New Grub Street

The Project Gutenberg EBook of New Grub Street, by George Gissing
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Title: New Grub Street
Author: George Gissing
Release Date: October 28, 2008 [EBook #1709]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW GRUB STREET ***
Produced by John Handford, and David Widger

As the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough
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 in 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 meagre, and of pale complexion. He had hair that was very
nearly black, and a clean-shaven face, best described, perhaps, as
of 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 necktie was lilac-sprigged.

Of the two sisters, Dora, aged twenty, was the more like him in
visage, but she spoke with a gentleness which seemed to indicate a
different character. Maud, 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
1882.

'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 Maud, 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 Milvain, 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 foresaw. 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 Maud,
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 rooms—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 Marylebone Workhouse before he advanced sixpence, 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
twopence halfpenny.'

'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 Maud, '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 a fact.—A
little marmalade, Dora; the home-made, please.'

'But this is very sad, Jasper,' said Mrs Milvain, 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?'

'Now, mother,' urged Maud, '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 Yule'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 Yule 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 Maud'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 skilful 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 appetising. 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 to-day 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 Reardons got a lot of money
at Mr Yule'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 Yule
has a daughter, and by her being invited here I should think she's
the favourite niece. No, no; depend upon it they won't get anything
at all.'