The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 37

The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 37

"No," said

these people, "you must do the same as you did last summer;" which, in

other words was--go on tramp, starve, and be shelterless as you were

before. And then in the deep silence which followed, for I was

speechless with indignation, a voice soft and low, but emphatic and

significant, said--"We strongly advise you to do this, but you really

must not write any more begging letters. Mr. Davies, we do not

consider ourselves justified in putting your case before the

committee." That ended the interview, and I left them with the one

sarcastic remark, which I could not keep unsaid, "that I had not come

there with any great hopes of receiving benefit, and that I was not

leaving greatly disappointed at this result." These people passed

judgment in a few minutes, and were so confident that they did not

think it worth while to call at the Farmhouse for the opinion of a man

who had known me for a considerable time. No doubt they had made

another mistake. For, some time before this, an old pensioner, an old

lodger of the Farmhouse, had interviewed these people, telling them a

story of poverty, and of starving wife and children. The story was a

fabrication from beginning to end, yet they assisted this man on his

bare word to the extent of ten shillings, so as to enable him to lie

about the Farmhouse drunk for several days. Then, some days after

this, the Charity Organisation called at the Farmhouse to see the

manager, and to make enquiries of this man whom they had so

mysteriously befriended. "What," cried that gentleman, "you have

assisted this drunken fellow on his bare word, and when I send cases

to you, that I know are deserving, you sternly refuse to entertain

them." Perhaps it was this instance, fresh in their minds, which gave

them an idea that no good could come out of the Farmhouse. Yet, as far

as my experience goes, the object of these people was not so much to

do good, but to prevent good from being done; for here, for the second

time, they stepped between me and one who might have rendered me some

aid. What I found the most distasteful part of their system was the

way in which they conceal the name of a would-be benefactor. I had

sent six books, three to men and three to women. One man had replied

with a kind encouraging letter and the price of the book enclosed, and

one of the two others had written to the Organisation, but, on no

account, would they mention his name. Now, when these people answer a

letter of enquiry, they have no other option than to say one of two

things--either that the applicant is an impostor, and deserves no

notice, or that the case is genuine and deserving consideration. They,

of course, answered in the former strain, withholding the gentleman's

name, so as to leave no opportunity to vindicate one's character.

 

The interference of these people put me on my mettle, and I was

determined not to follow their advice and tramp through another hard

winter. I had something like three shillings, at the time of this

interview; so, buying two shillings' worth of stamps, I posted a dozen

books that very night, being still warm with resentment. The result of

these were four kind letters, each containing the price of the book.

Only one or two were returned to me, whether purchased or not, which

was done at my own wish. Before I again became penniless, off went

another dozen. In this way I disposed of some sixty copies, with more

or less success; some of these well known people receiving the book as

an unacknowledged gift, and others quickly forwarding the price of the

same. The strangest part of this experience was this: that people,

from whom I expected sympathy, having seen their names so often

mentioned as champions of unfortunate cases, received the book as a

gift; whilst others, from whom I had less hope, because they appeared

sarcastic and unfeeling in their writings, returned the price of the

work. The Manager was astonished at my receiving no answer from two or

three well known people whom he had recommended. At last, after

disposing of sixty copies in this way, two well known writers

corresponded with me, one of whom I saw personally, and they both

promised to do something through the press. Relying on these promises,

I sent away no more copies, being enabled to wait a week or two owing

to the kindness of a playwriter, an Irishman, as to whose mental

qualification the world is divided, but whose heart is unquestionably

great. Private recognition was certainly not long forthcoming, which

was soon followed by a notice in a leading daily paper, and in a

literary paper of the same week. These led to others, to interviews

and a kindness that more than made amends for past indifference. It

was all like a dream. In my most conceited moments I had not expected

such an amount of praise, and they gathered in favour as they came,

until one wave came stronger than the others and threw me breathless

of all conceit, for I felt myself unworthy of it, and of the wonderful

sea on which I had embarked. Sleep was out of the question, and new

work was impossible. What surprised me agreeably was the reticence of

my fellow lodgers, who all knew, but mentioned nothing in my hearing

that was in any way disconcerting. They were, perhaps, a little less

familiar, but showed not the least disrespect in their reserve, as

would most certainly have been the case if I had succeeded to a

peerage or an immense fortune. The lines on Irish Tim, which were

several times quoted, were a continual worry to me, thinking some of

the more waggish lodgers would bring them to his notice. Poor Tim, no

doubt, would have sulked, resenting this publicity, but, if the truth

were known, I would as soon do Tim a good turn as any other man in

the Farmhouse. Boozy Bob, I suppose, had been shown his name in print;

but Bob thought it a great honour to be called Boozy; so, when he

stood drunk before me, with his face beaming with smiles of gratitude

for making use of his name, at the same time saying--"Good evening,

Mr. Davies, how are you?"--I at once understood the meaning of this

unusual civility, and we both fell a-laughing, but nothing more was

said. What a lot of decent, honest fellows these were: "You must not

be surprised," said a gentleman to me, at that time, "to meet less

sincere men than these in other walks of life." I shall consider

myself fortunate in not doing so.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIII

 

SUCCESS

 

 

However much cause I may have at some future date to complain of

severe criticism, I have certainly no complaint up to the present

against any connected with the making of books. Some half a dozen

lines of work were submitted to publishers, and three times I received

letters with a view to publication, which, of course, failed through

the want of friends to assist me. Knowing how rough and unequal the

work was, and that critics could find--if so inclined--plenty to

justify extreme severity, has undeceived me as to my former

unreasonable opinion, that critics were more prone to cavil than to

praise. I would like it to be understood that I say this without

bidding for any future indulgence; for I am thankful to any man who

will show me my faults, and am always open to advice.

