Evening fell. Blinds began to be drawn down. Lamps were lit behind them, one by one. Despair was gnawing at my heart, but still I waited.
Then, just as I was about to retire defeated, I was arrested by the appearance of a house numbered 93A.
At the first-floor window sat a man. He was writing. I could see his profile, his long untidy hair. I understood in a moment. This was no ordinary writer. He was one of those Bohemians whose wit had been exercised upon me so successfully. He was a literary man, and though he enjoyed the sport as much as any of the others he was under the absolute necessity of writing his copy up to time. Unobserved by his gay comrades, he had slipped away to his work. They were still watching me; but he, probably owing to a contract with some journal, was obliged to give up his share in their merriment and toil with his pen.
His pen fascinated me. I leaned against the railings of the house opposite, enthralled. Ever and anon he seemed to be consulting one or other of the books of reference piled up on each side of him. Doubtless he was preparing a scholarly column for a daily paper. Presently a printer’s devil would arrive, clamouring for his “copy.” I knew exactly the sort of thing that happened. I had read about it in novels.
How unerring is instinct, if properly cultivated. Hardly had the clocks struck twelve when the emissaries—there were two of them, which showed the importance of their errand—walked briskly to No. 93A, and knocked at the door.
The writer heard the knock. He rose hurriedly, and began to collect his papers. Meanwhile, the knocking had been answered from within by the shooting of bolts, noises that were followed by the apparition of a female head.
A few brief questions and the emissaries entered. A pause.
The litterateur is warning the menials that their charge is sacred; that the sheets he has produced are impossible to replace. High words. Abrupt re-opening of the front door. Struggling humanity projected on to the pavement. Three persons—my scribe in the middle, an emissary on either side—stagger strangely past me. The scribe enters the purple night only under the stony compulsion of the emissaries.
What does this mean?
I have it. The emissaries have become over-anxious. They dare not face the responsibility of conveying the priceless copy to Fleet Street. They have completely lost their nerve. They insist upon the author accompanying them to see with his own eyes that all is well. They do not wish Posterity to hand their names down to eternal infamy as “the men who lost Blank’s manuscript.”
So, greatly against his will, he is dragged off.
My vigil is rewarded. No. 93A harbours a Bohemian. Let it be inhabited also by me.
I stepped across, and rang the bell.
The answer was a piercing scream.
“Ah, ha!” I said to myself complacently, “there are more Bohemians than one, then, in this house.”
The female head again appeared.
“Not another? Oh, sir, say there ain’t another wanted,” said the head in a passionate Cockney accent.
“That is precisely what there is,” I replied. “I want–-“
“What for?”
“For something moderate.”
“Well, that’s a comfort in a wiy. Which of ‘em is it you want? The first-floor back?”
“I have no doubt the first-floor back would do quite well.”
My words had a curious effect. She scrutinised me suspiciously.
“Ho!” she said, with a sniff; “you don’t seem to care much which it is you get.”
“I don’t,” I said, “not particularly.”
“Look ‘ere,” she exclaimed, “you jest ‘op it. See? I don’t want none of your ‘arf-larks here, and, what’s more, I won’t ‘ave ‘em. I don’t believe you’re a copper at all.”
“I’m not. Far from it.”
“Then what d’yer mean coming ‘ere saying you want my first-floor back?”
“But I do. Or any other room, if that is occupied.”
“‘Ow! Room? Why didn’t yer siy so? You’ll pawdon me, sir, if I’ve said anything ‘asty-like. I thought—but my mistake.”
“Not at all. Can you let me have a room? I notice that the gentleman whom I have just seen–-“
She cut me short. I was about to explain that I was a Bohemian, too.
“‘E’s gorn for a stroll, sir. I expec’ him back every moment. ‘E’s forgot ‘is latchkey. Thet’s why I’m sitting up for ‘im. Mrs. Driver my name is, sir. That’s my name, and well known in the neighbour’ood.”
Mrs. Driver spoke earnestly, but breathlessly.
“I do not contemplate asking you, Mrs. Driver, to give me the apartments already engaged by the literary gentleman–-“
“Yes, sir,” she interpolated, “that’s wot ‘e wos, I mean is. A literary gent.”
“But have you not another room vacant?”
“The second-floor back, sir. Very comfortable, nice room, sir. Shady in the morning, and gets the setting sun.”
Had the meteorological conditions been adverse to the point of malignancy, I should have closed with her terms. Simple agreements were ratified then and there by the light of a candle in the passage, and I left the house, promising to “come in” in the course of the following afternoon.
CHAPTER 2
I EVACUATE BOHEMIA (James Orlebar Cloister’s narrative continued)
The three weeks which I spent at No. 93A mark an epoch in my life. It was during that period that I came nearest to realising my ambition to be a Bohemian; and at the end of the third week, for reasons which I shall state, I deserted Bohemia, firmly and with no longing, lingering glance behind, and settled down to the prosaic task of grubbing earnestly for money.
The second-floor back had a cupboard of a bedroom leading out of it. Even I, desirous as I was of seeing romance in everything, could not call my lodgings anything but dingy, dark, and commonplace. They were just like a million other of London’s mean lodgings. The window looked out over a sea of backyards, bounded by tall, depressing houses, and intersected by clothes-lines. A cats’ club (social, musical, and pugilistic) used to meet on the wall to the right of my window. One or two dissipated trees gave the finishing touch of gloom to the scene. Nor was the interior of the room more cheerful. The furniture had been put in during the reign of George III, and last dusted in that of William and Mary. A black horse-hair sofa ran along one wall. There was a deal table, a chair, and a rickety bookcase. It was a room for a realist to write in; and my style, such as it was, was bright and optimistic.
Once in, I set about the task of ornamenting my abode with much vigour. I had my own ideas of mural decoration. I papered the walls with editorial rejection forms, of which I was beginning to have a representative collection. Properly arranged, these look very striking. There is a good deal of variety about them. The ones I liked best were those which I received, at the rate of three a week, bearing a very pleasing picture, in green, of the publishing offices at the top of the sheet of notepaper. Scattered about in sufficient quantities, these lend an air of distinction to a room. Pearson’s Magazine also supplies a taking line in rejection forms. Punch‘s I never cared for very much. Neat, I grant you; but, to my mind, too cold. I like a touch of colour in a rejection form.
In addition to these, I purchased from the grocer at the corner a collection of pictorial advertisements. What I had really wanted was the theatrical poster, printed and signed by well-known artists. But the grocer didn’t keep them, and I was impatient to create my proper atmosphere. My next step was to buy a corncob pipe and a quantity of rank, jet-black tobacco. I hated both, and kept them more as ornaments than for use.
Then, having hacked my table about with a knife and battered it with a poker till it might have been the table of a shaggy and unrecognised genius, I settled down to work.