New Grub Street (11 page)

'Indeed! But I had understood that she was a reader.'

'Reading enough for six people, probably. Perhaps her health is
not very robust. Oh, I knew her by sight quite well—had seen her at
the Reading-room. She's the kind of girl that gets into one's head,
you know—suggestive; much more in her than comes out until one
knows her very well.'

'Well, I should hope so,' remarked Amy, with a peculiar
smile.

'But that's by no means a matter of course. They didn't invite
me to come and see them in London.'

'I suppose Marian mentioned your acquaintance with this branch
of the family?'

'I think not. At all events, she promised me she wouldn't.'

Amy looked at him inquiringly, in a puzzled way.

'She promised you?'

'Voluntarily. We got rather sympathetic. Your uncle—Alfred, I
mean—is a remarkable man; but I think he regarded me as a youth of
no particular importance. Well, how do things go?'

Amy shook her head.

'No progress?'

'None whatever. He can't work; I begin to be afraid that he is
really ill. He must go away before the fine weather is over. Do
persuade him to-night! I wish you could have had a holiday with
him.'

'Out of the question now, I'm sorry to say. I must work
savagely. But can't you all manage a fortnight somewhere—Hastings,
Eastbourne?'

'It would be simply rash. One goes on saying, "What does a pound
or two matter?"—but it begins at length to matter a great
deal.'

'I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich
grocer's son who pitches his half-sovereign to the waiter when he
has dined himself into good humour! But I tell you what it is: you
must really try to influence him towards practicality. Don't you
think—?'

He paused, and Amy sat looking at her hands.

'I have made an attempt,' she said at length, in a distant
undertone.

'You really have?'

Jasper leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his
knees. He was scrutinising her face, and Amy, conscious of the too
fixed regard, at length moved her head uneasily.

'It seems very clear to me,' she said, 'that a long book is out
of the question for him at present. He writes so slowly, and is so
fastidious. It would be a fatal thing to hurry through something
weaker even than the last.'

'You think "The Optimist" weak?' Jasper asked, half
absently.

'I don't think it worthy of Edwin; I don't see how anyone
can.

'I have wondered what your opinion was. Yes, he ought to try a
new tack, I think.'

Just then there came the sound of a latch-key opening the outer
door. Jasper lay back in his chair and waited with a smile for his
expected friend's appearance; Amy made no movement.

'Oh, there you are!' said Reardon, presenting himself with the
dazzled eyes of one who has been in darkness; he spoke in a voice
of genial welcome, though it still had the note of depression.
'When did you get back?'

Milvain began to recount what he had told in the first part of
his conversation with Amy. As he did so, the latter withdrew, and
was absent for five minutes; on reappearing she said:

'You'll have some supper with us, Mr Milvain?'

'I think I will, please.'

Shortly after, all repaired to the eating-room, where
conversation had to be carried on in a low tone because of the
proximity of the bedchamber in which lay the sleeping child. Jasper
began to tell of certain things that had happened to him since his
arrival in town.

'It was a curious coincidence—but, by-the-bye, have you heard of
what The Study has been doing?'

'I should rather think so,' replied Reardon, his face lighting
up. 'With no small satisfaction.'

'Delicious, isn't it?' exclaimed his wife. 'I thought it too
good to be true when Edwin heard of it from Mr Biffen.'

All three laughed in subdued chorus. For the moment, Reardon
became a new man in his exultation over the contradictory
reviewers.

