The leaves in the squares were green, and the twittering of the birds among the boughs2 was almost gay enough to charm him out of the severity of countenance3 which a Scotchman wears on a Sunday with his blacks.
Andrew could not help regarding the mother-of-pearl sky as a favourable4 omen5. Several times he caught himself becoming light-hearted.
Andrew explained in a few words the nature of his visit, and received a cordial welcome.
"But I could call again," he said, observing the hymn-book in the other's hand.
So saying, he led his visitor into a cheerful snuggery at the back of the house. It was furnished with a careful contempt for taste, and the first thing that caught Andrew's eye was a pot of apple jam on a side table.
"I have no gum," Mr. Labouchere explained hastily.
A handsomely framed picture, representing Truth lying drowned at the bottom of a well, stood on the mantel-piece; indeed, there were many things in the room that, on another occasion, Andrew would have been interested to hear the history of.
He could not but know, however, that at present he was to some extent an intruder, and until he had fully10 explained his somewhat delicate business he would not feel at ease.
Though argumentative, Andrew was essentially11 a shy, proud man.
It was very like Mr. Labouchere to leave him to tell his story in his own way, only now and then, at the outset, interjecting a humorous remark, which we here omit.
"I hope," said Andrew earnestly, "that you will not think it fulsome12 on my part to say how much I like you. In your public utterances13 you have let it be known what value you set on pretty phrases; but I speak the blunt truth, as you have taught it. I am only a young man, perhaps awkward and unpolished—"
Here Andrew paused, but as Mr. Labouchere did not say anything he resumed.
"That as it may be, I should like you to know that your political speeches have become part of my life. When I was a student it seemed to me that the Radicalism14 of so called advanced thinkers was a half-hearted sham15; I had no interest in politics at all until I read your attack—one of them—on the House of Lords. That day marked an epoch16 in my life. I used to read the University library copy of 'Truth' from cover to cover. Sometimes I carried it into the class-room. That was not allowed. I took it up my waistcoat. In those days I said that if I wrote a book I would dedicate it to you without permission, and London, when I came to it, was to me the town where you lived."
There was a great deal of truth in this; indeed, Mr. Labouchere's single-hearted enthusiasm—be his politics right or wrong—is well calculated to fascinate young men.
If it was slightly over-charged, the temptation was great. Andrew was keenly desirous of carrying his point, and he wanted his host to see that he was only thinking of his good.
"Well, but what is it you would have me do?" asked Mr. Labouchere, who often had claimants on his bounty17 and his autographs.
"I want you," said Andrew eagerly, "to die."
The two men looked hard at each other. There was not even a clock in the room to break the silence. At last the statesman spoke18.
"Why?" he asked.
His visitor sank back in his chair relieved. He had put all his hopes in the other's common-sense.
It had never failed Mr. Labouchere, and now it promised not to fail Andrew.
"I am anxious to explain that," the young man said glibly19. "If you can look at yourself with the same eyes with which you see other people, it won't take long. Make a looking-glass of me, and it is done.
"You have now reached a high position in the worlds of politics and literature, to which you have cut your way unaided.
"You hate shams21 so much that if man had been constructed for it I dare say you would kick at yourself.
"You have your enemies, but the very persons who blunt their weapons on you do you the honour of sharpening them on 'Truth.' In short, you have reached the summit of your fame, and you are too keen a man of the world not to know that fame is a touch-and-go thing."
Andrew paused.
"Go on," said Mr. Labouchere.
"Well, you have now got fame, honour, everything for which it is legitimate22 in man to strive.
"So far back as I can remember, you have had the world laughing with you. But you know what human nature is.
"There comes a morning to all wits, when their public wakes to find them bores. The fault may not be the wit's, but what of that? The result is the same.
"Wits are like theatres: they may have a glorious youth and prime, but their old age is dismal23. To the outsider, like myself, signs are not wanting—to continue the figure of speech—that you have put on your last successful piece.