 

As I have said, the first notice appeared in a leading daily paper, a

full column, in which I saw myself described, a rough sketch of the

ups and downs of my life, in short telling sentences, with quotations

from my work. The effect of this was almost instantaneous, for

correspondence immediately followed. Letters came by every post. Of

course, all my thoughts had been concentrated on the reading world, so

that I was much surprised when two young men came to the house and

requested a photo for an illustrated paper. I could not oblige them at

that moment, but with a heart overflowing with gratitude was persuaded

to accompany them at once to the nearest photographer, now that

interest was at its high point. "Now," said one of these young men,

when I was on my way with them, delighted with this mission--"now, if

you could give me a few lines on the war in the East, to go with your

photograph, it would be of much greater interest to the public." Not

caring to blow the froth off my mind in this indifferent manner, and

feeling too conscientious to take advantage of public interest by

writing in such haste, which, to tell the truth, appeared a difficult

task--I quickly turned the subject to other matters, thinking he would

soon forget his request. But it was of no use; for, every other step

or two, he wanted to be informed whether I was concentrating my mind

on the war. At last, being under the impression that my natural

reserve and feeble attempts at conversation would lead him to believe

that something was being done in that direction, I made a great effort

to become voluble, and, I believe, succeeded until the photograph was

taken. When I left him, his last question was--"What about the war?"

 

The next morning, after the last mentioned episode, being Sunday, I

was enjoying a stroll through the city, which is so very quiet on this

one morning of the week; and was thinking of nothing else but my own

affairs, more especially of the photo that was soon to appear. The

street was forsaken, with the exception--yes, there they were: two men

with a camera, and both of them looking my way, anxiously awaiting my

approach. "This," I said to myself, "is fame with a vengeance." I felt

a little mortification at being expected to undergo this operation in

the public streets. One of these photographers quickly stepped forward

to meet me, and, smiling blandly, requested me kindly to stand for a

moment where I was. It certainly shocked and mortified me more to

learn that they desired to photograph an old fashioned dwelling of

brick and mortar, and that they considered my presence as no adornment

to the front.

 

A few days after this first review, a critic of fine literature, who

had interested himself privately on my behalf, sent a notice to a

weekly literary paper; and it was the respect due to this man's name

that drew the attention of some other papers of good standing, for

their representatives mentioned this man's name with every respect,

knowing, at the same time, that he would not waste his hours on what

was absolutely worthless.

 

What kind hearted correspondents I had, and what offers they made,

what questions they asked! and all of them received grateful

answers--with one exception. This gentleman, who did not require a

book, presumably being more interested in the strange conditions under

which I had lived and worked, offered me a pleasant home in the

country, where I could cultivate my talents surrounded with a little

more comfort and quieter scenes. The letter was long, delightful,

poetical, and worked warmly on my imagination, sentence for sentence;

until the last sentence came like a douche of cold water on a warm

body--"Of course," finished this gentleman, "it is necessary to supply

me with strict references as to honesty and respectability." Where was

I to get these? after having failed to get a library form signed,

which would entitle me to borrow books. No doubt the manager of the

Farmhouse would have willingly done the latter, as was afterwards done

by him, but I was then under the impression that the keeper of a

lodging house was ineligible for such a purpose, knowing this to have

been the case elsewhere. Where could I obtain these references, seeing

that I knew no one who would take the responsibility of doing such a

petty kindness as signing a library form? This gentleman's letter, I

need scarcely say, remained unanswered, for which, I believe, none

will blame me.

 

Several other letters were received, which I found extremely difficult

to answer. One addressed me familiarly in rhyme, beginning--"Dear

brother poet, brother Will;" and went on to propose that we two should

take a firm stand together, side by side, to the everlasting benefit

of poetry and posterity.

 

Another had written verse, and would be glad to find a publisher, and

another could, and would, do me many a good turn, if I felt inclined

to correct his work, and to add lines here and there as needed. Not

for a moment would I hold these people to ridicule, but it brought to

mind that I was without a publisher for my own work, and I believed,

in all sincerity, that better work than mine might go begging, as it

often had.

 

In the main my correspondents were kind, sympathetic and sensible,

making genuine offers of assistance, for which I thanked them with all

my heart, but thought myself now beyond the necessity of accepting them.