_UNITY_.
The office of _Unity_ was a room on the top floor of the Denisons’
publishing house. It looked out on Fleet Street, opposite Chancery Lane.
Sitting there, Eddy, when not otherwise engaged (he and Arnold were
joint editors of _Unity_) watched the rushing tide far below, the people
crowding by. There with the tide went the business men, the lawyers, the
newspaper people, who made thought and ensued it, the sellers and the
buyers. Each had his and her own interests, his and her own irons in the
fire. They wanted none of other people’s; often they resented other
people’s. Yet, looked at long enough ahead (one of the editors in his
trite way mused) all interests must be the same in the end. No state,
surely, could thrive, divided into factions, one faction spoiling
another. They must needs have a common aim, find a heterogeneous city of
peace. So _Unity_, gaily flinging down barriers, cheerily bestriding
walls, with one foot planted in each neighbouring and antagonistic
garden--_Unity_, so sympathetic with all causes, so ably written, so
versatile, must surely succeed.
_Unity_ really was rather well written, rather interesting. New
magazines so often are. The co-operative contributors, being clever
people, and fresh-minded, usually found some new, unstaled aspect of the
topics they touched, and gave them life. The paper, except for a few
stories and poems and drawings, was frankly political and social in
trend; it dealt with current questions, not in the least impartially
(which is so dull), but taking alternate and very definite points of
view. Some of these articles were by the staff, others by specialists.
Not afraid to aim high, they endeavoured to get (in a few cases
succeeded, in most failed) articles by prominent supporters and
opponents of the views they handled; as, for example, Lord Hugh Cecil
and Dr. Clifford on Church Disestablishment; Mr. Harold Cox and Sir
William Robertson Nicholl on Referendums, Dr. Cunningham and Mr.
Strachey on Tariff Reform; Mr. Roger Fry and Sir William Richmond on
Art; Lord Robert Cecil and the Sidney Webbs on the Minimum Wage; the
Dean of Welchester and Mr. Hakluyt Egerton on Prayer Book Revision; Mr.
Conrad Noel and Mr. Victor Grayson on Socialism as Synonymous with
Christianity, an Employer, a Factory Hand, and Miss Constance Smith, on
the Inspection of Factories; Mrs. Fawcett and Miss Violet Markham on
Women as Political Creatures; Mr. J. M. Robertson and Monsignor R. H.
Benson on the Church as an Agent for Good; land-owners, farmers,
labourers, and Mr. F. E. Greene, on Land Tenure. (The farmers’ and
labourers’ articles were among the failures, and had to be editorially
supplied.) A paper’s reach must exceed its grasp, or what are
enterprising editors for? But _Unity_ did actually grasp some writers of
note, and some of unlettered ardour, and supplied, to fill the gaps in
these, contributors of a certain originality and vividness of outlook.
On the whole it was a readable production, as productions go. There were
several advertisements on the last page; most, of course, were of books
published by the Denisons, but there were also a few books published by
other people, and, one proud week, “Darn No More,” “Why Drop Ink,” and
“Dry Clean Your Dog.” “Dry Clean Your Dog” seemed to the editors
particularly promising; dogs, though led, indeed, by some literary
people about the book-shops of towns, suggest in the main a wider, more
breezy, less bookish class of reader; the advertisement called up a
pleasant picture of _Unity_ being perused in the country, perhaps even
as far away as Weybridge; lying on hall tables along with the _Field_
and _Country Life_, while its readers obediently repaired to the kennels
with a dry shampoo.... It was an encouraging picture. For, though any
new journal can get taken in (for a time) by the bookier cliques of
cities, who read and write so much that they do not need to be very
careful, in either case, what it is, how few shall force a difficult
entrance into our fastidious country homes.
The editors of _Unity_ could not, indeed, persuade themselves that they
had a large circulation in the country as yet. Arnold said from the
first, “We never shall have. That is very certain.”
Eddy said, “Why?” He hoped they would have. It was his hope that _Unity_
would circulate all round the English-speaking world.
“Because we don’t stand for anything,” said Arnold, and Eddy returned,
“We stand for everything. We stand for Truth. We are of Use.”
