Two days later, Arthur received Frank Hurrell’s answer to his letter.
It was characteristic of Frank that he should take such pains to reply
at length to the inquiry, and it was clear that he had lost none of his
old interest in odd personalities. He analysed Oliver Haddo’s character
with the patience of a scientific man studying a new species in which
he is passionately concerned.
My dear Burdon:
It is singular that you should write just now to ask what I know of
Oliver Haddo, since by chance I met the other night at dinner at Queen
Anne’s Gate a man who had much to tell me of him. I am curious to know
why he excites your interest, for I am sure his peculiarities make him
repugnant to a person of your robust common sense. I can with
difficulty imagine two men less capable of getting on together. Though
I have not seen Haddo now for years, I can tell you, in one way and
another, a good deal about him. He erred when he described me as his
intimate friend. It is true that at one time I saw much of him, but I
never ceased cordially to dislike him. He came up to Oxford from Eton
with a reputation for athletics and eccentricity. But you know that
there is nothing that arouses the ill-will of boys more than the
latter, and he achieved an unpopularity which was remarkable. It turned
out that he played football admirably, and except for his rather
scornful indolence he might easily have got his blue. He sneered at the
popular enthusiasm for games, and was used to say that cricket was all
very well for boys but not fit for the pastime of men. (He was then
eighteen!) He talked grandiloquently of big-game shooting and of
mountain climbing as sports which demanded courage and self-reliance.
He seemed, indeed, to like football, but he played it with a brutal
savagery which the other persons concerned naturally resented. It
became current opinion in other pursuits that he did not play the game.
He did nothing that was manifestly unfair, but was capable of taking
advantages which most people would have thought mean; and he made
defeat more hard to bear because he exulted over the vanquished with
the coarse banter that youths find so difficult to endure.
What you would hardly believe is that, when he first came up, he was a
person of great physical attractions. He is now grown fat, but in those
days was extremely handsome. He reminded one of those colossal statues
of Apollo in which the god is represented with a feminine roundness and
delicacy. He was very tall and had a magnificent figure. It was so
well-formed for his age that one might have foretold his precious
corpulence. He held himself with a dashing erectness. Many called it an
insolent swagger. His features were regular and fine. He had a great
quantity of curling hair, which was worn long, with a sort of poetic
grace: I am told that now he is very bald; and I can imagine that this
must be a great blow to him, for he was always exceedingly vain. I
remember a peculiarity of his eyes, which could scarcely have been
natural, but how it was acquired I do not know. The eyes of most people
converge upon the object at which they look, but his remained parallel.
It gave them a singular expression, as though he were scrutinising the
inmost thought of the person with whom he talked. He was notorious also
for the extravagance of his costume, but, unlike the aesthetes of that
day, who clothed themselves with artistic carelessness, he had a taste
for outrageous colours. Sometimes, by a queer freak, he dressed himself
at unseasonable moments with excessive formality. He is the only
undergraduate I have ever seen walk down the High in a tall hat and a
closely-buttoned frock-coat.
I have told you he was very unpopular, but it was not an unpopularity
of the sort which ignores a man and leaves him chiefly to his own
society. Haddo knew everybody and was to be found in the most unlikely
places. Though people disliked him, they showed a curious pleasure in
his company, and he was probably entertained more than any man in
Oxford. I never saw him but he was surrounded by a little crowd, who
abused him behind his back, but could not resist his fascination.
