Chapter 3
THE ORB_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
The problem of lodgings in London is an easy one to a man with anadequate supply of money in his pocket. The only difficulty is toselect the most suitable, to single out from the eager crowd the ideallandlady.
Evicted from No. 93A, it seemed to me that I had better abandonBohemia; postpone my connection with that land of lotus-eaters for themoment, while I provided myself with the means of paying rent andbuying dinners. Farther down the King's Road there were comfortablerooms to be had for a moderate sum per week. They were prosaic, butinexpensive. I chose Walpole Street. A fairly large bed-sitting roomwas vacant at No. 23. I took it, and settled down seriously to make mywriting pay.
There were advantages in Walpole Street which Manresa Road had lacked.For one thing, there was more air, and it smelt less than the ManresaRoad air. Walpole Street is bounded by Burton Court, where theHousehold Brigade plays cricket, and the breezes from the river come toit without much interruption. There was also more quiet. No. 23 is thelast house in the street, and, even when I sat with my window open, thenoise of traffic from the King's Road was faint and rather pleasant. Itwas an excellent spot for a man who meant to work. Except for a certaindifficulty in getting my landlady and her daughters out of the roomwhen they came to clear away my meals and talk about the better daysthey had seen, and a few imbroglios with the eight cats which infestedthe house, it was the best spot, I think, that I could have chosen.
Living a life ruled by the strictest economy, I gradually forged ahead.Verse, light and serious, continued my long suit. I generally managedto place two of each brand a week; and that meant two guineas,sometimes more. One particularly pleasing thing about thisverse-writing was that there was no delay, as there was with my prose.I would write a set of verses for a daily paper after tea, walk toFleet Street with them at half-past six, thus getting a littleexercise; leave them at the office; and I would see them in print inthe next morning's issue. Payment was equally prompt. The rule was,Send in your bill before five on Wednesday, and call for payment onFriday at seven. Thus I had always enough money to keep me going duringthe week.
In addition to verses, I kept turning out a great quantity of prose,fiction, and otherwise, but without much success. The visits of thepostmen were the big events of the day at that time. Before I had beenin Walpole Street a week I could tell by ear the difference between arejected manuscript and an ordinary letter. There is a certain solid_plop_ about the fall of the former which not even a long envelopefull of proofs can imitate successfully.
I worked extraordinarily hard at that time. All day, sometimes. Thethought of Margie waiting in Guernsey kept me writing when I shouldhave done better to have taken a rest. My earnings were small inproportion to my labour. The guineas I made, except from verse, werelike the ounce of gold to the ton of ore. I no longer papered the wallswith rejection forms; but this was from choice, not from necessity. Ihad plenty of material, had I cared to use it.
I made a little money, of course. My takings for the first monthamounted to L9 10s. I notched double figures in the next with Lll 1s.6d. Then I dropped to L7 0s. 6d. It was not starvation, but it wasstill more unlike matrimony.
But at the end of the sixth month there happened to me what, lookingback, I consider to be the greatest piece of good fortune of my life. Ireceived a literary introduction. Some authorities scoff at literaryintroductions. They say that editors read everything, whether they knowthe author or not. So they do; and, if the work is not good, a letterto the editor from a man who once met his cousin at a garden-party isnot likely to induce him to print it. There is no journalistic "ring"in the sense in which the word is generally used; but there areundoubtedly a certain number of men who know the ropes, and can act aspilots in a strange sea; and an introduction brings one into touch withthem. There is a world of difference between contributing blindly workwhich seems suitable to the style of a paper and sending in matterdesigned to attract the editor personally.
Mr. Macrae, whose pupil I had been at Cambridge, was the author of myletter of introduction. At St. Gabriel's, Mr. Macrae had been a man forwhom I entertained awe and respect. Likes and dislikes in connectionwith one's tutor seemed outside the question. Only a chance episode hadshown me that my tutor was a mortal with a mortal's limitations. Wewere bicycling together one day along the Trumpington Road, when a formappeared, coming to meet us. My tutor's speech grew more and morehalting as the form came nearer. At last he stopped talking altogether,and wobbled in his saddle. The man bowed to him, and, as if he had wonthrough some fiery ordeal, he shot ahead like a gay professional rider.When I drew level with him, he said, "That, Mr. Cloyster, is mytailor."
Mr. Macrae was typical of the University don who is Scotch. He hadmarried the senior historian of Newnham. He lived (and still lives) byproxy. His publishers order his existence. His honeymoon had beenplaced at the disposal of these gentlemen, and they had allotted tothat period an edition of Aristotle's Ethics. Aristotle, accordingly,received the most scholarly attention from the recently united couplesomewhere on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. All the reviews weresatisfactory.
