Great English Short Stories

by Paul Negri (Editor)

  “Stop, sir!” broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring. “There’s something I should like to tell you before you go into that room. I—it—the fact is, sir, that—temporarily—I am occupying it myself.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Spicer!”

  “Not at all, sir! Don’t mention it, sir. I have a reason—it seemed to me—I’ve merely put in a bed and a table, sir, that’s all—a temporary arrangement.”

  “Yes, yes; I quite understand. What could be more sensible? If the house were mine, I should do the same. What’s the good of owning a house, and making no use of it?”

  Great was Mr. Spicer’s satisfaction.

  “See what it is, sir,” he exclaimed, “to have to do with a literary man! You are large-minded, sir; you see things from an intellectual point of view. I can’t tell you how it gratifies me, sir, to have made your acquaintance. Let us go into the back room.”

  With nervous boldness he threw the door open. Goldthorpe, advancing respectfully, saw that Mr. Spicer had not exaggerated the simplicity of his arrangements. In a certain measure the room had been cleaned, but along the angle of walls and ceiling there still clung a good many cobwebs, and the state of the paper was deplorable. A blind hung at the window, but the floor had no carpet. In one corner stood a little camp bed, neatly made for the day; a table and a chair, of the cheapest species, occupied the middle of the floor, and on the hearth was an oil cooking-stove.

  “It’s wonderful how little one really wants,” remarked Mr. Spicer, “at all events in weather such as this. I find that I get along here very well indeed. The only expense I had was for the water-supply. And really, sir, when one comes to think of it, the situation is pleasant. If one doesn’t mind loneliness—and it happens that I don’t. I have my books, sir——”

  He opened the door of a cupboard containing several shelves. The first thing Goldthorpe’s eye fell upon was the concertina; he saw also sundry articles of clothing, neatly disposed, a little crockery, and, ranged on the two top shelves, some thirty volumes, all of venerable aspect.

  “Literature, sir,” pursued Mr. Spicer modestly, “has always been my comfort. I haven’t had very much time for reading, but my motto, sir, has been nulla dies sine linea.”

  It appeared from his pronunciation that Mr. Spicer was no classical scholar, but he uttered the Latin words with infinite gusto, and timidly watched their effect upon the listener.

  “This is delightful,” cried Mr. Goldthorpe. “Will you let me have the front room? I could work here splendidly—splendidly! What rent do you ask, Mr. Spicer?”

  “Why really, sir, to tell you the truth I don’t know what to say. Of course the windows must be seen to. The fact is, sir, if you felt disposed to do that at your own expense, and—and to have the room cleaned, and—and, let us say, to bear half the water-rate whilst you are here, why, really, I hardly feel justified in asking anything more.”

  It was Goldthorpe’s turn to be embarrassed, for, little as he was prepared to pay, he did not like to accept a stranger’s generosity. They discussed the matter in detail, with the result that for the arrangement which Mr. Spicer had proposed there was substituted a weekly rent of two shillings, the lease extending over a period of three months. Goldthorpe was to live quite independently, asking nothing in the way of domestic service; moreover, he was requested to introduce no other person to the house, even as casual visitor. These conditions Mr. Spicer set forth, in a commercial hand, on a sheet of notepaper, and the agreement was solemnly signed by both contracting parties.

  On the way home to breakfast Goldthorpe reviewed his position now that he had taken this decisive step. It was plain that he must furnish his room with the articles which Mr. Spicer found indispensable, and this outlay, be as economical as he might, would tell upon the little capital which was to support him for three months. Indeed, when all had been done, and he found himself, four days later, dwelling on the top story of the house of cobwebs, a simple computation informed him that his total expenditure, after payment of rent, must not exceed fif-teenpence a day. What matter? He was in the highest spirits, full of energy and hope. His landlord had been kind and helpful in all sorts of ways, helping him to clean the room, to remove his property from the old lodgings, to make purchases at the lowest possible rate, to establish himself as comfortably as circumstances permitted. And when, on the first morning of his tenancy, he was awakened by a brilliant sun, the young man had a sensation of comfort and satisfaction quite new in his experience; for he was really at home; the bed he slept on, the table he ate at and wrote upon, were his own possessions; he thought with pity of his lodging-house life, and felt a joyous assurance that here he would do better work than ever before.

  In less than a week Mr. Spicer and he were so friendly that they began to eat together, taking it in turns to prepare the meal. Now and then they walked in company, and every evening they sat smoking (very cheap tobacco) in the wild garden. Little by little Mr. Spicer revealed the facts of his history. He had begun life, in a midland town, as a chemist’s errand-boy, and by steady perseverance, with a little pecuniary help from relatives, had at length risen to the position of chemist’s assistant. For five-and-twenty years he practised such rigid economy that, having no one but himself to provide for, he began to foresee a possibility of passing his old age elsewhere than in the workhouse. Then befell the death of his uncle, which was to have important consequences for him. Mr. Spicer told the story of this exciting moment late one evening, when, kept indoors by rain, the companions sat together upstairs, one on each side of the rusty and empty fireplace.

