she has a wonderful art in illustration, and, as the reader probably
knows already, she writes of metaphysical matters with a rare charm
and vividness. So far there has been no collection of her papers
published, but they are to be found not only in the BLUE WEEKLY
columns but scattered about the monthlies; many people must be
familiar with her style. It was an intention we did much to realise
before our private downfall, that we would use the BLUE WEEKLY to
maintain a stream of suggestion against crude thinking, and at last
scarcely a week passed but some popular distinction, some large
imposing generalisation, was touched to flaccidity by her pen or
mine…
I was at great pains to give my philosophical, political, and social
matter the best literary and critical backing we could get in
London. I hunted sedulously for good descriptive writing and good
criticism; I was indefatigable in my readiness to hear and consider,
if not to accept advice; I watched every corner of the paper, and
had a dozen men alert to get me special matter of the sort that
draws in the unattached reader. The chief danger on the literary
side of a weekly is that it should fall into the hands of some
particular school, and this I watched for closely. It seems
impossible to get vividness of apprehension and breadth of view
together in the same critic. So it falls to the wise editor to
secure the first and impose the second. Directly I detected the
shrill partisan note in our criticism, the attempt to puff a poor
thing because it was "in the right direction," or damn a vigorous
piece of work because it wasn't, I tackled the man and had it out
with him. Our pay was good enough for that to matter a good deal…
Our distinctive little blue and white poster kept up its neat
persistent appeal to the public eye, and before 1911 was out, the
BLUE WEEKLY was printing twenty pages of publishers' advertisements,
and went into all the clubs in London and three-quarters of the
country houses where week-end parties gather together. Its sale by
newsagents and bookstalls grew steadily. One got more and more the
reassuring sense of being discussed, and influencing discussion.
5
Our office was at the very top of a big building near the end of
Adelphi Terrace; the main window beside my desk, a big undivided
window of plate glass, looked out upon Cleopatra's Needle, the
corner of the Hotel Cecil, the fine arches of Waterloo Bridge, and
the long sweep of south bank with its shot towers and chimneys, past
Bankside to the dimly seen piers of the great bridge below the
Tower. The dome of St. Paul's just floated into view on the left
against the hotel facade. By night and day, in every light and
atmosphere, it was a beautiful and various view, alive as a
throbbing heart; a perpetual flow of traffic ploughed and splashed
the streaming silver of the river, and by night the shapes of things
became velvet black and grey, and the water a shining mirror of
steel, wearing coruscating gems of light. In the foreground the
Embankment trams sailed glowing by, across the water advertisements
flashed and flickered, trains went and came and a rolling drift of
smoke reflected unseen fires. By day that spectacle was sometimes a
marvel of shining wet and wind-cleared atmosphere, sometimes a
mystery of drifting fog, sometimes a miracle of crowded details,
minutely fine.
As I think of that view, so variously spacious in effect, Iam back
there, and this sunlit paper might be lamp-lit and lying on my old
desk. I see it all again, feel it all again. In the foreground is
a green shaded lamp and crumpled galley slips and paged proofs and
letters, two or three papers in manuscript, and so forth. In the
shadows are chairs and another table bearing papers and books, a
rotating bookcase dimly seen, a long window seat black in the
darkness, and then the cool unbroken spectacle of the window. How
often I would watch some tram-car, some string of barges go from me
slowly out of sight. The people were black animalculae by day,
clustering, collecting, dispersing, by night, they were phantom
face-specks coming, vanishing, stirring obscurely between light and
shade.
I recall many hours at my desk in that room before the crisis came,
hours full of the peculiar happiness of effective strenuous work.
Once some piece of writing went on, holding me intent and forgetful
of time until I looked up from the warm circle of my electric lamp
to see the eastward sky above the pale silhouette of the Tower
Bridge, flushed and banded brightly with the dawn.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
THE BESETTING OF SEX
1
Art is selection and so is most autobiography. But Iam concerned
with a more tangled business than selection, I want to show a
contemporary man in relation to the state and social usage, and the
social organism in relation to that man. To tell my story at all I
have to simplify. I have given now the broad lines of my political
development, and how I passed from my initial liberal-socialism to
the conception of a constructive aristocracy. I have tried to set