It was the first time he had set foot in England, and he naturally thought of Bannockburn.
He left his box in the cloak-room, and, finding his way into Bloomsbury, took a bed-room at the top of a house in Bernard Street.
Then he returned for his box, carried it on his back to his lodgings1, and went out to buy a straw hat. It had not struck him to be lonely.
He bought two pork pies in an eating-house in Gray's Inn Road, and set out for Harley Street, looking at London on the way.
Mr. Gladstone was at home, but all his private secretaryships were already filled.
Andrew was not greatly disappointed, though he was too polite to say so. In politics he was a granite-headed Radical3; and on several questions, such as the Church and Free Education, the two men were hopelessly at variance4.
Mr. Chamberlain was the man with whom, on the whole, he believed it would be best to work. But Mr. Chamberlain could not even see him.
Looking back to this time, it is impossible not to speculate upon how things might have turned out had the Radical party taken Andrew to them in his day of devotion to their cause.
This is the saddest spectacle in life, a brave young man's first meeting with the world. How rapidly the milk turns to gall5! For the cruellest of his acts the vivisectionist has not even the excuse that science benefits.
Here was a young Scotchman, able, pure, of noble ambition, and a first medallist in metaphysics. Genius was written on his brow. He may have written it himself, but it was there.
He offered to take a pound a week less than any other secretary in London. Not a Cabinet Minister would have him. Lord Randolph Churchill would not speak to him. He had fifty-eight testimonials with him. They would neither read nor listen to them.
He could not fasten a quarrel on London, for it never recognised his existence. What a commentary on our vaunted political life!
Andrew tried the Press.
He sent one of the finest things that was ever written on the Ontology of Being to paper after paper, and it was never used. He threatened the "Times" with legal proceedings7 if it did not return the manuscript.
The "Standard" sent him somebody else's manuscript, and seemed to think it would do as well.
In a fortnight his enthusiasm had been bled to death.
His testimonials were his comfort and his curse. He would have committed suicide without them, but they kept him out of situations.
He had the fifty-eight by heart, and went over them to himself all day. He fell asleep with them, and they were there when he woke.
The moment he found himself in a great man's presence he began:
"From the Rev8. Peter Mackay, D. D., author of 'The Disruption Divines,' Minister of Free St. King's, Dundee.—I have much pleasure in stating that I have known Mr. Andrew Gordon Cummings Riach for many years, and have been led to form a high opinion of his ability. In the summer of 18— Mr. Riach had entire charge of a class in my Sabbath school, when I had ample opportunity of testing his efficiency, unwearying patience, exceptional power of illustration and high Christian9 character," and so on.
Or he might begin at the beginning:
"Testimonials in favour of Andrew G. C. Riach, M.A. (Edin.), applicant10 for the post of Private Secretary to any one of her Majesty's Cabinet Ministers, 6 Candlish Street, Wheens, N. B.—I, Andrew G. C. Riach, beg to offer myself as a candidate for the post of private secretary, and submit the following testimonials in my favour for your consideration. I am twenty-five years of age, a Master of Arts of the University of Edinburgh, and a member of the Free Church of Scotland. At the University I succeeded in carrying a bursary of 14l. 10s. per annum, tenable for four years. I was first medallist in the class of Logic11 and Metaphysics, thirteenth prizeman in Mathematics, and had a certificate of merit in the class of Natural Philosophy, as will be seen from my testimonials."
However, he seldom got as far as this.
It was when alone that these testimonials were his truest solace12. Had you met him in the Strand13 conning14 them over, you might have taken him for an actor. He had a yearning15 to stop strangers in the streets and try a testimonial's effect on them.
Every young man is not equally unfortunate.
Riach's appearance was against him.
There was a suggestion of latent strength about him that made strangers uncomfortable. Even the friends who thought they understood him liked him to go away.
Lord Rosebery made several jokes to him, and Andrew only looked at him in response. The general feeling was that he was sneering16 at you somewhere in his inside.
As it turned out, the Cabinet and Press were but being used in this case as the means to an end.
A grand work lay ready for Andrew's hand when he was fit to perform it, but he had to learn Naked Truth first. It was ordained18 that they should teach it him. Providence19 sometimes makes use of strange instruments.
Riach had two pounds with him when he came to London, and in a month they had almost gone.
