I was now quite one of the busiest men in London. Every moment of my
time was occupied, and I felt it a bore to have to go to bed at all and
waste precious hours in the arms of Morpheus.
First there was, of course, the office; then my elocution and
stage-gesture work for the drama; then running at the L.A.C.; then
cricket matches on Saturday afternoons, which were very refreshing to
me, especially as I was doing fairly well in them; then literature, in
the shape of an order from Mr. Bulger to go and criticise the amateurs
of Clapham; and lastly an idea for another poem—but not about the
grey-eyed girl. One lived in a regular maelstrom, if the word may be
pardoned; and, as though all this were not enough, Mr. Westonshaugh
suddenly sent for me and told me that I must appear on the following
Monday morning at the West-End Branch of the Apollo!
“I have selected you, Mr. Corkey,” he said, “to help our branch during
the usual quarterly rush of work. At these times the branch stands in
need of assistance, and the experience will be very desirable. Be at No.
7 Trafalgar Square, sharp at ten o’clock on Monday next, and let me hear
my confidence is not displaced.”
On telling Mr. Blades of this event, he said that it was an excellent
thing for me, and would introduce me to some of the leaders in the
Apollo Fire Office.
“You will be in the hands of Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter,” he said, “and
they are two of the most original and delightful men in London. I have
the pleasure of knowing them personally, and you can tell them that you
are a friend of mine, which will interest them in you.”
I thanked Mr. Blades for this further example of his unwavering kindness
to me, and he gave me a brief description of the men who were to command
my services in the West End of London.
“Bright is the best all-round man in the A.F.O.,” said Mr. Blades,
meaning, of course, the Apollo Fire Office. “He is a good sportsman, and
was also a volunteer in his time. He is the champion of the office at
billiards, and in his leisure he is a County Councilor and a keen
politician. There are great stories told about him in his earlier days
in the City. He was a dare-devil man then and took frightful risks. I
don’t mean insurance risks,” added Mr. Blades, “but sporting risks,
involving danger to life and limb. For a wager he once walked round that
narrow ledge that surrounds the top of the gallery outside this
department. You know the place. One false step would have dashed him to
instant death; but he didn’t care. He didn’t make the false step. It is
a record. We haven’t got any chaps like that now.”
I instantly went out to look at the ledge mentioned by Mr. Blades, and
the sight of it impressed me enormously. You would have thought a bird
would have hesitated to walk along it.
“He must be a great man,” I said, “and have a nerve of iron.”
“He has,” assented Mr. Blades. “And he has a wide grip of politics, too;
he is a keen debater and will set some of your ideas right on many
subjects. He understands capital and labour and such like; which you do
not.”
I admitted this, and then asked about the remarkable points of Mr.
Walter.
“Walter is a ray of sunshine,” answered Mr. Blades. “He has a nature
none can resist, and is the most popular man in the office. He is a most
humorous man and will make you die of laughing. He has two brothers on
the professional stage, and he is for all practical purposes a
professional actor himself; but he thinks two brothers on the regular
stage are enough. He plays parts in public, however, and is a comedian
who has nothing left to learn. If he chokes you off this nonsense about
the stage, it will be a good thing done.”
I could hardly believe my ears, for Mr. Blades described just such a man
as I hungered to know. Whether he would be interested in an utter
beginner was, of course, only too doubtful; but, as Mr. Blades said that
he was like a ray of sunshine, I hoped with a great hope that he would
shine on me a little if he had time.
My impatience for Monday to come was so extreme that during Sunday I
took the opportunity to go down to Trafalgar Square and look at the
outside of our West-End Branch. Trafalgar Square is naturally too well
known to need any lengthened description from me; but I may mention that
the National Gallery stands on one side, and our West-End Branch on the
other, with Nelson’s Monument between them. Nothing else really matters.
Our premises were stately without ostentation, and richly but not
gaudily decorated. The entrance was hidden under a shutter of iron, and
the windows were also concealed in the same manner. The building
ascended to some rather striking architectural details at the top and
was, upon the whole, an imposing pile, though without the gloomy
grandeur of the Head Office in Threadneedle Street, E.C.
Punctually to time, I arrived on the following morning, and was greeted
with the utmost friendliness. The Manager of this most important Branch
was called Mr. Harrison, and I consider that he was the most dignified
man I had yet beheld in the flesh. For pure dignity it would have been
difficult to find his equal. He said little, but pursued the even tenor
of his way and controlled the great business of the Branch with a skill
begot of long practice. He was slightly bald, very handsome, and very
thoughtful. His thoughts were, of course, hidden from the staff, as a
rule, but he was a most popular Chief, and everybody took a pride in
doing what he wished with the utmost possible celerity. He did not rule
by fear; but by his great dignity and aristocratic manner. He was never
flustered, never excited and never annoyed; and this fine manner, of
course, left its mark on the whole of the West-End Branch. In fact, I
found there was a different atmosphere here, and the staff looked at
life from rather a new point of view. I felt my mind broadening from the
moment I arrived. The men all had such wide ideas. This, no doubt, was
owing to the proximity of Buckingham Palace to some extent; also the
Houses of Parliament and the National Gallery. It is true that I was
next door to the Bank of England in the City, and that, in its way,
enlarges the mind on financial subjects; but to be in a place where
Queen Victoria might drive past the window at any moment, and yet leave
the staff perfectly cool and collected, was very impressive. In fact,
there was an element of awe.
