I once heard an after-dinner speaker refer to his remarks as "long pauses bridged by a poverty of thought." I find that a volume of reminiscences is in danger of becoming a sheaf of inconsequences bound by unpardonable egotism. I seem long since to have exhausted what I regard as a reasonable number of I's; and then again, there are so many things that I want to say that bear no reasonable relation to each other.
My position is that of the young man at a dinner party who was boiling over with eagerness to tell a shooting story. He waited impatiently for the conversation to develop in such a direction as would enable him to drag it in. Dessert arrived, and still no opening. In sheer desperation he stamped loudly on the floor beneath the table. "What was that? Sounded like a gun. Talking of guns, etc.," and he secured his opening.
If I appear inconsequent, my readers must remember that young man's shooting story and forgive me.
For some reason that I have never quite been able to understand, people seem to think that I am endowed with great wealth. If they only knew how money hates me. The moment I take it into my hands it runs and runs away from me with frightened speed. But all this does not prevent people from convincing themselves not only that I am possessed of great riches, but that I am so stupid as not to know what to do with them.
Sometimes this state of affairs is extremely tiresome. I recall one incident that should be a lesson to others as it has been a lesson to me. One day a card was brought to me bearing the name
GRETCHEN ——
Aus Riga.
I asked myself: is that Gretchen going to complain to me of her Faust? Have I to chastise that captivating mangeur de Coeurs? But the fact that my visitor was from Riga, and thus a compatriot of mine to a great extent, prevailed upon my doubts, and I received my young lady, who by the way was not particularly young and not exactly a fashionable lady, was not only terribly lean, but angular and wretched in appearance. This killed my hesitation, and I eagerly tried to find out what she wanted and what I could do, and who recommended her to me. "Nobody," she said. "I never heard your name, but by mere chance saw it in the Court Guide." She wanted some remunerative work, as remunerative as possible. I already had a secretary, but engaged my "Gretchen" as an extra reader. She seemed pleased, and I was in hopes that I should also be pleased with that new alliance. My new reader was certainly not stupid, and always wanted to have some messages for my friends, wanting to know everything about everybody. Always being busy and short of time I could not satisfy that curious fancy of my "Gretchen." She said she knew nobody in England, except myself. I tried to help her, advising her to start a little boarding-house, especially as I was going to Scotland for a fortnight to stay with Lady Mary Nisbet-Hamilton. Besides, a new plan suggested itself to me; I thought that whilst "Gretchen" was looking for her rooms and furniture, she might live in my rooms at the hotel during my absence. May I now say that no plan could be more foolish and dangerous than mine turned out to be.
Scotland is a wonderfully hospitable and kind part of the world, and oh! how beautiful, and I was naturally captivated and prolonged my visit. On returning to my hotel I found "Gretchen" much less angular and less melancholy. The little cottage was found, the furniture bought, and she still wanted only a little more help. Upon this we parted, to my great satisfaction. But something perfectly unexpected happened to me a few weeks later. "My Gretchen" returned to me and said that she decidedly wanted more help, not less than £50 (fifty). At that time, my pocket being empty, I looked at her sternly and said: "But you are mad, this is out of the question," "No," said she, "you shall give me this money. In fact I can compel you to do so. Do you know that I can sell your correspondence to an editor or a publisher? You forgot to lock your drawers and I have taken a copy of all letters addressed to you." I confess I was appalled.
This happened in the years 1878-1880, I don't remember which, when I was in the midst of a tremendous political agitation. With my answer I generally returned letters which might be taken as political documents, still my drafts could serve as a clue to many important discussions, and then I remembered that I did not return Bishop Strossmeyer's letter to Mr. Gladstone, as I wanted to discuss it verbally at our first meeting.