MY departure was accelerated by a conversation I had one day with the
political reporter of whom I have spoken but whose name I have
forgotten. By now I had come to be on agreeable social terms with all
the men on our staff, and at midnight it was my custom to drift around
to the Press Club, where might be found a goodly company of men who
worked on the different papers. I found this political man here one
night. He said: “I can’t understand why you stay here. Now I wouldn’t
say that to any one else in the game for fear he’d think I was plotting
to get him out of his job, but with you it’s different. There’s no great
chance here, and you have too much ability to waste your time on this
town. They won’t let you do anything. The steel people have this town
sewed up tight. The papers are muzzled. All you can do is to write what
the people at the top want you to write, and that’s very little. With
your talent you could go down to New York and make a place for yourself.
I’ve been there myself, but had to come back on account of my family.
The conditions were too uncertain for me, and I have to have a regular
income. But with you it’s different. You’re young, and apparently you
haven’t any one dependent on you. If you do strike it down there you’ll
make a lot of money, and what’s more you might make a name for yourself.
Don’t you think it’s foolish for you to stay here? Don’t think it’s
anything to me whether you go or stay. I haven’t any ax to grind, but I
really wonder why you stay.”
I explained that I had been drifting, that I was really on my way to New
York but taking my time about it. Only a few days before I had been
reading of a certain Indo-English newspaper man, fresh out of India with
his books and short stories, who was making a great stir. His name was
Rudyard Kipling, and the enthusiasm with which he was being received
made me not jealous but wishful for a career for myself. The tributes to
his brilliance were so unanimous, and he was a mere youth as yet, not
more than twenty-seven or -eight. He was coming to America, or was even
then on his way, and the wonder of such a success filled my mind. I
decided then and there that I would go, must go, and accordingly gave
notice of my intention. My city editor merely looked at me as much as to
say, “Well, I thought so,” then said: “Well, I think you’ll do better
there myself, but I’m not glad to have you go. You can refer to us any
time you want to.”
On Saturday I drew my pay at noon and by four o’clock had once more
boarded the express which deposited me in New York the following morning
at seven. My brother had long since left New York and would not be back
until the following Spring. I had exchanged a word or two with my sister
and found that she was not prospering. Since Paul had left she had been
forced to resort to letting rooms, H—— not having found anything to do.
I wired her that I was coming, and walked in on her the next morning.
My sister, on seeing me again, was delighted. I did not know then, and
perhaps if I had I should not have been so pleased, that I was looked
upon by her as the possible way out of a very difficult and trying
crisis which she and her two children were then facing. For H——, from
being a one-time fairly resourceful and successful and aggressive man,
had slipped into a most disconcerting attitude of weakness and all but
indifference before the onslaughts of the great city.
My brother Paul, being away, saw no reason why he should be called upon
to help them, since H—— was as physically able as himself. Aside from
renting their rooms there was apparently no other source of income here,
at least none which H—— troubled to provide. He appeared to be done for,
played out. Like so many who have fought a fair battle and then lost, he
had wearied of the game and was drifting. And my sister, like so many of
the children of ordinary families the world over, had received no
practical education or training and knew nothing other than housework,
that profitless trade. In consequence, within a very short time after my
arrival, I found myself faced by one of two alternatives: that of
retiring and leaving her to shift as best she might (a step which, in
view of what followed, would have been wiser but which my unreasoning
sympathy would not permit me to do), or of assisting her with what means
I had. But this would be merely postponing the day of reckoning for all
of them and bringing a great deal of trouble upon myself. For, finding
me willing to pay for my room and board here, and in addition to advance
certain sums which had nothing to do with my obligations, H—— felt that
he could now drift a little while longer and so did, accepting through
his wife such doles as I was willing to make. My sister, fumbling,
impractical soul, flowing like water into any crevice of opportunity,
accepted this sacrifice on my part.
