Magnus Merriman (18 page)

Time grew tedious again. The cell was warm enough,
but the air was sour and stuffy, charged with their breath and still heavy with the beery exhalations of the night. Meiklejohn had said little all day. Magnus and Denny kept conversation going, but towards night even Denny grew somewhat depressed, and Magnus became aware that all the miserable thoughts of the morning were again crowding in upon him.

He lay down to sleep on the sloping wooden platform, and could find no comfort on it. The cell grew darker and the pink-washed walls turned to a dull maroon. He was oppressed by the nearness of the others and the smallness of the room. His mouth was still sour, and his head ached. He felt a passionate desire for the cleanliness of an ascetic life, the hard decency of strenuous work in the lamp-lit severity of a scholar's library, of strenuous exercise in the open air that should be the only relief to study. He promised himself to lead a better, harder, cleaner life, and in this pious expectation fell into troubled sleep.

On the following morning the dull lethargic air of Sunday was replaced by an atmosphere of bustle and trepidation. The stone corridors of the Police Station were loud with the passing of official feet, and the brusque tones of official gossip were constantly heard. As the time approached for their removal to the Police Court both Magnus and Meiklejohn were conscious of a growing nervousness. They were permitted to wash, but soap and water could not remove their two days' growth of beard, and their collars were regrettably soiled. Despite all their efforts to smarten their appearance they wore a look of weary dissipation, and Meiklejohn's drooping eyelid hung so low as to give him a peculiarly rakish air.

To their consternation they were handcuffed for the journey, and their dismay increased when they learnt that they must walk, thus manacled, to the Court. They had no more than a hundred yards to go—out into the High Street and round the corner into Parliament Square—but a score of spectators, natives of the High Street and unkempt children, observed their progress, and the very daylight seemed
of a piercing hawk-eyed kind that scrutinized their inmost being. The day was cold and its brightness was exaggerated by their week-end's confinement. The policeman escorting them spoke cheerfully to them and seemed well-disposed, but they were unable to share his humorous view of their situation.

They were taken through a narrow doorway and down a stone stair to wait for the arrival of the magistrates. There were many policemen and Court officials walking about, chatting genially among themselves. They wore an Olympian air. They seemed remote from the sins and frailties of their prisoners, and their rubicund benignity proclaimed them a race apart. Magnus grew envious of their self-esteem, their power, their semblance of beatitude.

By and by the prisoners were marched upstairs again and into the Court room. Their handcuffs had been removed. They filled three rows of benches in front of the Court, and behind them sat relatives and other interested spectators. Policemen stood in the doorways. A couple of agents spoke to their clients. Meiklejohn signalled to a reporter whom he knew and told him to keep his name and Magnus's out of the papers.

The magistrates came in. They wore their dignity less composedly, less authoritatively than the policemen. It was not so deeply ingrown, so conclusively and inevitably a part of their nature. But the senior magistrate set about his work with proficiency and dispatch.

There were several classes of drunken disorder that a minute or two's examination disposed of. Then a woman was called and charged with attempted suicide: she had drunk a bottle of spirits of lemon for no other reason, it seemed, than to attract the waning attention of her husband, and her neighbours. She was bound over to keep the peace and released under her husband's recognizances. She had succeeded in arousing his interest.

Then an old man, handsome in a Roman way, white-haired and dignified, was accused of cruelly ill-treating his grandchildren: he was remanded for further examination. Magnus and Meiklejohn followed the sadistic old man and
stood together to hear the charges read against them. They were accused of assault, and breach of the peace, and committing five pounds' worth of malicious damage in the Albyn Hotel.

Meiklejohn immediately pleaded guilty. Magnus said, ‘I plead guilty, but with reservations: we didn't commit damage to that extent. I don't believe we committed any damage at all.'

The magistrate, after consulting with a police sergeant, said, ‘There is a representative of the Albyn Hotel here prepared to give evidence to the effect that you committed damage to glass and cutlery, furniture, and to a stair carpet, to the extent estimated. If you plead not guilty you can, of course, contest that assertion.'

Meiklejohn muttered, ‘Guilty, you fool!' Magnus said, ‘I plead guilty, sir,' and glared fiercely at the head waiter who had come to bear witness against him.

