“I’m a man of the age,” Lauderdale would say as they traversed the crowded streets together; “by which I am claiming no superiority over you, callant, but far the contrary, if you were but wise enough to ken17. I’ve fallen into the groove18 like the rest of mankind, and think in limits as belongs to my century—which is but a poor half-and-half kind of century, to say the best of it—but you are of all the ages, and know nothing about{47} limits or possibilities. Don’t interrupt me,” said the placid19 giant; “you are far too talkative for a laddie, as I have said before. I tell you I’m a man of the age: I’ve no very particular faith in anything. In a kind of a way, everything’s true; but you needna tell me that a man that believes like that will never make much mark in this world or any other world I ever heard tell of. I know that, a great deal better than you do. The best thing you can do is to contradict me; it’s good for you, and it does me no harm.”
Colin acted upon this permission to the full extent of all his youthful prowess and prejudices, and went on learning his Latin and Greek, and discussing all manner of questions in heaven and earth, with the fervour of a boy and a Scotsman. They kept together, this strange pair, for the greater part of the short winter days, taking long walks, when they left the University, through the noisy dirty streets, upon which Lauderdale moralized; and sometimes through the duller squares and crescents of respectability which formed the frame of the picture. Sometimes their peregrinations concluded in Colin’s little room, where they renewed their arguments over the oatcakes and cheese which came in periodical hampers20 from Ramore; and sometimes Lauderdale gave his friend a cheap and homely dinner at the tavern21 where they had first broken bread together. But not even Colin, much less any of his less familiar acquaintances, knew where the tall Mentor22 lived, or how he managed to maintain himself at college. He said he had his lodging23 provided for him, when any inquiry24 was made, and added, with an odd humourous look, that his was an honourable25 occupation; but Lauderdale afforded no further clue to his own means or dwelling-place. He smiled, but he was secret and gave no sign. As for his studies, he made but such moderate progress in them as was natural to his age and his character. No particular spur of ambition seemed to stimulate26 the man whose habits were formed by this time, and who found enjoyment27 enough, it appeared, in universal speculation28. When he failed, his reflections as to the effect of failure upon the mind of man, and the secondary importance after all of mere29 material success, “which always turns out more disappointing to a reflective spirit than an actual break-down,” the philosopher would say, “being aye another evidence how far reality falls short of the idea,” became more piquant30 than usual; and when he succeeded, the same sentiments moderated his satisfaction. “Oh ay, I’ve got the prize,” he said, holding it on a level with Colin’s head, and regarding its resplendent{48} binding31 with a smile; “which is to say, I’ve found out that it’s only a book with the college arms stamped upon it, and no a palpable satisfaction to the soul as I might have imagined it to be, had it been yours, boy, instead of mine.”
But with all this composure of feeling as respected his own success, Lauderdale was as eager as a boy about the progress of his pupil. When the prize lay in Colin’s way, his friend spared no pains to stimulate and encourage and help him on; and as the years passed, and the personal pride of the elder became involved in the success of the younger, Lauderdale’s anxieties awoke a certain impatience33 in the bosom34 of his protégé. Colin was ambitious enough in his own person, but he turned naturally with sensitive boyish pride against the arguments and inducements which had so little influence upon the speaker himself.
“You urge me on,” he would say, “but you think it does not matter for yourself.” And though it was Colin’s third session, and he reckoned himself a man when he said this, he was jealous to think that Lauderdale urged upon him what he did not think it worth his while to practise in his own person.
“When a thing’s spoilt in the making, it matters less what use ye put it to,” said the philosopher. It was a bright day in March, and they were seated on the grass together in a corner of the Green, looking at the pretty groups about, of women and children—children and women, perhaps not over tidy, if you looked closely into the matter, but picturesque35 to look at—some watching the patches of white linen36 bleaching37 on the grass, and some busily engaged over their needlework. The tall student stretched his long limbs on the grass, and watched the people about with reflective eyes. “There’s nothing in this world so important to a man as a right beginning,” he went on. “As for me, I’m all astray, and can never win to any certain end—no that I’m complaining, or taking a gloomy view of things in general; I’m just as happy in my way as other folk are in theirs—but that’s no the question under discussion. When a man reaches my years without coming to anything he’ll never come to much all his days; but you’re only a callant, and have all the world before you, said Lauderdale.” He did not look at Colin as he spoke38, but went on in his usual monotone, looking into the blue air, in which he saw much that was not visible to the eager young eyes which kept gazing at him. “When I was like you,” he continued, with a half-pathetic, half-humourous smile, “it looked like misery39 and despair to feel that I was not to get my own way in this world. I’m terrible indifferent{49} now-a-days—one kind of life is just as good as another as long as a man has something to do that he can think to be his duty; but such thoughts are no for you,” said Colin’s tutor, waking up suddenly. “For you, laddie, there’s nothing grand in the world that should not be possible. The lot that’s accomplished40 is aye more or less a failure; but there’s always something splendid in the life that is to come.”
