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

by J. M. Barrie

  CHAPTER X

  THE WIGWAM

  Rob had a tussle for it, but he managed to live down his first winter inLondon, and May-day saw him sufficiently prosperous and brazen to beable to go into restaurants and shout out 'Waiter.' After that nothingfrightened him but barmaids.

  For a time his chief struggle had been with his appetite, which torturedhim when he went out in the afternoons. He wanted to dine out of a paperbag, but his legs were reluctant to carry him past a grill-room. At lasta compromise was agreed upon. If he got a proof over night, he dined instate next day; if it was only his manuscript that was returned to him,he thought of dining later in the week. For a long time his appetite hadthe worse of it. It was then that he became so great an authority onpenny buns. His striking appearance always brought the saleswomen to himpromptly, and sometimes he blushed, and often he glared, as he gave hisorder. When they smiled he changed his shop.

  There was one terrible month when he wrote from morning to night and didnot make sixpence. He lived by selling his books, half a dozen at atime. Even on the last day of that black month he did not despair. Whenhe wound up his watch at nights before going hungry to bed, he neverremembered that it could be pawned. The very idea of entering apawnshop never struck him. Many a time when his rejected articles cameback he shook his fist in imagination at all the editors in London, andsaw himself twisting their necks one by one. To think of a differentdeath for each of them exercised his imagination and calmed his passion,and he wondered whether the murder of an editor was an indictableoffence. When he did not have ten shillings, 'I will get on' cried Robto himself. 'I'm not going to be starved out of a big town like this.I'll make my mark yet. Yes,' he roared, while the housekeeper at theother side of the door quaked to hear him, 'I will get on; I'm not goingto be beaten.' He was waving his arms fiercely, when the housekeeperknocked. 'Come in,' said Rob, subsiding meekly into his chair. Beforecompany he seemed to be without passion, but they should have seen himwhen he was alone. One night he dreamt that he saw all the editors inLondon being conveyed (in a row) to the hospital on stretchers. Agratified smile lit up his face as he slept, and his arm, going outsuddenly to tip one of the stretchers over, hit against a chair. Robjumped out of bed and kicked the chair round the room. By and by, whenhis articles were occasionally used, he told his proofs that the editorswere capital fellows.

  The only acquaintances he made were with journalists who came to hischambers to see Rorrison, who was now in India. They seemed just aspleased to see Rob, and a few of them, who spoke largely of theirconnection with literature, borrowed five shillings from him. To hisdisappointment Noble Simms did not call, though he sometimes sent upnotes to Rob suggesting likely articles, and the proper papers to whichto send them. 'I would gladly say "Use my name,"' Simms wrote, 'but itis the glory of anonymous journalism that names are nothing and goodstuff everything. I assure you that on the Press it is the men who haveit in them that succeed, and the best of them become the editors.' Headvised Rob to go to the annual supper given by a philanthropic body todischarged criminals and write an account of the proceedings; and toldhim that when anything remarkable happened in London he should at oncedo an article (in the British Museum) on the times the same thing hadhappened before. 'Don't neglect eclipses,' he said, 'nor heavy scoringat cricket matches any more than what look like signs of the times, andalways try to be first in the field.' He recommended Rob to gatherstatistics of all kinds, from the number of grandchildren the crownedheads of Europe had to the jockeys who had ridden the Derby winner morethan once, and suggested the collecting of anecdotes about celebrities,which everybody would want to read if his celebrities chanced to die, asthey must do some day; and he assured him that there was a public wholiked to be told every year what the poets had said about May. Rob wasadvised never to let a historic house disappear from London withoutcompiling an article about its associations, and to be ready to runafter the fire brigade. He was told that an article on flagstone artistscould be made interesting. 'But always be sure of your facts,' Simmssaid. 'Write your articles over again and again, avoid fine writing asmuch as dishonest writing, and never spoil a leaderette by drawing itout into a leader. By and by you may be able to choose the kind ofsubject that interests yourself, but at present put your best work intowhat experienced editors believe interests the general public.'

  Rob found these suggestions valuable, and often thought, as he passedSimms's door, of going in to thank him, but he had an uncomfortablefeeling that Simms did not want him. Of course Rob was wrong. Simms hadfeared at first to saddle himself with a man who might prove incapable,and besides, he generally liked those persons best whom he saw leastfrequently.

