me, because I know the editor of the Fortnightly well, and I'm sure that as soon as Frank Harris understands the position and your rooted objection, he'll suppress the article. I know him and I can promise for him. Make your mind easy: the article will never appear.' Was I not right, Harris?' he added, getting up and holding out his hand.
There was a suspicion of the theatre in the appeal, which chilled me a little. It was manifestly prepared, but it was excellently done. Still I hesitated. 'You see, I am only a trustee, so to speak,' I began. 'I don't own the Review: this article of the late Duke was bought and paid for at a very high price.'
'Of course,' Randolph broke in, 'it goes without saying that the Duchess will pay whatever's needed, will pay eagerly. That's understood.'
'But no money payment will do it,' I said, and explained how I had only consented to load the Review with Lady Colin's paper because his brother had promised me a contribution so interesting as to atone for the dullness of Lady Colin.
'She was very good-looking,' Randolph remarked, 'with an extraordinary figure. My brother was a good judge…'and he smiled.
'I'm sure you'll see,' I went on, 'that I can't pleasure you In this matter. I'm not free, you understand…'
'I know Frank Harris,' he replied. 'You can do it, if you will, and I have promised on your behalf. You won't refuse an old friend's last request,' and he held out his hand again. As I took his hand and looked at him I felt sick: the deep lines on his face, the heavy gummy bags under his miserable eyes, the shaking hand-it might well be his last request!
He misunderstood my silence: he feared it meant refusal. Not knowing he had won, he played his last card. 'Come, Harris,' he began in the most appealing way, 'do what I wish and I'll write you an article on any subject you like in exchange for my brother's! Come, say 'Yes'.' A moment later he put his hand over his eyes and sat down heavily. 'I have slept badly and I don't feel well today,' he went on in trembling, indistinct tones. I could not leave him in doubt a moment longer: he filled me with pity and regret- such an end to such a great career!
'It shall be as you wish,' I said. He looked at me profoundly, and when he liked, his prominent eyes had something piercing in them. 'I was sure of you,' he said. 'I knew you had only to understand the position to do as we wished! I thank you with all my heart and the Duchess will thank you, too, when she hears the good news. I promised to telegraph her,' and he turned towards a side table. Then, bethinking himself, he turned to me, 'But what am I to write about for you?' he began. 'I'm avoiding all hard tasks, but I'll do my best!'
'Forget it!' I said. 'Get well and strong; that's what your friends all want of you and nothing more.'
'I'll do my best,' he said, 'but sometimes I fear the dice are loaded against me.'
They were loaded indeed and more heavily than either of us dreamed.
The rest of his tragic history is soon told. In the eighties and nineties Sir Henry Thompson, the famous doctor, used to give 'octave' dinners, as he called them, from the number of the guests. He was a good doctor, I believe, and knew a great deal about stricture and the prostate gland, but he was prouder of the fact that he had written two dull novels and had had paintings hung in the Academy exhibitions. He loved to show two or three pictures of Alma Taddema in his drawing-room, which in itself defines his taste and proscribes his talent. He was kindly, however, and at seventy kindliness is a proof of virtue. His wines, too, were sound without being extraordinary and his guests were often interesting. At one such dinner I remember Randolph was the guest of honor and sat on our host's right. Lord Morris sat on Thompson's left and I came next, and on my left was Sir Richard Holmes, the genial librarian of Windsor. He was kind enough to ask me to come down and pay him a visit and inspect the collection, and I would have accepted eagerly had he not first talked to me of his water color sketches, which also could be seen from time to time gracing the anemic walls of the Academy. The amateur artist, like the amateur writer, is to me almost as boring as the actor or singer.
When we sat down at table I was almost opposite Randolph and could not but notice that he bowed very glumly to Lord Morris, who was on my right, and still more coldly to me. He looked far worse now than when I had seen him in Grosvenor Street only a couple of months before: his face was drawn and his skin leaden grey; there were gleams of hate, anger and fear in his eyes, the dreadful fear of those who have learned how close madness is.
The soup had come and gone when I said something about Ireland to Lord Morris, who agreed with me. To my amazement Randolph suddenly broke in angrily. 'You know a great deal about Europe, Mr. Harris, and of course all there's to be known about America,' he barked at me, 'but what do you know about Ireland?'
'I was born in Galway,' I replied, 'and brought up in the Royal School at Armagh, and one gets from childhood a certain flair difficult to acquire in later years.'
'Impossible to acquire,' chimed in Lord Morris. 'No Saxon ever gets it. I knew without asking that you were a native of my dear, distressful country.' Lord Morris spoke with a brogue that would bear, but he always showed me a great deal of kindness, perhaps because I learned very early in our acquaintance that he had a foot in both the Irish camps and was one of the very few men whose opinion on Irish matters could be accepted without misgiving. I believe that he was only 'scored' off once in his life, and that was by the notorious Father Healy, a great friend of his. One day Lord Morris was describing a wedding he had witnessed, and carried away by the beauty of the bride, he added, 'And there was I with not even a slipper to throw after her.'
'Why on earth didn't you throw your brogue?' whipped in Healy, brogue being also the name given to the Irish peasant's stout shoe!
All through the next course Lord Randolph didn't speak a word. As the game was being taken round, the footman noticed that it was not properly cut, so he passed Lord Randolph quickly to get it dispieced at the sideboard. At once Randolph pointing with outstretched hand, squealed out as if in pain, 'E-ee- e-e-e!'
'What is it, Lord Randolph?' asked the host in utter solicitude.
'E-e-e-e!' He repeated the high squeal, while pointing with his finger after the footman. 'I want that-e-e-e! Some of that-e-e!'
'It shall be brought back,' said Sir Henry. 'I'm very glad you like it.' The grouse was brought back: Randolph helped himself and began to eat greedily. Suddenly he stopped, put down his knife and fork and glared at each face round the table, apparently suspecting that his strange behavior had been remarked. He was insane, that was clear. From that moment on I could drink but not eat. Randolph Churchill mad! Like Maupassant!
When the table broke up, I asked Holmes had he noticed the incident with the game. 'No, I didn't remark anything, but the grouse was excellent,' he said. Later I asked Lord Morris had he remarked anything strange in Randolph's behavior. 'No,' he replied, 'except that he seems to be in a d… bad temper. '
'Didn't you notice how he squealed and pointed?' I went on. 'He's mad!' 'Was he ever sane?' countered Morris, laughing, and therewith I had to be content, but ever afterwards I knew I had seen Randolph Churchill in what I called 'the malignant monkey stage' of insanity. His shrill prolonged squeal is always in my ears when I think of him.
Years later, after he had returned to London and died there, I happened to be at dinner once, and beside Mrs. Jack Leslie, his wife's sister. I told her of my experience at Sir Henry Thompson's 'octave.'
'Randolph was quite mad,' she said, 'when my sister took him on that last trip round the world. We all knew it. No one but Jenny would have trusted herself to go with him, but she's afraid of nothing and very strong. Yet from things she has' let drop, she must have had a trying time with him. Why once, she told me, he drew out a loaded revolver in the cabin and threatened her, but she snatched it from him at once, pushed him back in his berth, and left the cabin, locking the door behind her. Jenny is the bravest woman I ever knew.'
No wonder Winston has proved his courage time and again.
One day, some years later, I was at dinner with Lady Randolph, as I always called her, at Lady Cunard's. I told her something of what Mrs. Jack Leslie had told me and expressed my admiration of her courage in taking Randolph round the world. 'At first,' she said, 'when he was practically a maniac and very strong it was bad enough, but as soon as he became weak and idiotic, I didn't mind.'
What an epitaph!
CHAPTER XXIII
