New Grub Street - George Gissing (e book reader free TXT) 📗

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.”

“A pity⁠—no! I must remain a reasoning creature. Disaster may end by driving me out of my wits, but till then I won’t abandon my heritage of thought.”

“Let us have it out, then. You think it was a mistake to spend those months abroad?”

“A mistake from the practical point of view. That vast broadening of my horizon lost me the command of my literary resources. I lived in Italy and Greece as a student, concerned especially with the old civilisations; I read little but Greek and Latin. That brought me out of the track I had laboriously made for myself. I often thought with disgust of the kind of work I had been doing; my novels seemed vapid stuff, so wretchedly and shallowly modern. If I had had the means, I should have devoted myself to the life of a scholar. That, I quite believe, is my natural life; it’s only the influence of recent circumstances that has made me a writer of novels. A man who can’t journalise, yet must earn his bread by literature, nowadays inevitably turns to fiction, as the Elizabethan men turned to the drama. Well, but I should have got back, I think, into the old line of work. It was my marriage that completed what the time abroad had begun.”

He looked up suddenly, and added:

“I am speaking as if to myself. You, of course, don’t misunderstand me, and think I am accusing my wife.”

“No, I don’t take you to mean that, by any means.”

“No, no; of course not. All that’s wrong is my accursed want of money. But that threatens to be such a fearful wrong, that I begin to wish I had died before my marriage-day. Then Amy would have been saved. The Philistines are right: a man has no business to marry unless he has a secured income equal to all natural demands. I behaved with the grossest selfishness. I might have known that such happiness was never meant for me.”

“Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you will ever be able to write again?”

“In awful seriousness, I doubt it,” replied Reardon, with haggard face.

“It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work as I never had done before.”

“Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I am overcome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my life encountered and overcame a practical difficulty.”

“Yes; when you got the work at the hospital.”

“All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective.”

“My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill.”

“Certainly I am; but the ailment is desperately complicated. Tell me: do you think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to do? Should I be fit for any place in a newspaper office, for instance?”

“I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do with journalism.”

“If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?”

“I don’t see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we’ll buy it.”

“Yes, there’s no help but that.”

“If only you were able to write short stories, Fadge might be useful.”

“But what’s the use? I suppose I might get ten guineas, at most, for such a story. I need a couple of hundred pounds at least. Even if I could finish a three-volume book, I doubt if they would give me a hundred again, after the failure of The Optimist; no, they wouldn’t.”

“But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, my dear fellow. Get to work at your two-volume story. Call it The Weird Sisters, or anything better that you can devise; but get it done, so many pages a day. If I go ahead as I begin to think I shall, I shall soon be able to assure you good notices in a lot of papers. Your misfortune has been that you had no influential friends. By the by, how has The Study been in the habit of treating you?”

“Scrubbily.”

“I’ll make an opportunity of talking about your books to Fadge. I think Fadge and I shall get on pretty well together. Alfred Yule hates the man fiercely, for some reason or other. By the way, I may as well tell you that I broke short off with the Yules on purpose.”

“Oh?”

“I had begun to think far too much about the girl. Wouldn’t do, you know. I must marry someone with money, and a good deal of it. That’s a settled point with me.”

“Then you are not at all likely to meet them in London?”

“Not at all. And if I get allied with Fadge, no doubt Yule will involve me in his savage feeling. You see how wisely I acted. I have a scent for the prudent course.”

They talked for a long time, but again chiefly of Milvain’s affairs. Reardon, indeed, cared little to say anything more about his own. Talk was mere vanity and vexation of spirit, for the spring of his volition seemed to be broken, and, whatever resolve he might utter, he knew that everything depended on influences he could not even foresee.

VII Marian’s Home

Three weeks after her return from the country⁠—which took place a week later than that of Jasper Milvain⁠—Marian Yule was working one afternoon at her usual place in the Museum Reading-room. It was three o’clock, and with the interval of half an hour at midday, when she went away for a cup of tea and a sandwich, she had been closely occupied since half-past nine.