The magistrate said, ‘It is very shocking to see people of your class brought here and charged with such offences. If you can afford to dine in such an hotel you ought to know how to behave yourselves. But apparently you conducted yourselves with great disorder, persistently annoyed your fellow-guests, and when you were requested to leave the hotel you committed the said assault. Have you any excuse for such behaviour?'

‘We were rather excited,' said Magnus, ‘I had been to the International in the afternoon, and I grew very excited there, and—well, we had rather a lot to drink and we continued to be excited. Then we had an argument …'

‘About the match, I suppose?'

‘No,' said Magnus.

‘Then what was it about?'

‘About Shakespeare,' said Magnus.

‘
Shakespeare?
' said the magistrate.

‘Well, Shakespeare and Racine.'

‘Who?'

‘Racine, the French dramatist.'

‘I know, I know,' said the magistrate testily. ‘I know who Racine is. You needn't tell me that. But what do you want to argue about him for?'

‘My friend Meiklejohn says that he is a better poet than Shakespeare.'

By this time there was a sound of ill-suppressed merriment in several parts of the Court, and the magistrate and the law agents were regarding Magnus and Meiklejohn with that air of mild astonishment which well-bred people bestow upon an exhibition—of acrobatics, for example—that is sufficiently remarkable but not in the best of taste.

The senior magistrate, in a temper, said, ‘Be careful, or I shall commit you for contempt of court.'

Magnus said, ‘I assure you that I am speaking with all respect for the Court. We had an argument about the respective merits of Shakespeare and Racine, and we grew somewhat heated over it.'

The magistrate blew his nose. ‘I can't understand you,' he said. ‘If you had been arguing about the football match I should have been ready to take a more lenient view of the case—it is natural that young men should grow excited over such a topic—but for the puerile excuse that you have offered I have no sympathy whatsoever. However, you have been in prison since Saturday night, so I shall take that into consideration and fine you three pounds each. You will also have to pay five pounds damage. And I hope this will be a lesson to you: if you can't think about literature in a reasonable way, as reasonable people do, then don't think about it at all.'

When their possessions had been restored to them Magnus and Meiklejohn were just able, by pooling their money, to pay the eleven pounds required of them. Meiklejohn spoke to the reporter again, who promised to make no mention of the case, but in spite of this assurance he was still nervous and said he must go at once to his office, whence, by the tactful dissemination of personal explanations, he hoped completely to safeguard himself and Magnus against the unpleasantness of further publicity. He was also depressed by having to pay such heavy damages, for he was already in debt to Mrs Dolphin and now the prospect of paying his rent was indefinitely postponed.

‘The only comforting feature of the whole business,' he
said, ‘is that we didn't pay for our dinner. In the confusion they've probably forgotten all about the bill.'

But unfortunately for this lonely gleam of optimism the head waiter, very sprucely dressed, met them as they left the Police Court and presented a bill for £6 17s. od.

‘There's no ill-will, gentlemen,' he said, and smiled most amiably. ‘We shall be pleased to see you in the Tarascon Restaurant any time you care to come.'

‘A soup kitchen will be all I can afford to go to now,' said Meiklejohn gloomily. But Magnus took the bill and promised to pay it immediately.

They parted without more delay. Meiklejohn went to his office, and Magnus, head down to conceal his beard, hurried back to his flat in Queen Street. He desired one thing only: to escape the scene of his humiliation and avoid the glances of his fellow-men. He thought once more of taking refuge in Orkney, and though to flee thither would mean the abandonment of his political ambitions and desertion from the vanguard of Scottish Nationalism, he debated even those contingencies.

He found several letters waiting for him. One was from Frieda. It was a long rambling letter full of upbraiding that was mitigated, in a way, by the assurance that she still loved him. She said: ‘I blame you—I must blame you—for getting drunk and behaving so badly, but I blame myself too, for I feel that I could have stopped you from drinking too much if only I had guessed what was going to happen. I meant to look after you—for I know your weakness now—but I failed. That's why I blame myself as well as you.'

