‘Well, Mr Basset …’ the young assistant began. His voice was drowned by those of the other petitioners.
O’Casey stepped forward. ‘I’ve got seven men down in the cellar, and the printing press is frozen solid, along with the inks,’ he declared. ‘How’re we to work if there’s no fire? A pound’ll buy us coal….’
‘I have finished your manuscripts, Mr Basset,’ Miss Harvey interrupted the printer. ‘And I really must be paid for my work so that I may get on home before the snow gets any worse.’
‘And we’re down here because we have no fires upstairs,’ Peterson said, speaking as the representative of the staff. ‘How can we write about African safaris and the jungles of the Amazon when our pens are freezing in our fingers? And Eddie can’t do the woodblocks properly if his hands are so stiff he can’t hold the knife.’ He looked at the artist for agreement. Mr Roberts’s scowl deepened as his pencil danced over the pages of his sketchbook.
Mr Basset looked at his staff, as if trying to assess which of their requests to deny first. Then his eye fell upon the two strangers. ‘What are these men doing here?’ he demanded of Levin.
‘Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle,’ Levin performed the necessary introductions. ‘Mr Dodgson has come from Oxford to persuade you to look at some of Dr Doyle’s stories. I suppose he has heard that you are considering taking on another staff writer and has come to apply for the post.’
‘If he’s anything like that lunatic who just left, I won’t like him,’ Basset grumbled. ‘Well, come on in, and I’ll take a look at what you’ve brought me. The rest of you’ – he glared around the ante-room once again – ‘get back to work!’
‘Back to work, is it?’ O’Casey tilted his paper cap over one eye. ‘Until me and me men get a fire, we’re out on strike! And don’t think you can get scabs from the Portman Penny Press, because I’m going to have a word with them. Workers unite!’ He could be heard stamping his way down the stairs, punctuated by a slamming door.
‘Ungrateful Irish wretch,’ Mr Basset muttered. ‘Well, Dodgson, or whatever your name is, come on in, since you’re here. Doyle, I hope you write something besides fairy tales. That last fellow turned my stomach.’
Mr Basset marched into his office, with Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle behind him. The rest of them huddled together in front of the fire and waited until he should emerge from his lair again.
CHAPTER 2
Mr Samuel Basset’s private office filled most of the first floor of the narrow Youth’s Companion building. It was a long narrow room with tall windows fronting onto Fleet Street, whose panelled walls held cherished mementoes of Mr Basset’s youthful exploits in Africa. Photographs of a young Sam with his dearest friend, Mr Nicholas Portman, standing over assorted dead animals, with their native bearers obediently looking on, were placed between the stuffed and mounted heads of antelopes with curved and twisted horns. The roaring fire was surmounted by a mantelpiece of black marble that held carved wooden statues of African deities. The door itself was flanked by a pair of African tribal spears.
There were two chairs, upholstered in leopard skin, in front of Mr Basset’s desk, for use by visitors. The desk itself was a large, well-made piece of furniture, whose surface was covered with untidy piles of manuscripts, galley proofs, and correspondence, each held down by a separate artefact. A short brass dagger served as a paperweight on one pile of printed proof sheets, while a longer, thinner knife was laid across the pile of accounts receivable. An oddly curved clublike object held down a pile of handwritten manuscripts to be read, and a knife with a curved blade lay atop the written correspondence to be answered.
Mr Basset took his own chair, large and well-upholstered but not particularly ostentatious, and regarded his unexpected visitors with an exasperated sigh.
‘I am a very busy man,’ he stated. ‘I can give you,’ he consulted his pocket watch, ‘twenty minutes. We have a magazine to put out.’
‘Then I will be brief,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘This is my friend, Dr Arthur Conan Doyle. Dicky Doyle’s nephew,’ he added, as Mr Basset’s frown appeared to indicate total incomprehension.
‘I have sent some manuscripts to you,’ Dr Doyle reminded him. ‘However, I have not received any indication one way or another as to whether you intended to publish any of my stories, and when Mr Dodgson invited me to London to meet some of his literary friends …’
Mr Basset held up a hand for silence while he delved into the pile of handwritten manuscripts.