“You talk to me as if I were a child,” said Colin, with a little indignation; “you see things in their true light yourself, but you treat me like a baby. What can there be that is splendid in my life?—a farmer’s son, with perhaps the chance of a country church for my highest hope—after all kinds of signings, and confessions41, and calls, and presbyteries. It would be splendid, indeed,” said the lad, with boyish contempt, “to be plucked by a country presbytery that don’t know six words of Greek, or objected to by a congregation of ploughmen—that’s all a man has to look for in the Church of Scotland, and you know it, Lauderdale, as well as I do.”
Colin broke off suddenly, with a considerable show of heat and impatience. He was eighteen, and he was of the advanced party, the Young Scotland of his time. The dogmatic Old Scotland, which loved to bind32, and limit, and make confessions, and sign the same, belonged to the past centuries. As for Colin’s set, they were “viewy” as the young men at Oxford43 used to be in the days of Froude and Newman. Colin’s own “views” were of a vague description enough, but of the most revolutionary tendency. He did not believe in Presbytery, nor in that rule of Church government which in Scotland is known as Lord Aberdeen’s Act; and his ideas respecting extempore worship and common prayer were much unsettled. But as neither Colin nor his set had any distinct model to fall back upon, nor any clear perception of what they wanted, the present result of their enlightenment was simply the unpleasant one of general discontent with existing things, and a restless contempt for the necessary accessories of their lot.
“Plucked is no a word in use in Scotland,” said Lauderdale; “it smacks44 of the English universities, which are altogether a different matter. As for the Westminster Confession42, I’m no clear that I could put my name to that myself as my act and deed—but you are but a callant, and don’t know your own mind as yet. Meaning no offence to you,” he continued, waving his hand to Colin, who showed signs of impatience, “I was once a laddie myself. Between eighteen and eight-and-twenty you’ll{50} change your ways of thinking, and neither you nor me can prophesy45 what they’ll end in. As for the congregation of ploughmen, I would be very easy about you if that was the worst danger. Men that are about day and night in the fields when all’s still, cannot but have thoughts in their minds now and then. But it’s no what you are going to be, I’m thinking of,” said Colin’s counsellor, raising himself from the grass with a spark of unusual light in his eyes, “but what you might be, laddie. It’s no a great preacher, far less what they call a popular minister, that would please me. What I’m thinking of is, the Man that is aye to be looked for, but never comes. I’m speaking like a woman, and thinking like a woman,” he said, with a smile; “they have a kind of privilege to keep their ideal. For my part, I ought to have more sense, if experience counted for anything; but I’ve no faith in experience. And, speaking of that,” said the philosopher, dropping back again softly on the greensward, “what a grand outlet46 for what I’m calling the ideal was that old promise of the Messias who was to come! It may still be so for anything I can tell, though I cannot say that I put much trust in the Jews. But aye to be able to hope that the next new soul might be the One that was above failure, must have been a wonderful solace47 to them that had failed and lost heart. To be sure, they missed Him when He came,” continued Lauderdale; “that was natural. Human nature is aye defective48 in action; but a grand idea like that makes all the difference between us and the beasts, and would do, if there were a hundred theories of development—which I would not have you put faith in, laddie,” continued the volunteer tutor. “Steam and iron make awful progress, but no man—”
“That is one of your favourite theories,” said Colin, who was ready for any amount of argument; “though iron and steam are dead and stationary49, but for the mind which is always developing. What you say is a kind of paradox50; but you like paradoxes51, Lauderdale.”
“Everything’s a paradox,” said the reflective giant, getting up slowly from the turf; “and the grass is damp, and the wind’s cold, and I don’t mean to sit here and haver nonsense any longer. Come along, and I’ll see you home. What I like women for is, that they’re seldom subject to the real, or convinced by what you callants call reason. Reason and reality are terrible fictions at the bottom. I never believe in facts, for my part. The worst of it is, that a woman’s ideal is apt to look a terrible idiot when she sets it up before the world,” continued Lauderdale, his face{51} brightening gradually with one of his slow smiles. “The ladies’ novels are instructive on that point. But there’s few things in this world so pleasant as to have a woman at hand that believes in you,” he said, suddenly breaking off in his discourse52 at an utterly53 unexpected moment. Colin was startled by the unlooked-for silence, and by the sound of something like a sigh which disturbed the air over his head; and being still but a boy, and not superior to mischief54, looked up, with a little laughter.
“You must have once had a woman who believed in you, or you would not speak so feelingly,” said the lad, in his youthful amusement; and then Colin, too, stopped short, having encountered quite an unaccustomed look in his companion’s face.
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, and then there was a pause. “If it were not that life is aye a failure, there would be some cases harder than could be borne,” he continued, after a moment; “no that I’m complaining; but if I were you, laddie, I would set my face dead against fortune, and make up my mind to win. And speaking of winning, when did you hear of your grand English friends, and the callant you picked out of the loch? Have they ever been here in Glasgow again?”
