Works of grant allen, p.339
Works of Grant Allen, page 339
His first idea — the stereotyped first idea of every unemployed young Oxford man — was, of course, to get pupils. But pupils for the Long don’t grow on every bush: and here again that strange divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may, proved kindly favorable to him. Not a single aspirant answered his intimation, duly hung among a dozen or so equally attractive announcements on the notice-board of the union, that “Mr. Paul Gascoyne, of Christ Church, would be glad to read with pupils for Mods during the long vacation.” Thus, thrown upon his beam-ends by the necessities of the case, Paul was fairly compelled to follow Nea’s advice and “take to literature.”
But “taking to literature” is not so easy as it sounds to those who have never tried it. Everybody can write nowadays, thanks to the Board Schools, and brave the supreme difficulty of the literary profession. An open trade — a trade which needs no special apprenticeship — is always overstocked. Every gate is thronged with suitors; all the markets overflow. And so Paul hardly dared to hope even for the modest success which may keep a bachelor in bread and butter. Bread and butter is much, indeed, to expect from one’s brains in these latter days, when dry bread is the lot of most literary aspirants. Little as he knew of the perils of the way, Paul trembled to think what fate might have in store for him.
Nevertheless, on the very night of his bitter disappointment, over the Oxford class list, he had sat down and written off that hasty article — a mere playful sketch of a certain phase of English life as he well knew it, for he was not without his sense of humor; and reading it over at his leisure the succeeding morning he saw that, though not quite so good as he thought it last night, in his feverish earnestness, it was still by no means wanting in point and brilliancy. So, with much fear and trembling, he inclosed it in an envelope, and sent it off, with a brief letter commendatory, to the dreaded editor of the Monday Remembrancer. And then, having fired his bolt in the dark, he straightway tried to forget all about it, for fear of its entailing on him still further disappointment.
For a week or ten days he waited in vain, during which time he occupied all his spare moments in trying his ‘prentice hand at yet other articles. For, indeed, Paul hardly understood himself as yet how strait is the gate and how narrow is the way by which men enter into even that outer vestibule of journalism. He little knew how many proffered articles are in most cases “declined with thanks” before the most modest little effusion stands a stray chance of acceptance from the journalistic magnates. Most young men think it a very easy thing to “write for the papers.” It is only when they come to see the short shrift their own best efforts obtain from professional critics that they begin to understand how coy and shy and hard to woo is the uncertain modern muse who presides unseen over the daily printing-press. But of all this, Paul was still by rare good luck most innocently ignorant. Had he known it all, brave and sturdy as he was, he might have fallen down and fainted perchance on the threshold.
At the end of ten days, however, to his deep delight, a letter came back from that inexorable editor — a cautious letter, neither accepting nor rejecting Paul’s proffered paper, but saying in guarded, roundabout language that, if Mr. Gascoyne happened to be in town any time next week, the editor could spare him just twenty minutes’ private conversation.
By a curious coincidence Paul was in town early next week, and the inexorable editor, sitting with watch open before him to keep jealous guard lest Paul might exceed the stipulated twenty minutes, expounded to him with crude editorial frankness his views about his new contributor’s place in journalism.
“Have you ever written before?” the editor asked him sharply, yet with the familiar wearied journalistic air (as of a man who has sat up all night at a leader), pouncing down upon him like a hawk upon a lark, from under his bushy eyebrows.
Paul admitted with some awe, and no little diffidence, that this was his first peccadillo in that particular direction — the one error of an otherwise blameless existence.
“Of course,” the editor answered, turning over his poor foolscap with a half contemptuous hand. “I saw that at a glance. I read it in the style, or want of style. I didn’t need to be told so. I only asked by force of habit for further confirmation. Well, you know, Mr. Gascoyne, there’s no use disguising the fact. You can’t write — no, you can’t write — you can’t write worth a kick, or anything like it!” And he snapped down his mouth with a vicious snap as one snaps a rat-trap demonstratively between one’s thumb and finger.
“No?” Paul said, in an interrogative voice, and somewhat crestfallen, much wondering why, in that case, the busy editor, who measured his minutes strictly by the watch, had taken the trouble to send for him all the way up from Oxford.
“No, indeed, you can’t,” the editor answered, argumentatively, like one who expects to be contradicted, but won’t brook contradiction. “Just look here at this now, and at this, and this,” and as he spoke the great man rapidly scored with his pencil one or two of the most juvenile faults of the style in Paul’s neatly written but undeniably amateurish little essay.
Paul was forced to admit to himself, as the editor scored them, that these particular constructions were undoubtedly weak. They smelt of youth and of inexperience, and he trembled for himself as the editor went on with merciless quill to correct and alter them into rough accordance with the Remembrancer s own exalted literary standard. Through the whole eight pages or so the editor ran lightly with practiced pen — enlarging here, contracting there, brightening yonder — exactly as Paul had seen the tutors at Christ Church amend the false concords or doubtful quantities in a passman’s faulty Latin verse. The rapidity and certainty of the editor’s touch, indeed, was something surprising. Paul saw for himself, as the ruthless censor proceeded in the task, that his workmanship was really very bad. He felt instinctively how crude and youthful were his own vain attempts at the purveyance of literature. At the end, when the editor had disfigured his whole, beautiful, neatly written article with illegible scratches, cabalistic signs, and frequent alterations, the poor young man looked down at it with a sigh, and half murmured below his breath, “Then, of course, you don’t intend to print it.”
