New Grub Street (30 page)

She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one
of the volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a
chapter.

'Good God!' he cried. 'What hellish torment it was to write that
page! I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had to
light the lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the
words. And to think that people will skim over it without a
suspicion of what it cost the writer!—What execrable style! A
potboy could write better narrative.'

'Who are to have copies?'

'No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will
expect one?'

'And—Milvain?'

'I suppose so,' he replied indifferently. 'But not unless he
asks for it. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him
despise me. Then one for ourselves. That leaves two—to light the
fire with. We have been rather short of fire-paper since we
couldn't afford our daily newspaper.'

'Will you let me give one to Mrs Carter?'

'As you please.'

He took one set and added it to the row of his productions which
stood on a topmost shelf Amy laid her hand upon his shoulder and
contemplated the effect of this addition.

'The works of Edwin Reardon,' she said, with a smile.

'The work, at all events—rather a different thing,
unfortunately. Amy, if only I were back at the time when I wrote
"On Neutral Ground," and yet had you with me! How full my mind was
in those days! Then I had only to look, and I saw something; now I
strain my eyes, but can make out nothing more than nebulous
grotesques. I used to sit down knowing so well what I had to say;
now I strive to invent, and never come at anything. Suppose you
pick up a needle with warm, supple fingers; try to do it when your
hand is stiff and numb with cold; there's the difference between my
manner of work in those days and what it is now.'

'But you are going to get back your health. You will write
better than ever.'

'We shall see. Of course there was a great deal of miserable
struggle even then, but I remember it as insignificant compared
with the hours of contented work. I seldom did anything in the
mornings except think and prepare; towards evening I felt myself
getting ready, and at last I sat down with the first lines buzzing
in my head. And I used to read a great deal at the same time.
Whilst I was writing "On Neutral Ground" I went solidly through the
"Divina Commedia," a canto each day. Very often I wrote till after
midnight, but occasionally I got my quantum finished much earlier,
and then I used to treat myself to a ramble about the streets. I
can recall exactly the places where some of my best ideas came to
me. You remember the scene in Prendergast's lodgings? That flashed
on me late one night as I was turning out of Leicester Square into
the slum that leads to Clare Market; ah, how well I remember! And I
went home to my garret in a state of delightful fever, and
scribbled notes furiously before going to bed.'

'Don't trouble; it'll all come back to you.'

'But in those days I hadn't to think of money. I could look
forward and see provision for my needs. I never asked myself what I
should get for the book; I assure you, that never came into my
head—never. The work was done for its own sake. No hurry to finish
it; if I felt that I wasn't up to the mark, I just waited till the
better mood returned. "On Neutral Ground" took me seven months; now
I have to write three volumes in nine weeks, with the lash stinging
on my back if I miss a day.'

He brooded for a little.

'I suppose there must be some rich man somewhere who has read
one or two of my books with a certain interest. If only I could
encounter him and tell him plainly what a cursed state I am in,
perhaps he would help me to some means of earning a couple of
pounds a week. One has heard of such things.'

'In the old days.'

'Yes. I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn't so
easily meet with his Gillman nowadays. Well, I am not a Coleridge,
and I don't ask to be lodged under any man's roof; but if I could
earn money enough to leave me good long evenings unspoilt by fear
of the workhouse—'

Amy turned away, and presently went to look after her little
boy.

A few days after this they had a visit from Milvain. He came
about ten o'clock in the evening.

'I'm not going to stay,' he announced. 'But where's my copy of
"Margaret Home"? I am to have one, I suppose?'

'I have no particular desire that you should read it,' returned
Reardon.

'But I HAVE read it, my dear fellow. Got it from the library on
the day of publication; I had a suspicion that you wouldn't send me
a copy. But I must possess your opera omnia.'

'Here it is. Hide it away somewhere.—You may as well sit down
for a few minutes.'

'I confess I should like to talk about the book, if you don't
mind. It isn't so utterly and damnably bad as you make out, you
know. The misfortune was that you had to make three volumes of it.
If I had leave to cut it down to one, it would do you credit.

The motive is good enough.'

'Yes. Just good enough to show how badly it's managed.'

Milvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of
the three-volume system.

'A triple-headed monster, sucking the blood of English
novelists. One might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic
literary paper. By-the-bye, why doesn't such a thing exist?—a
weekly paper treating of things and people literary in a facetious
spirit. It would be caviare to the general, but might be supported,
I should think. The editor would probably be assassinated,
though.'

'For anyone in my position,' said Reardon, 'how is it possible
to abandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment. An
author of moderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel—I
mean the man who is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who
gets from one to two hundred pounds for it. But he would have to
produce four one-volume novels to obtain the same income; and I
doubt whether he could get so many published within the twelve
months. And here comes in the benefit of the libraries; from the
commercial point of view the libraries are indispensable. Do you
suppose the public would support the present number of novelists if
each book had to be purchased? A sudden change to that system would
throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work.'

'But there's no reason why the libraries shouldn't circulate
novels in one volume.'

'Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum
subscription.'

'Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own
one-volume?'

'All but done.'

'And you'll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He's
a very decent fellow, I believe.'

Milvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to
sit and talk at large through a whole evening were no more; partly
because of his diminished leisure, but also for a less simple
reason—the growth of something like estrangement between him and
Reardon.

'You didn't mention your plans,' said Amy, when the visitor had
been gone some time.

'No.'

Reardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no
further remark.

