by George Moore
Venice rose into his eyes. He is in a gondola with her; the water is dark with architrave and pillar; and a half moon floats in a boundless sky But remembering that this is the Venice of a hundred “chromos,” his imagination filled the well-known water-way with sunlight and maskers, creating the carnival upon the Grand Canal. Laughing and mocking Loves; young nobles in blue hose, sword on thigh, as in Shakespeare’s plays; young brides in tumultuous satin, with collars of translucent pearls; garlands reflected in the water; scarves thrown about the ample bosoms of patrician matrons. Then the brides, the nobles, the pearls, the loves, and the matrons disappear in a shower of confetti. Wearying of Venice he strove to see Florence, “the city of lilies”; but the phrase only suggested flower-sellers. He intoxicated upon his love, she who to him was now Italy. He imagined confidences, sudden sights of her face more exquisite than the Botticelli women in the echoing picture galleries, more enigmatic than the eyes of a Leonardo; and in these days of desire, he lived through the torment of impersonal love, drawn for the first time out of himself. All beautiful scenes of love from books, pictures, and life floated in his mind. He especially remembered a sight of lovers which he had once caught on an hotel staircase. A young couple, evidently just returned from the theatre, had entered their room; the woman was young, tall, and aristocratic; she was dressed in some soft material, probably a dress of cream-coloured lace in numberless flounces; he remembered that her hair was abundant and shadowed her face. The effect of firelight played over the hangings of the bed; she stood by the bed and raised her fur cloak from her shoulders. The man was tall and thin, and the light caught the points of the short sharp beard. The scene had bitten itself into Mike’s mind, and it reappeared at intervals perfect as a print, for he sometimes envied the calm and healthfulness of honourable love.
“Great Scott! twelve o’clock!” Smiling, conscious of the incongruity, he set to work, and in about three hours had finished a long letter, in which he usefully advised “light o’ loves” on the advantages of foreign travel.
“I wonder,” he thought, “how I can write in such a strain while I’m in love with her. What beastliness! I hate the whole thing. I desire a new life; I have tried vice long enough and am weary of it; I’m not happy, and if I were to gain the whole world it would be dust and ashes without her. Then why not take that step which would bring her to me?” He faced his cowardice angrily, and resolved to post the letter. But he stopped before he had walked fifty yards, for his doubts followed him, buzzing and stinging like bees. Striving to rid himself of them, and weary of considering his own embarrassed condition, he listened gladly to Lizzie, who deplored Mount Rorke’s cruelty and her husband’s continuous ill luck.
“I told him his family would never receive me; I didn’t want to marry him; for days I couldn’t make up my mind; he can’t say I persuaded him into it.”
“But you are happy now; don’t you like being married?”
“Oh, yes, I should be happy enough if things only went better with us. He is so terribly unlucky. No one works harder than Frank; he often sits up till three o’clock in the morning writing. He tries everything, but nothing seems to succeed with him. There’s this paper. I don’t believe he has ever had a penny out of it. Tell me, Mr. Fletcher, do you think it will ever succeed?”
“Newspapers generally fail for want of a concerted plan of appeal to a certain section of society kept steadily in view; they are nearly always vague and undetermined; but I believe when four clever pens are brought together, and write continuously, and with set purpose and idea, that they can, that they must and invariably do create a property worth at least twenty thousand pounds.”
“Frank has gone to the station to meet Thigh. I distrust that man dreadfully; I hope he won’t rob my poor husband. Frank told me to get a couple of pheasants for dinner. Which way are you going? To the post-office? Do you want a stamp?”
“No, thank you, my letter is stamped.” He held the letter in the box unable to loose his fingers, embarrassed in the consideration whether marriage would permit him to develop his artistic nature as he intended. Lizzie was looking at him, and it was with difficulty that he concealed from her the fact that he had not dropped his letter in the box.
When they returned to the cottage they found Thigh and Frank were turning over the pages of the last number of the Pilgrim.
“Just let’s go through the paper,” said Frank. “One, two, three — twelve columns of paragraphs! and I’ll bet that in every one of those columns there is a piece of news artistic, political, or social, which no other paper has got. Here are three articles, one written by our friend here, one by me, and one by a man whose name I am not at liberty to mention; but I may tell you he has written some well-known books, and is a constant contributor to the Fortnightly; here is a column of gossip from Paris excellently well done; here is a short story … What do you think the paper wants?”
Thigh was a very small and very neatly-dressed man. His manner was quiet and reserved, and he caressed a large fair moustache with his left hand, on which a diamond ring sparkled.
“I think it wants smartening up all round,” he said. “You want to make it smarter; people will have things bright nowadays.”
“Bright!” said Frank; “I don’t know where you are going for brightness nowadays. Just look at the other papers — here is the Club — did you ever see such a rag? Here is the Spy — I don’t think you could tell if you were reading a number of last year or this week if you didn’t look at the date! I’ve given them up for news. I look to see if they have got a new advertisement; if they have, I send Tomlinson and see if I can get one too.”
