New Grub Street, George Gissing [10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

knitted in a permanent expression of severity. He had thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, a shaven chin. In the multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history of laborious and stormy life; one readily divined in him a struggling and embittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by no means the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his mental vigour.

“It pleases me to meet you, Mr. Milvain,” he said, as he stretched out his bony hand. “Your name reminds me of a paper in The Wayside a month or two ago, which you will perhaps allow a veteran to say was not ill done.”

“I am grateful to you for noticing it,” replied Jasper.

There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. The allusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen pleasure.

Mr. Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to stroke the back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He seemed to have nothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss Harrow and the girls to support conversation. Jasper listened with a smile for a minute or two, then he addressed the veteran.“Have you seen The Study this week, Mr. Yule?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novel which was tremendously abused in the same columns three weeks ago?”

Mr. Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his emotion was not disagreeable.

“You don’t say so.”

“Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk’s On the Boards. How will the editor get out of this?”

“H’m! Of course Mr. Fadge is not immediately responsible; but it’ll be unpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant.” He smiled grimly. “You hear this, Marian?”

“How is it explained, father?”

“May be accident, of course; but⁠—well, there’s no knowing. I think it very likely this will be the end of Mr. Fadge’s tenure of office. Rackett, the proprietor, only wants a plausible excuse for making a change. The paper has been going downhill for the last year; I know of two publishing houses who have withdrawn their advertising from it, and who never send their books for review. Everyone foresaw that kind of thing from the day Mr. Fadge became editor. The tone of his paragraphs has been detestable. Two reviews of the same novel, eh? And diametrically opposed? Ha! Ha!”

Gradually he had passed from quiet appreciation of the joke to undisguised mirth and pleasure. His utterance of the name “Mr. Fadge” sufficiently intimated that he had some cause of personal discontent with the editor of The Study.

“The author,” remarked Milvain, “ought to make a good thing out of this.”

“Will, no doubt. Ought to write at once to the papers, calling attention to this sample of critical impartiality. Ha! ha!”

He rose and went to the window, where for several minutes he stood gazing at vacancy, the same grim smile still on his face. Jasper in the meantime amused the ladies (his sisters had heard him on the subject already) with a description of the two antagonistic notices. But he did not trust himself to express so freely as he had done at home his opinion of reviewing in general; it was more than probable that both Yule and his daughter did a good deal of such work.

“Suppose we go into the garden,” suggested Miss Harrow, presently. “It seems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely afternoon.”

Hitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house. But Mr. Yule now remarked to Jasper:

“My brother would be glad if you would come and have a word with him. He isn’t quite well enough to leave his room today.”

So, as the ladies went gardenwards, Jasper followed the man of letters upstairs to a room on the first floor. Here, in a deep cane chair, which was placed by the open window, sat John Yule. He was completely dressed, save that instead of coat he wore a dressing-gown. The facial likeness between him and his brother was very strong, but John’s would universally have been judged the finer countenance; illness notwithstanding, he had a complexion which contrasted in its pure colour with Alfred’s parchmenty skin, and there was more finish about his features. His abundant hair was reddish, his long moustache and trimmed beard a lighter shade of the same hue.

“So you too are in league with the doctors,” was his bluff greeting, as he held a hand to the young man and inspected him with a look of slighting good-nature.

“Well, that certainly is one way of regarding the literary profession,” admitted Jasper, who had heard enough of John’s way of thinking to understand the remark.

“A young fellow with all the world before him, too. Hang it, Mr. Milvain, is there no less pernicious work you can turn your hand to?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Yule. After all, you know, you must be held in a measure responsible for my depravity.”

“How’s that?”

“I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the making of paper. If that article were not so cheap and so abundant, people wouldn’t have so much temptation to scribble.”

Alfred Yule uttered a short laugh.

“I think you are cornered, John.”

“I wish,” answered John, “that you were both condemned to write on such paper as I chiefly made; it was a special kind of whitey-brown, used by shopkeepers.”

He chuckled inwardly, and at the same time reached out for a box of cigarettes on a table near him. His brother and Jasper each took one as he offered them, and began to smoke.

“You would like to see literary production come entirely to an end?” said Milvain.

“I should like to see the business of literature abolished.”

“There’s a distinction, of course. But, on the whole, I should say that even the business serves a good purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“It helps to spread civilisation.”

“Civilisation!” exclaimed John, scornfully. “What do you mean by civilisation? Do you call it civilising men to make them weak, flabby creatures, with ruined eyes and dyspeptic stomachs? Who is it that reads most of the stuff that’s poured out daily