A fortnight had been given to us to prepare our matter, and during that
fortnight I saw none of my colleagues. I purposely kept myself apart
from them in order that I might thus give a fairer chance to the scheme
which had been adopted. Others might borrow or lend their pages, but I
would do the work allotted to me, and would attend the next meeting as
anxious for the establishment and maintenance of the Panjandrum as I had
been when I had hoped that the great consideration which I had given
personally to the matter might have been allowed to have some weight.
And gradually, as I devoted the first day of my fortnight to thinking of
my work, I taught myself to hope again, and to look forward to a time
when, by the sheer weight of my own industry and persistency, I might
acquire that influence with my companions of which I had dreamed of
becoming the master. After all, could I blame them for not trusting me,
when as yet I had given them no ground for such confidence? What had I
done that they should be willing to put their thoughts, their
aspirations, their very brains and inner selves under my control? But
something might be done which would force them to regard me as their
leader. So I worked hard at my twenty-one pages, and during the
fortnight spoke no word of the “Panjandrum” to any human being.
But my work did not get itself done without very great mental distress.
The choice of a subject had been left free to each contributor. For
myself I would almost have preferred that some one should have dictated
to me the matter to which I should devote myself. How would it be with
our first number if each of us were to write a political essay of
exactly twenty-one pages, or a poem of that length in blank verse, or a
humorous narrative? Good Heavens! How were we to expect success with the
public if there were no agreement between ourselves as to the nature of
our contributions no editorial power in existence for our mutual
support. I went down and saw Mr. X., and found him to be almost
indifferent as to the magazine. “You see, Sir,” said he, “the matter
isn’t in my hands. If I can give any assistance, I shall be very happy;
but it seems to me that you want some one with experience.” “I could
have put them right if they’d have let me,” I replied. He was very
civil, but it was quite clear to me that Mr. X.’s interest in the matter
was over since the day of his banishment from Mrs. St. Quinten’s
tea-table. “What do you think is a good sort of subject,” I asked
him,--as it were cursorily; “with a view, you know, to the eye of the
public, just at the present moment?” He declined to suggest any subject,
and I was thrown back among the depths of my own feelings and
convictions. Now, could we have blended our elements together, and
discussed all this in really amicable council, each would have corrected
what there might have been of rawness in the other, and in the freedom
of conversation our wits would have grown from the warmth of mutual
encouragement. Such, at least, was my belief then. Since that I have
learned to look at the business with eyes less enthusiastic. Let a man
have learned the trick of the pen, let him not smoke too many cigars
overnight, and let him get into his chair within half an hour after
breakfast, and I can tell you almost to a line how much of a magazine
article he will produce in three hours. It does not much matter what the
matter be,--only this, that if his task be that of reviewing, he may be
expected to supply a double quantity. Three days, three out of the
fourteen, passed by, and I could think of no fitting subject on which to
begin the task I had appointed myself of teaching the British public.
Politics at the moment were rather dull, and no very great question was
agitating the minds of men. Lord Melbourne was Prime Minister, and had
in the course of the Session been subjected to the usual party attacks.
We intended to go a great deal further than Lord Melbourne in advocating
Liberal measures, and were disposed to regard him and his colleagues as
antiquated fogies in Statecraft; but, nevertheless, as against Sir
Robert Peel, we should have given him the benefit of our defence. I did
not, however, feel any special call to write up Lord Melbourne. Lord
John was just then our pet minister; but even on his behalf I did not
find myself capable of filling twenty-one closely-printed pages with
matter which should really stir the public mind. In a first number, to
stir the public mind is everything. I didn’t think that my colleagues
sufficiently realised that fact,--though I had indeed endeavoured to
explain it to them. In the second, third, or fourth publication you may
descend gradually to an ordinary level; you may become,--not exactly
dull, for dulness in a magazine should be avoided,--but what I may
perhaps call “adagio” as compared with the “con forza” movement with
which the publication certainly should be opened. No reader expects to
be supplied from month to month with the cayenne pepper and shallot
style of literature; but in the preparation of a new literary banquet,
the first dish cannot be too highly spiced. I knew all that,--and then
turned it over in my mind whether I could not do something about the
ballot.
