New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕
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Grub Street is the name of a former street in London synonymous with pulp writers and low-quality publishers. New Grub Street takes its name from that old street, as it follows the lives and endeavors of a group of writers active in the literary scene of 1880s London.
Edwin Reardon is a quiet and intelligent writer whose artistic sensibilities are the opposite of what the London public wants to read. He’s forced to write long, joyless novels that he thinks pop publishers will want to buy. These novels are draining to write, yet result in meager sales; soon Edwin’s increasingly small bank account, and his stubborn pride, start to put a strain on his once-happy marriage.
His best friend, Biffen, lies to one side of Edwin’s nature: as another highly-educated writer, he accepts a dingy, lonely, and hungry life of abject poverty in exchange for being able to produce a novel that’s true to his artistic desires but is unlikely to sell. On the other side lies Jasper Milvain, an “alarmingly modern” writer laser-focused on earning as much money as possible no matter what he’s made to write, as he floats through the same literary circles that Edwin haunts.
The intricately-told tale follows these writers as their differing outlooks and their fluctuating ranks in society affect them and the people around them. Gissing, himself a prolific writer intimately familiar with the London literary scene, draws from his own life in laying out the characters and events in the novel. He carefully elaborates the fragile social fabric of the literary world, its paupers and its barons both equal in the industry but unequal in public life. Though the novel is about writers on the face, the deep thread that runs through it all is the brutality of the modern social structure, where the greedy and superficial are rewarded with stability and riches, while the delicate and thoughtful are condemned to live on the margins of respectable society in grimy poverty, robbed not only of dignity, but of love.
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- Author: George Gissing
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“What a time since we met!” said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved hand and looking into her face with his most effective smile.
“And why?” asked Amy.
“Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs. Yule is well?”
“Quite, thank you.”
It seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass, and so make an end of the colloquy. But Amy, though she moved forward, added a remark:
“I don’t see your name in any of this month’s magazines.”
“I have nothing signed this month. A short review in The Current, that’s all.”
“But I suppose you write as much as ever?”
“Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don’t see the Will-o’-the-Wisp?”
“Oh yes. And I think I can generally recognise your hand.”
They issued from the library.
“Which way are you going?” Jasper inquired, with something more of the old freedom.
“I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it’s so fine, I shall walk back again.”
He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after a short silence, made inquiry concerning his sisters.
“I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better to let the acquaintance end there.”
“I really didn’t think of it in that way at all,” Jasper replied.
“We naturally understood it so, when you even ceased to call, yourself.”
“But don’t you feel that there would have been a good deal of awkwardness in my coming to Mrs. Yule’s?”
“Seeing that you looked at things from my husband’s point of view?”
“Oh, that’s a mistake! I have only seen your husband once since he went to Islington.”
Amy gave him a look of surprise.
“You are not on friendly terms with him?”
“Well, we have drifted apart. For some reason he seemed to think that my companionship was not very profitable. So it was better, on the whole, that I should see neither you nor him.”
Amy was wondering whether he had heard of her legacy. He might have been informed by a Wattleborough correspondent, even if no one in London had told him.
“Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?” she asked, quitting the previous difficult topic.
“Oh yes!” He smiled. “They see a great deal of each other.”
“Then of course you have heard of my uncle’s death?”
“Yes. I hope all your difficulties are now at an end.”
Amy delayed a moment, then said: “I hope so,” without any emphasis.
“Do you think of spending this winter abroad?”
It was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future of Amy and her husband.
“Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about our old acquaintances. How does Mr. Biffen get on?”
“I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an interminable novel, which no one will publish when it’s done. Whelpdale I meet occasionally.”
He talked of the latter’s projects and achievements in a lively strain.
“Your own prospects continue to brighten, no doubt,” said Amy.
“I really think they do. Things go fairly well. And I have lately received a promise of very valuable help.”
“From whom?”
“A relative of yours.”
Amy turned to interrogate him with a look.
“A relative? You mean—?”
“Yes; Marian.”
They were passing Bedford Square. Amy glanced at the trees, now almost bare of foliage; then her eyes met Jasper’s, and she smiled significantly.
“I should have thought your aim would have been far more ambitious,” she said, with distinct utterance.
“Marian and I have been engaged for some time—practically.”
“Indeed? I remember now how you once spoke of her. And you will be married soon?”
“Probably before the end of the year. I see that you are criticising my motives. I am quite prepared for that in everyone who knows me and the circumstances. But you must remember that I couldn’t foresee anything of this kind. It enables us to marry sooner, that’s all.”
“I am sure your motives are unassailable,” replied Amy, still with a smile. “I imagined that you wouldn’t marry for years, and then some distinguished person. This throws new light upon your character.”
“You thought me so desperately scheming and cold-blooded?”
“Oh dear no! But—well, to be sure, I can’t say that I know Marian. I haven’t seen her for years and years. She may be admirably suited to you.”
“Depend upon it, I think so.”
“She’s likely to shine in society? She is a brilliant girl, full of tact and insight?”
“Scarcely all that, perhaps.”
He looked dubiously at his companion.
“Then you have abandoned your old ambitions?” Amy pursued.
“Not a bit of it. I am on the way to achieve them.”
“And Marian is the ideal wife to assist you?”
“From one point of view, yes. Pray, why all this ironic questioning?”
“Not ironic at all.”
“It sounded very much like it, and I know from of old that you have a tendency that way.”
“The news surprised me a little, I confess. But I see that I am in danger of offending you.”
“Let us wait another five years, and then I will ask your opinion as to the success of my marriage. I don’t take a step of this kind without maturely considering it. Have I made many blunders as yet?”
“As yet, not that I know of.”
“Do I impress you as one likely to commit follies?”
“I had rather wait a little before answering that.”
“That is to say, you prefer to prophesy after the event. Very well, we shall see.”
In the length of Gower Street they talked of several other things less personal. By degrees the tone of their conversation had become what it was used to be, now and then almost confidential.
“You are still at the same lodgings?” asked Amy, as they drew near to the railway station.
“I moved yesterday, so that the girls and I could be under the same roof—until the next change.”
“You will let us know when that takes place?”
He promised, and with exchange of smiles which were something like a challenge they took leave of each other.
XXVII The Lonely ManA touch of congestion in
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