by John Buchan
At dinner I watched the distinguished visitor with interest. That he was very much of a celebrity was obvious at once. He it was to whom the unaccountable pauses in talk were left, and something in his carefully modulated voice, his neatness, his air of entire impregnability, gave him a fascination felt even by so unemotional a man as I. He differed with Lawerdale on a political question, and his attitude of mingled deference and certainty was as engaging to witness as it must have been irritating to encounter. But the event of the meal was his treatment of Lady Afflint, a lady (it is only too well known) who is the hidden reef on which so many a brilliant talker shipwrecks. Her questions give a fatal chance for an easy and unpleasing smartness; she leads her unhappy companion into a morass of ‘shop’ from which there is no escape, and, worst of all, she has the shrewdness to ask those questions which can only be met by a long explanation and which leave their nervous and short-winded victim the centre of a confusing silence. I have no hesitation in calling Layden’s treatment of this estimable woman a miracle of art. Her own devices were returned upon her, until we had the extraordinary experience of seeing Lady Afflint reduced to an aggrieved peace.
But the man’s appearance surprised me. There was nothing of the flush of enthusiasm, the ready delight in his own powers, which are supposed to mark the popular idol. His glance seemed wandering and vacant, his face drawn and lined with worry, and his whole figure had the look of a man prematurely ageing. Rogerson, that eminent lawyer, remarked on the fact in his vigorous style. ‘Layden has chosen a damned hard profession. I never cared much for the fellow, but I admit he can work. Why, add my work to that of a first-class journalist, and you have an idea of what the man gets through every day of his life. And then think of the amount he does merely for show: the magazine articles, the lecturing, the occasional political speaking. All that has got to be kept up as well as his reputation in society. It would kill me in a week, and, mark my words, he can’t live long at that pitch.’
I saw him no more that night, but every paper I picked up was full of him. It was ‘Mr. Layden interviewed’ here, and ‘Arnold Layden, an Appreciation’ there, together with paragraphs innumerable, and the inscrutable allusions in his own particular journal. The thing disgusted me, and yet the remembrance of that worn-out face held me from condemning him. I am one whose interest lies very little in the minute problems of human conduct, finding enough to attract me in the breathing, living world. But here was something which demanded recognition, and in my own incapable way I drew his character.
I saw little of him during that week at Heston, for he was eternally in the train of some woman or other, when he was not shut up in the library turning out his tale of bricks. With amazing industry he contrived to pass a considerable portion of each day in serious labour, and then turned with weary eyes to the frivolity in which he was currently supposed to delight. We were the barest acquaintances, a brief nod, a chance good-morning, being the limits of our intimacy; indeed, it was a common saying that Layden had a vast acquaintance, but scarcely a friend.
But on the Sunday I happened to be sitting with Wratislaw on an abrupt furze-clad knoll which looks over the park to meadow and sea. We had fallen to serious talking, or the random moralising which does duty for such among most of us. Wratislaw in his usual jerky fashion was commenting on the bundle of perplexities which made up his life, when to us there entered a third in the person of Layden himself. He had a languid gait, partly assumed no doubt for purposes of distinction, but partly the result of an almost incessant physical weariness. But to-day there seemed to be something more in his manner. His whole face was listless and dreary; his eyes seemed blank as a stone wall.
As I said before, I scarcely knew him, but he and Wratislaw were old acquaintances. At any rate he now ignored me wholly, and flinging himself on the ground by my companion’s side, leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
‘Oh, Tommy, Tommy, old man, I am a hopeless wreck,’ he groaned.
‘You are overworking, my dear fellow,’ said Wratislaw; ‘you should hold back a little.’
Layden turned a vacant face toward the speaker. ‘Do you think that is all?’ he said. ‘Why, work never killed a soul. I could work night and day if I were sure of my standing-ground.’
