by Unknown
It was distinctly a Caesarian glance, full of deliberate revolt, that I bestowed upon the street called Sloane; that clean, orderly thoroughfare which leads to Knightsbridge, and thence either to the respectabilities of Kensington or the plush of Piccadilly.
Setting my hat at a wild angle, I stepped with a touch of abandon along the King’s Road to meet the charming, impoverished artists whom our country refuses to recognise.
My first glimpse of the Manresa Road was, I confess, a complete disappointment. Never was Bohemianism more handicapped by its setting than that of Chelsea, if the Manresa Road was to be taken as a criterion. Along the uninviting uniformity of this street no trace of unorthodoxy was to be seen. There came no merry, roystering laughter from attic windows. No talented figures of idle geniuses fetched pints of beer from the public-house at the corner. No one dressed in an ancient ulster and a battered straw hat and puffing enormous clouds of blue smoke from a treasured clay pipe gazed philosophically into space from a doorway. In point of fact, save for a most conventional butcher-boy, I was alone in the street.
Then the explanation flashed upon me. I had been seen approaching. The word had been passed round. A stranger! The clique resents intrusion. It lies hid. These gay fellows see me all the time, and are secretly amused. But they do not know with whom they have to deal. I have come to join them, and join them I will. I am not easily beaten. I will outlast them. The joke shall be eventually against them, at some eccentric supper. I shall chaff them about how they tried to elude me, and failed.
The hours passed. Still no Bohemians. I began to grow hungry. I sprang on to a passing ‘bus. It took me to Victoria. I lunched at the Shakespeare Hotel, smoked a pipe, and went out into the sunlight again. It had occurred to me that night was perhaps the best time for trapping my shy quarry. Possibly the revels did not begin in Manresa Road till darkness had fallen. I spent the afternoon and evening in the Park, dined at Lyons’ Popular Café (it must be remembered that I was not yet a Bohemian, and consequently owed no deference to the traditions of the order); and returned at nine o’clock to the Manresa Road. Once more I drew blank. A barrel-organ played cake-walk airs in the middle of the road, but it played to an invisible audience. No bearded men danced can-cans around it, shouting merry jests to one another. Solitude reigned.
I wait. The duel continues. What grim determination, what perseverance can these Bohemians put into a mad jest! I find myself thinking how much better it would be were they to apply to their Art the same earnestness and fixity of purpose which they squander on a practical joke.
Evening fell. Blinds began to be drawn down. Lamps were lit behind them, one by one. Despair was gnawing at my heart, but still I waited.
Then, just as I was about to retire defeated, I was arrested by the appearance of a house numbered 93A.
At the first-floor window sat a man. He was writing. I could see his profile, his long untidy hair. I understood in a moment. This was no ordinary writer. He was one of those Bohemians whose wit had been exercised upon me so successfully. He was a literary man, and though he enjoyed the sport as much as any of the others he was under the absolute necessity of writing his copy up to time. Unobserved by his gay comrades, he had slipped away to his work. They were still watching me; but he, probably owing to a contract with some journal, was obliged to give up his share in their merriment and toil with his pen.
His pen fascinated me. I leaned against the railings of the house opposite, enthralled. Ever and anon he seemed to be consulting one or other of the books of reference piled up on each side of him. Doubtless he was preparing a scholarly column for a daily paper. Presently a printer’s devil would arrive, clamouring for his “copy.” I knew exactly the sort of thing that happened. I had read about it in novels.
How unerring is instinct, if properly cultivated. Hardly had the clocks struck twelve when the emissaries—there were two of them, which showed the importance of their errand—walked briskly to No. 93A, and knocked at the door.
The writer heard the knock. He rose hurriedly, and began to collect his papers. Meanwhile, the knocking had been answered from within by the shooting of bolts, noises that were followed by the apparition of a female head.
A few brief questions and the emissaries entered. A pause.