Mr. Bright proved to be my personal Chief, and indicated my work with
affability combined with speed. He was a very masculine man, with blue
eyes of extraordinary brightness, and a genial manner of tolerant
amusement at life in general, that doubtless concealed immense
experience of it. He was fair and athletic, and had a most unusual way
of coming to the heart of a matter and not wasting words. He feared
nothing, and his knowledge of his official duties was, of course,
supreme. But he carried it lightly.
I had never seen the great British public coming in to insure its goods
and chat-tels before; but they continually poured in at our West-End
Branch; and to see Mr. Bright and Mr. Bewes and Mr. Walter stand at the
counters of the office and deal with the fearful complexities of the
highest insurance problems was a great experience for me.
Mr. Walter was even more wonderful than Mr. Blades said he would be. His
knowledge ranged over every branch of Art, and he was just as much at
home in a Surrey-side theatre, laughing at a melodrama, as he was in the
National Gallery among masterpieces of painting, or at St. James’ Hall
listening to the thunderous intricacies of Wagnerian music. He
understood nearly as much as Mr. Merridew about the stage, and was
himself an accomplished histrion, well known to many professional
actors. At Trafalgar Square there are, of course, great natural
facilities for approaching the Strand; and Mr. Walter had availed
himself of them, with a result that he knew the haunts of the sock and
buskin as few knew them.
In person he was of medium stature, with an eye wherein Momus had made
his home. He extracted humour from everything, and his facial command
was such that while his audience might be convulsed with merriment, not
a muscle moved. Occasionally he and Mr. Bright would indulge in a war of
wit across the floor of the house, as they say; and on these occasions
it was utterly impossible for me to pursue my avocation of registering
policies.
Of Mr. Bewes I need only say that he was a silent and an obviously
brainy man. He had a short black beard, a penetrating glance from behind
his spectacles, and was a Roman Catholic. Of this important but
secretive man I can mention one highly interesting fact. He never went
out of doors for lunch, but descended to a lower chamber, where one
might have a chop or steak, cooked by the Senior Messenger of the
West-End Branch. Mr. Bewes always had a chop, except on Friday, when,
being a staunch Catholic, he denied himself this trifling pleasure. But
the extraordinary thing was that he never varied his lunch, or branched
off in the direction of a steak or sausage. Thus he ate five chops every
week, year after year, excepting when away for his holidays, when, of
course, the staff did not know what he ate. For fifty weeks in the year
he persisted in this course, with a result that the simplest statistics
will show he ate two hundred and fifty chops per annum. A further
calculation was also possible, which produced even more remarkable
results, for it transpired that Mr. Bewes had been in the Apollo Fire
Office for forty-eight years, and had persisted in his regular habits
within the memory of man. Therefore, it followed that during his
official career he had devoured no less than twelve thousand chops! One
might work this out in sheep, and doubtless find that Mr. Bewes had
consumed a very considerable flock in his time. His health was good, and
his memory unimpaired; but he was now nearly seventy years of age, and
proposed retiring on a pension fairly soon.
It gave one a good idea of the age and solidity of the Apollo, when one
heard of a life like this devoted to its service. In fact, in the words
of the poet, it can truly be said that “men may come and men may go; but
the Apollo goes on forever.”
It would be impossible to describe how Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter
enlarged my mind. They did not do it on purpose, or in an improving
manner, but they just showed me, in casual conversation, their knowledge
of life and its realities and the things that matter and the things that
do not. And over it all was cast a mantle of easy tolerance and patience
with the fools who came to insure, and the idiots who didn’t understand
the very rudiments of the science, and the occasional shady customers,
who gave wrong change and pretended they had made a mistake, and so on.
It was the hand of steel in the velvet glove with Mr. Bright. I should
think he must have been the hardest man to score off in the entire
Apollo. His repartee was of the deadliest sort, and, on principle, he
never allowed himself to be worsted in argument. You might have
described his line of action as a combination of the _suaviter in modo_
with the _fortiter in re_; while Mr. Walter trusted almost entirely to
the _suaviter_ style, combined, of course, with a sense of the ludicrous
which constantly enabled him to see funny things that nobody else saw.
