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    Chapter 3

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    Chapter 3
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    WHAT I SHOULD BE



    My mother was a great reader, and with ten minutes to spare before
    the starch was ready would begin the 'Decline and Fall' - and
    finish it, too, that winter. Foreign words in the text annoyed her
    and made her bemoan her want of a classical education - she had
    only attended a Dame's school during some easy months - but she
    never passed the foreign words by until their meaning was explained
    to her, and when next she and they met it was as acquaintances,
    which I think was clever of her. One of her delights was to learn
    from me scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her conversation
    with 'colleged men.' I have come upon her in lonely places, such
    as the stair-head or the east room, muttering these quotations
    aloud to herself, and I well remember how she would say to the
    visitors, 'Ay, ay, it's very true, Doctor, but as you know, "Eheu
    fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni,"' or 'Sal, Mr. So-and-so,
    my lassie is thriving well, but would it no' be more to the point
    to say, "O matra pulchra filia pulchrior"?' which astounded them
    very much if she managed to reach the end without being flung, but
    usually she had a fit of laughing in the middle, and so they found
    her out.

    Biography and exploration were her favourite reading, for choice
    the biography of men who had been good to their mothers, and she
    liked the explorers to be alive so that she could shudder at the
    thought of their venturing forth again; but though she expressed a
    hope that they would have the sense to stay at home henceforth, she
    gleamed with admiration when they disappointed her. In later days
    I had a friend who was an African explorer, and she was in two
    minds about him; he was one of the most engrossing of mortals to
    her, she admired him prodigiously, pictured him at the head of his
    caravan, now attacked by savages, now by wild beasts, and adored
    him for the uneasy hours he gave her, but she was also afraid that
    he wanted to take me with him, and then she thought he should be
    put down by law. Explorers' mothers also interested her very much;
    the books might tell her nothing about them, but she could create
    them for herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them when
    they had got no news of him for six months. Yet there were times
    when she grudged him to them - as the day when he returned
    victorious. Then what was before her eyes was not the son coming
    marching home again but an old woman peering for him round the
    window curtain and trying not to look uplifted. The newspaper
    reports would be about the son, but my mother's comment was 'She's
    a proud woman this night.'

    We read many books together when I was a boy, 'Robinson Crusoe'
    being the first (and the second), and the 'Arabian Nights' should
    have been the next, for we got it out of the library (a penny for
    three days), but on discovering that they were nights when we had
    paid for knights we sent that volume packing, and I have curled my
    lips at it ever since. 'The Pilgrim's Progress' we had in the
    house (it was as common a possession as a dresser-head), and so
    enamoured of it was I that I turned our garden into sloughs of
    Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian on his travels and
    a buffet-stool for his burden, but when I dragged my mother out to
    see my handiwork she was scared, and I felt for days, with a
    certain elation, that I had been a dark character. Besides reading
    every book we could hire or borrow I also bought one now and again,
    and while buying (it was the occupation of weeks) I read, standing
    at the counter, most of the other books in the shop, which is
    perhaps the most exquisite way of reading. And I took in a
    magazine called 'Sunshine,' the most delicious periodical, I am
    sure, of any day. It cost a halfpenny or a penny a month, and
    always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale about the
    dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown and
    I suppose never seen in my native town. This romantic little
    creature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot eat water-
    cress even now without emotion. I lay in bed wondering what she
    would be up to in the next number; I have lost trout because when
    they nibbled my mind was wandering with her; my early life was
    embittered by her not arriving regularly on the first of the month.
    I know not whether it was owing to her loitering on the way one
    month to an extent flesh and blood could not bear, or because we
    had exhausted the penny library, but on a day I conceived a
    glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my mother, then
    desirous of making progress with her new clouty hearthrug. The
    notion was nothing short of this, why should I not write the tales
    myself? I did write them - in the garret - but they by no means
    helped her to get on with her work, for when I finished a chapter I
    bounded downstairs to read it to her, and so short were the
    chapters, so ready was the pen, that I was back with new manuscript
    before another clout had been added to the rug. Authorship seemed,
    like her bannock-baking, to consist of running between two points.
    They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who writes of
    adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their like
    in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert islands,
    enchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on black
    chargers, and round the first corner a lady selling water-cress.

