37
“And that reminds me,” continued Arthur meditatively, “of a question once put to me by the late Lord Disley. ‘Mr. Norris,’ he asked me, ‘are you an adventurer?’ “
“What an extraordinary question. I don’t call that witty. It was damned rude of him.”
“I replied: ‘We are all adventurers. Life is an adventure.’ Rather neat, don’t you think?”
“Just the sort of answer he deserved.”
Arthur modestly regarded his finger-nails.
“I’m generally at my best in the witness-box.”
“Do you mean that this was during a trial?”
“Not a trial, William. An action. I was suing the Evening Post for libel.”
“Why, what had they said about you?”
“They had made certain insinuations about the conduct of a public fund with which I had been entrusted.”
“You won, of course?”
Arthur carefully stroked his chin. “They were unable to make good their accusations. I was awarded five hundred pounds damages.”
“Have you often brought libel actions?”
“Five times,” Arthur modestly admitted. “And on three other occasions the matter was settled out of court.”
“And you’ve always got damages?”
“Something. A mere bagatelle. Honour was satisfied.”
“It must be quite a source of income.”
Arthur made a deprecatory gesture. “I should hardly go so far as to say that.”
This, at last, seemed the moment for my question.
“Tell me, Arthur. Have you ever been in prison?”
He rubbed his chin slowly. Into his vacant blue eyes came a curious expression. Relief, perhaps. Or even, I fancied, a certain gratified vanity.
“So you heard of the case?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“It was very widely reported at the time.” Arthur modestly arranged his hands upon the crook of his umbrella. “Did you, 38
you, by any chance, read a full account of the evidence?”
“No. Unfortunately not.”
“That’s a pity. I should have had great pleasure in lending you the Press cuttings, but unfortunately they were lost in the course of one of my many moves. I should have liked to hear your impartial opinion. … I consider that the jury was unfairly prejudiced against me from the start. Had I had the experience which I have now I should have undoubtedly been acquitted. My counsel advised me quite wrongly. I should have pleaded justification, but he assured me that it would be quite impossible to obtain the necessary evidence. The judge was very hard on me. He even went so far as to insinuate that I had been engaged in a form of blackmail.”
“I say! That was going a bit far, wasn’t it?”
“It was indeed.” Arthur shook his head sadly. “The English legal mind is sometimes unfortunately unsubtle. It is unable to distinguish between the finer shades of conduct.”
“And how much … how long did you get?”
“Eighteen months in the second division. At Wormwood Scrubbs.”
“I hope they treated you properly?”
“They treated me in accordance with the regulations. I can’t complain… . Nevertheless, since my release, I have felt a lively interest in penal reform. I make a point of subscribing to the various societies which exist for that purpose.”
There was a pause, during which Arthur evidently indulged in painful memories. “I think,” he continued at length, “I may safely claim that in the course of my whole career I have very seldom, if ever, done anything which I knew to be contrary to the law… . On the other hand, I do and always shall maintain that it is the privilege of the richer but less mentally endowed members of the community to contribute to the upkeep of people like myself. I hope you’re with me there?”
“Not being one of the richer members,” I said, “yes.”
“I’m so glad. You know, William, I feel that we might come, in time, to see eye to eye upon many things… . It’s quite
39
extraordinary what a lot of good money is lying about, waiting to be picked up. Yes, positively picked up. Even nowadays. Only one must have the eyes to see it. And capital. A certain amount of capital is absolutely essential. One day I think I really must tell you about my dealings with an American who believed himself to be a direct descendant of Peter the Great. It’s a most instructive story.”
Sometimes Arthur talked about his childhood. As a boy he was delicate and had never been sent to school. An only son, he lived alone with his widowed mother, whom he adored. Together they studied literature and art; together they visited Paris, Baden-Baden, Rome, moving always in the best society, from Schloss to château, from château to palace, gentle, charming, appreciative; in a state of perpetual tender anxiety about each other’s health. Lying ill in rooms with a connecting door, they would ask for their beds to be moved so that they could talk without raising their voices. Telling stories, making gay little jokes, they kept up each other’s spirits through weary sleepless nights. Convalescent, they were propelled, side by side, in bath-chairs, through the gardens of Lucerne.
This invalid idyll was doomed, by its very nature, soon to end. Arthur had to grow up; to go to Oxford. His mother had to die. Sheltering him with her love to the very last, she refused to allow the servants to telegraph to him as long as she remained conscious. When at length they disobeyed her, it was too late. Her delicate son was spared, as she had intended, the strain of a death-bed farewell.
After her death, his health improved greatly, for he had to stand on his own feet. This novel and painful atttitude was considerably eased by the small fortune he had inherited. He had money enough to last him, according to the standards of social London in the ‘nineties, for at least ten years. He spent it in rather less than two. “It was at that time,” said Arthur, “that I first learnt the meaning of the word ‘luxury.’ Since then, I am sorry to say, I have been forced to add others to my vocabulary; horrid ugly ones, some of them.” “I wish,” he re-40
marked simply, on another occasion, “I had that money now. I should know what to do with it.” In those days he was only twenty-two and didn’t know. It disappeared with magic speed into the mouths of horses and the stockings of ballet girls. The palms of servants closed on it with an oily iron grip. It was transformed into wonderful suits of clothes which he presented after a week or two, in disgust, to his valet; into oriental knickknacks which somehow, when he got them back to his flat, turned out to be rusty old iron pots; into landscapes of the latest impressionist genius which by daylight next morning were childish daubs. Well groomed and witty, with money to burn, he must have been one of the most eligible young bachelors of his large circle; but it was the money lenders, not the ladies, who got him in the end.
A stern uncle, appealed to, grudgingly rescued him, but imposed conditions. Arthur was to settle down to read for the Bar. “And I can honestly say that I did try. I can’t tell you the agonies I suffered. After a month or two I was compelled to take steps.” When I asked what the steps were, he became uncommunicative. I gathered that he had found some way of putting his social connections to good use. “It seemed very sordid at the time,” he added cryptically. “I was such a very sensitive young man, you know. It makes one smile to think of it now.
“From that moment I date the beginning of my career; and, unlike Lot’s wife, I have never looked back. There have been ups and downs … ups and downs. The ups are a matter of European history. The downs I prefer not to remember. Well, well. As the proverbial Irishman said, I have put my hand to the plough and now I must lie on it.”
During that spring and early summer, Arthur’s ups and downs were, I gathered, pretty frequent. He was never very willing to discuss them; but his spirits always sufficiently indicated the state of his finances. The sale of the “old furniture” ( or whatever it really was ) seemed to provide a temporary respite. And, in May, he returned from a short trip to