In my third year at St. Gabriel's it was popularly supposed that MasterPericles Aeschylus, Mr. Macrae's infant son, was turned to correct myLatin prose, though my Iambics were withheld from him at the request ofthe family doctor.
The letter which Pericles Aeschylus's father had addressed to me wasone of the pleasantest surprises I have ever had. It ran as follows:
_St. Gabriel's College, Cambridge._
MY DEAR CLOYSTER,--The divergence of our duties and pleasures during your residence here caused us to see but little of each other. Would it had been otherwise! And too often our intercourse had--on my side--a distinctly professional flavour. Your attitude towards your religious obligations was, I fear, something to seek. Indeed, the line, "_Pastor deorum cultor et infrequens_," might have been directly inspired by your views on the keeping of Chapels. On the other hand, your contributions to our musical festivities had the true Aristophanes _panache_.
I hear you are devoting yourself to literature, and I beg that you will avail yourself of the enclosed note, which is addressed to a personal friend of mine.
Believe me, _Your well-wisher, David Ossian Macrae._
The enclosure bore this inscription:
CHARLES FERMIN, ESQ., Offices of the _Orb_, Strand, London.
I had received the letter at breakfast. I took a cab, and drovestraight to the _Orb_.
A painted hand, marked "Editorial," indicated a flight of stairs. Atthe top of these I was confronted by a glass door, beyond which,entrenched behind a desk, sat a cynical-looking youth. A smaller boy inthe background talked into a telephone. Both were giggling. On seeingme the slightly larger of the two advanced with a half-hearted attemptat solemnity, though unable to resist a Parthian shaft at hiscompanion, who was seized on the instant with a paroxysm of suppressedhysteria.
My letter was taken down a mysterious stone passage. After some waitingthe messenger returned with the request that I would come back ateleven, as Mr. Fermin would be very busy till then.
I went out into the Strand, and sought a neighbouring hostelry. It wasessential that I should be brilliant at the coming interview, if onlyspirituously brilliant; and I wished to remove a sensation of stomachicemptiness, such as I had been wont to feel at school when approachingthe headmaster's study.
At eleven I returned, and asked again for Mr. Fermin; and presently heappeared--a tall, thin man, who gave one the impression of being in ahurry. I knew him by reputation as a famous quarter-miler. He had beenpresident of the O.U.A.C. some years back. He looked as if at anymoment he might dash off in any direction at quarter-mile pace.
We shook hands, and I tried to look intelligent.
"So
rry to have to keep you waiting," he said, as we walked to his club;"but we are always rather busy between ten and eleven, putting thecolumn through. Gresham and I do 'On Your Way,' you know. The last copyhas to be down by half-past ten."
We arrived at the Club, and sat in a corner of the lower smoking-room.
"Macrae says that you are going in for writing. Of course, I'll doanything I can, but it isn't easy to help a man. As it happens, though,I can put you in the way of something, if it's your style of work. Doyou ever do verse?"
I felt like a batsman who sees a slow full-toss sailing through theair.
"It's the only thing I can get taken," I said. "I've had quite a lot inthe _Chronicle_ and occasional bits in other papers."
He seemed relieved.
"Oh, that's all right, then," he said. "You know 'On Your Way.' Perhapsyou'd care to come in and do that for a bit? It's only holiday work,but it'll last five weeks. And if you do it all right I can get you thewhole of the holiday work on the column. That comes to a good lot inthe year. We're always taking odd days off. Can you come up at amoment's notice?"
"Easily," I said.
"Then, you see, if you did that you would drop into the next vacancy onthe column. There's no saying when one may occur. It's like the GeneralElection. It may happen tomorrow, or not for years. Still, you'd be onthe spot in case."
"It's awfully good of you."
"Not at all. As a matter of fact, I was rather in difficulties aboutgetting a holiday man. I'm off to Scotland the day after tomorrow, andI had to find a sub. Well, then, will you come in on Monday?"
"All right."
"You've had no experience of newspaper work, have you?"
"No."
"Well, all the work at the _Orb's_ done between nine and eleven.You must be there at nine sharp. Literally sharp, I mean. Nothalf-past. And you'd better do some stuff overnight for the first weekor so. You'll find working in the office difficult till you get used toit. Of course, though, you'll always have Gresham there, so there's noneed to get worried. He can fill the column himself, if he's pushed.Four or five really good paragraphs a day and an occasional set ofverses are all he'll want from you."
"I see."
"On Monday, then. Nine sharp. Good-bye."
I walked home along Piccadilly with almost a cake-walk stride. At lastI was in the inner circle.
An _Orb_ cart passed me. I nodded cheerfully to the driver. He wasone of _Us_.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 6