In the centre of the reading-room at the British Museum sit four men
fenced about by a quadruple ring of unwieldy volumes which are an index
to all the knowledge in the world. The four men know those volumes as
a good courier knows the Continental Bradshaw, and all day long, from
early morning, when the attendants, self-propelled on wheeled stools,
run around the rings arranging and aligning the huge blue tomes, to
late afternoon, when the immense dome is like a dark night and the
arc lamps hiss and crackle in the silence, they answer questions,
patiently, courteously; they are seldom embarrassed and less seldom in
the wrong.
Radiating in long rows from the central fortress of learning, a
diversified company of readers disposes itself: bishops, statesmen,
men of science, historians, needy pedants, popular authors whose
broughams are waiting in the precincts, journalists, medical students,
law students, curates, hack-writers, women with clipped hair and black
aprons, idlers; all short-sighted and all silent.
Every few minutes an official enters in charge of an awed group of
country visitors, and whispers mechanically the unchanging formula:
"Eighty thousand volumes in this room alone: thirty-six miles of
bookshelves in the Museum altogether." Whereupon the visitors stare
about them, the official unsuccessfully endeavours not to let it appear
that the credit of the business belongs entirely to himself, and the
party retires again.
Vague, reverberating noises roll heavily from time to time across the
chamber, but no one looks up; the incessant cannibal feast of the
living upon the dead goes speechlessly forward; the trucks of food are
always moving to and fro, and the nonchalant waiters seem to take no
rest.
Almost Richard's first care on coming to London had been to obtain
a reader's ticket for the British Museum, and for several months he
had made a practice of spending Saturday afternoon there, following
no special line of study or research, and chiefly contenting himself
with desultory reading in the twenty thousand volumes which could be
reached down without the slow machinery of an order form. After a time
the charm of the place had dwindled, and other occupations filled his
Saturday afternoons.
But when upon his return from William's funeral he stepped from
Euston Station into Bloomsbury, the old enthusiasms came back in all
their original freshness. The seduction of the street vistas, the
lofty buildings, and the swiftly flitting hansoms once more made mere
wayfaring a delight; the old feeling of self-confident power lifted his
chin, and the failures of the past were forgotten in a dream of future
possibilities. He dwelt with pleasure on that part of his conversation
with Mrs. Clayton Vernon which disclosed the interesting fact that
Bursley would be hurt if he failed to do "things." Bursley, and
especially Mrs. Clayton Vernon, good woman, should not be disappointed.
He had towards his native town the sentiments of a consciously clever
husband who divines an admiring trust in the glance of a little
ignoramus of a wife. Such faith was indeed touching.
One of the numerous resolutions which he made was to resume attendance
at the British Museum; the first visit was anticipated with impatience,
and when he found himself once more within the book-lined walls of the
reading-room he was annoyed to discover that his plans for study were
not matured sufficiently to enable him to realise any definite part
of them, however small, that day. An idea for an article on "White
Elephants" was nebulous in his brain; he felt sure that the subject
might be treated in a fascinating manner, if only he could put hands
on the right material. An hour passed in searching Poole's Index
and other works of reference, without result, and Richard spent the
remainder of the afternoon in evolving from old magazines schemes
for articles which would present fewer difficulties in working out.
Nothing of value was accomplished, and yet he experienced neither
disappointment nor a sense of failure. Contact with innumerable books
of respectable but forbidding appearance had cajoled him, as frequently
before, into the delusion that he had been industrious; surely it was
impossible that a man could remain long in that atmosphere of scholarly
attainment without acquiring knowledge and improving his mind!
Presently he abandoned the concoction of attractive titles for his
articles, and began to look through some volumes of the "Biographie
Universelle." The room was thinning now. He glanced at the clock; it
was turned six. He had been there nearly four hours! With a sigh of
satisfaction he replaced all his books and turned to go, mentally
discussing whether or not so much application did not entitle him, in
spite of certain resolutions, to go to the Ottoman that evening.
"Hey!" a voice called out as he passed the glass screen near the door;
it sang resonantly among the desks and ascended into the dome; a number
of readers looked up. Richard turned round sharply, and beheld Mr.
Aked moving a forefinger on the other side of the screen.