“We stand for a lot of lies, too,” Arnold pointed out, because he
thought it was lies to say that Tariff Reform and Referendums and
Democracies were good things, and that Everyone should Vote, and that
Plays should be Censored, and the Prayer Book Revised, and lots of other
things. Eddy, who knew that Arnold knew that he for his part thought
these things true, did not trouble to say so again.
Arnold added, “Not, of course, that standing for lies is any check on
circulation; quite the contrary; but it’s dangerous to mix them up with
the truth; you confuse people’s minds. The fact that I do not approve of
any existing form of government or constitution of society, and that you
approve of all, makes us harmonious collaborators, but hardly gives us,
as an editorial body, enough insight into the mind of the average
potential reader, who as a rule prefers, quite definitely prefers, one
party or one state of things to another; has, in fact, no patience with
any other, and does not in the least wish to be told how admirable it
is. And if he does--if a country squire, for instance, really does want
to hear a eulogy of Free Trade--(there may be a few such squires,
possibly, hidden in the home counties; I doubt it, but there may)--well,
there is the _Spectator_ ready to his hand. The _Spectator_, which has
the incidental advantage of not disgusting him on the next page with ‘A
Word for a Free Drama,’ or ‘Socialism as Synonymous with Christianity.’
If, on the other hand, as might conceivably happen, he desired to hear
the praises of Tariff Reform--well, there are the _Times_ and the
_Morning Post_, both organs that he knows and trusts. And if, by any
wild chance, in an undisciplined mood, he craved for an attack on the
censorship, or other insubordinate sentiments, he might find at any rate
a few to go on with in, say, the _English Review_. Or, if it is
Socialism he wants to hear about (and I never yet met the land-owner,
did you, who hadn’t Socialism on the brain; it’s a class obsession),
there is the _New Statesman_, so bright, thorough, and reliable. Or, if
he wants to learn the point of view and the grievances of his tenant
farmers or his agricultural labourers, without asking them, he can read
books on ‘The Tyranny of the Countryside,’ or take in the _Vineyard_.
Anyhow, where does _Unity_ come in? I don’t see it, I’m afraid. It would
be different if we were merely or mainly literary, but we’re frankly
political. To be political without being partisan is savourless, like an
egg without salt. It doesn’t go down. Liberals don’t like, while reading
a paper, to be hit in the eye by long articles headed ‘Toryism as the
only Basis.’ Unionists don’t care to open at a page inscribed ‘The Need
for Home Rule.’ Socialists object to being confronted by articles on
‘Liberty as an Ideal.’ No one wants to see exploited and held up for
admiration the ideals of others antagonistic to their own. You yourself
wouldn’t read an article--not a long article, anyhow--called ‘Party
Warfare as the Ideal.’ At least you might, because you’re that kind of
lunatic, but few would. That is why we shall not sell well, when people
have got over buying us because we’re new.”
Eddy merely said, “We’re good. We’re interesting. Look at this drawing
of Jane’s; and this thing of Le Moine’s. They by themselves should sell
us, as mere art and literature. There are lots of people who’ll let us
have any politics we like if we give them things as good as that with
them.”
But Arnold jeered at the idea of there being enough readers who cared
for good work to make a paper pay. “The majority care for bad,
unfortunately.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Eddy, “the factory articles are making a stir among
employers. Here’s a letter that came this morning.”
Arnold read it.
“He thinks it’s his factory we meant, apparently. Rather annoyed, he
sounds. ‘Does not know if we purpose a series on the same subject’--nor
if so what’s going to get put into it, I suppose. I imagine he suspects
one of his own hands of being the author. It wasn’t, though, was it; it
was a jam man. And very temperate in tone it was; most unreasonable of
any employer to cavil at it. The remarks were quite general, too; mainly
to the effect that all factories were unwholesome, and all days too
long; statements that can hardly be disputed even by the proudest
employer. I expect he’s more afraid of what’s coming than of what’s come
already.”
“Anyhow,” said Eddy, “_he’s_ coming. In about ten minutes, too. Shall I
see him, or you?”