Wratislaw looked at him long and solemnly. Then he took out a pipe and lit it. ‘You’d better smoke,’ he said. ‘I get these fits of the blues sometimes myself, and they go off as suddenly as they come. But I thought you were beyond that sort of thing.’
‘Beyond it!’ Layden cried. ‘If I had had them years ago it might have saved me. When the Devil has designs on a man, be sure that the first thing he does is to make him contented with himself.’
I saw Wraitslaw’s eyebrows go up. This was strange talk to hear from one of Layden’s life.
‘I would give the world to be in your place. You have chosen solid work, and you have left yourself leisure to live. And I — oh, I am a sort of ineffectual busy person running about on my little errands and missing everything.’
Wratislaw winced; he disliked all mention of himself, but he detested praise.
‘It’s many years since I left Oxford; I don’t remember how long, and all this time I have been doing nothing. Who is it talks about being “idly busy”? And people have praised me and fooled me till I believed I was living my life decently. It is n’t as if I had been slack. My God, I have worked like a nigger, and my reward is wind and smoke! Did you ever have the feeling, Tommy, as if you were without bearings and had to drift with your eyes aching for solid land?’
The other shook his head slowly, and looked like a man in profound discomfort.
‘No, of course you never did, and why should you? You made up your mind at once what was worth having in the world and went straight for it. That was a man’s part. But I thought a little dazzle of fame was the heavenly light. I liked to be talked about; I wanted the reputation of brilliance, so I utilised every scrap of talent I had and turned it all into show. Every little trivial thought was stored up and used on paper or in talk. I toiled terribly, if you like, but it was a foolish toil, for it left nothing for myself. And now I am bankrupt of ideas. My mind grows emptier year by year, and what little is left is spoiled by the same cursed need for ostentation. “Every man should be lonely at heart”; whoever said that said something terribly true, and the words have been driving me mad for days. All the little that I have must be dragged out to the shop-window, and God knows the barrenness of that back-parlour I call my soul.’
I saw that Wratislaw was looking very solemn, and that his pipe had gone out and had dropped on the ground.
‘And what is the result of it all?’ Layden went on. ‘Oh, I cannot complain. It is nobody’s fault but my own; but Lord, what a pretty mess it is!’ and he laughed miserably. ‘I cannot bear to be alone and face the naked ribs of my mind. A beautiful sight has no charms for me save to revive jaded conventional memories. I have lost all capacity for the plain, strong, simple things of life, just as I am beginning to realise their transcendent worth. I am growing wretchedly mediocre, and I shall go down month by month till I find my own degraded level. But thank God, I do not go with my eyes shut; I know myself for a fool, and for the fool there is no salvation.’
Then Wratislaw rose and stood above him. I had never seen him look so kindly at any one, and for a moment his rough, cynical face was transfigured into something like tenderness. He put his hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘You are wrong, old man,’ he said; ‘you are not a fool. But if you had not come to believe yourself one, I should have had doubts of your wisdom. As it is, you will now go on to try the real thing, and then — we shall see.’
III
The real thing, — Heaven knows it is what we are all striving after with various degrees of incompetence. I looked forward to the transformation of this jaded man with an interest not purely of curiosity. His undoubted cleverness, and the habitual melancholy of his eyes, gave him a certain romantic aloofness from common lif
e. Moreover, Wratislaw had come to believe in him, and I trusted his judgment.
I saw no more of the man for weeks, hearing only that his health was wretched and that he had gone for a long holiday to the south. His private income had always been considerable, and his work could very well wait; but his admirers were appalled by the sudden cessation of what had been a marvellous output. I was honestly glad to think of his leisure. I pictured him once more the master of himself, gathering his wits for more worthy toil, and getting rid of the foolish restlessness which had unnerved him. Then came a chance meeting at a railway-station, where he seemed to my hasty eyes more cheerful and well looking; and then my wanderings began again, and London gossip, reputation, and chatter about letters were left a thousand miles behind.
