Shortly after Edgar left Cambridge, the financial crisis that spread across the European continent broke out. It is not clear whether the impending war triggered the economic crisis or the economic crisis triggered the following year's world war.
The loaves had risen to tenpence, the rent had risen by a third, and I was obliged to cut down my time in studying "fans," and found a governess through the newspapers, to relieve my uncle in Bedfordshire.
In fact, there is not much difference between reducing or not reducing research time. The breakthroughs so far have all been obtained by Andremon through espionage methods, and I have no contribution other than to come up with the equation. Andrew first affirmed the correctness of the idea of mathematical equations, and then denied my algorithm. I rejected his algorithm in a fit of anger, and he immediately rejected my proposal. Until now, this equation is still not up to the conditions of use.
Linton was frustrated, and so was I. Andremend comforted Linton easily, saying that he was the only colleague who could keep up with his thinking among the colleagues who had worked together for so long, and he didn't need to worry about short-term failures.
So I walked through half of Cambridge alone in a depressed mood, looking for the Bradley mansion where the recruitment notice was posted according to the address in the newspaper.
I walked for a long time, almost thinking that I was going to London, when I heard two girls carrying baskets chatting on the street: "The Bradley House is looking for tutors, finally someone can take care of that young master."
"Yeah, throwing dead cats to the little girl next door every day."
So I went up to ask where the Bradley House was, and the two girls looked me up and down, and one of them covered his mouth and smiled: "Sir, what do you think is behind you?"
I glanced back at the white Baroque building standing halfway across the street, and spread my hands: "Government agency?"
"That's General Bradley's mansion."
I knew that those who could afford tutors were rich people, but I didn't expect it to be the General's Mansion.
At that time, I didn't care about the military. I had never heard of the name of General Bradley, Lord of Britain, and I didn't know that his residence was not in London, but in Cambridge, which has a strong academic atmosphere.
I was impressed by the huge white baroque building, the high steps, the thick Persian rugs and the velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains that were half-covered during the day. What shocked me the most was sitting in the library with seven of the same candidates and being personally tested by Mrs. Bradley. She was General Bradley's wife, a pleasant old woman in her late seventies. After submitting my resume, I will be asked to answer some simple math problems, and then I will have a private conversation. When I was finally led to Young Master Bradley, the sun had already set.
General Bradley had a son and a daughter. The youngest son and daughter-in-law had a car accident in their early years, leaving the young master to live at the general's grandfather's house. The little kid goes to a noble school, and won the duck egg in the final exam last semester. A year later, the report card was finally revealed, just as the old general came home from London to stay for a short stay, so he was furious and published in the Times to recruit tutors.
I only come here twice every weekend morning to teach the young master multiplication and division. This position is not hard, and the salary can just make up for the vacancy of my rent. After autumn, prices soared and the unemployment rate remained high. I was lucky to have this income.
It is not difficult to make up lessons, but taking the students back to the study from the back garden is the biggest problem. When we met for the first time, the general's wife kindly led me to the study, and before I got close, I heard the sound of small animals scratching the door. As soon as he opened the door, he was hit on the stomach by a red-haired ball and almost fell on his back.
The red hair ball hit me, bounced back into the room, picked up the arithmetic book in frustration, and said aggrievedly: "I hate mathematics." He looked at me with pursed mouth: "Also, I don't want to look like a female tutor .”
I smiled and asked Mrs. General to go out, closed the door firmly, walked towards my student step by step, and squatted in front of him: "Uh, say it again?"
Fuqiu turned his head disdainfully: "It's okay to say it a hundred times, I hate mathematics!"
I smiled and said, "Not this, the last sentence."
"I don't want to look like a governess for women."
I stood up again with a smile on my face, looked around the room, picked up the crayons and doodles on the desk, and turned my head: "Well, do you like drawing?"
The little boy rushed forward to grab the pen: "You are not allowed to touch it!"
I picked up the little boy with two fingers, threw it in front of the desk, found a chair to sit beside, folded my legs, and shook the box of colored crayons in my hand: "Hey, here are a hundred multiplication problems. I will return one of them to you when you are done." stick—you can pick a color you like.”