Magnus felt that this was an unwarrantable impertinence. He had no wish to be looked after, and he could not see that Frieda had any right to consider herself as his guardian. And though he had criticized himself far more bitterly than she did, he did not, because of that, feel inclined to accept her strictures. He threw the letter down impatiently, without finishing it, and opened another. But in a minute or two curiosity supervened on impatience, and he picked it up again.

Frieda continued: ‘It would have been bad enough if such a thing had happened at any time, but on Saturday
it was especially hard to bear after what you had said to me while we were dancing. That made me so happy, and because I was happy then I grew more miserable than you can imagine afterwards. Oh, Magnus, you
did
mean what you said, didn't you? Call me as soon as you can, and I'll come and see you.'

Magnus read this in great embarrassment, for he could remember nothing of what he had said to Frieda while he was dancing with her. He knew that he had talked a great deal and that his volubility had often been affectionate. It might even have been extravagantly affectionate, for when he protested his admiration for a girl he liked to do it well, and words were such charming playthings that often he used them more for the pretty patterns they would make than for the stark conveyance of information. ‘My God!' he muttered, ‘what did I say to her?' But to save his life—had it been in danger—he could not remember, and he put down the letter very unhappily, fearing the worst.

The remaining letter was even more surprising. It was from Mr Macdonell, the Vice-President of the National Party, whom Magnus had met at Mr Sutherland's soirée. And Mr Macdonell wrote as follows:

‘We have information that there will be a parliamentary by-election in Kinluce in the near future. Will you accept nomination as the Nationalist candidate? We have as yet no organization in Kinluce, but the whole strength of the Party would be behind you, and, as you know, such an extraordinary wave of enthusiasm for our cause is sweeping the country that I believe you would have a magnificent chance of success. From our point of view you would be an excellent candidate. Your name is already known, you are an able speaker—your few remarks at Sutherland's party greatly impressed me, and I have heard from various sources that in your University days you were a very skilful debater—and your articles in the
Evening Star
have been widely read and widely approved. You will be doing the Party the greatest service if you consent to fight this by-election.'

Mr Macdonell went on to remark that the old political parties had served their day, were now suspect on all sides, that Scotland was waiting for a new voice, and so forth. He
concluded by saying that Magnus would be—had he said an excellent candidate? He had under-estimated him. He would be the ideal candidate. And Mr Macdonell earnestly hoped that Magnus would accept this invitation forthwith.

Magnus immediately forgot his humiliation in the Police Court, his subsequent desire to escape the world and live in solitude, and the acute embarrassment which Frieda's letter had caused him. He was enchanted by this sudden prospect of patriotic activity, and already the vague but shining vista of a great political career was unfolding in his imagination. The idea of declining the invitation, even of hesitating to accept it until he knew more about his constituency and the nature of the support which he was promised, never occurred to him. Nor did he suppose that his recent escapade would diminish his parliamentary value or impair Mr Macdonell's conception of him as the ideal candidate for Kinluce: for many patriotic people had been in prison for some period of their lives, and though their offences had generally been more explicitly political than his, yet to be arrested for arguing about Shakespeare and Racine had at least a flavour of political crime, for it closely resembled the disputing of the rival merits of England and France. Magnus almost felt that he could claim to have been a political prisoner, and without more ado sat down to reply to Mr Macdonell's letter and state that he was prepared to contest the forthcoming by-election in the interests of Scottish Nationalism.

When Frieda came to see him in the afternoon Magnus was in the pearly depths of a day-dream in which he saw himself entering Westminister as Scottish champion and heard himself thundering to those stricken benches the tale of Scotland's wrongs and Scotland's future. With the speed of light the dream pierced still farther into time, and he saw, as the end of his campaign, a consecration service at which all Scotland knelt to receive back into the midst the Stone of her Destiny, that rude block which the first Edward stole, whereon so many alien kings had been unjustly crowned. He
was so moved by this dream that there were tears in his eyes when Frieda came in.

She, seeing him thus bedewed, thought he was repenting his sins and melted too. She threw her arms about his neck and murmured, ‘Magnus, you won't ever behave like that again, will you? I do love you. Have you had a terrible time? Tell me about it and I'll help you to forget it all.'

