When a Man's Single: A Tale of Literary Life

by J. M. Barrie

  CHAPTER VIII

  IN FLEET STREET

  Mary was wrong. It was quite true that Rob had run away to Londonwithout paying his landlady's bill.

  The immediate result of his meeting with Miss Abinger had been to makehim undertake double work, and not do it. Looking in at shop-windows,where he saw hats that he thought would just suit Mary (he had a gooddeal to learn yet), it came upon him that he was wasting his time. Thenhe hurried home, contemptuous of all the rest of Silchester, to write anarticle for a London paper, and when he next came to himself, half anhour afterwards, he was sitting before a blank sheet of copy paper. Hebegan to review a book, and found himself gazing at a Christmas card. Hetried to think out the action of a government, and thought out a ring onMiss Abinger's finger instead. Three nights running he dreamt that hewas married, and woke up quaking.

  Without much misgiving Rob heard it said in Silchester that there wassome one staying at Dome Castle who was to be its mistress's husband. Ondiscovering that they referred to Dowton, and not being versed in thewonderful ways of woman, he told himself that this was impossible. Acynic would have pointed out that Mary had now had several days inwhich to change her mind. Cynics are persons who make themselves themeasure of other people.

  The philosopher who remarked that the obvious truths are those which aremost often missed, was probably referring to the time it takes a man todiscover that he is in love. Women are quicker because they are on theoutlook. It took Rob two days, and when it came upon him checked hisbreathing. After that he bore it like a man. Another discovery he had tomake was that, after all, he was nobody in particular. This took himlonger.

  Although the manner of his going to London was unexpected, Rob hadthought out solidly the inducements to go. Ten minutes or so after heknew that he wanted to marry Mary Abinger, he made up his mind to try todo it. The only obstacles he saw in his way were, that she was not inlove with him, and lack of income. Feeling that he was an uncommon typeof man (if people would only see it), he resolved to remove this seconddifficulty first. The saw-mill and the castle side by side did not riseup and frighten him, and for the time he succeeded in not thinking aboutColonel Abinger. Nothing is hopeless if we want it very much.

  Rob calculated that if he remained on the _Mirror_ for another dozenyears or so, and Mr. Licquorish continued to think that it would not becheaper to do without him, he might reach a salary of L200 per annum. Asthat was not sufficient, he made up his mind to leave Silchester.

  There was only one place to go to. Rob thought of London until he feltthat it was the guardian from whom he would have to ask Mary Abinger;he pictured her there during the season, until London, which he hadnever seen, began to assume a homely aspect. It was the place in whichhe was to win or lose his battle. To whom is London much more? It is theclergyman's name for his church, the lawyer's for his office, thepolitician's for St. Stephen's, the cabman's for his stand.

  There was not a man on the Press in Silchester who did not hunger forFleet Street, but they were all afraid to beard it. They knew it as arabbit-warren; as the closest street in a city where the bootblack hashis sycophants, and you have to battle for exclusive right to sweep acrossing. The fight forward had been grimmer to Rob, however, than tohis fellows, and he had never been quite beaten. He was alone in theworld, and poverty was like an old friend. There was only one journalistin London whom he knew even by name, and he wrote to him for advice.This was Mr. John Rorrison, a son of the minister whose assistance hadbrought Rob to Silchester. Rorrison was understood to be practicallyediting a great London newspaper, which is what is understood of a greatmany journalists until you make inquiries, but he wrote back to Robasking him why he wanted to die before his time. You collectors who wantan editor's autograph may rely upon having it by return of post if youwrite threatening to come to London with the hope that he will dosomething for you. Rorrison's answer discomfited Rob for five minutes,and then, going out, he caught a glimpse of Mary Abinger in theMerediths' carriage. He tore up the letter, and saw that London wasworth risking.

  One forenoon Rob set out for the office to tell Mr. Licquorish of hisdetermination. He knew that the entire staff would think him demented,but he could not see that he was acting rashly. He had worked it all outin his mind, and even tranquilly faced possible starvation. Rob wascongratulating himself on not having given way to impulse when hereached the railway station.