The litterateur is warning the menials that their charge is sacred; that the sheets he has produced are impossible to replace. High words. Abrupt re-opening of the front door. Struggling humanity projected on to the pavement. Three persons—my scribe in the middle, an emissary on either side—stagger strangely past me. The scribe enters the purple night only under the stony compulsion of the emissaries.
What does this mean?
I have it. The emissaries have become over-anxious. They dare not face the responsibility of conveying the priceless copy to Fleet Street. They have completely lost their nerve. They insist upon the author accompanying them to see with his own eyes that all is well. They do not wish Posterity to hand their names down to eternal infamy as “the men who lost Blank’s manuscript.”
So, greatly against his will, he is dragged off.
My vigil is rewarded. No. 93A harbours a Bohemian. Let it be inhabited also by me.
I stepped across, and rang the bell.
The answer was a piercing scream.
“Ah, ha!” I said to myself complacently, “there are more Bohemians than one, then, in this house.”
The female head again appeared.
“Not another? Oh, sir, say there ain’t another wanted,” said the head in a passionate Cockney accent.
“That is precisely what there is,” I replied. “I want–-“
“What for?”
“For something moderate.”
“Well, that’s a comfort in a wiy. Which of ‘em is it you want? The first-floor back?”
“I have no doubt the first-floor back would do quite well.”
My words had a curious effect. She scrutinised me suspiciously.
“Ho!” she said, with a sniff; “you don’t seem to care much which it is you get.”
“I don’t,” I said, “not particularly.”
“Look ‘ere,” she exclaimed, “you jest ‘op it. See? I don’t want none of your ‘arf-larks here, and, what’s more, I won’t ‘ave ‘em. I don’t believe you’re a copper at all.”
“I’m not. Far from it.”
“Then what d’yer mean coming ‘ere saying you want my first-floor back?”
“But I do. Or any other room, if that is occupied.”
“‘Ow! Room? Why didn’t yer siy so? You’ll pawdon me, sir, if I’ve said anything ‘asty-like. I thought—but my mistake.”
“Not at all. Can you let me have a room? I notice that the gentleman whom I have just seen–-“
She cut me short. I was about to explain that I was a Bohemian, too.
“‘E’s gorn for a stroll, sir. I expec’ him back every moment. ‘E’s forgot ‘is latchkey. Thet’s why I’m sitting up for ‘im. Mrs. Driver my name is, sir. That’s my name, and well known in the neighbour’ood.”
Mrs. Driver spoke earnestly, but breathlessly.
“I do not contemplate asking you, Mrs. Driver, to give me the apartments already engaged by the literary gentleman–-“
“Yes, sir,” she interpolated, “that’s wot ‘e wos, I mean is. A literary gent.”
“But have you not another room vacant?”
“The second-floor back, sir. Very comfortable, nice room, sir. Shady in the morning, and gets the setting sun.”
Had the meteorological conditions been adverse to the point of malignancy, I should have closed with her terms. Simple agreements were ratified then and there by the light of a candle in the passage, and I left the house, promising to “come in” in the course of the following afternoon.
CHAPTER 2
I EVACUATE BOHEMIA (James Orlebar Cloister’s narrative continued)
The three weeks which I spent at No. 93A mark an epoch in my life. It was during that period that
I came nearest to realising my ambition to be a Bohemian; and at the end of the third week, for reasons which I shall state, I deserted Bohemia, firmly and with no longing, lingering glance behind, and settled down to the prosaic task of grubbing earnestly for money.
The second-floor back had a cupboard of a bedroom leading out of it. Even I, desirous as I was of seeing romance in everything, could not call my lodgings anything but dingy, dark, and commonplace. They were just like a million other of London’s mean lodgings. The window looked out over a sea of backyards, bounded by tall, depressing houses, and intersected by clothes-lines. A cats’ club (social, musical, and pugilistic) used to meet on the wall to the right of my window. One or two dissipated trees gave the finishing touch of gloom to the scene. Nor was the interior of the room more cheerful. The furniture had been put in during the reign of George III, and last dusted in that of William and Mary. A black horse-hair sofa ran along one wall. There was a deal table, a chair, and a rickety bookcase. It was a room for a realist to write in; and my style, such as it was, was bright and optimistic.
