New Grub Street (64 page)

Biffen shook his head dolorously.

'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!—and
what might your business be?'

The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was
invited to break his fast, which he did right willingly. Then, with
assurances that he would return before nightfall, he left the
house. His steps were naturally first directed to Clipstone Street;
the familiar abode was a gruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbours
informed him that Mr Briggs's body had been brought forth in a
horrible condition; but this was the only loss of life that had
happened.

Thence he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville
Street, Islington. He found Reardon by the fireside, looking very
ill, and speaking with hoarseness.

'Another cold?'

'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and
buy me some vermin-killer. That would suit my case.'

'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher;
in the literal sense of the words omnia mea mecum porto.'

He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity
that when he ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more
amusing had ever been heard.

'Ah, but my books, my books!' exclaimed Biffen, with a genuine
groan. 'And all my notes! At one fell swoop! If I didn't laugh, old
friend, I should sit down and cry; indeed I should. All my
classics, with years of scribbling in the margins! How am I to buy
them again?'

'You rescued "Mr Bailey." He must repay you.'

Biffen had already laid the manuscript on the table; it was
dirty and crumpled, but not to such an extent as to render copying
necessary. Lovingly he smoothed the pages and set them in order,
then he wrapped the whole in a piece of brown paper which Reardon
supplied, and wrote upon it the address of a firm of
publishers.

'Have you note-paper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in
my present guise.'

Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger
than of a man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess of
that he wore last night had necessitated its being thrown aside;
round his throat was a dirty handkerchief. His coat had been
brushed, but its recent experiences had brought it one stage nearer
to that dissolution which must very soon be its fate. His grey
trousers were now black, and his boots looked as if they had not
been cleaned for weeks.

'Shall I say anything about the character of the book?' he
asked, seating himself with pen and paper. 'Shall I hint that it
deals with the ignobly decent?'

'Better let them form their own judgment,' replied Reardon, in
his hoarse voice.

'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern
life, the scope of which is in some degree indicated by its title.
Pity they can't know how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I
risked my life to save it. If they're good enough to accept it I'll
tell them the story. And now, Reardon, I'm ashamed of myself, but
can you without inconvenience lend me ten shillings?'

'Easily.'

'I must write to two pupils, to inform them of my change of
address—from garret to cellar. And I must ask help from my
prosperous brother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I am
always loth to apply to him. May I use your paper for these
purposes?'

The brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business
at Liverpool; the two had not met for years, but they corresponded,
and were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he had finished
his letters, and had received the half-sovereign from Reardon, he
went his way to deposit the brown-paper parcel at the publishers'.
The clerk who received it from his hands probably thought that the
author might have chosen a more respectable messenger.

Two days later, early in the evening, the friends were again
enjoying each other's company in Reardon's room. Both were
invalids, for Biffen had of course caught a cold from his exposure
in shirt-sleeves on the roof, and he was suffering from the shock
to his nerves; but the thought that his novel was safe in the hands
of publishers gave him energy to resist these influences. The
absence of the pipe, for neither had any palate for tobacco at
present, was the only external peculiarity of this meeting. There
seemed no reason why they should not meet frequently before the
parting which would come at Christmas; but Reardon was in a mood of
profound sadness, and several times spoke as if already he were
bidding his friend farewell.

'I find it difficult to think,' he said, 'that you will always
struggle on in such an existence as this. To every man of mettle
there does come an opportunity, and it surely is time for yours to
present itself. I have a superstitious faith in "Mr Bailey." If he
leads you to triumph, don't altogether forget me.'

'Don't talk nonsense.'

'What ages it seems since that day when I saw you in the library
at Hastings, and heard you ask in vain for my book! And how
grateful I was to you! I wonder whether any mortal ever asks for my
books nowadays? Some day, when I am well established at Croydon,
you shall go to Mudie's, and make inquiry if my novels ever by any
chance leave the shelves, and then you shall give me a true and
faithful report of the answer you get. "He is quite forgotten," the
attendant will say; be sure of it.'

'I think not.'

'To have had even a small reputation, and to have outlived it,
is a sort of anticipation of death. The man Edwin Reardon, whose
name was sometimes spoken in a tone of interest, is really and
actually dead. And what remains of me is resigned to that. I have
an odd fancy that it will make death itself easier; it is as if
only half of me had now to die.'

Biffen tried to give a lighter turn to the gloomy subject.

'Thinking of my fiery adventure,' he said, in his tone of dry
deliberation, 'I find it vastly amusing to picture you as a witness
at the inquest if I had been choked and consumed. No doubt it would
have been made known that I rushed upstairs to save some particular
piece of property—several people heard me say so—and you alone
would be able to conjecture what this was. Imagine the gaping
wonderment of the coroner's jury! The Daily Telegraph would have
made a leader out of me. "This poor man was so strangely deluded as
to the value of a novel in manuscript, which it appears he had just
completed, that he positively sacrificed his life in the endeavour
to rescue it from the flames." And the Saturday would have had a
column of sneering jocosity on the irrepressibly sanguine
temperament of authors. At all events, I should have had my day of
fame.'

