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

Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim district which lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking at the door of the lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at home. He ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound of voices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffen was engaged with a pupil.

“They didn’t tell me you had a visitor,” he said. “I’ll call again later.”

“No need to go away,” replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands. “Take a book for a few minutes. Mr. Baker won’t mind.”

It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodger could only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three inches intervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy, cobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in front of the fireplace; elsewhere the chinky boards were unconcealed. The furniture consisted of a round table, which kept such imperfect balance on its central support that the lamp entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of three small cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rude appurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at the hour of repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at present kept in a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few hundred battered volumes were arranged some on the floor and some on a rough chest. The weather was too characteristic of an English spring to make an empty grate agreeable to the eye, but Biffen held it an axiom that fires were unseasonable after the first of May.

The individual referred to as Mr. Baker, who sat at the table in the attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired young man of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from his weather-beaten cheeks and huge hands, as well as from the garb he wore, one would have presumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was something of the riverside about him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman. He looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty.

“Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences,” said Biffen, who sat down by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume. “This isn’t bad⁠—it isn’t bad at all, I assure you; but you have put all you had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to have made about a dozen.”

“There it is, sir; there it is!” exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiry hair. “I can’t break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if I may say so. To break it up⁠—there’s the art of compersition.”

Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffen, whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with an explanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling.

“Mr. Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, you know, that isn’t quite such a simple matter as some people think.”

Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile.

“I can make headway with the other things, sir,” he said, striking the table lightly with his clenched fist. “There’s handwriting, there’s orthography, there’s arithmetic; I’m not afraid of one of ’em, as Mr. Biffen’ll tell you, sir. But when it comes to compersition, that brings out the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you.”

“You’re not the only man in that case, Mr. Baker,” replied Reardon.

“It’s thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?”

“It is indeed.”

“Two hundred marks for compersition,” continued the man. “Now how many would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr. Biffen?”

“Well, well; I can’t exactly say. But you improve; you improve, decidedly. Peg away for another week or two.”

“Oh, don’t fear me, sir! I’m not easily beaten when I’ve set my mind on a thing, and I’ll break up the compersition yet, see if I don’t!”

Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of the steam-hammer cracking a nut.

The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under pretence of reading, following it with as much amusement as anything could excite in him nowadays. At length Mr. Baker stood up, collected his papers and books, and seemed about to depart; but, after certain uneasy movements and glances, he said to Biffen in a subdued voice:

“Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?”

He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy footstep descended the stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.

“Now that’s a good, honest fellow,” he said, in an amused tone. “It’s my pay-night, but he didn’t like to fork out money before you. A very unusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays me sixpence for an hour’s lesson; that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel a little ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he’s a good deal better off than I am.”

“Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told him so before this. To be sure, that’s a point I have often to consider, and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of my pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago and wanted Latin lessons; talked about going in for the London Matric., on his way to the pulpit. I couldn’t stand it. After a lesson or two I told him his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he got into better health; that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had no chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me. Oh yes, Baker