'Oh, Biffen told you, did he? Well,' continued Jasper, 'it was
an odd thing, but when I reached my lodgings on Saturday evening
there lay a note from Horace Barlow, inviting me to go and see him
on Sunday afternoon out at Wimbledon, the special reason being that
the editor of The Study would be there, and Barlow thought I might
like to meet him. Now this letter gave me a fit of laughter; not
only because of those precious reviews, but because Alfred Yule had
been telling me all about this same editor, who rejoices in the
name of Fadge. Your uncle, Mrs Reardon, declares that Fadge is the
most malicious man in the literary profession; though that's saying
such a very great deal—well, never mind! Of course I was delighted
to go and meet Fadge. At Barlow's I found the queerest collection
of people, most of them women of the inkiest description. The great
Fadge himself surprised me; I expected to see a gaunt, bilious man,
and he was the rosiest and dumpiest little dandy you can imagine; a
fellow of forty-five, I dare say, with thin yellow hair and blue
eyes and a manner of extreme innocence. Fadge flattered me with
confidential chat, and I discovered at length why Barlow had asked
me to meet him; it's Fadge that is going to edit Culpepper's new
monthly—you've heard about it?—and he had actually thought it worth
while to enlist me among contributors! Now, how's that for a piece
of news?'

The speaker looked from Reardon to Amy with a smile of vast
significance.

'I rejoice to hear it!' said Reardon, fervently.

'You see! you see!' cried Jasper, forgetting all about the
infant in the next room, 'all things come to the man who knows how
to wait. But I'm hanged if I expected a thing of this kind to come
so soon! Why, I'm a man of distinction! My doings have been noted;
the admirable qualities of my style have drawn attention; I'm
looked upon as one of the coming men! Thanks, I confess, in some
measure, to old Barlow; he seems to have amused himself with
cracking me up to all and sundry. That last thing of mine in The
West End has done me a vast amount of good, it seems. And Alfred
Yule himself had noticed that paper in The Wayside. That's how
things work, you know; reputation comes with a burst, just when
you're not looking for anything of the kind.'

'What's the new magazine to be called?' asked Amy.

'Why, they propose The Current. Not bad, in a way; though you
imagine a fellow saying "Have you seen the current Current?" At all
events, the tone is to be up to date, and the articles are to be
short; no padding, merum sal from cover to cover. What do you think
I have undertaken to do, for a start? A paper consisting of
sketches of typical readers of each of the principal daily and
weekly papers. A deuced good idea, you know—my own, of course—but
deucedly hard to carry out. I shall rise to the occasion, see if I
don't. I'll rival Fadge himself in maliciousness—though I must
confess I discovered no particular malice in the fellow's way of
talking. The article shall make a sensation. I'll spend a whole
month on it, and make it a perfect piece of satire.'

'Now that's the kind of thing that inspires me with awe and
envy,' said Reardon. 'I could no more write such a paper than an
article on Fluxions.'

''Tis my vocation, Hal! You might think I hadn't experience
enough, to begin with. But my intuition is so strong that I can
make a little experience go an immense way. Most people would
imagine I had been wasting my time these last few years, just
sauntering about, reading nothing but periodicals, making
acquaintance with loafers of every description. The truth is, I
have been collecting ideas, and ideas that are convertible into
coin of the realm, my boy; I have the special faculty of an
extempore writer. Never in my life shall I do anything of solid
literary value; I shall always despise the people I write for. But
my path will be that of success. I have always said it, and now I'm
sure of it.'

'Does Fadge retire from The Study, then?' inquired Reardon, when
he had received this tirade with a friendly laugh.

'Yes, he does. Was going to, it seems, in any case. Of course I
heard nothing about the two reviews, and I was almost afraid to
smile whilst Fadge was talking with me, lest I should betray my
thought. Did you know anything about the fellow before?'

'Not I. Didn't know who edited The Study.'

'Nor I either. Remarkable what a number of illustrious obscure
are going about. But I have still something else to tell you. I'm
going to set my sisters afloat in literature.'

'How!'

'Well, I don't see why they shouldn't try their hands at a
little writing, instead of giving lessons, which doesn't suit them
a bit. Last night, when I got back from Wimbledon, I went to look
up Davies. Perhaps you don't remember my mentioning him; a fellow
who was at Jolly and Monk's, the publishers, up to a year ago. He
edits a trade journal now, and I see very little of him. However, I
found him at home, and had a long practical talk with him. I wanted
to find out the state of the market as to such wares as Jolly and
Monk dispose of. He gave me some very useful hints, and the result
was that I went off this morning and saw Monk himself—no Jolly
exists at present. "Mr Monk," I began, in my blandest tone—you know
it—"I am requested to call upon you by a lady who thinks of
preparing a little volume to be called 'A Child's History of the
English Parliament.' Her idea is, that"—and so on. Well, I got on
admirably with Monk, especially when he learnt that I was to be
connected with Culpepper's new venture; he smiled upon the project,
and said he should be very glad to see a specimen chapter; if that
pleased him, we could then discuss terms.'

