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

“A little while. I’ll come presently.”

She closed the door. Reardon brought a high-backed chair to the fireside, and allowed himself to forget the two volumes that had still to be struggled through, in a grateful sense of the portion that was achieved. In a few minutes it occurred to him that it would be delightful to read a scrap of the Odyssey; he went to the shelves on which were his classical books, took the desired volume, and opened it where Odysseus speaks to Nausicaa:

“For never yet did I behold one of mortals like to thee, neither man nor woman; I am awed as I look upon thee. In Delos once, hard by the altar of Apollo, I saw a young palm-tree shooting up with even such a grace.”

Yes, yes; that was not written at so many pages a day, with a workhouse clock clanging its admonition at the poet’s ear. How it freshened the soul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the sounding of those nobly sweet hexameters!

Amy came into the room again.

“Listen,” said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile. “Do you remember the first time that I read you this?”

And he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed.

“I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawing-room; I had told the others that they must make shift with the dining-room for that evening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket unexpectedly. I laughed at your habit of always carrying little books about.”

The cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned to hear lamentations her voice would not have rippled thus soothingly. Reardon thought of this, and it made him silent for a minute.

“The habit was ominous,” he said, looking at her with an uncertain smile. “A practical literary man doesn’t do such things.”

“Milvain, for instance. No.”

With curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Her unconsciousness in doing so prevented Reardon from thinking about the fact; still, he had noted it.

“Did you understand the phrase slightingly?” he asked.

“Slightingly? Yes, a little, of course. It always has that sense on your lips, I think.”

In the light of this answer he mused upon her readily-offered instance. True, he had occasionally spoken of Jasper with something less than respect, but Amy was not in the habit of doing so.

“I hadn’t any such meaning just then,” he said. “I meant quite simply that my bookish habits didn’t promise much for my success as a novelist.”

“I see. But you didn’t think of it in that way at the time.”

He sighed.

“No. At least⁠—no.”

“At least what?”

“Well, no; on the whole I had good hope.”

Amy twisted her fingers together impatiently.

“Edwin, let me tell you something. You are getting too fond of speaking in a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? I don’t like it. It has one disagreeable effect on me, and that is, when people ask me about you, how you are getting on, I don’t quite know how to answer. They can’t help seeing that I am uneasy. I speak so differently from what I used to.”

“Do you, really?”

“Indeed I can’t help it. As I say, it’s very much your own fault.”

“Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and that I easily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what is Amy here for?”

“Yes, yes. But⁠—”

“But?”

“I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am I?”

She asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood.

“Heaven forbid! I oughtn’t to have put it in that absolute way. I was half joking, you know. But unfortunately it’s true that I can’t be as light-spirited as I could wish. Does that make you impatient with me?”

“A little. I can’t help the feeling, and I ought to try to overcome it. But you must try on your side as well. Why should you have said that thing just now?”

“You’re quite right. It was needless.”

“A few weeks ago I didn’t expect you to be cheerful. Things began to look about as bad as they could. But now that you’ve got a volume finished, there’s hope once more.”

Hope? Of what quality? Reardon durst not say what rose in his thoughts. “A very small, poor hope. Hope of money enough to struggle through another half year, if indeed enough for that.” He had learnt that Amy was not to be told the whole truth about anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity. To the ideal wife a man speaks out all that is in him; she had infinitely rather share his full conviction than be treated as one from whom facts must be disguised. She says: “Let us face the worst and talk of it together, you and I.” No, Amy was not the ideal wife from that point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach had traversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with the joy of love into her clear eyes.

“Yes, there’s hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk tonight! I have read you something, now you shall read something to me; it is a long time since I delighted myself with listening to you. What shall it be?”

“I feel rather too tired tonight.”

“Do you?”

“I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more Homer; I shall be very glad to listen.”

Reardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face showed disappointment. Their evenings together had never been the same since the birth of the child; Willie was always an excuse⁠—valid enough⁠—for Amy’s feeling tired. The little boy had come between him and the mother, as must always be the case in poor homes, most of all where the poverty is relative. Reardon could not pass the subject without a remark, but he tried to speak humorously.

“There ought to be a huge public crèche in London. It’s monstrous that an educated mother should have to be