New Grub Street · Chapter 22 (2/2)

“What?” he cried incredulously. “Ten thousand? You don’t say so!”

He burst into uproarious laughter.

“So Reardon is rescued from the slum and the clerk’s desk! Well, I’m glad; by Jove, I am. I should have liked it better if Marian had had the ten thousand and he the five, but it’s an excellent joke. Perhaps the next thing will be that he’ll refuse to have anything to do with his wife’s money; that would be just like him.” After amusing himself with this subject for a few minutes more, he turned to the window and stood there in silence.

“Are you going to have tea with us?” Dora inquired.

He did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry, he answered absently:

“Yes, I may as well. Then I can go home and get to work.”

During the remainder of his stay he talked very little, and as Maud also was in an abstracted mood, tea passed almost in silence. On the point of departing he asked:

“When is Marian likely to come here again?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” answered Dora.

He nodded, and went his way.

It was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he had begun this morning, and on reaching home he spread out his papers in the usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of which he was manufacturing “copy” had its difficulties, and was not altogether congenial to him; this morning he had laboured with unwonted effort to produce about a page of manuscript, and now that he tried to resume the task his thoughts would not centre upon it. Jasper was too young to have thoroughly mastered the art of somnambulistic composition; to write, he was still obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter under treatment. Dr. Johnson’s saying, that a man may write at any time if he will set himself doggedly to it, was often upon his lips, and had even been of help to him, as no doubt it has to many another man obliged to compose amid distracting circumstances; but the formula had no efficacy this evening. Twice or thrice he rose from his chair, paced the room with a determined brow, and sat down again with vigorous clutch of the pen; still he failed to excogitate a single sentence that would serve his purpose.

“I must have it out with myself before I can do anything,” was his thought as he finally abandoned the endeavour. “I must make up my mind.”

To this end he settled himself in an easy-chair and began to smoke cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made him so nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat and overcoat and went out⁠—to find that it was raining heavily. He returned for an umbrella, and before long was walking aimlessly about the Strand, unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not. Instead of doing so, he sought a certain upper room of a familiar restaurant, where the day’s papers were to be seen, and perchance an acquaintance might be met. Only half-a-dozen men were there, reading and smoking, and all were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer, skimmed the news of the evening, and again went out into the bad weather.

After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had an unsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever from the decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came upon Whelpdale, who was walking slowly under an umbrella.

“I’ve just called at your place.”

“All right; come back if you like.”

“But perhaps I shall waste your time?” said Whelpdale, with unusual diffidence.

Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted him with the fact of John Yule’s death, and with its result so far as it concerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would probably behave under this decisive change of circumstances.

“Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs. Reardon,” said Whelpdale. “I suspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of regard for Reardon. It wouldn’t surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet.”

“Not very likely. It was only want of money.”

“They’re not at all suited to each other. Mrs. Reardon, no doubt, repents her marriage bitterly, and I doubt whether Reardon cares much for his wife.”

“As there’s no way of getting divorced they’ll make the best of it. Ten thousand pounds produce about four hundred a year; it’s enough to live on.”

“And be miserable on⁠—if they no longer love each other.”

“You’re such a sentimental fellow!” cried Jasper. “I believe you seriously think that love⁠—the sort of frenzy you understand by it⁠—ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to your age with such primitive ideas?”

“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps you err a little in the opposite direction.”

“I haven’t much faith in marrying for love, as you know. What’s more, I believe it’s the very rarest thing for people to be in love with each other. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an instance; perhaps⁠—I’m not quite sure about her. As a rule, marriage is the result of a mild preference, encouraged by circumstances, and deliberately heightened into strong sexual feeling. You, of all men, know well enough that the same kind of feeling could be produced for almost any woman who wasn’t repulsive.”

“The same kind of feeling; but there’s vast difference of degree.”

“To be sure. I think it’s only a matter of degree. When it rises to the point of frenzy people may strictly be said to be in love; and, as I tell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely indeed. For my own part, I have no experience of it, and think I never shall have.”

