The New Machiavelli. Герберт Уэллс
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that revival we associated certain other of the Sixth Form boys, and notably one for whom our enterprise was to lay the foundations of a career that has ended in the House of Lords, Arthur Cossington, now Lord Paddockhurst. Cossington was at that time a rather heavy, rather good-looking boy who was chiefly eminent in cricket, an outsider even as we were and preoccupied no doubt, had we been sufficiently detached to observe him, with private imaginings very much of the same quality and spirit as our own. He was, we were inclined to think, rather a sentimentalist, rather a poseur, he affected a concise emphatic style, played chess very well, betrayed a belief in will-power, and earned Britten’s secret hostility, Britten being a sloven, by the invariable neatness of his collars and ties. He came into our magazine with a vigour that we found extremely surprising and unwelcome.
Britten and I had wanted to write. We had indeed figured our project modestly as a manuscript magazine of satirical, liberal and brilliant literature by which in some rather inexplicable way the vague tumult of ideas that teemed within us was to find form and expression; Cossington, it was manifest from the outset, wanted neither to write nor writing, but a magazine. I remember the inaugural meeting in Shoesmith major’s study – we had had great trouble in getting it together – and how effectually Cossington bolted with the proposal.
“I think we fellows ought to run a magazine,” said Cossington. “The school used to have one. A school like this ought to have a magazine.”
“The last one died in ‘84,” said Shoesmith from the hearthrug. “Called the OBSERVER. Rot rather.”
“Bad title,” said Cossington.
“There was a TATLER before that,” said Britten, sitting on the writing table at the window that was closed to deaden the cries of the Lower School at play, and clashing his boots together.
“We want something suggestive of City Merchants.”
“CITY MERCHANDIZE,” said Britten.
“Too fanciful. What of ARVONIAN? Richard Arvon was our founder, and it seems almost a duty – ”
“They call them all – usians or – onians,” said Britten.
“I like CITY MERCHANDIZE,” I said. “We could probably find a quotation to suggest – oh! mixed good things.”
Cossington regarded me abstractedly.
“Don’t want to put the accent on the City, do we?” said Shoesmith, who had a feeling for county families, and Naylor supported him by a murmur of approval.
“We ought to call it the ARVONIAN,” decided Cossington, “and we might very well have underneath, ‘With which is incorporated the OBSERVER.’ That picks up the old traditions, makes an appeal to old boys and all that, and it gives us something to print under the title.”
I still held out for CITY MERCHANDIZE, which had taken my fancy. “Some of the chaps’ people won’t like it,” said Naylor, “certain not to. And it sounds Rum.”
“Sounds Weird,” said a boy who had not hitherto spoken.
“We aren’t going to do anything Queer,” said Shoesmith, pointedly not looking at Britten.
The question of the title had manifestly gone against us. “Oh! HAVE it ARVONIAN,” I said.
“And next, what size shall we have?” said Cossington.
“Something like MACMILLAN’S MAGAZINE – or LONGMANS’; LONGMANS’ is better because it has a whole page, not columns. It makes no end of difference to one’s effects.”
“What effects?” asked Shoesmith abruptly.
“Oh! a pause or a white line or anything. You’ve got to write closer for a double column. It’s nuggetty. You can’t get a swing on your prose.” I had discussed this thoroughly with Britten.
“If the fellows are going to write – ” began Britten.
“We ought to keep off fine writing,” said Shoesmith. “It’s cheek. I vote we don’t have any.”
“We sha’n’t get any,” said Cossington, and then as an olive branch to me, “unless Remington does a bit. Or Britten. But it’s no good making too much space for it.”
“We ought to be very careful about the writing,” said Shoesmith. “We don’t want to give ourselves away.”
“I vote we ask old Topham to see us through,” said Naylor.
Britten groaned aloud and every one regarded him. “Greek epigrams on the fellows’ names,” he said. “Small beer in ancient bottles. Let’s get a stuffed broody hen to SIT on the magazine.”
“We might do worse than a Greek epigram,” said Cossington. “One in each number. It – it impresses parents and keeps up our classical tradition. And the masters CAN help. We don’t want to antagonise them. Of course – we’ve got to departmentalise. Writing is only one section of the thing. The ARVONIAN has to stand for the school. There’s questions of space and questions of expense. We can’t turn out a great chunk of printed prose like – like wet cold toast and call it a magazine.”
Britten writhed, appreciating the image.
“There’s to be a section of sports. YOU must do that.”
“I’m not going to do any fine writing,” said Shoesmith.
“What you’ve got to do is just to list all the chaps and put a note to their play: – ‘Naylor minor must pass more. Football isn’t the place for extreme individualism.’ ‘Ammersham shapes well as half-back.’ Things like that.”
“I could do that all right,” said Shoesmith, brightening and manifestly becoming pregnant with judgments.
“One great thing about a magazine of this sort,” said Cossington, “is to mention just as many names as you can in each number. It keeps the interest alive. Chaps will turn it over looking for their own little bit. Then it all lights up for them.”
“Do you want any reports of matches?” Shoesmith broke from his meditation.
“Rather. With comments.”
“Naylor surpassed himself and negotiated the lemon safely home,” said Shoesmith.
“Shut it,” said Naylor modestly.
“Exactly,” said Cossington. “That gives us three features,” touching them off on his fingers, “Epigram, Literary Section, Sports. Then we want a section to shove anything into, a joke, a notice of anything that’s going on. So on. Our Note Book.”
“Oh, Hell!” said Britten, and clashed his boots, to the silent disapproval of every one.
“Then we want an editorial.”
“A WHAT?” cried Britten, with a note of real terror in his voice.
“Well, don’t we? Unless we have our Note Book to begin on the front page. It gives a scrappy effect to do that. We want something manly and straightforward and a bit thoughtful, about Patriotism, say, or ESPRIT DE CORPS, or After-Life.”
I looked at Britten. Hitherto we had not considered Cossington mattered very much in the world.
He went over us as a motor-car goes over a dog. There was a sort of energy about him, a new sort of energy to us; we had never realised that anything of the sort existed in the world. We were hopelessly at a disadvantage. Almost instantly we had developed a clear and detailed vision of a magazine made up of everything that was most acceptable in the magazines that flourished in the adult world about us, and had determined to make it a success. He had by a kind of instinct, as it were, synthetically plagiarised every successful magazine and breathed into this dusty mixture the breath of life. He was elected at his own suggestion managing director, with the earnest support of Shoesmith and Naylor, and conducted the magazine so successfully and brilliantly that he even got a whole back page of advertisements from the big sports shop in Holborn, and made the printers pay at the same rate for a notice of certain books of their own which they said they had inserted by inadvertency to fill up space. The only literary contribution in the