Part 13

Chapter 134,236 wordsPublic domain

“My work,” he said. “It does not begin again with any seriousness till next February; but it goes on then till April with terrific vigour.” He pressed his hand to his brow.

“May I know what it is?” I inquired.

“Of course,” he said. “I name pictures for the Exhibitions. The catalogues are full of my work. Here, for example, is one of my most effective titles: ‘Cold flows the Winter river.’ Not bad, is it?”

I murmured something.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he replied. “You’re thinking that it is so simple that the artist could have done it himself without my assistance. But there you’re mistaken. They can’t, not artists. They can just paint a picture--some of them--and that’s all. You’ve no idea.... Well, well.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes,” he continued; “it’s so. Now turn on. Here’s another of mine. ‘It was the Time of Roses.’ That sounds easy, no doubt; but, mark you, you have not only to know it--to have read Hood--but--and this is the secret of my success--to remember it at the right moment.” He almost glittered with pride. “Turn on,” he said. “‘East and West.’ That’s a subtle thing. Why ‘East and West’? you say. And then you see it’s an English girl--the West--holding a Japanese fan--the East. But I’m not often as tricky as that. A line of poetry is always best; or a good descriptive phrase, such as ‘Rivals,’ ‘Awaiting Spring’s Return,’ ‘The Forest Perilous,’ ‘When Nature Sleeps,’ ‘The Coming Storm,’ ‘Sunshine and Shadow,’ ‘Waiting,’ ‘The Farmer’s Daughter,’ ‘A Haunt of Ancient Peace.’”

He paused and looked at me.

“They all sound fairly automatic,” he went on; “but that’s a blind. They want doing. You know the saying, ‘Hard writing makes easy reading’; well, it’s the same with naming titles. You think it’s nothing; but that’s only because it means real work. I don’t know how to explain the gift--uncanny, no doubt. Kind friends have called it genius. But there it is.”

“I hope the financial results are proportionate,” I said.

“Ah,” he replied, “not always. But how could they be? It’s not only the expense of getting to the studios--taxis, and so forth--but the mental wear and tear. Still, I manage to live.”

IV.--ANOTHER OF OUR CONQUERORS

I used to think that the office-boy did those things. But no; it seems that it is an industry, and a very important one.

I made the discovery at a station, where the horrible and irritating word “Phast-phix” on the picture of a gum bottle held the reluctant eye.

A sleek little man in a frock-coat and a tall hat, who had evidently breakfasted on cloves, paused beside me.

“You might not think it,” he said, “to look at me; but that word that you are obviously admiring so naturally--and I may say so justly--originated with me. I invented it.”

“Why?” I asked. “Surely there are other things to do.”

He seemed pained and perplexed.

“It is my business,” he said. “That’s what I do. I have an office; I am well known. All the best firms apply to me. For example,” he went on, “suppose you were to bring out a fluid mutton----”

“Heaven forbid!” I cried.

“Yes, but suppose you were to,” he continued, “and you wanted a name for it, you would come to me.”

“Why shouldn’t I think of one myself?” I asked.

“You!” he cried. “How could you? It’s a special equipment. Just try and you’ll see. What would _you_ call it?”

“Well,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I might call it--I might call it---- Hang it, I wouldn’t do such a thing, anyway.”

“There,” he cried triumphantly, “I knew it. You would be lost. You would therefore come to me. I should charge you ten guineas, but in return you would have a name that would make your fortune.”

“What would that be?” I ventured to ask.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “for certain. ‘Sheep-O,’ perhaps. But anyway it would be a good name. ‘Flock-vim,’ perhaps. Or even ‘Mut-force.’”

I began to long for my train.

“How do you think of such things?” I inquired. “Tell me your processes.”

He laughed deprecatingly. “I have given the subject an immense deal of thought,” he said. “For many years now I have done little else; I am always on the look-out for ideas. They come to me at all kinds of odd times and in all kinds of odd places. In bed--on a ’bus--in the train.”

“This one?” I asked.

“‘Phast-phix’?” he replied. “Oh, I thought of that instantaneously. You see, the firm came to my office to say they were putting a new gum or cement on the market, and they must have a good name for it at once. I had no time. I buried my head in my hands, for a few seconds (my regular habit) and suddenly ‘Phast-phix’ flashed into it. They were enchanted.”