‘That’s mine,’ Dr Doyle said, pointing to one packet.
Mr Basset grunted an assent and frowned as he scanned the stories. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, in a voice that left no doubt of his total dismissal of the product before him. ‘I remember these. I thought I had told Levin to return them. You say you’re a doctor, young man?’
Dr Doyle nodded modestly.
‘In that case, I suggest that you cease polluting your mind with such thoughts and resume your medical practice. You will do more good and less harm!’ He tossed the manuscripts back to their author with a sniff of disdain.
‘I beg your pardon!’ Dr Doyle’s moustache bristled.
Mr Basset continued his tirade. ‘I have never read such a perverse tale in my life! An ancient Egyptian mummy coming to life! Or this one, Captain of the Polestar. What sort of thing is that for a young man to read? Mysterious doings in the Arctic? Female forms drifting out of the mist?’
‘I have been in the Arctic,’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘Such things occur!’
‘And the tales are quite well-written,’ Mr Dodgson added, in defence of his protégé.
‘I will not publish this sort of thing in Youth’s Companion,’ Mr Basset proclaimed. ‘I want stories of adventure, stories that will rouse the spirit of young Englishmen to take the banner of Empire and fly it across the globe!’ Mr Basset fairly swelled with patriotic pride as he regarded the signed photograph of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, which had been given a prominent place on his desk. ‘The stories I want will encourage boys …’
‘And girls,’ Mr Dodgson put in.
Mr Basset glared over his glasses at the person who had the audacity to interrupt him. ‘Girls do not read Youth’s Companion,’ he stated flatly.
‘I beg to differ,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Miss Alicia Marbury, the daughter of Lord Richard Marbury, has confided to me that she was sustained during her ordeal last summer by the recollection of stories she had read in your excellent publication and others like it.’
Mr Basset stroked his beard and harumphed loudly. ‘Miss Marbury may be an exceptional young lady. Her father is, after all, a noted Liberal and something of a firebrand. However, I maintain that these stories of Dr Doyle are not suitable for any publication and certainly not one meant for the entertainment of the young. I might as well have published those mawkish effusions of that Irish popinjay who just left.’
‘Do you refer to Mr Wilde?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Do you know him?’ Mr Basset’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘I do not number him among my acquaintance,’ Mr Dodgson admitted. ‘But he was most conspicuous when he was up at Oxford. He was not at the House … that is, at Christ Church,’ he explained, ‘but he was noticed. That was, after all, his intention.’
‘Oh, he’s noticeable,’ Mr Basset snorted. ‘I have no patience with that sort of tomfoolery. And what did he offer as proof of his ability to write for young people? Two of the most mawkish fairy tales I have ever read, one about a giant in a garden and the other about a talking statue. Disgusting pap!’
Dr Doyle looked confused. ‘Sir, if you reject tales of horror and suspense, and you also reject fairy stories, what do you want?’
‘I want stories of valiant young men fighting Nature and the Elements,’ Mr Basset roared out. He grabbed a copy of Youth’s Companion from the pile on his desk and thrust it at Dr Doyle. ‘Read this, young doctor, and then you will understand what I want. In the meanwhile, go back home to Yorkshire …’
&nb
sp; ‘Portsmouth,’ Dr Doyle corrected him.
‘… and try not to kill too many of your patients. Good day!’ Mr Basset rose in dismissal. Mr Dodgson stood, bowed, and accepted the rebuff with as much grace as he could. As he opened the door, Messrs Peterson, Howarth, Monteverde and Roberts piled in, shoving Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle aside in their eagerness to have a word with their editor in chief.
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than to stand about in the anteroom?’ Mr Basset demanded of his loyal staff. ‘We’re supposed to go to press tomorrow, and from what I see we aren’t half ready.’ He indicated the galley proofs on his desk with a sweep of one hand.
‘It’s too cold upstairs,’ Peterson complained. ‘Besides, we’ve just come up with a grand idea, standing about, as you put it.’
‘What sort of an idea?’ Mr Basset took refuge behind his desk.
‘A new sort of magazine,’ Peterson explained.
‘A new way of telling the story,’ Monteverde enthused.