  His way from his lodgings to the office led past the station, and as hehad done scores of times before, he went inside. To Rob all the romanceof Silchester was concentrated there; nothing stirred him so much as apanting engine; the shunting of carriages, the bustle of passengers, theporters rattling to and fro with luggage, the trains twistingserpent-like into the station and stealing out in a glory to be gone,sent the blood to his head. On Saturday nights, when he was free, anyone calling at the station would have been sure to find him on theplatform from which the train starts for London. His heart had sunkevery time it went off without him.

  Rob woke up from a dream of Fleet Street to see the porters slamming thedoors of the London train. He saw the guard's hand upraised, and heardthe carriages rattle as the restive engine took them unawares. Then camethe warning whistle, and the train moved off. For a second of time Robfelt that he had lost London, and he started forward. Some one near himshouted, and then he came upon the train all at once, a door opened, andhe shot in. When he came to himself, Silchester was a cloud climbing tothe sky behind him, and he was on his way to London.

  Rob's first feeling was that the other people in the carriage must knowwhat he had done. He was relieved to find that his companions were onlyan old gentleman who spoke fiercely to his newspaper because it wasreluctant to turn inside out, a little girl who had got in at Silchesterand consumed thirteen halfpenny buns before she was five miles distantfrom it, and a young woman, evidently a nurse, with a baby in her arms.The baby was noisy for a time, but Rob gave it a look that kept itsilent for the rest of the journey. He told himself that he would getout at the first station, but when the train stopped at it he sat on. Hetwisted himself into a corner to count his money covertly, and foundthat it came to four pounds odd. He also took the Christmas card fromhis pocket, but replaced it hastily, feeling that the old gentleman andthe little girl were looking at him. A feeling of elation grew upon himas he saw that whatever might happen afterwards he must be in Londonshortly, and his mind ran on the letters he would write to Mr.Licquorish and his landlady. In lieu of his ticket he handed over twelveshillings to the guard, under whose eyes he did not feel comfortable,and he calculated that he owed his landlady over two pounds. He wouldsend it to her and ask her to forward his things to London. Mr.Licquorish, however, might threaten him with the law if he did notreturn. But then the _Mirror_ owed Rob several pounds at that moment,and if he did not claim it in person it would remain in Mr. Licquorish'spockets. There was no saying how far that consideration would affect theeditor. Rob saw a charge of dishonesty rise up and confront him, and hedrew back from it. A moment afterwards he looked it in the face, and itreceded. He took his pipe from his pocket.

  'This is not a smoking carriage,' gasped the little girl, so promptlythat it almost seemed as if she had been waiting her opportunity eversince the train started. Rob looked at her. She seemed about eight, buther eye was merciless. He thrust his pipe back into its case, feelingcowed at last.

  The nurse, who had been looking at Rob and blushing when she caught hiseye, got out with her charge at a side station, and he helped her ratherawkwardly to alight. 'Don't mention it,' he said, in answer to herthanks.

  'Not a word; I'm not that kind,' she replied, so eagerly that he startedback in alarm, to find the little girl looking suspiciously at him.

  As Rob stepped out of the train at King's Cross he realised sharply thathe was alone in the world. He did not know where to go now, and hisheart sank for a time as he paced the platform irresolutely, feelingthat it was his last link to Silchester. He turned into thebooking-office to consult a time
-table, and noticed against the wall arailway map of London. For a long time he stood looking at it, and as hetraced the river, the streets familiar to him by name, the districts andbuildings which were household words to him, he felt that he must livein London somehow. He discovered Fleet Street in the map, and studiedthe best way of getting to it from King's Cross. Then grasping his stickfirmly, he took possession of London as calmly as he could.

  Rob never found any difficulty afterwards in picking out the shabbyeating-house in which he had his first meal in London. Gray's Inn Roadremained to him always its most romantic street because he went down itfirst. He walked into the roar of London in Holborn, and never forgotthe alley into which he retreated to discover if he had suddenly becomedeaf. He wondered when the crowd would pass. Years afterwards he turnedinto Fetter Lane, and suddenly there came back to his mind the thoughtsthat had held him as he went down it the day he arrived in London.