It had never occurred to me before that there could be any difficulty in
finding a subject. I had to reject the ballot because at that period of
my life I had, in fact, hardly studied the subject. I was Liberal, and
indeed Radical, in all my political ideas. I was ready to “go in” for
anything that was undoubtedly Liberal and Radical. In a general way I
was as firm in my politics as any member of the House of Commons, and
had thought as much on public subjects as some of them. I was an eager
supporter of the ballot. But when I took the pen in my hand there came
upon me a feeling that,--that,--that I didn’t exactly know how to say
anything about it that other people would care to read. The twenty-one
pages loomed before me as a wilderness, which, with such a staff, I
could never traverse. It had not occurred to me before that it would be
so difficult for a man to evoke from his mind ideas on a subject with
which he supposed himself to be familiar. And, such thoughts as I had, I
could clothe in no fitting words. On the fifth morning, driven to
despair, I did write a page or two upon the ballot; and then,--sinking
back in my chair, I began to ask myself a question, as to which doubt
was terrible to me. Was this the kind of work to which my gifts were
applicable? The pages which I had already written were manifestly not
adapted to stir the public mind. The sixth and seventh days I passed
altogether within my room, never once leaving the house. I drank green
tea. I eat meat very slightly cooked. I debarred myself from food for
several hours, so that the flesh might be kept well under. I sat up one
night, nearly till daybreak, with a wet towel round my head. On the next
I got up, and lit my own fire at four o’clock. Thinking that I might be
stretching the cord too tight, I took to reading a novel, but could not
remember the words as I read them, so painfully anxious was I to produce
the work I had undertaken to perform. On the morning of the eighth day
I was still without a subject.
I felt like the man who undertook to play the violin at a dance for five
shillings and a dinner,--the dinner to be paid in advance; but who, when
making his bargain, had forgotten that he had never learned a note of
music! I had undertaken even to lead the band, and, as it seemed, could
not evoke a sound. A horrid idea came upon me that I was struck, as it
were, with a sudden idiotcy. My mind had absolutely fled from me. I sat
in my arm-chair, looking at the wall, counting the pattern on the paper,
and hardly making any real effort to think. All the world seemed at once
to have become a blank to me. I went on muttering to myself, “No, the
ballot won’t do;” as though there was nothing else but the ballot with
which to stir the public mind. On the eighth morning I made a minute and
quite correct calculation of the number of words that were demanded of
me,--taking the whole as forty-two pages, because of the necessity of
recopying,--and I found that about four hours a day would be required
for the mere act of writing. The paper was there, and the pen and
ink;--but beyond that there was nothing ready. I had thought to rack my
brain, but I began to doubt whether I had a brain to rack. Of all those
matters of public interest which had hitherto been to me the very salt
of my life, I could not remember one which could possibly be converted
into twenty-one pages of type. Unconsciously I kept on muttering words
about the ballot. “The ballot be ----!” I said, aloud to myself in my
agony.
On that Sunday evening I began to consider what excuse I might best make
to my colleagues. I might send and say I was very sick. I might face
them, and quarrel with them,--because of their ill-treatment of me. Or I
might tell only half a lie, keeping within the letter of the truth, and
say that I had not yet finished my work. But no. I would not lie at all.
Late on that Sunday evening there came upon me a grand idea. I would
stand up before them and confess my inability to do the work I had
undertaken. I arranged the words of my little speech, and almost took
delight in them. “I, who have intended to be a teacher, am now aware
that I have hardly as yet become a pupil.” In such case the “Panjandrum”
would be at an end. The elements had not been happily blended; but
without me they could not, I was sure, be kept in any concert. The
“Panjandrum,”--which I had already learned to love as a mother loves
her first-born,--the dear old “Panjandrum” must perish before its birth.
I felt the pity of it! The thing itself,--the idea and theory of it, had
been very good. But how shall a man put forth a magazine when he finds
himself unable to write a page of it within the compass of a week? The
meditations of that Sunday were very bitter, but perhaps they were
useful. I had long since perceived that mankind are divided into two
classes,--those who shall speak, and those who shall listen to the
speech of others. In seeing clearly the existence of such a division I
had hitherto always assumed myself to belong to the first class. Might
it not be probable that I had made a mistake, and that it would become
me modestly to take my allotted place in the second?
On the Monday morning I began to think that I was ill, and resolved that
I would take my hat and go out into the park, and breathe some air,--let
the “Panjandrum” live or die. Such another week as the last would, I
fancied, send me to Hanwell. It was now November, and at ten o’clock,
when I looked out, there was a soft drizzling rain coming down, and the
pavement of the street was deserted. It was just the morning for work,
were work possible. There still lay on the little table in the corner
of the room the square single sheet of paper, with its margin doubled
down, all fitted for the printer,--only that the sheet was still blank.
I looked at the page, and I rubbed my brow, and I gazed into the
street,--and then determined that a two hours’ ring round the Regent’s
Park was the only chance left for me.
As I put on my thick boots and old hat and prepared myself for a
thorough wetting, I felt as though at last I had hit upon the right
plan. Violent exercise was needed, and then inspiration might come.
Inspiration would come the sooner if I could divest myself from all
effort in searching for it. I would take my walk and employ my mind,
simply, in observing the world around me. For some distance there was
but little of the world to observe. I was lodging at this period in a
quiet and eligible street not far from Theobald’s Road. Thence my way
lay through Bloomsbury Square, Russell Square, and Gower Street, and as
I went I found the pavement to be almost deserted. The thick soft rain
came down, not with a splash and various currents, running off and
leaving things washed though wet, but gently insinuating itself
everywhere, and covering even the flags with mud. I cared nothing for
the mud. I went through it all with a happy scorn for the poor
creatures who were endeavouring to defend their clothes with umbrellas.
