I EVACUATE BOHEMIA
_(James Orlebar Cloister’s narrative continued)_
The three weeks which I spent at No. 93A mark an epoch in my life. It
was during that period that I came nearest to realising my ambition to
be a Bohemian; and at the end of the third week, for reasons which I
shall state, I deserted Bohemia, firmly and with no longing, lingering
glance behind, and settled down to the prosaic task of grubbing
earnestly for money.
The second-floor back had a cupboard of a bedroom leading out of it.
Even I, desirous as I was of seeing romance in everything, could not
call my lodgings anything but dingy, dark, and commonplace. They were
just like a million other of London’s mean lodgings. The window looked
out over a sea of backyards, bounded by tall, depressing houses, and
intersected by clothes-lines. A cats’ club (social, musical, and
pugilistic) used to meet on the wall to the right of my window. One or
two dissipated trees gave the finishing touch of gloom to the scene.
Nor was the interior of the room more cheerful. The furniture had been
put in during the reign of George III, and last dusted in that of
William and Mary. A black horse-hair sofa ran along one wall. There was
a deal table, a chair, and a rickety bookcase. It was a room for a
realist to write in; and my style, such as it was, was bright and
optimistic.
Once in, I set about the task of ornamenting my abode with much vigour.
I had my own ideas of mural decoration. I papered the walls with
editorial rejection forms, of which I was beginning to have a
representative collection. Properly arranged, these look very striking.
There is a good deal of variety about them. The ones I liked best were
those which I received, at the rate of three a week, bearing a very
pleasing picture, in green, of the publishing offices at the top of the
sheet of note-paper. Scattered about in sufficient quantities, these
lend an air of distinction to a room. _Pearson’s Magazine_ also
supplies a taking line in rejection forms. _Punch_’s I never cared for
very much. Neat, I grant you; but, to my mind, too cold. I like a touch
of colour in a rejection form.
In addition to these, I purchased from the grocer at the corner a
collection of pictorial advertisements. What I had really wanted was
the theatrical poster, printed and signed by well-known artists. But
the grocer didn’t keep them, and I was impatient to create my proper
atmosphere. My next step was to buy a corncob pipe and a quantity of
rank, jet-black tobacco. I hated both, and kept them more as ornaments
than for use.
Then, having hacked my table about with a knife and battered it with a
poker till it might have been the table of a shaggy and unrecognised
genius, I settled down to work.
I was not a brilliant success. I had that “little knowledge” which is
held to be such a dangerous thing. I had not plunged into the literary
profession without learning a few facts about it. I had read nearly
every journalistic novel and “Hints on Writing for the Papers” book
that had ever been published. In theory I knew all that there was to be
known about writing. Now, all my authorities were very strong on one
point. “Write,” they said, very loud and clear, “not what _you_ like,
but what editors like.” I smiled to myself when I started. I felt that
I had stolen a march on my rivals. “All round me,” I said to myself,
“are young authors bombarding editors with essays on Lucretius,
translations of Martial, and disquisitions on Ionic comedy. I know too
much for that. I work on a different plan.” “Study the papers, and see
what they want,” said my authorities. I studied the papers. Some wanted
one thing, apparently, others another. There was one group of three
papers whose needs seemed to coincide, and I could see an article
rejected by one paper being taken by another. This offered me a number
of chances instead of one. I could back my MSS. to win or for a place.
I began a serious siege of these three papers.
By the end of the second week I had had “Curious Freaks of Eccentric
Testators,” “Singular Scenes in Court,” “Actors Who Have Died on the
Stage,” “Curious Scenes in Church,” and seven others rejected by all
three. Somehow this sort of writing is not so easy as it looks. A man
who was on the staff of a weekly once told me that he had had two
thousand of these articles printed since he started—poor devil. He had
the knack. I could never get it. I sent up fifty-three in all in the
first year of my literary life, and only two stuck. I got fifteen
shillings from one periodical for “Men Who Have Missed Their Own
Weddings,” and, later, a guinea from the same for “Single Day
Marriages.” That paper has a penchant for the love-interest. Yet when I
sent it my “Duchesses Who Have Married Dustmen,” it came back by the
early post next day. That was to me the worst part of those grey days.
I had my victories, but they were always followed by a series of
defeats. I would have a manuscript accepted by an editor. “Hullo,” I
would say, “here’s the man at last, the Editor-Who-Believes-In-Me. Let
the thing go on.” I would send him off another manuscript. He would
take it. Victory, by Jove! Then—_wonk_! Back would come my third effort
with the curtest of refusals. I always imagined editors in those days
to be pettish, whimsical men who amused themselves by taking up a
beginner, and then, wearying of the sport, dropped him back into the
slime from which they had picked him.