Once in, I set about the task of ornamenting my abode with much vigour. I had my own ideas of mural decoration. I papered the walls with editorial rejection forms, of which I was beginning to have a representative collection. Properly arranged, these look very striking. There is a good deal of variety about them. The ones I liked best were those which I received, at the rate of three a week, bearing a very pleasing picture, in green, of the publishing offices at the top of the sheet of notepaper. Scattered about in sufficient quantities, these lend an air of distinction to a room. Pearson’s Magazine also supplies a taking line in rejection forms. Punch‘s I never cared for very much. Neat, I grant you; but, to my mind, too cold. I like a touch of colour in a rejection form.
In addition to these, I purchased from the grocer at the corner a collection of pictorial advertisements. What I had really wanted was the theatrical poster, printed and signed by well-known artists. But the grocer didn’t keep them, and I was impatient to create my proper atmosphere. My next step was to buy a corncob pipe and a quantity of rank, jet-black tobacco. I hated both, and kept them more as ornaments than for use.
Then, having hacked my table about with a knife and battered it with a poker till it might have been the table of a shaggy and unrecognised genius, I settled down to work.
I was not a brilliant success. I had that “little knowledge” which is held to be such a dangerous thing. I had not plunged into the literary profession without learning a few facts about it. I had read nearly every journalistic novel and “Hints on Writing for the Papers” book that had ever been published. In theory I knew all that there was to be known about writing. Now, all my authorities were very strong on one point. “Write,” they said, very loud and clear, “not what you like, but what editors like.” I smiled to myself when I started. I felt that I had stolen a march on my rivals. “All round me,” I said to myself, “are young authors bombarding editors with essays on Lucretius, translations of Martial, and disquisitions on Ionic comedy. I know too much for that. I work on a different plan.” “Study the papers, and see what they want,” said my authorities. I studied the papers. Some wanted one thing, apparently, others another. There was one group of three papers whose needs seemed to coincide, and I could see an article rejected by one paper being taken by another. This offered me a number of chances instead of one. I could back my MSS. to win or for a place. I began a serious siege of these three papers.
By the end of the second week I had had “Curious Freaks of Eccentric Testators,” “Singular Scenes in Court,” “Actors Who Have Died on the Stage,” “Curious Scenes in Church,” and seven others rejected by all three. Somehow this sort of writing is not so easy as it looks. A man who was on the staff of a weekly once told me that he had had two thousand of these articles printed since he started—poor devil. He had the knack. I could never get it. I sent up fifty-three in all in the first year of my literary life, and only two stuck. I got fifteen shillings from one periodical for “Men Who Have Missed Their Own Weddings,” and, later, a guinea from the same for “Single Day Marriages.” That paper has a penchant for the love-interest. Yet when I sent it my “Duchesses Who Have Married Dustmen,” it came back by the early post next day. That was to me the worst part of those grey days. I had my victories, but they were always followed by a series of defeats. I would have a manuscript accepted by an editor. “Hullo,” I would say, “here’s the man at last, the Editor-Who-Believes-In-Me. Let the thing go on.” I would send him off another manuscript. He would take it. Victory, by Jove! Then—_wonk_! Back would come my third effort with the curtest of refusals. I always imagined editors in those days to be pettish, whimsical men who amused themselves by taking up a beginner, and then, wearying of the sport, dropped him back into the slime from which they had picked him.
In the intervals of articles I wrote short stories, again for the same three papers. As before, I studied these papers carefully to see what they wanted; then worked out a mechanical plot, invariably with a quarrel in the first part, an accident, and a rescue in the middle, and a reconciliation at the end—told it in a style that makes me hot all over when I think of it, and sent it up, enclosing a stamped addressed envelope in case of rejection. A very useful precaution, as it always turned out.