“I notice,” I said, “a tendency among advertisers to transform ‘f’ into ‘ph.’”

“Yes,” he said, “they got it from me. I was the first. It is far more striking, don’t you think? To spell ‘fast-fix’ correctly wouldn’t be witty at all.”

I agreed with him.

“Tell me some more of your special inspirations,” I said. “Have you done anything lately as good as ‘Phast-phix’? But no, how could you?”

“Let me see,” he remarked. “Yes, there is the name for the new pen. They came to me in a great hurry for that, too. But as it happened I had that carefully pigeon-holed, for I am always inventing names against a rainy day. I gave it to them at once--the ‘Ri-teezi.’ You have no doubt seen it advertised.”

(Haven’t I?)

“That has been an immense success,” he went on. “It’s not a bad pen, either; but the name! Ah!”

“Anything else out of the way?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I was just going to tell you. I was approached by a firm with new blacking. All it required was an absolutely knock-out name. I gave them one, and only yesterday I had a visit from the Secretary of the Company, who was present at the Board meeting when my letter was read out. He says that the thrill that ran through the directors--sober business men, mind you--at that moment was an epoch in the history of commerce.”

“Indeed,” I remarked; “and what was the name?”

“The name?” he said. “Ah, yes. It was one of my best efforts, I think. Simple, forcible, instantaneous in its message and unforgettable in form--‘Shine-O.’”

“Yes,” I said, “that should be hard to beat. I congratulate you.” And so we parted.

I wonder if there’s really any money in that fluid-mutton idea.

V.--A CASE FOR LOYOLA

We had no introduction save the circumstance that we chanced both to be taking refreshment at the same time--and, after all, is not that a bond? He did not begin to talk at once, and very likely would not have done so had not a little man come hastily in, received his drink, laid his money on the bar without a word, also without a word consumed it, and hurried out again.

“You might guess a hundred times before you could say what that man does,” said my neighbour.

I gave it up at once. He might have been anything requiring no muscle, and there are so many varieties of such professions. An insurance agent, but he was too busy and taciturn; a commission agent, but he was alone; a cheap oculist, but he would not be free at this hour. I therefore gave it up at once.

“He’s a conjurer,” said the man. “Not on the stage; goes out to parties and smokers.”

I expressed the necessary amount of surprise and satisfaction.

“Odd what different things men do,” he continued. “There’s all sorts of trades, isn’t there? I often sit for hours watching men and wondering what they are. Sometimes you can tell easily. A carpenter, for instance, often has a rule pocket in his trousers that you can spot. A lawyer’s clerk has a certain way with him. Horses always leave their mark on men, and you can tell coachmen even in plain clothes. But there’s many to baffle you.”

“Yes,” I said, “it needs a Sherlock Holmes.”

“And yet there’s some to puzzle even him,” said my man. “Now what do you think he’d make of me?”

Upon my word I couldn’t say. He was just the ordinary artisan, with a little thoughtfulness added. A small, pale man, grizzled and neat, but the clothes were old. The shininess and bagginess of the knees suggested much kneeling; nothing else gave me a hint.

“I give that up too,” I said.

“Well,” he replied, “I’ll tell you, because you’re a stranger. I’m a worm-holer.”

“A worm-holer?”

“Yes, I make worm-holes in furniture to make it seem older and fetch a better price.”

“Great heavens!” I said; “I have heard of it, of course, but I never thought to meet a worm-holer face to face. How do you do it?”

“It’s not difficult,” he said, “to make the actual holes. The trick is to make ’em look real.”

“And what becomes of the furniture?”

“America chiefly,” he said. “They like old English things there, the older the better. Guaranteed Tudor things will fetch anything ... we guarantee all ours.”

“And you have no conscience about it?” I asked.

“None,” he said. “Not any more. I had a little once, but there, the Americans are so happy with their finds it would be a shame to disappoint them. I look on myself as a benefactor to the nation now. I often lie awake at nights--I sleep badly--thinking of the collectors in U.S.A. hugging themselves with joy to think of the treasures I’ve made for them.”