“Let the heavens do their worst to me,” I said to myself as I spun along
with eager steps; and I was conscious of a feeling that external
injuries could avail me nothing if I could only cure the weakness that
was within.
The Park too was nearly empty. No place in London is ever empty now, but
thirty years ago the population was palpably thinner. I had not come
out, however, to find a crowd. A damp boy sweeping a crossing, or an old
woman trying to sell an apple, was sufficient to fill my mind with
thoughts as to the affairs of my fellow-creatures. Why should it have
been allotted to that old woman to sit there, placing all her hopes on
the chance sale of a few apples, the cold rain entering her very bones
and driving rheumatism into all her joints, while another old woman, of
whom I had read a paragraph that morning, was appointed to entertain
royalty, and go about the country with five or six carriages and four?
Was there injustice in this,--and if so, whence had the injustice come?
The reflection was probably not new; but, if properly thought out, might
it not suffice for the one-and-twenty pages? “Sally Brown, the
barrow-woman, _v._ the Duchess of ----!” Would it not be possible to
make the two women plead against each other in some imaginary court of
justice, beyond the limits of our conventional life,--some court in
which the duchess should be forced to argue her own case, and in which
the barrow-woman would decidedly get the better of her? If this could be
done how happy would have been my walk through the mud and slush!
As I was thinking of this I saw before me on the pathway a stout
woman,--apparently middle-aged, but her back was towards me,--leading a
girl who perhaps might be ten or eleven years old. They had come up one
of the streets from the New Road to the Park, and were hurrying along so
fast that the girl, who held the woman by the arm, was almost running.
The woman was evidently a servant, but in authority,--an upper nurse
perhaps, or a housekeeper. Why she should have brought her charge out in
the rain was a mystery; but I could see from the elasticity of the
child’s step that she was happy and very eager. She was a well-made
girl, with long well-rounded legs, which came freely down beneath her
frock, with strong firm boots, a straw hat, and a plaid shawl wound
carefully round her throat and waist. As I followed them those rapid
legs of hers seemed almost to twinkle in their motion as she kept pace
with the stout woman who was conducting her. The mud was all over her
stockings; but still there was about her an air of well-to-do comfort
which made me feel that the mud was no more than a joke to her. Every
now and then I caught something of a glimpse of her face as she half
turned herself round in talking to the woman. I could see, or at least I
could fancy that I saw, that she was fair, with large round eyes and
soft light brown hair. Children did not then wear wigs upon their backs,
and I was driven to exercise my fancy as to her locks. At last I
resolved that I would pass them and have one look at her--and I did so.
It put me to my best pace to do it, but gradually I overtook them and
could hear that the girl never ceased talking as she ran. As I went by
them I distinctly heard the words, “Oh, Anne, I do so wonder what he’s
like!” “You’ll see, Miss,” said Anne. I looked back and saw that she was
exactly as I had thought,--a fair, strong, healthy girl, with round eyes
and large mouth, broad well-formed nose, and light hair. Who was the
“he,” as to whom her anxiety was so great,--the “he” whom she was
tripping along through the rain and mud to see, and kiss, and love, and
wonder at? And why hadn’t she been taken in a cab? Would she be allowed
to take off those very dirty stockings before she was introduced to her
new-found brother, or wrapped in the arms of her stranger father?
I saw no more of them, and heard no further word; but I thought a great
deal of the girl. Ah, me, if she could have been a young unknown,
newly-found sister of my own, how warmly would I have welcomed her! How
little should I have cared for the mud on her stockings; how closely
would I have folded her in my arms; how anxious would I have been with
Anne as to those damp clothes; what delight would I have had in feeding
her, coaxing her, caressing her, and playing with her! There had seemed
to belong to her a wholesome strong health, which it had made me for the
moment happy even to witness. And then the sweet, eloquent anxiety of
her voice,--“Oh, Anne, I do so wonder what he’s like!” While I heard her
voice I had seemed to hear and know so much of her! And then she had
passed out of my ken for ever!
I thought no more about the duchess and the apple-woman, but devoted my
mind entirely to the girl and her brother. I was persuaded that it must
be a brother. Had it been a father there would have been more of awe in
her tone. It certainly was a brother. Gradually, as the unforced
imagination came to play upon the matter, a little picture fashioned
itself in my mind. The girl was my own sister--a sister whom I had never
seen till she was thus brought to me for protection and love; but she
was older, just budding into womanhood, instead of running beside her
nurse with twinkling legs. There, however, was the same broad, honest
face, the same round eyes, the same strong nose and mouth. She had come
to me for love and protection, having no other friend in the world to
trust. But, having me, I proudly declared to myself that she needed
nothing further. In two short months I was nothing to her,--or almost
nothing. I had a friend, and in two little months my friend had become
so much more than I ever could have been!
