New Grub Street (45 page)

He nodded, and went his way.

It was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he
had begun this morning, and on reaching home he spread out his
papers in the usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of which
he was manufacturing 'copy' had its difficulties, and was not
altogether congenial to him; this morning he had laboured with
unwonted effort to produce about a page of manuscript, and now that
he tried to resume the task his thoughts would not centre upon it.
Jasper was too young to have thoroughly mastered the art of
somnambulistic composition; to write, he was still obliged to give
exclusive attention to the matter under treatment. Dr Johnson's
saying, that a man may write at any time if he will set himself
doggedly to it, was often upon his lips, and had even been of help
to him, as no doubt it has to many another man obliged to compose
amid distracting circumstances; but the formula had no efficacy
this evening. Twice or thrice he rose from his chair, paced the
room with a determined brow, and sat down again with vigorous
clutch of the pen; still he failed to excogitate a single sentence
that would serve his purpose.

'I must have it out with myself before I can do anything,' was
his thought as he finally abandoned the endeavour. 'I must make up
my mind.'

To this end he settled himself in an easy-chair and began to
smoke cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made
him so nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his
hat and overcoat and went out—to find that it was raining heavily.
He returned for an umbrella, and before long was walking aimlessly
about the Strand, unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a
theatre or not. Instead of doing so, he sought a certain upper room
of a familiar restaurant, where the day's papers were to be seen,
and perchance an acquaintance might be met. Only half-a-dozen men
were there, reading and smoking, and all were unknown to him. He
drank a glass of lager beer, skimmed the news of the evening, and
again went out into the bad weather.

After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered
had an unsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever
from the decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road
he came upon Whelpdale, who was walking slowly under an
umbrella.

'I've just called at your place.'

'All right; come back if you like.'

'But perhaps I shall waste your time?' said Whelpdale, with
unusual diffidence.

Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted
him with the fact of John Yule's death, and with its result so far
as it concerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would
probably behave under this decisive change of circumstances.

'Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon,' said
Whelpdale. 'I suspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of
regard for Reardon. It wouldn't surprise me if they live apart for
a long time yet.'

'Not very likely. It was only want of money.'

'They're not at all suited to each other. Mrs Reardon, no doubt,
repents her marriage bitterly, and I doubt whether Reardon cares
much for his wife.'

'As there's no way of getting divorced they'll make the best of
it. Ten thousand pounds produce about four hundred a year; it's
enough to live on.'

'And be miserable on—if they no longer love each other.'

'You're such a sentimental fellow!' cried Jasper. 'I believe you
seriously think that love—the sort of frenzy you understand by
it—ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to
your age with such primitive ideas?'

'Well, I don't know. Perhaps you err a little in the opposite
direction.'

'I haven't much faith in marrying for love, as you know. What's
more, I believe it's the very rarest thing for people to be in love
with each other. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an instance;
perhaps—I'm not quite sure about her. As a rule, marriage is the
result of a mild preference, encouraged by circumstances, and
deliberately heightened into strong sexual feeling. You, of all
men, know well enough that the same kind of feeling could be
produced for almost any woman who wasn't repulsive.'

'The same kind of feeling; but there's vast difference of
degree.'

'To be sure. I think it's only a matter of degree. When it rises
to the point of frenzy people may strictly be said to be in love;
and, as I tell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely indeed.
For my own part, I have no experience of it, and think I never
shall have.'

'I can't say the same.'

They laughed.

'I dare say you have imagined yourself in love—or really been so
for aught I know—a dozen times. How the deuce you can attach any
importance to such feeling where marriage is concerned I don't
understand.'

'Well, now,' said Whelpdale, 'I have never upheld the theory—at
least not since I was sixteen—that a man can be in love only once,
or that there is one particular woman if he misses whom he can
never be happy. There may be thousands of women whom I could love
with equal sincerity.'

'I object to the word "love" altogether. It has been vulgarised.
Let us talk about compatibility. Now, I should say that, no doubt,
and speaking scientifically, there is one particular woman
supremely fitted to each man. I put aside consideration of
circumstances; we know that circumstances will disturb any degree
of abstract fitness. But in the nature of things there must be one
woman whose nature is specially well adapted to harmonise with
mine, or with yours. If there were any means of discovering this
woman in each case, then I have no doubt it would be worth a man's
utmost effort to do so, and any amount of erotic jubilation would
be reasonable when the discovery was made. But the thing is
impossible, and, what's more, we know what ridiculous fallibility
people display when they imagine they have found the best
substitute for that indiscoverable. This is what makes me impatient
with sentimental talk about marriage. An educated man mustn't play
so into the hands of ironic destiny. Let him think he wants to
marry a woman; but don't let him exaggerate his feelings or
idealise their nature.'

'There's a good deal in all that,' admitted Whelpdale, though
discontentedly.

'There's more than a good deal; there's the last word on the
subject. The days of romantic love are gone by. The scientific
spirit has put an end to that kind of self-deception. Romantic love
was inextricably blended with all sorts of superstitions—belief in
personal immortality, in superior beings, in—all the rest of it.
What we think of now is moral and intellectual and physical
compatibility; I mean, if we are reasonable people.'

