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New Grub Street

G >> George Gissing >> New Grub Street




'Do as YOU think fit? Indeed!'

Could Amy's voice sound like that? Great Heaven! With just such
accent he had heard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at
the street corner. Is there then no essential difference between
a woman of this world and one of that? Does the same nature lie
beneath such unlike surfaces?

He had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her up
from the chair, dash her back again with all his force--there,
the transformation would be complete, they would stand towards
each other on the natural footing. With an added curse perhaps--
Instead of that, he choked, struggled for breath, and shed tears.

Amy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would have
overawed her, at all events for the moment; she would have felt:
'Yes, he is a man, and I have put my destiny into his hands.' His
tears moved her to a feeling cruelly exultant; they were the sign
of her superiority. It was she who should have wept, and never in
her life had she been further from such display of weakness.

This could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to
terminate the scene. They stood for a minute without regarding
each other, then Reardon faced to her.

'You refuse to live with me, then?'

'Yes, if this is the kind of life you offer me.'

'You would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes
than to declare to everyone that you had deserted him?'

'I shall "declare to everyone" the simple truth. You have the
opportunity of making one more effort to save us from
degradation. You refuse to take the trouble; you prefer to drag
me down into a lower rank of life. I can't and won't consent to
that. The disgrace is yours; it's fortunate for me that I have a
decent home to go to.'

'Fortunate for you!--you make yourself unutterably contemptible.
I have done nothing that justifies you in leaving me. It is for
me to judge what I can do and what I can't. A good woman would
see no degradation in what I ask of you. But to run away from me
just because I am poorer than you ever thought I should be--'

He was incoherent. A thousand passionate things that he wished to
say clashed together in his mind and confused his speech.
Defeated in the attempt to act like a strong man, he could not
yet recover standing-ground, knew not how to tone his utterances.

'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it,' said Amy. 'That's
how you will represent me to your friends. My friends will see it
in a different light.'

'They will regard you as a martyr?'

'No one shall make a martyr of me, you may be sure. I was
unfortunate enough to marry a man who had no delicacy, no regard
for my feelings.--I am not the first woman who has made a mistake
of this kind.'

'No delicacy? No regard for your feelings?--Have I always utterly
misunderstood you? Or has poverty changed you to a woman I can't
recognise?'

He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle
of it showed susceptibility to the old influences.

'Do you know, Amy,' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part
now, we part for ever?'

'I'm afraid that is only too likely.'

She moved aside.

'You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for
nothing but how to make yourself free.'

'I shall argue no more. I am tired to death of it.'

'Then say nothing, but listen for the last time to my view of the
position we have come to. When I consented to leave you for a
time, to go away and try to work in solitude, I was foolish and
even insincere, both to you and to myself. I knew that I was
undertaking the impossible. It was just putting off the evil day,
that was all--putting off the time when I should have to say
plainly: "I can't live by literature, so I must look out for some
other employment." I shouldn't have been so weak but that I knew
how you would regard such a decision as that. I was afraid to
tell the truth--afraid. Now, when Carter of a sudden put this
opportunity before me, I saw all the absurdity of the
arrangements we had made. It didn't take me a moment to make up
my mind. Anything was to be chosen rather than a parting from you
on false pretences, a ridiculous affectation of hope where there
was no hope.'

He paused, and saw that his words had no effect upon her.

'And a grievous share of the fault lies with you, Amy. You
remember very well when I first saw how dark the future was. I
was driven even to say that we ought to change our mode of
living; I asked you if you would be willing to leave this place
and go into cheaper rooms. And you know what your answer was. Not
a sign in you that you would stand by me if the worst came. I
knew then what I had to look forward to, but I durst not believe
it. I kept saying to myself: "She loves me, and as soon as she
really understands--" That was all self-deception. If I had been
a wise man, I should have spoken to you in a way you couldn't
mistake. I should have told you that we were living recklessly,
and that I had determined to alter it. I have no delicacy? No
regard for your feelings? Oh, if I had had less! I doubt whether
you can even understand some of the considerations that weighed
with me, and made me cowardly--though I once thought there was no
refinement of sensibility that you couldn't enter into. Yes, I
was absurd enough to say to myself: "It will look as if I had
consciously deceived her; she may suffer from the thought that I
won her at all hazards, knowing that I should soon expose her to
poverty and all sorts of humiliation." Impossible to speak of
that again; I had to struggle desperately on, trying to hope. Oh!
if you knew--'

His voice gave way for an instant.