He was a mine of rich and rare quotations from the dramatists, and would
apply these with an aptitude little short of miraculous. He would make
puns at a moment’s provocation, and his draughtsmanship, in the
impressionistic style, was such that he would make a lightning sketch of
a man to his very face, while engaged in insuring his household goods.
Occasionally Mr. Harrison felt called upon to check the universal
hilarity; but he always did it with reluctance, for he also had a keen
sense of humour, especially for jokes involving the Irish dialect.
Into this cheerful and exhilarating hive of industry I came, to find
everybody most kindly disposed towards me. The work was, of course,
hard; but it was lightened by occasional gleams of Mr. Bright or Mr.
Walter; while another most excellent and genial man also came and went.
He flitted in and out mysteriously, and proved to be called Mr.
Macdonald. He was, therefore, of Scottish origin, and his work concerned
the mysteries of Life Insurance. The science is even more abstruse than
Fire Insurance, and needs what is known as the actuarial instinct. This
must be rare, for I heard Mr. Bright declare to Mr. Macdonald that the
great actuary is born, not made. Then there were also surveyors—men of
special knowledge—who also came and went, and other junior clerks, who
were rather more austere to me than the senior ones.
It was here, on the third day of my visit, that Mr. Bright kindly
corrected my views with regard to demand and supply and other pressing
questions of the day.
In politics I was a Conservative, but only by birth, and only up to the
time of going to the West-End Branch of the Apollo. Then, under the
greater knowledge and more philosophical intelligence of Mr. Bright, I
began to calm down. It happened over a matter of a tailor. My Aunt
Augusta, womanlike, attached importance to my clothes, and now directed
me to buy a new suit. Mr. Walter was good enough to tell me of his
tailor, who was a man of temperate views in the matter of cost, and I
went to him. It was not far to go, as his emporium happened to be next
door to the Apollo.
Well, this man was distinctly haughty. He was a large, amply-made man
with a yellowish beard and full eye; and he looked down the sides of his
nose like a camel. I told him that I had come to be measured for a suit
of clothes, and he showed no interest whatever, but merely beckoned a
lesser man and left me with him. Presently he strolled back, while I was
being measured; and when, to show the gulf there must always be fixed,
as I thought, between the customer and the tradesman, I hoped his
business was prosperous and offered to let him have a pound or two in
advance. At this he appeared amused, and asked me if I was one of those
American millionaires in disguise. In fact, he was not content with
putting himself on my level, but rather clearly indicated that he
thought himself above it. This view from a tailor had all the charm of
novelty to me; but I felt myself grow rather hot, and in my annoyance I
tried a repartee in the style of Mr. Bright.
“Is it true that it takes nine tailors to make a man?” I said.
“It depends,” he answered. “I expect it would take nine men like you to
make a tailor.”
Now, even to a tyro in repartee, it was of course apparent that I had
got the worst of this. There ought to have been something further to add
on my side; but my admiration at such a brilliant flash of badinage was
such that I could only laugh with the greatest heartiness. I was,
however, merely laughing at the humour, not at the beast of a tailor;
and when I had recovered from my amusement, I told him so.
I said: “That’s jolly good; but, at the same time, you oughtn’t to talk
to new customers in this withering way. You don’t know who I am. I may
be the son of a duke, and worth very likely ten or fifteen pounds a year
to you for the rest of your life.”
It then transpired that he had seen me in the office, when he went to
pay his own fire insurance a few days before.
“You have a yarn with Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter,” he said. “They’ll tell
you a thing or two well worth your knowing.”
I fell in with this suggestion and submitted the case to Mr. Bright, who
spoke in the following manner:
“To put on side, because you think you are more important than that
tailor, is absolute footle, my dear Corkey,” he declared. “That tailor,
if you’ll excuse me for saying so, is worth forty thousand of you. He’s
richer; he’s wiser; he’s smarter; he’s worked harder; he knows more;
he’s traveled farther; he’s better-looking; in fact, he can give you
yards and a beating in every possible direction; so why the deuce do you
think yourself, in some mysterious way, the better man? Where do you
reckon you’re better?”
“Well,” I said, “my father was a soldier and died for his country.”
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Bright. “Your father was a hero, no doubt,
and any properly minded person would have treated him as such. But
you’re not. You haven’t died for your country, by the look of you, and
haven’t the smallest intention of doing so. My grandfather was a bishop;
but I don’t expect people to ask for my blessing on the strength of it.
There’s only one exception to the rule that one man’s as good as
another, my dear Corkey—_only one exception_.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“The only exception is—when he’s a jolly sight better!” answered Mr.
Bright. “You must judge of a man by himself, not by the accidents of
birth or cash. The tailor next door has won his place in the world by
hard work and sense and brains; therefore he has a perfect right to
reserve his judgment, so far as you are concerned, until he sees what
you are good for. And, seeing that he’s got probably a thousand pounds
to every one of your shillings, the spectacle of you advancing a quid on
your clothes—to keep him going—naturally amused him.”