I often tried to analyse this, for I felt it as much as anyone, and
though I honestly could not bear him, I could never resist going to see
him whenever opportunity arose. I suppose he offered the charm of the
unexpected to that mass of undergraduates who, for all their
matter-of-fact breeziness, are curiously alive to the romantic. It was
impossible to tell what he would do or say next, and you were kept
perpetually on the alert. He was certainly not witty, but he had a
coarse humour which excited the rather gross sense of the ludicrous
possessed by the young. He had a gift for caricature which was really
diverting, and an imperturbable assurance. He had also an ingenious
talent for profanity, and his inventiveness in this particular was a
power among youths whose imaginations stopped at the commoner sorts of
bad language. I have heard him preach a sermon of the most blasphemous
sort in the very accents of the late Dean of Christ Church, which
outraged and at the same time irresistibly amused everyone who heard
it. He had a more varied knowledge than the greater part of
undergraduates, and, having at the same time a retentive memory and
considerable quickness, he was able to assume an attitude of
omniscience which was as impressive as it was irritating. I have never
heard him confess that he had not read a book. Often, when I tried to
catch him, he confounded me by quoting the identical words of a passage
in some work which I could have sworn he had never set eyes on. I
daresay it was due only to some juggling, like the conjuror’s sleight
of hand that apparently lets you choose a card, but in fact forces one
on you; and he brought the conversation round cleverly to a point when
it was obvious I should mention a definite book. He talked very well,
with an entertaining flow of rather pompous language which made the
amusing things he said particularly funny. His passion for euphuism
contrasted strikingly with the simple speech of those with whom he
consorted. It certainly added authority to what he said. He was proud
of his family and never hesitated to tell the curious of his
distinguished descent. Unless he has much altered, you will already
have heard of his relationship with various noble houses. He is, in
fact, nearly connected with persons of importance, and his ancestry is
no less distinguished than he asserts. His father is dead, and he owns
a place in Staffordshire which is almost historic. I have seen
photographs of it, and it is certainly very fine. His forebears have
been noted in the history of England since the days of the courtier who
accompanied Anne of Denmark to Scotland, and, if he is proud of his
stock, it is not without cause. So he passed his time at Oxford,
cordially disliked, at the same time respected and mistrusted; he had
the reputation of a liar and a rogue, but it could not be denied that
he had considerable influence over others. He amused, angered,
irritated, and interested everyone with whom he came in contact. There
was always something mysterious about him, and he loved to wrap himself
in a romantic impenetrability. Though he knew so many people, no one
knew him, and to the end he remained a stranger in our midst. A legend
grew up around him, which he fostered sedulously, and it was reported
that he had secret vices which could only be whispered with bated
breath. He was said to intoxicate himself with Oriental drugs, and to
haunt the vilest opium-dens in the East of London. He kept the greatest
surprise for the last, since, though he was never seen to work, he
managed, to the universal surprise, to get a first. He went down, and
to the best of my belief was never seen in Oxford again.
I have heard vaguely that he was travelling over the world, and, when I
met in town now and then some of the fellows who had known him at the
“Varsity, weird rumours reached me. One told me that he was tramping
across America, earning his living as he went; another asserted that he
had been seen in a monastry in India; a third assured me that he had
married a ballet-girl in Milan; and someone else was positive that he
had taken to drink. One opinion, however, was common to all my
informants, and this was that he did something out of the common. It
was clear that he was not the man to settle down to the tame life of a
country gentleman which his position and fortune indicated. At last I
met him one day in Piccadilly, and we dined together at the Savoy. I
hardly recognized him, for he was become enormously stout, and his hair
had already grown thin. Though he could not have been more than
twenty-five, he looked considerably older. I tried to find out what he
had been up to, but, with the air of mystery he affects, he would go
into no details. He gave me to understand that he had sojourned in
lands where the white man had never been before, and had learnt
esoteric secrets which overthrew the foundations of modern science. It
seemed to me that he had coarsened in mind as well as in appearance. I
do not know if it was due to my own development since the old days at
Oxford, and to my greater knowledge of the world, but he did not seem
to me so brilliant as I remembered. His facile banter was rather
stupid. In fact he bored me. The pose which had seemed amusing in a lad
fresh from Eton now was intolerable, and I was glad to leave him. It
was characteristic that, after asking me to dinner, he left me in a
lordly way to pay the bill.