'I don't understand how you could be so thoughtless and
heartless. You knew that I was almost mad with anxiety at times.
Surely, any woman must have had the impulse to give what help was
in her power. How could you hesitate? Had you no suspicion of
what a relief and encouragement it would be to me, if you said:
"Yes, we must go and live in a simpler way?" If only as a proof
that you loved me, how I should have welcomed that! You helped me
in nothing. You threw all the responsibility upon me--always
bearing in mind, I suppose, that there was a refuge for you. Even
now, I despise myself for saying such things of you, though I
know so bitterly that they are true. It takes a long time to see
you as such a different woman from the one I worshipped. In
passion, I can fling out violent words, but they don't yet answer
to my actual feeling. It will be long enough yet before I think
contemptuously of you. You know that when a light is suddenly
extinguished, the image of it still shows before your eyes. But
at last comes the darkness.'

Amy turned towards him once more.

'Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am
wrong. Do so, and I will gladly confess it.'

'That you are wrong? I don't see your meaning.'

'You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save
me from humiliation.'

'Amy, I have done my utmost. I have done more than you can
imagine.'

'No. You have toiled on in illness and anxiety--I know that. But
a chance is offered you now of working in a better way. Till that
is tried, you have no right to give all up and try to drag me
down with you.'

'I don't know how to answer. I have told you so often-- You can't
understand me!'

'I can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know
that you are so ready to give in to difficulties. Listen to me,
and do as I bid you.' She spoke in the strangest tone of command.

It was command, not exhortation, but there was no harshness in
her voice. 'Go at once to Mr Carter. Tell him you have made a
ludicrous mistake--in a fit of low spirits; anything you like to
say. Tell him you of course couldn't dream of becoming his clerk.
To-night; at once! You understand me, Edwin? Go now, this
moment.'

'Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able
to despise me more completely still?'

'I am determined to be your friend, and to save you from
yourself. Go at once! Leave all the rest to me. If I have let
things take their course till now, it shan't be so in future. The
responsibility shall be with me. Only do as I tell you'

'You know it's impossible--'

'It is not! I will find money. No one shall be allowed to say
that we are parting; no one has any such idea yet. You are going
away for your health, just three summer months. I have been far
more careful of appearances than you imagine, but you give me
credit for so little. I will find the money you need, until you
have written another book. I promise; I undertake it. Then I will
find another home for us, of the proper kind. You shall have no
trouble. You shall give yourself entirely to intellectual things.

But Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a
report. If he has spoken, he must contradict what he has said.'

'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it
as a veritable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?'

'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through
that you should sink to this.'

'But everyone knows that I was a clerk once!'

'Very few people know it. And then that isn't the same thing. It
doesn't matter what one has been in the past. Especially a
literary man; everyone expects to hear that he was once poor. But
to fall from the position you now have, and to take weekly wages
--you surely can't know how people of my world regard that.'

'Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine,
and knew nothing whatever of these imbecilities.'

'It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will
talk as much as you like.'

He might perhaps have yielded, but the unemphasised contempt in
that last sentence was more than he could bear. It demonstrated
to him more completely than set terms could have done what a
paltry weakling he would appear in Amy's eyes if he took his hat
down from the peg and set out to obey her orders.

'You are asking too much,' he said, with unexpected coldness. 'If
my opinions are so valueless to you that you dismiss them like
those of a troublesome child, I wonder you think it worth while
to try and keep up appearances about me. It is very simple: make
known to everyone that you are in no way connected with the
disgrace I have brought upon myself. Put an advertisement in the
newspapers to that effect, if you like--as men do about their
wives' debts. I have chosen my part. I can't stultify myself to
please you.'

She knew that this was final. His voice had the true ring of
shame in revolt.

