New Grub Street (46 page)

Yule held forth on the subject for a few minutes in laboured
phrases. Presently the conversation turned to periodicals, and the
three men were unanimous in an opinion that no existing monthly or
quarterly could be considered as representing the best literary
opinion.

'We want,' remarked Mr Quarmby, 'we want a monthly review which
shall deal exclusively with literature. The Fortnightly, the
Contemporary—they are very well in their way, but then they are
mere miscellanies. You will find one solid literary article amid a
confused mass of politics and economics and general clap-trap.'

'Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views of
evolution,' said Mr Hinks, with a look as if something were grating
between his teeth.

'The quarterlies?' put in Yule. 'Well, the original idea of the
quarterlies was that there are not enough important books published
to occupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. That may be
true, but then a literary monthly would include much more than
professed reviews. Hinks's essays on the historical drama would
have come out in it very well; or your "Spanish Poets,"
Quarmby.'

'I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day,' said Mr
Quarmby, 'and he seemed to nibble at it.'

'Yes, yes,' came from Yule; 'but Jedwood has so many irons in
the fire. I doubt if he has the necessary capital at command just
now. No doubt he's the man, if some capitalist would join him.'

'No enormous capital needed,' opined Mr Quarmby. 'The thing
would pay its way almost from the first. It would take a place
between the literary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are
too academic, the latter too massive, for multitudes of people who
yet have strong literary tastes. Foreign publications should be
liberally dealt with. But, as Hinks says, no meddling with the
books that are no books—biblia abiblia; nothing about essays on
bimetallism and treatises for or against vaccination.'

Even here, in the freedom of a friend's study, he laughed his
Reading-room laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive
waistcoat.

'Fiction? I presume a serial of the better kind might be
admitted?' said Yule.

'That would be advisable, no doubt. But strictly of the better
kind.'

'Oh, strictly of the better kind,' chimed in Mr Hinks.

They pursued the discussion as if they were an editorial
committee planning a review of which the first number was shortly
to appear. It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door
that supper was ready.

During the meal Marian found herself the object of unusual
attention; her father troubled to inquire if the cut of cold beef
he sent her was to her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr
Hinks talked to her in a tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr
Quarmby was paternally jovial when he addressed her. Mrs Yule would
have kept silence, in her ordinary way, but this evening her
husband made several remarks which he had adapted to her intellect,
and even showed that a reply would be graciously received.

Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to
their tobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful
change, but they talked more light-heartedly than for a long
time.

On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to the
disposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said he
weighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his doubts
at rest.

'Poor old Hinks!' he said presently, with a sigh. 'Breaking up,
isn't he? He positively totters in his walk. I'm afraid he's the
kind of man to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn't astonish me to
hear at any moment that he was lying helpless.'

'What ever would become of him in that case?'

'Goodness knows! One might ask the same of so many of us. What
would become of me, for instance, if I were incapable of work?'

Marian could make no reply.

'There's something I'll just mention to you,' he went on in a
lowered tone, 'though I don't wish you to take it too seriously.
I'm beginning to have a little trouble with my eyes.'

She looked at him, startled.

'With your eyes?'

'Nothing, I hope; but—well, I think I shall see an oculist. One
doesn't care to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of
cataract, or something of that kind; still, it's better to know the
facts, I should say.'

'By all means go to an oculist,' said Marian, earnestly.

'Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But
in any case I must change my glasses.'

He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded
him anxiously.

'Now, I appeal to you, Marian,' he continued: 'could I possibly
save money out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and
fifty pounds, and often—I mean even in latter years—has been much
less?'

'I don't see how you could.'

'In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured
for five hundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible
disablement. If I could no longer earn money with my pen, what
would become of me?'

Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture
to utter her thoughts.

'Sit down,' said her father. 'You are not to work for a few
days, and I myself shall be none the worse for a morning's rest.
Poor old Hinks! I suppose we shall help him among us, somehow.
Quarmby, of course, is comparatively flourishing. Well, we have
been companions for a quarter of a century, we three. When I first
met Quarmby I was a Grub Street gazetteer, and I think he was even
poorer than I. A life of toil! A life of toil!'

'That it has been, indeed.'

'By-the-bye'—he threw an arm over the back of his chair—'what
did you think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking
about last night?'

'There are so many periodicals,' replied Marian, doubtfully.

'So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall
see the number trebled.'

'Is it desirable?'

'That there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one
point of view, no. No doubt they take up the time which some people
would give to solid literature. But, on the other hand, there's a
far greater number of people who would probably not read at all,
but for the temptations of these short and new articles; and they
may be induced to pass on to substantial works. Of course it all
depends on the quality of the periodical matter you offer. Now,
magazines like'—he named two or three of popular stamp—'might very
well be dispensed with, unless one regards them as an alternative
to the talking of scandal or any other vicious result of total
idleness. But such a monthly as we projected would be of distinct
literary value. There can be no doubt that someone or other will
shortly establish it.'