The Letter N

A TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE

_Extract from the copy of Harold Pippett, only reporter for “The Eastbury Herald,” as handed to the compositor._

Inquiries which have been made by one of our representatives yield the gratifying tidings that Kildin Hall, the superb Tudor residence vacated a year or so ago by Lord Glossthorpe, is again let. The new tenant, who will be a valued addition to the neighbourhood, is Mr. Michael Stirring, a retired banker.

_From “The Eastbury Herald,” 2 Sept._

III

_Mr. Guy Lander, Estate Agent, to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

DEAR TED,--There’s a fearful bloomer in your paper this week, which you must put right as soon as you can. Mr. Stirring, who has taken Kildin, is not a baker, but a banker.

Yours, G. L.

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mr. Guy Lander._

MY DEAR GUY,--Of course it’s only a misprint. Pippett wrote “banker” right enough, and the ass of a compositor dropped out the “n.” I’ll put it right next week. No sensible person would mind.

Yours, EDWARD HEDGES.

_Mrs. Michael Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

SIR,--My attention has been called to a very serious misstatement in your paper for Saturday last. It is there stated that my husband, Mr. Michael Stirring, who has taken Kildin Hall, is a retired baker. This is absolutely false. Mr. Stirring is a retired banker, than which nothing could be much more different. Mr. Stirring is at this moment too ill to read the papers, and the slander will therefore be kept from him a little longer, but what the consequences will be when he hears of it I tremble to think. Kindly assure me that you will give the denial as much publicity as the falsehood.

Yours faithfully, AUGUSTA STIRRING.

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mrs. Michael Stirring._

The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” presents his compliments to Mrs. Stirring and begs to express his profound regret that the misprint of which she complains should have crept into his paper. That it was a misprint and not an intentional misstatement he has the reporter’s copy to prove. He will, of course, insert in the next issue of “The Eastbury Herald” a paragraph correcting the error, but he would point out to Mrs. Stirring that it was also stated in the paragraph that Mr. Stirring would be a valued addition to the neighbourhood.

VII

_Mrs. Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

SIR,--Whatever the cause of the slander, whether malice or misadventure, the fact remains that you have done a very cruel thing. I enclose a cutting from the London Press, sent me by a friend, which will show you that the calumny is becoming widely spread. Mr. Stirring is so weak and dispirited that we fear he may have got some inkling of it. Your position if he discovers the worst will be terrible.

I am, Yours faithfully, AUGUSTA STIRRING.

(THE ENCLOSURE)

_From “The Morning Star”_

SIGNS OF THE TIMES

We get the new movement in a nutshell in the report from Eastbury that Lord Glossthorpe has let his historic house to a retired baker named Stirring, etc., etc.

VIII

_From “The Eastbury Herald” 9 Sept._

ERRATUM.--In our issue last week an unfortunate misprint made us state that the new tenant of Kildin Hall was a retired baker. The word was of course banker.

_Mr. John Bridger, Baker, to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

DEAR HEDGES,--I was both pained and surprised to find a man of your principles and a friend of mine writing of bakers as you did this week. Why should you “of course” have meant a banker? Why cannot a retired baker take a fine house if he wants to? I am thoroughly ashamed of you, and wish to withdraw my advertisement from your paper.

Yours truly, JOHN BRIDGER.

_Messrs. Greenery & Bills, Steam Bakery, Dumbridge._

DEAR SIR,--After the offensive slur upon bakers in the current number of your paper we feel that we have no other course but to withdraw our advertisement; so please discontinue it from this date.

Yours faithfully, GREENERY & BILLS.

_Mrs. Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”_

SIR,--I fear you have not done your best to check the progress of your slanderous paragraph, since only this morning I received the enclosed. You will probably not be surprised to learn that through your efforts the old-world paradise of Kildin, in which we had hoped to end our days, has been rendered impossible. We could not settle in a new neighbourhood with such an initial handicap.

Yours truly, AUGUSTA STIRRING.

(THE ENCLOSURE)

_From “The Daily Leader”_

THE TRIUMPH OF DEMOCRACY

After lying empty for nearly two years Lord Glossthorpe’s country seat has been let to a retired baker named Stirring, etc., etc.

