New Grub Street (55 page)

'I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say
so.'

His earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs Yule had no choice
but to rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded
herself sufficiently to offer a regretful hand.

'I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate.'

Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the
hospital and walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction.

Ah! if this had happened in the first year of his marriage, what
more blessed man than he would have walked the earth! But it came
after irreparable harm. No amount of wealth could undo the ruin
caused by poverty.

It was natural for him, as soon as he could think with
deliberation, to turn towards his only friend. But on calling at
the house in Clipstone Street he found the garret empty, and no one
could tell him when its occupant was likely to be back. He left a
note, and made his way back to Islington. The evening had to be
spent at the hospital, but on his return Biffen sat waiting for
him.

'You called about twelve, didn't you?' the visitor inquired.

'Half-past.'

'I was at the police-court. Odd thing—but it always happens
so—that I should have spoken of Sykes the other night. Last night I
came upon a crowd in Oxford Street, and the nucleus of it was no
other than Sykes himself very drunk and disorderly, in the grip of
two policemen. Nothing could be done for him; I was useless as
bail; he e'en had to sleep in the cell. But I went this morning to
see what would become of him. Such a spectacle when they brought
him forward! It was only five shillings fine, and to my
astonishment he produced the money. I joined him outside—it
required a little courage—and had a long talk with him. He's
writing a London Letter for some provincial daily, and the first
payment had thrown him off his balance.'

Reardon laughed gaily, and made inquiries about the eccentric
gentleman. Only when the subject was exhausted did he speak of his
own concerns, relating quietly what he had learnt from Mrs Yule.
Biffen's eyes widened.

'So,' Reardon cried with exultation, 'there is the last burden
off my mind! Henceforth I haven't a care! The only thing that still
troubled me was my inability to give Amy enough to live upon. Now
she is provided for in secula seculorum. Isn't this grand
news?'

'Decidedly. But if she is provided for, so are you.'

'Biffen, you know me better. Could I accept a farthing of her
money? This has made our coming together again for ever impossible,
unless—unless dead things can come to life. I know the value of
money, but I can't take it from Amy.'

The other kept silence.

'No! But now everything is well. She has her child, and can
devote herself to bringing the boy up. And I—but I shall be rich on
my own account. A hundred and fifty a year; it would be a farce to
offer Amy her share of it. By all the gods of Olympus, we will go
to Greece together, you and I!'

'Pooh!'

'I swear it! Let me save for a couple of years, and then get a
good month's holiday, or more if possible, and, as Pallas Athene
liveth! we shall find ourselves at Marseilles, going aboard some
boat of the Messageries. I can't believe yet that this is true.
Come, we will have a supper to-night. Come out into Upper Street,
and let us eat, drink, and be merry!'

'You are beside yourself. But never mind; let us rejoice by all
means. There's every reason.'

'That poor girl! Now, at last, she'll be at ease.'

'Who?'

'Amy, of course! I'm delighted on her account. Ah! but if it had
come a long time ago, in the happy days! Then she, too, would have
gone to Greece, wouldn't she? Everything in life comes too soon or
too late. What it would have meant for her and for me! She would
never have hated me then, never. Biffen, am I base or contemptible?
She thinks so. That's how poverty has served me. If you had seen
her, how she looked at me, when we met the other day, you would
understand well enough why I couldn't live with her now, not if she
entreated me to. That would make me base if you like. Gods! how
ashamed I should be if I yielded to such a temptation! And
once—'

He had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that at
length his voice choked and tears burst from his eyes.

'Come out, and let us have a walk,' said Biffen.

On leaving the house they found themselves in a thick fog,
through which trickled drops of warm rain. Nevertheless, they
pursued their purpose, and presently were seated in one of the
boxes of a small coffee-shop. Their only companion in the place was
a cab-driver, who had just finished a meal, and was now nodding
into slumber over his plate and cup. Reardon ordered fried ham and
eggs, the luxury of the poor, and when the attendant woman was gone
away to execute the order, he burst into excited laughter.

'Here we sit, two literary men! How should we be regarded
by—'

He named two or three of the successful novelists of the
day.

'With what magnificent scorn they would turn from us and our
squalid feast! They have never known struggle; not they. They are
public-school men, University men, club men, society men. An income
of less than three or four hundred a year is inconceivable to them;
that seems the minimum for an educated man's support. It would be
small-minded to think of them with rancour, but, by Apollo! I know
that we should change places with them if the work we have done
were justly weighed against theirs.'

'What does it matter? We are different types of intellectual
workers. I think of them savagely now and then, but only when
hunger gets a trifle too keen. Their work answers a demand; ours—or
mine at all events—doesn't. They are in touch with the reading
multitude; they have the sentiments of the respectable; they write
for their class. Well, you had your circle of readers, and, if
things hadn't gone against you, by this time you certainly could
have counted on your three or four hundred a year.'

'It's unlikely that I should ever have got more than two hundred
pounds for a book; and, to have kept at my best, I must have been
content to publish once every two or three years. The position was
untenable with no private income. And I must needs marry a wife of
dainty instincts! What astounding impudence! No wonder Fate pitched
me aside into the gutter.'

They ate their ham and eggs, and exhilarated themselves with a
cup of chicory—called coffee. Then Biffen drew from the pocket of
his venerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought, and
their talk turned once more to the land of the sun. Only when the
coffee-shop was closed did they go forth again into the foggy
street, and at the top of Pentonville Hill they stood for ten
minutes debating a metrical effect in one of the Fragments.

