 Chapter 1 As the Milvains sat down to breakfast, the clock of Waddleboro Parish Church struck eight. It was two miles away, but the strokes were borne very distinctly on the west wind this autumn morning. Jasper, listening before he cracked an egg, remarked with cheerfulness,—'There's a man being hanged in London at this moment.' "'Surely it isn't necessary to let us know that,' said his sister Maud, coldly. "'And in such a tone, too,' protested his sister Dora.' "'Who is it?' inquired Mrs. Milvain, looking at her son with pained forehead. "'I don't know. It happened to catch my eye in the paper yesterday, that someone was to be hanged at Newgate this morning. There's a certain satisfaction in reflecting that it is not oneself.' "'That's your selfish way of looking at things,' said Maud.' "'Well,' returned Jasper, seeing that the fact came into my head, what better use could I make of it? I could curse the brutality of an age that sanctioned such things, or I could grow doleful over the misery of the poor fellow. But those emotions would be as little profitable to others as to myself. It just happened that I saw the thing in a light of consolation. Things are bad with me, but not so bad as that. I might be going out between Jack Ketch and the chaplain to be hanged. Instead of that, I am eating a really fresh egg and very excellent buttered toast, with coffee as good as can be reasonably expected in this part of the world. Do try boiling the milk-mother. The tone on which I spoke was spontaneous. Being so, it needs no justification." He was a young man of five and twenty, well-built, though a trifle meager, and of pale complexion. He had hair that was very nearly black, and a clean-shaven face, best described perhaps as a bureaucratic type. The clothes he wore were of expensive material, but had seen a good deal of service. His stand-up collar curled over at the corners, and his neck-tie was lilac-sprigged. Of the two sisters, Dora, aged twenty, was the more like him in visage, but she spoke with the gentleness which seemed to indicate a different character. Maude, who was twenty-two, had bold, handsome features, and very beautiful hair of russet tinge. Hers was not a face that readily smiled. Their mother had the look and manners of an invalid, though she sat at table in the ordinary way. All were dressed as ladies, though very simply. The room which looked upon a small patch of garden was furnished with old-fashioned comfort, only one or two objects suggesting the decorative spirit of eighteen eighty-two. A man who comes to be hanged, pursued jasper, impartially, has the satisfaction of knowing that he has brought society to its last resource. He is a man of such fatal importance that nothing will serve against him but the supreme effort of law. In a way, you know, that is success. In a way, repeated Maude scornfully. Suppose we talk of something else, suggested Dora, who seemed to fear a conflict between her sister and Jasper. Almost at the same moment a diversion was afforded by the arrival of the post. There was a letter for Mrs. Milvane, a letter and newspaper for her son. Whilst the girls and their mother talked of unimportant news communicated by the one correspondent, Jasper read the missive addressed to himself. "'This is from Reardon,' he remarked to the younger girl. Things are going badly with him. He is just the kind of fellow to end by poisoning or shooting himself. But why? Can't get anything done, and begins to be sore-troubled on his wife's account. Is he ill? Overworked, I suppose, but it's just what I first saw. He isn't the kind of man to keep up literary production as a paying business. In favourable circumstances he might write a fairly good book once every two or three years. The failure of his last depressed him, and now he is struggling hopelessly to get another done before the winter season. Those people will come to grief.' The enjoyment with which he anticipates it, murmured Maude, looking at her mother. "'Not at all,' said Jasper. It's true I envied the fellow, because he persuaded a handsome girl to believe in him and share his risks. But I shall be very sorry if he goes to the—to the dogs. He's my one serious friend. But it irritates me to see a man making such large demands upon fortune. One must be more modest, as I am, because one book had a sort of success he imagined his struggles were over. He got a hundred pounds for on neutral ground, and at once counted on a continuance of payments in geometrical proportion. I hinted to him that he couldn't keep it up, and he smiled with tolerance, no doubt thinking. He judges me by himself. But I didn't do anything of the kind. "'Toast, please, Dora. I'm a stronger man than Reardon. I can keep my eyes open and wait.' "'Is his wife the kind of person to grumble?' asked Mrs. Milvain. "'Well, yes, I suspect that she is. The girl wasn't content to go into modest terms. They must furnish a flat. I rather wonder he didn't start a carriage for her.' "'Well, his next book brought only another hundred. And now, even if he finishes this one, it's very doubtful if he'll get as much. The optimist was practically a failure.' "'Mr. Yule may leave them some money,' said Dora. "'Yes, but he may live another ten years, and he would see them both in Marilbone Workhouse before he advanced six pence, or I'm much mistaken in him. Her mother has only just enough to live upon, can't possibly help them. Her brother wouldn't give or lend two pence half-penny.' "'Has Mr. Reardon no relatives? I never heard him make mention of a single one. No, he has done the fatal thing. A man in his position, if he marry at all, must take either a work-girl or an heiress. And in many ways the work-girl is preferable.' "'How can you say that?' asked Dora. "'You never cease talking about the advantages of money.' "'Oh, I don't mean that for me the work-girl would be preferable. By no means, but for a man like Reardon, he is absurd enough to be conscientious, likes to be called an artist, and so on. He might possibly earn a hundred and fifty a year if his mind were at rest, and that would be enough if he had married a decent little dressmaker. He wouldn't desire superfluities, and the quality of his work would be its own reward. As it is, he's ruined.' "'And I repeat,' said Maude, that you enjoy the prospect. Nothing of the kind, if I seem to speak exultantly, it's only because my intellect enjoys the clear perception of effect. A little marmalade, Dora, the homemade, please.' "'But this is very sad, Jasper,' said Mrs. Milvane, in her half-absent way. I suppose they can't even go for a holiday.' "'Quite out of the question. Not even if you invited them to come here for a week?' "'No, mother,' urged Maude. "'That's impossible. You know very well.' "'I thought we might make an effort, dear. A holiday might mean everything to him.' "'No, no,' fell from Jasper, thoughtfully. I don't think you'd get along very well with Mrs. Reardon. And then, if her uncle is coming to Mr. Ewell's, you know that would be awkward. I suppose it would, though those people would only stay a day or two,' Miss Harrow said. "'Why can't Mr. Ewell make them friends, those two lots of people?' asked Dora. "'You say he's on good terms with both.' "'I suppose he thinks it's no business of his.' Jasper mused over the letter from his friend. "'Ten years hence,' he said, if Reardon is still alive, I shall be lending him five-pound notes.' A smile of irony rose to Maude's lips. Dora laughed. "'To be sure, to be sure,' exclaimed their brother, "'you have no faith, but just understand the difference between a man like Reardon and a man like me. He is the old type of unpractical artist. I am the literary man of 1882. He won't make concessions, or rather he can't make them. He can't supply the market. I—well, you may say that at present I do nothing, but that's a great mistake. I am learning my business.' Literature nowadays is a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may succeed by mere cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your skillful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets. When one kind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with something new and appetizing. He knows perfectly all the possible sources of income. Whatever he has to sell, he'll get payment for it from all sorts of various quarters. None of your unpractical selling for a lump sum to a middleman who will make six distinct profits. Now, look you, if I had been in Reardon's place, I'd have made four hundred at least out of the optimist. I should have gone shrewdly to work with magazines and newspapers and foreign publishers and all sorts of people. Reardon can't do that kind of thing. He's behind his age. He sells a manuscript as if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street of today is quite a different place. It is supplied with telegraphic communication. It knows what literary fare is in demand in every part of the world. Its inhabitants are men of business, however seedy. It sounds ignoble, said Maud. I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now as I tell you, I am slowly but surely learning the business. My line won't be novels. I have failed in that direction. I'm not cut out for the work. It's a pity, of course. There's a great deal of money in it. But I have plenty of scope. In ten years I repeat I shall be making my thousand a year. I don't remember that you stated the exact sum before, Maud observed. Let it pass, and to those who have shall be given. When I have a decent income of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income somewhat larger, so that casualties may be provided for. Dora exclaimed, laughing. It would amuse me very much if the Reardon's got a lot of money at Mr. Ewell's death, and that can't be ten years off, I'm sure. I don't see that there's any chance of their getting much, replied Jasper, meditatively. Mrs. Reardon is only his niece. The man's brother and sister will have the first helping, I suppose, and then, if it comes to the second generation, the literary Ewell has a daughter, and by her being invited here I should think she's the favorite niece. No, no, depend upon it. They won't get anything at all. Having finished his breakfast, he leaned back and began to unfold the London paper that had come by post. Had Mr. Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his marriage, do you think? inquired Mrs. Milvane. Reardon? Good heavens, no! Would he were capable of such forethought? In a few minutes Jasper was left alone in the room. When the servant came to clear the table, he strolled slowly away, humming a tune. The house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little village named Finden. Opposite stood the church, a plain, low, square-towered building. As it was cattle market today in the town of Wattleboro, droves of beasts and sheep occasionally went by, or the rattle of a Grazier's cart sounded for a moment. On ordinary days the road saw few vehicles and pedestrians were rare. Mrs. Milvane and her daughters had lived here for the last seven years, since the death of the father, who was a veterinary surgeon. The widow enjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty pounds, terminable with her life. The children had nothing of their own. Maude acted irregularly as a teacher of music. Dora had an engagement as visiting governess in a Wattleboro family. Twice a year, as a rule, Jasper came down from London to spend a fortnight with them. Today marked the middle of his autumn visit, and the strange relations between him and his sisters, which invariably made the second week rather trying for all in the house, had already become noticeable. In the course of the morning Jasper had half an hour's private talk with his mother, after which he set off to Rome in the sunshine. Shortly after he had left the house, Maude, her domestic duties dismissed for the time, came into the parlor where Mrs. Milvane was reclining on the sofa. Jasper once more money, said the mother, when Maude had sat in meditation for a few minutes. Of course, I knew that. I hope you told him he couldn't have it. I really didn't know what to say, returned Mrs. Milvane, in a feeble tone of worry. Then you must leave the matter to me, that's all. There's no money for him, and there's an end of it. Maude set her features in solemn determination. There was a brief silence. What's he to do, Maude? To do? How do other people do? What do Dora and I do? You don't earn enough for your support, my dear. Oh, well, broke from the girl. Of course, if you grudge us our food in lodging. Don't be so quick-tempered. You know very well I am far from grudging you anything, dear, but I only meant to say that Jasper does earn something, you know. It's a disgraceful thing that