These wondrous castles in the air never get themselves well built when
the mind, with premeditated skill and labour, sets itself to work to
build them. It is when they come uncalled for that they stand erect and
strong before the mind’s eye, with every mullioned window perfect, the
rounded walls all there, the embrasures cut, the fosse dug, and the
drawbridge down. As I had made this castle for myself, as I had sat with
this girl by my side, calling her the sweetest names, as I had seen her
blush when my friend came near her, and had known at once, with a mixed
agony and joy, how the thing was to be, I swear that I never once
thought of the “Panjandrum.” I walked the whole round of the Regent’s
Park, perfecting the building; and I did perfect it, took the girl to
church, gave her away to my friend Walker, and came back and sobbed and
sputtered out my speech at the little breakfast, before it occurred to
me to suggest to myself that I might use the thing.
Churchill Smith and Walter Watt had been dead against a novel; and,
indeed, the matter had been put to the vote, and it had been decided
that there should be no novel. But, what is a novel? The purport of that
vote had been to negative a long serial tale, running on from number to
number, in a manner which has since become well understood by the
reading public. I had thought my colleagues wrong, and so thinking, it
was clearly my duty to correct their error, if I might do so without
infringing that loyalty and general obedience to expressed authority
which are so essential to such a society as ours. Before I had got back
to Theobald’s Road I had persuaded myself that a short tale would be the
very thing for the first number. It might not stir the public mind. To
do that I would leave to Churchill Smith and Walter Watt. But a
well-formed little story, such as that of which I had now the full
possession, would fall on the readers of the “Panjandrum” like sweet
rain in summer, making things fresh and green and joyous. I was quite
sure that it was needed. Walter Watt might say what he pleased, and
Churchill Smith might look at me as sternly as he would, sitting there
silent with his forehead on his hand; but I knew at least as much about
a magazine as they did. At any rate, I would write my tale. That very
morning it had seemed to me to be impossible to get anything written.
Now, as I hurried up stairs to get rid of my wet clothes, I felt that I
could not take the pen quickly enough into my hand. I had a thing to
say, and I would say it. If I could complete my story,--and I did not
doubt its completion from the very moment in which I realised its
conception,--I should be saved, at any rate, from the disgrace of
appearing empty-handed in Mrs. St. Quinten’s parlour. Within a quarter
of an hour of my arrival at home I had seated myself at my table and
written the name of the tale,--“The New Inmate.”
I doubt whether any five days in my life were ever happier than those
which were devoted to this piece of work. I began it that Monday
afternoon, and finished it on the Friday night. While I was at the task
all doubt vanished from my mind. I did not care a fig for Watt or
Smith, and was quite sure that I should carry Mrs. St. Quinten with me.
Each night I copied fairly what I had written in the day, and I came to
love the thing with an exceeding love. There was a deal of pathos in
it,--at least so I thought,--and I cried over it like a child. I had
strained all my means to prepare for the coming of the girl,--I am now
going back for a moment to my castle in the air,--and had furnished for
her a little sitting-room and as pretty a white-curtained chamber as a
girl ever took pleasure in calling her own. There were books for her,
and a small piano, and a low sofa, and all little feminine belongings. I
had said to myself that everything should be for her, and I had sold my
horse,--the horse of my imagination, the reader will understand, for I
had never in truth possessed such an animal,--and told my club friends
that I should no longer be one of them. Then the girl had come, and had
gone away to Walker,--as it seemed to me at once,--to Walker, who still
lived in lodgings, and had not even a second sitting-room for her
comfort,--to Walker, who was, indeed, a good fellow in his way, but
possessed of no particular attractions either in wit, manners, or
beauty! I wanted them to change with me, and to take my pretty home. I
should have been delighted to go to a garret, leaving them everything.
But Walker was proud, and would not have it so; and the girl protested
that the piano and the white dimity curtains were nothing to her. Walker
was everything;--Walker, of whom she had never heard, when she came but
a few weeks since to me as the only friend left to her in the world! I
worked myself up to such a pitch of feeling over my story, that I could
hardly write it for my tears. I saw myself standing all alone in that
pretty sitting-room after they were gone, and I pitied myself with an
exceeding pity. “Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi.” If
success was to be obtained by obeying that instruction, I might
certainly expect success.