"Been here long?" the older man asked, when Richard had come round
to him. "I've been here all day--first time for fifteen years at
least. Strange we didn't see each other. They've got a beastly new
regulation about novels less than five years old not being available. I
particularly wanted some of Gissing's--not for the mere fun of reading
'em of course, because I've read 'em before. I wanted them for a
special purpose--I may tell you about it some day--and I couldn't get
them, at least several of them. What a tremendous crowd there is here
nowadays!"
"Well, you see, it's Saturday afternoon," Richard put in, "and Saturday
afternoon's the only time that most people can come, unless they're men
of independent means like yourself. You seem to have got a few novels
besides Gissing's, though." About forty volumes were stacked upon Mr.
Aked's desk, many of them open.
"Yes, but I've done now." He began to close the books with a smack and
to pitch them down roughly in new heaps, exactly like a petulant boy
handling school-books. "See, pile them between my arms, and I bet you
I'll carry them away all at once."
"Oh, no. I'll help you," Richard laughed. "It'll be far less trouble
than picking up what you drop."
While they were waiting at the centre desk Mr. Aked said,--
"There's something about this place that makes you ask for more volumes
than can possibly be useful to you. I question whether I've done any
good here to-day at all. If I'd been content with three or four books
instead of thirty or forty, I might have done something. By the way,
what are you here for?"
"Well, I just came to look up a few points," Richard answered vaguely.
"I've been messing about--got a notion or two for articles, that's all."
Mr. Aked stopped to shake hands as soon as they were outside the
Museum. Richard was very disappointed that their meeting should have
been so short. This man of strange vivacity had thrown a spell over
him. Richard was sure that his conversation, if only he could be
persuaded to talk, would prove delightfully original and suggestive;
he guessed that they were mutually sympathetic. Ever since their
encounter in the A. B. C. shop Richard had desired to know more of
him, and now, when by chance they met again, Mr. Aked's manner showed
little or no inclination towards a closer acquaintance. There was of
course a difference between them in age of at least thirty years, but
to Richard that seemed no bar to an intimacy. It was, he surmised, only
the physical part of Mr. Aked that had grown old.
"Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye." Should he ask if he might call at Mr. Aked's rooms or
house, or whatever his abode was? He hesitated, from nervousness.
"Often come here?"
"Generally on Saturdays," said Richard.
"We may see each other again, then, sometime. Good-bye."
Richard left him rather sadly, and the sound of the old man's quick,
alert footsteps--he almost stamped--receded in the direction of
Southampton Row. A minute later, as Richard was turning round by
Mudie's out of Museum Street, a hand touched his shoulder. It was Mr.
Aked's.
"By the way," the man's face crinkled into a smile as he spoke, "are
you doing anything to-night?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Let's go and have dinner together--I know a good French place in Soho."
"Oh, thanks. I shall be awfully pleased."
"Half a crown, _table d'hôte_. Can you afford?"
"Certainly I can," said Richard, perhaps a little annoyed, until
he recollected that Mr. Aked had used exactly the same phrase on a
previous occasion.
"I'll pay for the wine."
"Not at all--"
"I'll pay for the wine," Mr. Aked repeated decisively.
"All right. You told me about this Soho place before, if you remember."
"So I did, so I did, so I did."
"What made you turn back?"
"A whim, young friend, nothing else. Take my arm."
Richard laughed aloud, for no reason in particular, except that he felt
happy. They settled to a brisk walk.
* * * * *
The restaurant was a square apartment with a low and smoky beamed
ceiling, and shining brass hat-pegs all round the walls; above the
hat-pegs were framed advertisements of liqueurs and French, Italian,
and Spanish wines. The little tables, whose stiff snowy cloths came
near to touching the floor at every side, gleamed and glittered in the
light of a fire. The place was empty save for an old waiter who was
lighting the gas. The waiter turned a large, mild countenance to Mr.
Aked as the two entered, and smiling benignly greeted him with a flow
of French, and received a brief reply in the same language. Richard
failed to comprehend what was said.
They chose a table near the fire. Mr. Aked at once pulled a book from
his pocket and began to read; and Richard, somewhat accustomed by this
time to his peculiarities, found nothing extraordinary in such conduct.
