Chapter 6

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Two days later, Arthur received Frank Hurrell's answer to his letter. Itwas characteristic of Frank that he should take such pains to reply atlength to the inquiry, and it was clear that he had lost none of his oldinterest in odd personalities. He analysed Oliver Haddo's character withthe patience of a scientific man studying a new species in which he ispassionately concerned.My dear Burdon:It is singular that you should write just now to ask what I know ofOliver Haddo, since by chance I met the other night at dinner at QueenAnne's Gate a man who had much to tell me of him. I am curious to knowwhy he excites your interest, for I am sure his peculiarities make himrepugnant to a person of your robust common sense. I can with difficultyimagine two men less capable of getting on together. Though I have notseen Haddo now for years, I can tell you, in one way and another, a gooddeal about him. He erred when he described me as his intimate friend. Itis true that at one time I saw much of him, but I never ceased cordiallyto dislike him. He came up to Oxford from Eton with a reputation forathletics and eccentricity. But you know that there is nothing thatarouses the ill-will of boys more than the latter, and he achieved anunpopularity which was remarkable. It turned out that he played footballadmirably, and except for his rather scornful indolence he might easilyhave got his blue. He sneered at the popular enthusiasm for games, andwas used to say that cricket was all very well for boys but not fit forthe pastime of men. (He was then eighteen!) He talked grandiloquently ofbig-game shooting and of mountain climbing as sports which demandedcourage and self-reliance. He seemed, indeed, to like football, but heplayed it with a brutal savagery which the other persons concernednaturally resented. It became current opinion in other pursuits that hedid not play the game. He did nothing that was manifestly unfair, but wascapable of taking advantages which most people would have thought mean;and he made defeat more hard to bear because he exulted over thevanquished with the coarse banter that youths find so difficult toendure.What you would hardly believe is that, when he first came up, he was aperson of great physical attractions. He is now grown fat, but in thosedays was extremely handsome. He reminded one of those colossal statuesof Apollo in which the god is represented with a feminine roundnessand delicacy. He was very tall and had a magnificent figure. It wasso well-formed for his age that one might have foretold his preciouscorpulence. He held himself with a dashing erectness. Many called it aninsolent swagger. His features were regular and fine. He had a greatquantity of curling hair, which was worn long, with a sort of poeticgrace: I am told that now he is very bald; and I can imagine that thismust be a great blow to him, for he was always exceedingly vain. Iremember a peculiarity of his eyes, which could scarcely have beennatural, but how it was acquired I do not know. The eyes of most peopleconverge upon the object at which they look, but his remained parallel.It gave them a singular expression, as though he were scrutinising theinmost thought of the person with whom he talked. He was notorious alsofor the extravagance of his costume, but, unlike the aesthetes of thatday, who clothed themselves with artistic carelessness, he had a tastefor outrageous colours. Sometimes, by a queer freak, he dressed himselfat unseasonable moments with excessive formality. He is the onlyundergraduate I have ever seen walk down the High in a tall hat and aclosely-buttoned frock-coat.I have told you he was very unpopular, but it was not an unpopularityof the sort which ignores a man and leaves him chiefly to his ownsociety. Haddo knew everybody and was to be found in the most unlikelyplaces. Though people disliked him, they showed a curious pleasure in hiscompany, and he was probably entertained more than any man in Oxford. Inever saw him but he was surrounded by a little crowd, who abused himbehind his back, but could not resist his fascination.I often tried to analyse this, for I felt it as much as anyone, andthough I honestly could not bear him, I could never resist going tosee him whenever opportunity arose. I suppose he offered the charmof the unexpected to that mass of undergraduates who, for all theirmatter-of-fact breeziness, are curiously alive to the romantic. It wasimpossible to tell what he would do or say next, and you were keptperpetually on the alert. He was certainly not witty, but he had a coarsehumour which excited the rather gross sense of the ludicrous possessed bythe young. He had a gift for caricature which was really diverting, andan imperturbable assurance. He had also an ingenious talent forprofanity, and his inventiveness in this particular was a power amongyouths whose imaginations stopped at the commoner sorts of bad language.I have heard him preach a sermon of the most blasphemous sort in the veryaccents of the late Dean of Christ Church, which outraged and at the sametime irresistibly amused everyone who heard it. He had a more variedknowledge than the greater part of undergraduates, and, having at thesame time a retentive memory and considerable quickness, he was able toassume an attitude of omniscience which was as impressive as it wasirritating. 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 theidentical words of a passage in some work which I could have sworn he hadnever set eyes on. I daresay it was due only to some juggling, like theconjuror's sleight of hand that apparently lets you choose a card, but infact forces one on you; and he brought the conversation round cleverly toa point when it was obvious I should mention a definite book. He talkedvery well, with an entertaining flow of rather pompous language whichmade the amusing things he said particularly funny. His passion foreuphuism contrasted strikingly with the simple speech of those with whomhe consorted. It certainly added authority to what he said. He was proudof his family and never hesitated to tell the curious of hisdistinguished descent. Unless he has much altered, you will already haveheard of his relationship with various noble houses. He is, in fact,nearly connected with persons of importance, and his ancestry is no lessdistinguished than he asserts. His father is dead, and he owns a place inStaffordshire which is almost historic. I have seen photographs of it,and it is certainly very fine. His forebears have been noted in thehistory of England since the days of the courtier who accompanied Anne