The way in which my work went without a pause was delightful. When the
pen was not in my hand I was longing for it. While I was walking,
eating, or reading, I was still thinking of my story. I dreamt of it. It
came to me to be a matter that admitted of no doubt. The girl with the
muddy stockings, who had thus provided me in my need, was to me a
blessed memory. When I kissed my sister’s brow, on her first arrival,
she was in my arms,--palpably. All her sweetnesses were present to me,
as though I had her there, in the little street turning out of
Theobald’s Road. To this moment I can distinguish the voice in which she
spoke to me that little whispered word, when I asked her whether she
cared for Walker. When one thinks of it, the reality of it all is
appalling. What need is there of a sister or a friend in the flesh,--a
sister or a friend with probably so many faults,--when by a little
exercise of the mind they may be there at your elbow, faultless? It came
to pass that the tale was more dear to me than the magazine. As I read
it through for the third or fourth time on the Sunday morning, I was
chiefly anxious for the “Panjandrum,” in order that “The New Inmate”
might see the world.
We were to meet that evening at eight o’clock, and it was understood
that the sitting would be prolonged to a late hour, because of the
readings. It would fall to my lot to take the second reading, as coming
next to Mrs. St. Quinten, and I should, at any rate, not be subjected to
a weary audience. We had, however, promised each other to be very
patient; and I was resolved that, even to the production of Churchill
Smith, who would be the last, I would give an undivided and eager
attention. I determined also in my joy that I would vote against the
insertion of no colleague’s contribution. Were we not in a boat
together, and would not each do his best? Even though a paper might be
dull, better a little dulness than the crushing of a friend’s spirit. I
fear that I thought that “The New Inmate” might atone for much dulness.
I dined early on that day; then took a walk round the Regent’s Park, to
renew my thoughts on the very spot on which they had first occurred to
me, and after that, returning home, gave a last touch to my work. Though
it had been written after so hurried a fashion, there was not a word in
it which I had not weighed and found to be fitting.
I was the first at Mrs. St. Quinten’s house, and found that lady very
full of the magazine. She asked, however, no questions as to my
contribution. Of her own she at once spoke to me. “What do you think I
have done at last?” she said. In my reply to her question I made some
slight allusion to “The New Inmate,” but I don’t think she caught the
words. “I have reviewed Bishop Berkeley’s whole Theory on Matter,” said
she. What feeling I expressed by my gesture I cannot say, but I think it
must have been one of great awe. “And I have done it exhaustively,” she
continued; “so that the subject need not be continued. Churchill does
not like continuations.” Perhaps it did not signify much. If she were
heavy, I at any rate was light. If her work should prove difficult of
comprehension, mine was easy. If she spoke only to the wise and old, I
had addressed myself to babes and sucklings. I said something as to the
contrast, again naming my little story. But she was too full of Bishop
Berkeley to heed me. If she had worked as I had worked, of course she
was full of Bishop Berkeley. To me, “The New Inmate” at that moment was
more than all the bishops.
The other men soon came in, clustering together, and our number was
complete. Regan whispered to me that Jack Hallam had not written a line.
“And you?” I asked. “Oh, I am all right,” said he. “I don’t suppose
they’ll let it pass; but that’s their affair;--not mine.” Watt and Smith
took their places almost without speaking, and preparation was made for
the preliminary feast of the body. The after-feast was a matter of such
vital importance to us that we hardly possessed our customary
light-hearted elasticity. There was, however, an air of subdued triumph
about our “Lydia,”--of triumph subdued by the presence of her cousin. As
for myself, I was supremely happy. I said a word to Watt, asking him as
to his performance. “I don’t suppose you will like it,” he replied; “but
it is at any rate a fair specimen of that which it has been my ambition
to produce.” I assured him with enthusiasm that I was thoroughly
prepared to approve, and that, too, without carping criticism. “But we
must be critics,” he observed. Of Churchill Smith I asked no question.
When we had eaten and drunk we began the work of the evening by giving
in the names of our papers, and describing the nature of the work we had
done. Mrs. St. Quinten was the first, and read her title from a scrap of
paper. “A Review of Bishop Berkeley’s Theory.” Churchill Smith remarked
that it was a very dangerous subject. The lady begged him to wait till
he should hear the paper read. “Of course I will hear it read,” said her
cousin. To me it was evident that Smith would object to this essay
without any scruple, if he did not in truth approve of it. Then it was
my turn, and I explained in the quietest tone which I could assume that
I had written a little tale called “The New Inmate.” It was very simple,
I said, but I trusted it might not be rejected on that score. There was
silence for a moment, and I prompted Regan to proceed; but I was
interrupted by Walter Watt. “I thought,” said he, “that we had
positively decided against ‘prose fiction.’” I protested that the
decision had been given against novels, against long serial stories to
be continued from number to number. This was a little thing, completed
within my twenty-one allotted pages. “Our vote was taken as to prose
fiction,” said Watt. I appealed to Hallam, who at once took my part,--as
also did Regan. “Walter is quite correct as to the purport of our
decision,” said Churchill Smith. I turned to Mrs. St. Quinten. “I don’t
see why we shouldn’t have a short story,” she said. I then declared that
with their permission I would at any rate read it, and again requested
Regan to proceed. Upon this Walter Watt rose upon his feet, and made a
speech. The vote had been taken, and could not be rescinded. After such
a vote it was not open to me to read my story. The story, no doubt, was
very good,--he was pleased to say so,--but it was not matter of the sort
which they intended to use. Seeing the purpose which they had in view,
he thought that the reading of the story would be waste of time. “It
will clearly be waste of time,” said Churchill Smith. Walter Watt went
on to explain to us that if from one meeting to another we did not allow
ourselves to be bound by our own decisions, we should never appear
before the public.