Thigh made some judicious observations, and the conversation was continued during dinner. Frank and Mike vying with each other to show their deference to Thigh’s literary opinions — Lizzie eager to know what he thought of her dinner.
Thigh said the turbot was excellent, that the cutlets were very nice, that the birds were splendid; the jam pudding was voted delicious. And they leaned back in their chairs, their eyes filled with the torpor of digestion. Frank brought out a bottle of old port, the last of a large supply which he had had from Mount Rorke’s wine merchant. The pleasure of the wine was in their stomachs, and under its influence they talked of Tennyson, Leonardo da Vinci, Corot, and the Ingoldsby Legends. The servant had brought in the lamp, cigars were lighted, the clock struck nine. As yet not a word had been spoken of the business, and seeing that Mike was deep in conversation with Lizzie, Frank moved his chair towards Thigh, and said —
“Well, what about buying half of the paper?”
“I’m quite ready to buy half the paper on the conditions I’ve already offered you.”
“But they won’t do. If I have to go smash, I may as well go smash for a large sum as a small one. To clear myself of debts I must have five hundred pounds.”
“Well, you’ll get six hundred; you’ll receive a thousand and you’ll give me back four hundred.”
“Yes, but I did not tell you that I have sold a small share in the paper to an old schoolfellow of mine. When I have paid him I shall have only two hundred, and that won’t be of the slightest use to me.”
“Oh, you have sold part of the paper already, have you? How do you know your friend will consent to be bought out? That complicates matters.”
“My friend only did it to oblige me; he is only too anxious to be bought out. He is in a fearful funk lest he should be compromised in a libel action.”
“Oh, then I think it can be managed. Were I in your place I should try and get rid of him for nothing. I can’t offer you better terms; it wouldn’t pay me to do so; I might as well start a new paper.”
“Yes, but tell me, how can I get rid of him for nothing?”
Thigh looked at Frank inquiringly, and apparently satisfied he drew his chair nearer, stroked his moustache, and said, speaking under his breath —
“Have you collected what money is owing to the paper lately? Have you many outstanding debts
?”
“We have got some.”
“Well, don’t collect any money that is owing, but make out a long statement of the paper’s liabilities; don’t say a word about the outstanding debts, and tell your friend that he is responsible as part owner of the paper for this money. When you have sufficiently frightened him, suggest that he should sign over his share to you, you being a man of straw whom it would be useless to proceed against. Or you might get your printer to press you for money—”
“That won’t be difficult.”
“Offer him a bill, and then mix the two accounts up together.”
At this moment Mike was speaking to Lizzie of love. She told him there was no real happiness except in married life, assured him that though they might be beggars to-day, she would not give up her husband for all the wealth of the three kingdoms.
Very anxious to ascertain the truth about married life, Mike pressed Lizzie upon several points; the old ache awoke about his heart, and again he resolved to regenerate his life, and love Lily and none but her. He looked round the room, considering how he could get away. Frank was talking business. He would not disturb him. No doubt Thigh was concocting some swindle, but he (Mike) knew nothing of business; he had a knack of turning the king at écarté, but was nowhere once bills and the cooking of accounts were introduced. Should he post the letter? That was the question, and it played in his ears like an electric bell. Here was the letter; he could feel it through his coat, lying over his heart, and there it had lain since he had written it.
Frank and Thigh continued talking; Lizzie went to the baby, and Mike walked into the night, looking at the stars. He walked along the white high-road — to him a road of dreams — towards the white town — to him a town of chimeras — and leaning over the moon-lit river, shaking himself free from the hallucination within and without him, he said —
“On one hand I shall belong to one woman. Her house shall be my house, her friends shall be my friends; the others, the beautiful, fascinating others, will cease to dream of me, I shall no longer be their ideal. On the other hand I shall gain the nicest woman, and surely it must be right to take, though it be for life, the nicest woman in the world. She will supply what is wanting in my character; together we shall attain a goal; alone I shall attain none. In twenty years I shall be a foolish old bachelor whom no one cares for. I have stated both cases — on which side does the balance turn?”
The balance still stood at equipoise. A formless moon soared through a white cloud wrack, and broken gold lay in the rising tide. The sonorous steps of the policeman on the bridge startled him, and obeying the impulse of the moment, he gave the officer the letter, asking him to post it. He waited for some minutes, as if stupefied, pursuing the consequences of his act even into distant years. No, he would not send the letter just yet. But the officer had disappeared in some by-streets, and followed by the spirits of future loves, Mike ran till he reached the post-office, where he waited in nervous apprehension. Presently steps were heard in the stillness, and getting between him and the terrible slot, Mike determined to fight for his letter if it were refused him.
“I met you just now on the bridge and asked you to post a letter; give it back to me, if you please. I’ve changed my mind.”
The officer looked at him narrowly, but he took the proffered shilling, and returned the letter.
“That was the narrowest squeak I’ve had yet,” thought Mike.
When he returned to the cottage he found Frank and Thigh still together.