    At twelve or thereabout I put the literary calling to bed for a
    time, having gone to a school where cricket and football were more
    esteemed, but during the year before I went to the university, it
    woke up and I wrote great part of a three-volume novel. The
    publisher replied that the sum for which he would print it was a
    hundred and - however, that was not the important point (I had
    sixpence): where he stabbed us both was in writing that he
    considered me a 'clever lady.' I replied stiffly that I was a
    gentleman, and since then I have kept that manuscript concealed. I
    looked through it lately, and, oh, but it is dull! I defy any one
    to read it.

    The malignancy of publishers, however, could not turn me back.
    From the day on which I first tasted blood in the garret my mind
    was made up; there could be no hum-dreadful-drum profession for me;
    literature was my game. It was not highly thought of by those who
    wished me well. I remember being asked by two maiden ladies, about
    the time I left the university, what I was to be, and when I
    replied brazenly, 'An author,' they flung up their hands, and one
    exclaimed reproachfully, 'And you an M.A.!' My mother's views at
    first were not dissimilar; for long she took mine jestingly as
    something I would grow out of, and afterwards they hurt her so that
    I tried to give them up. To be a minister - that she thought was
    among the fairest prospects, but she was a very ambitious woman,
    and sometimes she would add, half scared at her appetite, that
    there were ministers who had become professors, 'but it was not
    canny to think of such things.'

    I had one person only on my side, an old tailor, one of the fullest
    men I have known, and quite the best talker. He was a bachelor (he
    told me all that is to be known about woman), a lean man, pallid of
    face, his legs drawn up when he walked as if he was ever carrying
    something in his lap; his walks were of the shortest, from the tea-
    pot on the hob to the board on which he stitched, from the board to
    the hob, and so to bed. He might have gone out had the idea struck
    him, but in the years I knew him, the last of his brave life, I
    think he was only in the open twice, when he 'flitted' - changed
    his room for another hard by. I did not see him make these
    journeys, but I seem to see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in
    the odd atmosphere; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he raises
    the other, wondering what this is on his head, it is a hat; a faint
    smell of singed cloth goes by with him. This man had heard of my
    set of photographs of the poets and asked for a sight of them,
    which led to our first meeting. I remember how he spread them out
    on his board, and after looking long at them, turned his gaze on me
    and said solemnly,

    What can I do to be for ever known,
    And make the age to come my own?

    These lines of Cowley were new to me, but the sentiment was not
    new, and I marvelled how the old tailor could see through me so
    well. So it was strange to me to discover presently that he had
    not been thinking of me at all, but of his own young days, when
    that couplet sang in his head, and he, too, had thirsted to set off
    for Grub Street, but was afraid, and while he hesitated old age
    came, and then Death, and found him grasping a box-iron.

    I hurried home with the mouthful, but neighbours had dropped in,
    and this was for her ears only, so I drew her to the stair, and
    said imperiously,

    What can I do to be for ever known,
    And make the age to come my own?

    It was an odd request for which to draw her from a tea-table, and
    she must have been surprised, but I think she did not laugh, and in
    after years she would repeat the lines fondly, with a flush on her
    soft face. 'That is the kind you would like to be yourself!' we
    would say in jest to her, and she would reply almost passionately,
    'No, but I would be windy of being his mother.' It is possible
    that she could have been his mother had that other son lived, he
    might have managed it from sheer love of her, but for my part I can
    smile at one of those two figures on the stair now, having long
    given up the dream of being for ever known, and seeing myself more
    akin to my friend, the tailor, for as he was found at the end on
    his board, so I hope shall I be found at my handloom, doing
    honestly the work that suits me best. Who should know so well as I
    that it is but a handloom compared to the great guns that
    reverberate through the age to come? But she who stood with me on
    the stair that day was a very simple woman, accustomed all her life
    to making the most of small things, and I weaved sufficiently well
    to please her, which has been my only steadfast ambition since I
    was a little boy.

