Confessions of a Tradesman

by Frank Thomas Bullen

Here is the only explanation I can give of my persistence in a hopeless cause, to assign any other would be rank hypocrisy, as it would be to claim any special virtues of endurance or bravery in the face of overwhelming odds. And I have often thought that in many of us who get credit for "sticking to it" when all hope seems dead, there may be something of what Kipling quotes as the pertinacity of materials: we hold on because it has become a habit so to do. But even I could not help seeing that the crash could now not be very long delayed, especially as I dared no longer dash at my work when it came in with a rush. I have also to recall very gratefully that my chief at the office, who took a kindly interest in my struggles, and had advised me to file my petition in bankruptcy, now hinted to me very clearly that in the event of my doing so, no notice would be taken by those "up above." This cheered me immensely, for I knew he would not have told me this if he had not found good grounds for doing so. And so I went on in my quieter course awaiting the catastrophe, and absolutely uncertain as to how or when it would come.

Just about this time, I was delighted by the acceptance of an article I had written, by the editor of Chambers's Journal, a magazine which I had known and admired all my life, although I think it was called Chambers's Miscellany, "When that I was a little tiny boy," I had also imagined that the publication of a story or an article by anybody in those familiar double-column pages conferred a sort of brevet rank upon the writer of which no one could rob him; and in addition to all this the cheque which I received with (to me) amazing promptitude, was three times as much as I had previously received for an article of nearly the same length. So that altogether I felt uplifted and heartened, although the idea of literature as a profession still never occurred to me, especially as I was rapidly nearing forty, and feeling very often double that.

I fully believed that at forty a man's career was irrevocably fixed; if he had done nothing worthy of note before, he would certainly never do anything after, and all the stirring adventure of my early days had been completely overlaid by the dull drab round of my clerkly duties through so many years, to say nothing of the other jejune, undramatic, commonplace matters of which I have been writing in these pages. Only, and this I would like to lay stress upon, there was a glow of strange delight in my heart, to find that when I took my pen in hand and sat down to write, all that early life on many seas stood out bold and clear upon the background of my mind, and I lived its incidents over and over again.

Little did any of my infrequent customers think when they came into the shop and saw me writing as if for dear life, as I leaned over the counter, that I was lost in the resuscitated life of a quarter of a century before. And strange to say, at least to me, as soon as I laid down the pen all the vivid reality vanished, and I was as eager to get an order for a five-shilling frame, or to sell a couple of little pictures that I had framed on speculation, as if I had never done anything else all my life. Occasionally, however, my eagerness departed, as when one day a lady came in and purchased all the framed Mildmay texts I had in the place, telling me that she was going to present them to a church bazaar. Of course I cut the price to the bone, as we say, for I thought I must not miss so good a chance of getting rid of stock that had been on hand for a long time; so I charged her just about half what the things cost me in materials. Her order came to thirty shillings, and she said when about to pay me, "Of course you'll give me twenty-five per cent. discount, I always get that for bazaar goods!"

Even £1. 2s. 6d. would have been heartily welcome, but I rejoice to recollect that I told that wicked old harpy exactly what I thought of her, and her methods, and the system generally. This is not the place nor the time for a dissertation upon the charity of those who grind the face of the poor tradesman to supply the goods which they so ostentatiously present to the local bazaar, but I do not know that anything has aroused fiercer resentment in my heart than the behaviour of these liars, hypocrites, and thieves. Strong words, I agree, but not any stronger than the truth which is, as we know, mighty and will prevail.

Nearer and nearer drew the day of my deliverance, though of the manner in which that liberation was to be effected or of the time when it would come, I had not the remotest idea. I have omitted to say that when I took this shop I agreed with the gas company to supply me with three large incandescent gas lamps on hire. They gave a splendid light, and were called the Vertmarsche patent, I remember. I was very proud of them, although they were only mine by courtesy, as I had not paid more than three quarterly instalments off their heavy cost. But they certainly did give a tone to the appearance of the shop, and although they undoubtedly made a heavy increase in my gas bills, I had learned that economy in light in any shop was fatal to business.

However I was often congratulated upon the splendour of my lights, for the system was then new, and I was the only tradesman in the lane who had them. They were especially admired by the tenant of my old shop nearly opposite, who had for some time been endeavouring to carry on a little drapery business there. He used to come over and swap troubles with me, telling me things which made me realise that I was by no means the only sufferer in this war of ours. At last, one evening, he became exceedingly confidential, telling me that his affairs had come to a crisis, and that he was about to file his petition in bankruptcy. But, he said, his furniture was of a very good and expensive kind, and he felt it would be too bad to have it seized and sold for such a trifle as it would surely fetch at a knockout auction. Would I then let him my first-floor front room, which I had never occupied, as a store house for the best of his furniture until the clouds had rolled away? and if so, what would I charge per week. He could pay three shillings and sixpence.

At first I hesitated, for I realised the precariousness of my own position, but my visitor, mistaking my hesitation for a desire to get more money out of him, said, "I'd pay you more if I could, but I swear I have hardly a penny in the world. Do help me if you can; you may be glad of a similar lift yourself some day." Of course I hastened to assure him that nothing could well have been farther from my thoughts than the idea of exploiting his misery. Three shillings and sixpence a week would pay me well, and indeed was the sum I had been vainly asking for that room for a long time.

He thanked me effusively and departed. After closing hours, he managed to get his effects transferred to my front room, and when I saw the kind of stuff he had, I could not wonder at his anxiety lest it should fall into the hands of those harpies, who batten upon the hardships of people who have their homes broken up. A terrible tragedy indeed, when the savings of an industrious lifetime invested in furniture are knocked down for, in many cases, less shillings than they cost pounds originally, and are then immediately resold to the inner gang for an enhanced price, to appear in a few days' time in some local furnishing warehouse at almost as high a price as their original figure.

The next day, my poor little guest came the expected cropper. His shop was closed, and he disappeared with his wife and family. I felt a wistful curiosity to know how he was faring, and yet a curious diffidence lest I should learn too much for my peace of mind. And so he passed out of my thoughts, and indeed I even forgot that so large a portion of his belongings was under my roof. Truly I had quite sufficient of my own pressing personal affairs to occupy all my attention to the exclusion of any one else's troubles for the time, and that probably made me more callous than I should have been. I know that when some chance acquaintance would come in, and after a very lengthy preamble, try to borrow a few shillings, I used to wax eloquent. Yet I suppose I ought to have been quite grateful for the opportunity of giving utterance to my sorrows without being suspected of ulterior motives. But I regret to say that I got a very bad idea of my fellow-men generally about this time. So many of them known to me looked so jolly, existed so easily, dressed well, smoked good cigars, and yet when they got me by myself invariably sang a song of misery, of a hollow mask concealing a broken heart, which the temporary loan of a pound or two would mend. And when the pound or two was not forthcoming a shilling or even sixpence would be so welcome. One quality they certainly had, that of perseverance. Yes, after the most vehement exposition of the impossibility of ever borrowing anything from me, of all people in the world, they would reappear shortly on the same errand, until I shrewdly suspected, and told them as much, that they were only doing it for practice.