“Oh, you can. What does he want out of us?”
“I suppose he wants to know who wrote the article, and if we purpose a
series. I shall tell him we do, and that I hope the next number of it
will be an article by him on the Grievances of Employers. We need one,
and it ought to sweeten him. Anyhow it will show him we’ve no prejudice
in the matter. He can say all workers are pampered and all days too
short, if he likes. I should think that would be him coming up now.”
It was not him, but a sturdy and sweet-faced young man with an article
on the Irrelevance of the Churches to the World’s Moral Needs. The
editors, always positive, never negative, altered the title to the Case
for Secularism. It was to be set next to an article by a Church
Socialist on Christianity the Only Remedy. The sweet-faced young man
objected to this, but was over-ruled. In the middle of the discussion
came the factory owner, and Eddy was left alone to deal with him. After
that as many of the contributors as found it convenient met at lunch at
the Town’s End Tavern, as they generally did on Fridays, to discuss the
next week’s work.
This was at the end of January, when _Unity_ had been running for two
months. The first two months of a weekly paper may be significant, but
are not conclusive. The third month is more so. Mr. Wilfred Denison, who
published _Unity_, found the third month conclusive enough for him. He
said so. At the Town’s End on a foggy Friday towards the end of
February, Arnold and Eddy announced at lunch that _Unity_ was going to
stop. No one was surprised. Most of these people were journalists, and
used to these catastrophic births and deaths, so radiant or so sad, and
often so abrupt. It is better when they are abrupt. Some die a long and
lingering death, with many recuperations, artificial galvanisations,
desperate recoveries, and relapses. The end is the same in either case;
better that it should come quickly. It was an expected moment in this
case, even to the day, for the contract with the contributors had been
that the paper should run on its preliminary trial trip for three
months, and then consider its position.
Arnold, speaking for the publishers, announced the result of the
consideration.
“It’s no good. We’ve got to stop. We’re not increasing. In fact, we’re
dwindling. Now that people’s first interest in a new thing is over, they
don’t buy us enough to pay our way.”
“The advertisements are waning, certainly,” said someone. “They’re
nearly all books and author’s agencies and fountain pens now. That’s a
bad sign.”
Arnold agreed. “We’re mainly bought now by intellectuals and
non-political people. As a political paper, we can’t grow fat on that;
there aren’t enough of them.... We’ve discussed whether we should change
our aim and become purely literary; but after all, that’s not what we’re
out for, and there are too many of such papers already. We’re
essentially political and practical, and if we’re to succeed as that,
we’ve got to be partisan too, there’s no doubt about it. Numbers of
people have told us they don’t understand our line, and want to know
precisely what we’re driving at politically. We reply we’re driving at a
union of parties, a throwing down of barriers. No one cares for that;
they think it silly, and so do I. So, probably, do most of us; perhaps
all of us except Oliver. Ned Jackson, for instance, was objecting the
other day to my anti-Union article on the Docks strike appearing side by
side with his own remarks of an opposite tendency. He, very naturally,
would like _Unity_ not merely to sing the praise of the Unions, but to
give no space to the other side. I quite understand it; I felt the same
myself. I extremely disliked his article; but the principles of the
paper compelled us to take it. Why, my own father dislikes his essays on
the Monistic Basis to be balanced by Professor Wedgewood’s on Dualism as
a Necessity of Thought. A philosophy, according to him, is either good
or bad, true or false. So, to most people, are all systems of thought
and principles of conduct. Very naturally, therefore, they prefer that
the papers they read should eschew evil as well as seeking good. And so,
since one can’t (fortunately) read everything, they read those which
seem to them to do so. I should myself, if I could find one which seemed
to me to do so, only I never have.... Well, I imagine that’s the sort of
reason _Unity’s_ failing; it’s too comprehensive.”
“It’s too uneven on the literary and artistic side,” suggested a
contributor. “You can’t expect working-men, for instance, who may be
interested in the more practical side of the paper, to read it if it’s
liable to be weighted by Raymond’s verse, or Le Moine’s essays, or Miss
Dawn’s drawings. On the other hand, the clever people are occasionally
shocked by coming on verse and prose suitable for working men. I expect
it’s that; you can’t rely on it; it’s not all of a piece, even on its
literary side, like _Tit-Bits_, for instance. People like to know what
to expect.”