At that moment I felt very much like Anderson.
The snatching, biting and rolling failed to achieve results, and the little kid went to solve the problem tearfully. I have always liked this scene in my memory: I sat on the high-backed chair in the Bradley House study, crossed my legs and watched the little kid who ideally was a painter do math problems. The mahogany desk is very large, the little kid is only eight years old, with a small frame, and looks aggrieved when he holds the pen. There is a pot of golden gorse on the windowsill, shaking gently in the breeze.
I asked him, "What's your name?"
"Joe Bradley," snorted the little kid.
I flipped through the drawings in my hand, and shook out a graffiti: "What are the two vertical lines under this triangle?"
"The skirt of my classmate Jenny was blown up by the wind." He was very disappointed: "But it wasn't blown high enough, and I couldn't see anything inside."
"You'll see it when you squat down," I told him. I used to do that a lot when I was a kid.
The little kid was surprised: "My cousin said that too!"
I rummaged through the abstract works, trying to find one to praise: "Well, this picture of glasses is pretty good. Two circles and a short line are connected... Is it a painted glass?"
The little boy glanced at the painting, and said with contempt: "How can these be glasses? This is my cousin."
Children who can abstract their thinking to such a degree fail in mathematics. I think it's a miracle.
I come here regularly twice a week to tutor young Master Bradley in mathematics. The little kid draws messy pictures all day long, and when he talks about mathematics, his face wrinkles and he pitifully bites the tip of his pencil. He is very talented, and he is very fast in calculating problems. He can make mistakes in forty-five of fifty multiplication and division problems. I spent far more time looking for him around the house than I spent tutoring him.
I had no choice but to lie to Edgar with a bunch of sketch tutorials left by him, saying that he couldn't be a painter if he didn't learn mathematics well.
"You have to believe me, my friend is a famous painter in Cambridgeshire." I said swearingly.
The little boy believed it, and counted on his fingers: "When drawing, you need to use algebra to calculate proportions, and you need to use spatial geometry to draw perspective... Alan, what is perspective?"
I wrote to Edgar, and he replied quickly: "Honey, it is true that perspective requires spatial geometry, but he is only eight years old... You'd better let him memorize the multiplication table first."
The little boy would hesitate occasionally: "But my cousin has a friend who studies mathematics. He said he looks good, but he just squats in a small room dirty and doing problems every day."
Joe. Young Master Bradley is being abused by one of his cousins. At first he said that I look like a woman, because his cousin taught him, "Anyone who looks better than a man is called a woman". His cousin works in the government and has a dirty math friend who was kicked out of the house by the general with a cane for chasing his girlfriend.
I have always been curious about who this person is, until one day I walked through half of Cambridge and opened the door of the study, and saw a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on the table.
I finally understand why the kid drew his cousin as a pair of glasses.
Arnold lay back on the swivel chair in front of the desk, and the little kid squatted meekly at his feet. The psychiatrist squinted his eyes and flipped through his brother's abstract graffiti, and complained sullenly: "Analysis evaluation, analysis evaluation... It's a hard vacation. Does Andemon want me to die from exhaustion and go to God directly? Mathematicians are all perverts. "
He lazily turned to the door and froze.
At that time, I had been making up lessons at home for three months, and it was winter, and it was snowing heavily outside. I took off my snow-covered coat and hung it up, and walked to the warm fireplace to warm my frozen hands. After a long time, I spoke without trembling: "Arnold, long time no see. I am Joe's math tutor."
Arnold was surprised for a long time, and then happily came to hug me: "Alan, I thought we would never meet again."
Edgar joined the army at the end of the summer, and from then on I decided to bury my love for Andymond as deeply as he did. Andymond is like one of the most beautiful paintings I've ever owned, but I'm going to lock the door of the collection room now. I told myself I was going to miss our time together like a friend, and move on. When I wasn't in the math room or making up lessons, I'd go to the bar I used to hang out with when I met Anderson, order a glass of cider and watch the waitresses in plaid skirts. Keep seeing the waitresses never pass me by again.
So Arnold didn't come to me for coffee and talk about psychology all autumn, and I thought we would never see each other again.