  A certain awe came upon Rob as he went down Fleet Street on the one sideand up it on the other. He could not resist looking into the faces ofthe persons who passed him, and wondering if they edited the _Times_.The lean man who was in such a hurry that wherever he had to go he wouldsoon be there, might be a man of letters whom Rob knew by heart, butperhaps he was only a broken journalist with his eye on half a crown.The mild-looking man whom Rob smiled at because, when he was half wayacross the street, he lost his head and was chased out of sight by halfa dozen hansom cabs, was a war correspondent who had been so long inAfrica that the perils of a London crossing unmanned him. The youth whowas on his way home with a pork chop in his pocket edited a societyjournal. Rob did not recognise a distinguished poet in a little stoutman who was looking pensively at a barrowful of walnuts, and he wasmistaken in thinking that the bearded gentleman who held his head sohigh must be somebody in particular. Rob observed a pale young mangazing wistfully at him, and wondered if he was a thief or a sub-editor.He was merely an aspirant who had come to London that morning to makehis fortune, and he took Rob for a leader-writer at the least. Theoffices, however, and even the public buildings, the shops, thenarrowness of the streets, all disappointed Rob. The houses seemedsqueezed together for economy of space, like a closed concertina.Nothing quite fulfilled his expectations but the big letter holes in thedistrict postal offices. He had not been sufficiently long in London tofeel its greatest charm, which has been expressed in many ways by poet,wit, business man, and philosopher, but comes to this, that it is theonly city in the world in whose streets you can eat penny buns withoutpeople's turning round to look at you.

  In a few days Rob was part of London. His Silchester landlady hadforwarded him his things, and Mr. Licquorish had washed his hands ofhim. The editor of the _Mirror's_ letter amounted to a lament that a manwhom he had allowed to do two men's work for half a man's wages shouldhave treated him thus. Mr. Licquorish, however, had conceived the ideaof 'forcing' John Milton, and so saving a reporter, and he did notinsist on Rob's returning. He expressed a hope that his ex-reporterwould do well in London, and a fear, amounting to a conviction, that hewould not. But he sent the three pounds due to him in wages, pointingout, justifiably enough, that, strictly speaking, Rob owed him a month'ssalary. Rob had not expected such liberality, and from that time alwaysadmitted that there must have been a heroic vein in Mr. Licquorish afterall.

  Rob established himself in a little back room in Islington, so smallthat a fairly truthful journalist might have said of it, in an article,that you had to climb the table to reach the fireplace, and to lift outthe easy-chair before you could get out at the door. The room was over agrocer's shop, whose window bore the announcement: 'Eggs, new laid, 1s.3d.; eggs, fresh, 1s. 2d.; eggs, warranted, 1s.; eggs, 10d.' A shopacross the way hinted at the reputation of the neighbourhood in thepolite placard, 'Trust in the Lord: every other person cash.'

  The only ornament Rob added to the room was the Christmas card in aframe. He placed this on his mantelpiece and looked at it frequently,but when he heard his landlady coming he slipped it back into hispocket. Yet he would have liked at times to have the courage to leave itthere. Though he wanted to be a literary man he began his career inLondon with a little sense, for he wrote articles to editors instead ofcalling at the offices, and he had the good fortune to have nointroductions. The only pressman who ever made anything by insisting onseeing the editor, was one--a Scotsman, no doubt--who got him alone andthreatened to break his head if he did not find an opening for him. Theeditor saw that this was the sort of man who had made up his mind to geton, and yielded.

  During his first month in London Rob wrote thirty articles, and tookthem to the different offices in order to save the postage. There weremany other men in the streets at night doing the same thing. He gotfifteen articles back by return of post, and never saw the others again.But here was the stuff Rob was made of. The thirty having been rejected,he dined on bread-and-cheese and began the thirty-first. It was acceptedby the _Minotaur_, a weekly paper. Rob drew a sigh of exultation as hegot his first proof in London, and remembered that he had written thearticle in two hours. The payment, he understood, would be two pounds atleast, and at the rate of two articles a day, working six days a week,this would mean over six hundred a year. Rob had another look at theChristmas card, and thought it smiled. Every man is a fool now and then.

