Although Never Seeming To Gain An Ounce In Weight, He Could
Eat A Formidable Breakfast And Used To Insist, To My Horror And Shame,
In Importing His Own Wine, Which He Accused My German Maid Bertha Of
Drinking On The Sly.
Callers cheered him up - Rolfe the Consul, Dr. Dohrn
of the Aquarium, and old Marquis Valiante, that perfect botanist - all of
them dead now!
After a month and a half of painful experiences, we at
last learnt to handle him. The household machinery worked smoothly.
A final and excruciating interview ended in the dismissal of the
errand-boy, and I personally selected another one - a pretty little
rascal to whom he took a great fancy, over-tipping him scandalously. He
needed absolute rest; he got it; and I think was fairly happy or at
least tranquil (when not writhing in agony) at the end of that period. I
can still see him in the sunny garden, his clothes hanging about an
emaciated body - a skeleton in a deck-chair, a death's head among the
roses. Humiliated in this inactivity, he used to lie dumb for long
hours, watching the butterflies or gazing wistfully towards those
distant southern mountains which I proposed to visit later in the
season. Once a spark of that old throttling instinct flared up. It was
when a kestrel dashed overhead, bearing in its talons a captured lizard
whose tail fluttered in the air: the poor beast never made a faster
journey in its life. "Ha!" said O - - . "That's sport."
At other times he related, always in that hoarse whisper, anecdotes of
his life, a life of reckless adventure, of fortunes made and fortunes
lost; or spoke of his old passion for art and books. He seemed to have
known, at one time or another, every artist and connoisseur on either
side of the Atlantic; he told me it had cost about L10,000 to acquire
his unique knowledge and taste in the matter of mezzotints, and that he
was concerned about the fate of his "Daphnis and Chloe" collection which
contained, he said, a copy of every edition in every language - all
except the unique Elizabethan version in the Huth library (now British
Museum). I happened to have one of the few modern reprints of that
stupid and ungainly book: would he accept it? Not likely! He was after
originals.
One day he suddenly announced:
"I am leaving you my small library of erotic literature, five or six
hundred pieces, worth a couple of thousand, I should say. Some wonderful
old French stuff, and as many Rops as you like, and Persian and Chinese
things - I can see you gloating over them! Don't thank me. And now I'm
off to England."
"To England?"
The doctor peremptorily forbade the journey; if he must go, let him wait
another couple of weeks and gain some more strength. But O - - was
obdurate; buoyed up, I imagine, with the prospect of movement and of
causing some little trouble at home.
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