“Mr. Beacham Brown,” said Thigh, “is now half-proprietor of the Pilgrim. The papers are signed. I came down quite prepared. I believe in settling things right off. When Mrs. Escott comes in, we will drink to the new Pilgrim, or, if you like it better, to the old Pilgrim, who starts afresh with a new staff and scrip, and a well-filled scrip too,” he added, laughing vacuously.
“I hope,” said Mike, “that Holloway is not the shrine he is journeying towards.”
“I hope your book won’t bring us there.”
“Why, I didn’t know you were going to continue—”
“Oh, yes,” said Thigh; “that is to say, if we can come to an arrangement about the purchase,” and Thigh lapsed into a stony silence, as was his practice when conducting a bargain.
“By God!” Mike thought, “I wish we were playing at écarté or poker. I’m no good at business.”
“Well,” he said at last, “what terms do you propose to offer me?”
Thigh woke up.
“I never bargain,” he said. “I’ll give you Beacham Brown’s cheque for a hundred and fifty if you will give me a receipt for three hundred,” and he looked inquiry out of his small, pale blue eyes, and Mike noticed the diamond ring on the hand that caressed his moustache.
“No,” said Mike, “that isn’t fair. You don’t write a line of the book. There is not even the excuse of commission, for the book is now appearing.”
“Escott would not have paid you anything like that amount. I think I’m treating you very liberally. Indeed I don’t mind telling you that I should not offer you anything like such terms if Beacham Brown were not anxious to have the book; he read your last article in the train, and came back raving about it.”
Bright pleasure passed across Mike’s face; he thought Thigh had slipped in the avowal, and he girt himself for resolute resistance and cautious attack. But Thigh was the superior strategist. Mike was led from the subject, and imperceptibly encouraged to speak of other things, and without interruption he span paradoxes and scattered jokes for ten minutes. Then the conversation dropped, and annoyed, Mike fixed his eyes on Thigh, who sat in unmovable silence.
“Well,” said Mike, “what do you intend to do?”
“About what?” said Thigh, with a half-waking stare.
“About this book of mine. You know very well that if I take it to another shop you’ll find it difficult to get anything like as good a serial. I know pretty well what talent is walking about Fleet Street.”
Thigh said nothing, only raised his eyes as if Mike’s words were full of suggestion, and again beguiled, Mike rambled into various criticisms of contemporary journalism. Friends were laughed at, and the papers they edited were stigmatized as rags that lived upon the ingenuity of the lies of advertising agents. When the conversation again dropped, Thigh showed no inclination of returning to the book, but, as before, sat in stony silence, and out of temper with himself, Mike had to ask him again what the terms were.
“I cannot offer you better terms than I have already done.”
“Very well; I’ll take one hundred and fifty for the serial rights.”
“No, for the entire rights.”
“No, I’ll be damned, I don’t care what happens!”
Then Frank joined in the discussion. Every one withdrew the offer he had made, and all possibility of agreement seemed at an end. Somehow it was suggested that Thigh should toss Mike whether he should pay him two hundred or a hundred and fifty. The men exchanged questioning looks, and at that moment Lizzie entered with a pack of cards, and Thigh said —
“I’ll play you at écarté — the best out of seven games.”
Mike realized at once the situation, and he hoped Frank would not betray him. He saw that Thigh had been drinking. “God has given him into my hands,” he thought; and it was agreed that they should play the best out of seven games for twenty-five pounds, and that the loser should have the right to call for a return match. Mike knew nothing of his opponent’s play, but he did not for a moment suspect him of superior skill. Such a thing could hardly be, and he decided he would allow him to win the first games, watching carefully the while, so that he might study his combinations and plans, and learn in what measure he might pack and “bridge” the cards. There is much in a shuffle, and already Mike believed him to be no more than an ordinary club player, capable of winning a few sovereigns from a young man fresh from the university; and although the cards Mike held did not warrant such a course, he played without propo
sing, and when he lost the trick he scanned his opponent’s face, and seeing it brighten, he knew the ruse had succeeded. But luck seemed to run inexplicably against him, and he was defeated. In the return match he met with similar luck, and rose from the table, having lost fifty pounds. Mike wrote a second I O U for twenty-five pounds, to be paid out of the hundred and fifty pounds which he had agreed in writing to accept for the book before sitting down to play. Then he protested vehemently against his luck, and so well did he act his part, that even if Thigh had not drunk another glass of whiskey-and-water he would not have perceived that Mike was simulating an excitement which he did not feel.
“I’ll play you for a hundred pounds — the best out of seven games; damn the cards! I can beat you no matter how they run!”
“Very well, I don’t mind, anything to oblige a friend.”
Lizzie besought Mike not to play again, and she nearly upset the apple-cart by angrily telling Thigh she did not wish her house to be turned into a gambling hell. Thigh rose from the table, but Frank apologized for his wife, and begged of him to sit down. The incident was not without a good effect, for it removed Thigh’s suspicions, if he had any, and convinced him that he was “in for a real good thing.” He laid on the table a cheque, signed Beacham Brown, for a hundred pounds; Mike produced his nearly completed manuscript. Thigh looked over the MS., judging its length.