I will acknowledge that I was enraged. It seemed to me impossible that
such folly should be allowed to prevail, or that after all my efforts I
should be treated by my own friends after such a fashion. I also got
upon my legs and protested loudly that Mr. Watt and Mr. Smith did not
even know what had been the subject under discussion, when the vote
adverse to novels had been taken. No record was kept of our proceedings;
and, as I clearly showed to them, Mr. Regan and Mr. Hallam were quite as
likely to hold correct views on this subject as were Mr. Watt and Mr.
Smith. All calling of men Pat, and Jack, and Walter, was for the moment
over. Watt admitted the truth of this argument, and declared that they
must again decide whether my story of “The New Inmate” was or was not a
novel in the sense intended when the previous vote was taken. If
not,--if the decision on that point should be in my favour,--then the
privilege of reading it would at any rate belong to me. I believed so
thoroughly in my own work that I desired nothing beyond this. We went to
work, therefore, and took the votes on the proposition,--Was or was not
the story of “The New Inmate” debarred by the previous resolution
against the admission of novels?
The decision manifestly rested with Mrs. St. Quinten. I was master,
easily master, of three votes. Hallam and Regan were altogether with me,
and in a matter of such import I had no hesitation in voting for
myself. Had the question been the acceptance or rejection of the story
for the magazine, then, by the nature of our constitution, I should have
had no voice in the matter. But this was not the case, and I recorded my
own vote in my own favour without a blush. Having done so, I turned to
Mrs. St. Quinten with an air of supplication in my face of which I
myself was aware, and of which I became at once ashamed. She looked
round at me almost furtively, keeping her eyes otherwise fixed upon
Churchill Smith’s immovable countenance. I did not condescend to speak a
word to her. What words I had to say, I had spoken to them all, and was
confident in the justice of my cause. I quickly dropped that look of
supplication and threw myself back in my chair. The moment was one of
intense interest, almost of agony, but I could not allow myself to think
that in very truth my work would be rejected by them before it was seen.
If such were to be their decision, how would it be possible that the
“Panjandrum” should ever be brought into existence? Who could endure
such ignominy and still persevere?
There was silence among us, which to me in the intensity of my feelings
seemed to last for minutes. Regan was the first to speak. “Now, Mrs. St.
Quinten,” he said, “it all rests with you.” An idea shot across my mind
at the moment, of the folly of which we had been guilty in placing our
most vital interests in the hands of a woman merely on the score of
gallantry. Two votes had been given to her as against one of ours simply
because,--she was a woman. It may be that there had been something in
the arrangement of compensation for the tea and muffins; but if so, how
poor was the cause for so great an effect! She sat there the arbiter of
our destinies. “You had better give your vote,” said Smith roughly. “You
think it is a novel?” she said, appealing to him. “There can be no doubt
of it,” he replied; “a novel is not a novel because it is long or short.
Such is the matter which we intended to declare that we would not put
forth in our magazine.” “I protest,” said I, jumping up,--“I protest
against this interference.”
Then there was a loud and very angry discussion whether Churchill Smith
was justified in his endeavour to bias Mrs. St. Quinten; and we were
nearly brought to a vote upon that. I myself was very anxious to have
that question decided,--to have any question decided in which Churchill
Smith could be shown to be in the wrong. But no one would back me, and
it seemed to me as though even Regan and Jack Hallam were falling off
from me,--though Jack had never yet restored to me that article of
clothing to which allusion was made in the first chapter of this little
history, and I had been almost as anxious for Pat’s Latin translation as
for my own production. It was decided without a vote that any amount of
free questioning as to each other’s opinions, and of free answering, was
to be considered fair. “I tell her my opinion. You can tell her yours,”
said Churchill Smith. “It is my opinion,” said I, “that you want to
dictate to everybody and to rule the whole thing.” “I think we did mean
to exclude all story-telling,” said Mrs. St. Quinten, and so the
decision was given against me.