Day after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By
evening his pulse was always rapid, and no extremity of weariness
brought him a refreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either
depressed or excited, more often the latter. Save when attending to
his duties at the hospital, he made no pretence of employing
himself; if at home, he sat for hours without opening a book, and
his walks, excepting when they led him to Clipstone Street, were
aimless.

The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of
suspense. At eight o'clock each morning he stood by his window,
listening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached
he went out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded at
the door of his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling in
expectation. But the letter was never for him. When his agitation
had subsided he felt glad of the disappointment, and laughed and
sang.

One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made
an opportunity of speaking to his clerk in private.

'I suppose,' he said with a smile, 'they'll have to look out for
someone else at Croydon?'

'By no means! The thing is settled. I go at Christmas.'

'You really mean that?'

'Undoubtedly.'

Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private
circumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away convinced
that misfortunes had turned the poor fellow's brain.

Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his
friend the realist.

'Would you like to meet Sykes?' asked Biffen. 'I am just going
to see him.'

'Where does he live?'

'In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his
mornings at some reading-rooms; the admission is only a penny, and
there he can see all the papers and do his writing and enjoy a
grateful temperature.'

They repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs
brought them to a small room in which were exposed the daily
newspapers; another ascent, and they were in a room devoted to
magazines, chess, and refreshments; yet another, and they reached
the department of weekly publications; lastly, at the top of the
house, they found a lavatory, and a chamber for the use of those
who desired to write. The walls of this last retreat were of blue
plaster and sloped inwards from the floor; along them stood school
desks with benches, and in one place was suspended a ragged and
dirty card announcing that paper and envelopes could be purchased
downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste-paper, and a small
stove, occupied two corners; ink blotches, satirical designs, and
much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural adornment. From
the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing and spluttering, and
the busy street far below sent up its confused noises.

Two persons only sat at the desks. One was a hunger-bitten,
out-of-work clerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements;
in front of him lay two or three finished letters, and on the
ground at his feet were several crumpled sheets of note-paper,
representing abortive essays in composition. The other man, also
occupied with the pen, looked about forty years old, and was clad
in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on the bench beside him lay a grey
overcoat and a silk hat which had for some time been moulting. His
face declared the habit to which he was a victim, but it had
nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression; on the
contrary, it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At this
moment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With coat-sleeve
turned back, so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist,
revealing meanwhile a flannel shirt of singular colour, and with
his collar unbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave his throat at ease
as he bent myopically over the paper, he was writing at express
speed, evidently in the full rush of the ardour of composition. The
veins of his forehead were dilated, and his chin pushed forward in
a way that made one think of a racing horse.

'Are you too busy to talk?' asked Biffen, going to his side.

'I am! Upon my soul I am!' exclaimed the other looking up in
alarm. 'For the love of Heaven don't put me out! A quarter of an
hour!'

'All right. I'll come up again.'

The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers.

'Now let's try him again,' said Biffen, when considerably more
than the requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr
Sykes in an attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back
his coat sleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips
of completed manuscript. Biffen presented his companion, and Mr
Sykes greeted the novelist with much geniality.

'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work.
'The first instalment of my autobiography for the "Shropshire
Weekly Herald." Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with
the omission of sundry little personal failings which are nothing
to the point. I call it "Through the Wilds of Literary London." An
old friend of mine edits the "Herald," and I'm indebted to him for
the suggestion.'

His voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man of
education.

'Most people will take it for fiction. I wish I had inventive
power enough to write fiction anything like it. I have published
novels, Mr Reardon, but my experience in that branch of literature
was peculiar—as I may say it has been in most others to which I
have applied myself. My first stories were written for "The Young
Lady's Favourite," and most remarkable productions they were, I
promise you. That was fifteen years ago, in the days of my
versatility. I could throw off my supplemental novelette of fifteen
thousand words without turning a hair, and immediately after it
fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the "Illustrated History of the
United States," which I was then doing for Edward Coghlan. But
presently I thought myself too good for the "Favourite"; in an evil
day I began to write three-volume novels, aiming at reputation. It
wouldn't do. I persevered for five years, and made about five
failures. Then I went back to Bowring. "Take me on again, old man,
will you?" Bowring was a man of few words; he said, "Blaze away, my
boy." And I tried to. But it was no use; I had got out of the
style; my writing was too literary by a long chalk. For a whole
year I deliberately strove to write badly, but Bowring was so
pained with the feebleness of my efforts that at last he sternly
bade me avoid his sight. "What the devil," he roared one day, "do
you mean by sending me stories about men and women? You ought to
know better than that, a fellow of your experience!" So I had to
give it up, and there was an end of my career as a writer of
fiction.'

He shook his head sadly.

'Biffen,' he continued, 'when I first made his acquaintance, had
an idea of writing for the working classes; and what do you think
he was going to offer them? Stories about the working classes! Nay,
never hang your head for it, old boy; it was excusable in the days
of your youth. Why, Mr Reardon, as no doubt you know well enough,
nothing can induce working men or women to read stories that treat
of their own world. They are the most consumed idealists in
creation, especially the women. Again and again work-girls have
said to me: "Oh, I don't like that book; it's nothing but real
life."'