'Then go your way, and I will go mine!'

Amy left the room.

When Reardon went into the bedchamber an hour later, he unfolded
a chair-bedstead that stood there, threw some rugs upon it, and
so lay down to pass the night. He did not close his eyes. Amy
slept for an hour or two before dawn, and on waking she started
up and looked anxiously about the room. But neither spoke.

There was a pretence of ordinary breakfast; the little servant
necessitated that. When she saw her husband preparing to go out,
Amy asked him to come into the study.

'How long shall you be away?' she asked, curtly.

'It is doubtful. I am going to look for rooms.'

'Then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back. There's no
object, now, in my staying here till to-morrow.'

'As you please.'

'Do you wish Lizzie still to come?'

'No. Please to pay her wages and dismiss her. Here is some
money.'

'I think you had better let me see to that.'

He flung the coin on to the table and opened the door. Amy
stepped quickly forward and closed it again.

'This is our good-bye, is it?' she asked, her eyes on the ground.

'As you wish it--yes.'

'You will remember that I have not wished it.'

'In that case, you have only to go with me to the new home.'

'I can't.'

'Then you have made your choice.'

She did not prevent his opening the door this time, and he passed
out without looking at her.

His return was at three in the afternoon. Amy and the child were
gone; the servant was gone. The table in the dining-room was
spread as if for one person's meal.

He went into the bedroom. Amy's trunks had disappeared. The
child's cot was covered over. In the study, he saw that the
sovereign he had thrown on to the table still lay in the same
place.

As it was a very cold day he lit a fire. Whilst it burnt up he
sat reading a torn portion of a newspaper, and became quite
interested in the report of a commercial meeting in the City, a
thing he would never have glanced at under ordinary
circumstances. The fragment fell at length from his hands; his
head drooped; he sank into a troubled sleep.

About six he had tea, then began the packing of the few books
that were to go with him, and of such other things as could be
enclosed in box or portmanteau. After a couple of hours of this
occupation he could no longer resist his weariness, so he went to
bed. Before falling asleep he heard the two familiar clocks
strike eight; this evening they were in unusual accord, and the
querulous notes from the workhouse sounded between the deeper
ones from St Marylebone. Reardon tried to remember when he had
last observed this; the matter seemed to have a peculiar interest
for him, and in dreams he worried himself with a grotesque
speculation thence derived.



CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD HOME

Before her marriage Mrs Edmund Yule was one of seven motherless
sisters who constituted the family of a dentist slenderly
provided in the matter of income. The pinching and paring which
was a chief employment of her energies in those early days had
disagreeable effects upon a character disposed rather to
generosity than the reverse; during her husband's lifetime she
had enjoyed rather too eagerly all the good things which he put
at her command, sometimes forgetting that a wife has duties as
well as claims, and in her widowhood she indulged a
pretentiousness and querulousness which were the natural, but not
amiable, results of suddenly restricted circumstances.

Like the majority of London people, she occupied a house of which
the rent absurdly exceeded the due proportion of her income, a
pleasant foible turned to such good account by London landlords.
Whereas she might have lived with a good deal of modest comfort,
her existence was a perpetual effort to conceal the squalid
background of what was meant for the eyes of her friends and
neighbours. She kept only two servants, who were so ill paid and
so relentlessly overworked that it was seldom they remained with
her for more than three months. In dealings with other people
whom she perforce employed, she was often guilty of incredible
meanness; as, for instance, when she obliged her half-starved
dressmaker to purchase material for her, and then postponed
payment alike for that and for the work itself to the last
possible moment. This was not heartlessness in the strict sense
of the word; the woman not only knew that her behaviour was
shameful, she was in truth ashamed of it and sorry for her
victims. But life was a battle. She must either crush or be
crushed. With sufficient means, she would have defrauded no one,
and would have behaved generously to many; with barely enough for
her needs, she set her face and defied her feelings, inasmuch as
she believed there was no choice.