he doesn't earn as much as he needs. We are sacrificed to him, as we always have been. Why should we be pinching and stinting to keep him in idleness? But you really can't call it idleness, Maude. He is studying his profession. Pray, call it trade, he prefers it. How do I know that he's studying anything? What does he mean by studying? And to hear him speak scornfully of his friend Mr. Reardon, who seems to work hard all through the year. It's disgusting, mother. At this rate he will never earn his own living. Who hasn't seen or heard of such men? If we had another hundred a year I would say nothing, but we can't live on what he leaves us, and I'm not going to let you try. I shall tell Jasper plainly that he's got to work for his own support. Another silence and a longer one. Mrs. Milvane furtively wiped a tear from her cheek. It seems very cruel to refuse, she said at length, when another year may give him the opportunity he's waiting for. Opportunity. What does he mean by his opportunity? He says that it always comes if a man knows how to wait. And the people who support him may starve meanwhile. Now just think a bit, mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you. What becomes of Dora and me? And what becomes of Jasper, too? It's the truest kindness to him to compel him to earn a living. He gets more and more incapable of it. You can't say that, Maude. He earns a little more each year, but for that I should have my doubts. He has made thirty pounds already this year, and he only made about twenty-five the whole of last. We must be fair to him, you know. I can't help feeling that he knows what he's about. And if he does succeed, he'll pay us all back. Maude began to gnaw her fingers, a disagreeable habit she had in privacy. Then why doesn't he live more economically? I really don't see how he can live on less than a hundred and fifty a year. London, you know. The cheapest place in the world. Nonsense, Maude. But I know what I'm saying. I've read quite enough about such things. He might live very well indeed on thirty shillings a week, even buying his clothes out of it. But he has told us so often that it's no use to him to live like that. He is obliged to go to places where he must spend a little, or he makes no progress. Well, all I can say is, exclaim the girl impatiently, it's very lucky for him that he's got a mother who willingly sacrifices her daughters to him. That's how you always break out. You don't care what unkindness you say. It's a simple truth. Dora never speaks like that. Because she's afraid to be honest. No, because she has too much love for her mother. I can't bear to talk to you, Maude. The older I get, and the weaker I get, the more unfeeling you are to me. Scenes of this kind were no uncommon thing. The clash of tempers lasted for several minutes. Then Maude flung out of the room. An hour later, at dinnertime, she was rather more caustic in her remarks than usual. But this was the only sign that remained of the stormy mood. Jasper renewed the breakfast-table conversation. Look here, he began. Why don't you girls write something? I'm convinced you could make money if you tried. There's a tremendous sale for religious stories. Why not patch one together? I am quite serious. Why don't you do it yourself, retorted Maude? I can't manage stories, as I have told you. But I think you could. In your place, I'd make a specialty of Sunday School prize books. You know the kind of thing I mean. They sell like hotcakes. And there's so deuce little enterprise in the business. If you'd give your mind to it, you might make hundreds a year. Better say, abandon your mind to it. Why, there you are. You're a sharp enough girl. You can quote as well as anyone I know. And please, why am I to take up an inferior kind of work? Inferior? Oh, if you can be a George Elliot, begin at the earliest opportunity. I merely suggested what seemed practicable. But I don't think you have genius, Maude. People have got that ancient prejudice so firmly rooted in their heads that one mustn't write save at the dictation of the Holy Spirit. I tell you, writing is a business. Get together half a dozen fair specimens of the Sunday School prize, study them, discover the essential points of such composition, hit upon new attractions, then go to work methodically, so many pages a day. There's no question of the divine aphelatus that belongs to another sphere of life. We talk of literature as a trade, not of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. If I could only get that into poor Reardon's head, he thinks me a gross beast often enough. What the devil I mean what on earth is there in typography to make everything at deals with the Holy Spirit. I don't advocate the propagation of vicious literature. I speak only of good, coarse, marketable stuff for the world's vulgar. You just give it a thought, Maude. Talk it over with Dora. He resumed presently. I maintain that we people of brains are justified in supplying the mob with the food it likes. We are not geniuses, and if we sit down in a sphere of long-geared gravity we shall produce only commonplace stuff. Let us use our wits of money, and make the best we can of our lives. If only I had the skill I would produce novels outtrashing the trashiest that ever sold fifty thousand copies. But it needs skill, mind you, and to deny it is a gross error of the literary pendants. To please the vulgar you must, one way or another, incarnate the genius of vulgarity. For my own part I shan't be able to address the bulkiest multitude. My talents doesn't lend itself to that form. I shall write for the upper middle class of intellect, the people who like to feel that what they are reading has some special cleverness, but who can't distinguish between stones and paste. That's why I'm so slow and warming to the work. Every month I feel sureer of myself, however. That last thing of mine in the West End distinctly hit the mark. It wasn't too flashy. It wasn't too solid. I heard fellows speak of it in the train. Mrs. Milvane kept glancing at Maude, with eyes which desired her attention to these utterances. Nonetheless, half an hour after dinner, Jasper found himself encountered by his sister in the garden. On her face a look which warned him of what was coming. I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall you look to mother for support? I mean it, literally. Let me have an idea of how much longer it will be. He looked away and reflected. To leave a margin was his reply. Let us say twelve months. Better say your favourite ten years at once. No, I speak by the card, and twelve months time, if not before, I shall begin to pay my debts. My dear girl, I have the honour to be a tolerably long-headed individual. I know what I'm about. And let us suppose mother were to die within half a year. I should make shift to do very well. You, and please, would have Dora and me. You would write Sunday school prizes. Maude turned away and left him. He knocked the dust out of the pipe he had been smoking, and again saw off for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance was just a trace of solicitude, but for the most part he wore a thoughtful smile. Now and then he stroked his smoothly shaven jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of wayside details, of the colour of a maple leaf, the shape of a tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At the few people who passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head to foot. On turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost face to face with two persons, who were coming along in silent companionship. Their appearance interested him. The one was a man of fifty, grizzled, hard featured, slightly bowed in the shoulders. He wore a grey felt hat with a broad brim and a decent suit of broadcloth. With him was a girl of perhaps two and twenty, and a slight-coloured dress with very little ornament, and a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated to males. Her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls. Father and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was neither pretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive face, with a complexion of ivory tone. Her walk was gracefully modest, and she seemed to be enjoying the country air. Jessper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards he looked back. At the same moment the unknown man also turned his head. Where the deuce have I seen them? Him and the girl, too. Milvane asked himself. And before he reached home the recollection he saw flashed upon his mind. The museum reading-room, of course. End of chapter one. Chapter two of New Grubb Street. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bridget Gage. New Grubb Street by George Gissing. Chapter two. The House of Yule. I think, said Jessper, as he entered the room where his mother and Maude were busy with plain needlework, I must have met Alfred Yule and his daughter. How did you recognize them? Mrs. Milvane inquired. I passed an old buffer and a pale faced girl whom I know by sight at the British Museum. It wasn't near Yule's house, but they were taking a walk. They may have come already, when Miss Harrow was here last, she said, in about a fortnight. No mistaking them for people of these parts, even if I hadn't remembered their faces. Both of them are obvious dwellers in the valley of the shadow of books. Is Miss Yule such a fright, then? Asked Maude. A fright, not at all, a good example of the modern literary girl. I suppose you have the oddest old thoughts of such people. No, I rather like the look of her. Sympathica, I should think, as that ass Welpdale would say. A very delicate, pure complexion, though morbid, nice eyes, figure not spoiled yet. But, of course, I may be wrong about their identity. Later in the afternoon, Jasper's conjecture was rendered a certainty. Maude had walked to Wattleborough where she would meet Dora on the latter's return from her teaching, and Mrs. Milvane sat alone, in a impression. There was a ring at the doorbell, and the servant admitted Miss Harrow. This lady acted as housekeeper to Mr. John Yule, a wealthy resident in this neighborhood. She was a sister of his deceased wife, a thin, soft-speaking, kindly woman of forty-five. The greater part of her life she had spent as a governess. Her position now was more agreeable, and the removal of her anxiety about the future had developed qualities of cheerfulness, which formerly would have suspected her to possess. The acquaintance between Mrs. Milvane and her was only of twelve months standing. Prior to that, Mr. Yule had inhabited a house at the end of Wattleborough, remote from Finden. Our London visitors came yesterday, she began by saying. Mrs. Milvane mentioned her son's encounter an hour or two ago. No doubt it was they, said the visitor. Mrs. Yule hasn't come. I hardly expected she would, you know. So very unfortunate when there are families of that kind, isn't it? She smiled confidentially. The poor girl must feel it, said Mrs. Milvane. I'm afraid she does. Of course it narrows the circle of her friends at home. She's a sweet girl, and I should so like you to meet her. Do come and have tea with us tomorrow afternoon, will you? Or would it be too much for you just now? Will you let the girls call, and then perhaps Mrs. Yule will be so good as to come and see me? I wonder whether Mr. Milvane would like to meet her father. I have thought that perhaps it might be some advantage to him. Alfred is so closely connected with literary people, you know. I feel sure he would be glad, replied Mrs. Milvane. But what of Jasper's friendship with Mrs. Edmund Yule and the Reardon's? Might in it be a little awkward? Oh, I don't think so, unless he himself felt it so. There would be no need to mention that, I should say. John makes no scruple of speaking freely about everyone, and I don't think Alfred regards Mrs. Edmund with any serious unkindness. If Mr. Milvane would walk over with the young ladies tomorrow, it would be very pleasant. Then I think I may promise that he will. I'm sure I don't know where he is at this moment. We don't see very much of him, except at meals. He won't be with you much longer, I suppose. Perhaps a week. Before Miss Harrow's departure, they were reached home. They were curious to see the young lady from the valley of the Shadow of Books, and glad they accepted the invitation offered them. They set out on the following afternoon in their brother's company. It was only a quarter of an hour's walk to Mr. Yule's habitation, a small house in a large garden. Jasper was coming hither for the first time. His sisters now and then visited Miss Harrow, but very rarely saw Mr. Yule himself, who made no secret of the fact that he cared for the society. In Wattleboro