ofDenmark to Scotland, and, if he is proud of his stock, it is not withoutcause. So he passed his time at Oxford, cordially disliked, at the sametime respected and mistrusted; he had the reputation of a liar and arogue, but it could not be denied that he had considerable influence overothers. He amused, angered, irritated, and interested everyone with whomhe came in contact. There was always something mysterious about him, andhe loved to wrap himself in a romantic impenetrability. Though he knew somany people, no one knew him, and to the end he remained a stranger inour midst. A legend grew up around him, which he fostered sedulously, andit was reported that he had secret vices which could only be whisperedwith 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 thegreatest 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, andto the best of my belief was never seen in Oxford again.I have heard vaguely that he was travelling over the world, and, whenI 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 trampingacross America, earning his living as he went; another asserted that hehad been seen in a monastry in India; a third assured me that he hadmarried a ballet-girl in Milan; and someone else was positive that hehad taken to drink. One opinion, however, was common to all myinformants, and this was that he did something out of the common. Itwas clear that he was not the man to settle down to the tame life of acountry gentleman which his position and fortune indicated. At last I methim one day in Piccadilly, and we dined together at the Savoy. I hardlyrecognized him, for he was become enormously stout, and his hair hadalready 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. Hegave me to understand that he had sojourned in lands where the white manhad never been before, and had learnt esoteric secrets which overthrewthe foundations of modern science. It seemed to me that he had coarsenedin mind as well as in appearance. I do not know if it was due to my owndevelopment since the old days at Oxford, and to my greater knowledge ofthe world, but he did not seem to me so brilliant as I remembered. Hisfacile banter was rather stupid. In fact he bored me. The pose which hadseemed amusing in a lad fresh from Eton now was intolerable, and I wasglad 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 Leyasked me to meet at dinner the German explorer Burkhardt. I dare say youremember that Burkhardt brought out a book a little while ago on hisadventures in Central Asia. I knew that Oliver Haddo was his companion inthat journey and had meant to read it on this account, but, having beenexcessively busy, had omitted to do so. I took the opportunity to ask theGerman about our common acquaintance, and we had a long talk. Burkhardthad met him by chance at Mombasa in East Africa, where he was arrangingan expedition after big game, and they agreed to go together. He told methat Haddo was a marvellous shot and a hunter of exceptional ability.Burkhardt had been rather suspicious of a man who boasted so much of hisattainments, but was obliged soon to confess that he boasted of nothingunjustly. Haddo has had an extraordinary experience, the truth of whichBurkhardt can vouch for. He went out alone one night on the trail ofthree lions and killed them all before morning with one shot each. I knownothing of these things, but from the way in which Burkhardt spoke, Ijudge it must be a unique occurrence. But, characteristically enough, noone was more conscious than Haddo of the singularity of his feat, and hemade life almost insufferable for his fellow-traveller in consequence.Burkhardt assures me that Haddo is really remarkable in pursuit of biggame. He has a sort of instinct which leads him to the most unlikelyplaces, and a wonderful feeling for country, whereby he can cut across,and head off animals whose spoor he has noticed. His courage is verygreat. To follow a wounded lion into thick cover is the most dangerousproceeding in the world, and demands the utmost coolness. The animalinvariably sees the sportsman before he sees it, and in most casescharges. But Haddo never hesitated on these occasions, and Burkhardtcould only express entire admiration for his pluck. It appears that he isnot what is called a good sportsman. He kills wantonly, when there can beno possible excuse, for the mere pleasure of it; and to Burkhardt'sindignation frequently shot beasts whose skins and horns they did noteven trouble to take. When antelope were so far off that it wasimpossible to kill them, and the approach of night made it useless tofollow, he would often shoot, and leave a wretched wounded beast to dieby inches. His selfishness was extreme, and he never shared anyinformation with his friend that might rob him of an uninterruptedpursuit of game. But notwithstanding all this, Burkhardt had so high anopinion of Haddo's general capacity and of his resourcefulness that, whenhe was arranging his journey in Asia, he asked him to come also. Haddoconsented, and it appears that Burkhardt's book gives further proof, ifit is needed, of the man's extraordinary qualities. The German confessedthat on more than one occasion he owed his life to Haddo's rare powerof seizing opportunities. But they quarrelled at last through Haddo'sover-bearing treatment of the natives. Burkhardt had vaguely suspectedhim of cruelty, but at length it was clear that he used them in a mannerwhich could not be defended. Finally he had a desperate quarrel with oneof the camp servants, as a result of which the man was shot dead. Haddoswore that he fired in self-defence, but his action caused a generaldesertion, and the travellers found themselves in a very dangerouspredicament. Burkhardt thought that Haddo was clearly to blame andrefused to have anything more to do with him. They separated. Burkhardtreturned to England; and Haddo, pursued by the friends of the murderedman, had great difficulty in escaping with his life. Nothing has beenheard of him since till I got your letter.Altogether, an extraordinary man. I confess that I can make nothing ofhim. 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 canwell 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 surgerywill have added to your wisdom. Your industry edifies me, and I am surethat you will eventually be a baronet and the President of the RoyalCollege of Surgeons; and you shall relieve royal persons of their,vermiform appendix.Yours ever,FRANK HURRELLArthur, having read this letter twice, put it in an envelope and left itwithout 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 mustcome 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.'