“I can’t say the same.”

They laughed.

“I dare say you have imagined yourself in love⁠—or really been so for aught I know⁠—a dozen times. How the deuce you can attach any importance to such feeling where marriage is concerned I don’t understand.”

“Well, now,” said Whelpdale, “I have never upheld the theory⁠—at least not since I was sixteen⁠—that a man can be in love only once, or that there is one particular woman if he misses whom he can never be happy. There may be thousands of women whom I could love with equal sincerity.”

“I object to the word ‘love’ altogether. It has been vulgarised. Let us talk about compatibility. Now, I should say that, no doubt, and speaking scientifically, there is one particular woman supremely fitted to each man. I put aside consideration of circumstances; we know that circumstances will disturb any degree of abstract fitness. But in the nature of things there must be one woman whose nature is specially well adapted to harmonise with mine, or with yours. If there were any means of discovering this woman in each case, then I have no doubt it would be worth a man’s utmost effort to do so, and any amount of erotic jubilation would be reasonable when the discovery was made. But the thing is impossible, and, what’s more, we know what ridiculous fallibility people display when they imagine they have found the best substitute for that indiscoverable. This is what makes me impatient with sentimental talk about marriage. An educated man mustn’t play so into the hands of ironic destiny. Let him think he wants to marry a woman; but don’t let him exaggerate his feelings or idealise their nature.”

“There’s a good deal in all that,” admitted Whelpdale, though discontentedly.

“There’s more than a good deal; there’s the last word on the subject. The days of romantic love are gone by. The scientific spirit has put an end to that kind of self-deception. Romantic love was inextricably blended with all sorts of superstitions⁠—belief in personal immortality, in superior beings, in⁠—all the rest of it. What we think of now is moral and intellectual and physical compatibility; I mean, if we are reasonable people.”

“And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an incompatible,” added Whelpdale, laughing.

“Well, that is a form of unreason⁠—a blind desire which science could explain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to that form of epilepsy.”

“You positively never were in love?”

“As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct preference.”

“Based on what you think compatibility?”

“Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage. No, not strong enough for that.”

He seemed to be reassuring himself.

“Then of course that can’t be called love,” said Whelpdale.

“Perhaps not. But, as I told you, a preference of this kind can be heightened into emotion, if one chooses. In the case of which I am thinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable indeed that I should repent it if anything led me to indulge such an impulse.”

Whelpdale smiled.

“This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something.”

“I don’t think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman for whom I have no preference, but who can serve me materially.”

“I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as you do, but I wouldn’t marry a rich woman for whom I had no preference. By Jove, no!”

“Yes, yes. You are a consistent sentimentalist.”

“Doomed to perpetual disappointment,” said the other, looking disconsolately about the room.

“Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry and repent.”

“I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I have observed? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type than the one before.”

Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt.

“But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three or four years. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham Street; well, a nice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited. Next came that girl at the stationer’s⁠—you remember? She was distinctly an advance, both in mind and person. Then there was Miss Embleton; yes, I think she made again an advance. She had been at Bedford College, you know, and was really a girl of considerable attainments; morally, admirable. Afterwards⁠—”

He paused.

“The maiden from Birmingham, wasn’t it?” said Jasper, again exploding.

“Yes, it was. Well, I can’t be quite sure. But in many respects that girl was my ideal; she really was.”

“As you once or twice told me at the time.”

“I really believe she would rank above Miss Embleton⁠—at all events from my point of view. And that’s everything, you know. It’s the effect a woman produces on one that has to be considered.”

“The next should be a paragon,” said Jasper.

“The next?”

Whelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell into a long silence.

When left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down at his writing-table, for he felt easier in mind, and fancied that he might still do a couple of hours’ work before going to bed. He did in fact write half-a-dozen lines, but with the effort came back his former mood. Very soon the pen dropped, and he was once more in the throes of anxious mental debate.

He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it was with a lingering step, which proved him still a prey to indecision.