In the intervals of articles I wrote short stories, again for the same
three papers. As before, I studied these papers carefully to see what
they wanted; then worked out a mechanical plot, invariably with a
quarrel in the first part, an accident, and a rescue in the middle, and
a reconciliation at the end—told it in a style that makes me hot all
over when I think of it, and sent it up, enclosing a stamped addressed
envelope in case of rejection. A very useful precaution, as it always
turned out.
It was the little knowledge to which I have referred above which kept
my walls so thickly covered with rejection forms. I was in precisely
the same condition as a man who has been taught the rudiments of
boxing. I knew just enough to hamper me, and not enough to do me any
good. If I had simply blundered straight at my work and written just
what occurred to me in my own style, I should have done much better. I
have a sense of humour. I deliberately stifled it. For it I substituted
a grisly kind of playfulness. My hero called my heroine “little woman,”
and the concluding passage where he kissed her was written in a sly,
roguish vein, for which I suppose I shall have to atone in the next
world. Only the editor of the _Colney Hatch Argus_ could have accepted
work like mine. Yet I toiled on.
It was about the middle of my third week at No. 93A that I definitely
decided to throw over my authorities, and work by the light of my own
intelligence.
Nearly all my authorities had been very severe on the practice of
verse-writing. It was, they asserted, what all young beginners tried to
do, and it was the one thing editors would never look at. In the first
ardour of my revolt I determined to do a set of verses.
It happened that the weather had been very bad for the last few days.
After a month and a half of sunshine the rain had suddenly begun to
fall. I took this as my topic. It was raining at the time. I wrote a
satirical poem, full of quaint rhymes.
I had always had rather a turn for serious verse. It struck me that the
rain might be treated poetically as well as satirically. That night I
sent off two sets of verses to a daily and an evening paper. Next day
both were in print, with my initials to them.
I began to see light.
“Verse is the thing,” I said. “I will reorganise my campaign. First the
skirmishers, then the real attack. I will peg along with verses till
somebody begins to take my stories and articles.”
I felt easier in my mind than I had felt for some time. A story came
back by the nine o’clock post from a monthly magazine (to which I had
sent it from mere bravado), but the thing did not depress me. I got out
my glue-pot and began to fasten the rejection form to the wall,
whistling a lively air as I did so.
While I was engaged in this occupation there was a testy rap at the
door, and Mrs. Driver appeared. She eyed my manoeuvres with the
rejection form with a severe frown. After a preliminary sniff she
embarked upon a rapid lecture on what she called my irregular and
untidy habits. I had turned her second-floor back, she declared, into a
pig-stye.
“Sech a litter,” she said.
“But,” I protested, “this is a Bohemian house, is it not?”
She appeared so shocked—indeed, so infuriated, that I dared not give
her time to answer.
“The gentleman below, he’s not very tidy,” I added diplomatically.
“Wot gent below?” said Mrs. Driver.
I reminded her of the night of my arrival.
“Oh, ’_im_,” she said, shaken. “Well, ’e’s not come back.”
“Mrs. Driver,” I said sternly, “you said he’d gone out for a stroll. I
refuse to believe that any man would stroll for three weeks.”
“So I did say it,” was the defiant reply. “I said it so as you
shouldn’t be put off coming. You looked a steady young feller, and I
wanted a let. Wish I’d told you the truth, if it ’ad a-stopped you.”
“What is the truth?”
“’E was a wrong ’un, ’e wos. Writing begging letters to parties as was
a bit soft, that wos ’_is_ little gime. But ’e wos a bit too clever one
day, and the coppers got ’im. Now you know!”
Mrs. Driver paused after this outburst, and allowed her eye to wander
slowly and ominously round my walls.
I was deeply moved. My one link with Bohemia had turned out a fraud.
Mrs. Driver’s voice roused me from my meditations.
“I must arst you to be good enough, if _you_ please, kindly to remove
those there bits of paper.”
She pointed to the rejection forms.
I hesitated. I felt that it was a thing that ought to be broken gently.
“The fact is, Mrs. Driver,” I said, “and no one can regret it more
deeply than I do—the fact is, they’re stuck on with glue.”
Two minutes later I had received my marching orders, and the room was
still echoing with the slam of the door as it closed behind the
indignant form of my landlady.