At which question Colin drew himself to his full height, as he always did at Harry55 Frankland’s name; he was ashamed now to express his natural antagonism56 to the English lad in frank speech as he had been used to do, but he insensibly elevated his head, which, when he did not stoop, as he had a habit of doing, began to approach much more nearly than of old to the altitude of his friend’s.
“I know nothing about their movements,” he said, shortly. “As for winning, I don’t see what connexion there can be between the Franklands and any victory of mine. You don’t suppose Miss Matilda believes in me, do you?” said Colin, with an uneasy laugh; “for that would be a mistake,” he continued, a moment after. “She believes in her cousin.”
“Maybe,” said Lauderdale, in his oracular way, “it’s an uncanny kind of relationship upon the whole; but I would not be the one to answer for it, especially if it’s him she’s expected to believe in. But there were no Miss Matildas in my mind,” he added, with a smile. “I’ll no ask what she had to do in yours, for you’re but a callant, as I have to remind you twenty times in a day. But such lodgers57 are no to be encouraged,” said Colin’s adviser58, with seriousness; “when they get into a young head it’s hard to get them out again; and the worst of them is, that they take more room than their fair share. Have you got your{52} essay well in hand for the Principal? That’s more to the purpose than Miss Matilda; and now the end of the session’s drawing near, and I’m a thought anxious about the philosophy class. Yon Highland59 colt with the red hair will run you close, if you don’t take heed60. It’s no prizes I’m thinking upon,” said Lauderdale; “it’s the whole plan of the campaign. I’ll come up and talk it all over again, if you want advice; but I’ve great confidence in your own genius.” As he said this, he laid his hand upon the lad’s shoulder and looked down into his eyes. “Summer’s the time to dream,” said the tall student, with a smile and a sigh. Perhaps he had given undue61 importance to the name of Miss Matilda. He looked into the fresh young face with that mixture of affection and pathos—ambition for the lad, mingled62 with a generous, tender envy of him—which all along had moved the elder man in his intercourse63 with Colin. The look for once penetrated64 through the mists of custom and touched the boy’s heart.
“You are very good to me, Lauderdale,” he said, with a little effusion; at the sound of which words his friend grasped his shoulder affectionately and went off, without saying anything more, into the dingy65 Glasgow streets. Colin himself paused a minute to watch the tall, retreating figure before he climbed his own tedious stair. “Summer’s the time to dream,” he repeated to himself, with a certain brightness in his face, and went up the darkling staircase three steps at a time, stimulated66 most probably by some thoughts more exciting than anything connected with college prizes or essays. It was the end of March, and already now and then a chance breeze whispered to Colin that the primroses67 had begun to peep out about the roots of the trees in all the soft glens of the Holy Loch. It had only been in the previous spring that primroses became anything more to Colin than they were to Peter Bell; but now the youth’s eyes were anointed—he had begun to write poetry, and to taste the delights of life. Though he had already learned to throw a very transparent68 vein69 of pretended sadness upon his verses, it did not occur to Colin as possible that the life which was so sweet one year might not be equally delightful70 the next, or that anything could occur to deprive him of the companionship he was looking forward to. He had never received any shock yet in his youthful certainty of pleasure, and did not stop to think that the chance which brought Sir Thomas Frankland’s nursery, and with it his pretty niece, to the Castle, for all the long spring and summer, might never recur71 again. So he went{53} upstairs three steps at a time, in the dingy twilight72, and sat down to his essay, raising now and then triumphant73, youthful eyes, which surveyed the mean walls and poor little room without seeing anything of their poverty, and making all his young, arrogant74, absolute philosophy sweet with thoughts of the primroses, and the awaking waters, and the other human creature, the child-Eve of the boy’s Paradise. This was how Colin managed to compose the essay, which drew tears of mingled laughter and emotion from Lauderdale’s eyes, and dazzled the professor himself with its promise of eloquence75, and secured the prize in the philosophy class. The Highland colt with the red hair, who was Colin’s rival, was very much sounder in his views, and had twenty times more logic76 in his composition; but the professor was dazzled, and the class itself could scarcely forbear its applause. Colin went home accordingly covered with glory. He was nearly nineteen; he was one of the most promising77 students of the year; he had already distinguished78 himself sufficiently79 to attract the attention of people interested in college successes; and he had all the long summer before him, and no one could tell how many rambles80 about the glens, how many voyages across the loch, how many researches into the wonders of the hills. He bade farewell to Lauderdale with a momentary81 seriousness, but forgot before the smoke of Glasgow was out of sight that he had ever parted from anybody, or that all his friends were not awaiting him in this summer of delight.
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1
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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2
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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40
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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41
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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42
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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43
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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44
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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45
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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46
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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47
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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48
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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49
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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50
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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51
paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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52
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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55
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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56
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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57
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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58
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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59
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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60
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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61
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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62
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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63
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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