The stones and the old timber of some of its buildings are like the yellow parchment of some ancient manuscript, scribbled4 with faded history. There are chop-houses, and taverns5, where the wigged6 and knee-breeched Puffs7 sat writing their tit-bits of scandal for the fashionable intelligence of the day; where Addison and Steele tapped their snuff-boxes and planned their letters to Mr Spectator; or, further back in the years, Shakespeare himself went Strandwards from Blackfriars up the narrow street where the gabled houses leaned to one another. Look, you can almost see the ghosts of Fleet Street pacing out of the little courts and alleys8 that lie athwart the street: you know that massive bulk of a man, walking ponderously9, in drab-coloured coat and knee-breeches, and rather untidy stockings above[45] his heavy, buckled10 shoes. He is in the street of a million words; other ghosts jostle him, and in the gallant11 company one sees Charles Dickens, dropping his manuscript stealthily into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court; and all the dead men who have given their lives to the street, some of them foolishly wanton in wine—dead men shot in the wars, or burnt with fever, or wrecked12 with the struggle, come back ... come back to Fleet Street, to look wistfully at the lit windows, and listen to the throbbing13 music of the presses.
It lures14 you like a siren, coaxing15 with soft promises of prizes to be wrested16 from it: you shall be the favoured of the gods, and you become Sisyphus, rolling his stone eternally, day after day. Here are the things of life that you covet17, they shall be yours, says the Street: and you are Tantalus, reaching out everlastingly18, and grasping nothing, until your heart is parched19 within you. You shall be strong and mighty20, it says, sapping your strength like Delilah, until you pull down the pillars of hope, and fall buried beneath the reckless ruins of your career.
Once you have answered the voice of the siren, you are taken in the magic spell. Beat your breast, and exclaim in agony, but nothing will avail, for if you leave the Street, the quiet world will seem void for ever, and, as the ghosts burn backwards21 through space, so shall you return to the old agitations22 and longings23.
This was the Street to which young Humphrey Quain came on a January morning, riding triumphantly26 on the top of an omnibus. As he passed the fantastic Griffin, with its open jaws27 and monstrous28 scaly29 wings, like a warder guarding those who would escape, Fleet Street seemed to be the Street of Conquest.
[46]
It was a rare, crisp day, with a touch of frost in the air, and the sun clear and high in the heavens, above the tangle30 of wires and cables that almost roofed the Street. The traffic was beating up and down, with frequent blocks, here and there, as a heavy hooded31 van staggered up from Whitefriars or Bouverie Street. It was nearly mid-day, and the light two-wheeled carts were pouring out of Shoe Lane, or coming from Salisbury Square with the early editions of the afternoon papers. Newsboys on bicycles, with sacks of papers swung over their backs, seemed to be risking their lives every moment as they flashed into the thick of the traffic, clinging to hansoms, and sliding between drays and omnibuses, out of the press, until they could get through the narrow neck of Fleet Street towards the West.
Humphrey breathed deeply as he looked about him: the names of the newspapers were blazoned32 everywhere. Heavens! what a world of paper and ink this was, to be sure. The doors, the windows and the letter-boxes bore the titles of newspapers—all the newspapers that were. Every room, on every floor, was inhabited by the representatives of some paper or other: on the musty top windows he could read the titles of journals in Canada and Australia; great golden letters bulged33 across the buildings telling of familiar newspapers. The houses were an odd mixture of modernity and antiquity34, they jostled each other in their cramped35 space; narrow buildings squeezed between high, red offices with plate-glass windows, and over and above the irregular roofs the wires spread thin threads against the sky, wires that gave and received news from the uttermost ends of the earth.
The letters in white enamel36 or gold on the windows told of Paris and Berlin, of Rotterdam and Vienna; here they marked the home of a religious paper, there[47] the office of a trade paper, and hard by it The Sportsman, with its windows full of prize-fighters' photographs and a massive silver belt in a plush case, for the possession of which Porky Smith and Jewey Brown were coming to blows. Every branch of human activity, all the intricate complexities37 of modern life seemed to be represented either by a room or the fifth part of a room in Fleet Street.