and the neighborhood, opinions varied greatly as to this gentleman's character, but women seldom spoke very favorably of him. Miss Harrow was reticent concerning her brother-in-law. No one, however, had any reason to believe that she found life under his roof disagreeable. That she lived with him at all was of course occasionally matter for comment. Certain Wattleboro ladies having their doubts regarding the position of a deceased wife's sister but no one was seriously exercised about the relations between the sober lady of forty-five and a man of sixty-three in broken health. A word of the family history. John Alfred and Edmund Yule were the sons of a Wattleboro stationer. Each was well educated up to the age of seventeen at the town's grammar school. The eldest, who was a hot-headed lad but showed capacities for business worked at first with his father endeavoring to add a book-selling department to the trade and stationery. But the life of home was not much to his taste and at one in twenty he obtained a clerk's place in the office of a London newspaper. Three years after his father died and the small patrimony which fell to him he used in making himself practically acquainted with the details of paper manufacture. His aim being to establish himself in partnership with an acquaintance who had started a small paper mill in Hertfordshire. His speculation succeeded and as years went on he became a thriving manufacturer. His brother Alfred in the meantime had drifted from work at a London booksellers into the modern Grubb Street. His adventures in which region will concern us hereafter. Edmund carried on the Wattleboro business but with small success. Between him and his eldest brother existed a good deal of affection and in the end John offered him a share in his flourishing paper works whereupon Edmund married deeming himself well established for life. But John's temper was a difficult one. Edmund and he quarrelled, parted, and when the younger died aged about forty he left but moderate provision for his widow and two children. Only when he had reached middle age did John marry. The experiment could not be called successful and Mrs. Yule died three years later, childless. At fifty-four John Yule retired from active business. He came back to the scenes of his early life and began to take an important part in the municipal affairs of Wattleboro. He was then a remarkably robust man, fond of out-of-door exercise. He made it one of his chief efforts to encourage the local volunteer movement, the cricket and football clubs, public sports of every kind, showing no sympathy whatever with those persons who wished to establish free libraries, lectures, and the like. At his own expense he built for the volunteers a handsome drill shed. He founded a public gymnasium and finally he allowed it to be rumored that he was going to present the town with a park. But by presuming too far upon the bodily vigor which prompted these activities he passed of a sudden into the state of a confirmed invalid. On an autumn expedition in the Hebrides he slept one night under the open sky with the result that he had an all but fatal attack of rheumatic fever. After that, though the direction of his interest was unchanged he could no longer set the example to Wattleboro youth of muscular manliness. The infliction did not improve his temper. For the next year or two he was constantly at warfare with one or other of his colleagues and friends. Ill-brooking that the familiar control of various local interests should fall out of his hands. But before long he appeared to resign himself to his fate. And at present Wattleboro saw little of him. It seemed likely that he might still found the park which was to bear his name. But perhaps it would only be done in consequence of directions in his will. It was believed that he could not live much longer. With his kinsfolk he held very little communication. Alfred Yule, a battered man of letters, had visited Wattleboro only twice including the present occasion since John's return hither. Mrs. Edmund Yule, with her daughter now Mrs. Reardon, had been only once three years ago. These two families as you have heard were not on terms of a middy with each other owing to difficulties between Mrs. Alfred and Mrs. Edmund. But John seemed to regard both impartially. Perhaps the only real warmth the feeling he had ever known was bestowed upon Edmund. And Mrs. Harrow had remarked that he spoke with somewhat more interest of Edmund's daughter, Amy than of Alfred's daughter, Marion. But it was doubtful whether the sudden disappearance from the earth of all his relatives would greatly have troubled him. He lived a life of curious self-absorption, reading newspapers, little else, and talking with old friends who had stuck to him in spite of his irresistibility. Miss Harrow received her visitors in a small and soberly furnished drawing-room. She was nervous, probably because of Jasper Milvane, whom she had met but once, last spring, and who on that occasion had struck her as an alarmingly modern young man. In the shadow of a window-currant set a slight, simply dressed girl whose short curly hair and thoughtful countenance Jasper again recognized. When it was his turn to be presented to Miss Yule, he saw that she doubted for an instant whether or not to give her hand. Yet she decided to do so, and there was something very pleasant to him in its warm softness. She smiled with a slight embarrassment, meeting his look only for a second. I have seen you several times, Miss Yule, he said in a friendly way, though without knowing your name, it was under the great dome. She laughed, readily understanding his phrase. I am there often, was her reply. What great dome, asked Miss Harrow, with surprise. That of the British Museum Reading Room explained Jasper, known to some of us as the valley of the shadow of books. People who often work there necessarily get to know each other by sight. In the same way I knew Miss Yule's father when I happened to pass him in the road yesterday. The three girls began to converse together per force of trivialities. Mary and Yule spoke in rather slow tones, thoughtfully, gently. She had linked her fingers and laid her hands, palms downwards, upon her lap, a nervous action. Her accent was pure, unpretentious, and she used none of the fashionable terms of speech which would have suggested the habit of intercourse with distinctly metropolitan society. You must wonder how we exist in this out-of-the-way place, remarked Maude. Rather I envy you, Mary and answered with a slight emphasis. The door opened, and Alfred Yule sounded himself. He was tall, and his head seemed a disproportionate culmination to his meager body. It was so large and massively featured. Intellect and uncertainty of temper were equally marked upon his visage. His brows were knitted in a permanent expression of severity. He had thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, a shaven chin. In the multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history of laborious and stormy life. One readily divided him a struggling and embittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by no means the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his mental vigor. It pleases me to meet you, Mr. Milvane, he said, as he stretched out his bony hand. Your name reminds me of a paper in the wayside a month or two ago, which you will perhaps allow a veteran to say was not ill-done. I am grateful to you for noticing it, replied Jasper. There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. The illusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen pleasure. Mr. Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to stroke the back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He seemed to have nothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss Harrow and the girls to support conversation. Jasper listened with a smile for a minute or two. Then he addressed the veteran. Have you seen the study this week, Mr. Yule? Yes. Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novel which was tremendously abused in the same column three weeks ago? Mr. Yule started, but Jasper could perceive it once that his emotion was not disagreeable. You don't say so. Yes, the novel is Miss Hawks on the boards. How will the editor get out of this? Hmm. Of course Mr. Fedge is not immediately responsible, but it'll be unpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant. He smiled grimly. You hear this, Marion? How is it explained, Father? Maybe accident, of course, but, well, there's no knowing. I think it very likely this will be the end of Mr. Fedge's tenure of office. Rackett, the proprietor, only wants a plausible excuse for making a change. The paper has been going downhill for the last year. I know of two publishing houses who have withdrawn their advertising from it, and who never send their books for review. Everyone foresaw that kind of thing from the day Mr. Fedge became editor. The tone of his paragraphs has been detestable. Two reviews of the same novel, eh? And diametrically opposed. Ha ha! Gradually he had passed from quiet appreciation of the joke to undisguised mirth and pleasure. His utterance of the name Mr. Fedge sufficiently intimated that he had some cause of personal discontent with the editor of the study. The author remarked, Milvane, ought to make a good thing out of this. Will, no doubt, ought to write it once to the papers, calling attention to this sample of critical impartiality. Ha ha! He rose and went to the window, where for several minutes he stood gazing at vacancy, the same grim smile still on his face. Jasper, in the meantime, amused the ladies. His sisters had heard him on the subject already, with a description of the two antagonistic notices. But he did not trust himself to express so freely as he had done at home his opinion of reviewing in general. It was more than probable that both Yule and his daughter did a good deal of such work. Suppose we go into the garden, suggested Miss Harrow presently. It seems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely afternoon. Hitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house. But Mr. Yule now remarked to Jasper. My brother would be glad if you would come and have a word with him. He isn't quite well enough to leave his room today. So as the ladies went garden words, Jasper followed the man of letters upstairs to a room on the first floor. Here in a deep cane chair, which was placed by the open window, sat John Yule. He was completely dressed, saved that instead of a coat he wore a dressing-gown. The facial likeness between him and his brother was very strong. But Johns would universally have been judged the finer countenance, illness notwithstanding. He had a complexion which contrasted in its pure color, with Alfred's parchmenty skin. And there was more finish about his features. His abundant hair was reddish, his long moustache and trimmed beard, a lighter shade of the same hue. So you too are in league with the doctors, was his bluff greeting, as he held a hand to the young man and inspected him with a look of sliding good-nature. Well, that certainly is one way of regarding the literary profession, admitted Jasper, who had heard enough of John's way of thinking to understand the remark. I'm afraid not, Mr. Yule. After all, you know, you must be held in a measure responsible for my depravity. How's that? I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the making of paper. If that article were not so cheap and so abundant, people wouldn't have so much temptation to scribble. Alfred Yule uttered a short laugh. I think you are cornered, John. