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Authors: George Gissing
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Shall you sit here day
after day until our last shilling is spent?'
'No; of course I must do something.'
'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay
this quarter's rent, and that will leave us just about fifteen
pounds in the world. Where is the rent at Christmas to come
from?
What are we to live upon? There's all sorts of clothing to be
bought; there'll be all the extra expenses of winter. Surely it's
bad enough that we have had to stay here all the summer; no holiday
of any kind. I have done my best not to grumble about it, but I
begin to think that it would be very much wiser if I did
grumble.'
She squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little
shake, as if a fly had troubled her.
'You bear everything very well and kindly,' said Reardon. 'My
behaviour is contemptible; I know that. Good heavens! if I only had
some business to go to, something I could work at in any state of
mind, and make money out of! Given this chance, I would work myself
to death rather than you should lack anything you desire. But I am
at the mercy of my brain; it is dry and powerless. How I envy those
clerks who go by to their offices in the morning! There's the day's
work cut out for them; no question of mood and feeling; they have
just to work at something, and when the evening comes, they have
earned their wages, they are free to rest and enjoy themselves.
What an insane thing it is to make literature one's only means of
support! When the most trivial accident may at any time prove fatal
to one's power of work for weeks or months. No, that is the
unpardonable sin! To make a trade of an art! I am rightly served
for attempting such a brutal folly.'
He turned away in a passion of misery.
'How very silly it is to talk like this!' came in Amy's voice,
clearly critical. 'Art must be practised as a trade, at all events
in our time. This is the age of trade. Of course if one refuses to
be of one's time, and yet hasn't the means to live independently,
what can result but breakdown and wretchedness? The fact of the
matter is, you could do fairly good work, and work which would
sell, if only you would bring yourself to look at things in a more
practical way. It's what Mr Milvain is always saying, you
know.'
'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is
naturally light-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the
opposite.
What you and he say is true enough; the misfortune is that I
can't act upon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant; I am
quite willing to try and do the kind of work that will sell; under
the circumstances it would be a kind of insanity if I refused. But
power doesn't answer to the will. My efforts are utterly vain; I
suppose the prospect of pennilessness is itself a hindrance; the
fear haunts me. With such terrible real things pressing upon me, my
imagination can shape nothing substantial. When I have laboured out
a story, I suddenly see it in a light of such contemptible
triviality that to work at it is an impossible thing.'
'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have
had a holiday. I think even now you had better go away for a week
or two. Do, Edwin!'
'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go
away and leave you here—no!'
'Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?'
'That would be intolerable.'
'But this state of things is intolerable!'
Reardon walked the length of the room and back again.
'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would
do it so unwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an
obligation.'
'Yet it will come to that, you know,' remarked Amy, calmly.
'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something
done long before Christmas. If only you—'
He came and took one of her hands.
'If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest. You see,
that's one side of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you.
Your kindness is the breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!'
'But I have done nothing of
after day until our last shilling is spent?'
'No; of course I must do something.'
'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay
this quarter's rent, and that will leave us just about fifteen
pounds in the world. Where is the rent at Christmas to come
from?
What are we to live upon? There's all sorts of clothing to be
bought; there'll be all the extra expenses of winter. Surely it's
bad enough that we have had to stay here all the summer; no holiday
of any kind. I have done my best not to grumble about it, but I
begin to think that it would be very much wiser if I did
grumble.'
She squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little
shake, as if a fly had troubled her.
'You bear everything very well and kindly,' said Reardon. 'My
behaviour is contemptible; I know that. Good heavens! if I only had
some business to go to, something I could work at in any state of
mind, and make money out of! Given this chance, I would work myself
to death rather than you should lack anything you desire. But I am
at the mercy of my brain; it is dry and powerless. How I envy those
clerks who go by to their offices in the morning! There's the day's
work cut out for them; no question of mood and feeling; they have
just to work at something, and when the evening comes, they have
earned their wages, they are free to rest and enjoy themselves.
What an insane thing it is to make literature one's only means of
support! When the most trivial accident may at any time prove fatal
to one's power of work for weeks or months. No, that is the
unpardonable sin! To make a trade of an art! I am rightly served
for attempting such a brutal folly.'
He turned away in a passion of misery.
'How very silly it is to talk like this!' came in Amy's voice,
clearly critical. 'Art must be practised as a trade, at all events
in our time. This is the age of trade. Of course if one refuses to
be of one's time, and yet hasn't the means to live independently,
what can result but breakdown and wretchedness? The fact of the
matter is, you could do fairly good work, and work which would
sell, if only you would bring yourself to look at things in a more
practical way. It's what Mr Milvain is always saying, you
know.'
'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is
naturally light-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the
opposite.
What you and he say is true enough; the misfortune is that I
can't act upon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant; I am
quite willing to try and do the kind of work that will sell; under
the circumstances it would be a kind of insanity if I refused. But
power doesn't answer to the will. My efforts are utterly vain; I
suppose the prospect of pennilessness is itself a hindrance; the
fear haunts me. With such terrible real things pressing upon me, my
imagination can shape nothing substantial. When I have laboured out
a story, I suddenly see it in a light of such contemptible
triviality that to work at it is an impossible thing.'
'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have
had a holiday. I think even now you had better go away for a week
or two. Do, Edwin!'
'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go
away and leave you here—no!'
'Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?'
'That would be intolerable.'
'But this state of things is intolerable!'
Reardon walked the length of the room and back again.
'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would
do it so unwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an
obligation.'
'Yet it will come to that, you know,' remarked Amy, calmly.
'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something
done long before Christmas. If only you—'
He came and took one of her hands.
'If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest. You see,
that's one side of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you.
Your kindness is the breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!'
'But I have done nothing of
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