UNSKILLED LABOUR OF A NEW KIND
"A newspaper is as untruthful as an epitaph."
--BARWELL.
I had never seen an omnibus. I did not know that it was necessary to
take off my hat when entering a dwelling. I had never used a fork when
eating. I had never been introduced to a lady; to me the approved form
of introduction was a mystery. My boots had not been blackened for
years. I wore my first collar when setting out for London. It nearly
choked me. Since leaving Glenmornan I had rarely been inside an ordinary
dwelling house. Most of the time I had lived under God's sky, the roof
of a byre, and the tarred wooden covering of the navvies' shack at
Kinlochleven. I had, it is true, seen the inside of a drawing-room and a
dining-room--through the window. I lacked knowledge of most of the
things which most people know and which really do not matter. I went to
London a greenhorn gloriously green.
Outside Euston station I asked a man the way to Fleet Street. He
inquired if I was going to walk or take an omnibus. Omnibus! I had never
heard of an omnibus; he might have asked me if I intended to ride on a
pterodactyl! I said that I was going to walk, and the stranger gave me
several hints as to the direction which I should follow. Even if I had
understood what he was saying, I am certain that I could not have
remembered the directions. When he finished, he asked me for the price
of his breakfast. This I understood, and gave him threepence, which
pleased the man mightily.
It was funny that the first man accosted by me in London should ask for
the price of a meal. The prospects of making a fortune looked poor at
the moment.
I walked to Fleet Street, making inquiries from policemen on the way.
This was safest, and I hadn't to pay for a meal when my questions were
answered. By ten o'clock I found myself at the office of the _Dawn_, and
there I met the editor.
The editor was a Frenchman, short of stature and breath. His figure was
ridiculously rotund, and his little legs were so straight that they
looked as if they were jointless. He would not have made much of a show
on a ten-hour shift in the cutting of Kinlochleven, and though Fleet
Street knows that he is one of the ablest editors in London I had not
much respect for the man when I first saw him. He was busily engaged in
looking through sheets of flimsy when I entered, and for a few minutes
he did not take much notice of me. He called me Pim, asked me several
questions about the navvies, my politics and writings. He looked annoyed
when I said I was a socialist.
"A writer among navvies, and a navvy among writers; is that it?" asked
the news-editor when I entered his office, a stuffy little place full of
tobacco smoke. "You see that we have heard of you here. Going to try
your hand at journalism now, are you? Feeling healthy and fit?"
He plied me with several questions relating to my past life, took no
heed of my answers and, fumbling amongst a pile of papers, he drew out a
type-written slip.
"I have a story for you," he said. "A fire broke out early this morning
in a warehouse in Holborn. Go out and get all the facts relating to it
and work the whole affair up well. If you do not know where Holborn is,
make enquiries."
I met a third man, a young, clean-shaven, alert youth, in the passage
outside the news-editor's door.
"Are you Flynn?" he asked, and when I answered in the affirmative he
shook hands with me. "My name is Barwell," he continued. "I am a
journalist like yourself. What the devil caused you to come here?"
I had no excuses to offer.
"You might have stayed where you were," said Barwell. "You'll find that
a navvies' office is much better than a newspaper office. Have you had
lunch?"
"No," I answered. It was now nearly one o'clock, but I had not had
breakfast yet. I had never been inside a restaurant in my life, and the
daintily-dressed waitresses and top-hatted feeders deterred me from
entering that morning. I might have done something unbecoming and
stupid, and in a strange place I am sensitive and shy.
"Come along then. We'll go out together and feed."
We entered a restaurant in the Strand, and my friend ordered lunch for
two. During the course of the meal I suffered intense mental agony. The
fork was a problem, the serviette a mystery, and I felt certain that
everybody in the place was looking at me.
"The news-editor has asked me to write an account of a fire in Holborn,"
I said to Barwell when we had eaten, "Do you know where Holborn is?"
"The whole account of the fire is given in the evening papers," said
Barwell. "Therefore you do not require to go near the place."
"You mean----"
"Exactly what you are going to say," said the young man looking at the
copy of the evening paper which he had bought at the door when entering.
"You can write your story now and get the facts from this. Have you a
pencil and notebook?"
"No."
"If you are going to take up journalism they are the initial and
principal requirements. Beyond a little tact and plenty of cheek you
require nothing else. A conscience and a love of truth are great
drawbacks. Are you ready?"
He handed me a pencil and notebook.
"Now begin. The opening sentence must be crisp and startling; and never
end your sentences with prepositions."
"But I know nothing about the fire," I expostulated.
"Oh! I've forgotten." He picked up the paper which he had
absent-mindedly kicked under the table. "Now you are all right. Get your
facts from this rag, but write the story in your own way. You'll find
this good training if ever you've got to weave out lies of your own.