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish. abolished. There's a distinction, of course, but on the whole I should say that even the business serves a good purpose. What purpose? It helps to spread civilization. Civilization! exclaimed John scornfully. What do you mean by civilization? Do you call it civilizing men to make them weak, flabby creatures, with roomed eyes, and dyspeptic stomachs? Who is it that reads most of the stuff that's poured out daily by the ton from the printing press? Just the men and women who ought to spend their leisure hours in open-air exercise, the people who earn their bread by sedentary pursuits, and who need to live as soon as they are free from the desk or the counter, not to moon over small print, your board schools, your popular press, your spread of education, machinery for ruining the country, that's what I call it. You have done a good deal, I think, to counteract those influences in Wattleborough. I hope so, and if only I had kept the use of my limbs I'd have done a good deal more. I have an idea of offering substantial prizes to men and women engaged in sedentary work, who take an oath to abstain from all reading, and keep it for a certain number of years. There's a good deal more need for that than for abstinence from strong liquor. If I could have had my way I would have revived prize fighting. His brother laughed with contemptuous impatience. You would doubtless like to see military conscription introduced into England, said Jasper. Of course I should. You talk of civilizing. There's no such way of civilizing the masses of the people as by fixed military service. Before mental training must come training of the body. Go about the continent and see the effect of military service on lautish peasants and the lowest classes of town population. Do you know why it isn't even more successful? Because the damnable education movement interferes, if Germany would shut up her schools and universities for the next quarter of a century and go ahead like blazes with military training, there'd be a nation such as a world has never seen. After that they might begin a little book teaching again, say an hour and a half a day for everyone above nine years old. Do you suppose, Mr. Milvane, that society is going to be reformed by you people who write for money? Why, you are the very first class that will be swept from the face of the earth as soon as the reformation really begins. Alfred Puff did his cigarette. His thoughts were occupied with Mr. Fadge and the study. He was considering whether he could aid in bringing public contempt upon that literary organ and its editor. Milvane listened to the elder man's diatribe with much amusement. You now, pursued John, what do you write about? Nothing in particular. I make a salable page or two out of whatever strikes my fancy. Exactly. You don't even pretend that you've got anything to say. You live by inducing people to give themselves mental indigestion, and bodily too for that matter. Do you know, Mr. Ewell, that you have suggested a capital idea to me? If I were to take up your views, I think it isn't at all unlikely that I might make a good thing of writing against writing. It should be my literary specialty to rail against literature. The reading public should pay me for telling them that they oughtn't to read. I must think it over. Carvile has anticipated you, through an Alfred. Yes, but in an antiquated way, I would base my palimic on the newest philosophy. He developed the idea facetiously, whilst John regarded him as he might have watched a performing monkey. There again your new philosophy exclaimed the invalid, why it isn't even wholesome stuff the kind of reading that most of you force on the public. Now there's the man who has married one of my nieces, poor lass, reared in his name is. You know him, I dare say. Just for curiosity I had a look at one of his books. It was called The Optimist. Of all the morbid trash I ever saw, that be everything. I thought of writing him a letter, advising a couple of anti-bilius pills before bedtime for a few weeks. Jasper Glantz said Alfred Ewell, who were a look of indifference. That man deserves penal servitude in my opinion, pursued John. I'm not sure that it isn't my duty to offer him a couple of hundred a year on condition that he writes no more. Milvane, with a clear vision of his friend in London, burst into laughter. But at that point Alfred rose from his chair. Shall we rejoin the ladies? he said, with a certain pedantry of phrase and manner which often characterized him. Think over your ways whilst you're still young, said John, as he shook hands with the visitor. Your brother speaks quite seriously, I suppose, Jasper remarked when he was in the garden with Alfred. I think so. It's amusing now and then, but it gets rather tiresome when you hear it often. By the by you were not personally acquainted with Mr. Fedge. I didn't even know his name until you mentioned it. The most malicious man in the literary world. There's no uncharitableness in feeling a certain pleasure when he gets into a scrape. I could tell you incredible stories about him. But that kind of thing is probably as little to your taste as it is to mine. Miss Harrow and her companions, having caught sight of the pair, came towards them. Tea was to be brought out into the garden. So you can sit with us and smoke, if you like, said Miss Harrow to Alfred. You are never quite at your ease, I think, without a pipe. But the man of letters was too preoccupied for society. In a few minutes he begged that the ladies would excuse his withdrawing. He had two or three letters to write before post-time, which was early at Finden. Jasper, relieved by the veteran's departure, began at once to make himself very agreeable company. When he chose to lay aside the topic of his own difficulties and ambitions, he could converse with a spontaneous gaiety which readily won the goodwill of listeners. Naturally he addressed himself very often to Marian Ewell, whose attention complimented him. She said little, and evidently was at no time a free talker. But the smile on her face indicated a mood of quiet enjoyment. When her eyes wandered, it was to rest on the beauties of the garden, the moving patches of golden sunshine, the forms of gleaming cloud. Jasper liked to observe her as she turned her head. There seemed to him a particular grace in the movement. Her head and neck were admirably formed, and the short hair drew attention to this. It was agreed that Miss Harrow and Marian should come on the second day after to have tea with the Milvains. And when Jasper took leave of Alfred Yule, the letter expressed a wish that they might have a walk together one of these mornings. Jasper's favorite walk led him to a spot distant, perhaps a mile and a half from home. From a tract of common, he turned into a short lane, which crossed the Great Western Railway, and then spied a style into certain meadows forming a compact little valley. One recommendation of this retreat was that it lay sheltered from all winds. To Jasper a wind was objectionable. Along the bottom ran a clear, shallow stream, overhung with elder and Hawthorne bushes, and close by the wooden bridge, which spanned it, was a great ash tree, making shadow for cows and sheep when the sun lay hot upon the open field. It was rare for anyone to come along this path, save farm laborers morning and evening. But today, the afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule's house, he saw from a distance that his lounging place on the wooden bridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the pleasure there was in watching the sun-flecked sparkle of the water, as it flowed over the clean sand and stones. A girl in a yellow straw hat, yes, and precisely the person he had hoped, at the first glance, that it might be. He made no haste as he drew nearer on the descending path. At length his footstep was heard. Marian Yule turned her head and clearly recognized him. She assumed an upright position, letting one of her hands rest upon the rail. After the exchange of ordinary greetings Jasper leaned back against the same support, and showed himself disposed for talk. When I was here late in the spring, he said, this ash was only just budding, though everything else seemed in full leaf. And ash, is it? murmured Marian. I didn't know. I think an oak is the only tree I can distinguish. Yet, she added quickly, I knew that the ash was late. Some lines of Tennyson come to my memory. What are those? Delaying, as the tender ash delays, to clothe herself when all the woods are green, somewhere in the idols. I don't remember, so I won't pretend to, though I should do so as a rule. She looked at him oddly, and seemed about to laugh, yet did not. You have had little experience of the country, Jasper continued. Very little. You, I think, have known it from childhood. In a sort of way, I was born in Wattleborough, and my people have always lived here. But I am not very rural in temperament. I have really no friends here. Either they have lost interest in me, or I in them. What do you think of the girls, my sisters? The question, though put with perfect simplicity, was embarrassing. They are tolerably intellectual, Jasper went on, when he saw that it would be difficult for her to answer. I want to persuade them to try their hands at literary work, of some kind or other. They give lessons, and both hate it. Would literary work be less burdensome? said Marion, without looking at him. Rather more so, you think. She hesitated. It depends, of course, on several things. To be sure, Jasper agreed. I don't think they have any marked faculty for such work. But as they certainly haven't for teaching, that doesn't matter. It's a question of learning a business. I am going through my apprenticeship, and find it a long affair. Money would shorten it. And, unfortunately, I have none. Yes, said Marion, turning her eyes upon the stream. Money is a help in everything. Without it, one spends the best part of one's life entwilling for that first foothold, which money could at once purchase. To have money is becoming of more and more importance in a literary career. Principally because to have money is to have friends. Year by year, such influence grows of more account. A lucky man will still occasionally succeed by dint of his own honest perseverance. But the chances are dead against anyone who can't make private interest with influential people. His work is simply overwhelmed by that of the men who have better opportunities. Don't you think that even today, really good work will sooner or later be recognized? Later rather than sooner. And very likely the man can't wait. He starves in the meantime. You understand that I am not speaking of genius. I mean marketable literary work. The quantity turned out is so great that there's no hope for the special attention of the public unless one can afford to advertise hugely. Take the instance of a successful all-around man of letters. Take Ralph Warberry, whose name you'll see in the first magazine you happen to open. But perhaps he is a friend of yours. Oh, no. Well, I wasn't going to abuse him. I was only going to ask. Is there any quality which distinguishes his work from that of twenty struggling writers one could name? Of course not. He's a clever, prolific man. So are they. But he began with money and friends. He came from Oxford into the thick of advertised people. His name was mentioned in print six times a week before he had written a dozen articles. This kind of thing will become the rule. Men won't succeed in literature that they may get into society, but will get into society that they may succeed in literature. Yes, I know it is true, said Marion, in a low voice. There's a friend of mine who writes novels, Jasper pursued. His books are not works of genius, but they are glaringly distinct from the ordinary circulating novel. Well, after one or two attempts he made half a success. That is to say, the publishers brought out a second edition of the book in a few months. There was his opportunity, but he couldn't use it. He had no friends because he had no money. A book of half that merit, if written by a man in the position of War Brewery when he started, would have established the reputation of a lifetime. His influential friends would have referred to it in leaders, and magazine articles, and speeches, and sermons. It would have run through numerous editions, and the author would have had nothing to do but write another book and demand his price. But the novel I'm speaking of was practically forgotten a year after its appearance. It was whelmed beneath the flood of next season's literature. Marion urged a hesitating objection. But under the circumstances, wasn't it in the author's power to make friends? Was money really indispensable? Why, yes, because he chose to marry. As a bachelor he might possibly have gotten to the right circles, though his character would, in any case, have made it difficult for him to curry favour. But as a married man, without means, the situation was hopeless. Once married, you must live up to the standard of the society you frequent. You can't be entertained without entertaining in return. Now, if his wife had brought him only a couple of thousand pounds, all might have been well. I should have advised him, in sober seriousness, to live for two years at the rate of a thousand a year. At the end of that time, he would have been earning enough to continue at pretty much the same rate of expenditure. Perhaps. Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters would be able to do that. As for Reardon. He stopped. The name had escaped him unawares. Reardon, said Marion, looking up, you are speaking of him? I have betrayed myself, Miss Yule. But what doesn't matter? You have only spoken in his favour. I feared the name might affect you disagreeably. Marion delayed her reply. It is true, she said. We are not on friendly terms with my cousin's family. I have never met Mr. Reardon. But I shouldn't like you to think that the mention of his name is disagreeable to me. It made me slightly uncomfortable yesterday, the fact that I am well acquainted with Mrs. Entbin Yule and that Reardon is my friend. Yet I didn't see why that should prevent my making your father's acquaintance. Surely not. I shall say nothing about it. I mean, as you uttered the name unintentionally. There was a pause in the dialogue. They had been speaking almost confidentially. And Marion seemed to become suddenly aware of an oddness in the situation. She turned towards the uphill path, as of thinking of resuming her walk. You are tired of standing still, said Jasper. May I walk back a part of the way with you? Thank you, I shall be glad. They went on for a few minutes in silence. Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule? Jasper at length inquired. Nothing. I only helped father a little. The silence that again followed was broken this time by Marion. When you chanced to mention Mr. Reardon's name, she said, with the diffident smile in which lay that suggestion of humor so delightful upon a woman's face, you were going to say something more about him. Only that, he broke off and laughed. Now, how boyish it was, wasn't it? I remembered doing just the same thing once when I came home from school and had an exciting story to tell, with preservation of anonymities. Of course, I blurred it out a name in the first minute or two, to my father's great amusement. He told me that I hadn't the diplomatic character. I have been trying to acquire it ever since. But why? It's one of the essentials of success in any kind of public life. And I mean to succeed, you know. I feel that I am one of the men who do succeed. But I beg your pardon. You asked me a question. Really, I was only going to say of Reardon what I had said before—that he hasn't attacked requisite for acquiring popularity. Then I may hope that it isn't his marriage with my cousin which has proved a fatal misfortune. In no case, replied Milvain, averting his look, would he have used his advantages. And now, do you think he has but poor prospects? I wish I could see any chance of his being estimated at his right value. It's very hard to say what is before him. I knew my cousin Amy when we were children, said Marion, presently. She gave promise of beauty. Yes, she is beautiful. And the kind of woman to be of help to such a husband? I hardly know how to answer, Miss Yule, said Jasper, looking frankly at her. Perhaps I had better say that it's unfortunate they are poor. Marion cast down her eyes. To whom isn't it a misfortune? pursued her companion. Poverty is the root of all social ills, its existence accounts even for the ills that arise from wealth. The poor man is a man laboring in fetters. I declare there is no word in our language which sounds so hideous to me as poverty. Shortly after this they came to the bridge over the railway line. Jasper looked at his watch. Will you indulge me in a piece of childishness? he said. In less than five minutes a London Express goes by. I have often watched it here, and it amuses me. Would it worry you to wait? I should like to, she replied with a laugh. The line ran along a deep cutting, from either side of which grew hazel bushes and a few larger trees. Leaning upon the parapet of the bridge Jasper kept his eye in the westward direction where the gleaming rails were visible for more than a mile. Suddenly he raised his finger. You hear? Marion had just caught the far off sound of the train. She looked eagerly and in a few moments saw it approaching. The front of the engine blackened nearer and nearer, coming on with dread force and speed. A blinding rush and their burst against the bridge a great valley of sunlit steam. Milvane and his companion ran to the opposite parapet, but already the whole train had emerged, and in a few seconds it had disappeared round a sharp curve. The leafy branches that grew out over the line swayed violently backwards and forwards in the perturbed air. If I were ten years younger, said Jasper, laughing, I should say that was jolly. It inspirates me. It makes me feel eager to go back and plunge into the fight again. On me it has just the opposite effect. Fell from Marion in very low tones. Oh, don't say that. Well, it only means that you haven't had enough holiday yet. I have been in the country more than a week. A few days more, and I must be off. How long do you think of staying? Not much more than a week, I think. By the by you are coming to have tea with us tomorrow, Jasper remarked, a propose of nothing. Then he returned to another subject that was in his thoughts. It was by a train like that that I first went up to London. Not really the first time. I mean when I went to live there, seven years ago. What spirits I was in. A boy of eighteen going to live independently in London. Think of it. You went straight from school? I was for two years at Redmayne College after leaving Wattleboro Grammar School. Then my father died, and I spent nearly half a year at home. I was meant to be a teacher, but the prospect of entering a school by no means appealed to me. A friend of mine was studying in London for some civil service exam, so I declared that I would go and do the same thing. Did you succeed? Not I. I never worked properly for that kind of thing. I read voraciously, and got to know London. I might have gone to the dogs, you know, but by when I had been in London a year a pretty clear purpose began to form in me. Strange to think that you were growing up there all the time. I may have passed you in the street now and then. Marion laughed, and I did at length see you at the British Museum, you know. They turned a corner of the road, and came full upon Marion's father, who was walking in this direction with eyes fixed upon the ground. So here you are, he exclaimed, looking at the girl, and for the moment paying no attention to Jasper. I wondered whether I should meet you. Then more dryly. How do you do, Mr. Yule? In a tone of easy indifference Jasper explained how he came to be accompanying Miss Yule. Shall I walk on with you, father? Marion asked, scrutinizing his rugged features. Just as you please, I don't know that I should have gone much further, but we might take another way back. Jasper readily adapted himself to the wish he discerned in Mr. Yule. At once he offered leave-taking in the most natural way. Nothing was said on either side about another meeting. The young man proceeded homewards, but on arriving did not at once enter the house. Behind the garden was a field used for the grazing of horses. He entered it by the unfastened gate, and strolled idly, hither and thither, now and then standing to observe a poor worn-out beast, all skin and bone, which had presumably been sent here in the hope that a little more labor might still be exacted from it if it were suffered to repose for a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs. It stood in a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesome flies with its grizzled tail. It was tea time when he went in. Maude was not at home, and Mrs. Milvane, tormented by a familiar headache, kept her room, so Jasper and Dora sat down together. Each had an open book on the table. Throughout the meal they exchanged only a few words. Going to play a little, Jasper suggested when they had gone into the sitting-room. If you like. She sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa, his hands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but an absent-mindedness, which was commonly observable in her, had its effect upon the music. She at length broke off idly in the middle of a passage, and began to linger on careless cords. Then, without turning her head, she asked, Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks? End of Chapter 3, Part 1 Chapter 3, Part 2 of New Grapp Street This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chessie New Grapp Street by George Gissing, Chapter 3, Part 2 Quiet! I see no reason why you shouldn't do something in that way. But I tell you what. When I get back, I'll inquire into the state of the market. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly and Monks. The chief publishers of that kind of thing, you know, I must look him up. What a mistake it is to neglect any acquaintance, and get some information out of him. But it's obvious what an immense field there is for anyone who can just hit the taste of the new generation of board school children. It mustn't be too goody-goody. That kind of thing is falling out of date. But you'd have to cultivate a particular kind of vulgarity. There's an idea by the by. I write a paper on the characteristics of that new generation. It may bring me a few guineas and it would be a help to you. But what do you know about the subject? Ask Dora doubtfully. What a comical question. It is my business to know something about every subject, or to know where to get the knowledge. Well, the Dora after pause. There's no doubt more than I ought to think very seriously about the future. You are aware, Chesper, that Mother has not been able to save a penny of her income. I don't see how she could have done. Of course, I know what you're thinking. But for me, it would have been possible. I don't mind confessing to you that a thought troubles me a little now and then. I shouldn't like to see you two going off guzzling in strangers' houses. All I can say is that I am very honestly working for the end which I am convinced will be most profitable. I shall not desert you. You needn't fear that. But just put your heads together and cultivate your writing faculty. Suppose you could both together earn about a hundred a year in Grubstreet. It would be better than governassing, wouldn't it? You say you don't know what Miss Ewe writes? Well, I know a little more about her than I did yesterday. I've had an hour's talk with her this afternoon. Indeed? Met her down in the legged fields. I find she doesn't write independently. Just helps her father. What the help amounts to, I can't say. There's something very attractive about her. She quoted a line or two of Tennyson. The first time I ever heard a woman speak blank words with any kind of decency. She was walking alone? Yes. On the way back we met old Ewe. He seemed rather grumpy, I thought. I don't think she's the kind of girl to make a paying business of literature. Her qualities are personal, and it's pretty clear to me that the valley of the shadow of books by no means agrees with her disposition. Possibly old Ewe is something of a tyrant. He doesn't impress me very favorably. Do you think you will keep up their acquaintance in London? Can't say. I wonder what sort of a woman that mother really is. Can't be so very gross, I should think. Miss Harrow knows nothing about her except that she was a quite uneducated girl. But dash it. By this time she must have got decent manners. Of course, there may be other objections. Mrs. Reardon knows nothing against her. Midway in the following morning, as Jess preset with her book in the garden, he was surprised to see Alfred Ewe'll enter by the gate. I thought, began the visitor who seemed in high spirits, that you might like to see something I received this morning. He unfolded a London evening paper and indicated a long letter from a casual correspondent. It was written by the authoress of On the Boards and drew attention with much expenditure of witticism to the conflicting notices of that book which had appeared in the study. Jess burretted a thing with laughing appreciation. Just what one expected. And I have private letters on the subject, added Mr. Ewe. There has been something like a personal conflict between Fetch and the man who looks after the minor notices. Fetch, more so, judged the other man with a design to damage him and the paper. There's talk of legal proceedings. An immense joke. He laughed in his peculiar, croaking way. Do you feel disposed for a turn along the lanes, Mr. Midwayne? By all means. There's my mother at the window. Will you come in for a moment? With a step of quite unusual sprightliness, Mr. Ewe'll enter the house. He could talk of but one subject, and Mrs. Midwayne had to listen to a labored account of the blunder just committed by the study. It was Alfred's Ewe characteristic that he could do nothing light-handedly. He seemed always to converse with effort. He took a seat with stiff ungainliness. He walked with a stumbling or sprawling gait. When he and Chesper set out for their ramble, his locustity was in strong contrast with the tethered turn moot he had exhibited yesterday and the day before. He fell upon the general aspects of contemporary