Arnaud de Borchgrave


He and I went to Vietnam together in 1971 and again in ’72, but by then I was starting to write copy, most of which was taken off his notebook. He didn’t mind. He was very encouraging when I ran into him at Kilometer 101 on the Sinai in October 1973. He continued to encourage me throughout, and was very proud when I landed my first ever column on the Spectator, followed by a piece on how to tell an Englishman abroad (bad tipper, worse dancer, always borrowing money, and so on). This was back in 1977.


Arnaud came from a very distinguished Belgian family, but his mother was English, a relation of the Rothschilds. It was said that he was 13th in line to the Belgian throne. He served in the British Navy, having volunteered at 16. He was Newsweek bureau chief in Paris; a close friend of Philip Graham, the owner of the Washington Post that owned the weekly; and was exiled to Paris after Katherine Graham, the widow, had discovered that her hubby Phillip was having an affair with Arnaud’s secretary. Phillip Graham threw himself out the window after—allegedly—having made love to his wife. (Arnaud thought it bad taste when I repeated the rumor time and again.) He was later named editor of the Washington Times, and continued to write nonstop until the end. He asked me to speak at his 70th birthday in D.C., a night
where very big shots got up and praised the birthday boy.

We stayed in touch until the end, me ringing him only one week ago and proposing to go to Athens to interview the great unwashed that had just been elected. “Maybe a bit later, as I’m not feeling my best today,” was his laconic answer. He then told me he loved me and to keep writing. He died a few days later. It was hard for me not to cry. As somebody else said in a similar context, Goodnight, sweet Count. I owe you plenty.