Kitabı oku: «Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The Priest», sayfa 26
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
NERVOUS LOOK – THE BOOKSELLER’S WIFE – THE LAST STAKE – TERMS – GOD FORBID! – WILL YOU COME TO TEA?
On arriving at the bookseller’s shop, I cast a nervous look at the window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. ‘What is your business, young man?’ said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. ‘I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house,’ said I. ‘My husband is not within at present,’ she replied; ‘what is your business?’ ‘I have merely brought something to show him,’ said I, ‘but I will call again.’ ‘If you are the young gentleman who has been here before,’ said the lady, ‘with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are,’ she added, smiling, ‘for I have seen you through the glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is,’ she added with another smile, ‘if you bring us nothing else.’ ‘I have not brought you poems and ballads, now,’ said I, ‘but something widely different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will suit; and here it is,’ I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. ‘Well,’ said the bookseller’s wife, ‘you may leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it me. Are you afraid to intrust it to me?’ she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. ‘Excuse me,’ said I, ‘but it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read.’ ‘On that point I can reassure you,’ said the good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. ‘I give you my word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you.’
I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the purchase of milk.
At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the bookseller was in his shop. ‘Ah,’ said he, as soon as I entered, ‘I am glad to see you.’ There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller’s tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. ‘So,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘we have not yet agreed upon terms.’ ‘Terms, terms,’ said the bookseller; ‘ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold.’ ‘That will not do,’ said I; ‘I intend shortly to leave London: I must have something at once.’ ‘Ah, I see,’ said the bookseller, ‘in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially young ones. Well, I don’t care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one after all. Let me see, will five-hem – ’ he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear, ‘Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble.’ ‘Well,’ said I at last, ‘I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered.’ ‘Five-and-twenty guineas!’ said the bookseller; ‘are you – what was I going to say – I never meant to offer half as much – I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas – I mean pounds; I will, however, make it up guineas.’ ‘That will not do,’ said I; ‘but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry it to some one else.’ The bookseller looked blank. ‘Dear me,’ said he, ‘I should never have supposed that you would have made any objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former occasion.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five pounds.’ ‘God forbid that I should make any such bargain!’ said the bookseller; ‘I would publish neither on any account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript.’ ‘Stay,’ said the bookseller, ‘my wife is in the next room, I will go and consult her.’ Thereupon he went into his back room, where I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes he returned. ‘Young gentleman,’ said he, ‘perhaps you will take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter.’
That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller’s wife complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be troubled with the correction of the work.
Before I departed, I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light heart to my lodgings.
Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
INDISPOSITION – A RESOLUTION – POOR EQUIVALENTS – THE PIECE OF GOLD – FLASHING EYES – HOW BEAUTIFUL
I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great City, yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller’s wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence.
But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid that people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym – of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled Newgate Lives and Trials, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town.
But how one’s sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time; at present I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads.
As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in readiness to start.
Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said, ‘Tell the poor thin lad,’ she added, ‘to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I.’
Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the south-west: when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to home.
Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket, at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him.
‘Holloa, friend,’ said Francis Ardry, ‘whither bound?’
‘I do not know,’ said I; ‘all I can say is, that I am about to leave London.’
‘And the means?’ said Francis Ardry.
‘I have them,’ said I, with a cheerful smile.
‘Qui est celui-ci?’ demanded the small female, impatiently.
‘C’est – mon ami le plus intime; so you were about to leave London, without telling me a word,’ said Francis Ardry, somewhat angrily.
‘I intended to have written to you,’ said I: ‘what a splendid mare that is.’
‘Is she not?’ said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty; ‘she cost a hundred guineas.’
‘Qu’est ce qu’il dit?’ demanded his companion.
‘Il dit que le jument est bien beau.’
‘Allons, mon ami, il est tard,’ said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head; ‘allons!’
‘Encore un moment,’ said Francis Ardry; ‘and when shall I see you again?’
‘I scarcely know,’ I replied: ‘I never saw a more splendid turn out.’
‘Qu’est ce qu’il dit?’ said the lady again.
‘Il dit que tout l’équipage est en assez bon goût.’
‘Allons, c’est un ours,’ said the lady; ‘le cheval même en a peur,’ added she, as the mare reared up on high.
‘Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?’ said Francis Ardry, reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought the mare to order.
Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. ‘How beautiful!’ said I, looking the lady full in the face.
‘Comment?’ said the lady, inquiringly.
‘Il dit que vous êtes belle comme un ange,’ said Francis Ardry, emphatically.
‘Mais, à la bonne heure! arrêtez, mon ami,’ said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; ‘je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui; arrêtez, il est délicieux. – Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis?’ said she passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. ‘Bon jour, Monsieur, bon jour,’ said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
THE MILESTONE – MEDITATION – WANT TO GET UP? – SIXTEEN SHILLINGS – NEAR-HAND WHEELER – ALL RIGHT
In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation.
I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city – I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful – Good! But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes!
My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses – there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped. ‘Want to get up?’ sounded a voice, in the true coachman-like-tone – half querulous, half authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance. ‘Come, we can’t be staying here all night,’ said the voice, more sharply than before. ‘I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like,’ thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman. ‘No, no,’ said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably-cut greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. ‘No, no, keep behind – the box ain’t for the like of you,’ said he, as he drove off; ‘the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least.’ I made no answer, ‘D- that off-hand leader,’ said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half-rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. ‘These seem to be fine horses,’ said I. The coachman made no answer. ‘Nearly thoroughbred,’ I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. ‘Come, young fellow, none of your chaff. Don’t you think, because you ride on my mail, I’m going to talk to you about ’orses. I talk to nobody about ’orses except lords.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I have been called a lord in my time.’ ‘It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then,’ said the coachman, bending back, and half turning his face round with a broad leer. ‘You have hit the mark wonderfully,’ said I. ‘You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools.’ ‘We ain’t, ain’t we?’ said the coachman. ‘There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I’ll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going? – to – ? I think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt; them that has no money can’t ride on my mail.’
Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard – ‘All right, Jem; got fare to – ’; and forthwith whipped on his horses, especially the off-hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before – the horses flew.
A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself – hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. ‘D- this near-hand wheeler,’ said he, ‘the brute has got a corn.’ ‘Whipping him won’t cure him of his corn,’ said I. ‘Who told you to speak?’ said the driver, with an oath; ‘mind your own business; ’tisn’t from the like of you I am to learn to drive ’orses.’ Presently I fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice – ‘Got to – , young man; get down if you please.’ I opened my eyes – there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below me stood the guard. ‘Do you mean to get down,’ said he, ‘or will you keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up.’ Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. ‘All right, John,’ said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was left alone.