  For the great part of the spring Simms was out of town; but one dayafter his return he met Rob on the stair, and took him into hischambers. The sitting-room had been originally furnished with newspaperarticles; Simms, in his younger days, when he wanted a new chair or anetching having written an article to pay for it, and then pasted thearticle on the back. He had paid a series on wild birds for his piano,and at one time leaderettes had even been found in the inside of hishats. Odd books and magazines lay about his table, but they would not inall have filled a library shelf; and there were no newspapers visible.The blank wall opposite the fireplace showed in dust that a largepicture had recently hung there. It was an oil-painting which a monthearlier had given way in the cord and fallen behind the piano, whereSimms was letting it lie.

  'I wonder,' said Rob, who had heard from many quarters of Simms'sreputation, 'that you are content to put your best work intonewspapers.'

  'Ah,' answered Simms, 'I was ambitious once, but, as I told you, thegrand book was a failure. Nowadays I gratify myself with the reflectionthat I am not stupid enough ever to be a great man.'

  'I wish you would begin something really big,' said Rob earnestly.

  'I feel safer,' replied Simms, 'finishing something really little.'

  He turned the talk to Rob's affairs as if his own wearied him, and,after hesitating, offered to 'place' a political article by Rob with theeditor of the _Morning Wire_.

  'I don't say he'll use it, though,' he added.

  This was so much the work Rob hungered for that he could have runupstairs and begun it at once.

  'Why, you surely don't work on Saturday nights?' said his host, who wasputting on an overcoat.

  'Yes,' said Rob, 'there is nothing else to do. I know no one well enoughto go to him. Of course I do nothing on the Sab--I mean on Sundays.'

  'No? Then how do you pass your Sundays?'

  'I go to church, and take a long walk, or read.'

  'And you never break this principle--when a capital idea for an articlestrikes you on Sunday evening, for instance?'

  'Well,' said Rob, 'when that happens I wait until twelve o'clockstrikes, and then begin.'

  Perceiving nothing curious in this, Rob did not look up to see Simms'smouth twitching.

  'On those occasions,' asked Simms, 'when you are waiting for twelveo'clock, does the evening not seem to pass very slowly?'

  Then Rob blushed.

  'At all events, come with me to-night,' said Simms, 'to my club. I amgoing now to the Wigwam, and we may meet men there worth your knowing.'

  The Wigwam is one of the best known literary clubs in London, and asthey rattled to it in a hansom, the driver of which was the broken sonof a peer, Rob remarked that its fame had even travelled to hissaw-mill.

  'It has such a name,' said Simms in reply, 'that I feel sorry for anyone who is taken to it for the first time. The best way to admire theWigwam is not to go to it.'

  'I always thought it was considered the pleasantest club in London,' Robsaid.

  'So it is,' said Simms, who was a member of half a dozen; 'most of theothers are only meant for sitting in on padded chairs and calling out"sh-sh" when any other body speaks.'

  At the Wigwam there is a special dinner every Saturday evening, but itwas over before Simms and Rob arrived, and the members were crowdinginto the room wh
ere great poets have sat beating time withchurchwardens, while great artists or coming Cabinet ministers sangsongs that were not of the drawing-room. A popular novelist, on whom Robgazed with a veneration that did not spread to his companion's face, wasin the chair when they entered, and the room was full of literary men,actors, and artists, of whom, though many were noted, many were alsoneedy. Here was an actor who had separated from his wife because hernotices were better than his; and another gentleman of the sameprofession took Rob aside to say that he was the greatest tragedian onearth if he could only get a chance. Rob did not know what to replywhen the eminent cartoonist sitting next him, whom he had looked up tofor half a dozen years, told him, by way of opening a conversation, thathe had just pawned his watch. They seemed so pleased with poverty thatthey made as much of a little of it as they could, and the wisestconclusion Rob came to that night was not to take them too seriously. Itwas, however, a novel world to find oneself in all of a sudden, one inwhich everybody was a wit at his own expense. Even Simms, who alwaysupheld the Press when any outsider ran it down, sang with applause someverses whose point lay in their being directed against himself. Theybegan--

  When clever pressmen write this way, 'As Mr. J. A. Froude would say,' Is it because they think he would, And have they read a line of Froude? Or is it only that they fear The comment they have made is queer, And that they either must erase it, Or say it's Mr. Froude who says it?