When I returned I had almost forgotten his name; but the air of one’s own land is charged with memories, and the past rises on the mind by degrees till it recovers its former world. I found Wratislaw looking older, grimmer, and more irritable, ready to throw books at me for tantalising him with glimpses of an impossible life. He walked me fiercely through Hyde Park, full of abrupt questions as of old, and ever ready with his shrewd, humorous comment. Then in my turn, I fell to asking him of people and things, of the whole complication of civilised life from which I had been shut off for years. Some stray resemblance in a passing face struck me, and I asked about Layden.
Wratislaw grunted savagely. ‘In a way I am grateful to the man for showing me that I am a fool.’
‘Then he has gone back to his old life?’ I asked, not without anxiety.
‘Listen to me,’ he said gruffly. ‘His health broke down, as you know, and he went abroad to recover it. He stopped work, dropped out of publicity, and I thought all was well. But the man cannot live without admiration; he must be hovering in its twopenny light like a moth round a candle. So he came back, and, well, — there was a repetition of the parable of the seven devils. Only he has changed his line. Belles-lettres, society small-talk, everything of that kind has gone overboard. He is by way of being earnest now; he talks of having found a mission in life, and he preaches a new gospel about getting down to the Truth of Things. His trash has enormous influence; when he speaks the place is crowded, and I suppose he is in hopes of becoming a Force. He has transient fits of penitence, for he is clever enough to feel now and then that he is a fool, but I was wrong to think that he could ever change. Well, well, the band-playing for the ruck, but the end of the battle for the strong! He is a mere creature of phrases, and he has got hold of the particular word which pleases his generation. Do you remember our last talk with him at Heston? Well, read that bill.’
He pointed to a large placard across the street. And there in flaming red and black type I read that on a certain day under the auspices of a certain distinguished body Mr. Arnold Layden would lecture on The Real Thing.
Comedy in the Full Moon
Chamber’s Journal, 1898
I
‘I DISLIKE THAT man,’ said Miss Phyllis, with energy.
‘I have liked others better,’ said the Earl.
There was silence for a little as they walked up the laurelled path, which wound by hazel thicket and fir-wood to the low ridges of moor.
‘I call him Charles Surface,’ said Miss Phyllis again, with a meditative air. ‘I am no dabbler in the water-colours of character, but I think I could describe him.’
‘Try,’ said the Earl.
‘Mr. Charles Eden,’ began the girl, ‘is a man of talent. He has edged his way to fortune by dint of the proper enthusiasms and a seductive manner. He is a politician of repute and a lawyer of some practice, but his enemies say that like necessity he knows no law, and even his friends shrink from insisting upon his knowledge of politics. But he believes in all honest enthusiasms, temperance, land reform, and democracy with a capital D; he is, however, violently opposed to woman suffrage.’
‘Every man has his good points,’ murmured the Earl.
‘You are interrupting me,’ said Miss Phyllis, severely. ‘To continue, his wife was the daughter of a baronet of ancient family and scanty means. Her husband supplied the element which she missed in her father’s household, and today she is popular and her parties famous. Their house is commonly known as the Wilderness, because there the mixed multitude which came out of Egypt mingle with the chosen people. In character he is persuasive and good-natured; but then good-nature is really a vice which is called a virtue because it only annoys a man’s enemies.’
‘I am learning a great deal tonight,’ said the man.
‘You are,’ said Miss Phyllis. ‘But there, I have done. What I dislike in him is that one feels that he is the sort of man that has always lived in a house and is out of place anywhere but on a pavement.’
‘And you call this a sketch in water-colours?’
‘No, indeed. In oils,’ said the girl, and they walked through a gate on to the short bent grass and the bouldered face of a hill. Something in the place seemed to strike her, for she dropped her voice and spoke simply.
‘You know I am town-bred, but I am not urban in nature. I must chatter daily, but every now and then I grow tired of myself, and I hate people like Charles Eden who remind me of my weakness.’
‘Life,’ said the Earl, ‘may be roughly divided into — But there, it is foolish to be splitting up life by hairs on such a night.’