Cecil Le Moine said wearily in his high sweet voice, “Considering how
few things do pay, I can’t imagine why any of you ever imagined _Unity_
would pay. I said from the first ... but no one listened to me; they
never do. It’s not _Unity’s_ fault; it’s the fault of all the other
papers. There are hundreds too many already; millions too many. They
want thinning, like dandelions in a garden, and instead, like
dandelions, they spread like a disease. Something ought to be done about
it. I hate Acts of Parliament, but this is really a case for one. It is
surely Mr. McKenna’s business to see to it; but I suppose he is kept too
busy with all these vulgar disturbances. Anyhow, _we_ have done our best
now to stem the tide. There will be one paper less. Perhaps some of the
others will follow our example. Perhaps the _Record_ will. I met a woman
in the train yesterday (between Hammersmith and Turnham Green it was),
and I passed her my copy of _Unity_ to read. I thought she would like to
read my Dramatic Criticism, so it was folded back at that, but she
turned over the pages till she came to something about the Roman
Catholic Church, by some Monsignor; then she handed it back to me and
said she always took the _Record_. She obviously supposed _Unity_ to be
a Popish organ. I hunted through it for some Dissenting sentiments, and
found an article by a Welsh Calvinistic Methodist on Disestablishment,
but it was too late; she had got out. But there it is, you see; she
always took the _Record_. They all always take something. There are too
many.... Well, anyhow, can’t we all ask each other to dinner one night,
to wind ourselves up? A sort of funeral feast. Or ought the editors to
ask the rest of us? Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“You should not,” Eddy said. “We were going to introduce that subject
later on.”
The company, having arranged the date of the dinner, and of the final
business meeting, dispersed and got back to their several jobs. No one
minded particularly about _Unity’s_ death, except Eddy. They were so
used to that sort of thing, in the world of shifting fortunes in which
writers for papers move.
But Eddy minded a good deal. For several months he had lived in and for
this paper; he had loved it extraordinarily. He had loved it for itself,
and for what, to him, it stood for. It had been his contribution to the
cause that seemed to him increasingly of enormous importance;
increasingly, as the failure of the world at large to appreciate it
flung him from failure to failure, wrested opportunities one by one out
of his grasp. People wouldn’t realise that they were all one; that,
surely, was the root difficulty of this distressed world. They would
think that one set of beliefs excluded another; they were blind, they
were rigid, they were mad. So they wouldn’t read _Unity_, surely a good
paper; so _Unity_ must perish for lack of being wanted, poor lonely
waif. Eddy rebelled against the sinking of the little ship he had
launched and loved; it might, it would, had it been given a chance, have
done good work. But its chance was over; he must find some other way.
To cheer himself up when he left the office at six o’clock, he went
eastward, to see some friends he had in Stepney. But it did not cheer
him up, for they were miserable, and he could not comfort them. He found
a wife alone, waiting for her husband and sons, who were still out at
the docks where they worked, though they ought to have been back an hour
since. And they were blacklegs, and had refused to come out with the
strikers. The wife was white, and red-eyed.
“They watch for them,” she whimpered. “They lay and wait for them, and
set on them, many to one, and do for them. There was someone ’eard a
Union man say he meant to do for my men one day. I begged my man to come
out, or anyhow to let the boys, but he wouldn’t, and he says the Union
men may go to ’ell for ’im. I know what’ll be the end. There was a man
drowned yesterday; they found ’im in the canal, ’is ’ands tied up; ’e
wouldn’t come out, and so they did for ’im, the devils. And it’s just
seven, and they stop at six.”
“They’ve very likely stopped at the public for a bit on the way home,”
Eddy suggested gently, but she shook her head.