And, rising out of the riot of narrow buildings, huddled38 closely to each other, the great homes of the daily papers stood up as landmarks39. Here were the London offices of the important provincial40 papers, which spoke41 nightly with Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield and Liverpool—plate-glass windows and large letters gave them a handsome enough appearance, but they looked comparatively insignificant42 beside the tall red building of The Sentinel, and the new green-glazed establishment of The Wire, while the grey, enormous offices of The Day dwarfed43 them all. There was something solid about The Day as it stood four-square firmly in the Street, with its great letters sprawled44 across the front, golden by day, and golden with electric light in the night-time.
It seemed almost as if The Day had nudged the other great papers out of Fleet Street, for in the side streets, in Bouverie Street, and Whitefriars Street, and in Shoe Lane, the remainder of the London papers found their homes, with the exception of the high-toned Morning Courier, which found itself at the western end of the Street past the Law Courts.
But The Day, with its arrogant45 dome-tower (lit up at nights), its swinging glass doors and braided commissionaires, was the most typical of the modern newspaper world. It was just such a place as Humphrey Quain had dreamed. The swing doors[48] were always on the move; the people were coming and going quickly—here was action, and all the movement and the business of life.
For a few moments Humphrey hesitated a little nervously46. He was a minute or two in advance of the time appointed for the interview, and he stood there, irresolute47, filled with a wondrous48 sense of expectancy49, among the crowd that hurried to and fro. He noticed on the other side of the road a bearded man, in a silk hat and a frayed50 overcoat, sitting on a doorstep at the top of Whitefriars Street. The man had a keen, intelligent face with blue eyes. It was the shiny silk hat that leapt to Humphrey's notice, it seemed so out of keeping with the rest of the man's clothes. Besides, why should a man in a silk hat sit on a doorstep.... Years later the man was still there, every day, sitting sphinx-like, surveying those who passed him ... he must have marked their faces grow older.
The commissionaire regarded Humphrey critically. It was the business of the commissionaire in The Day office, especially, to be a judge of character. He divided callers into two main classes—those who wanted to see the editor, and those whom the editor wanted to see. The two classes were quite distinct, and there were few who, like Humphrey Quain, belonged to both.
"Yes, by appointment," said Humphrey, a little proudly, to the commissionaire's cold question that rose like a wall to so many callers.
He was shown into a little room, and made to fill up a form—name, address and business. The next minute a boy in a green uniform led him up a flight of stairs, through the ante-room where the pink-cheeked Trinder sat typewriting diligently51, and so to Ferrol's room.
Humphrey had a confused impression of a broad,[49] high room, of a man sitting at a desk miles away at the farther end of the room by the half-curtained window; of red walls hung with files of newspapers, and the contents bills of that day; of a Louis XVI. clock, all scrolls52 and cupids, bringing a queer touch of drawing-room leisure with it; and of telephones and buttons that surrounded the man at the desk. The buttons fascinated him: he saw that thin slips of ivory labelled them with the names of the different departments—Editor, News-Editor, Reporters, Sub-Editors, Advertisement Manager, Business Manager, Literary Editor, Sporting Editor, City Editor, Foreign Editor—the whole of the building, with all its workers, seemed to be within the reach of Ferrol's fingers. He was like the captain of a great ship, navigating53 the paper from this room, steering54 daily through the perilous55 journey. Humphrey remembered afterwards how he was possessed56 with an odd longing24; he wanted to see Ferrol press all the buttons at once, to hear the bones of the paper, the framework on which it was built up each day, come clattering57 and rattling58 into the room.
Ferrol looked up from his papers, pushed back his round, upholstered chair that tipped slightly on its axis59, and the room with its red walls and carpet suddenly faded from Humphrey, and he became aware only of a face that looked at him ... a masterful, powerful face, strong in every feature, from the thick, closely-knit eyebrows60 below the broad forehead, to the round, large chin. There was something insistent61 in this face of Ferrol, with its steel-coloured eyes, that hardened or softened62 with his moods, and its black moustache, that bulged heavily over his upper lip and gave him an appearance of rugged63 ferocity.