  Except to his landlady, who thought that he dined out, Rob had notspoken to a soul since he arrived in London. To celebrate his firstproof he resolved to call on Rorrison. He had not done so earlierbecause he thought that Rorrison would not be glad to see him. Though hehad kept his disappointments to himself, however, he felt that he mustremark casually to some one that he was writing for the _Minotaur_.

  Rorrison had chambers at the top of one of the Inns of Court, and as hehad sported his oak, Rob ought not to have knocked. He knew no better,however, and Rorrison came grumbling to the door. He was a full-bodiedman of middle age, with a noticeably heavy chin, and wore a longdressing-gown.

  'I'm Angus from Silchester,' Rob explained.

  Rorrison's countenance fell. His occupation largely consisted inavoiding literary young men, who, he knew, were thirsting to take himaside and ask him to get them sub-editorships.

  'I'm glad to see you,' he said gloomily; 'come in.'

  What Rob first noticed in the sitting-room was that it was all inshadow, except one corner, whose many colours dazzled the eye. Suspendedover this part of the room on a gas bracket was a great Japaneseumbrella without a handle. This formed an awning for a large cane chairand a tobacco-table, which also held a lamp, and Rorrison had beenlolling on the chair looking at a Gladstone bag on the hearthrug untilhe felt that he was busy packing.

  'Mind the umbrella,' he said to his visitor.

  The next moment a little black hole that had been widening in theJapanese paper just above the lamp cracked and broke, and a tongue offlame swept up the umbrella. Rob sprang forward in horror, but Rorrisononly sighed.

  'That makes the third this week,' he said, 'but let it blaze. I used tothink they would set the place on fire, but somehow they don't do it.Don't give the thing the satisfaction of seeming to notice it.'

  The umbrella had been frizzled in a second, and its particles werealready trembling through the room like flakes of snow.

  'You have just been in time to find me,' Rorrison said; 'I startto-morrow afternoon for Egypt in the special correspondent business.'

  'I envy you,' said Rob, and then told the manner of his coming toLondon.

  'It was a mad thing to do,' said Rorrison, looking at him not withoutapproval, 'but the best journalists frequently begin in that way. Isuppose you have been besieging the newspaper offices since you arrived;any result?'

  'I had a proof from the _Minotaur_ this evening,' said Rob.

  Rorrison blew some rings of smoke into the air and ran his fingerthrough them. Then he turned proudly to Rob, and saw that Rob waslooking proudly at him.

  'Ah, what did you say?' asked Rorrison.

  'The _Minotaur_ has accepted one
of my things,' said Rob.

  Rorrison said 'Hum,' and then hesitated.

  'It is best that you should know the truth,' he said at last. 'No doubtyou expect to be paid by the _Minotaur_, but I am afraid there is littlehope of that--unless you dun them. A friend of mine sent them somethinglately, and Roper (the editor, you know) wrote asking him for more. Hesent two or three other things, and then called at the office, expectingto be paid.'

  'Was he not?'

  'On the contrary,' said Rorrison, 'Roper asked him for the loan of fivepounds.'

  Rob's face grew so long that even the hardened Rorrison tried to feelfor him.

  'You need not let an experience that every one has to pass throughdishearten you,' he said. 'There are only about a dozen papers in Londonthat are worth writing for, but I can give you a good account of them.Not only do they pay handsomely, but the majority are open tocontributions from any one. Don't you believe what one reads aboutnewspaper rings. Every thing sent in is looked at, and if it is suitableany editor is glad to have it. Men fail to get a footing on the Pressbecause--well, as a rule, because they are stupid.'

  'I am glad to hear you say that,' said Rob, 'and yet I had thirtyarticles rejected before the _Minotaur_ accepted that one.'

  'Yes, and you will have another thirty rejected if they are of the samekind. You beginners seem able to write nothing but your views onpolitics, and your reflections on art, and your theories of life, whichyou sometimes even think original. Editors won't have that because theirreaders don't want it. Every paper has its regular staff ofleader-writers, and what is wanted from the outside is freshness. Aneditor tosses aside your column and a half about evolution, but is gladto have a paragraph saying that you saw Herbert Spencer the day beforeyesterday gazing solemnly for ten minutes in at a milliner's window.Fleet Street at this moment is simply running with men who want to airtheir views about things in general.'

