As Related by Mark Goulden

from

MARK MY WORDS!

W.H. Allen, London, 1978.

(pages 85-88)

In the pre-war days of my editorial activities, I was ever on alert to find new recruits to the distinguished team of staff-writers which I had put together on the Sunday Referee.

There was plenty of talent about and many writers were eager to join up, but my search always inclined towards the unusual. And it turned up one day in the person of Aleister Crowley who, at that time, had already achieved a certain notoriety but nothing like the aura of calumny which he attracted later.

I knew and admired his work as a poet and I was not unfamiliar with his literary, artistic and esoteric background when he came to see me in Tudor Street about a job. He looked something like a cross between Sir Jasper, the melodrama villain, and a well-to-do mortician, but there was no mistaking that he possessed what today is called 'charisma'. He had a compelling presence and he spoke in an urbane, cultivated manner. Crowley was very much a personality, difficult to fathom but not beyond the scope of my psychic radar which soon picked up vibrations of evil that were alarming and disturbing.

At the end of a long talk, I engaged him to write a series of weekly articles on subjects drawn from his wide and weird experiences of life in many spheres. I planned to publish them under the generic—but quite meaningless—title of 'In Search of the Ultimate'.

Crowley's weekly visit with his copy was an occasion for a friendly chat on current affairs and I must say that I found his company congenial, whereas other people I knew simply couldn't stand the sight of him.

One day he turned up with an article which I put into my briefcase so that I could read it at home. It is an understatement to say that I couldn't understand it. The piece seemed to ramble on, inchoate, confusing, and incomprehensible. It was a two thousand-word mish-mash that would have made the paper ridiculous if I had published it, even though some tolerant readers may have considered it simply a bad joke! I therefore rejected it.

I wrote to Crowley saying his article was unacceptable and that he must replace it with something at least intelligible. He came hot foot to the office and I could see that he was blazing with anger and indignation. 'Who are you to reject the writing of a Master?' he demanded.

I coolly reminded him that I was actually the editor of the paper and it was for me to decide what went in. 'And this piece of unmitigated bloody tripe certainly isn't going into my paper this week, or ever,' I added.

He rose from his chair. 'You damned provincial nobody . . .' he blurted out, but he got no further because I literally threw him out of the room. All the way down the stairs he was shrieking, 'I'll sue you for all you've got; nobody treats Aleister Crowley like this.'

The doorman saw him safely off the premises and I thought that was the last I would see of this odious creature. But it wasn't. True to his word, he sued me and the paper for breach of contract and in due time the case came up before Mr. Justice Hodson.

I called my literary editor, 'Ted' Hayter-Preston, as my chief witness to confirm that the article was worthless and I gave evidence to the effect that I was justified in sacking the author on the spot because of his bad work and also on account of his atrocious behaviour.

When Crowley went in to the witness-box, an astonishing scene occurred. While he was giving evidence he began to make strange signs and gestures with his hands in the direction of the Bench. Everybody in court was astounded as he kept up these weird calisthenics. Was he trying to mesmerise the judge or to transmit some 'secret influence' on the court?

Suddenly his Lordship whipped round to face Crowley and in ice-cold tones, he said, 'Would you please desist from making those hand signals and other movements, and conduct yourself properly in the witness-box. Otherwise I will order you to stand down.'

That put an end to Crowley's astonishing tic-tacing but for some reason it alarmed Hayter-Preston, who began to look ill. I told him to leave the court and get some fresh air outside.

At the end of a very short hearing, the judge said it was simply a matter of credibility. Who was telling the truth? 'I have no hesitation in saying that I entirely accept Mr. Goulden's version,' he announced, 'and I therefore find in favor of the defendants with costs,' We had soundly beaten the 'baddie' of the literary world.

I joined Hayter-Preston outside the court, and told him of the verdict, but instead of being justifiably pleased, he appeared disconsolate and deeply disturbed. Anxiously, I asked what was upsetting him.

In an agitated voice he exclaimed, 'I wish I had nothing to do with this ghastly case. Didn't you see that Crowley was trying to put a "hex" on the judge in court and now that he has lost the case he'll put a curse on us.' And he really meant it. He was scared witless and I took him into a nearby pub to calm him down with a drink or two. I tried to ridicule his fears and his insupportable assumption that Crowley possessed evil powers that could be transmitted to a third person, but I couldn't shake him out of it. He was under the spell of a witch doctor.

For the next few days at the office, Preston went about like a man carrying an incubus on his shoulders and it was clear to me that he truly believed that Crowley had pronounced a malediction on him. In the course of time, he seemed to slough off the effects of this supposed imprecation but it never quite left him until the day that we heard of Crowley's demise. I am prepared to swear that from that moment onwards, Preston became a different person. An unseen burden had been lifted from him. He was no longer obsessed with the fear of Crowley's malevolent powers. The devil had been defeated.

The 'worst man in the world' as one biographer called him; 'The human beast' as another writer tagged him, had at last gone to rejoin his nether-world companions whom he had long served on earth as their disciple in the arts of black magic.