Then I heard nothing of him till the other day, when our friend Miss
Ley asked me to meet at dinner the German explorer Burkhardt. I dare
say you remember that Burkhardt brought out a book a little while ago
on his adventures in Central Asia. I knew that Oliver Haddo was his
companion in that journey and had meant to read it on this account,
but, having been excessively busy, had omitted to do so. I took the
opportunity to ask the German about our common acquaintance, and we had
a long talk. Burkhardt had met him by chance at Mombasa in East Africa,
where he was arranging an expedition after big game, and they agreed to
go together. He told me that Haddo was a marvellous shot and a hunter
of exceptional ability. Burkhardt had been rather suspicious of a man
who boasted so much of his attainments, but was obliged soon to confess
that he boasted of nothing unjustly. Haddo has had an extraordinary
experience, the truth of which Burkhardt can vouch for. He went out
alone one night on the trail of three lions and killed them all before
morning with one shot each. I know nothing of these things, but from
the way in which Burkhardt spoke, I judge it must be a unique
occurrence. But, characteristically enough, no one was more conscious
than Haddo of the singularity of his feat, and he made life almost
insufferable for his fellow-traveller in consequence. Burkhardt assures
me that Haddo is really remarkable in pursuit of big game. He has a
sort of instinct which leads him to the most unlikely places, and a
wonderful feeling for country, whereby he can cut across, and head off
animals whose spoor he has noticed. His courage is very great. To
follow a wounded lion into thick cover is the most dangerous proceeding
in the world, and demands the utmost coolness. The animal invariably
sees the sportsman before he sees it, and in most cases charges. But
Haddo never hesitated on these occasions, and Burkhardt could only
express entire admiration for his pluck. It appears that he is not what
is called a good sportsman. He kills wantonly, when there can be no
possible excuse, for the mere pleasure of it; and to Burkhardt’s
indignation frequently shot beasts whose skins and horns they did not
even trouble to take. When antelope were so far off that it was
impossible to kill them, and the approach of night made it useless to
follow, he would often shoot, and leave a wretched wounded beast to die
by inches. His selfishness was extreme, and he never shared any
information with his friend that might rob him of an uninterrupted
pursuit of game. But notwithstanding all this, Burkhardt had so high an
opinion of Haddo’s general capacity and of his resourcefulness that,
when he was arranging his journey in Asia, he asked him to come also.
Haddo consented, and it appears that Burkhardt’s book gives further
proof, if it is needed, of the man’s extraordinary qualities. The
German confessed that on more than one occasion he owed his life to
Haddo’s rare power of seizing opportunities. But they quarrelled at
last through Haddo’s over-bearing treatment of the natives. Burkhardt
had vaguely suspected him of cruelty, but at length it was clear that
he used them in a manner which could not be defended. Finally he had a
desperate quarrel with one of the camp servants, as a result of which
the man was shot dead. Haddo swore that he fired in self-defence, but
his action caused a general desertion, and the travellers found
themselves in a very dangerous predicament. Burkhardt thought that
Haddo was clearly to blame and refused to have anything more to do with
him. They separated. Burkhardt returned to England; and Haddo, pursued
by the friends of the murdered man, had great difficulty in escaping
with his life. Nothing has been heard of him since till I got your
letter.
Altogether, an extraordinary man. I confess that I can make nothing of
him. I shall never be surprised to hear anything in connexion with him.
I recommend you to avoid him like the plague. He can be no one’s
friend. As an acquaintance he is treacherous and insincere; as an
enemy, I can well imagine that he would be as merciless as he is
unscrupulous.
An immensely long letter!
Goodbye, my son. I hope that your studies in French methods of surgery
will have added to your wisdom. Your industry edifies me, and I am sure
that you will eventually be a baronet and the President of the Royal
College of Surgeons; and you shall relieve royal persons of their,
vermiform appendix.
Yours ever,
FRANK HURRELL
Arthur, having read this letter twice, put it in an envelope and left
it without comment for Miss Boyd. Her answer came within a couple of
hours:
“I’ve asked him to tea on Wednesday, and I can’t put him off. You must
come and help us; but please be as polite to him as if, like most of
us, he had only taken mental liberties with the Ten Commandments.”