The editor, for all reply, sounded a small gong by his side and waited. In answer to the summons a boy, somewhat the worse for lamp-black, entered the august presence and stood attentive for orders. The editor handed him the much altered pages with a lordly wave. “Press!” he said, laconically, and brushed him aside. The boy nodded and disappeared as in a pantomime.
Then the editor glanced at his watch once more. He ran his fingers once or twice through his hair with a preoccupied air, and stared straight in front of him. For a minute he hummed and mused as if alone. After that he woke up suddenly, and answered with a start, “Yes, I do though; I mean to print it — as amended. A great deal of it will have to come out, of course; but I mean to print it.”
“Thank you very much,” Paul cried, overpowered.
“And I’ll tell you why,” the editor went on, never heeding his thanks — to editors, all that is mere contributor’s business. “It isn’t written a bit; oh, dear no, not written, but it’s real — it has stuff in it.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” Paul exclaimed, brightening. Then the editor cut him short with a rapid wave of his imperious pen. Editors have no time to let themselves be thanked or talked to. “You have something to write about,” he said—” something new and fresh. In one word, vous connaissez votre monde, and that’s just what’s wanted nowadays in journalism. We require specialités. A man who knows all about the Chicago pork trade’s a more useful man to us, by a hundred guineas, than a fellow who can write well in limpid English on any blessed subject under heaven you may set him. Nullum tetigit quod non ornavit — Dean Swift and the broomstick — all moonshine nowadays! Crispness and originality are mere drugs in the market. What we want is the men who have the actual stuff in them. Now you have the stuff in you. You know your world. This article shows you thoroughly understand the manners and modes of thought of the petite bourgeoisie.”
“I belong to them, in fact,” Paul put in, interrupting him.
The editor received the unnecessary information with polite indifference. For his part, it mattered nothing on earth to him whether his contributor were a duke or a Manchu Tartar. What mattered was the fact that he had something to communicate. He nodded, yawned, and continued listlessly, “Quite so,” he said. “You understand the class. Our readers belong to a different order.
They’re mostly gentlefolks; you seem from your article to be a greengrocer’s assistant. Therefore you’ve got something fresh to tell them. This is an age when society’s consumed with a burning desire to understand its own component elements. Half the world wants to know, for the first time in its life, how the other half lives, just to spite the proverb. The desire’s incomprehensible, but still it exists; and the journalist thrives by virtue of recognizing all actualities. If you refuse to recognize the actual — like the Planet and the Matutinal Herald for example — you go to the wall as sure as fate. Mr. — ah’m — where’s your card? — ah, yes — Gascoyne, we shall want a series of a dozen or so of these articles.”
Paul hardly knew how to express his thanks. The editor cut him short with a weary wave. “And mind,” he said, drawling, “no quotations from Juvenal. You’re an Oxford man, I see. Young man, if you would prosper, avoid your Juvenal. University men always go wrong on that. They can’t keep Juvenal out of modern life and newspaper leaders. You’ve no less than three tags from the Third Satire, I observe, in this one short article. Three tags from the classics at a single go would damn the best ‘middle that ever was penned. Steer clear of them in future and try to be actual. Your articles’ll want a great deal of hacking and hewing, of course; I shall have to prune them; but still, you’ve the stuff in you.” He glanced at his watch uneasily once more. “The first next Wednesday,” he went on, with a significant look toward the door. “I’m very busy just at present.” His hand was fumbling nervously among his papers now. He rang the little gong a second time. “Proof of the ‘Folly of the Government,’” he remarked to the boy. “Good-morning, Mr. — Gascoyne. Please don’t forget. Not later than Wednesday.”
“Please don’t forget;” as if it was likely; or as if he suffered from such a plethora of work that he would fail to supply it. Why, the very chance of such an engagement as that made him wild with excitement. And Paul Gascoyne went down the wooden steps that afternoon a happy man, and a real live journalist on the staff of the Monday Remembrancer.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AN INTRODUCTION.
Nemo repente fit turpissimus, and nobody becomes by design a journalist. Men drift into the evil trade as they drift into drink, crime, or politics — by force of circumstances. They take it up first because they’ve nothing else ready to hand to do, and they go on with it because they see no possible way of getting out of it. Paul Gascoyne, however, by way of the exception to every rule, having thus unexpectedly drifted into the first head-waters of a journalistic career, began seriously to contemplate making his work in life of it. In this design he was further encouraged by the advice and assistance of Mr. Solomons, who would have energetically protested against anything so vulgar as schoolmastering, as being likely to interfere with his plans for Paul’s brilliant future; but who considered an occasional excursion into the domain of literature as by no means derogatory to the dignity even of one who was destined to become, in course of time, a real live baronet. Nay, Mr. Solomons went so far in his commendation of the craft as to dwell with peculiar pride and pleasure on the career of a certain noble lord who was not ashamed in his day to take his three guineas a column from a distinguished weekly, and who afterward, by the unexpected demise of an elder brother, rose to the actual dignity of a British marquisate. These things being so, Mr. Solomons opined that Paul, though born to shine in courts, might blamelessly contribute to the Monday Remembrancer, and might pocket his more modest guinea without compunction in such excellent company. For what company can be better than that of the Lords of the Council, endowed, as we all well know them to be, with grace, wisdom, and understanding?