    Not less than mine became her desire that I should have my way -
    but, ah, the iron seats in that park of horrible repute, and that
    bare room at the top of many flights of stairs! While I was away
    at college she drained all available libraries for books about
    those who go to London to live by the pen, and they all told the
    same shuddering tale. London, which she never saw, was to her a
    monster that licked up country youths as they stepped from the
    train; there were the garrets in which they sat abject, and the
    park seats where they passed the night. Those park seats were the
    monster's glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them now she is
    nearer to me than when I am in any other part of London. I daresay
    that when night comes, this Hyde Park which is so gay by day, is
    haunted by the ghosts of many mothers, who run, wild-eyed, from
    seat to seat, looking for their sons.

    But if we could dodge those dreary seats she longed to see me try
    my luck, and I sought to exclude them from the picture by drawing
    maps of London with Hyde Park left out. London was as strange to
    me as to her, but long before I was shot upon it I knew it by maps,
    and drew them more accurately than I could draw them now. Many a
    time she and I took our jaunt together through the map, and were
    most gleeful, popping into telegraph offices to wire my father and
    sister that we should not be home till late, winking to my books in
    lordly shop-windows, lunching at restaurants (and remembering not
    to call it dinner), saying, 'How do?' to Mr. Alfred Tennyson when
    we passed him in Regent Street, calling at publishers' offices for
    cheque, when 'Will you take care of it, or shall I?' I asked gaily,
    and she would be certain to reply, 'I'm thinking we'd better take
    it to the bank and get the money,' for she always felt surer of
    money than of cheques; so to the bank we went ('Two tens, and the
    rest in gold'), and thence straightway (by cab) to the place where
    you buy sealskin coats for middling old ladies. But ere the laugh
    was done the park would come through the map like a blot.

    'If you could only be sure of as much as would keep body and soul
    together,' my mother would say with a sigh.

    'With something over, mother, to send to you.'

    'You couldna expect that at the start.'

    The wench I should have been courting now was journalism, that
    grisette of literature who has a smile and a hand for all
    beginners, welcoming them at the threshold, teaching them so much
    that is worth knowing, introducing them to the other lady whom they
    have worshipped from afar, showing them even how to woo her, and
    then bidding them a bright God-speed - he were an ingrate who,
    having had her joyous companionship, no longer flings her a kiss as
    they pass. But though she bears no ill-will when she is jilted,
    you must serve faithfully while you are hers, and you must seek her
    out and make much of her, and, until you can rely on her good-
    nature (note this), not a word about the other lady. When at last
    she took me in I grew so fond of her that I called her by the
    other's name, and even now I think at times that there was more fun
    in the little sister, but I began by wooing her with contributions
    that were all misfits. In an old book I find columns of notes
    about works projected at this time, nearly all to consist of essays
    on deeply uninteresting subjects; the lightest was to be a volume
    on the older satirists, beginning with Skelton and Tom Nash - the
    half of that manuscript still lies in a dusty chest - the only
    story was about Mary Queen of Scots, who was also the subject of
    many unwritten papers. Queen Mary seems to have been luring me to
    my undoing ever since I saw Holyrood, and I have a horrid fear that
    I may write that novel yet. That anything could be written about
    my native place never struck me. We had read somewhere that a
    novelist is better equipped than most of his trade if he knows
    himself and one woman, and my mother said, 'You know yourself, for
    everybody must know himself' (there never was a woman who knew less
    about herself than she), and she would add dolefully, 'But I doubt
    I'm the only woman you know well.'

    'Then I must make you my heroine,' I said lightly.

    'A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!' she said, and we both laughed at
    the notion - so little did we read the future.

    Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly
    engaged as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the
    advertisement) on an English provincial paper. At the moment I was
    as uplifted as the others, for the chance had come at last, with
    what we all regarded as a prodigious salary, but I was wanted in
    the beginning of the week, and it suddenly struck me that the
    leaders were the one thing I had always skipped. Leaders! How
    were they written? what were they about? My mother was already
    sitting triumphant among my socks, and I durst not let her see me
    quaking. I retired to ponder, and presently she came to me with
    the daily paper. Which were the leaders? she wanted to know, so
    evidently I could get no help from her. Had she any more
    newspapers? I asked, and after rummaging, she produced a few with
    which her boxes had been lined. Others, very dusty, came from
    beneath carpets, and lastly a sooty bundle was dragged down the
    chimney. Surrounded by these I sat down, and studied how to become
    a journalist.
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