‘I've already forgotten,' said Magnus, and put away her encircling arms. ‘Things are moving too fast for me to waste time on remorse. Look at this letter I've got. My dear, I'm going to stand for Parliament in a few weeks' time. There are tremendous events in the offing, and I've been extremely busy all day working out my plan of campaign. I'm going to put before the electors a plain straightforward programme, and insist that no remedy for Scotland's distress can be obtained until we have secured our independence. It's perfectly obvious …'

‘All right, all right,' said Frieda, ‘you're not elected yet and I'm not going to elect you. There's no need to make speeches at me. Give me a chance to read this letter.'

She was offended by her rebuff. She read the letter, and asked, ‘Well, are you going to accept this kind invitation?'

‘I've already accepted it. Don't you see what a marvellous opportunity it will be to preach Nationalism openly, to put our cause to the test of public approval, and possibly—probably even—to demonstrate that Scotland is at last determined to be free and independent? If I win I shall be the first Scottish Nationalist in Parliament.'

‘And if you lose?'

‘I'll have had the satisfaction of fighting for what I believe in.'

‘What's this election going to cost you?'

‘I don't know yet.'

‘And what will happen to your poem and your other work?'

‘I'll have to give up writing for some time, of course.'

‘And sacrifice yourself in the sweet name of patriotism?'

‘There's no need to put it like that. I don't want to
posture and prance and talk highfalutin' nonsense, but the fact remains that I do believe in Nationalism and I do know it's important. It's all-important.'

‘So you're ready to let all your other interests go to hell or look after themselves?'

‘For the immediate future, yes.'

‘And that includes me, I suppose?' said Frieda.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, on Saturday night you asked me to marry you. But I suppose you'll be too busy now.'

Had the solid floor turned into quicksands—had the walls tumbled and revealed a hideous precipice before him—had time with a roar reversed its aim and revealed all history's backsides rushing towards him, Magnus could hardly have felt much more aghast. True, he had suspected this earlier in the day, but suspicion is only a pale shadow of fact, and even suspicion had been forgotten in his excited contemplations of a political future. He stared dumbly at Frieda. His lips felt dry. He licked them, and his throat made a nervous movement of swallowing.

‘Well?' she asked.

‘On Saturday, of course, I didn't know that this was going to happen,' he said. ‘The invitation came as a great surprise to me, but it was impossible to refuse, and I think you'll admit and …'

‘Do you love me?' she interrupted.

‘Most certainly I do.'

‘And do you want to marry me?'

‘Well, at present it's hardly a question of what I want to do. My own inclinations …'

‘I see,' said Frieda. ‘Duty before decency is your watchword, and I get the air. Well, you needn't worry. I never pleaded with any man to marry me yet, and I don't intend to start now. You've changed your mind, haven't you? I guess your opinions just naturally alter when you sober up. You wouldn't have asked me to marry you if you hadn't been cock-eyed at the time: is that so? Well, I wouldn't have said yes if I hadn't been cock-eyed too. So now you know. I'll say this, that you've got a swell line of talk when you're properly lit—and after the liquor's burnt out there's nothing left but
cinders and dust. You're a piker! Hell! What's the use of talking?'

She had never looked lovelier. Her anger, like a lamp, lighted her tawny beauty. Vituperation expanded her lungs and her breasts thrust out their firm contours like haycocks on a summer field. Her throat was a white column, and her chin was square, truculent, and delicious. For a moment she stood, tall as a soldier, lovely as yellow roses, and wild as a Fury. Then, turning abruptly, she stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

A feeling of relief, that he recognized as cowardly and undesirable, was Magnus's first sensation after she had gone. But it was a negative feeling, a poor substitute for the exhilaration of his political dreams that this stormy interlude had banished. Even relief was short-lived, for his conscience, tattling like an old maid, began to tell him that Frieda was justified in all she had said, and that he was indeed a poor specimen of manhood, a false hero who flaunted himself in fine colours when he was drunk and dwindled to a shabby twit when sober. And then another of those inward voices that keep mankind from happiness spoke up to say that Frieda was the finest girl he had ever known. Very brave and most lovely, and that he was a fool to let her go. Marry the girl, this voice adjured, and let politics go hang.—But marriage, said a more thoughtful voice, marriage is a dull estate, a thing of chains and fetters, and Frieda, for all her loveliness, is not altogether desirable as a wife. Other men have been there before you, and that thought will worry you. She's wild, moreover, and you would have no peace with her.—Be ruthless, said another voice. Fame is the only good worth fighting for. Love is a paltry thing, pity a slavish thing. Forget her, let her go, and, being ruthless, become famous. That's all very well, said Magnus himself, but I'm not sure that I'm really made that way.