  Every one abandoned himself to the humour of the evening, and as songfollowed song, or was wedged between entertainments of other kinds, theroom filled with smoke until it resembled London in a fog.

  By and by a sallow-faced man mounted a table to show the company how toperform a remarkable trick with three hats. He got his hats from thecompany, and having looked at them thoughtfully for some minutes, saidthat he had forgotten the way.

  'That,' said Simms, mentioning a well-known journalist, 'is K----. Hecan never work unless his pockets are empty, and he would not belooking so doleful at present if he was not pretty well off. He goesfrom room to room in the house he lodges in, according to the state ofhis finances, and when you call on him you have to ask at the door whichfloor he is on to-day. One week you find him in the drawing-room, thenext in the garret.'

  A stouter and brighter man followed the hat entertainment with a song,which he said was considered by some of his friends a recitation.

  'There was a time,' said Simms, who was held a terrible person by thosewho took him literally, 'when that was the saddest man I knew. He was sosad that the doctors feared he would die of it. It all came of hiswriting for _Punch_.'

  'How did they treat him?' Rob asked.

  'Oh, they quite gave him up, and he was wasting away visibly, when asecond-rate provincial journal appointed him its London correspondent,and saved his life.'

  'Then he was sad,' asked Rob, 'because he was out of work?'

  'On the contrary,' said Simms gravely, 'he was always one of thesuccessful men, but he could not laugh.'

  'And he laughed when he became a London correspondent?'

  'Yes; that restored his sense of humour. But listen to this song; he isa countryman of yours who sings it.'

  A man, who looked as if he had been cut out of a granite block, and whoat the end of each verse thrust his pipe back into his mouth, sang in abroad accent, that made Rob want to go nearer him, some verses about anold university--

  'Take off the stranger's hat!'--The shout We raised in fifty-nine Assails my ears, with careless flout, And now the hat is mine. It seems a day since I was here, A student slim and hearty, And see, the boys around me cheer, 'The ancient-looking party!'

  Rough horseplay did not pass for wit When Rae and Mill were there; I see a lad from Oxford sit In Blackie's famous chair. And Rae, of all our men the one We most admired in quad (I had this years ago), has gone Completely to the bad.

  In our debates the moral Mill Had infinite address, Alas! since then he's robbed a till, And now he's on the press. And Tommy Robb, the ploughman's son, Whom all his fellows slighted, From Rae and Mill the prize has won, For Tommy's to be knighted.

  A lanky loon is in the seat Filled once by manse-bred Sheen, Who did not care to mix with Peate, A bleacher who had been. But watch the whirligig of time, Brave Peate became a preacher, His name is known in every clime, And Sheen is now the bleacher.

  McMillan, who the medals carried, Is now a judge, 'tis said, And curly-headed Smith is married, And Williamson is dead. Old Phil and I who shared our books Now very seldom meet, And when we do, with frowning looks We pass by in the street.

  The college rings with student slang As in the days of yore, The self-same notice boards still hang Upon the class-room door: An essay (I expected that) On Burns this week, or Locke, 'A theory of creation' at Precisely seven o'clock.

  There's none here now who knows my name, My place is far away, And yet the college is the same, Not older by a day. But curious looks are cast at me, Ah! herein lies the change, All else is as it used to be, And I alone am strange!

  'Now, you could never guess,' Simms said to Rob, 'what profession oursinger belongs to.'

  'He looks more like a writer than an artist,' said Rob, who had felt thesong more than the singer did.

  'Well, he is more an artist than a writer, though, strictly speaking, heis neither. To that man is the honour of having created a profession. Hefurnishes rooms for interviews.'

  'I don't quite understand,' said Rob.