‘A combination of text and illustration,’ Howarth added.
‘In colour!’ Peterson finished for the quartet.
‘In colour?’ Mr Basset echoed.
‘It works this way,’ Peterson told him. ‘Eddie, here, does the illustrations for our stories. The illustrations further the action, so that the reader sees the action instead of having it described to him. The story is laid out, frame by frame, with the dialogue as captions, under the illustrations…’
‘Or, perhaps, written over the characters’ heads, like a … a …’ Howarth fished for a word.
‘A balloon?’ Mr Dodgson provided the answer, fascinated by the concept.
‘That’s it! A balloon!’ Peterson turned to the editor. ‘We’ve got some fine story lines, and Eddie thinks he can come up with the illustrations. We could try one out in the next issue, and perhaps do it as a serial, have the hero hanging over a cliff or something like that, so that the readers would have to buy the next issue to find out what happens next.’
Basset considered the idea. ‘It has some merit,’ he admitted. ‘But what about literary content? We have to assure the parents of our subscribers that their children are receiving the best literary efforts for their shillings. A story told largely in pictures is hardly new!’
‘But not the kind of story we’re going to tell!’ Peterson fairly climbed over the desk in his enthusiasm. ‘Have you read M Verne’s stories? Flights to the Moon or to the planet Mars! Explorations into the heart of the Amazon jungle to discover dinosaurs still living! Think of that! And in colour …’
‘Colour!’ Basset’s voice rose from basso to counter-tenor. ‘Colour printing?’
‘It wouldn’t be that much more,’ Peterson argued. ‘I hear there’s a new process just developed, and O’Casey’s men can handle anything we give them.’ He leaned over the desk again, dislodging a set of galley proofs from the top of one pile. He automatically bent to retrieve the pages, then looked harder at the top sheet.
His round face grew crimson. ‘Isn’t this my story?’ he said, flipping his way through the pages. ‘It is! This is “King Arthur Comes to London”.’ He shook the offending pages in Basset’s face. ‘This is the story you told me wasn’t good enough for Youth’s Companion. I lined that story out for you at the summer picnic, and you said it would never go over, that I should forget about it, and here it is; you’ve taken my idea and run with it!’
‘And he’s put his own name on it, too,’ Monteverde pointed out, peering at the offending pages over his friend’s shoulder.
Howarth took the pages out of Peterson’s hands, looked them over, then passed them on to Roberts.
‘And it’s illustrated!’ Roberts’s voice shook at the thought of someone else illustrating a story for Youth’s Companion. ‘With colour plates! You never let me do colour plates!’ He slammed the pages down on the desk in fury.
‘You only told me the story,’ Basset grumbled, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘You never wrote it down.’
‘Only because you told me not to waste my time with it,’ Peterson retorted. ‘Then you loaded me up with so much other work that I never did get back to it. And here it is, under your name, to be published by Portman Penny Press, by your good old friend Nicky, to be sold across the length and breadth of England, wherever the Penny Press can get a foothold! I should have you up on charges!’ He fairly panted in his rage.
‘Of what?’ Basset smiled nastily over his beard. ‘One cannot steal an idea. How do you know that I didn’t make it better than anything you could have written, you helpless hack! If I hadn’t taken you in here you’d still be scribbling penny dreadfuls over at the Penny Press!’
‘I ought to leave you flat, Basset!’ Peterson snarled. ‘See if you can get someone else to write to order for one pound ten a week!’
Basset leaned back in his chair and said smugly, ‘You won’t, Peterson, because you’ve got two children, and there aren’t many steady positions open for a mediocre writer with a taste for the finer things and a wife with social ambitions. As for the rest of you’ – Basset looked them over, like a schoolmaster chastising an unruly class – ‘be glad you are not like those ruffians out there, starving in the streets! None of you could manage to support yourselves without me. Call yourselves editors! A failed playwright, a menu-writer, and as for you’ – he turned to Roberts – ‘if it weren’t for me you’d still be in that shop turning out comic Valentines and vulgar Christmas cards!’
Roberts lunged over the desk, his hand clutched around one of the daggers. Howarth and Monteverde clung to each of his arms, trying to control their unruly comrade-in-arms.