literature. The evil of the time is the multiplication of ephemerides. Hence a demand for essays, descriptive articles, fragments of criticism out of all proportion to the supply of even tolerable work. The men who have an aptitude for turning out this kind of thing in vast quantities are enlisted by every new periodical, with the result that their productions are ultimately watered down into worthlessness. Well now, there's fetch. Years ago some of fetch's work was not without a certain a certain conditional promise of comparative merit. But now his writing, in my opinion, is altogether beneath consideration. How racket could be so benighted as to give him the study, especially after a man like Henry Horcrich, passes my comprehension? Did you read the paper of his, a few months back, in the wayside, a preposterous rehabilitation of El Cana Settle? Haha, that's what such men are driven to. El Cana Settle. And he hadn't even a competent acquaintance with his poultry subject. Will you credit that he twice of rise referred to Settle's reply to Epsilon and Eccitophil by the title of Epsilon Transpost, when every schoolgirl knows that the thing was called Eccitophil Transpost. This was monstrous enough, but there was something still more contemptible. He positively, I assure you, attributed the play of Epsom Wells to Crown. I should have presumed that every student of even the most trivial prime of literature was aware that Epsom Wells was written by Shadwell. Now, if one were to take Shadwell for the subject of a paper, one might very well show how unjustly his name has fallen into contempt. It has often occurred to me to do this. But Shadwell never deviates into sense. The sneer in my opinion is entirely unmerited. For my own part, I put Shadwell very high among the dramatists of his time, and I think I could show that his absolute worth is by no means inconsiderable. Shadwell has distinct vigor of dramatic conception, his dialogue. And as he talked, the man kept describing imaginary geometrical figures with the end of his walking stick. He very seldom raised his eyes from the ground, and the stoop in his shoulders grew more and more pronounced until at a little distance one might have taken him for a hunchback. At one point, Jasper made a pause to speak of the pleasant, wooded prospect that lay before them. His companion regarded it absently, and in a moment or two asked, Did you ever come across Cottle's poem on the Malwurn Hills? No. It contains a couple of the richest lines ever put into print. It needs the evidence of close deduction to know that I shall ever reach the top. Perfectly serious poetry, mind you. He barked and laughed at her. Impossible to interest him in anything apart from literature. Yet one saw him to be a man of solid understanding and not without perception of humor. He had read vastly. His memory was a literary cyclopedia. His failings, obvious enough, were the result of a strong and somewhat pedantic individuality ceaselessly at conflict with unpropitious circumstances. Towards the young man his deminio varied between a shy cordiality and a dignified reserve which was in danger of seeming pretentious. On the homeward part of the walk, he made a few discreet inquiries regarding Malwurn's literary achievements and prospects, and the frank self-confidence of the replies appeared to interest him. But he expressed no desire to number Jasper among his acquaintances in town, and of his own professional private concerns he said not a word. Whether he could be any use to me or not, I don't exactly know, Jasper remarked to his mother and sisters at dinner. I suspect it's as much as he can do to keep a footing among the younger tradesmen. But I think he might have said he was willing to help me if he could. Perhaps, replied Maud, your large way of talking made him think any such offer superfluous. You have still to learn, said Jasper, that modesty helps a man in no department of modern life. People take you at your own valuation. It's the man who declare boldly that they need no help, to whom practical help comes from all sides. As likely as not, you will mention my name to someone. A young fellow who seems to see his way pretty clear before him. The other man will repeat it to somebody else. A young fellow whose way is clear before him. And so, I come to the ears of a man who thinks, just a fellow I want. I must look him up and ask him if he'll do such and such a thing. But I should like to see these eulets at home. I must fish for an invitation. In the afternoon, Miss Harrow and Marion came at the expected hour. Jasper purposely kept out of the way until he was summoned to the tea table. The middle-wing girls were so far from effusive, even towards old acquaintances, that even the people who knew them best spoke of them as rather cold and perhaps a trifle condescending. There were people in water borough who declared their airs of superiority ridiculous and insufferable. The truth was that nature had endowed them with a larger share of brains than was common in their circle, and had added that touch of pride which harmonized so ill with the restrictions of poverty. Their life had a tone of melancholy, the painful reserve which characterizes a certain clearly defined class in the present day. Had they been born 20 years earlier, the children of that veterinary surgeon would have grown up to a very different and in all probability a much happier existence, for their education would have been limited to the strictly needful and, certainly in the case of the girls, nothing would have encouraged them to look beyond the simple life possible to a poor man's offspring. But whilst Mord and Dora were still with their homely school mistress, water borough saw fit to establish a girl's high school and the moderateness of the fees enabled these sisters to receive an intellectual training wholly incompatible with the material conditions of their life. To the relatively poor, who are so much worse off than the poor absolutely, education is in most cases a mocking cruelty. The burden of their brother's support made it very difficult for Mord and Dora even to dress as became the intellectual station. Amusements, holidays, the purchase of such simple luxuries as were all but indispensable to them could not be thought of. It resulted that they held apart from the society which would have welcomed them, for they could not bear to receive without offering in turn. The necessity of giving lessons called them. They felt, and with every reason, that it made their position ambiguous. So that though they could not help knowing many people, they had no intimates. They encouraged no one to visit them and visited other houses as little as might be. In Mary and Yule they divined a sympathetic nature. She was unlike any girl with whom they had hitherto associated, and it was the impulse of both to receive her with unusual friendliness. The habit of reticence could not be at once overcome, and Marian's own timidity was an obstacle in a way of free intercourse. But Jesper's conversation at tea helped to smooth the course of things. I wish you lived anywhere near us, Dora said to their visitor as the three girls walked in the garden afterwards, and Maud echoed the wish. It would be very nice, was Marian's reply. I have no friends of my own age in London. None? Not one. She was about to add something, but in the end kept silence. You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well after all, said Jesper when the family were alone again. Did you anticipate anything else? Maud asked. It seemed doubtful up at Yule's house. Well, get her to come here again before I go. But it's a pity she doesn't play the piano, he added musingly. For two days nothing was seen of the Yules. Jesper went each afternoon to the stream in the valley, but did not again meet Marian. In the meanwhile he was growing restless. A fortnight always exhausted his capacity for enjoying the companionship of his mother and sisters. And this time he seemed anxious to get to the end of his holiday. For all that, there was no continuance of the domestic bickering which had begun. Whatever the reason, Maud behaved with unusual mildness to her brother, and Jesper in turn was gently disposed to both the girls. On the morning of the third day, it was Saturday, he kept silence through breakfast, and just as over about to rise from the table, he made a sudden announcement. I shall go to London this afternoon. This afternoon, Olex claimed, what Monday is your day? No, I shall go this afternoon by the two forty-five. And he left a room. Mrs. Midwayne and the girls exchanged looks. I suppose he thinks the Sunday will be too verisome, said the mother. Perhaps so, Maud agreed carelessly. Half an hour later, just as Dora was ready to leave the house for her engagements in Waterborough, her brother came into the hall and took his head, saying, I'll walk a little way with you, if you don't mind. When they were in a road, he asked her in an offhand manner. Do you think I ought to say goodbye to the youths? Or won't it signify? I should have thought you would wish to. I don't care about it. And, you see, there's been no hint of a wish on their part that I should see them in London. No, I'll just leave you to say goodbye for me. But they expect to see us today or tomorrow. You told them you were not going till Monday, and you don't know, but Mr. You might mean to say something yet. Well, I'd rather he didn't, replied Jasper with a laugh. Oh, indeed? I don't mind telling you, he laughed again. I'm afraid of that girl. No, it won't do. You understand that I'm a practical man, and I shall keep clear of dangers. These days of holiday idleness put all sorts of nonsense into one's head. Dora kept her eyes down and smiled ambiguously. You must act as you think fit, she remarked at length. Exactly. Now I'll turn back. You'll be with us at dinner? They parted, but Jasper did not keep to the straight way home. First of all, he loitered to watch a reaping machine at work. Then he turned into a lane which led up the hill on which was John Newell's house. Even if he had purposed making a farewell call, it was still far too early. All he wanted to do was to pass an hour of the morning, which threatened to lie heavy on his hands. So he rambled on and went past the house, and took the field path which would lead him so curiously home again. His mother decided to speak to him. She was in the dining room. In the parlor, Mort was practicing music. I think I ought to tell you of something I did yesterday, Jasper. Mrs. Milwayne began. You see, my dear, we have been rather straight and lately, and my health, you know, grows so uncertain, and all things considered, I have been feeling very anxious about the girls. So I wrote to your uncle William and told him that I must positively have that money. I must think of my own children before his. The matter referred to was this. The deceased Mr. Milwayne had a brother who was a struggling shopkeeper in a midland town. Some ten years ago William Milwayne, on the point of bankruptcy, had borrowed a hundred and seventy pounds from his brother in Wattleboro, and this debt was still unpaid. For on the death of Jasper's father, repayment of the loan was impossible for William, and since then it had seemed hopeless that the sum would ever be recovered. The poor shopkeeper had a large family, and Mrs. Milwayne, notwithstanding her own position, had never felt able to press him. Her relative, however, often spoke of the business and declared his intention of paying whenever he could. You can't recover by law now, you know, said Jasper. But we have a right to the money, law or no law, he must pay it. He will simply refuse and be justified. Poverty doesn't allow of honourable feeling any more than of compassion. I'm sorry you wrote like that. You won't get anything, and you might as well have enjoyed the reputation of forbearance. Mrs. Milwayne was not able to appreciate this characteristic remark. Anxiety weighed upon her, and she became irritable. I'm obliged to say, Jasper, that you seem rather thoughtless. If it were only myself, I would make any sacrifice for you, but you must remember. Now listen, mother, he interrupted, laying a hand on her shoulder. I have been thinking about all this, and the fact of the matter is, I shall do my best to ask you for no more money. It may or may not be practicable, but I'll have a try. So don't worry. If uncle writes that he can't pay, just explain why you wrote, and keep him gently in mind of the thing. That's all. One doesn't like to do brutal things if one can avoid them, you know. The young man went to the parlour and listened to Mort's music for a while. But restlessness again drove him forth. Towards 11 o'clock he was again ascending in the direction of