New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕
Description
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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Let lapse the ensuing twelve months, and come to an evening at the end of July, 1886. Mr. and Mrs. Milvain are entertaining a small and select party of friends at dinner. Their house in Bayswater is neither large nor internally magnificent, but it will do very well for the temporary sojourn of a young man of letters who has much greater things in confident expectation, who is a good deal talked of, who can gather clever and worthy people at his table, and whose matchless wife would attract men of taste to a very much poorer abode.
Jasper had changed considerably in appearance since that last holiday that he spent in his mother’s house at Finden. At present he would have been taken for five-and-thirty, though only in his twenty-ninth year; his hair was noticeably thinning; his moustache had grown heavier; a wrinkle or two showed beneath his eyes; his voice was softer, yet firmer. It goes without saying that his evening uniform lacked no point of perfection, and somehow it suggested a more elaborate care than that of other men in the room. He laughed frequently, and with a throwing back of the head which seemed to express a spirit of triumph.
Amy looked her years to the full, but her type of beauty, as you know, was independent of youthfulness. That suspicion of masculinity observable in her when she became Reardon’s wife impressed one now only as the consummate grace of a perfectly-built woman. You saw that at forty, at fifty, she would be one of the stateliest of dames. When she bent her head towards the person with whom she spoke, it was an act of queenly favour. Her words were uttered with just enough deliberation to give them the value of an opinion; she smiled with a delicious shade of irony; her glance intimated that nothing could be too subtle for her understanding.
The guests numbered six, and no one of them was insignificant. Two of the men were about Jasper’s age, and they had already made their mark in literature; the third was a novelist of circulating fame, spirally crescent. The three of the stronger sex were excellent modern types, with sweet lips attuned to epigram, and good broad brows.
The novelist at one point put an interesting question to Amy.
“Is it true that Fadge is leaving The Current?”
“It is rumoured, I believe.”
“Going to one of the quarterlies, they say,” remarked a lady. “He is getting terribly autocratic. Have you heard the delightful story of his telling Mr. Rowland to persevere, as his last work was one of considerable promise?”
Mr. Rowland was a man who had made a merited reputation when Fadge was still on the lower rungs of journalism. Amy smiled and told another anecdote of the great editor. Whilst speaking, she caught her husband’s eye, and perhaps this was the reason why her story, at the close, seemed rather amiably pointless—not a common fault when she narrated.
When the ladies had withdrawn, one of the younger men, in a conversation about a certain magazine, remarked:
“Thomas always maintains that it was killed by that solemn old stager, Alfred Yule. By the way, he is dead himself, I hear.”
Jasper bent forward.
“Alfred Yule is dead?”
“So Jedwood told me this morning. He died in the country somewhere, blind and fallen on evil days, poor old fellow.”
All the guests were ignorant of any tie of kindred between their host and the man spoken of.
“I believe,” said the novelist, “that he had a clever daughter who used to do all the work he signed. That used to be a current bit of scandal in Fadge’s circle.”
“Oh, there was much exaggeration in that,” remarked Jasper, blandly. “His daughter assisted him, doubtless, but in quite a legitimate way. One used to see her at the Museum.”
The subject was dropped.
An hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his leave, Jasper examined two or three letters which had arrived since dinnertime and were lying on the hall table. With one of them open in his hand, he suddenly sprang up the stairs and leaped, rather than stepped, into the drawing-room. Amy was reading an evening paper.
“Look at this!” he cried, holding the letter to her.
It was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current; they stated that the editorship of that review would shortly be resigned by Mr. Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would feel disposed to assume the vacant chair.
Amy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband’s neck, uttering a cry of delight.
“So soon! Oh, this is great! this is glorious!”
“Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the spacious life we have led of late? Never! Was I right in my calculations, Amy?”
“Did I ever doubt it?”
He returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with profound tenderness.
“Doesn’t the future brighten?”
“It has been very bright to me, Jasper, since I became your wife.”
“And I owe my fortune to you, dear girl. Now the way is smooth!”
They placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his wife’s waist, as if they were newly plighted lovers. When they had talked for a long time, Milvain said in a changed tone:
“I am told that your uncle is dead.”
He mentioned how the news had reached him.
“I must make inquiries tomorrow. I suppose there will be a notice in The Study and some of the other papers. I hope somebody will make it an opportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge. By the by, it doesn’t much matter now how you speak of Fadge; but I was a trifle anxious when I heard your story at dinner.”
“Oh, you can afford to be more independent.—What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Why do you look sad?—Yes, I know,
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