AN ERROR THAT COST £1,000.
COUNT Castaglioni was not, as might be imagined, an Italian gentleman of noble birth. When I knew him, he was nothing more or less than an old and exceedingly clever conjurer who had fallen on evil days.
He started his theatrical career by performing with Henry Irving for the pitiful sum of thirty shillings a week. He was always interested in magic, and it is more than possible that he would have made a big name for himself in this branch of the profession had he not contracted a very unwise marriage.
The Countess Castaglioni--this, of course, was not her real name--had many admirable qualities, but was, unfortunately, afflicted with what is popularly known as a "long thirst." She confessed that her "favourite flowers were hops" and in support of her statement she made a hobby of investing her money--and her husband's--with a firm of local brewers. She continued her hobby throughout her married life, and had an early but not altogether unexpected death.
After his wife's death, the poor Count lived in the most terrible poverty. He was reduced to giving penny performances before school children; his clothes became nothing but a collection of rags, and his chief means of subsistence was an occasional egg and crust of dry bread.
It was in such a condition as this that I met him one winter's morning in the Dingle, Liverpool. The poor fellow's hands were blue from the cold, and his teeth chattered loudly. As he saw me, he pulled himself together.
"Good morning, my dear Goldston," he said, speaking, as he always did, in the dramatic style that Irving had taught him. "And how are you this morning?"
"Fine, Count," I replied, eyeing my companion's tattered clothes. "Where's your overcoat?"
The Count raised his eyebrows.
"Overcoat he said, smiling sadly. "I haven't one."
I pointed to an overcoat in a nearby tailor's window.
"Would you like that?" I asked.
"This is not time for pleasantries," replied the old man sternly.
"I'm not joking, Count," I insisted. "You can have it if you want it."
"But I have no money."
"Let me give it to you, Count."
I saw the tears come into the old magician's eyes.
"Thank you," he said simply.
We entered the tailor's, and I asked to be allowed to see the overcoat I had chosen. After much difficulty, it was removed from the window, and Castaglioni tried it on. It was an excellent fit with the exception of the sleeves, for the cuffs came well over the old man's hands.
"I can soon alter those for you," said the tailor. "It will only take me two or three hours."
"No, laddie," said the Count. "I'll keep it as it is. The long sleeves will keep my hands warm. And no amount of persuasion could make him alter his decision.
On leaving the tailor, we went to a restaurant, where the Count made a hearty meal, and assured me that he felt much better. He asked me to call on him the following day, as he wished to give me some of his most exclusive tricks. I was anxious to learn all that could be taught about magic, and did as he requested. But I was doomed to disappointment. The old Magician's conjuring apparatus consisted of a few coins, some coloured handkerchiefs, a length of string, and an ivory ball. It appeared that he had sold all his best tricks when he had first found himself in need of money.
And now for the sequel. Some years later I edited a magical journal known as "The Magician." One night, when I was working late in an endeavour to get all my material ready for press on the following day, I received a letter from Count Castaglioni. He enclosed a cutting which he "hoped might be of some use to me." The cutting related to a murder in South America, where a conjurer had been killed by his girl assistant. On the back of the slip the Count had written "Liverpool Echo" and the previous day's date.
I naturally assumed that the cutting had been taken from the previous day's edition of The "Echo." Therein I made a mistake which eventually cost nearly £1,000! Thinking the, news item would be of interest to my readers, I included it as a space filler, and thought no more about it.
About a week after my magazine bad appeared in print, a woman walked into my office and demanded to see me. She introduced herself, and asked me what I meant by referring to her as a prostitute and a murderess.
"I'm afraid I don't understand you, madam," I replied, as civilly as I could. "I have never met you before."
At that, the woman produced a copy of my magazine, and indicated the paragraph which Count Castaglioni had sent me.
"That's about me," she cried excitedly.
"Really?" I said. "The story was printed in the "Echo" a week or so ago."
"I know it wasn't. That incident occurred twenty years ago, and in any case it's quite untrue."
This news was a big shock for me, and if true, there could be little doubt that the woman had a pretty clear case against me. She suggested that I should make her some sort of payment and let the matter drop, but the figure she mentioned was so high that I would not consider it.
A few days later I was served with a writ for libel. The case was brought before Lord Darling who was then simply Mr. Justice Darling. He complimented me on my fairness, for in the next issue of "The Magician" I made a full and complete apology. For all that, the plaintiff was awarded £200 damages, and when I totalled up my costs, I found that the case had cost well over £900!
Count Castaglioni explained that the date he had put on the back of the cutting was merely the date on which he had sent me the letter. He had unearthed the copy of the newspapers from an old and dirty pile, and, seeing the reference to a magician's death, had thought it might be useful for my magazine.