“They’ve not bin stoppin’ anywhere since the strike began. Them as won’t
come out get no peace at the public.... The Union’s a cruel thing, that
it is, and my man and lads that never do no ’urt to nobody, they’ll lay
and wait for ’em till they can do for ’em.... There’s Mrs. Japhet, in
Jubilee Street; she’s lost her young man; they knocked ’im down and
kicked ’im to death on ’is way ’ome the other day. Of course ’e was a
Jew, too, which made ’im more rightly disliked as it were; but it were
because ’e wouldn’t come out they did it. And there was Mrs. Jim Turner;
they laid for ’er and bashed ’er ’ead in at the corner of Salmon Lane,
to spite Turner. And they’re so sly, the police can’t lay ’ands on
them, scarcely ever.... And it’s gone seven, and as dark as ’ats.”
She opened the door and stood listening and crying. At the end of the
squalid street the trams jangled by along Commercial Road, bringing men
and women home from work.
“They’ll be all right if they come by tram,” said Eddy.
“There’s all up Jamaica Street to walk after they get out,” she wailed.
Eddy went down the street and met them at the corner, a small man and
two big boys, slouching along the dark street, Fred Webb and his sons,
Sid and Perce. He had known them well last year at Datcherd’s club; they
were uncompromising individualists, and liberty was their watchword.
They loathed the Union like poison.
Fred Webb said that there had been a bit of a row down at the docks,
which had kept them. “There was Ben Tillett speaking, stirring them up
all. They began hustling about a bit--but we got clear. The missus wants
me to come out, but I’m not having any.”
“Come out with that lot!” Sid added, in a rather unsteady voice. “I’d
see them all damned first. _You_ wouldn’t say we ought to come out, Mr.
Oliver, would you?”
Eddy said, “Well, not just now, of course. In a general way, I suppose
there’s some sense in it.”
“Sense!” growled Webb. “Don’t you go talking to my boys like that, sir,
if you please. You’re not going to come out, Sid, so you needn’t think
about it. Good night, Mr. Oliver.”
Eddy, dismissed, went to see another Docks family he knew, and heard how
the strike was being indefinitely dragged out and its success
jeopardised by the blacklegs, who thought only for themselves.
“I hate a man not to have public spirit. The mean skunks. They’d let all
the rest go to the devil just to get their own few shillings regular
through the bad times.”
“They’ve a right to judge for themselves, I suppose,” said Eddy, and
added a question as to the powers of the decent men to prevent
intimidation and violence.
The man looked at him askance.
“Ain’t no ’timidation or violence, as I know of. ‘Course they say so;
they’ll say anything. Whenever a man gets damaged in a private quarrel
they blame it on the Union chaps now. It’s their opportunity. Pack o’
liars, they are. ‘Course a man may get hurt in a row sometimes; you
can’t help rows; but that’s six of one and ’alf a dozen of the other,
and it’s usually the blacklegs as begin it. We only picket them, quite
peaceful.... Judge for themselves, did you say? No, dang them; that’s
just what no man’s a right to do. It’s selfish; that’s what it is....
I’ve no patience with these ’ere individualists.”
Discovering that Eddy had, he shut up sullenly and suspiciously, and
ceased to regard him as a friend, so Eddy left him. On the whole, it
had not been a cheery evening.
He told Arnold about it when he got home.
“There’s such a frightful lot to be said on both sides,” he added.
Arnold said, “There certainly is. A frightful lot. If one goes down to
the Docks any day one may hear a good deal of it being said; only that’s
nearly all on one side, and the wrong side.... I loathe the Unions and
their whole system; it’s revolting, the whole theory of the thing, quite
apart from the bullying and coercion.”
“I should rather like,” said Eddy, “to go down to the Docks to-morrow
and hear the men speaking. Will you come?”
“Well, I can’t answer for myself; I may murder someone; but I’ll come if
you’ll take the risk of that.”
Eddy hadn’t known before that Arnold, the cynical and negligent, felt so
strongly about anything. He was rather interested.
“You’ve got to _have_ Unions, surely you’d admit that,” he argued. This
began a discussion too familiar in outline to be retailed; the reasons
for Unions and against them are both exceedingly obvious, and may be
imagined as given. It lasted them till late at night.
They went down to the Docks next day, about six o’clock in the evening.