  “All my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, I’ve thought what a delightful thing it must be to have a house of one’s own. I mean, really of one’s own; not only a rented house, but one in which you could live and die, feeling that no one had a right to turn you out. Often and often I’ve dreamt of it, and tried to imagine what the feeling would be like. Not a large, fine house—oh dear, no! I didn’t care how small it might be; indeed, the smaller the better for a man of my sort. Well, then, you can imagine how it came upon me when I heard——But let me tell you first that I hadn’t seen my uncle for fifteen years or more. I had always thought him a well-to-do man, and I knew he wasn’t married, but the truth is, it never came into my head that he might leave me something. Picture me, Mr. Goldthorpe—you have imagination, sir—standing behind the counter and thinking about nothing but business, when in comes a young gentleman—I see him now—and asks for Mr. Spicer. ‘Spicer is my name, sir,’ I said. ‘And you are the nephew,’ were his next words, ‘of the late Mr. Isaac Spicer, of Clapham, London?’ That shook me, sir, I assure you it did, but I hope I behaved decently. The young gentleman went on to tell me that my uncle had left no will, and that I was believed to be his next-of-kin, and that if so, I inherited all his property, the principal part of which was three houses in London. Now try and think, Mr. Goldthorpe, what sort of state I was in after hearing that. You’re an intellectual man, and you can enter into another’s mind. Three houses! Well, sir, you know what houses those were. I came up to London at once (it was last autumn), and I saw my uncle’s lawyer, and he told me all about the property, and I saw it for myself. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe! If ever a man suffered a bitter disappointment, sir!”

  He ended on a little laugh, as if excusing himself for making so much of his story, and sat for a moment with head bowed.

  “Fate played you a nasty trick there,” said Goldthorpe. “A knavish trick.”

  “One felt almost justified in using strong language, sir—though I always avoid it on principle. However, I must tell you that the houses weren’t all. Luckily there was a little money as well, and, putting it with my own savings, sir, I found it would yield me an income. When I say an income, I mean, of course, for a man in my position. Even when I have to go into lodgings, when my houses become the property of the ground-landlord—to my mind, Mr. Goldthorpe, a very great injustice, but I don’t set myself up against the law of the land—I shall
just be able to live. And that’s no small blessing, sir, as I think you’ll agree.”

  “Rather! It’s the height of human felicity, Mr. Spicer. I envy you vastly.”

  “Well, sir, I’m rather disposed to look at it in that light myself. My nature is not discontented, Mr. Goldthorpe. But, sir, if you could have seen me when the lawyer began to explain about the houses! I was absolutely ignorant of the leasehold system; and at first I really couldn’t understand. The lawyer thought me a fool, I fear, sir. And when I came down here and saw the houses themselves! I’m afraid, Mr. Goldthorpe, I’m really afraid, sir, I was weak enough to shed a tear.”

  They were sitting by the light of a very small lamp, which did not tend to cheerfulness.

  “Come,” cried Goldthorpe, “after all, the houses are yours for a twelvemonth. Why shouldn’t we both live on here all the time? It’ll be a little breezy in winter, but we could have the fireplaces knocked into shape, and keep up good fires. When I’ve sold my book I’ll pay a higher rent, Mr. Spicer. I like the old house, upon my word I do! Come, let us have a tune before we go to bed.”

  Smiling and happy, Mr. Spicer fetched from the cupboard his concertina, and after the usual apology for what he called his “imperfect mastery of the instrument,” sat down to play “Home, Sweet Home.” He had played it for years, and evidently would never improve in his execution. After “Home, Sweet Home” came “The Bluebells of Scotland,” after that “Annie Laurie”; and Mr. Spicer’s repertory was at an end. He talked of learning new pieces, but there was not the slightest hope of this achievement.

  Mr. Spicer’s mental development had ceased more than twenty years ago, when, after extreme efforts, he had attained the qualification of chemist’s assistant. Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a true lover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during his own lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a little collection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer’s cupboard. The authors represented in this library were either English classics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century. Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in a quotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet was Cowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron like some contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship’s genius, felt an abhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point of view, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had read very little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents. Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintance with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as if in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectual characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader of a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed his energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understand and enjoy his landlord’s conversation, and the simple goodness of the man inspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along together remarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by the presence under his roof of one who—as he was wont to say—wielded the pen. The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact. He thought of all authors as struggling with poverty, and continued to cite eighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animating his zeal. Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the house with soundless footsteps. When invited into his tenant’s room he had a reverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal table caused him to subdue his voice.

  The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe’s novel steadily progressed. In London he had only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lest necessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he could not spare. The few letters which he received were addressed to a post-office—impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting him to deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door had not been opened for years. The weather was perfect; a great deal of sunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under the roof. Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with a little gardening. He had discovered in the coal-hole an ancient fork, with one prong broken and the others rusting away. This implement served him in his slow, meditative attack on that part of the jungle which seemed to offer least resistance. He would work for a quarter of an hour, then, resting on his fork, contemplate the tangled mass of vegetation which he had succeeded in tearing up.