Moreover, Mr. Solomons had other ideas of his own for Paul in his head. It would be so well for Leo to improve his acquaintance with the future bearer of the Gascoyne title; and it would be so well for Paul to keep up his connection with the house of Solomons by thus associating from time to time with Mr. Lionel. For this double-barreled purpose, Mr. Solomons suggested that Paul should take rooms in the same house with Lionel, and that they should to some extent share expenses together, so far as breakfast, lights, and firing were concerned. From which acute suggestion Mr. Solomons expected a double advantage — as the wisdom of our ancestors has proverbially phrased it, he would kill two birds with one stone. On the one hand, Paul and Lionel would naturally be thrown much into one another’s society, and, on the other hand, Lionel’s living expenses would be considerably diminished by Paul’s co-operation.
To Paul himself the arrangement was a trifle less satisfactory. Mr. Lionel Solomons was hardly the sort of person he would have spontaneously chosen as the friend and companion of his enforced solitude. Paul’s tastes and ideas had undergone a considerable modification at Oxford, and he was well aware of the distinctions of tone which marked off Mr. Lionel from the type of men with whom he had now long been accustomed to associate. But still, he never dreamt of opposing himself in this matter to Mr.
Solomons’ wishes. The habit of acquiescence in all Mr. Solomons’ plans for the future had been so impressed upon his mind by constant use that he could hardly throw it off in a month or two; and he went uncomplainingly, if not quite cheerfully, to share the hospitality of Mr. Lionel’s rooms in a small back street off a Pimlico highway.
For the first few weeks Paul was busy enough, endeavoring to gain himself an entry into the world of journalism. And by great good luck his preliminary efforts were unexpectedly, and it must be confessed unwontedly, successful. As a rule, it is only by long and strenuous pushing that even good workmen succeed in making their way into that most crowded and difficult of all trades or professions. But there is luck in everything, even in journalism; and Paul herein was exceptionally lucky. Mrs. Douglas, feeling herself almost personally responsible for the mishap in Greats — for, if only she had nobbled the examiners in time, might she not have managed to secure for him at least a decent Second — endeavored to make up for her remissness on that important occasion by using all her best backstairs wiles and blandishments on the persons of all the editors and leader writers of her wide acquaintance. Now the London press, as is well beknown to those curious in such matters, is almost entirely manned and run by Oxford graduates. Among these magnates of the journalistic world Mrs. Douglas possessed no small feminine influence; her dearest friend was married to the staff of the Times, and two of her second cousins were respectively engaged to the French politics of the Planet and the art-criticism of the hebdomadal Correspondent. By dexterously employing her persuasive powers on these potent ladies, Mrs. Douglas managed to secure for Paul’s maiden efforts the difficult favor of editorial consideration. The rest Paul worked on his own account. For although, as his first editor had justly remarked, he couldn’t write worth a kick when he began his experiments, he sat down so resolutely to conquer the intricacies of English style, that before three weeks were fairly over his manuscript made as decent copy as that of many journalists to the manner born, with less brains and perception than the young Oxford postulant.
It was during these first weeks of toilsome apprenticeship that an event happened of great importance to Paul’s future history, though at the moment he himself saw in it nothing more than the most casual incident of everyday existence.
One Saturday afternoon Mr. Lionel returned home early from the city, on fashionable promenade intent, and proposed to Paul to accompany him to the Park, to take the air and inspect the marriageable young ladies of this isle of Britain there on view to all and sundry. “Let’s have a squint at the girls,” indeed, was Mr. Lionel’s own precise and classical suggestion for their afternoon’s entertainment.
For a moment Paul demurred. “I want to get this article finished,” he said, looking up from his paper with a rather wearied air. “I’m trying one on spec for the Monthly Intelligence.”
“Rot!” Mr. Lionel ejaculated with profound emphasis. “You’re working too hard, Gascoyne; that’s just the matter with you. We don’t work like that in the city, I can tell you. You’re muddling your brains with too much writing. Much better come out a walk with me this afternoon, and do the Park. You can’t expect to hook an heiress, you know, if you don’t let the heiresses see you put yourself in evidence. Besides your article’ll be all the better for a little freshening up. You’re getting dull for want of change. Come along with me to the Row, an you’ll see what’ll stir up your Pegasus to a trot, I’ll bet you four-pence.” Even in metaphor fourpence was Mr. Lionel’s extreme extravagance in the matter of risking money needlessly.
