Free New Grub Street by George Gissing Page B

twopence and two
shillings; further than that he durst not go. A strange time, I
assure you.
    When he had completed his twenty-first year, he desired to
procure a reader's ticket for the British Museum. Now this was not
such a simple matter as you may suppose; it was necessary to obtain
the signature of some respectable householder, and Reardon was
acquainted with no such person. His landlady was a decent woman
enough, and a payer of rates and taxes, but it would look odd, to
say the least of it, to present oneself in Great Russell Street
armed with this person's recommendation. There was nothing for it
but to take a bold step, to force himself upon the attention of a
stranger—the thing from which his pride had always shrunk. He wrote
to a well-known novelist—a man with whose works he had some
sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself for a literary career. I
wish to study in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but have
no acquaintance to whom I can refer in the ordinary way. Will you
help me—I mean, in this particular only?' That was the substance of
his letter. For reply came an invitation to a house in the
West-end. With fear and trembling Reardon answered the summons. He
was so shabbily attired; he was so diffident from the habit of
living quite alone; he was horribly afraid lest it should be
supposed that he looked for other assistance than he had requested.
Well, the novelist was a rotund and jovial man; his dwelling and
his person smelt of money; he was so happy himself that he could
afford to be kind to others.
    'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's
letter had left this uncertain.
    'Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without
success.'
    'But what do you write?'
    'Chiefly essays on literary subjects.'
    'I can understand that you would find a difficulty in disposing
of them. That kind of thing is supplied either by men of
established reputation, or by anonymous writers who have a regular
engagement on papers and magazines. Give me an example of your
topics.'
    'I have written something lately about Tibullus.'
    'Oh, dear! Oh, dear!—Forgive me, Mr Reardon; my feelings were
too much for me; those names have been my horror ever since I was a
schoolboy. Far be it from me to discourage you, if your line is to
be solid literary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter of
fact, that such work is indifferently paid and in very small
demand. It hasn't occurred to you to try your hand at fiction?'
    In uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so
a year.
    'I am afraid I have no talent for that.'
    The novelist could do no more than grant his genial signature
for the specified purpose, and add good wishes in abundance.
Reardon went home with his brain in a whirl. He had had his first
glimpse of what was meant by literary success. That luxurious
study, with its shelves of handsomely-bound books, its beautiful
pictures, its warm, fragrant air—great heavens! what might not a
man do who sat at his ease amid such surroundings!
    He began to work at the Reading-room, but at the same time he
thought often of the novelist's suggestion, and before long had
written two or three short stories. No editor would accept them;
but he continued to practise himself in that art, and by degrees
came to fancy that, after all, perhaps he had some talent for
fiction. It was significant, however, that no native impulse had
directed him to novel-writing. His intellectual temper was that of
the student, the scholar, but strongly blended with a love of
independence which had always made him think with distaste of a
teacher's life. The stories he wrote were scraps of immature
psychology—the last thing a magazine would accept from an unknown
man.
    His money dwindled, and there came a winter during which he
suffered much from cold and hunger. What a blessed refuge it was,
there under the great dome, when he must else have sat in his windy
garret with the mere pretence of a fire! The