it is impossible to point a finger at any date in this period of the career of humphrey quain and say, "this is the day on which he fell in love with elizabeth carr." for the days merged gradually into weeks and months, and they met at irregular intervals, and out of their meetings something new and definite came to humphrey.
there was no sudden transition from acquaintance to friendship, from friendship to love. he could not mark the stages of the development of their knowledge of one another. but before he was aware of its true meaning, once again the spirit of yearning and unrest took hold of him.
this time, his love was different from that abrupt love-affair with lilian filmer. then untutored youth had broken its bounds, and love had swept him from his foothold. he had been ardent, passionate in those days, the fervour of love had intoxicated him; but now, with this slow attachment, his love was a different quality. lilian, coming fresh upon the horizon of his hopes, bringing with her the promise of all that he needed in those days, had made a physical appeal to him. always there was working, subconsciously, in his mind, the thought of her desirability. she offered him material rewards; they were attracted to each other by the mutual disadvantages of their surroundings.
their meeting, their abortive love-affair was the expression of the everlasting desire of the companionship of sex: they were, both of them, groping after things half-understood, towards a goal that looked glamorous in the incomplete vision they had of it.
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but elizabeth carr appealed to the intellectual in him. no doubt the old primeval forces compelled him towards her, but they were far below the surface of his thoughts whenever the vision of elizabeth rose before him. he could not describe the hold she had on his imagination. her influence had been so subtly and gently exercised, that he had not noticed the power of it, until now he was dominated by the thought of her. the finer spirit that lies dormant in every man, except in the very basest, put forth its wings and awoke. in little questions of everyday honour he began to see things from elizabeth's point of view: little, trivial questions of his dealings with mankind which jarred on elizabeth's own code of morality. unquestionably, he was better for her influence, better from the spiritual standpoint, but weaker altogether when judged by the standard of everyday life. elizabeth preached the gospel of altruism not directly, but insidiously, and he found himself adopting her views.
hitherto his had been the grim doctrine of worldly success: those who would be strong must be ruthless and remorseless; there must be no halting consideration of the feelings of others. though he did not realize it, his absorption of elizabeth's ideals was weakening him, inevitably.
the charity of her work, with its gentle benevolence, was reflected in all her life. she gained happiness by self-sacrifice, and peace by warring against social evils. their characters and temperaments conflicted whenever they met, and yet, after each meeting, it seemed to humphrey that their friendship was arising on a firmer basis. sometimes the shock of their opposing personalities would leave behind it quarrelsome echoes—not the echoes of an open quarrel, but the unmistakable suggestion of disagreement and dissatisfaction. he blundered about, trying to fathom her wishes, but[241] her individuality remained always to him a problem, inscrutably complex.
there were times, it seemed, when their spirits were in perfect agreement, when he was raised high in the wonder of the esteem in which she, obviously, held him. those were the times when he came first to realize that he loved her: and the audacity of his discovery filled him with dismay. he knew that she was altogether superior; she lived exalted in thought and deed in a plane far above him. they met, it is true, over tea, or at a theatre, just as if they both inhabited the same sphere, but, in spite of that, they were as separate planets, whirling in their own orbits, rushing together for an instant, meeting for a fraction of time, and soaring away once more until again they drew together.
and, even when understanding of her seemed nearest to him, she suddenly receded from his grasp. a change of voice, a change of expression, a movement of her body—what was it? he did not know. he only knew that something he had said had separated them: she could become, in a moment, distant and unattainable, another woman altogether, coldly antagonistic.
yet, by the old symptoms, he knew that he loved her. she persisted in his thoughts with an alarming result. he found himself pausing, pen in hand, at his desk in the reporters' room, thinking, "would elizabeth be pleased with this?..." and an impulse that needed all his strength to combat seized him to abandon the set form into which the day had cast his thoughts, to criticize and to express his own individual impression, whether they accorded or not with the views held by the day. this was altogether new and disturbing. he was a mouthpiece whose mere duty was to record the words of others by interviews, or a painter to present pictures and not opinions. conscience and convictions were luxuries that belonged to the critics of art, and the leader-writers.
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there came to him days of unqualified unhappiness, when he was possessed by doubts. for the first time he mistrusted the value of his work: he began to see that the fundamental truths of life were outside his scope. cities might be festering with immorality and slums; vice might parade openly, but these things could never be touched on in a daily newspaper. nobody was to blame, least of all those who controlled the newspaper, for it is not the business of a daily to deal with the morals of existence.... it is not easy to analyse his feelings ... but, as a result of all this vague tormenting and apprehension, the old thrill at the power and wonder of the office which throbbed with daily activities forsook him, leaving in its place nothing but the desolating knowledge of the littleness and futility of it all.
the phase passed: the variety of the work enthralled him again. he travelled to distant towns and remote villages, and whenever he was in the grip of his work, all thoughts of elizabeth carr departed from him. he obtained extraordinary glimpses into the lives of other people; he acquired a knowledge into the working of things that was denied to those who only gleaned their knowledge second-hand from the things that he and others wrote. he saw things all day long: the plottings, the achievements and the failures of mankind.
the other men of the street flitted into his life and out again at the decree of circumstance. for a week, perhaps, half-a-dozen of them would be thrown together in some part of england. they met at the hotels; they formed friendships, and they parted again, knowing, with the fatalism of their craft, that they would forgather perhaps next week, perhaps next year. there was no sentiment in these friendships.
there were the photographers, too. a new race of men had come into fleet street, claiming kinship with[243] the reporters, yet divided by difference of thought and outlook upon news. they were remarkable in their way, the product of the picture daily paper. and their coming marked the doom of the artist illustrators in the newspapers. they were the newest of the new generation, shattering every conception even of the younger men of the manner in which a journalist should perform his duty. the photographers were drawn, as a class, from the studios and operating-rooms of the professional photographer. they forsook the posing of babies and young men in frock coats for the photographic quest of news.