She would shed tears over a pitiful story of want, and without
shadow of hypocrisy. It was hard, it was cruel; such things
oughtn't to be allowed in a world where there were so many rich
people. The next day she would argue with her charwoman about
halfpence, and end by paying the poor creature what she knew was
inadequate and unjust. For the simplest reason: she hadn't more
to give, without submitting to privations which she considered
intolerable.

But whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers, to those
who were akin to her, and those of whom she was fond, her
affectionate kindness was remarkable. One observes this
peculiarity often enough; it reminds one how savage the social
conflict is, in which those little groups of people stand serried
against their common enemies; relentless to all others, among
themselves only the more tender and zealous because of the
ever-impending danger. No mother was ever more devoted. Her son,
a gentleman of quite noteworthy selfishness, had board and
lodging beneath her roof on nominal terms, and under no stress of
pecuniary trouble had Mrs Yule called upon him to make the
slightest sacrifice on her behalf. Her daughter she loved with
profound tenderness, and had no will that was opposed to Amy's.
And it was characteristic of her that her children were never
allowed to understand of what baseness she often became guilty in
the determination to support appearances. John Yule naturally
suspected what went on behind the scenes; on one occasion--since
Amy's marriage--he had involuntarily overheard a dialogue between
his mother and a servant on the point of departing which made
even him feel ashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and meanness
had always been concealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule did not
scruple to lie heroically when in danger of being detected by her
daughter.

Yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed
above her own stratum. She did not aim at intimacy with her
superiors; merely at superiority among her intimates. Her circle
was not large, but in that circle she must be regarded with the
respect due to a woman of refined tastes and personal
distinction. Her little dinners might be of rare occurrence, but
to be invited must be felt a privilege. 'Mrs Edmund Yule' must
sound well on people's lips; never be the occasion of those
peculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond of indulging at
the mention of other people's names.

The question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from
the time when the little girl shot into a woman grown. For Amy no
common match, no acceptance of a husband merely for money or
position. Few men who walked the earth were mates for Amy. But
years went on, and the man of undeniable distinction did not yet
present himself. Suitors offered, but Amy smiled coldly at their
addresses, in private not seldom scornfully, and her mother,
though growing anxious, approved. Then of a sudden appeared Edwin
Reardon.

A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a
novelist; novelists now and then had considerable social success.

Mr Reardon, it was true, did not impress one as a man likely to
push forward where the battle called for rude vigour, but Amy
soon assured herself that he would have a reputation far other
than that of the average successful storyteller. The best people
would regard him; he would be welcomed in the penetralia of
culture; superior persons would say: 'Oh, I don't read novels as
a rule, but of course Mr Reardon's--' If that really were to be
the case, all was well; for Mrs Yule could appreciate social and
intellectual differences.

Alas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations?

First of all, Mrs Yule began to make less frequent mention of 'my
son-in-law, Mr Edwin Reardon.' Next, she never uttered his name
save when inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of
her intimates received little hints which were not quite easy to
interpret. 'Mr Reardon is growing so very eccentric--has an odd
distaste for society--occupies himself with all sorts of out-of-
the-way interests. No, I'm afraid we shan't have another of his
novels for some time. I think he writes anonymously a good deal.
And really, such curious eccentricities!' Many were the tears she
wept after her depressing colloquies with Amy; and, as was to be
expected, she thought severely of the cause of these sorrows. On
the last occasion when he came to her house she received him with
such extreme civility that Reardon thenceforth disliked her,
whereas before he had only thought her a good-natured and silly
woman.

Alas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction! From step to
step of descent, till here was downright catastrophe. Bitter
enough in itself, but most lamentable with reference to the
friends of the family. How was it to be explained, this return of
Amy to her home for several months, whilst her husband was no
further away than Worthing? The bald, horrible truth--impossible!
Yet Mr Milvain knew it, and the Carters must guess it. What
colour could be thrown upon such vulgar distress?

The worst was not yet. It declared itself this May morning, when,
quite unexpectedly, a cab drove up to the house, bringing Amy and
her child, and her trunks, and her band-boxes, and her what-nots.

From the dining-room window Mrs Yule was aware of this arrival,
and in a few moments she learnt the unspeakable cause.

