Anthony Gethryn
Anthony Ruthven Gethryn was something of an oddity. A man of action
who dreamed while he acted; a dreamer who acted while he dreamed. The
son of a hunting country gentleman of the old type, who was yet one of
the most brilliant mathematicians of his day, and of a Spanish lady of
impoverished and exiled family who had, before her marriage with Sir
William Gethryn, been in turn governess, dancer, mannequin, actress,
and portrait painter, it was perhaps to be expected that he should be
no ordinary child. And he was not.
For even after taking into consideration the mixture of blood and
talents that were rightly his, Anthony’s parents soon found their only
child to be possessed of far more than they had thought to give him.
From his birth he proved a refutation of the adage that a
Jack-of-all-Trades can be master of none.
At school and at Oxford, though appearing almost to neglect work, he
covered himself with academic glory which outshone even that of his
excellence at racquets and Rugby football. Not only did he follow in
the mathematical tracks of his father, but also became known as an
historian and man of classics.
He left Oxford in his twenty-third year; read for the bar; was called,
but did not answer. He went instead round and about the world, and did
not, during the three and a half years he was away, use a penny other
than earnings of one sort and another.
He returned home to settle down, painted two pictures which he gave to
his father, wrote a novel which was lauded by the critics and brought
him not a penny, and followed up with a book of verse which, though
damned by the same critics, was yet remunerative to the extent of one
hundred and fifty pounds.
Politics came next, and for some six months he filled adequately the
post of private secretary to a Member of Parliament suspected of early
promotion to office.
Then, in Anthony’s twenty-eighth year, on top of his decision to
contest a seat, came the war. On the 15th of August, 1914, he was a
private in an infantry regiment; by the 1st of the following November
he had taken a commission in the artillery; on the 4th of May, 1915,
he was recovered from the damage caused by a rifle-bullet, an attack
of trench-fever, and three pieces of shrapnel. On the 18th of July in
that year he was in Germany.
That calls for explanation. Anthony Ruthven Gethryn was in Germany
because his uncle, Sir Charles Haultevieux de Courcy Gethryn, was a
personage at the War Office. Uncle Charles liked and had an admiration
for his nephew Anthony. Also, Uncle Charles was aware that nephew
Anthony spoke German like a German, and was, when occasion demanded, a
person of tact, courage, and reliability. “A boy with _guts_, sir. A
boy with _guts_! And common sense, sir; in spite of all this
poetry-piffle and paintin’ cows in fields and girls with nothin’ on. A
damnation _clever_ lad, sir!”
So Uncle Charles, having heard the wailings of a friend in the Secret
Service division concerning the terrible dearth of the right men, let
fall a few words about his nephew.
And that is how, in the year 1915, Anthony Ruthven Gethryn came to be,
not as a prisoner, in the heart of Germany. He was there for eighteen
long months, and when Uncle Charles next saw his nephew there were
streaks of gray in the dark hair of the thirty year old head.
The results of Anthony’s visit were of much value. A grateful
Government patted him on the back, decorated him, gave him two months’
leave, promoted him, and then worked him as few men were worked even
during the war. It was queer work, funny work, work in the dark, work
in strange places.
Anthony Ruthven Gethryn left the army at the end of 1919, at the age
of thirty-three. To show for his service he had a limp (slight), the
C.M.G., the D.S.O., a baker’s dozen of other orders (foreign: various)
and those thick streaks of gray in his black hair. Few save his
intimate friends knew either of that batch of medals or of his right
to the title of Colonel.
Anthony stayed with his mother until she died, peacefully, and then,
since his father—who had preceded his wife by some two years—had left
him no more than a few hundreds a year, looked round for work.
He wrote another novel; the public were unmoved. He painted three
pictures; they would not sell. He published another book of poems;
they would not sell either. Then he turned back to his secretaryship,
his M.P. being now a minor minister. The work was of a sort he did not
care for, and save for meeting every now and then a man who interested
him, he was bored to extinction.
Then, in July of 1921, Uncle Charles fell a victim to malignant
influenza, became convalescent, developed pneumonia, and died. To
Anthony he left a dreadful house in Knightsbridge and nine or ten
thousand a year. Anthony sold the house, set up in a flat, and,
removed from carking care, did as the fancy took him. When he wanted
to write, he wrote. When he wished to paint, he painted. When pleasure
called, he answered. He was very happy for a year.
But then came trouble. When he wrote, he found that, immediately, a
picture would form in his head and cry aloud to be put on canvas. Did
he paint, verse unprecedented, wonderful, clamoured to be written. Did
he leave England, his soul yearned for London.
It was when this phase was at its worst that he renewed a friendship,
begun at Trinity, with that eccentric but able young journalist,
Spencer Hastings. To Anthony, Hastings unbosomed his great idea—the
idea which could be made fact if there were exactly twice as much
money as Hastings possessed. Anthony provided the capital, and _The
Owl_ was born.
Anthony designed the cover, wrote a verse for the paper now and then;
sometimes a bravura essay.
Often he blessed Hastings for having given him one interest at least
which, since the control of it was not in his own hands, could not be
thrown aside altogether.
To conclude: Anthony was suffering from three disorders, lack of a
definite task to perform, severe war-strain, and not having met the
right woman. The first and the second, though he never spoke of them,
he knew about; the third he did not even suspect.