Now and again he made an odd five shillings.
Do you know how men in his position live in London?
He could not afford the profession of not having any.
At one time he was a phrasemonger for politicians, especially for the Irish members, who were the only ones that paid.
Some of his phrases have become Parliamentary. Thus "Buckshot" was his. "Mend them—End them," "Grand Old Man," and "Legislation by Picnic" may all be traced to the struggling young man from Wheens.[1]
When the newspaper placards announced the serious illness of a distinguished21 man, he made up characteristic anecdotes22 about his childhood, his reputation at school, his first love, and sent them as the reminiscences of a friend to the great London dailies. These were the only things of his they used. As often as not the invalid23 got better, and then Andrew went without a dinner.
Once he offered his services to a Conservative statesman; at another time he shot himself in the coat in Northumberland Street, Strand, to oblige an evening paper (five shillings).
He assaulted a young lady and her aunt with a view to robbery, in a quiet thoroughfare, by arrangement with a young gentleman, who rescued them and made him run (ten shillings).
It got into the papers that he had fled from the wax policeman at Tussaud's (half-a-crown).
More than once he sold his body in advance to the doctors, and was never able to buy it out.[2]
It would be a labour, thankless as impossible, to recover now all the devices by which Andrew disgraced his manhood during these weeks rather than die. As well count the "drinks" an actor has in a day.
It is not our part to climb down into the depths after him. He re-appeared eventually, or this record would never have been written.
During this period of gloom, Clarrie wrote him frequently long and tender epistles.
More strictly25, the minister wrote them, for he had the gift of beautiful sentiment in letters, which had been denied to her.
She copied them, however, and signed them, and they were a great consolation26.
The love of a good girl is a priceless possession, or rather, in this case, of a good minister.
So long as you do not know which, it does not make much difference.
At times Andrew's reason may have been unhinged, less on account of his reverses than because no one spoke27 to him.
There were days and nights when he rushed all over London.
In the principal streets the stolid-faced Scotchman in a straw hat became a familiar figure.
Strange fancies held him. He stood for an hour at a time looking at his face in a shop-window.
He shook his fist at the 'bus-conductors, who would not leave him alone.
In the yellow night policemen drew back scared, as he hurried past them on his way to nowhere.
In the day-time Oxford28 Street was his favourite thoroughfare. He was very irritable29 at this time, and could not leave his fellow wayfarers30 alone.
He would turn swiftly round to catch people looking at him.
When a small boy came in his way, he took him by the neck and planted him on the curb-stone.
If a man approached simpering, Andrew stopped and gazed at him. The smile went from the stranger's face; he blushed or looked fierce. When he turned round, Andrew still had his eye on him. Sometimes he came bouncing back.
"What are you so confoundedly happy about?" Andrew asked.
When he found a crowd gazing in at a "while you wait" shop-window, or entranced over the paving of a street—
"Splendid, isn't it?" he said to the person nearest him.
He dropped a penny, which he could ill spare, into the hat of an exquisite33 who annoyed him by his way of lifting it to a lady.
When he saw a man crossing the street too daintily, he ran after him and hit him over the legs.
Even on his worst days his reasoning powers never left him. Once a mother let her child slip from her arms to the pavement.
"My good woman," said Andrew, testily35, "what difference can one infant in the world more or less make?"
We come now to an eccentricity36, engendered37 of loneliness, that altered the whole course of his life. Want had battered38 down his door. Truth had been evolved from despair. He was at last to have a flash into salvation39.
To give an object to his walks abroad he would fasten upon a wayfarer31 and follow him till he ran him to his destination. Chance led to his selecting one quarry40 rather than another. He would dog a man's footsteps, struck by the glossiness41 of his boots, or to discover what he was in such a hurry about, or merely because he had a good back to follow. Probably he seldom knew what attracted him, and sometimes when he realised the pursuit he gave it up.
On these occasions there was one person only who really interested him. This was a man, somewhat over middle age, of singularly noble and distinguished bearing. His brow was furrowed42 with lines, but they spoke of cares of the past. Benevolence43 had settled on his face. It was as if, after a weary struggle, the sun had broken through the heavy clouds. He was attired44 in the ordinary dress of an English gentleman; but once, when he raised his head to see if it rained, Andrew noticed that he only wore a woollen shirt, without a necktie. As a rule, his well-trimmed, venerable beard hid this from view.
