New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

till the better mood returned. On Neutral Ground took me seven months; now I have to write three volumes in nine weeks, with the lash stinging on my back if I miss a day.”

He brooded for a little.

“I suppose there must be some rich man somewhere who has read one or two of my books with a certain interest. If only I could encounter him and tell him plainly what a cursed state I am in, perhaps he would help me to some means of earning a couple of pounds a week. One has heard of such things.”

“In the old days.”

“Yes. I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn’t so easily meet with his Gillman nowadays. Well, I am not a Coleridge, and I don’t ask to be lodged under any man’s roof; but if I could earn money enough to leave me good long evenings unspoilt by fear of the workhouse⁠—”

Amy turned away, and presently went to look after her little boy.

A few days after this they had a visit from Milvain. He came about ten o’clock in the evening.

“I’m not going to stay,” he announced. “But where’s my copy of Margaret Home? I am to have one, I suppose?”

“I have no particular desire that you should read it,” returned Reardon.

“But I have read it, my dear fellow. Got it from the library on the day of publication; I had a suspicion that you wouldn’t send me a copy. But I must possess your opera omnia.”

“Here it is. Hide it away somewhere.⁠—You may as well sit down for a few minutes.”

“I confess I should like to talk about the book, if you don’t mind. It isn’t so utterly and damnably bad as you make out, you know. The misfortune was that you had to make three volumes of it. If I had leave to cut it down to one, it would do you credit. The motive is good enough.”

“Yes. Just good enough to show how badly it’s managed.”

Milvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of the three-volume system.

“A triple-headed monster, sucking the blood of English novelists. One might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic literary paper. By the by, why doesn’t such a thing exist?⁠—a weekly paper treating of things and people literary in a facetious spirit. It would be caviar to the general, but might be supported, I should think. The editor would probably be assassinated, though.”

“For anyone in my position,” said Reardon, “how is it possible to abandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment. An author of moderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel⁠—I mean the man who is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who gets from one to two hundred pounds for it. But he would have to produce four one-volume novels to obtain the same income; and I doubt whether he could get so many published within the twelve months. And here comes in the benefit of the libraries; from the commercial point of view the libraries are indispensable. Do you suppose the public would support the present number of novelists if each book had to be purchased? A sudden change to that system would throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work.”

“But there’s no reason why the libraries shouldn’t circulate novels in one volume.”

“Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum subscription.”

“Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own one-volume?”

“All but done.”

“And you’ll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He’s a very decent fellow, I believe.”

Milvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to sit and talk at large through a whole evening were no more; partly because of his diminished leisure, but also for a less simple reason⁠—the growth of something like estrangement between him and Reardon.

“You didn’t mention your plans,” said Amy, when the visitor had been gone some time.

“No.”

Reardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no further remark.

The result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons called to make inspection. One of them, a man of military appearance, showed himself anxious to come to terms; he was willing to take the tenement from next quarter-day (June), but wished, if possible, to enter upon possession sooner than that.

“Nothing could be better,” said Amy in colloquy with her husband. “If he will pay for the extra time, we shall be only too glad.”

Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to regard the experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart sank at the thought of parting from Amy.

“You are very anxious to get rid of me,” he answered, trying to smile.

“Yes, I am,” she exclaimed; “but simply for your own good, as you know very well.”

“Suppose I can’t sell this book?”

“You will have a few pounds. Send your ‘Pliny’ article to The Wayside. If you come to an end of all your money, mother shall lend you some.”

“I am not very likely to do much work in that case.”

“Oh, but you will sell the book. You’ll get twenty pounds for it, and that alone would keep you for three months. Think⁠—three months of the best part of the year at the seaside! Oh, you will do wonders!”

The furniture was to be housed at Mrs. Yule’s. Neither of them durst speak of selling it; that would have sounded too ominous. As for the locality of Reardon’s retreat, Amy herself had suggested Worthing, which she knew from a visit a few years ago; the advantages were its proximity to London, and the likelihood that very cheap lodgings could be found either in the town or near it. One room would suffice for the hapless author, and his expenses, beyond a trifling rent, would be confined to mere food.

Oh yes, he might manage on considerably less than a pound a week.

Amy was in much better spirits than for a long time; she appeared to have convinced herself