FALSE HOPES
The Farmhouse was under the management of an Irishman and his wife. He
with a generous heart that always kept him poor, for he often assisted
lodgers towards paying for their beds, who, I am sorry to say, were
sometimes ungrateful in return. She, more circumspect, but kind
hearted and motherly where she thought the case to be a deserving one.
With regards to literary ambition I always kept my own counsel,
confiding in one man only--"Cronje"; a man to be relied on, whose
sympathetic ears were always open to receive either good or bad news.
I must have been in this house something like twelve months, when I
took a sudden notion to send some work to a literary man, asking him
for his opinion of the same. In a few days I received a letter stating
that want of time prevented him from passing judgment on my work,
which he regretted he would have to return unread. This did not offend
me in the least, although I was greatly disappointed, for I knew that
a man in his position could have little time to spare, and no doubt
was pestered with correspondence of a like nature. But, unfortunately,
the MS. returned in an ill condition, having been roughly handled
through the post, and arrived at the Farmhouse with the ends of the
envelope in tatters. When I received this ragged and disreputable
parcel from the Manager, I knew that the cat was out of the bag, and
that the secret which I had guarded so jealously was now the property
of another, but I made no confession, thinking that he would broach
the subject, which he did on the following morning. On enquiring if
the parcel I had received on the day previous was a manuscript, I lost
no time in telling him everything. The upshot of this was that he
persuaded me to send some work to a publisher, and if that gentleman
thought the book worth publication, he, the Manager, had no doubt that
one of the many rich people who were connected with the Farmhouse
Mission could be induced to assist me. Hearing this I was sorry that I
had not confided in him of my own accord, for I had often seen these
rich people coming and going, looking, perhaps for deserving cases.
With these golden projects before me, I again set to work, and, in
less than a month, the MS. was ready and in the hands of a publisher.
That gentleman wrote in a few days saying that he thought there was
literary merit, and that the cost of production would be thirty
pounds. The publisher's name was well known, and the Manager was quite
satisfied as to its being a genuine offer from an old and respectable
firm. Quite contented in my own mind, my part having been performed
without difficulty, I gladly allowed this man to take possession of
this correspondence, and a few specimen books of verse, which the
publisher had sent with it, and, having full trust in the man's
goodness and influence, made myself comfortable, and settled down in a
fool's paradise. I have never had cause to doubt his goodness, but he
certainly overrated his power to influence the philanthropists on the
behalf of a lodger.
Several weeks passed, and I had received no encouraging news. No
mention had been made of my affairs, and I gave myself over to the
influence of the coke fire. After going out in the morning for two or
three hours, I would return at midday, often earlier, and sit
hopelessly before this fire for ten or eleven hours, after which I
would retire to my room. What a miserable time was this: the kitchen,
foul with the breath of fifty or sixty men, and the fumes of the coke
fire, took all the energy out of a man, and it was a hard fight to
keep awake. It has taken the play out of the kitten, and this small
animal lies stretched out, overcome by its fumes, without the least
fear of being trodden on. Sometimes, when I endeavoured to concentrate
my mind, with an idea of writing something, it was necessary to feign
a sleep, so that these kind hearted fellows might not disturb me with
their civilities. On these occasions it was not unusual for me to fall
into a real sleep. And, when I awoke, it sickened me to think of this
wasted time; for I was spending in bed more hours than were necessary
for my health, and it was a most cruel waste of time to be sleeping in
the day. This fire exerted a strange influence over us. In the morning
we were loath to leave it, and we all returned to it as soon as
possible. Even the books and magazines in the libraries could not
seduce me longer than an hour. There was one seat at the corner of a
table, which I have heard called "the dead man's seat." It was within
two yards of this great fire, which was never allowed to suffer from
want of coke. It was impossible to retain this seat long and keep
awake. Of course, a man could hardly expect to keep this seat day
after day for a long winter, and to be alive in the spring of the
year. This was the case with a printer who, unfortunately, had only
three days' work a week. The amount he earned was sufficient for his
wants, so, in his four idle days, he would sit on this seat, eating,
reading, but more often sleeping, until before the end of the winter,
he was carried away a dying man. Some of these lodgers claim to be
able to recognise in the public streets any strangers who are
suffering from this coke fever.
Weeks passed and then months, and I still heard nothing about my book.