  “Our aim should be,” he said gravely, when Goldthorpe came to observe his progress, “to clear the soil round about those vegetables and flowers which seem worth preserving. These broad-beans, for instance—they seem to be a very fine sort. And the Jerusalem artichokes. I’ve been making inquiry about the artichokes, and I’m told they are not ready to eat till the autumn. The first frost is said to improve them. They’re fine plants—very fine plants.”

  Already the garden had supplied them with occasional food, but they had to confess that, for the most part, these wild vegetables lacked savour. The artichokes, now shooting up into a leafy grove, were the great hope of the future. It would be deplorable to quit the house before this tuber came to maturity.

  “The worst of it is,” remarked Mr. Spicer one day, when he was perspiring freely, “that I can’t help thinking of how different it would be if this garden was really my own. The fact is, Mr. Goldthorpe, I can’t put much heart into the work; no, I can’t. The more I reflect, the more indignant I become. Really now, Mr. Goldthorpe, speaking as an intellectual man, as a man of imagination, could anything be more cruelly unjust than this leasehold system? I assure you, it keeps me awake at night; it really does.”

  The tenor of his conversation proved that Mr. Spicer had no intention of leaving the house until he was legally obliged to do so. More than once he had an interview with his late uncle’s solicitor, and each time he came back with melancholy brow. All the details of the story were now familiar to him; he knew all about the lawsuits which had ruined the property. Whenever he spoke of the ground-landlord, known to him only by name, it was with a severity such as he never permitted himself on any other subject. The ground-landlord was, to his mind, an embodiment of social injustice.

  “Never in my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, did I grudge any payment of money as I grudge the ground-rent of these houses. I feel it as robbery, sir, as sheer robbery, though the sum is so small. When, in my ignorance, the matter was first explained to me, I wondered why my uncle had continued to pay this rent, the houses being of no profit to him. But now I understand, Mr. Goldthorpe; the sense of possession is very sweet. Property’s property, even when it’s leasehold and in ruins. I grudge the ground-rent bitterly, but I feel, sir, that I couldn’t bear to lose my houses until the fatal moment, when lose them I must.”

  In August the thermometer began to mark high degrees. Goldthorpe found it necessary to dispense with coat and waistcoat when he was working, and at times a treacherous languor whispered to him of the delights of idleness. After one particularly hot day, he and his landlord smoked together in the dusking garden, both unusually silent. Mr. Spicer’s eye dwelt upon the great heap of weeds which was resulting from his labour; an odour somewhat too poignant arose from it upon the close air. Goldthorpe, who had been rather headachy all day, was trying to think into perfect clearness the last chapters of his book, and found it difficult.

  “You know,” he said all at once, with an impatient movement, “we ought to be at the seaside.”

  “The seaside?” echoed his companion, in surprise. “Ah, it’s a long time since I saw the sea, Mr. Goldthorpe. Why, it must be—yes, it is at least twenty years.”

  “Really? I’ve been there every
year of my life till this. One gets into the way of thinking of luxuries as necessities. I tell you what it is. If I sell my book as soon as it’s done, we’ll have a few days somewhere on the south coast together.”

  Mr. Spicer betrayed uneasiness.

  “I should like it much,” he murmured, “but I fear, Mr. Goldthorpe, I greatly fear I can’t afford it.”

  “Oh, but I mean that you shall go with me as my guest! But for you, Mr. Spicer, I might never have got my book written at all.”

  “I feel it an honour, sir, I assure you, to have a literary man in my house,” was the genial reply. “And you think the work will soon be finished, sir?”

  Mr. Spicer always spoke of his tenant’s novel as “the work”—which on his lips had a very large and respectful sound.

  “About a fortnight more,” answered Goldthorpe with grave intensity.

  The heat continued. As he lay awake before getting up, eager to finish his book, yet dreading the torrid temperature of his room, which made the brain sluggish and the hand slow, Goldthorpe saw how two or three energetic spiders had begun to spin webs once more at the corners of the ceiling; now and then he heard the long buzzing of a fly entangled in one of these webs. The same thing was happening in Mr. Spicer’s chamber. It did not seem worth while to brush the new webs away.

  “When you come to think of it, sir,” said the landlord, “it’s the spiders who are the real owners of these houses. When I go away, they’ll be pulled down; they’re not fit for human habitation. Only the spiders are really at home here, and the fact is, sir, I don’t feel I have the right to disturb them. As a man of imagination, Mr. Goldthorpe, you’ll understand my thoughts!”

  Only with a great effort was the novel finished. Goldthorpe had lost his appetite (not, perhaps, altogether a disadvantage), and he could not sleep; a slight fever seemed to be constantly upon him. But this work was a question of life and death to him, and he brought it to an end only a few days after the term he had set himself. The complete manuscript was exhibited to Mr. Spicer, who expressed his profound sense of the privilege. Then, without delay, Goldthorpe took it to the publishing house in which he had most hope.