She burst into tears, genuine as ever woman shed.

'There's no use in that, mother,' said Amy, whose temper was in a
dangerous state. 'Nothing worse can happen, that's one
consolation.'

'Oh, it's disgraceful! disgraceful!' sobbed Mrs Yule. 'What we
are to say I can NOT think.'

'I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the
impertinence to ask us questions when we have shown that they are
unwelcome.'

'But there are some people I can't help giving some explanation
to. My dear child, he is not in his right mind. I'm convinced of
it, there! He is not in his right mind.'

'That's nonsense, mother. He is as sane as I am.'

'But you have often said what strange things he says and does;
you know you have, Amy. That talking in his sleep; I've thought a
great deal of it since you told me about that. And--and so many
other things. My love, I shall give it to be understood that he
has become so very odd in his ways that--'

'I can't have that,' replied Amy with decision. 'Don't you see
that in that case I should be behaving very badly?'

'I can't see that at all. There are many reasons, as you know
very well, why one shouldn't live with a husband who is at all
suspected of mental derangement. You have done your utmost for
him. And this would be some sort of explanation, you know. I am
so convinced that there is truth in it, too.'

'Of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like, but I
think it would be very wrong to start a rumour of this kind.'

There was less resolve in this utterance. Amy mused, and looked
wretched.

'Come up to the drawing-room, dear,' said her mother, for they
had held their conversation in the room nearest to the
house-door. 'What a state your mind must be in! Oh dear! Oh
dear!'

She was a slender, well-proportioned woman, still pretty in face,
and dressed in a way that emphasised her abiding charms. Her
voice had something of plaintiveness, and altogether she was of
frailer type than her daughter.

'Is my room ready?' Amy inquired on the stairs.

'I'm sorry to say it isn't, dear, as I didn't expect you till
tomorrow. But it shall be seen to immediately.'

This addition to the household was destined to cause grave
difficulties with the domestic slaves. But Mrs Yule would prove
equal to the occasion. On Amy's behalf she would have worked her
servants till they perished of exhaustion before her eyes.

'Use my room for the present,' she added. 'I think the girl has
finished up there. But wait here; I'll just go and see to
things.'

'Things' were not quite satisfactory, as it proved. You should
have heard the change that came in that sweetly plaintive voice
when it addressed the luckless housemaid. It was not brutal; not
at all. But so sharp, hard, unrelenting--the voice of the goddess
Poverty herself perhaps sounds like that.

Mad? Was he to be spoken of in a low voice, and with finger
pointing to the forehead? There was something ridiculous, as well
as repugnant, in such a thought; but it kept possession of Amy's
mind. She was brooding upon it when her mother came into the
drawing-room.

'And he positively refused to carry out the former plan?'

'Refused. Said it was useless.'

'How could it be useless? There's something so unaccountable in
his behaviour.'

'I don't think it unaccountable,' replied Amy. 'It's weak and
selfish, that's all. He takes the first miserable employment that
offers rather than face the hard work of writing another book.'

She was quite aware that this did not truly represent her
husband's position. But an uneasiness of conscience impelled her
to harsh speech.

'But just fancy!' exclaimed her mother. 'What can he mean by
asking you to go and live with him on twenty-five shillings a
week? Upon my word. if his mind isn't disordered he must have
made a deliberate plan to get rid of you.'

Amy shook her head.

'You mean,' asked Mrs Yule, 'that he really thinks it possible
for all of you to be supported on those wages?'

The last word was chosen to express the utmost scorn.

'He talked of earning fifty pounds a year by writing.'

'Even then it could only make about a hundred a year. My dear
child, it's one of two things: either he is out of his mind, or
he has purposely cast you off.'

Amy laughed, thinking of her husband in the light of the latter
alternative.

'There's no need to seek so far for explanations,' she said. 'He
has failed, that's all; just like a man might fail in any other
business. He can't write like he used to. It may be all the
result of ill-health; I don't know. His last book, you see, is
positively refused. He has made up his mind that there's nothing
but poverty before him, and he can't understand why I should
object to live like the wife of a working-man.'

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