It was the little knowledge to which I have referred above which kept my walls so thickly covered with rejection forms. I was in precisely the same condition as a man who has been taught the rudiments of boxing. I knew just enough to hamper me, and not enough to do me any good. If I had simply blundered straight at my work and written just what occurred to me in my own style, I should have done much better. I have a sense of humour. I deliberately stifled it. For it I substituted a grisly kind of playfulness. My hero called my heroine “little woman,” and the concluding passage where he kissed her was written in a sly, roguish vein, for which I suppose I shall have to atone in the next world. Only the editor of the Colney Hatch Argus could have accepted work like mine. Yet I toiled on.
It was about the middle of my third week at No. 93A that I definitely decided to throw over my authorities, and work by the light of my own intelligence.
Nearly all my authorities had been very severe on the practice of verse-writing. It was, they asserted, what all young beginners tried to do, and it was the one thing editors would never look at. In the first ardour of my revolt I determined to do a set of verses.
It happened that the weather had been very bad for the last few days. After a month and a half of sunshine the rain had suddenly begun to fall. I took this as my topic. It was raining at the time. I wrote a satirical poem, full of quaint rhymes.
I had always had rather a turn for serious verse. It struck me that the rain might be treated poetically as well as satirically. That night I sent off two sets of verses to a daily and an evening paper. Next day both were in print, with my initials to them.
I began to see light.
“Verse is the thing,” I said. “I will reorganise my campaign. First the skirmishers, then the real attack. I will peg along with verses till somebody begins to take my stories and articles.”
I felt easier in my mind than I had felt for some time. A story came back by the nine o’clock post from a monthly magazine (to which I had sent it from mere bravado), but the thing did not depress me. I got out my glue-pot and began to fasten the rejection form to the wall, whistling a lively air as I did so.
While I was engaged in this occupation there was a testy rap at the door, and Mrs. Driver appeared. She eyed my manoeuvres with the rejection form with a severe frown. After a preliminary sniff she embarked upon a rapid lecture on what she called my irregular and untidy habits. I had turned her second-floor back, she declared, into a pig-stye.
“Sech a litter,” she said.
“But,” I protested, “this is a Bohemian house, is it not?”
She appeared so shocked—indeed, so infuriated, that I dared not give her time to answer.
“The gentleman below, he’s not very tidy,” I added diplomatically.
“Wot gent below?” said Mrs. Driver.
I reminded her of the night of my arrival.
“Oh, ‘im,” she said, shaken. “Well, ‘e’s not come back.”
“Mrs. Driver,” I said sternly, “you said he’d gone out for a stroll. I refuse to believe that any man would stroll for three weeks.”
“So I did say it,” was the defiant reply. “I said it so as you shouldn’t be put off coming. You looked a steady young feller, and I wanted a let. Wish I’d told you the truth, if it ‘ad a-stopped you.”
“What is the truth?”
“‘E was a wrong ‘un, ‘e wos. Writing begging letters to parties as was a bit soft, that wos ‘is little gime. But ‘e wos a bit too clever one day, and the coppers got ‘im. Now you know!”
Mrs. Driver paused after this outburst, and allowed her eye to wander slowly and ominously round my walls.
I was deeply moved. My one link with Bohemia had turned out a fraud.
Mrs. Driver’s voice roused me from my meditations.
“I must arst you to be good enough, if you please, kindly to remove those there bits of paper.”
She pointed to the rejection forms.
I hesitated. I felt that it was a thing that ought to be broken gently.
“The fact is, Mrs. Driver,” I said, “and no one can regret it more deeply than I do—the fact is, they’re stuck on with glue.”
Two minutes later I had received my marching orders, and the room was still echoing with the slam of the door as it closed behind the indignant form of my landlady.
Chapter 3
THE ORB (James Orlebar Cloyster’s narrative continued)
The problem of lodgings in London is an easy one to a man with an adequate supply of money in his pocket. The only difficulty is to select the most suitable, to single out from the eager crowd the ideal landlady.