FROM THE ARCHIVES:Artist Paul Henry was prompted by the death of his friend Robert Lynd, a writer, journalist and fellow Belfastman, to recall their youth in two articles, from which this is an extract. – JOE JOYCE
When my Paris days were over I was faced by the devastating prospect of living by my work in London, where I settled in obscure lodgings in the Vauxhall Bridge road, and where, later on, Robert Lynd joined me.
He had already started writing, and was looking for a job in London, while I, without, I fear, much enthusiasm, was hawking round to publishers and editors a portfolio of what proved to be quite unsaleable drawings. We were both unpractical and, although intensely interested in living, what was known as “making a living” with our work was of minor importance. Mrs. Growther, the kind old Devonshire soul who brought up our breakfasts in the morning, said one day, when we had no money to pay her modest weekly charge: “You young gentlemen never seem to have any money, but, my word, you do see life.”
Life in London for a young artist or writer without influential friends or money can at first be a very grim struggle. I was fortunate in having a friend, Ladbroke Black, and I lost no time in introducing him to Robert. Ladbroke Black, just down from Cambridge, was working on the Morning Leader, and at once threw himself into the job of finding work for his friends.
In a few weeks, Black found work for each of us on . Lynd had worked for a time on a Manchester paper, but I was entirely ignorant of journalism. However, that did not seem to matter to Black. He swept us into the net. By this time we realised that on the strength of two or three things Robert Lynd had done for the Outlook, he was likely to be one of the big fish. For months we all worked happily. I have a vivid recollection, however, of several noisy scenes when we were late with our copy, kept the machines waiting, and were all sacked, only to be taken back the next day on promise of reformation.
Not only were we distressingly hard up at this time, but the discordant atmosphere of Pimlico was getting us both down, so we took a studio in Pembroke square, in Kensington. It had many drawbacks as a studio. The landlord was queer; had he not been queer and very unbusiness-like, I doubt very much if he would have taken us as tenants. We were not able to give any references, and I do not think we ever had an agreement, but we had somewhere to work, and that was sufficient for two very unreliable young men.
It is true that we were nearly always in debt, and our happy-go-lucky life provided many stories for our friends. It was too good to last. In 1914 I started out on a course of wanderings which took me eventually – strangely enough at Robert’s instigation – to Achill Island, while Robert, more placid in his ways than I, settled down for the rest of his life in Hampstead.