  'It is in this way,' Simms explained. 'Interviews in this country areof recent growth, but it has been already discovered that what thepublic want to read is not so much a celebrity's views on any topic as adescription of his library, his dressing-gown, or his gifts from theking of Kashabahoo. Many of the eminent ones, however, are veryuninteresting in private life, and have no curiosities to show theirinterviewer worth writing about, so your countryman has started aprofession of providing curiosities suitable for celebrities at fromfive pounds upwards, each article, of course, having a guaranteed storyattached to it. The editor, you observe, intimates his wish to includethe distinguished person in his galaxy of "Men of the Moment," and thenthe notability drops a line to our friend saying that he wants a few ofhis rooms arranged for an interview. Your countryman sends the goods,arranges them effectively, and puts the celebrity up to thereminiscences he is to tell about each.'

  'I suppose,' said Rob, with a light in his eye, 'that the interviewer isas much taken in by this as--well, say, as I have been by you?'

  'To the same extent,' admitted Simms solemnly. 'Of course he is notaware that before the interview appears the interesting relics have allbeen packed up and taken back to our Scottish friend's show-rooms.'

  The distinguished novelist in the chair told Rob (without having beenintroduced to him) that his books were beggaring his publishers.

  'What I make my living off,' he said, 'is the penny dreadful, completein one number. I manufacture two a week without hindrance to otheremployment, and could make it three if I did not have a weak wrist.'

  It was thus that every one talked to Rob, who, because he took a jokewithout changing countenance, was considered obtuse. He congratulatedone man on his article on chaffinches in the _Evening Firebrand_, andthe writer said he had discovered, since the paper appeared, that thebirds he described were really linnets. Another man was introduced toRob as the writer of _In Memoriam_.

  'No,' said the gentleman himself, on seeing Rob start, 'my name is notTennyson. It is, indeed, Murphy. Tennyson and the other fellows, who areambitious of literary fame, pay me so much a page for poems to whichthey put their names.'

  At this point the applause became so deafening that Simms and Rob, whohad been on their way to another room, turned back. An aged man, with amagnificent head, was on his feet to descr
ibe his first meeting withCarlyle.

  'Who is it?' asked Rob, and Simms mentioned the name of a celebrity onlya little less renowned than Carlyle himself. To Rob it had been one ofthe glories of London that in the streets he sometimes came suddenlyupon world-renowned men, but he now looked upon this eminent scientistfor the first time. The celebrity was there as a visitor, for the Wigwamcannot boast quite such famous members as he.

  The septuagenarian began his story well. He described the approach toCraigenputtock on a warm summer afternoon, and the emotions that laidhold of him as, from a distance, he observed the sage seated astride alow dyke, flinging stones into the duck-pond. The pedestrian announcedhis name and the pleasure with which he at last stood face to face withthe greatest writer of the day; and then the genial author of _SartorResartus_, annoyed at being disturbed, jumped off the dyke and chasedhis visitor round and round the duck-pond. The celebrity had got thusfar in his reminiscence when he suddenly stammered, bit his lip as ifenraged at something, and then trembled so much that he had to be ledback to his seat.

  'He must be ill,' whispered Rob to Simms.

  'It isn't that,' answered Simms; 'I fancy he must have caught sight ofWingfield.'

  Rob's companion pointed to a melancholy-looking man in a seedy coat, whowas sitting alone glaring at the celebrity.

  'Who is he?' asked Rob.

  'He is the great man's literary executor,' Simms replied: 'come alongwith me and hearken to his sad tale; he is never loth to tell it.'

  They crossed over to Wingfield, who received them dejectedly.

  'This is not a matter I care to speak of, Mr. Angus,' said the sorrowfulman, who spoke of it, however, as frequently as he could find alistener. 'It is now seven years since that gentleman'--pointing angrilyat the celebrity, who glared in reply--'appointed me his literaryexecutor. At the time I thought it a splendid appointment, and by theend of two years I had all his remains carefully edited and hisbiography ready for the Press. He was an invalid at that time, supposedto be breaking up fast; yet look at him now.'

  'He is quite vigorous in appearance now,' said Rob.

  'Oh, I've given up hope,' continued the sad man dolefully.

  'Still,' remarked Simms, 'I don't know that you could expect him to diejust for your sake. I only venture that as an opinion, of course.'

  'I don't ask that of him,' responded Wingfield. 'I'm not blaming him inany way; all I say is that he has spoilt my life. Here have I beenwaiting, waiting for five years, and I seem farther from publicationthan ever.'

  'It is hard on you,' said Simms.

  'But why did he break down in his story,' asked Rob, 'when he saw you?'