John Ewell's house. Again, he had no intention of calling, but when he reached the iron gates, he lingered. I will by Choth, he said within himself at last, just to prove I have complete command of myself. It's to be a display of strength, not weakness. At the house door he inquired for Mr. Alfred Ewell. That gentle man had gone in the carriage to Wattleboro half an hour ago with his brother. Miss Ewell? Yes, she was within. Jasper entered the sitting room, waited a few moments, and Marion appeared. She wore a dress in which Milvain had not yet seen her, and it had the effect of making him regard her attentively. The smile with which she had come towards him passed from her face, which was perchance a little warmer of you than commonly. I'm sorry your father's away, Miss Ewell. Jasper began in an animated voice. I wanted to say goodbye to him. I returned to London in a few hours. You are going sooner than you intended? Yes, I feel I mustn't waste any more time. I think the country air is doing you good. You certainly look better than when I passed you that first day. I feel better, Marge. My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn't wonder if they come up this afternoon. Marion had seated herself on the sofa, and her hands were linked upon her lap in the same way as when Jasper spoke with her here before, the palms downward. The beautiful outline of her bent head was relieved against a broad strip of sunlight on the wall behind her. They deplore, he continued in a moment, that they should come to know you only to lose you again so soon. I have quite as much reason to be sorry, she answered, looking at him with the slightest possible smile. But perhaps they will let me write to them and hear from them now and then. They would think it an honor. Country girls are not often invited to correspond with literary ladies in London. He said it with as much jocoseness as civility allowed, then at once rose. Father will be very sorry, Marion began, with one quick glance towards the window and then another towards the door. Perhaps he might possibly be able to see you before you go. Jasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl's face, which under other circumstances would have suggested a ready answer. I mean, she added hastily, he might just call or even see you at the station. Oh, I shouldn't like to give Mr. Yule any trouble. It's my own fault for deciding to go today. I shall leave by the 245. He offered his hand. I shall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule. Oh, I don't think you will ever find it there. He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time and stood out of the room, had erect, feeling proud of himself. When Dora came home at dinner time, he informed her of what he had done. A very interesting girl, he added impartially. I advise you to make a friend of her. Who knows, but you may live in London someday and then she might be valuable. Morally, I mean. For myself, I shall do my best not to see her again for a long time. She's dangerous. Jasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst waiting on a platform, he suffered from apprehension, lest Alfred Yule's seemed visit should present itself. But no acquaintance approached him. Safe in a corner of his third-class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpses of the familiar fields, and began to think of something he had decided to write for the West End. End of chapter 3, part 2. Chapter 4 of New Grubb Street. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer. Please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alan Brown. New Grubb Street by George Gissing. Chapter 4. An author and his wife. Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine steps. Amy had made the calculation and wondered what was the cause of this arrangement. The assent was trying, but then no one could contest the respectability of the abode. In the flat, immediately beneath, resided a successful musician, whose carriage and pair came at a regular hour each afternoon to take him and his wife for a most respectable drive. In this special building, no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but all the tenants were gentle folk. And as to living up at the very top, why there were distinct advantages, as the so many people of moderate income are nowadays hastening to discover. The noise from the street was diminished at this height. No possible tramplers could establish themselves above your head. The air was bound to be purer than that of inferior strata. Finally one had the flat roof whereon to sit or expatiate in sunny weather. True that a gentle rain of soot was want to interfere with one's comfort out there in the open, but such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervor of domestic description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed extensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Heiget, with Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regents Park in the foreground, the suburban spaces of St. John's Wood, Mada Vale, Kilburn, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the Hidden River, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills, which meant the Crystal Palace. Then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St. Paul's Dome. These things, one's friends were expected to admire. Sunset often afforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing. A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called dining-room, or even parlorette-need, for the cooking-range lent itself to concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls displayed pictures and bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay apart sufficed for the coarser domestic operations. This was Amy's territory during the hours when her husband was working, or endeavouring to work. Of necessity Edwin Reardon used the front-room as his study. His writing table stood against the window. Each wall had its shelves of serried literature, vases, busts, engravings. All of the inexpensive kind served for ornaments. A maidservant, recently emancipated from the board school, came at half-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock, by which time the Reardon's had dined. On special occasions, her services were enlisted for later hours, but it was Reardon's habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or eleven, in many respects, an awkward arrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty. One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper before him. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the backs of certain large houses, skirting Regents Park, and lights had begun to show here and there in the windows. In one room a man was discoverable, dressing for dinner. He had not thought it worthwhile to lower the blind. In another, some people were playing billiards. The higher windows reflected a rich glow from the western sky. For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same attitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed about to write, but each time the effort was abortive. At the head of the paper was inscribed. Chapter three, but that was all. And now the sky was dusking over. Darkness would soon fall. He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-thirty. On his face was the power of mental suffering. Often he fell into a fit of absence and gazed at vacancy with wide, miserable eyes. Returning to consciousness he fidgeted nervously on his chair, dipped his pen for the hundredth time, bent forward in feverish determination to work. Useless. He scarcely knew what he wished to put into words and his brain refused to construct the simplest sentence. The colors faded from the sky and to night came quickly. Reardon threw his arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward and remained so, as if asleep. Presently the door opened in a young, clear voice made inquiry. Don't you want the lamp, Edwin? The man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked towards the open door. Come here, Amy. His wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a glimmer came from the opposite houses. What's the matter? Can't you do anything? I haven't written a word today. At this rate, one goes crazy. Come and sit by me a minute, dearest. I'll get the lamp. No. Come and talk to me. We can understand each other better. Nonsense. You have such morbid ideas. I can't bear to sit in the gloom. At once she went away and quickly reappeared with the reading lamp, which she placed on the square table in the middle of the room. Draw down the blind, Edwin. She was a slender girl, but not very tall. Her shoulders seemed rather broad in proportion to her waist and the part of her figure below it. The hue of her hair was ruddy gold. Loosely arranged tresses made a superb crown to the beauty of her small, refined head. Yet the face was not a distinctly feminine type. With short hair and appropriate clothing she would have passed unquestioned as a handsome boy of seventeen. A spirited boy, too, and one much in the habit of giving orders to inferiors. Her nose would have been perfect but for ever so slight a crook which made it preferable to view it in full face than in profile. Her lips curved sharply out, and when she straightened them, of a sudden, the effect was not reassuring to anyone who had counted upon her for facile humor. In harmony with the broad shoulders she had a strong neck as she bore the lamp into the room a slight turn of her head, shown splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was a magnificently clear-cut bust, one thought in looking at her of the newly finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his own hand from the marble block. There was a suggestion of planes and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold. Ruddiness would have been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been the rarest thing there. Her age was not quite twenty-two, she had been wedded nearly two years and had a child ten months old. As for her dress it was unpretending in fashion and color, but of admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted scrupulous personal refinement. She walked well. You saw that the foot, however gently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself her posture was instantly graceful, and that of one who is indifferent about support for the back. What is the matter, she began? Why can't you get on with a story? It was a tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of affection. Not at all of tender solicitude. Reared and had risen in wish to approach her, but could not do so directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round to the back of her chair and bent his face upon her shoulder. Amy? Well, I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write anymore. Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing? Perhaps I am only out of sorts, but I begin to be horribly afraid. My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way to the end of anything. If I get hold of an idea which seems good, all the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into working shape. In these last few months I must have begun a dozen different books. I have been ashamed to tell you of each new beginning. I write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage fails. I am disgusted with the thing and can't go on with it. Can't. My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In mere writing I have done enough to make much more than three volumes. But it's all destroyed. Because of your morbid congenitiveness, there was no need to destroy what you had written. It was all good enough for the market. Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it. You can't afford to hate it, was her rejoinder, in very practical tones. However it was before you must write for the market now. You have admitted that yourself. Here you kept silence. Where are you, she went on to ask? What have you actually done? Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three volumes lie before me like an interminable desert. Impossible to get through them. The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't a living character in it. The public don't care whether the characters are living or not. Don't stand behind me like that. It's such an awkward way of talking. Calm and sit down. He drew away and came to a position once he could see her face, but kept at a distance. Yes, he said in a different way. That's the worst of it. What is? That you... Well it's no use. That I want. She did not look at him. Her lips, after she had spoken, drew in a little. That your disposition towards me is being affected by this miserable failure. You keep saying to yourself that I am not what you thought me. Perhaps you even feel that I have been guilty of a sort of deception. I don't blame you. It's natural enough. I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think, she replied, after a short silence. You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crush you instead of rousing you to struggle. True. It has always been my fault. But don't you feel it's rather unmanly, this state of things? You say you love me and I try to believe it, but whilst you are saying so, you let me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful poverty. What is to become of me, of us? Shall you sit here day after day until our last shilling is spent? No, of course I must do something. When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay this quarter's rent and that will leave us just about fifteen pounds in the world. Where is the rent at Christmas to come from? What are we to live upon? There is all sorts of clothing to be bought. There'll be all the extra expenses of winter. Surely it's bad enough that we have had to stay here all the summer. No holiday of any kind. I've done my best not to grumble about it, but I begin to think that it would be very much wiser if I did grumble. She squared her shoulders and gave her head just a little shake, as if a fly had troubled her. You bear everything very well and kindly, said Reardon. My behavior is contemptible. I know that. Good heavens if I only had some business to go to. Something I could work at in any state of mind and make money out of. Given this chance I would work myself to death rather than you should lack anything you desire. But I am at the mercy of my brain. It is dry and powerless. How I envy those clerks who go by to their offices in the morning. There's the day's work cut out for them. No question of mood and feeling. They have just to work at something. And when the evening comes they have earned their wages. They are free to rest and enjoy themselves. What an insane thing it is to make literature one's only means of support. When the most trivial accident may at any time prove fatal to one's power of work for weeks or months. No, that is the unpardonable sin, to make a trade of an art. I am rightly served for attempting such a brutal folly. He turned away in a passion of misery. How very silly it is to talk like this came in Amy's voice, clearly critical. Art must be practiced as a trade at all events in our time. This is the age of trade. Of course if one refuses to be of one's time and yet hasn't the means to live independently, what can result but breakdown and wretchedness? The fact of the matter is you could do fairly good work and work which would sell, if only you would bring yourself to look at things in a more practical way. It's what Mr. Milvane is always saying, you know? Milvane's temperament is very different from mine. He is naturally lighthearted and hopeful. I am naturally the opposite. What you and he say is true enough, the misfortune is that I can't act upon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant. I am quite willing to try and do the kind of work that will sell. Under the circumstances, it would be a kind of insanity if I refused. But power doesn't answer to my will. My efforts are utterly vain. I suppose the prospect of pennilessness is itself a hindrance. The fear haunts me. With such terrible, real things pressing upon me, my imagination can shape a nothing substantial. When I have labored out a story, I suddenly see it in a light of such contemptible triviality that to work at it is an impossible thing. You are ill. That's the fact of the matter. You ought to have had a holiday. I think even now you would better go away for a week or two. Do, Edwin? Impossible. It would be the nearest pretense of holiday. To go away and leave you here? No. Shall I ask Mother or Jack to lend us some money? That would be intolerable. But this state of things is intolerable. Reardon walked the length of the room and back again. Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would do it so unwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an obligation. Yet it will come to that, you know, remarked Amy calmly. No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something done long before Christmas. If only you came and took one of her hands. If only you would give me more sympathy, dearest. You see, that's one side of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you. Your kindness is the breath of life to me. Don't refuse it. But I have done nothing of the kind. You begin to speak very coldly, and I understand your feeling of disappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything that will sell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would have looked with scorn at anyone who talked to me like that two years ago. You were proud of me because my work wasn't altogether common, and because I had never written a line that was meant to attract the vulgar. All that's over now. If you knew how dreadful it is to see that you have lost your hopes of me. Well, but I haven't altogether, Amy replied meditatively. I know very well that if you had a lot of money you would do better things than ever. Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest. But you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of our getting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us. I feel too sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on my knees to think of us in his will, she laughed. I suppose it's impossible, and would be useless, but I should be capable of it. If I knew it would bring money. Reardon said nothing. I didn't think so much of money when we were married, Amy continued. I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know. I did think there's no harm in confessing it, that you were sure to be rich someday, but I should have married you all the same if I had known that you would win only reputation. You're sure of that? Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I know it is the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to choose between a glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible popularity with wealth, I should choose the latter. No, I should. Perhaps you're right. He turned away with a sigh. Yes, you are right. What is reputation? If it is deserved, it originates with a few score of people, among the many millions who would never have recognized the merit they had last applaud. That's the lot of a great genius. As for a mediocrity like me, what ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that half a dozen folks will say, I am above the average. After all, is there sillier vanity than this? A year after I have published my last book, I shall be practically forgotten. Ten years later, I shall be as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists of the early part of this century, whose names one doesn't even recognize. What a fatuous posing. Amy looked a scanset at him, but replied nothing. And yet he continued, of course, it isn't only for the sake of reputation that one tries to do uncommon work, there's the shrinking from conscious insincerity of workmanship, which most of the writers nowadays seem never to feel. It's good enough for the market. That satisfies them, and perhaps they are justified. I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals. I admit that everything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness or badness in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am absurdly inconsistent when, though knowing my work can't be first rate, I strive to make it as good as possible. I don't say this in irony, Amy. I really mean it. It may very well be that I am just as foolish as the people I ridicule for moral and religious superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard me speak scornfully of his books. My dear fellow, he might say, do you suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just as well as you do, but my vocation is to live comfortably. I have a luxurious house, a wife and a children who are happy and grateful to me for their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret, and, what's worse, make your wife and children share it with you, that's your concern. The man would be abundantly right. But, said Amy, why should you assume that his books are rubbish? Good work succeeds, now and then. I speak of the common kind of success which is never due to literary merit. If I speak bitterly, while I am suffering from my powerlessness, I am a failure, my poor girl, and it isn't easy for me to look with charity on the success of men who deserved it far less than I did, when I was still able to work. Of course, Edwin, if you make up your mind that you are a failure, you will end by being so. But I'm convinced there's no reason that you should fail to make a living with your pen. Now, let me advise you. Put aside all your strict ideas about what is worthy and what is unworthy, and to just act on my advice. It's impossible for you to write a three-volume novel very well, then do a short story of a kind that's likely to be popular. You know Mr. Milvane is always saying that the long novel has had its day, and that in future people will write shilling books. Why not try? Give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a fortnight for the writing. Have it ready for the new season at the end of October. If you like, don't put your name to it. Your name certainly would have no weight with this sort of public, just to make it a matter of business, as Mr. Milvane says, and see if you can't earn some money. He stood and regarded her. His expression was one of pained perplexity. You mustn't forget, Amy, that it needs a particular kind of faculty to write stories of this sort. The invention of a plot is just the thing I find most difficult. But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds the attention of vulgar readers. Think of the hollow statue, what could be more idiotic, yet it sells by the thousands. I don't think I can bring myself to that, Reardon said in the low voice. Very well. Then will you tell me what you propose to do? I might perhaps manage a novel in two volumes instead of three. He seated himself at the writing table, and stared at the blank sheets of paper, in an anguish of hopelessness. It will take you till Christmas, said Amy, and then you will get perhaps fifty pounds for it. I must do my best. I'll go out and try to get some ideas. I— he broke off and looked steadily at his wife. What is it, she asked? Suppose I were to propose to you to leave this flat and take cheaper rooms. He uttered it in a shame-faced way, his eyes falling. Amy kept silence. We might sublet it, he continued, in the same tone, for the last year of the lease. And where do you propose to live, Amy inquired coldly. There's no need to be in such a dear neighborhood. We could go to one of the outer districts. One might find three unfurnished rooms for about eight and six pence a week, less than half our rent here. You must do as seems good to you. For heaven's sake, Amy, don't speak to me in that way. I can't stand that. Surely you can see that I am driven to think of every possible resource. To speak like that is to abandon me. Say you can't or you won't do it, but don't treat me as if you had no share in my miseries. She was touched for the moment. I didn't mean to speak unkindly, dear, but think what it means to give up our home into position. That is open confession of failure. It would be horrible. I won't think of it. I have three months before Christmas and I will finish a book. I really can't see why you shouldn't. Just do a certain number of pages every day, good or bad. Never mind. Let the pages be finished. Now you have got two chapters. No, that won't do. I must think of a better subject. Amy made a gesture of impatience. There you are. What does the subject matter? Get this book finished and sold, and then do something better next time. Give me tonight, just to think. Perhaps one of the old stories I have thrown aside will come back in a clearer light. I'll go out for an hour. You don't mind being left alone. You mustn't think of such trifles as that. But a nothing that concerns you in the slightest way is a trifle to me. Nothing. I can't bear that you should forget that. Have patience with me, darling, a little longer. He knelt by her and looked up into her face. Say only one or two kind words like you used to. She passed her hand lightly over his hair and murmured something with a faint smile. Then Reardon took his hat and stick and descended the eight flights of stone steps, and walked in the darkness round the outer circle of Regent's Park, wracking his fagged brain in a hopeless search for characters, situations, motives.