Basset continued his tirade. ‘I could find another staff in a minute. Anyone on the street would be in here like a shot if they knew they could bring down a steady wage.’
‘Not if they have to put up with these conditions,’ Peterson shot back. ‘At least at the Penny Press we had a fire in the workroom and a cup of tea in the afternoon. I’ve half a mind to join O’Casey and the rest of the men out on the streets in protest.’
Basset’s face turned red at the thought of such a defection. Dr Doyle stepped forward, to be ready when Mr Basset’s impending apoplectic fit should manifest itself. ‘I suggest you breathe deeply,’ the young doctor said, ‘and that you open your collar and waistcoat.’
Mr Basset looked up, chagrined as he realized that Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle had witnessed the whole scene and echoes had undoubtedly reached as far as the anteroom.
He took the deep breath prescribed by Dr Doyle, and said, ‘I do apologize, Mr, er’ – he glanced at the card on the desk – ‘Mr Dodgson. And your attentions will not be needed, Dr Doyle. I am quite all right. Levin!’
Mr Levin edged into the office. ‘Yes, Mr Basset?’
‘I want to have a word with you.’ Mr Basset’s tone was ominously calm.
‘Yes, sir. Mr Basset, the typewritten copy for next week’s issue is here, and the young woman expects to be paid. If you please, sir, I must get the cash box.’ The secretary sidled over to the desk and attempted to reach the sacred drawer where the ready money was kept.
‘What’s this about women in the office?’ Mr Basset’s voice rose again. ‘I thought I told you …’
‘Miss Harvey is a skilled typewriter, who works from her home,’ Levin explained. ‘She placed an advertisement in the newspapers. I thought it might be useful to have the handwritten manuscripts type-written before they went to compositors.’
‘A good compositor can work perfectly well from manuscript,’ Mr Basset stated flatly, as if this argument had already been won.
Mr Levin disagreed. ‘There have been too many typos,’ he objected. ‘The last one was really bad. The story dealt with a farm winch, and the compositor printed it as farm wench. We can’t have that sort of thing in Youth’s Companion.’ He lifted his eyebrows in disdain at the vulgarity of typesetters.
‘And how much am I supposed to pay this female?’ Mr Basset grumbled, as he fumb
led on his watch-chain for the keys to the strongbox.
‘She gets twopence per page; she has typed a hundred and twenty pages, which would mean twenty shillings, or a pound for the entire manuscript,’ Levin reeled off.
‘A whole pound?’ Basset looked up from his labours. ‘I want to see this typing before I part with that kind of money.’
He strode back into the anteroom, where Miss Harvey sat on the wooden bench, stubbornly waiting for her money. Before he could say anything more, yet another young woman timidly knocked on the office door, a plain-looking girl barely out of her teens, in a fur jacket and hat, clutching a cardboard portfolio.
‘I was told I could leave some drawings off,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Who are you?’ Mr Basset roared at her.
Mr Roberts explained, ‘This is Miss Potter. I think she shows promise. We met at the Natural History museum. I suggested she bring her portfolio in.’ For Mr Roberts, this was an oration, and the others gazed at Miss Potter with renewed respect.
‘And I suppose this is the work in question?’ Mr Basset pointed to the portfolio the young woman held under her arm.
Miss Potter nodded wordlessly, undid the strings of the portfolio and pulled out a few pencil drawings. Mr Dodgson drew near, for a better look.
‘Quite nicely done,’ he said approvingly. ‘Charmingly domestic. I especially like the rabbit.’
Mr Basset was not in the mood for charming rabbits. ‘If this is the best you can do, young woman, I would suggest you go home and take up another form of recreation. You will never be an artist, Miss Potter, and anyone who told you you could was lying to you. Good day!’
Miss Potter’s eyes filled with tears. Mr Roberts glowered at Basset, as if to say, You know nothing about art and less about teaching it!
As Roberts led the stricken Miss Potter down the stairs, Basset turned on Miss Harvey. ‘As for you,’ he declared, ‘you are a wretched typist. I detect typographical errors on the first three pages. I will not pay more than a penny apiece for these, and I will not pay at all until they are redone.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 2