He seemed a man of unostentatious means. Andrew lost him in Drury Lane and found him again in Piccadilly. He was generally alone, never twice with the same person. His business was scattered45, or it was his pleasure that kept him busy. He struck the observer as always being on the outlook for someone who did not come.
Why attempt to account for the nameless fascination46 he exercised over the young Scotchman? We speak lightly of mesmeric influence, but, after all, there is only one mesmerist for youth—a good woman or a good man. Depend upon it, that is why so many "mesmerists" have mistaken their vocation47. Andrew took to prowling about the streets looking for this man, like a dog that has lost its master.
The day came when they met.
Andrew was returning from the Crystal Palace, which he had been viewing from the outside. He had walked both ways. Just as he rounded the upper end of Chancery Lane, a man walking rapidly struck against him, whirled him aside, and hurried on.
The day was done, but as yet the lamps only dimmed the streets.
Andrew had been dreaming, and the jerk woke him to the roar of London.
It was as if he had taken his fingers from his ears.
He staggered, dazed, against a 'bus-horse, but the next moment he was in pursuit of the stranger. It was but a continuation of his dream. He felt that something was about to happen. He had never seen this man disturbed before.
Chancery Lane swarmed48 with lawyers, but if they had not made way Andrew would have walked over them.
He clove49 his way between those walking abreast50, and struck down an arm extended to point out the Law Courts. When he neared the stranger, he slightly slackened his pace, but it was a stampede even then.
Suddenly the pursued came to a dead stop and gazed for twenty minutes in at a pastry-cook's window. Andrew waited for him. Then they started off again, much more leisurely51.
They turned Chancery Lane almost together. All this time Andrew had failed to catch sight of the other's face.
He stopped twice in the Strand for a few minutes.
At Charing52 Cross he seemed for a moment at a loss. Then he sprang across the street, and went back the way he came.
It was now for the first time that a strange notion illumined Andrew's brain. It bewildered him, and left him in darkness the next moment. But his blood was running hot now, and his eyes were glassy.
They turned down Arundel Street.
It was getting dark. There were not a dozen people in the narrow thoroughfare.
His former thought leapt back into Andrew's mind—not a fancy now, but a fact. The stranger was following someone too.
For what purpose? His own?
Andrew did not put the question to himself.
There were not twenty yards between the three of them.
What Riach saw in front was a short stout53 man proceeding6 cheerfully down the street. He delayed in a doorway54 to light a cigar, and the stranger stopped as if turned to stone.
Andrew stopped too.
They were like the wheels of a watch. The first wheel moved on, and set the others going again.
For a hundred yards or more they walked in procession in a westerly direction without meeting a human being. At last the first of the trio half turned on his heel and leant over the Embankment.
Riach drew back into the shade, just before the stranger took a lightning glance behind him.
The young man saw his face now. It was never fuller of noble purpose; yet why did Andrew cry out?
The next moment the stranger had darted55 forward, slipped his arms round the little man's legs, and toppled him into the river.
There was a splash but no shriek.
Andrew bounded forward, but the stranger held him by one hand. His clear blue eyes looked down a little wistfully upon the young Scotchman, who never felt the fascination of a master-mind more than at that moment. As if feeling his power, the elder man relaxed his hold and pointed to the spot where his victim had disappeared.
"He was a good man," he said, more to himself than to Andrew, "and the world has lost a great philanthropist; but he is better as he is."
Then he lifted a paving-stone, and peered long and earnestly into the waters.
The short stout man, however, did not rise again.
[1] Some time afterwards Lord Rosebery convulsed an audience by a story about a friend of his who complained that you get "no forrarder" on claret. Andrew was that friend.
[2] He had fine ideas, but no money to work them out. One was to start a serious "Spectator," on the lines of the present one, but not so flippant and frivolous56.
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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6
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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8
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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9
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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10
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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11
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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12
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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13
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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14
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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15
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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16
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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17
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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18
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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19
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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20
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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21
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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23
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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27
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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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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32
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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34
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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35
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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36
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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40
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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41
glossiness
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| 有光泽的； 光泽度 | |
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42
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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44
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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46
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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47
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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48
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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49
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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50
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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51
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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52
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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54
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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55
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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56
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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