'And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an
incompatible,' added Whelpdale, laughing.

'Well, that is a form of unreason—a blind desire which science
could explain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to that
form of epilepsy.'

'You positively never were in love!'

'As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct
preference.'

'Based on what you think compatibility?'

'Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and
advantage. No, not strong enough for that.'

He seemed to be reassuring himself.

'Then of course that can't be called love,' said Whelpdale.

'Perhaps not. But, as I told you, a preference of this kind can
be heightened into emotion, if one chooses. In the case of which I
am thinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable
indeed that I should repent it if anything led me to indulge such
an impulse.'

Whelpdale smiled.

'This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something.'

'I don't think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman
for whom I have no preference, but who can serve me
materially.'

'I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as
you do, but I wouldn't marry a rich woman for whom I had no
preference. By Jove, no!'

'Yes, yes. You are a consistent sentimentalist.'

'Doomed to perpetual disappointment,' said the other, looking
disconsolately about the room.

'Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry
and repent.'

'I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I
have observed? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type
than the one before.'

Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt.

'But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three
or four years. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham
Street; well, a nice girl enough, but limited, decidedly
limited.

Next came that girl at the stationer's—you remember? She was
distinctly an advance, both in mind and person. Then there was Miss
Embleton; yes, I think she made again an advance. She had been at
Bedford College, you know, and was really a girl of considerable
attainments; morally, admirable. Afterwards—'

He paused.

'The maiden from Birmingham, wasn't it?' said Jasper, again
exploding.

'Yes, it was. Well, I can't be quite sure. But in many respects
that girl was my ideal; she really was.'

'As you once or twice told me at the time.'

'I really believe she would rank above Miss Embleton—at all
events from my point of view. And that's everything, you know. It's
the effect a woman produces on one that has to be considered.'

'The next should be a paragon,' said Jasper.

'The next?'

Whelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and
fell into a long silence.

When left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down
at his writing-table, for he felt easier in mind, and fancied that
he might still do a couple of hours' work before going to bed. He
did in fact write half-a-dozen lines, but with the effort came back
his former mood. Very soon the pen dropped, and he was once more in
the throes of anxious mental debate.

He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it
was with a lingering step, which proved him still a prey to
indecision.

Alfred Yule's behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove
that even for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the day
after his return home he displayed a most unwonted mildness in such
remarks as he addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marian
was gravely gentle. At meals he conversed, or rather monologised,
on literary topics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes,
pointed for Marian's appreciation. He became aware that the girl
had been overtaxing her strength of late, and suggested a few weeks
of recreation among new novels. The coldness and gloom which had
possessed him when he made a formal announcement of the news
appeared to have given way before the sympathy manifested by his
wife and daughter; he was now sorrowful, but resigned.

He explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to
be paid out of her uncle's share in a wholesale stationery
business, with which John Yule had been connected for the last
twenty years, but from which he had not long ago withdrawn a large
portion of his invested capital. This house was known as
'Turberville & Co.,' a name which Marian now heard for the
first time.

'I knew nothing of his association with them,' said her father.
'They tell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be realised
from that source; it seems a pity that the investment was not left
to you intact. Whether there will be any delay in withdrawing the
money I can't say.'

The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them
a former partner in his paper-making concern.

On the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was
over, Mr Hinks called at the house; as usual, he went into the
study. Before long came a second visitor, Mr Quarmby, who joined
Yule and Hinks. The three had all sat together for some time, when
Marian, who happened to be coming down stairs, saw her father at
the study door.

'Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to
ten,' he said urbanely. 'And come in, won't you? We are only
gossiping.'

It had not often happened that Marian was invited to join
parties of this kind.

'Do you wish me to come?' she asked.

'Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to
do.'

Marian informed Mrs Yule that the visitors would have supper,
and then went to the study. Mr Quarmby was smoking a pipe; Mr
Hinks, who on grounds of economy had long since given up tobacco,
sat with his hands in his trouser pockets, and his long, thin legs
tucked beneath the chair; both rose and greeted Marian with more
than ordinary warmth.

'Will you allow me five or six more puffs?' asked Mr Quarmby,
laying one hand on his ample stomach and elevating his pipe as if
it were a glass of beaded liquor. 'I shall then have done.'

'As many more as you like,' Marian replied.

The easiest chair was placed for her, Mr Hinks hastening to
perform this courtesy, and her father apprised her of the topic
they were discussing.

'What's your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for the
establishment of a literary academy in England?'

Mr Quarmby beamed benevolently upon her, and Mr Hinks, his
scraggy neck at full length, awaited her reply with a look of the
most respectful attention.

'I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it
is,' the girl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling.

Mr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly and
exclaimed, 'Very good indeed! Very good!' Yule affected to applaud
with impartial smile.

'It wouldn't harmonise with the Anglo-Saxon spirit,' remarked Mr
Hinks, with an air of diffident profundity.