  'I suppose so,' said Rob dolefully.

  'Yes, and each thinks himself as original as he is profound, though theyhave only to meet to discover that they repeat each other. The pity ofit is, that all of them could get on to some extent if they would sendin what is wanted. There is copy in every man you meet, and, as ajournalist on this stair says, when you do meet him you feel inclined totear it out of him and use it yourself.'

  'What sort of copy?' asked Rob.

  'They should write of the things they have seen. Newspaper readers havean insatiable appetite for knowing how that part of the world lives withwhich they are not familiar. They want to know how the Norwegians cooktheir dinners and build their houses, and ask each other in marriage.'

  'But I have never been out of Britain.'

  'Neither was Shakspeare. There are thousands of articles in Scotlandyet. You must know a good deal about the Scottish weavers--well, thereare articles in them. Describe the daily life of a gillie: "The Gillieat Home" is a promising title. Were you ever snowed up in your saw-mill?Whether you were or not, there is a seasonable subject for January."Yule in a Scottish Village" also sounds well, and there is a safearticle in a Highland gathering.'

  'These must have been done before, though,' said Rob.

  'Of course they have,' answered Rorrison; 'but do them in your own way:the public has no memory, and besides, new publics are always springingup.'

  'I am glad I came to see you,' said Rob, brightening considerably; 'Inever thought of these things.'

  'Of course you need not confine yourself to them. Write on politics ifyou will, but don't merely say what you yourself think; rather tell, forinstance, what is the political situation in the country parts known toyou. That should be more interesting and valuable than your individualviews. But I may tell you that, if you have the journalistic faculty,you will always be on the look-out for possible articles. The man on thestair I have mentioned to you would have had an article out of youbefore he had talked with you as long as I have done. You must haveheard of Noble Simms?'

  'Yes, I know his novel,' said Rob; 'I should like immensely to meethim.'

  'I must leave you an introduction to him,' said Rorrison; 'he wakensmost people up, though you would scarcely think it to look at him. Yousee this pipe here? Simms saw me mending it with sealing-wax one day,and two days afterwards there was an article about it in the _ScalpingKnife_. When I went off for my holidays last summer I asked him to lookin here occasionally and turn a new cheese which had been sent me fromthe country. Of course he forgot to do it, but I denounced him on myreturn for not keeping his solemn promise, so he revenged himself bypublishing an article entitled "Rorrison's Oil-Painting." In this it wasexplained that just before Rorrison went off for a holiday he got apresent of an oil-painting. Remembering when he had got to Paris thatthe painting, which was come to him wet from the easel, had been leftlying on his table, he telegraphed to the writer to have it put away outof reach of dust and the cat. The writer promised to do so, but whenRorrison returned he found the picture lying just where he left it. Herushed off to his friend's room to upbraid him, and did it soeffectually that the friend says in his article, "I will never do a goodturn for Rorrison again!"'

  'But why,' asked Rob, 'did he turn the cheese into an oil-painting?'

  'Ah, there you have the journalistic instinct again. You see a cheese istoo plebeian a thing to form the subject of an article in the _ScalpingKnife_, so Simms made a painting of it. He has had my Chinese umbrellafrom several points of view in three different papers. When I play onhis piano I put scraps of paper on the notes to guide me, and he madehis three guineas out of that. Once I challenged him to write an articleon a straw that was sticking to the sill of my window, and it was one ofthe most interesting things he ever did. Then there was the box of oldclothes and other odds and ends that he promised to store for me when Ichanged my rooms. He sold the lot to a hawker for a pair of flower-pots,and wrote an article on the transaction. Subsequently he had anotherarticle on the flower-pots; and when I appeared to claim my belongingshe got a third article out of that.'

  'I suppose he reads a great deal?' said Rob.

  'He seldom opens a book,' answered Rorrison; 'indeed, when he requiresto consult a work of reference he goes to the Strand and does hisreading at a bookstall. I don't think he was ever in the BritishMuseum.'

  Rob laughed.

  'At the same time,' he said, 'I don't think Mr. Noble Simms could getany copy out of me.'

  Just then some one shuffled into the passage, and the door opened.