Looking back at it I know that they were right on the exact point then
under discussion. They had intended to exclude all stories. But,--heaven
and earth,--was there ever such folly as that of which they had been
guilty in coming to such a resolution? I have often suggested to myself
since, that had “The New Inmate” been read on that evening, the
“Panjandrum” might have become a living reality, and that the fortieth
volume of the publication might now have been standing on the shelves of
many a well-filled library. The decision, however, had been given
against me, and I sat like one stricken dumb, paralysed, or turned to
stone. I remember it as though it were yesterday. I did not speak a
word, but simply moving my chair an inch or two, I turned my face away
from the lady who had thus blasted all my hopes. I fear that my eyes
were wet, and that a hot tear trickled down each cheek. No note of
triumph was sounded, and I verily believe they all suffered in my too
conspicuous sufferings. To both Watt and Smith it had been a matter of
pure conscience. Mrs. St. Quinten, woman-like, had obeyed the man in
whose strength she trusted. There was silence for a few moments, and
then Watt invited Regan to proceed. He had divided his work into three
portions, but what they were called, whether they were verse or prose,
translations or original, comic or serious, I never knew. I could not
listen then. For me to continue my services to the “Panjandrum” was an
impossibility. I had been crushed--so crushed that I had not vitality
left me to escape from the room, or I should not have remained there.
Pat Regan’s papers were nothing to me now. Watt I knew had written an
essay called “The Real Aristocrat,” which was published elsewhere
afterwards. Jack Hallam’s work was not ready. There was something said
of his delinquency, but I cared not what. I only wish that my work also
had been unready. Churchill Smith also had some essay, “On the Basis of
Political Right.” That, if I remember rightly, was its title. I often
talked the matter over in after days with Pat Regan, and I know that
from the moment in which my consternation was made apparent to them, the
thing went very heavily. At the time, and for some hours after the
adverse decision, I was altogether unmanned and unable to collect my
thoughts. Before the evening was over there occurred a further episode
in our affairs which awakened me.
The names of the papers had been given in, and Mrs. St. Quinten began to
read her essay. Nothing more than the drone of her voice reached the
tympanum of my ears. I did not look at her, or think of her, or care to
hear a word that she uttered. I believe I almost slept in my agony; but
sleeping or waking I was turning over in my mind, wearily and incapably,
the idea of declining to give any opinion as to the propriety of
inserting or rejecting the review of Bishop Berkeley’s theory, on the
score that my connection with the “Panjandrum” had been severed. But the
sound of the reading went on, and I did not make up my mind. I hardly
endeavoured to make it up, but sat dreamily revelling in my own
grievance, and pondering over the suicidal folly of the “Panjandrum”
Company. The reading went on and on without interruption, without
question and without applause. I know I slept during some portion of the
time, for I remember that Regan kicked my shin. And I remember, also, a
feeling of compassion for the reader, who was hardly able to rouse
herself up to the pitch of spirit necessary for the occasion,--but
allowed herself to be quelled by the cold steady gaze of her cousin
Churchill. Watt sat immovable, with his hands in his trousers pockets,
leaning back in his chair, the very picture of dispassionate criticism.
Jack Hallam amused himself by firing paper pellets at Regan, sundry of
which struck me on the head and face. Once Mrs. St. Quinten burst forth
in offence. “Mr. Hallam,” she said, “I am sorry to be so tedious.” “I
like it of all things,” said Jack. It was certainly very long. Half
comatose, as I was, with my own sufferings, I had begun to ask myself
before Mrs. St. Quinten had finished her task whether it would be
possible to endure three other readings lengthy as this. Ah! if I might
have read “My New Inmate,” how different would the feeling have been! Of
what the lady said about Berkeley, I did not catch a word; but the name
of the philosophical bishop seemed to be repeated usque ad nauseam. Of a
sudden I was aware that I had snored,--a kick from Pat Regan wounded my
shin; a pellet from Jack Hallam fell on my nose; and the essay was
completed. I looked up, and could see that drops of perspiration were
standing on the lady’s brow.
There was a pause, and even I was now aroused to attention. We were to
write our verdicts on paper,--simply the word, “Insert,” or
“Reject,”--and what should I write? Instead of doing so, should I
declare at once that I was severed from the “Panjandrum” by the
treatment I had received? That I was severed, in fact, I was very sure.
Could any human flesh and blood have continued its services to any
magazine after such humiliation as I had suffered? Nevertheless it might
perhaps be more manly were I to accept the responsibility of voting on
the present occasion,--and if so, how should I vote? I had not followed
a single sentence, and yet I was convinced that matter such as that
would never stir the British public mind. But as the thing went, we were
not called upon for our formal verdicts. “Lydia,” as soon as she had
done reading, turned at once to her cousin. She cared for no verdict but
his. “Well,” said she, “what do you think of it?” At first he did not
answer. “I know I read it badly,” she continued, “but I hope you caught
my meaning.”
“It is utter nonsense,” he said, without moving his head.
“Oh, Churchill!” she exclaimed.
“It is utter nonsense,” he repeated. “It is out of the question that it
should be published.” She glanced her eyes round the company, but
ventured no spoken appeal. Jack Hallam said something about unnecessary
severity and want of courtesy. Watt simply shook his head. “I say it is
trash,” said Smith, rising from his chair. “You shall not disgrace
yourself. Give it to me.” She put her hand upon the manuscript, as
though to save it. “Give it to me,” he said sternly, and took it from
her unresisting grasp. Then he stalked to the fire, and tearing the
sheets in pieces, thrust them between the bars.