The Manager had failed, of that I at last became certain. I avoided
him as much as possible, because of the confidence I had reposed in
him. It was certainly very awkward for the both of us, and I felt much
sympathy on his account. When he was near I felt extremely
uncomfortable, and I am sure he felt none too easy in my presence.
Spring at last came, and I broke away from the lodging house fire, to
indulge in the more pure rays of the sun. I began to absent myself
from the house longer every day, until I at last began to regret that
there was any necessity to return to it at all. The happiness and stir
of Nature, at this time of the year, began to fill me with her own
energy. I was in my room, one of these bright mornings, and was
looking in the mirror, adjusting my scarf--the mirror and bed being
the whole furniture. In this mirror I looked long enough to see a
white hair on the side of my head. Thinking this to be hardly true at
my time of life, I shifted the glass to a better light, thinking it
must have played me false; but sure enough, here it was--a single
hair, as white as snow. Yes, I thought, with some bitterness, this
comes of waiting to be fulfilled the promises of other people; and you
will never rise if you do not make some effort of your own. Thinking
of this white hair, I left the house, wondering what I could do to
help myself. And, this particular morning, an idea occurred to me, so
simple, so reasonable, and so easily to be accomplished, that it
filled me with surprise that such a plan had not presented itself
before. I had an income of eight shillings per week; then what was to
prevent me from borrowing forty or fifty pounds, even though I paid
for it a little more than usual interest? Again I was full of hope and
happiness, for I could see nothing to prevent the accomplishment of
this. My eight shillings were being received in sums of two pounds
every five weeks. Two shillings a week were forwarded home, and I
lived abstemiously on the remainder. My five weeks' money was due on
the following week, so I at once began making preparations for a trip
home. When this money arrived I determined to lose no time in
executing these plans, for I had visions of being a white headed man,
if I remained under these hopeless conditions for another year or two.
The money came on Saturday night, when it was due, and everything
being prepared, I was that very night on my way to Paddington Station,
after having told the manager that I was going home for a week, and
that I would forward him my rent, if I remained longer than that time.
Full of this idea I arrived at home.
The following Monday I invaded the office of my old granny's lawyer,
and telling him I wished to set up in business, consulted him as to
the best way of borrowing the money, some forty or fifty pounds being
necessary. He saw nothing to prevent this from being done, but
strongly advised me not to do so; "at any rate," he said, "see your
trustee, ask him if he can lend you the amount, and, if he cannot see
his way clear to do so, let me know!" In half an hour I was with the
trustee. That gentleman had not the amount on hand, but had plans of
his own which, if I strictly adhered to, would be more to my advantage
in the long run.
"It is now June," he said, "and if you allow your income to stand
until the beginning of the New Year, you will then have ten pounds
saved to your account, and I give you my promise to advance another
twenty pounds without a question of interest, making the amount thirty
pounds!" Now it happened that three weeks before I left London, I had
sent a work to a printer and publisher, who had priced two hundred and
fifty copies at nineteen pounds; so that I knew well that thirty
pounds would be ample to meet all expenses. But how was I to live for
the next six months? Determined to make any sacrifice to attain this
end, I closed with the trustee's offer, and, getting an advance from
him of one pound, intended to return at once to London, but was
persuaded to remain at home for another three weeks. At the end of
this time I paid my fare back to London, and again took possession of
my room, for which I had forwarded the rent during my absence. In
less than four days after my return, I was very near penniless, and
saw no other prospect than to start on another half year's wandering.
How foolish all this was! Why did I not start my travels from home,
instead of wasting money on a return fare to London? Why did I pay
three weeks' rent for the sake of returning to a room for as many
days? Well, I had a faint hope that the Manager might, at last, after
six months, have succeeded in his attempt.
I told the Manager that I was going on the road for a month or two,
but mentioned no purpose, for I was now resolved to act for myself.
"You will always find room at the Farmhouse," he said; "do not doubt
that."
Trying to appear as cheerful as possible, for I knew this man was also
disappointed, I left him, determined never to set foot in that house
again until I could dispense with the services of others. At this time
I had two silver shillings and some odd coppers, and would soon need
assistance as a man, without any question as to my work as an author.
Again I was leaving London, not knowing how much I would have to
suffer. One idea consoled me not a little; that I would not require
money for a bed for at least three months to come; that the nights,
though cold, would not be so dangerous as to kill. Whatever the
consequence might be, even if this rough life threatened to injure my
health permanently, I was firmly resolved to sacrifice the next six
months for whatever might follow them.