Meanwhile I've three or four novels to review."
As he spoke he opened a parcel which he had brought along with him, and
took out several books which he regarded critically for a moment.
"Are they worth reading?" I asked.
"I do not know."
"You do not know and you're going to review them!"
"It's bad policy to read a book before you review it," he answered. "It
is apt to give rise to prejudice. This volume," taking up one in his
hand as he spoke, "_The Woman who Fell_, is written by a personal friend
of the editor. I must review it favourably. This one, _In the Teeth of
the Tempest_, is written by a strong supporter of the Liberal
Government. The _Dawn_ is tory, the author is liberal, therefore his
work must be slated. See?"
"But your own opinion----"
"What the devil do I need with an opinion of my own?"
Thereupon Barwell reviewed the books which he had not read and I muddled
through an account of the fire which I had not seen, and when we had
finished we took our way into the street again.
Although it was barely past three o'clock, the early December night had
now fallen. Fleet Street was a blaze of light and a medley of taxi-cabs
and omnibuses. Except for the down-at-heel mendicant, and the women who
had more paint than modesty, everybody was in a great hurry.
"What do you think of it all, Flynn?" asked Barwell suddenly. "Isn't it
a great change from your past life? London! there's no place like it in
all the world! Light loves and light ladies, passion without soul,
enjoyment without stint, and sin without scandal or compunction."
"Only those with some idea of virtue can sin with compunction," I said.
This thought came to me suddenly, and Barwell looked surprised at my
words.
"By Jove! that's so," he answered, scribbling my remark down on his
notebook. "Well, what is your opinion of London, all that you have seen
of it?"
"What the devil do I want with an opinion?" I asked, quoting his own
words.
"Quite so; but we are now speaking in a confidential, not in a
journalistic sense. Do you not think that it is a heavenly privilege to
be allowed to write lies for a kingdom of fools within ninety-eight
million miles of the sun? You'll fall in love with London directly, old
man, for it is the centre of the universe. The world radiates outwards
from Charing Cross and revolves around the Nelson column. London is the
world, journalism is the midden of creation."
"Do you really think that men are acting in a straightforward manner by
writing unfair and untruthful articles for the public?" I asked.
"The public is a crowd of asses and you must interest it. You are paid
to interest it with plausible lies or unsavoury truths. An unsavoury
truth is always palatable to those whom it does not harm. Our readers
gloat over scandal, revel in scandal, and pay us for writing it. Learn
what the public requires and give it that. Think one thing in the
morning and another at night; preach what is suitable to the mob and
study the principle of the paper for which you write. That's how you
have to do it, Flynn. A paper's principle is a very subtle thing, and it
must be studied. Every measure passed in Parliament affects it, it
oscillates to the breezes of public opinion and it is very intangible.
The principle of a daily paper is elusive, old man, damned elusive. Come
in and have a whisky and soda."
"Not elusive but changeable, I suppose," I said, alluding to his
penultimate remark as we stood at the bar of the wine shop. "The
principles of the _Dawn_ are rather consistent, are they not?"
"The principles oscillate, old man. Your health, and may you live until
newspapers are trustworthy! Consistent, eh? Some day you'll learn of the
inconsistencies of Fleet Street, Flynn. Here the Jew is an advocate of
Christianity, the American of Protection, the poet a compiler of
statistics, the penny-a-liner a defender of the idle rich, and the
reporter with anarchistic ideas a defender of social law and order. Here
charlatans, false as they are clever, play games in which the pawns are
religion and atheism, and make, as suits their purpose, material
advantages of the former or a religion of the latter. Fleet Street is
the home of chicanery, of fraud, of versatile vices and unnumbered sins.
It is an outcome of the civilisation which it rules, a framer of the
laws which it afterwards destroys or protects at caprice; without
conscience or soul it dominates the world. Only in its falseness is it
consistent. Truth is further removed from its jostling rookeries than
the first painted savage who stoned the wild boar in the sterile wastes
of Ludgate Circus."
Barwell's gestures were as astonishing as his eloquence. One hand
clutched the lapel of his coat; in the other he held the glass of liquor
which he shook violently when reaching the zenith of his harangue. The
whisky splashed and sparkled and kept spurting over the rim of the glass
until most of the contents were emptied on the floor. He hardly drank a
quarter of the liquor. We went out, and once in the street he continued
his vehement utterances.
"Take the _Dawn_ for example," he said. "The editor is a Frenchman, the
leader-writer a German, the American special correspondent an Irishman
who came to England on a cattle boat and who has never ventured on the
sea since. The _Dawn_ advocates Tariff Reform, and most of the reporters
are socialists. The leader-writer points out the danger of a German
menace daily. What influences one of the Kaiser's subjects to sit down
and, for the special benefit of the British nation, write a thrilling
warning against the German menace? Salary or conscience, eh? The _Dawn_
knows the opinions of Germany before Germany has formed an opinion, and
gives particulars of the grave situation in the Far East before the
chimerical situation has evolved from its embryological stages.