But despite these facts, which developed very slowly, I was very much
alive to the possibilities which the city then held for me. At last I
was here. I told myself I had a comfortable place to stay and would
remain, and from this vantage point I could now sally forth and
reconnoiter the city at my leisure. And as in all previous instances, I
devoted a day or two to rambling about, surveying the world which I was
seeking to manipulate to my advantage, and then on the second or third
afternoon began to investigate those newspaper offices with which I was
most anxious to connect.
I can never forget the shock I received when on entering first the
_World_, then the _Sun_, and later the _Herald_, I discovered that one
could not so much as get in to see the city editor, that worthy being
guarded by lobby or anteroom, in which were posted as lookouts and
buffers or men-at-arms as cynical and contemptuous a company of youths
and hall boys as it has ever been my lot to meet. They were not only
self-sufficient, but supercilious, scoffing and ribald. Whenever I
entered one of these offices there were two or three on guard, sometimes
four or five in the _World_ office, wrestling for the possession of an
ink-well or a pencil or an apple, or slapping each other on the back.
But let a visitor arrive with an inquiry of some kind, and these young
banditti would cease their personal brawling long enough at least to
place themselves as a barricade between the newcomer and the door to the
editorial sanctum, whereupon would ensue the following routine formula,
each and every one of them chewing gum or eating an apple.
“Whoja wanta see?”
“The city editor.”
“Wha’ja wanta see him about?”
“A job.”
“No vacancies. No; no vacancies today. He says to say no vacancies
today, see? You can’t go in there. He says no vacancies.”
“But can’t I even see him?”
“No; he don’t wanta see anybody. No vacancies.”
“Well, how about taking my name in to him?”
“Not if you’re lookin’ for a job. He says no vacancies.”
The tone and the manner were most disconcerting. To me, new to the city
and rather overawed by the size of the buildings as well as the
reputation of the editors and the publications themselves, this was all
but final. For a little while after each rebuff I did not quite see how
I was to overcome this difficulty. Plainly they were overrun with
applicants, and in so great a city why would they not be? But what was I
to do? One must get in or write or call up on the telephone, but would
any city editor worthy the name discuss a man’s fitness or attempt to
judge him by a telephone conversation or a letter?
Rather dourly and speculatively, therefore, after I had visited four or
five of these offices with exactly the same result in each instance, I
went finally to City Hall Park, which fronted the majority of them—the
_Sun_, the _Tribune_, the _Times_, the _World_, the _Press_—and stared
at their great buildings. About me was swirling the throng which has
always made that region so interesting, the vast mass that bubbles
upward from the financial district and the regions south of it and
crosses the plaza to Brooklyn Bridge and the elevated roads (the subways
had not come yet). About me on the benches of the park was, even in this
gray, chill December weather, that large company of bums, loafers,
tramps, idlers, the flotsam and jetsam of the great city’s whirl and
strife to be seen there today. I presume I looked at them and then
considered myself and these great offices, and it was then that the idea
of _Hurstwood_ was born. The city seemed so huge and cruel. I recalled
gay Broadway of the preceding summer, and the baking, isolated,
exclusive atmosphere of Fifth Avenue, all boarded up. And now I was here
and it was winter, with this great newspaper world to be conquered, and
I did not see how it was to be done. At four in the afternoon I
dubiously turned my steps northward along the great, bustling, solidly
commercial Broadway to Fifteenth Street, walking all the way and staring
into the shops. Those who recall _Sister Carrie’s_ wanderings may find a
taste of it here. In Union Square, before Tiffany’s, I stared at an
immense Christmas throng. Then in the darkness I wandered across to my
sister’s apartment, and in the warmth and light there set me down
thinking what to do. My sister noticed my mood and after a little while
said:
“You’re worrying, aren’t you?”
“Oh no, I’m not,” I said rather pretentiously.
“Oh yes, you are too. You’re wondering how you’re going to get along. I
know how you are. We’re all that way. But you mustn’t worry. Paul says
you can write wonderfully. You’ve only been here a day or two. You must
wait until you’ve tried a little while and then see. You’re sure to get
along. New York isn’t so bad, only you have to get started.”
I decided that this was true enough and proposed to give myself time to
think.
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