'But has one of your sisters really begun such a book?' inquired
Amy.

'Neither of them knows anything of the matter, but they are
certainly capable of doing the kind of thing I have in mind, which
will consist largely of anecdotes of prominent statesmen. I myself
shall write the specimen chapter, and send it to the girls to show
them what I propose. I shouldn't wonder if they make some fifty
pounds out of it. The few books that will be necessary they can
either get at a Wattleborough library, or I can send them.'

'Your energy is remarkable, all of a sudden,' said Reardon.

'Yes. The hour has come, I find. "There is a tide"—to quote
something that has the charm of freshness.'

The supper—which consisted of bread and butter, cheese,
sardines, cocoa—was now over, and Jasper, still enlarging on his
recent experiences and future prospects, led the way back to the
sitting-room. Not very long after this, Amy left the two friends to
their pipes; she was anxious that her husband should discuss his
affairs privately with Milvain, and give ear to the practical
advice which she knew would be tendered him.

'I hear that you are still stuck fast,' began Jasper, when they
had smoked awhile in silence.

'Yes.'

'Getting rather serious, I should fear, isn't it?'

'Yes,' repeated Reardon, in a low voice.

'Come, come, old man, you can't go on in this way. Would it, or
wouldn't it, be any use if you took a seaside holiday?'

'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity
were offered. Do something I must, or I shall fret myself into
imbecility.'

'Very well. What is it to be?'

'I shall try to manufacture two volumes. They needn't run to
more than about two hundred and seventy pages, and those well
spaced out.'

'This is refreshing. This is practical. But look now: let it be
something rather sensational. Couldn't we invent a good
title—something to catch eye and ear? The title would suggest the
story, you know.'

Reardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed
rather against himself than Milvain.

'Let's try,' he muttered.

Both appeared to exercise their minds on the problem for a few
minutes. Then Jasper slapped his knee.

'How would this do: "The Weird Sisters"? Devilish good, eh?
Suggests all sorts of things, both to the vulgar and the educated.
Nothing brutally clap-trap about it, you know.'

'But—what does it suggest to you?'

'Oh, witch-like, mysterious girls or women. Think it over.'

There was another long silence. Reardon's face was that of a man
in blank misery.

'I have been trying,' he said at length, after an attempt to
speak which was checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain
to myself how this state of things has come about. I almost think I
can do so.'

'How?'

'That half-year abroad, and the extraordinary shock of happiness
which followed at once upon it, have disturbed the balance of my
nature. It was adjusted to circumstances of hardship, privation,
struggle. A temperament like mine can't pass through such a violent
change of conditions without being greatly affected; I have never
since been the man I was before I left England. The stage I had
then reached was the result of a slow and elaborate building up; I
could look back and see the processes by which I had grown from the
boy who was a mere bookworm to the man who had all but succeeded as
a novelist. It was a perfectly natural, sober development. But in
the last two years and a half I can distinguish no order. In living
through it, I have imagined from time to time that my powers were
coming to their ripest; but that was mere delusion. Intellectually,
I have fallen back. The probability is that this wouldn't matter,
if only I could live on in peace of mind; I should recover my
equilibrium, and perhaps once more understand myself. But the due
course of things is troubled by my poverty.'

He spoke in a slow, meditative way, in a monotonous voice, and
without raising his eyes from the ground.

'I can understand,' put in Jasper, 'that there may be
philosophical truth in all this. All the same, it's a great pity
that you should occupy your mind with such thoughts.'