'I am afraid,' said Marian, 'I haven't so much sympathy with
literary undertakings as you would like me to have.'

Money is a great fortifier of self-respect. Since she had become
really conscious of her position as the owner of five thousand
pounds, Marian spoke with a steadier voice, walked with firmer
step; mentally she felt herself altogether a less dependent being.
She might have confessed this lukewarmness towards literary
enterprise in the anger which her father excited eight or nine days
ago, but at that time she could not have uttered her opinion
calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile which accompanied the words
was also new; it signified deliverance from pupilage.

'I have felt that,' returned her father, after a slight pause to
command his voice, that it might be suave instead of scornful. 'I
greatly fear that I have made your life something of a
martyrdom——'

'Don't think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the
general question. I can't be quite so zealous as you are, that's
all. I love books, but I could wish people were content for a while
with those we already have.'

'My dear Marian, don't suppose that I am out of sympathy with
you here. Alas! how much of my work has been mere drudgery, mere
labouring for a livelihood! How gladly I would have spent much more
of my time among the great authors, with no thought of making money
of them! If I speak approvingly of a scheme for a new periodical,
it is greatly because of my necessities.'

He paused and looked at her. Marian returned the look.

'You would of course write for it,' she said.

'Marian, why shouldn't I edit it? Why shouldn't it be your
property?'

'My property—?'

She checked a laugh. There came into her mind a more
disagreeable suspicion than she had ever entertained of her father.
Was this the meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of
calculated hypocrisy? That did not seem consistent with his
character, as she knew it.

'Let us talk it over,' said Yule. He was in visible agitation
and his voice shook. 'The idea may well startle you at first. It
will seem to you that I propose to make away with your property
before you have even come into possession of it.' He laughed. 'But,
in fact, what I have in mind is merely an investment for your
capital, and that an admirable one. Five thousand pounds at three
per cent.—one doesn't care to reckon on more—represents a hundred
and fifty a year. Now, there can be very little doubt that, if it
were invested in literary property such as I have in mind, it would
bring you five times that interest, and before long perhaps much
more. Of course I am now speaking in the roughest outline. I should
have to get trustworthy advice; complete and detailed estimates
would be submitted to you. At present I merely suggest to you this
form of investment.'

He watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian's eyes rose
to his he looked away.

'Then, of course,' she said, 'you don't expect me to give any
decided answer.'

'Of course not—of course not. I merely put before you the chief
advantages of such an investment. As I am a selfish old fellow,
I'll talk about the benefit to myself first of all. I should be
editor of the new review; I should draw a stipend sufficient to all
my needs—quite content, at first, to take far less than another man
would ask, and to progress with the advance of the periodical. This
position would enable me to have done with mere drudgery; I should
only write when I felt called to do so—when the spirit moved me.'
Again he laughed, as though desirous of keeping his listener in
good humour. 'My eyes would be greatly spared henceforth.'

He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she
said nothing he proceeded:

'And suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course
of a few years, am I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of this
periodical would willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had
firmly established it?'

'I see the force of all that,' said Marian; 'but it takes for
granted that the periodical will be successful.'

'It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood—a vigorous
man of the new school—its success could scarcely be doubtful.'

'Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such
a review?'

'Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing,
the coat must be made according to the cloth; expenditure can be
largely controlled without endangering success. Then again, I think
Jedwood would take a share in the venture. These are details. At
present I only want to familiarise you with the thought that an
investment of this sort will very probably offer itself to
you.'

'It would be better if we called it a speculation,' said Marian,
smiling uneasily.

Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand
that the suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him
that what he proposed was out of the question, though as yet that
was the light in which she saw it. His subtlety of approach had
made her feel justified in dealing with him in a matter-of-fact
way. He must see that she was not to be cajoled. Obviously, and in
the nature of the case, he was urging a proposal in which he
himself had all faith; but Marian knew his judgment was far from
infallible. It mitigated her sense of behaving unkindly to reflect
that in all likelihood this disposal of her money would be the
worst possible for her own interests, and therefore for his. If,
indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon her would
fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced that
responsibility came from a hope of which she could not speak.

'Name it as you will,' returned her father, hardly suppressing a
note of irritation. 'True, every commercial enterprise is a
speculation. But let me ask you one question, and beg you to reply
frankly. Do you distrust my ability to conduct this
periodical?'

She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of
the day, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime
end of selling his review would make him an untrustworthy
editor.

But how could she tell him this?

'My opinion would be worthless,' she replied.

'If Jedwood were disposed to put confidence in me, you also
would?'

'There's no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can't
say anything that would sound like a promise.'

He flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful?

'But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of
a project that would mean so much to me?'

'But I am afraid to encourage you,' she replied, frankly. 'It is
impossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish, or not.'

'Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I
should regard you as a child to be led independently of your own
views and wishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would
be monstrous if I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do the
same. The matter will have to be most gravely considered.'