New Grub Street (19 page)

Things were better, as a rule, in the evening. Occasionally he
wrote a page with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and
then his heart gladdened, his hand trembled with joy.

Description of locality, deliberate analysis of character or
motive, demanded far too great an effort for his present condition.
He kept as much as possible to dialogue; the space is filled so
much more quickly, and at a pinch one can make people talk about
the paltriest incidents of life.

There came an evening when he opened the door and called to
Amy.

'What is it?' she answered from the bedroom. 'I'm busy with
Willie.'

'Come as soon as you are free.'

In ten minutes she appeared. There was apprehension on her face;
she feared he was going to lament his inability to work. Instead of
that, he told her joyfully that the first volume was finished.

'Thank goodness!' she exclaimed. 'Are you going to do any more
to-night?'

'I think not—if you will come and sit with me.'

'Willie doesn't seem very well. He can't get to sleep.'

'You would like to stay with him?'

'A little while. I'll come presently.'

She closed the door. Reardon brought a high-backed chair to the
fireside, and allowed himself to forget the two volumes that had
still to be struggled through, in a grateful sense of the portion
that was achieved. In a few minutes it occurred to him that it
would be delightful to read a scrap of the 'Odyssey'; he went to
the shelves on which were his classical books, took the desired
volume, and opened it where Odysseus speaks to Nausicaa:

'For never yet did I behold one of mortals like to thee, neither
man nor woman; I am awed as I look upon thee. In Delos once, hard
by the altar of Apollo, I saw a young palm-tree shooting up with
even such a grace.'

Yes, yes; THAT was not written at so many pages a day, with a
workhouse clock clanging its admonition at the poet's ear. How it
freshened the soul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the
sounding of those nobly sweet hexameters!

Amy came into the room again.

'Listen,' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile.
'Do you remember the first time that I read you this?'

And he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed.

'I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawing-room; I
had told the others that they must make shift with the dining-room
for that evening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket
unexpectedly. I laughed at your habit of always carrying little
books about.'

The cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned
to hear lamentations her voice would not have rippled thus
soothingly. Reardon thought of this, and it made him silent for a
minute.

'The habit was ominous,' he said, looking at her with an
uncertain smile. 'A practical literary man doesn't do such
things.'

'Milvain, for instance. No.'

With curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Her
unconsciousness in doing so prevented Reardon from thinking about
the fact; still, he had noted it.

'Did you understand the phrase slightingly?' he asked.

'Slightingly? Yes, a little, of course. It always has that sense
on your lips, I think.'

In the light of this answer he mused upon her readily-offered
instance. True, he had occasionally spoken of Jasper with something
less than respect, but Amy was not in the habit of doing so.

'I hadn't any such meaning just then,' he said. 'I meant quite
simply that my bookish habits didn't promise much for my success as
a novelist.'

'I see. But you didn't think of it in that way at the time.'

He sighed.

'No. At least—no.'

'At least what?'

'Well, no; on the whole I had good hope.'

Amy twisted her fingers together impatiently.

'Edwin, let me tell you something. You are getting too fond of
speaking in a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? I don't
like it. It has one disagreeable effect on me, and that is, when
people ask me about you, how you are getting on, I don't quite know
how to answer. They can't help seeing that I am uneasy. I speak so
differently from what I used to.'

'Do you, really?'

'Indeed I can't help it. As I say, it's very much your own
fault.'

'Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and
that I easily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what is Amy here
for?'

'Yes, yes. But—'

'But?'

'I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am
I?'

She asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood.

'Heaven forbid! I oughtn't to have put it in that absolute way.
I was half joking, you know. But unfortunately it's true that I
can't be as light-spirited as I could wish. Does that make you
impatient with me?'

'A little. I can't help the feeling, and I ought to try to
overcome it. But you must try on your side as well. Why should you
have said that thing just now?'

'You're quite right. It was needless.'

'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things
began to look about as bad as they could. But now that you've got a
volume finished, there's hope once more.'

Hope? Of what quality? Reardon durst not say what rose in his
thoughts. 'A very small, poor hope. Hope of money enough to
struggle through another half year, if indeed enough for that.' He
had learnt that Amy was not to be told the whole truth about
anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity. To the ideal wife a
man speaks out all that is in him; she had infinitely rather share
his full conviction than be treated as one from whom facts must be
disguised. She says: 'Let us face the worst and talk of it
together, you and I.' No, Amy was not the ideal wife from that
point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach had
traversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with
the joy of love into her clear eyes.

'Yes, there's hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk
to-night! I have read you something, now you shall read something
to me; it is a long time since I delighted myself with listening to
you. What shall it be?'

'I feel rather too tired to-night.'

'Do you?'