"Can you say candidly24 that your last Christmas number was more than a reflection of its predecessors25, or that your remarks this year on the Derby day took as they did the year before?
"Surely the most incisive26 of our satirists will not let himself degenerate27 into an illustration of Mr. Herbert Spencer's theory that man repeats himself, like history.
"Mr. Labouchere, sir, to those of us who have grown up in your inspiration it would indeed be pitiful if this were so."
Probably he wished that he had gone to church now.
"You need not be alarmed," he said, with a forced smile.
"You will die," cried Andrew, "before they send you to the House of Lords?"
"In which case the gain would be all to those left behind."
"No," said Andrew, who now felt that he had as good as gained the day; "there could not be a greater mistake.
"Suppose it happened to-night, or even put it off to the end of the week; see what would follow.
"The ground you have lost so far is infinitesimal. It would be forgotten in the general regret.
"Think of the newspaper placards next morning, some of them perhaps edged with black; the leaders in every London paper and in all the prominent provincial29 ones; the six columns obituary30 in the 'Times'; the paragraphs in the 'World'; the motion by Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Healy for the adjournment31 of the House; the magazine articles; the promised memoirs32; the publication of posthumous33 papers; the resolution in the Northampton Town Council; the statue in Hyde Park! With such a recompense where would be the sacrifice?"
"Now look at the other side of the picture," said Andrew, rising and following him: "'Truth' reduced to threepence, and then to a penny; yourself confused with Tracy Turnerelli or Martin Tupper; your friends running when you looked like jesting; the House emptying, the reporters shutting their note-books as you rose to speak; the great name of Labouchere become a synonym35 for bore!"
They presented a strange picture in that room, its owner's face now a greyish white, his supplicant36 shaking with a passion that came out in perspiration37.
There was a smell of new-mown hay in the air, a gentle breeze tipped the well-trimmed hedge with life, and the walks crackled in the heat.
But a stone's throw distant the sun was bathing in the dimpled Thames.
There was a cawing of rooks among the tall trees, and a church-bell tinkled39 in the ivy40 far away across the river.
Mr. Labouchere was far away too.
He was a round-cheeked boy again, smothering41 his kitten in his pinafore, prattling42 of Red Riding Hood43 by his school-mistress's knee, and guddling in the brook44 for minnows.
And now—and now!
It was a beautiful world, and, ah, life is sweet!
He pressed his fingers to his forehead.
Andrew put his hand upon the shoulder of the man he loved so well.
"Be brave," he said; "do it in whatever way you prefer. A moment's suffering, and all will be over."
He spoke gently. There is always something infinitely46 pathetic in the sight of a strong man in pain.
Mr. Labouchere turned upon him.
"Go," he cried, "or I will call the servants."
"You forget," said Andrew, "that I am your guest."
Andrew felt a great sinking at his heart. They prate48 who say it is success that tries a man. He flung himself at Mr. Labouchere's feet.
"Think of the public funeral," he cried.
His host seized the bell-rope and pulled it violently.
"If you will do it," said Andrew solemnly, "I promise to lay flowers on your grave every day till I die."
"John," said Mr. Labouchere, "show this gentleman out."
Andrew rose.
"You refuse?" he asked.
"I do."
"You won't think it over? If I call again, say on Thursday—"
"John!" said Mr. Labouchere.
Andrew took up his hat. His host thought he had gone. But in the hall his reflection in a looking-glass reminded the visitor of something. He put his head in at the doorway49 again.
Andrew then withdrew.
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1
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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6
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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7
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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8
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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9
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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10
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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14
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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18
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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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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21
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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31
adjournment
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| 休会； 延期； 休会期； 休庭期 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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33
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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34
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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supplicant
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| adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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39
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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40
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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41
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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42
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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43
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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44
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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45
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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46
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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47
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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48
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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49
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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50
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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