Eddy said, “Why?” He hoped they would have. It was his hope that Unity would circulate all round the English-speaking world.
“Because we don’t stand for anything,” said Arnold, and Eddy returned, “We stand for everything. We stand for Truth. We are of Use.”
“We stand for a lot of lies, too,” Arnold pointed out, because he thought it was lies to say that Tariff Reform and Referendums and Democracies were good things, and that Everyone should Vote, and that Plays should be Censored, and the Prayer Book Revised, and lots of other things. Eddy, who knew that Arnold knew that he for his part thought these things true, did not trouble to say so again.
Arnold added, “Not, of course, that standing for lies is any check on circulation; quite the contrary; but it’s dangerous to mix them up with the truth; you confuse people’s minds. The fact that I do not approve of any existing form of government or constitution of society, and that you approve of all, makes us harmonious collaborators, but hardly gives us, as an editorial body, enough insight into the mind of the average potential reader, who as a rule prefers, quite definitely prefers, one party or one state of things to another; has, in fact, no patience with any other, and does not in the least wish to be told how admirable it is. And if he does—if a country squire, for instance, really does want to hear a eulogy of Free Trade—(there may be a few such squires, possibly, hidden in the home counties; I doubt it, but there may)—well, there is the Spectator ready to his hand. The Spectator, which has the incidental advantage of not disgusting him on the next page with ‘A Word for a Free Drama,’ or ‘Socialism as Synonymous with Christianity.’ If, on the other hand, as might conceivably happen, he desired to hear the praises of Tariff Reform—well, there are the Times and the Morning Post, both organs that he knows and trusts. And if, by any wild chance, in an undisciplined mood, he craved for an attack on the censorship, or other insubordinate sentiments, he might find at any rate a few to go on with in, say, the English Review. Or, if it is Socialism he wants to hear about (and I never yet met the land-owner, did you, who hadn’t Socialism on the brain; it’s a class obsession), there is the New Statesman, so bright, thorough, and reliable. Or, if he wants to learn the point of view and the grievances of his tenant farmers or his agricultural labourers, without asking them, he can read books on ‘The Tyranny of the Countryside,’ or take in the Vineyard. Anyhow, where does Unity come in? I don’t see it, I’m afraid. It would be different if we were merely or mainly literary, but we’re frankly political. To be political without being partisan is savourless, like an egg without salt. It doesn’t go down. Liberals don’t like, while reading a paper, to be hit in the eye by long articles headed ‘Toryism as the only Basis.’ Unionists don’t care to open at a page inscribed ‘The Need for Home Rule.’ Socialists object to being confronted by articles on ‘Liberty as an Ideal.’ No one wants to see exploited and held up for admiration the ideals of others antagonistic to their own. You yourself wouldn’t read an article—not a long article, anyhow—called ‘Party Warfare as the Ideal.’ At least you might, because you’re that kind of lunatic, but few would. That is why we shall not sell well, when people have got over buying us because we’re new.”
Eddy merely said, “We’re good. We’re interesting. Look at this drawing of Jane’s; and this thing of Le Moine’s. They by themselves should sell us, as mere art and literature. There are lots of people who’ll let us have any politics we like if we give them things as good as that with them.”
But Arnold jeered at the idea of there being enough readers who cared for good work to make a paper pay. “The majority care for bad, unfortunately.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Eddy, “the factory articles are making a stir among employers. Here’s a letter that came this morning.”
Arnold read it.
“He thinks it’s his factory we meant, apparently. Rather annoyed, he sounds. ‘Does not know if we purpose a series on the same subject’—nor if so what’s going to get put into it, I suppose. I imagine he suspects one of his own hands of being the author. It wasn’t, though, was it; it was a jam man. And very temperate in tone it was; most unreasonable of any employer to cavil at it. The remarks were quite general, too; mainly to the effect that all factories were unwholesome, and all days too long; statements that can hardly be disputed even by the proudest employer. I expect he’s more afraid of what’s coming than of what’s come already.”
“Anyhow,” said Eddy, “he’s coming. In about ten minutes, too. Shall I see him, or you?”