Humphrey felt as if he were a squirming thing under the microscope.... That was the way of Ferrol—everything[50] depended on the first impression that he received; all his being was tautened to receive that first impression. It was a narrow system of judging character, but he made few mistakes.... They were quickly corrected. He never forgave those who deceived him by wearing a mask over their true selves.
There is not the slightest doubt that Humphrey felt a little nervous—who would not, with Ferrol's eyes boring through one?—but he knew that great issues were at stake. He carried his head high, and his eyes met Ferrol's without a quiver. Thus he stood by the table for five seconds, though it seemed as many minutes to him, until Ferrol told him to sit down.
"So you want to come on The Day," was the way Ferrol began. They were eye to eye all the while.
"Yes, sir," said Humphrey, briskly. Somehow or other, with the sound of Ferrol's voice all his nervousness departed. It was the silence that had made him feel awkward.
"Let's see.... Ah! yes; you've been on an Easterham paper, haven't you?"
"Three years," Humphrey replied.
"That all the experience you've had?"
Humphrey smiled faintly. "That's all," he said.
"What do you want to do?"
Here was an amazing question for which he was totally unprepared. It had never occurred to him that he would be asked to make his choice. His eyes wandered to the buttons.... What did he want to do? He made an answer that sounded futile64 and foolish to him.
"I want to get on," he stammered65, hesitatingly, with a picture of his aunt rising mentally before him.
Ferrol's eyes twinkled. It was a magic answer if Humphrey had but known. Most of the others he saw[51] wanted to do descriptive writing, they had literary kinks in them, or wanted to have roving commissions abroad.... None of them wanted to start at the bottom.
"Well, this is the place for young men who want to get on, you know," said Ferrol. "It's hard work...." He turned away and consulted some papers. "I think I'll give you a chance," he said.
The clock struck twelve, and it sounded to Humphrey that a chime of joy-bells had flooded the room with triumphant25 music.
"When can you start?" Ferrol asked.
"Next week," Humphrey said.
"You can start at three pounds a week." Ferrol pressed a button. Trinder appeared. "Ask Mr Rivers if he can come," said Ferrol.
Humphrey thought only of three pounds a week ... three pounds!
"I'll put you on the reporting staff," Ferrol remarked. Then he smiled. "We'll see how you get on...." There was a pause. (Three pounds a week! Three pounds a week!)
He looked up as the door opened and saw an extraordinarily66 virile-looking person come into the room—a man with the face of a refined pugilist, with large square-shaped hands and an expression of impish perkiness in his eyes.
"Come in, Rivers," said Ferrol. "This is Mr Quain."
Mr Rivers shook his hand with an air of polite restraint. "Mr Rivers is our News Editor," explained Ferrol, and then to Rivers, "I have engaged Mr Quain for a trial month, Rivers."
Rivers smiled whimsically. "You're not a genius, I hope," he said to Humphrey. The spirit of humour that flashed across Rivers's face, twinkling his eyes and the[52] corners of his mouth and dimpling his cheeks, made Humphrey laugh a negative reply.
"That's all right," said Rivers, his face so creased67 in smiles until his beady eyes threatened to disappear altogether. "The last genius we had," he said, with a nod to Ferrol, "let us down horribly on the Bermondsey murder story."
The telephone bell rang. "I'll see him now," said Ferrol through the telephone, and Humphrey took that as a signal that the interview was ended. Ferrol shook hands with him, and once more he felt himself the target of those steel-grey eyes that held in them the stern remorselessness of strength.
"Good-looking young man," said Rivers, as the door closed behind Humphrey. "Hope he'll shape all right."
"I hope so," Ferrol echoed.... And he was glad that Rivers had praised Humphrey, for he was pleased with the upright, manly68 bearing of the lad, the quick intelligence of the face, and he had noticed the frank eyes, the smooth skin and the dark hair that had belonged in the lost years to Margaret.
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1
eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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wigged
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| adj.戴假发的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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ponderously
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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16
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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25
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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32
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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33
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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40
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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41
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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43
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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45
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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46
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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47
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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48
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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49
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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50
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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52
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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53
navigating
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的现在分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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54
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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55
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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56
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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57
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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58
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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59
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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60
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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61
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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62
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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63
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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64
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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65
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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67
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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68
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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