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. Itwas during that period that I came nearest to realising my ambition tobe a Bohemian; and at the end of the third week, for reasons which Ishall state, I deserted Bohemia, firmly and with no longing, lingeringglance behind, and settled down to the prosaic task of grubbingearnestly 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 notcall my lodgings anything but dingy, dark, and commonplace. They werejust like a million other of London's mean lodgings. The window lookedout over a sea of backyards, bounded by tall, depressing houses, andintersected by clothes-lines. A cats' club (social, musical, andpugilistic) used to meet on the wall to the right of my window. One ortwo dissipated trees gave the finishing touch of gloom to the scene.Nor was the interior of the room more cheerful. The furniture had beenput in during the reign of George III, and last dusted in that ofWilliam and Mary. A black horse-hair sofa ran along one wall. There wasa deal table, a chair, and a rickety bookcase. It was a room for arealist to write in; and my style, such as it was, was bright andoptimistic.
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 witheditorial rejection forms, of which I was beginning to have arepresentative collection. Properly arranged, these look very striking.There is a good deal of variety about them. The ones I liked best werethose which I received, at the rate of three a week, bearing a verypleasing picture, in green, of the publishing offices at the top of thesheet of note-paper. Scattered about in sufficient quantities, theselend an air of distinction to a room. _Pearson's Magazine_ alsosupplies a taking line in rejection forms. _Punch_'s I never caredfor very much. Neat, I grant you; but, to my mind, too cold. I like atouch of colour in a rejection form.
In addition to these, I purchased from the grocer at the corner acollection of pictorial advertisements. What I had really wanted wasthe theatrical poster, printed and signed by well-known artists. Butthe grocer didn't keep them, and I was impatient to create my properatmosphere. My next step was to buy a corncob pipe and a quantity ofrank, jet-black tobacco. I hated both, and kept them more as ornamentsthan for use.
Then, having hacked my table about with a knife and battered it with apoker till it might have been the table of a shaggy and unrecognisedgenius, I settled down to work.
I was not a brilliant success. I had that "little knowledge" which isheld to be such a dangerous thing. I had not plunged into the literaryprofession without learning a few facts about it. I had read nearlyevery journalistic novel and "Hints on Writing for the Papers" bookthat had ever been published. In theory I knew all that there was to beknown about writing. Now, all my authorities were very strong on onepoint. "Write," they said, very loud and clear, "not what _you_like, but what editors like." I smiled to myself when I started. I feltthat I had stolen a march on my rivals. "All round me," I said tomyself, "are young authors bombarding editors with essays on Lucretius,translations of Martial, and disquisitions on Ionic comedy. I know toomuch for that. I work on a different plan." "Study the papers, and seewhat they want," said my authorities. I studied the papers. Some wantedone thing, apparently, others another. There was one group of threepapers whose needs seemed to coincide, and I could see an articlerejected by one paper being taken by another. This offered me a numberof 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 EccentricTestators," "Singular Scenes in Court," "Actors Who Have Died on theStage," "Curious Scenes in Church," and seven others rejected by allthree. Somehow this sort of writing is not so easy as it looks. A manwho was on the staff of a weekly once told me that he had had twothousand of these articles printed since he started--poor devil. He hadthe knack. I could never get it. I sent up fifty-three in all in thefirst year of my literary life, and only two stuck. I got fifteenshillings from one periodical for "Men Who Have Missed Their OwnWeddings," and, later, a guinea from the same for "Single DayMarriages." That paper has a penchant for the love-interest. Yet when Isent it my "Duchesses Who Have Married Dustmen," it came back by theearly 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 ofdefeats. I would have a manuscript accepted by an editor. "Hullo," Iwould say, "here's the man at last, the Editor-Who-Believes-In-Me. Letthe thing go on." I would send him off another manuscript. He wouldtake it. Victory, by Jove! Then--_wonk_! Back would come my thirdeffort with the curtest of refusals. I always imagined editors in thosedays to be pettish, whimsical men who amused themselves by taking up abeginner, and then, wearying of the sport, dropped him back into theslime from which they had picked him.
In the intervals of articles I wrote short stories, again for the samethree papers. As before, I studied these papers carefully to see whatthey wanted; then worked out a mechanical plot, invariably with aquarrel in the first part, an accident, and a rescue in the middle, anda reconciliation at the end--told it in a style that makes me hot allover when I think of it, and sent it up, enclosing a stamped addressedenvelope in case of rejection. A very useful precaution, as it alwaysturned out.
It was the little knowledge to which I have referred above which keptmy walls so thickly covered with rejection forms. I was in preciselythe same condition as a man who has been taught the rudiments ofboxing. I knew just enough to hamper me, and not enough to do me anygood. If I had simply blundered straight at my work and written justwhat occurred to me in my own style, I should have done much better. Ihave a sense of humour. I deliberately stifled it. For it I substituteda 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 nextworld. Only the editor of the _Colney Hatch Argus_ could haveaccepted work like mine. Yet I toiled on.
It was about the middle of my third week at No. 93A that I definitelydecided to throw over my authorities, and work by the light of my ownintelligence.
Nearly all my authorities had been very severe on the practice ofverse-writing. It was, they asserted, what all young beginners tried todo, and it was the one thing editors would never look at. In the firstardour 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 tofall. I took this as my topic. It was raining at the time. I wrote asatirical poem, full of quaint rhymes.
I had always had rather a turn for serious verse. It struck me that therain might be treated poetically as well as satirically. That night Isent off two sets of verses to a daily and an evening paper. Next dayboth 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 theskirmishers, then the real attack. I will peg along with verses tillsomebody begins to take my stories and articles."
I felt easier in my mind than I had felt for some time. A story cameback by the nine o'clock post from a monthly magazine (to which I hadsent it from mere bravado), but the thing did not depress me. I got outmy 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 thedoor, and Mrs. Driver appeared. She eyed my manoeuvres with therejection form with a severe frown. After a preliminary sniff sheembarked upon a rapid lecture on what she called my irregular anduntidy habits. I had turned her second-floor back, she declared, into apig-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 giveher
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. Irefuse to believe that any man would stroll for three weeks."
"So I did say it," was the defiant reply. "I said it so as youshouldn't be put off coming. You looked a steady young feller, and Iwanted 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 wasa bit soft, that wos '_is_ little gime. But 'e wos a bit tooclever one day, and the coppers got 'im. Now you know!"
Mrs. Driver paused after this outburst, and allowed her eye to wanderslowly 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 toremove 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 moredeeply than I do--the fact is, they're stuck on with glue."
Two minutes later I had received my marching orders, and the room wasstill echoing with the slam of the door as it closed behind theindignant form of my landlady.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 5
