New Grub Street [62]
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 to- night! 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 to-night.'
'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 creche in London. It's monstrous that an educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'
'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche, indeed! No child of mine should go to any such place.'
There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That was love; whereas-- But then maternal love was a mere matter of course.
'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much time.'
'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'
'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a book? How much do you suppose even Markland got for his last?'
'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'
'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceases to be talked of.'
'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds."'
'So am I.'
She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.
'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?'
'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'
So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.
When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.
'Amy!'
'Yes, dear?'
'Do you still love me a little?'
'Much more than a little.'
'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'
'Is it so bad as all that?'
'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs will be a martyrdom.'
'Oh, but why? why?'
'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to hear that calmly.'
'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'
'Curse the reviews!'
His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened face, trembling angrily.
'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now, promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I know you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.'
'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people, our friends, read it. That's the worst.'
'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength to disregard the blame. Let our friends read and talk as much as they like. Can't you console yourself with the thought that I am not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor work?'
'People don't look at it in that way.'
'But, darling,' he took her hands strongly in
'Yes, there's hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk to- night! 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 to-night.'
'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 creche in London. It's monstrous that an educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'
'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche, indeed! No child of mine should go to any such place.'
There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That was love; whereas-- But then maternal love was a mere matter of course.
'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much time.'
'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'
'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a book? How much do you suppose even Markland got for his last?'
'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'
'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceases to be talked of.'
'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds."'
'So am I.'
She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.
'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?'
'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'
So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.
When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.
'Amy!'
'Yes, dear?'
'Do you still love me a little?'
'Much more than a little.'
'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'
'Is it so bad as all that?'
'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs will be a martyrdom.'
'Oh, but why? why?'
'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to hear that calmly.'
'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'
'Curse the reviews!'
His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened face, trembling angrily.
'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now, promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I know you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.'
'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people, our friends, read it. That's the worst.'
'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength to disregard the blame. Let our friends read and talk as much as they like. Can't you console yourself with the thought that I am not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor work?'
'People don't look at it in that way.'
'But, darling,' he took her hands strongly in