Consistent, my dear fellow? It is only consistent in its
inconsistencies. The reviewers seldom read the books which they review
in its pages, and the quack suffers from the ills which through its
columns he professes to cure. The bald man who sells a wonderful hair
restorer, the cripple who can help the lame, and the anæmic pill-maker
who professes ability to cure any disease, all advertise in the _Dawn_.
A newspaper is as untruthful as an epitaph, Flynn."
"If you dislike the work so much why do you remain on the staff?" I
asked.
"I do not dislike it. Being by nature a literary Philistine and vagabond
journalist, I love the work. Anyhow, there is nothing else which I can
do. If I happened to be placed on a square acre of earth fresh from the
hands of the Creator, and given a spade and shovel to work with, what
use could I make of those tools of labour? I could not earn my living
with a spade and shovel. It was for the like of us that London and
journalism were created."
For a while I was very much out of my place at my quarters in
Bloomsbury, for it was in that locality that I obtained rooms along with
Barwell. Everything in the place was a fresh experience to me; at the
dinner-table I did not know the names of the dishes. The table napkins
were problems which were new to me, and the frilled and collared
maid-servant was a phenomena, disconcerting and unavoidable.
I who had cooked my own chops for the best part of seven years, I who
had dined in moleskin and rags for such a long while, felt the handicap
of dining inside four walls, hemmed with restraint, and almost choked
with the horrible starched abomination which decency decreed that I
should wear around my neck. It was very wearisome. Barwell was utterly
careless and outraged custom with impunity, but I, who feared to do the
wrong thing, always remained on the tenter-hooks of suspense. Barwell
knew what should be done and seldom did it, while I, who was only
learning the very rudimentary affectations of civilised society, took
care to follow out the most stringent commands of etiquette whenever I
became aware of those commands.
At the office of the _Dawn_ I was reticent and backward. I lacked the
cleverness, the smartness and readiness of expression with which other
members of the staff were gifted. I had come into a new world, utterly
foreign to me, and often I longed to be back again with Moleskin Joe on
some long road leading to nowhere.
For a while my stories were not successful, although I made a point of
seeing the things of which I wrote. I came back to the office every
evening full of my subject, whether a florist's exhibition, a cat show,
or a police court case, and sat down seriously to write my story. When
half-written I tore it up seriously and began again. When satisfied with
the whole completed account I took it to the sub-editor, who read it
seriously and seriously threw it into the waste-paper basket. At the end
of the first week I found that only two articles of mine had appeared in
the _Dawn_. I had written eight.
"You write in too serious a vein for a modern paper," said the
sub-editor.
When the spring came round I could feel, even in Fleet Street, the spell
of the old roving days come over me; those days when Moleskin and I
tramped along the roads of Scotland, thanking God for the little scraps
of tobacco which we found in our pockets, while wondering where the next
pipeful could be obtained! My heart went out to the old mates and the
old places. I had a longing for the little fire in the darkness, the
smell of the wet earth, the first glimpse of the bend in the road, and
the dream about the world of mystery lying round the corner. When I went
across Blackfriars Bridge, or along the Strand, on a cold, bracing
morning, I wanted to walk on ever so far, away--away. Where to--it
didn't matter. The office choked me, smothered me; it felt so like a
prison. I wanted to be with Moleskin Joe, and often I asked myself,
"Where is he now? what is my old comrade doing at this moment? Is the
old vagabond still happy in his wanderings and his hopes of a good time
coming, or has he finished up his last shift and handed in his final
check for good and all?" Often I longed to see him again and travel with
him to new and strange places.
Of my salary, now three pounds a week, I sent a guinea home to my own
people every Saturday. Of course, now, getting so much, they wanted
more. Journalism to them implied some hazy kind of work where money was
stint-less and to be had for the asking. My other brothers were going
out into the world now, and my eldest sister had gone to America. "I
wish that I could keep _them_ at home," wrote my mother. "_You_ are so
long away now that we do not miss you."
"Will you go down to Cyfladd, Flynn, and write some 'stories' about the
coal strike?" asked the news editor one morning. "I think that you have
a natural bent for these labour affairs. Your navvy stories were
undoubtedly good, and even a spicy bit of socialism added to their
charm."
"Spicy bit of socialism, indeed!" broke in the irrepressible Barwell.
"The day will come when the working men of England shall invade London
and decorate Fleet Street with the gibbeted bodies of hireling editors.