XII

_Mrs. Michael Stirring to Mr. Guy Lander._

DEAR SIR,--After the way that the good name and fame of my husband and myself have been poisoned both in the local and the London Press, we cannot think further of coming to live at Kildin Hall. Every post brings from one or other of my friends some paragraph perpetuating the lie. Kindly therefore consider the negotiations completely at an end. I am, Yours faithfully,

AUGUSTA STIRRING.

XIII

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mr. John Bridger._

DEAR BRIDGER,--You were too hasty. A man has to do the best he can. When I wrote “of course,” I meant it as a stroke of irony. In other words, I was, and am, and ever shall be, on your side. You will be glad to hear that in consequence of the whole thing I have got notice to leave, my proprietor being under obligations to Lord Glossthorpe, and you may therefore restore your patronage to “The Herald” with a clear conscience.

Yours sincerely, EDWARD HEDGES.

XIV

_The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mrs. Stirring._

The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” presents his compliments to Mrs. Stirring for the last time, and again assures her that the whole trouble grew from the natural carelessness of an overworked and underpaid compositor. He regrets sincerely the unhappiness which that mistake has caused, and looks forward to a day when retired bakers and retired bankers will be considered as equally valuable additions to a neighbourhood. In retirement, as in the grave, he likes to think of all men as equal. With renewed apologies for the foul aspersion which he cast upon Mr. and Mrs. Stirring, he begs to conclude.

P.S.--Mrs. Stirring will be pleased to hear that not only the writer but the compositor are under notice to leave.

The New Chauffeur

(_An Impossible Dialogue_)

_Employer._ And now as to wages. What do you want?

_Chauffeur._ Forty pounds a year and all found.

_E._ And what do you expect to do for that?

_C._ To keep the car in good order and drive you out in it.

_E._ Yes. You must excuse me asking so much, but you see I don’t know you at all. What kind of a temper have you?

_C._ Very good.

_E._ Yes, of course. But I mean what kind of temper have you when you are told suddenly, late on a wet night, to go to the station?

_C._ Very good.

_E._ Always?

_C._ Certainly.

_E._ Well, I want you to be quite sure. Is your temper so perfect that if I were to offer you another £5 a year to secure this point about unexpected runs in bad weather and so forth, it would make no difference?

_C._ I think it might make a difference.

_E._ And you would stand by the bargain? Never for a moment go back on it?

_C._ No.

_E._ Then we will say £45. And one other point. There are some chauffeurs so poor spirited that on an open road with no danger they will go at only, say, twelve miles an hour. You are not like that, are you?

_C._ Certainly not.

_E._ You hate going slow?

_C._ Yes.

_E._ Ah, then, that settles it, for a chauffeur who objects to go slow is no good to me. You see, I often want to go slow: in fact, always when it is very dusty and we are near cottage gardens.

_C._ Yes; but, of course, if you wished it----

_E._ You said you hated it. Now, an unwilling servant is the last thing I require.

_C._ But----

_E._ You mean that you could get over your dislike and become willing to meet my wishes?

_C._ Yes.

_E._ But willingness must be more spontaneous than that. Suppose we were to fix it up now absolutely, would you continue in that frame? You would always be willing?

_C._ Always.

_E._ Then shall we say another £5 a year? That makes £50.

_C._ Thank you very much.

_E._ Oh, no, not at all. It’s a commercial transaction. I want what you are prepared to sell. There is one other point. What kind of an expression do you wear when you are told by your employer to take out for a drive certain of his poorer friends who cannot afford more than a small tip, if any?

_C._ I am perfectly content.

_E._ Perfectly?

_C._ Well, of course, one prefers to drive one’s own employer.

_E._ Ah!--but supposing I wished all your passengers to be of equal importance and interest to you? There is no pleasure in a drive if the driver is sullen. Have you ever thought of that?

_C._ Never.

_E._ You see it now?

_C._ Yes, I see it now.

_E._ And if I were to add another £5 it would guarantee the smile?

_C._ Absolutely.

_E._ Very well, then, that makes it £55. We will leave it at that. You will begin on Monday.

The Fir-tree; Revised Version

(_Too Long after Hans Andersen_)

Once upon a time there grew a fir-tree in a great Newfoundland forest.