Of course there was a great commotion. We were all up in a moment,
standing around her as though to console her. Miss Collins came in and
absolutely wept over her ill-used friend. For the instant I had
forgotten “The New Inmate,” as though it had never been written. She was
deluged in tears, hiding her face upon the table; but she uttered no
word of reproach, and ventured not a syllable in defence of her essay.
“I didn’t think it was so bad as that,” she murmured amidst her sobs. I
did not dare to accuse the man of cruelty. I myself had become so small
among them that my voice would have had no weight. But I did think him
cruel, and hated him on her account as well as on my own. Jack Hallam
remarked that for this night, at least, our work must be considered to
be over. “It is over altogether,” said Churchill Smith. “I have known
that for weeks past; and I have known, too, what fools we have been to
make the attempt. I hope, at least, that we may have learnt a lesson
that will be of service to us. Perhaps you had better go now, and I’ll
just say a word or two to my cousin before I leave her.”
How we got out of the room I hardly remember. There was, no doubt, some
leave-taking between us four and the unfortunate Lydia, but it amounted,
I think, to no more than mere decency required. To Churchill Smith I
know that I did not speak. I never saw either of the cousins again; nor,
as has been already told, did I ever distinctly hear what was their fate
in life. And yet how intimately connected with them had I been for the
last six or eight months! For not calling upon her, so that we might
have mingled the tears of our disappointment together, I much blamed
myself; but the subject which we must have discussed,--the failure,
namely, of the “Panjandrum,”--was one so sore and full of sorrow, that I
could not bring myself to face the interview. Churchill Smith, I know,
made various efforts to obtain literary employment; but never succeeded,
because he would yield no inch in the expression of his own violent
opinions. I doubt whether he ever earned as much as £10 by his writings.
I heard of his living,--and almost starving,--still in London, and then
that he went to fight for Polish freedom. It is believed that he died in
a Russian prison, but I could never find any one who knew with accuracy
the circumstances of his fate. He was a man who could go forth with his
life in his hand, and in meeting death could feel that he encountered
only that which he had expected. Mrs. St. Quinten certainly vanished
during the next summer from the street in which she had bestowed upon us
so many muffins, and what became of her I never heard.
On that evening Pat Regan and I consoled ourselves together as best we
might, Jack Hallam and Walter Watt having parted from us under the walls
of Marylebone Workhouse. Pat and I walked down to a modest house of
refreshment with which we were acquainted in Leicester Square, and there
arranged the obsequies of the “Panjandrum” over a pint of stout and a
baked potato. Pat’s equanimity was marvellous. It had not even yet been
ruffled, although the indignities thrown upon him had almost surpassed
those inflicted on myself. His “Lord Bateman” had been first rejected;
and, after that, his subsequent contributions had been absolutely
ignored, merely because Mr. Churchill Smith had not approved his
cousin’s essay upon Bishop Berkeley! “It was rot; real rot,” said Pat,
alluding to Lydia’s essay, and apologising for Smith. “But why not have
gone on and heard yours?” said I. “Mine would have been rot, too,” said
Pat. “It isn’t so easy, after all, to do this kind of thing.”
We agreed that the obsequies should be very private. Indeed, as the
“Panjandrum” had as yet not had a body of its own, it was hardly
necessary to open the earth for the purposes of interment. We agreed
simply to say nothing about it to any one. I would go to Mr. X. and tell
him that we had abandoned our project, and there would be an end of it.
As the night advanced, I offered to read “The New Inmate” to my friend;
but he truly remarked that of reading aloud they had surely had enough
that night. When he reflected that but for the violence of Mr. Smith’s
proceedings we might even then, at that moment, have been listening to
an essay upon the “Basis of Political Rights,” I think that he rejoiced
that the “Panjandrum” was no more.
On the following morning I called on Mr. X., and explained to him that
portion of the occurrences of the previous evening with which it was
necessary that he should be made acquainted. I thought that he was
rather brusque; but I cannot complain that he was, upon the whole,
unfriendly. “The truth is, Sir,” he said, “you none of you exactly knew
what you wanted to be after. You were very anxious to do something
grand, but hadn’t got this grand thing clear before your eye. People,
you know, may have too much genius, or may have too little.” Which of
the two he thought was our case he did not say; but he did promise to
hear my story of “The New Inmate” read, with reference to its possible
insertion in another periodical publication with which he had lately
become connected. Perhaps some of my readers may remember its appearance
in the first number of the “Marble Arch,” where it attracted no little
attention, and was supposed to have given assistance, not altogether
despicable, towards the establishment of that excellent periodical.
Such was the history of the “Panjandrum.”
THE SPOTTED DOG.
[Illustration]
THE SPOTTED DOG.