This was my first introduction to political economy and the rights of
man, so naturally I found it exceedingly interesting. In fact, so much
did the force of Mr. Bright’s arguments impress me that, in a week, I
was an advanced Socialist, and going too far altogether in the opposite
direction.
But now an exciting event claims my attention; for at the West-End
Branch a fresh duty devolved upon me, and I had to attend upon the
Directors of the Company, when they dropped in from time to time to put
their signatures to the new policies. Every policy had the signature of
two Directors upon it, otherwise it was not a complete legal document;
so the great men came occasionally, and I had to stand beside them,
blotting-paper in hand, and blot their names as they wrote them, and
draw away each policy in turn as it was signed.
Judge of my great pleasure when who should arrive one morning to put his
signature to policies but my old friend, Mr. Pepys! I carried in a
hundred policies for his attention, and beamed upon him with the utmost
heartiness; but only to be met by a look of polite, but complete,
unrecognition! It was, as it were, a further illustration of the great
gulf between capital and labour—Mr. Pepys, of course, standing for the
former commodity. But, though he did not associate me with his past, Mr.
Pepys was exceedingly polite. He adopted the genial manner of a man who
falls in with a strange but friendly dog, and encourages it.
After signing twenty policies, he tired and sighed and had to rest.
Then, being the kindliest of men, he addressed a few words to me on an
official subject.
“Had any fires lately?” he asked.
But I didn’t know in the least, as fires, of course, belonged to one of
the highest branches of the subject. I chanced it, however, and said:
“Nothing of much consequence, sir.”
“Good!” he answered. Then he was seized with a sudden fit of caution.
“But you keep an account of them, don’t you?” he asked, almost
anxiously.
This afforded me the extraordinary experience of finding a man who knew
less about fire insurance than I did; and I remembered how, in the far
past, months ago, Mr. Pepys had spoken slightingly of his knowledge of
the business. I felt quite an old, trusty official after this—one of the
faithful, dogged sort of men who are actuated solely by enthusiasm for
their masters’ interests. I slightly patronised Mr. Pepys, but not
intentionally. I said:
“Oh yes, sir; we don’t allow them to pass.”
“That’s right!” he replied, and showed a satisfaction which may or may
not have been genuine.
“They are all embalmed in the archives of the Society, sir,” I added.
He looked at me doubtfully after this, and didn’t seem to be sure of his
ground. At any rate, it silenced him; to my disappointment he made no
further remarks about fire insurance or anything else, but took up his
pen again, sighed, and signed a few more policies. At this moment
another director entered, and Mr. Pepys wished him good morning, and he
said, “Morning!”
He was a very different type of Capital. He was, in fact, a retired
general officer of some repute in his time, which was, however, long
past. He had recently been made a peer, and from being called Lamb had
soared into a title and taken the name of some place that interested him
in Scotland. I doubt, when selecting his title, whether he had
remembered the policies of the Apollo; for while “Lamb” is a word you
can dash off in a second, “Corrievairacktown” is not. He laboured
frightfully at it and heaved like a ship at sea, and sometimes actually
forgot how to spell it! He jerked his snow-white head abruptly, as
though he had acquired the habit of dodging cannon-balls, and from time
to time he gave off little sharp explosions of breath, like a cat when
trodden upon. This man realised his own greatness in a way that perhaps
nobody else did. He was a Conservative to his soldierly backbone, and I
think sometimes, when he came to the Apollo for the tame occupation of
signing policies, he was almost ashamed that a man, who had seen many a
shot fired in anger and moved like an avenging spirit under the hurtling
wings of the God of War, should have come down to signing policies for
such homely things as—cooking utensils, and so on.
To illustrate the nerve and courage of Mr. Bright at a supreme crisis, I
may tell you that in his younger days he had once been attending to
General Sir Hastings Lamb, as he was then, and during an explosion on
the part of the gallant warrior he hurled fifty or sixty policies in a
heap to the ground. Doubtless, he expected Mr. Bright to bound forward
and pick them up again; but far from it!
Mr. Bright, well versed in Capital and Labour and Political Economy and
the Rights of Man, knew that he was not there to pick policies off the
floor which an irritated representative of Capital had thrown upon it.
He knew the machinery of the office provided that, in such a
contingency, he must ring the Board Room bell and summon a messenger,
for the subordinate task of putting the policies on the table again.
Accordingly, he summoned a messenger and directed him how to proceed.
Whereupon, the representative of Capital subsided instantly and signed
the rest of the policies like the lamb he was in those days. Undoubtedly
you might call this a triumph for the sacred rights of man; and it also
showed that Mr. Bright’s moral courage was equal to his physical, which
is saying a great deal.