'I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more
Homer; I shall be very glad to listen.'

Reardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face
showed disappointment. Their evenings together had never been the
same since the birth of the child; Willie was always an
excuse—valid enough—for Amy's feeling tired. The little boy had
come between him and the mother, as must always be the case in poor
homes, most of all where the poverty is relative. Reardon could not
pass the subject without a remark, but he tried to speak
humorously.

'There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It's
monstrous that an educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'

'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche,
indeed! No child of mine should go to any such place.'

There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child.
That was love; whereas—But then maternal love was a mere matter of
course.

'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she
added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much
time.'

'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of
the head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'

'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you
could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a
book? How much do you suppose even Markland got for his last?'

'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'

'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book
ceases to be talked of.'

'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds."'

'So am I.'

She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.

'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural
dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of
money?'

'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades,
and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'

So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat
with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the
epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties
threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from
his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.

When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his
wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.

'Amy!'

'Yes, dear?'

'Do you still love me a little?'

'Much more than a little.'

'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'

'Is it so bad as all that?'

'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the
proofs will be a martyrdom.'

'Oh, but why? why?'

'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to
hear that calmly.'

'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's
dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'

'Curse the reviews!'

His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened
face, trembling angrily.

'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a
single one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention.
Now, promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not
worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I
know you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.'

'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people,
our friends, read it. That's the worst.'

'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength
to disregard the blame. Let our friends read and talk as much as
they like. Can't you console yourself with the thought that I am
not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor
work?'

'People don't look at it in that way.'

'But, darling,' he took her hands strongly in his own, 'I want
you to disregard other people. You and I are surely everything to
each other? Are you ashamed of me, of me myself?'

'No, not ashamed of you. But I am sensitive to people's talk and
opinions.'

'But that means they make you feel ashamed of me. What
else?'

There was silence.

'Edwin, if you find you are unable to do good work, you mustn't
do bad. We must think of some other way of making a living.'

'Have you forgotten that you urged me to write a trashy
sensational story?'

She coloured and looked annoyed.

'You misunderstood me. A sensational story needn't be trash. And
then, you know, if you had tried something entirely unlike your
usual work, that would have been excuse enough if people had called
it a failure.'

'People! People!'

'We can't live in solitude, Edwin, though really we are not far
from it.' He did not dare to make any reply to this. Amy was so
exasperatingly womanlike in avoiding the important issue to which
he tried to confine her; another moment, and his tone would be that
of irritation. So he turned away and sat down to his desk, as if he
had some thought of resuming work.

'Will you come and have some supper?' Amy asked, rising.

'I have been forgetting that to-morrow morning's chapter has
still to be thought out.'

'Edwin, I can't think this book will really be so poor. You
couldn't possibly give all this toil for no result.'

'No; not if I were in sound health. But I am far from it.'

'Come and have supper with me, dear, and think afterwards.'

He turned and smiled at her.

'I hope I shall never be able to resist an invitation from you,
sweet.'

The result of all this was, of course, that he sat down in
anything but the right mood to his work next morning. Amy's
anticipation of criticism had made it harder than ever for him to
labour at what he knew to be bad. And, as ill-luck would have it,
in a day or two he caught his first winter's cold. For several
years a succession of influenzas, sore-throats, lumbagoes, had
tormented him from October to May; in planning his present work,
and telling himself that it must be finished before Christmas, he
had not lost sight of these possible interruptions. But he said to
himself: 'Other men have worked hard in seasons of illness; I must
do the same.' All very well, but Reardon did not belong to the
heroic class. A feverish cold now put his powers and resolution to
the test. Through one hideous day he nailed himself to the desk—and
wrote a quarter of a page. The next day Amy would not let him rise
from bed; he was wretchedly ill. In the night he had talked about
his work deliriously, causing her no slight alarm.

'If this goes on,' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have
brain fever. You must rest for two or three days.'

'Teach me how to. I wish I could.'

Rest had indeed become out of the question. For two days he
could not write, but the result upon his mind was far worse than if
he had been at the desk. He looked a haggard creature when he again
sat down with the accustomed blank slip before him.

The second volume ought to have been much easier work than the
first; it proved far harder. Messieurs and mesdames the critics are
wont to point out the weakness of second volumes; they are
generally right, simply because a story which would have made a
tolerable book (the common run of stories) refuses to fill three
books. Reardon's story was in itself weak, and this second volume
had to consist almost entirely of laborious padding. If he wrote
three slips a day he did well.

And the money was melting, melting, despite Amy's efforts at
economy. She spent as little as she could; not a luxury came into
their home; articles of clothing all but indispensable were left
unpurchased. But to what purpose was all this? Impossible, now,
that the book should be finished and sold before the money had all
run out.