their finger-tips and nails were brown with the stain of iodoform, and for them there was no concealment of their profession, for they went through life with the burden of their cameras slung over their shoulders. their audacity was astounding, even to humphrey and his friends, who knew the necessity of audacity themselves.
they ranged themselves outside the law courts, or the houses of parliament, or wherever one of the many interests of the day centred, and when a litigant or a cabinet minister appeared, a dozen men closed towards him, their cameras at the level of their eyes, and a dozen intermittent "clicking" noises marked the achievement of their quest. they saw life in pictures; a speech was nothing to them but the open mouth and the raised arm of the speaker; the poignancy of death left them unmoved before the need of focus and exposure.
the difficulties of their work seemed so immense to humphrey that reporting seemed child's play beside it. for not only had they actually to be on the spot, to overcome prejudices and barriers, but, once there, they had to select and group their picture, and to reckon with the light and time. and though the photographers and the reporters were far removed from one another by the external nature of their work, though neither class saw life from the identical standpoint, yet they were interdependent,[244] and linked by the same ceaseless forces working towards one common end....
sometimes, also, in out-of-the-way places, humphrey met men who reminded him of his days on the easterham gazette, men with attenuated minds who were even more absorbed in their work than the london reporter. they had a shameless way of never concealing their identity: they were always the "reporter"; some of them never saw the dignity of their calling, they were careless of speech and appearance, seeming to place themselves on the level of inferior people, and submitting to the undisguised contempt of the little local authorities, who spoke to them scornfully as "you reporters."
yet, among these, humphrey found scholars and men of strange experience. their salaries were absurdly low for the work they did—thirty shillings to two pounds a week was the average; their lives were a thousand times more dismal and humdrum than the lives of the london men. and, in spite of these, many london men sighed for the pleasant country work. whenever humphrey heard a man speak of the leisure and peace of country journalism, he told them of easterham and its dreadful monotony.
he had interior glimpses, too, of other newspaper offices; not a town in the kingdom without its sheet of printed paper, and its reporter recording the day or the week. these offices held his imagination by their sameness. whether it was belfast or birmingham, edinburgh or exeter, their plan was uniform. there was always the narrow room, with its paper-strewn desks or tables at which the reporters sat; always the same air of hazy smoke hovered level with the electric-light bulbs; the same type of alert-eyed men, with the taut lips and frown of those who think swiftly, came into the room, smoking a cigarette or a pipe (but rarely a cigar), and brought with them a familiar suggestion of careless[245] good-fellowship as they sat down to the work of transcribing their notes. and, always, wherever he went, the pungent smell of printer's ink was in his nostrils, the metallic rustle of shifting types from the linotype room, and the deep, rumbling sound of machinery in his ears.
ah, when he got down to the machines that moved it all, he probed to the depths of the simple greatness. those big, strong men who worked below it all, and lived by the labour of it, made a parable of the whole social system. of what avail would all their writing be, if it were not for the men and the machines below?
once he went down the stone steps to the high-roofed basement of the day. he went at midnight, just when the printing was about to begin. it was as if he had penetrated into the utmost secrecy of the office. here were the things of which nobody seemed to think; here, again, were men in their aprons stained with grease and oily ink; men with bare, strong arms lifting the curved plates of metal, and fixing them to the cylinders; each man doing his allotted work, oiling a bearing here, tightening a nut there, moving busily about the mighty growth of machinery that filled the brightly lit room. the sight of that tangle of iron and steel confused his thoughts. he understood nothing of it all. those great machines rose before him, towering massively to the roof, tier upon tier of black and glittering metal, with rods and cranks, and weird gaps here and there showing their bowels of polished steel. the enormous rolls of paper which he had seen carried on carts and hoisted many a time into the paper-department of the office, were waiting by each machine, threaded on to a rod of steel. their blank whiteness reflected the light of the electric lamps.
and then, suddenly, a red light glowed, and somebody shouted, and a man turned a small wheel in the wall—just[246] as a motor-car driver turns the wheel of the steering gear—and the great machines broke into thunderous noises. the din was appalling. it was loud and continuous, and the clamour of it deadened the ears.
humphrey looked and saw the white reels of paper spinning, and, through the forest of iron and steel, he could trace a cascade of running whiteness, as the paper was spun between the rollers, up and down and across, until it met the curved plates of type, and ran beneath them, to reappear black with the printed words. and the columns looked like blurred, thin lines in the incredible rapidity of the passing paper. the moments were magical; he tried to follow the course of this everlasting ribbon of paper, but he could not. he saw it disappear and come into his vision again. he saw it speed and vanish along a triangular slab of steel, downwards into the invisible intricacies that took it and folded it into two and four and eight pages, cut it and patted it into shape, and tossed it out, quire after quire, a living, printed thing—the day.
and everywhere, wherever he glanced at the turbulent, roaring machines, little screws were working, silent wheels were spinning, small, thin rods were moving almost imperceptibly to and fro, to and fro. he saw great rollers touching the gutters of ink, transmitting their inky touch to other rollers, spinning round and round and round; and the paper, speeding through it all, from the great white web to the folded sheets that were snatched up by waiting men and bundled into a lift, upwards into the night where the carts were waiting.
and the force of the noise was dreadful, and the power of the machines perpetual and relentless as they flung from them, with such terrible ease, hundreds and hundreds of thousands of square, folded papers.
they looked as if they could crush the lives of men in the swift snare of their machinery.
