the people who are worth meeting. A silly assertion. Still, some interesting men used to go there before the war, and it was at the Café Royal that someone presented me to Crowley. He was a heavy, dark man, and he sat in a conspicuous place looking as picturesque as Nature would allow him. He discussed poetry with me. He was bewilderingly esoteric. I did not understand anything he said, but that did not prevent me from arguing with him. I could see that he was "out" to impress me, not because I was I, but because it was his business in life to impress people. I soon discovered how it came about that credulous people—for so I regard all theosophists—endowed him with gifts of wizardry. He used the jargon of occultism. He had the air of one who is familiar with secret things. He spoke with the authority of one who had been told.

I remained unimpressed. At least I did not react to his personality in the manner intended. I found him a bore.