The Irrational Knot | Page 2

no means a flight of fancy. For you must not
suppose, because I am a man of letters, that I never tried to earn an
honest living. I began trying to commit that sin against my nature when
I was fifteen, and persevered, from youthful timidity and diffidence,
until I was twenty-three. My last attempt was in 1879, when a company
was formed in London to exploit an ingenious invention by Mr.
Thomas Alva Edison--a much too ingenious invention as it proved,
being nothing less than a telephone of such stentorian efficiency that it
bellowed your most private communications all over the house instead
of whispering them with some sort of discretion. This was not what the
British stockbroker wanted; so the company was soon merged in the
National Telephone Company, after making a place for itself in the
history of literature, quite unintentionally, by providing me with a job.
Whilst the Edison Telephone Company lasted, it crowded the basement
of a huge pile of offices in Queen Victoria Street with American
artificers. These deluded and romantic men gave me a glimpse of the
skilled proletariat of the United States. They sang obsolete sentimental
songs with genuine emotion; and their language was frightful even to
an Irishman. They worked with a ferocious energy which was out of all
proportion to the actual result achieved. Indomitably resolved to assert
their republican manhood by taking no orders from a tall-hatted

Englishman whose stiff politeness covered his conviction that they
were, relatively to himself, inferior and common persons, they insisted
on being slave-driven with genuine American oaths by a genuine free
and equal American foreman. They utterly despised the artfully slow
British workman who did as little for his wages as he possibly could;
never hurried himself; and had a deep reverence for anyone whose
pocket could be tapped by respectful behavior. Need I add that they
were contemptuously wondered at by this same British workman as a
parcel of outlandish adult boys, who sweated themselves for their
employer's benefit instead of looking after their own interests? They
adored Mr. Edison as the greatest man of all time in every possible
department of science, art and philosophy, and execrated Mr. Graham
Bell, the inventor of the rival telephone, as his Satanic adversary; but
each of them had (or pretended to have) on the brink of completion, an
improvement on the telephone, usually a new transmitter. They were
free-souled creatures, excellent company: sensitive, cheerful, and
profane; liars, braggarts, and hustlers; with an air of making slow old
England hum which never left them even when, as often happened,
they were wrestling with difficulties of their own making, or struggling
in no-thoroughfares from which they had to be retrieved like strayed
sheep by Englishmen without imagination enough to go wrong.
In this environment I remained for some months. As I was interested in
physics and had read Tyndall and Helmholtz, besides having learnt
something in Ireland through a fortunate friendship with a cousin of Mr.
Graham Bell who was also a chemist and physicist, I was, I believe, the
only person in the entire establishment who knew the current scientific
explanation of telephony; and as I soon struck up a friendship with our
official lecturer, a Colchester man whose strong point was
pre-scientific agriculture, I often discharged his duties for him in a
manner which, I am persuaded, laid the foundation of Mr. Edison's
London reputation: my sole reward being my boyish delight in the
half-concealed incredulity of our visitors (who were convinced by the
hoarsely startling utterances of the telephone that the speaker, alleged
by me to be twenty miles away, was really using a speaking-trumpet in
the next room), and their obvious uncertainty, when the demonstration
was over, as to whether they ought to tip me or not: a question they
either decided in the negative or never decided at all; for I never got

anything.
So much for my electrical engineer! To get him into contact with
fashionable society before he became famous was also a problem easily
solved. I knew of three English peers who actually preferred physical
laboratories to stables, and scientific experts to gamekeepers: in fact,
one of the experts was a friend of mine. And I knew from personal
experience that if science brings men of all ranks into contact, art,
especially music, does the same for men and women. An electrician
who can play an accompaniment can go anywhere and know anybody.
As far as mere access and acquaintance go there are no class barriers
for him. My difficulty was not to get my hero into society, but to give
any sort of plausibility to my picture of society when I got him into it. I
lacked the touch of the literary diner-out; and I had, as the reader