The result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons
called to make inspection. One of them, a man of military
appearance, showed himself anxious to come to terms; he was willing
to take the tenement from next quarter-day (June), but wished, if
possible, to enter upon possession sooner than that.

'Nothing could be better,' said Amy in colloquy with her
husband. 'If he will pay for the extra time, we shall be only too
glad.'

Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to
regard the experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart
sank at the thought of parting from Amy.

'You are very anxious to get rid of me,' he answered, trying to
smile.

'Yes, I am,' she exclaimed; 'but simply for your own good, as
you know very well.'

'Suppose I can't sell this book?'

'You will have a few pounds. Send your "Pliny" article to The
Wayside. If you come to an end of all your money, mother shall lend
you some.'

'I am not very likely to do much work in that case.'

'Oh, but you will sell the book. You'll get twenty pounds for
it, and that alone would keep you for three months. Think—three
months of the best part of the year at the seaside! Oh, you will do
wonders!'

The furniture was to be housed at Mrs Yule's. Neither of them
durst speak of selling it; that would have sounded too ominous. As
for the locality of Reardon's retreat, Amy herself had suggested
Worthing, which she knew from a visit a few years ago; the
advantages were its proximity to London, and the likelihood that
very cheap lodgings could be found either in the town or near it.
One room would suffice for the hapless author, and his expenses,
beyond a trifling rent, would be confined to mere food.

Oh yes, he might manage on considerably less than a pound a
week.

Amy was in much better spirits than for a long time; she
appeared to have convinced herself that there was no doubt of the
issue of this perilous scheme; that her husband would write a
notable book, receive a satisfactory price for it, and so
re-establish their home. Yet her moods varied greatly. After all,
there was delay in the letting of the flat, and this caused her
annoyance. It was whilst the negotiations were still pending that
she made her call upon Maud and Dora Milvain; Reardon did not know
of her intention to visit them until it had been carried out. She
mentioned what she had done in almost a casual manner.

'I had to get it over,' she said, when Reardon exhibited
surprise, 'and I don't think I made a very favourable
impression.'

'You told them, I suppose, what we are going to do?'

'No; I didn't say a word of it.'

'But why not? It can't be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard
of it already, I should think, from your mother.'

'From mother? But it's the rarest thing for him to go there. Do
you imagine he is a constant visitor? I thought it better to say
nothing until the thing is actually done. Who knows what may
happen?'

She was in a strange, nervous state, and Reardon regarded her
uneasily. He talked very little in these days, and passed hours in
dark reverie. His book was finished, and he awaited the publisher's
decision.

One of Reardon's minor worries at this time was the fear that by
chance he might come upon a review of 'Margaret Home.' Since the
publication of his first book he had avoided as far as possible all
knowledge of what the critics had to say about him; his nervous
temperament could not bear the agitation of reading these remarks,
which, however inept, define an author and his work to so many
people incapable of judging for themselves. No man or woman could
tell him anything in the way of praise or blame which he did not
already know quite well; commendation was pleasant, but it so often
aimed amiss, and censure was for the most part so unintelligent. In
the case of this latest novel he dreaded the sight of a review as
he would have done a gash from a rusty knife. The judgments could
not but be damnatory, and their expression in journalistic phrase
would disturb his mind with evil rancour. No one would have insight
enough to appreciate the nature and cause of his book's demerits;
every comment would be wide of the mark; sneer, ridicule, trite
objection, would but madden him with a sense of injustice.

His position was illogical—one result of the moral weakness
which was allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside the
worthlessness of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated book
has of course nothing to do with its author's state of mind and
body any more than with the condition of his purse. Reardon would
have granted this, but he could not command his emotions. He was in
passionate revolt against the base necessities which compelled him
to put forth work in no way representing his healthy powers, his
artistic criterion. Not he had written this book, but his accursed
poverty. To assail him as the author was, in his feeling, to be
guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap a notice in one of the
daily papers came under his eyes, it made his blood boil with a
fierceness of hatred only possible to him in a profoundly morbid
condition; he could not steady his hand for half an hour after. Yet
this particular critic only said what was quite true—that the novel
contained not a single striking scene and not one living character;
Reardon had expressed himself about it in almost identical terms.
But he saw himself in the position of one sickly and all but
destitute man against a relentless world, and every blow directed
against him appeared dastardly. He could have cried 'Coward!' to
the writer who wounded him.

The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's
hands had perhaps more merit than 'Margaret Home'; its brevity, and
the fact that nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of
brisk events, made it not unreadable. But Reardon thought of it
with humiliation. If it were published as his next work it would
afford final proof to such sympathetic readers as he might still
retain that he had hopelessly written himself out, and was now
endeavouring to adapt himself to an inferior public. In spite of
his dire necessities he now and then hoped that Jedwood might
refuse the thing.

At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or
four months he was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses
were the mere outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in
himself under present conditions; the permanence of his sufferings
would mean the sure destruction of powers he still possessed,
though they were not at his command. Yet he believed that his mind
was made up as to the advisability of trying this last resource; he
was impatient for the day of departure, and in the interval merely
killed time as best he might. He could not read, and did not
attempt to gather ideas for his next book; the delusion that his
mind was resting made an excuse to him for the barrenness of day
after day. His 'Pliny' article had been despatched to The Wayside,
and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble himself
about this or other details; it was as though his mind could do
nothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution;
with the steps towards that final stage he seemed to have little
concern.