Now they stood on the ridge’s crest in the silver-grey light of a midsummer moon. Far up the long Gled valley they looked to the towering hills whence it springs; then to the left, where the sinuous Callowa wound its way beneath green and birk-clad mountains to the larger stream. In such a flood of brightness the far-distant peaks and shoulders stood out clear as day, but full of that hint of subtle and imperishable mystery with which the moon endows the great uplands in the height of summer. The air was still, save for the falling of streams and the twitter of nesting birds.
The girl stared wide-eyed at the scene, and her breath came softly with utter admiration.
‘Oh, such a land!’ she cried, ‘and I have never seen it before. Do you know I would give anything to explore these solitudes, and feel that I had made them mine. Will you take me with you?’
‘But these things are not for you, little woman,’ he said. ‘You are too clever and smart and learned in the minutiae of human conduct.
You would never learn their secret. You are too complex for simple, old-world life.
‘Please don’t say that,’ said Miss Phyllis, with pleading eyes. ‘Don’t think so hardly of me. I am not all for show.’ Then with fresh wonder she looked over the wide landscape.
‘Do you know these places?’ she asked.
‘I have wandered over them for ten years and more,’ said the Earl, ‘and I am beginning to love them. In other ten, perhaps, I shall have gone some distance on the road to knowledge. The best things in life take time and labour to reach.’
The girl made no answer. She had found a little knoll in the opposite glen, clothed in a tangle of fern and hazels, and she eagerly asked its name.
‘The folk here call it the Fairy Knowe,’ he said. ‘There is a queer story about it. They say that if any two people at midsummer in the full moon walk from the east and west so as to meet at the top, they will find a third there, who will tell them all the future. The old men speak of it carefully, but none believe it.’
‘Oh, let us go and try,’ said the girl, in glee. ‘It is quite early in the evening, and they will never miss us at home.’
‘But the others,’ said he.
‘Oh, the others,’ with a gesture of amusement. ‘We left Mr. Eden talking ideals to your mother, and the other men preparing for billiards. They won’t mind.’
‘But it’s more than half a mile, and you’ll be very tired.’
‘No, indeed,’ said the girl, ‘I could walk to the top of the farthest hills tonight. I feel as light as a feather, and I do so want to know the future. It will be such a score to speak to my aunt with the prophetic accent
of the things to be.’
‘Then come on,’ said the Earl, and the two went off through the heather.
II
If you walk into the inn-kitchen at Callowa on a winter night, you will find it all but deserted, save for a chance traveller who is storm-stayed among the uncertain hills. Then men stay in their homes, for the place is little, and the dwellers in the remoter parts have no errand to town or village. But in the long nights of summer, when the moon is up and the hills dry underfoot, there are many folk down of an evening from the glens, and you may chance on men drinking a friendly glass with half a score of miles of journey before them. It is a cheerful scene — the wide room, with the twilight struggling with the new-lit lamp, the brown faces gathered around the table, and the rise and fall of the soft southern talk.
On this night you might have chanced on a special gathering, for it was the evening of the fair-day in Gled-foot, and many shepherds from the moors were eating their suppers and making ready for the road. It was then that Jock Rorison of the Redswirehead — known to all the world as Lang Jock to distinguish him from his cousin little Jock of the Nick o’ the Hurlstanes — met his most ancient friend, the tailor of Callowa. They had been at school together, together they had suffered the pains of learning; and now the one’s lot was cast at the back of Creation, and the other’s in a little dark room in the straggling street of Callowa. A bottle celebrated their meeting, and there and then in the half-light of the gloaming they fell into talk. They spoke of friends and kin, and the toils of life; of village gossip and market prices. Thence they drifted into vague moralisings and muttered exhortation in the odour of whisky. Soon they were amiable beyond their wont, praising each other’s merit, and prophesying of good fortune. And then — alas for human nature! — there came the natural transition to argument and reviling.