'But what an ignoble death it would have been!' he pursued.
'Perishing in the garret of a lodging-house which caught fire by
the overturning of a drunkard's lamp! One would like to end
otherwise.'

'Where would you wish to die?' asked Reardon, musingly.

'At home,' replied the other, with pathetic emphasis. 'I have
never had a home since I was a boy, and am never likely to have
one. But to die at home is an unreasoning hope I still
cherish.'

'If you had never come to London, what would you have now
been?'

'Almost certainly a schoolmaster in some small town. And one
might be worse off than that, you know.'

'Yes, one might live peaceably enough in such a position. And
I—I should be in an estate-agent's office, earning a sufficient
salary, and most likely married to some unambitious country
girl.

I should have lived an intelligible life, instead of only trying
to live, aiming at modes of life beyond my reach. My mistake was
that of numberless men nowadays. Because I was conscious of brains,
I thought that the only place for me was London. It's easy enough
to understand this common delusion. We form our ideas of London
from old literature; we think of London as if it were still the one
centre of intellectual life; we think and talk like Chatterton. But
the truth is that intellectual men in our day do their best to keep
away from London—when once they know the place. There are libraries
everywhere; papers and magazines reach the north of Scotland as
soon as they reach Brompton; it's only on rare occasions, for
special kinds of work, that one is bound to live in London. And as
for recreation, why, now that no English theatre exists, what is
there in London that you can't enjoy in almost any part of England?
At all events, a yearly visit of a week would be quite sufficient
for all the special features of the town. London is only a huge
shop, with an hotel on the upper storeys. To be sure, if you make
it your artistic subject, that's a different thing. But neither you
nor I would do that by deliberate choice.'

'I think not.'

'It's a huge misfortune, this will-o'-the-wisp attraction
exercised by London on young men of brains. They come here to be
degraded, or to perish, when their true sphere is a life of
peaceful remoteness. The type of man capable of success in London
is more or less callous and cynical. If I had the training of boys,
I would teach them to think of London as the last place where life
can be lived worthily.'

'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid
wretchedness.'

'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that
they have cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be
if I were still possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't
even recall very clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire
now is for peaceful obscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for
the remainder of my life.'

'You won't have much rest at Croydon.'

'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a
round of all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the
best medicine for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only
in the classics. I don't say that I shall always be content in such
a position; in a few years perhaps something pleasanter will offer.
But in the meantime it will do very well. Then there is our
expedition to Greece to look forward to. I am quite in earnest
about that. The year after next, if we are both alive, assuredly we
go.'

'The year after next.' Biffen smiled dubiously.

'I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is
possible.'

'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does
not dare to hope for.'

Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:

'Here's a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.'

The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered
the minds of both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his
wife, and ran thus:

'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am
staying with Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at Brighton.'

The full address was given.

'You hadn't heard of her going there?' said Biffen, when he had
read the lines.

'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would
have told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe there's
a fashionable "season" about now, isn't there? I suppose that would
account for it.'

He spoke in a slighting tone, but showed increasing
agitation.

'Of course you will go?'

'I must. Though I'm in no condition for making a journey.'

His friend examined him anxiously.

'Are you feverish at all this evening?'

Reardon held out a hand that the other might feel his pulse. The
beat was rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the
arrival of the telegram.

'But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my
heart, but, when Amy sends for me, I must go. Perhaps things are at
the worst.'

'When is there a train? Have you a time table?'

Biffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and
in the meanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small
travelling-bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection
because it had accompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When
Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon's astonishment—he
was white from head to foot.

'Snow?'

'It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more.'

'Can't be helped; I must go.'

The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the
next train left at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five
minutes to seven.

'I don't know whether it's possible,' he said, in confused
hurry, 'but I must try. There isn't another train till ten past
nine. Come with me to the station, Biffen.'

Both were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through
the soft, steady fall of snowflakes into Upper Street. Here they
were several minutes before they found a disengaged cab.
Questioning the driver, they learnt what they would have known very
well already but for their excitement: impossible to get to London
Bridge Station in a quarter of an hour.

'Better to go on, all the same,' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the
snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all.
But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of
sorts as I am.'

'How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!'

'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age,
isn't it?' Reardon asked when they were speeding along City
Road.

'I'm afraid there's much danger.'

'Why did she send?'

'What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly
morbid state of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your
obstinate folly.'

'In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I
have had no choice.'

'I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The
art of living is the art of compromise. We have no right to foster
sensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of
ideal relations; it leads to misery for others as well as
ourselves. Genial coarseness is what it behoves men like you and me
to cultivate. Your reply to your wife's last letter was
preposterous. You ought to have gone to her of your own accord as
soon as ever you heard she was rich; she would have thanked you for
such common-sense disregard of delicacies. Let there be an end of
this nonsense, I implore you!'