Then these familiar voices took up the argument again, tearing it to shreds, knotting it and cutting the knots, and for the rest of the day Magnus was the unhappy auditor of their conflicting theories.

But in the morning he went to see Meiklejohn, whose enthusiasm on hearing the news was very comforting.
Meiklejohn borrowed a couple of pounds from Magnus and took him to lunch at the Café de Bordeaux.

‘I'm devilish hard up,' he said, ‘and I've got no appetite. Order what you like, old fellow. I'm going to have some caviare and half a bottle of champagne. Nothing else. I always cut my meals to a minimum when I'm on the rocks. But you go ahead: there's some very good cold roast beef there. Have some of that, won't you? And now tell me all about Kinluce.'

After a long and exhilarating conversation, in which Scotland's independence came appreciably nearer, Magnus returned to his flat and found Frieda waiting for him. She had come to apologize for her rudeness and to admit that he had been right in declaring that his career was more important than her happiness.—Magnus tried to interrupt, but she continued in the tones of sweet reason.—She had been impulsive: love had made her so: but now she was resigned to wait. She was not going to be a hindrance to him. If, for the meantime, Magnus was disinclined to commit himself to a formal engagement, then she would not demand one. They could still be friends, and she would be contented with that relationship.

She stayed with him till nearly dinner-time, and encouraged him to talk of the situation in Kinluce and to explain the lines on which he proposed to fight the election. She showed such perfect sympathy that Magnus warmed to her again and allowed the conversation to include topics more intimate than political matters. It became evident that her understanding of friendship was somewhat proprietorial, and that the harmless relationship which she had proposed might well be described as an unofficial engagement. Her demeanour was so charming, however, that they parted not only with affection but with reluctance.

For the next week Magnus was very busy. He had interviews with Mr Macdonell and other important members of the National Party, and he was given a great deal of advice and information about the state of affairs in Kinluce. The present Member was seriously ill and was expected to resign at any moment. It appeared that financially the Party was not very well off, but Mr Macdonell was sure
that for so important an occasion their members would contribute handsomely, and that sufficient funds would be forthcoming to meet all the election expenses. He had secured an ideal person for Magnus's election agent, he said, a Captain Archibald Smellie, a gentleman who had much experience of political organization and was a perfervid Nationalist. Captain Smellie was a tall thin man with black hair and a pronounced squint. He had a confident and ingratiating manner. He immediately referred to Magnus as ‘The Candidate', and took advantage of every occasion to recite passages from Blue Books and Year Books and similar publications.

In addition to these official conversations Magnus was visited by Hugh Skene, McVicar, Mrs Dolphin, Mr Newlands, Miss Beaty Bracken and other people whom he had first met at Mr Sutherland's soirée. They all promised to come and help him in Kinluce, and though their diverse enthusiasm for Communism, pacifism, vegetarianism, poet nonconformity, and economic heresy might impair their presentation of a united front, Magnus was very glad to accept their offers of assistance.

Frieda came to see him every day. She made herself perfectly at home in his flat, and acquired a number of habits that indicated her increasingly domestic view of their association. She would, for instance, borrow his handkerchief when she had forgotten her own. As she was a strong healthy girl with few affectations she blew her nose very vigorously, and when she returned the handkerchief Magnus often felt that it was really hers and that it was he who was borrowing it. But his mind was so occupied that he gave little thought to what was happening, and let her darn his socks without perceiving the significance of such benevolence.

News came at last that the Member for Kinluce had applied for the Chiltern Hundreds. Two days later Magnus visited his constituency, accompanied by Mr Macdonell, Captain Smellie, and other prominent members of the Party, and in a draughty, ill-lit Temperance Hall addressed some eighteen or twenty apathetic electors, who were subsequently declared to have unanimously adopted him as the Nationalist candidate.