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

without speaking for several minutes.

“Do you care to make friends with those girls?” asked Reardon at length.

“I suppose in decency I must call upon them?”

“I suppose so.”

“You may find them very agreeable.”

“Oh yes.”

They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon burst out laughing.

“Well, there’s the successful man, you see. Some day he’ll live in a mansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.”

“How has he offended you?”

“Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects.”

“Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good for you in several ways.”

“If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I dare say I shouldn’t have refused. But I certainly shall not present myself as the author of Margaret Home, and the rubbish I’m now writing.”

“Then you must cease to write rubbish.”

“Yes. I must cease to write altogether.”

“And do what?”

“I wish to Heaven I knew!”

XIII A Warning

In the spring list of Mr. Jedwood’s publications, announcement was made of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called English Prose in the Nineteenth Century, and consisted of a number of essays (several of which had already seen the light in periodicals) strung into continuity. The final chapter dealt with contemporary writers, more especially those who served to illustrate the author’s theme⁠—that journalism is the destruction of prose style: on certain popular writers of the day there was an outpouring of gall which was not likely to be received as though it were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment in critical columns; it could scarcely be ignored (the safest mode of attack when one’s author has no expectant public), and only the most skilful could write of it in a hostile spirit without betraying that some of its strokes had told. An evening newspaper which piqued itself on independence indulged in laughing appreciation of the polemical chapter, and the next day printed a scornful letter from a thinly-disguised correspondent who assailed both book and reviewer. For the moment people talked more of Alfred Yule than they had done since his memorable conflict with Clement Fadge.

The publisher had hoped for this. Mr. Jedwood was an energetic and sanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a determination to rival in a year or so the houses which had slowly risen into commanding stability. He had no great capital, but the stroke of fortune which had wedded him to a popular novelist enabled him to count on steady profit from one source, and boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to an initial outlay which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked much of “the new era,” foresaw revolutions in publishing and bookselling, planned every week a score of untried ventures which should appeal to the democratic generation just maturing; in the meantime, was ready to publish anything which seemed likely to get talked about.

The May number of The Current, in its article headed “Books of the Month,” devoted about half a page to English Prose in the Nineteenth Century. This notice was a consummate example of the flippant style of attack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of intellectual vice, was a characterising note of Mr. Fadge’s periodical; his monthly comments on publications were already looked for with eagerness by that growing class of readers who care for nothing but what can be made matter of ridicule. The hostility of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectual compared with this venomous banter, which entertained by showing that in the book under notice there was neither entertainment nor any other kind of interest. To assail an author without increasing the number of his readers is the perfection of journalistic skill, and The Current, had it stood alone, would fully have achieved this end. As it was, silence might have been better tactics. But Mr. Fadge knew that his enemy would smart under the poisoned pinpoints, and that was something gained.

On the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred Yule was discussed in Mr. Jedwood’s private office. Mr. Quarmby, who had intimate relations with the publisher, happened to look in just as a young man (one of Mr. Jedwood’s “readers”) was expressing a doubt whether Fadge himself was the author of the review.

“But there’s Fadge’s thumb-mark all down the page,” cried Mr. Quarmby.

“He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was written by that fellow Milvain.”

“Think so?” asked the publisher.

“Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland’s novel is his writing, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did Yule’s book as well.”

“Smart youngster, that,” remarked Mr. Jedwood. “Who is he, by the by?”

“Somebody’s illegitimate son, I believe,” replied the source of trustworthy information, with a laugh. “Denham says he met him in New York a year or two ago, under another name.

“Excuse me,” interposed Mr. Quarmby, “there’s some mistake in all that.”

He went on to state what he knew, from Yule himself, concerning Milvain’s history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr. Quarmby took an opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr. Hinks that the attack on Yule in The Current was almost certainly written by young Milvain, with the result that when the rumour reached Yule’s ears it was delivered as an undoubted and well-known fact.

It was a month prior to this that Milvain made his call upon Marian Yule, on the Sunday when her father was absent. When told of the visit, Yule assumed a manner of indifference, but his daughter understood that he was annoyed. With regard to the sisters who would shortly be living in London, he merely said that Marian must behave as discretion directed her. If she wished to invite the Miss Milvains to St. Paul’s Crescent, he only begged that the times and seasons of the household might not be disturbed.

As her habit was, Marian took refuge in silence. Nothing could have been more welcome to her than the proximity of Maud and Dora, but