It had a delightful life; the rain fell on it and nourished its roots; the sun shone on it and warmed its heart; now and then came a great jolly wind to wrestle with it and try its strength. The peasant children would sit at its foot and play their games and sing their little songs, and the birds roosted or sheltered in its branches. Often the squirrels frolicked there.

But the tree, although everything was so happy in its surroundings, was not satisfied. It longed to be something else. It longed to be, as it said, important in the world.

“Well,” said the next tree to it, “you will be important; we all shall. Nothing is so important as the mast of a ship.”

But the tree would not have it. “The mast of a ship!” he said. “Pooh! I hope to be something better than that.”

Every year the surveyors came and marked a number of the taller trees, and then wood-cutters arrived and cut them down and lopped off their branches and dragged them away to the ship-builders. The tree disdainfully watched them go.

And then one day the surveyor came and made a mark on its bark.

“Ha! ha!” said a neighbour, “now you’re done for.”

But the tree laughed slyly. “I know a trick worth two of that,” he said, and he induced a squirrel to rub off the mark with its tail, so that when the wood-cutters came it was not felled after all.

“Oh,” said the swallows when they came back next year, “you here still?”

“Surely,” said the tree conceitedly. “They tried to get me, but I was too clever for them.”

“But don’t you want to be a mast,” they said, “and hold up the sails of a beautiful ship, and swim grandly all about the seas of the world, and lie in strange harbours, and hear strange voices?”

“No,” said the tree, “I don’t. I dislike the sea. It is monotonous. I want to assist in influencing the world. I want to be important.”

“Don’t be so silly,” said the swallows.

And then the tree had his wish, for one day some more wood-cutters came; but, instead of picking out the tallest and straightest trees, as they had been used to, they cut down hundreds just as they came to them.

“Look out,” said the swallows. “You’ll be cut down now whether you want it or not.”

“I want it,” said the tree. “I want to begin to influence the world.”

“Very well,” said a wood-cutter, “you shall,” and he gave the trunk a great blow with his axe, and then another and another, until down it fell.

“You won’t be a mast,” he added, “never fear. Nothing so useful! You’re going to make paper, my friend.”

“What is paper?” asked the tree of the swallows as they darted to and fro over its branches.

“We don’t know,” they said, “but we’ll ask the sparrows.”

The sparrows, who knew, told the tree. “Paper,” they said, “is the white stuff that men read from. It used to be made from rags; but it’s made from trees now because it’s cheaper.”

“Then will people read me?” asked the tree.

“Yes,” said the sparrows.

The tree nearly fainted with rapture.

“But only for a few minutes,” added the sparrows. “You’re going to be newspaper paper, not book paper.”

“All the same,” said the tree, “I might have something worth reading on me, mightn’t I? Something beautiful or grand.”

“You might,” said the sparrows, “but it isn’t very likely.”

Then the men came to haul the tree away. Poor tree, what a time it had! It was sawed into logs, and pushed, with thousands of others, into a pulping machine, and the sap oozed out of it, and it screamed with agony; and then by a dozen different processes, all extremely painful, it was made into paper.

Oh, how it wished it was still growing on the hillside with the sun and the rain, and the children at its foot, and the birds and squirrels in its branches. “I never thought the world would be like this,” it said. And the other trees in the paper all around it agreed that the world was an overrated place.

And the tree went to sleep and dreamed it was a mast, and woke up crying.

Then it was rolled into a long roll five miles long and put down into the hold of a ship, and there it lay all forlorn and sea-sick for a week. A dreadful storm raged overhead--the same wind that had once tried its strength on the hillside--and as they heard it all the trees in the paper groaned as they thought of the life of the forest and the brave days that were gone.

The worst of it was that the roll in which our tree lay was close by the foot of the mast, which came through the hold just here, and he found that they were old friends. The mast said he could think of no life so pleasant as that of a mast. “One has the sun all day,” he said, “and the stars all night; one carries men and merchandise about the world; one lies in strange harbours and sees strange and entertaining sights. One is influencing the world all the time.”

At these words the tree wept again. But he made an effort to be comforted. “You wouldn’t suggest,” he inquired timidly, “that a mast was as important, say, as a newspaper?”