Have you a cigarette to spare, Manwell?"
"You go down to Cyfladd, Flynn," said the news editor, handing his
cigarette-case to Barwell. "See what is doing there and write up good
human stories dealing with the discontent of the workers. Do not be
afraid to state things bluntly. Tell about their drinking and
quarrelling, and if you come across miners who are in good circumstance
don't fail to write about it."
"But suppose for a moment that he comes across men who are really poor,
men who may not have had enough wages to make both ends meet, what is he
to do?" asked loquacious Barwell, the socialistic Philistine, who played
with ideas for the mere sake of the ideas. "For myself, I do not believe
in the right to strike, and I admire the man who starves to death
without making a fuss. Why should uncultured and uneducated miners
create a fuss if they are starved to death in order to satisfy the needs
of honourable and learned gentlemen? What right has a common worker to
ask for higher wages? What right has he to take a wife and bring up
children? The children of the poor should be fattened and served up on
the tables of the rich, as advocated by Dean Swift in an age prior to
the existence of the _Dawn_. The children of the poor who cannot become
workers become wastrels; the rich wastrels wear eye-glasses and spats.
We have no place in the scheme of things for the wastrels who wear
neither eye-glasses nor spats, therefore I believe that it would be good
for the nation if many of the children of the poor were fattened,
killed, and eaten. But I am wandering from the point. Let us look at the
highly improbable supposition of which I have spoken. It is highly
improbable, of course, that there are poor people amongst the miners,
for they have little time to spend the money which they take so long to
earn. Now and again they die, leaving a week's wages lying at the
pay-office. I have heard of cases like that several times. These men,
who are out on strike, may leave a whole week's pay to their wives and
children when they die, and for all that they grumble and go out on
strike! But we cannot expect anything else from uneducated workmen. I am
wandering from the point again, and the point is this: Suppose, for an
instant, that Flynn doesn't find a rich, quarrelsome, and drunken miner
in Cyfladd, what is he to do? Return again?"
"You're a fool, Barwell!" said the news editor.
"Manwell, you're a confirmed fool," Barwell replied.
I put on my coat and hat, stuffed my gloves, which I hated, into my
pocket, and went out into the street. The morning was dry and cold, the
air was exhilarating and good to breathe. I gulped it down in mighty
mouthfuls. It was good to be in the open street and feel the little
winds whipping by in mad haste. Up in the office, steaming with
cigarette smoke, it was so stuffy, so dead. Everything there was so
artificial, so unreal, and I was altogether out of sympathy with all the
individuals on the _Dawn_. "Do I like the _Dawn_?" I asked myself. I
wanted to face things frankly at that moment. "Do I like journalism, or
merely feel that I should like it?" But I made no effort to answer the
question; it was not very important, and now I was walking hurriedly,
trying to keep myself warm. Two things occurred to me at the same
instant: I was short of money and I had not asked for my railway fare to
Wales at the office. Where did the train start from? Was it Euston? I
did not exactly know, and somehow it didn't seem to matter.
I would not go to Wales; I did not want to analyse my reasons for not
going, but I was determined not to go. I felt that in going I would be
betraying my own class, the workers. Moleskin Joe would never dream of
doing a thing like that; why should I? I must make some excuse at the
office, I thought, but asked myself the next instant why should I make
any excuses? Besides, the office was like a prison; it choked me. I
wanted to leave, but somehow felt that I ought not.
I found myself going along Gray's Inn Road towards my lodging-house. A
girl opened a window and looked at me with a vacant stare. She was
speaking to somebody in the room behind her and her voice trailed before
me like a thin mist. She somewhat resembled Norah Ryan: the same white
brow, the red lips, only that this girl had a sorrowful look in her
eyes, as if too many weary thoughts had found expression there.
How often during the last four months had I thought of Norah Ryan. I
longed for her with a mighty longing, and now that she was alone and in
great trouble it was my duty to help her. I felt angry with myself for
going up to London when I should have followed up my holier mission in
Glasgow. What was fortune and fame to me if I did not make the girl whom
I really loved happy? Daily it became clearer to me that I was earnestly
and madly in love with Norah. We were meant for one another from
childhood, although destiny played against us for a while. I would find
her again and we would be happy, very happy, together, and the past
would be blotted out in the great happiness which would be ours in the
future. To me Norah was always pure and always good. In her I saw no
wrong, no sin, and no evil. I would look for her until I found her, and
finding her would do my best to make her happy.
The girl closed the window as I passed. I came to my lodgings, paid the
landlady, and wrote to the Dawn saying that I was leaving London. I
intended to tramp to the north, but a story of mine had just been
published in ---- and the money came to hand while I was settling with
the landlady.
I learned later that Barwell went down to Wales. That night I set off by
rail for Glasgow.