Somerset maughan

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 

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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 

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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 

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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,