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Authors: George Gissing
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the kind.'
'You begin to speak very coldly. And I understand your feeling
of disappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything
that will sell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would have
looked with scorn at anyone who talked to me like that two years
ago. You were proud of me because my work wasn't altogether common,
and because I had never written a line that was meant to attract
the vulgar. All that's over now. If you knew how dreadful it is to
see that you have lost your hopes of me!'
'Well, but I haven't—altogether,' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I
know very well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do better
things than ever.'
'Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest.'
'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of
our getting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us;
I feel too sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on
my knees to think of us in his will.' She laughed. 'I suppose it's
impossible, and would be useless; but I should be capable of it if
I knew it would bring money.'
Reardon said nothing.
'I didn't think so much of money when we were married,' Amy
continued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know. I
did think—there's no harm in confessing it—that you were sure to be
rich some day; but I should have married you all the same if I had
known that you would win only reputation.'
'You are sure of that?'
'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I
know it is the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to choose
between a glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible
popularity with wealth, I should choose the latter.'
'No!'
'I should.'
'Perhaps you are right.'
He turned away with a sigh.
'Yes, you are right. What is reputation? If it is deserved, it
originates with a few score of people among the many millions who
would never have recognised the merit they at last applaud. That's
the lot of a great genius. As for a mediocrity like me—what
ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that half-a-dozen
folks will say I am "above the average!" After all, is there
sillier vanity than this? A year after I have published my last
book, I shall be practically forgotten; ten years later, I shall be
as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists of the early part
of this century, whose names one doesn't even recognise. What
fatuous posing!'
Amy looked askance at him, but replied nothing.
'And yet,' he continued, 'of course it isn't only for the sake
of reputation that one tries to do uncommon work. There's the
shrinking from conscious insincerity of workmanship—which most of
the writers nowadays seem never to feel. "It's good enough for the
market"; that satisfies them. And perhaps they are justified.
I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit
that everything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness or
badness, in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am absurdly
inconsistent when—though knowing my work can't be first rate—I
strive to make it as good as possible. I don't say this in irony,
Amy; I really mean it. It may very well be that I am just as
foolish as the people I ridicule for moral and religious
superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can
imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard me speak
scornfully of his books. "My dear fellow," he might say, "do you
suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just as
well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have a
luxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful to
me for their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret, and,
what's worse, make your wife and children share it with you, that's
your concern." The man would be abundantly right.'
'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are
rubbish? Good work succeeds—now and then.'
'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due
'You begin to speak very coldly. And I understand your feeling
of disappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything
that will sell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would have
looked with scorn at anyone who talked to me like that two years
ago. You were proud of me because my work wasn't altogether common,
and because I had never written a line that was meant to attract
the vulgar. All that's over now. If you knew how dreadful it is to
see that you have lost your hopes of me!'
'Well, but I haven't—altogether,' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I
know very well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do better
things than ever.'
'Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest.'
'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of
our getting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us;
I feel too sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on
my knees to think of us in his will.' She laughed. 'I suppose it's
impossible, and would be useless; but I should be capable of it if
I knew it would bring money.'
Reardon said nothing.
'I didn't think so much of money when we were married,' Amy
continued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know. I
did think—there's no harm in confessing it—that you were sure to be
rich some day; but I should have married you all the same if I had
known that you would win only reputation.'
'You are sure of that?'
'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I
know it is the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to choose
between a glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible
popularity with wealth, I should choose the latter.'
'No!'
'I should.'
'Perhaps you are right.'
He turned away with a sigh.
'Yes, you are right. What is reputation? If it is deserved, it
originates with a few score of people among the many millions who
would never have recognised the merit they at last applaud. That's
the lot of a great genius. As for a mediocrity like me—what
ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that half-a-dozen
folks will say I am "above the average!" After all, is there
sillier vanity than this? A year after I have published my last
book, I shall be practically forgotten; ten years later, I shall be
as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists of the early part
of this century, whose names one doesn't even recognise. What
fatuous posing!'
Amy looked askance at him, but replied nothing.
'And yet,' he continued, 'of course it isn't only for the sake
of reputation that one tries to do uncommon work. There's the
shrinking from conscious insincerity of workmanship—which most of
the writers nowadays seem never to feel. "It's good enough for the
market"; that satisfies them. And perhaps they are justified.
I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit
that everything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness or
badness, in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am absurdly
inconsistent when—though knowing my work can't be first rate—I
strive to make it as good as possible. I don't say this in irony,
Amy; I really mean it. It may very well be that I am just as
foolish as the people I ridicule for moral and religious
superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can
imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard me speak
scornfully of his books. "My dear fellow," he might say, "do you
suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just as
well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have a
luxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful to
me for their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret, and,
what's worse, make your wife and children share it with you, that's
your concern." The man would be abundantly right.'
'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are
rubbish? Good work succeeds—now and then.'
'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due
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