  'Oh, the man has some sense of decency left, I suppose, and knows thathe has ruined my career.'

  'Is the Carlylean reminiscence taken from the biography?' inquiredSimms.

  'That is the sore point,' answered Wingfield sullenly. 'He used to shunsociety, but now he goes to clubs, banquets, and "At Homes," and tellsthe choice things in the memoir at every one of them. The book willscarcely be worth printing now.'

  'I dare say he feels sorry for you,' said Simms, 'and sees that he hasplaced you in a false position.'

  'He does in a way,' replied the literary executor, 'and yet I irritatehim. When he was ill last December I called to ask for him every day,but he mistook my motives; and now he is frightened to be left alonewith me.'

  'It is a sad business,' said Simms, 'but we all have our trials.'

  'I would try to bear up better,' said the sad man, 'if I got moresympathy.'

  It was very late when Simms and Rob left the Wigwam, yet they wereamongst the first to go.

  'When does the club close?' Rob asked, as they got into the fresh air.

  'No one knows,' answered Simms wearily, 'but I believe the last man togo takes in the morning's milk.'

  In the weeks that followed Rob worked hard at political articles for the_Wire_, and at last began to feel that he was making some headway. Hehad not the fatal facility for scribbling that distinguishes somejournalists, but he had felt life before he took to writing. His stylewas forcible if not superfine, and he had the faculty that makes ajournalist, of only seeing things from one point of view. The successfulpolitical writer is blind in one eye.

  Though one in three of Rob's articles was now used, the editor of the_Wire_ did not write to say that he liked them, and Rob never heard anyone mention them. Even Simms would not read them, but then Simms neverread any paper. He got his news from the placards, and bought the_Scalping Knife_, not to read his own articles, but to measure them andcalculate how much he would get for them. Then he dropped them into thegutter.

  Some weeks had passed without Rob's seeing Simms, when one day he got aletter that made him walk round and round his table like a circus horse.It was from the editor of the _Wire_, asking him to be in readiness tocome to the office any evening he might be wanted to write. This lookedlike a step toward an appointment on the staff if he gave satisfaction(a proviso which he took complacently), and Rob's chest expanded, tillthe room seemed quite small. He pictured Thrums again. He jumped to MaryAbinger, and then he distinctly saw himself in the editorial chair ofthe _Times_. He was lying back in it, smoking a cigar, and giving aCabinet minister five minutes.

  Nearly six months had passed since Rob saw Miss Abinger--a long time fora young man to remain in love with the same person. Of late Rob had beenless given to dreaming than may be expected of a man who classifies theother sex into one particular lady and others, but Mary was coming toLondon in the early summer, and when he thought of summer he meant Mary.Rob was oftener in Piccadilly in May than he had been during theprevious four months, and he was always looking for somebody. It was thethird of June, a day to be remembered in his life, that he heard fromthe editor of the _Wire_. At five o'clock he looked upon that as whatmade it a day of days, but he had changed his mind by a quarter past.

  Rob had a silk hat now, and he thrust it on his head, meaning to rundownstairs to tell Simms of his good fortune. He was in the happy frameof mind that makes a man walk round improbabilities, and for the firsttime since he came to London he felt confident of the future, withoutbecoming despondent immediately afterwards. The future, like the summer,was an allegory for Miss Abinger. For the moment Rob's heart filled withcompassion for Simms. The one thing our minds will not do is leave ourneighbours alone, and Rob had some time before reached the conclusionthat Simms's nature had been twisted by a disappointment in love. Therewas nothing else that could account for his fits of silence, hisindifference to the future. He was known to have given the coat off hisback to some miserable creature in the street, and to have been annoyedwhen he discovered that a friend saw him do it. Though Simms's wallswere covered with engravings, Rob remembered all at once that there wasnot a female figure in one of them.

  To sympathise with others in a love affair is delightful to every onewho feels that he is all right himself. Rob went down to Simms's roomswith a joyous step and a light heart. The outer door stood ajar, and ashe pushed it open he heard a voice that turned his face white. Fromwhere he stood paralysed he saw through the dark passage into thesitting-room. Mary Abinger was standing before the fireplace, and asRob's arm fell from the door, Simms bent forward and kissed her.