This plain little restaurant seemed full of enchantment. He was in
Paris,--not the great Paris which is reached _via_ Charing Cross, but
that little Paris which hides itself in the immensity of London. French
newspapers were scattered about the room; the sound of French voices
came musically through an open door; the bread which was presently
brought in with the _hors d'oeuvre_ was French, and the setting of the
table itself showed an exotic daintiness which he had never seen before.
Outside a barrel organ was piercingly strident in the misty dusk. Above
the ground-glass panes of the window, Richard could faintly descry the
upper storeys of houses on the opposite side of the road. There was a
black and yellow sign, "Umberto Club," and above that a blue and red
sign, "Blanchisserie française." Still higher was an open window from
which leaned a young, negligently dressed woman with a coarse Southern
face; she swung a bird-cage idly in her hand; the bird-cage fell
and was swallowed by the ground glass, and the woman with a gesture
of despair disappeared from the window; the barrel organ momentarily
ceased its melody and then struck up anew.
Everything seemed strangely, delightfully unsubstantial, even the
meek, bland face of the waiter as he deftly poured out the soup. Mr.
Aked, having asked for the wine list, called "Cinquante, Georges, s'il
vous plait," and divided his attention impartially between his soup
and his book. Richard picked up the "Echo de Paris" which lay on a
neighbouring chair. On the first page was a reference in displayed type
to the success of the feuilleton "_de notre collaborateur distingué_,"
Catulle Mendès. How wondrously enticing the feuilleton looked, with its
descriptive paragraphs cleverly diversified by short lines of dialogue,
and at the end "CATULLE MENDÈS, _à suivre. Réproduction interdite!_"
Half Paris, probably, was reading that feuilleton! Catulle Mendès was a
real man, and no doubt eating his dinner at that moment!
When the fish came, and Georges had gently poured out the wine, Mr.
Aked's tongue was loosed.
"And how has the Muse been behaving herself?" he began.
Richard told him, with as little circumlocution as pride would allow,
the history of the last few sterile months.
"I suppose you feel a bit downhearted."
"Not in the least!" answered Richard, bravely, and just then his reply
was approximately true.
"_Never_ feel downhearted?"
"Well, of course one gets a bit sick sometimes."
"Let's see, to-day's the 30th. How many words have you written this
month?"
"How many words!" Richard laughed. "I never count what I do in that
way. But it's not much. I haven't felt in the humour. There was the
funeral. That put me off."
"I suppose you think you must write only _when the mood is on you_."
Mr. Aked spoke sarcastically, and then laughed. "Quite a mistake. I'll
give you this bit of advice and charge nothing for it. Sit down every
night and write five hundred words descriptive of some scene which has
occurred during the day. Never mind how tired you are; do it. Do it
for six months, and then compare the earlier work with the later, and
you'll keep on."
Richard drank the wisdom in.
"Did you do that once?"
"I did, sir. Everyone does it that comes to anything. I didn't come to
anything, though I made a bit of money at one time. But then mine was
a queer case. I was knocked over by dyspepsia. Beware of dyspepsia. I
was violently dyspeptic for twenty years--simply couldn't write. Then
I cured myself. But it was too late to begin again." He spoke in gulps
between mouthfuls of fish.
"How did you cure yourself?"
The man took no notice of the question, and went on:--
"And if I haven't written anything for twenty years, I'm still an
author at heart. In fact, I've got something 'in the air' now. Oh! I've
always had the literary temperament badly. Do you ever catch yourself
watching instinctively for the characteristic phrase?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean."
"Eh?"
Richard repeated what he had said, but Mr. Aked was absorbed in pouring
out another glass of wine.
"I wish you'd tell me," Richard began, after a pause, "how you first
_began_ to write, or rather to get printed."
"My dear little friend, I can't tell you anything new. I wrote for
several years and never sold a line. And for what peculiar reason,
should you think? Simply because not a line was worth printing. Then my
things began to be accepted. I sold a story first; I forget the title,
but I remember there was a railway accident in it, and it happened to
come before the editor of a magazine just when everyone was greatly
excited about a railway smash in the West of England. I got thirty
shillings for that."
"I think I should get on all right enough if only I could sell _one_
thing." Richard sighed.
"Well, you must wait. Why, damn it all, man!"--he stopped to drink, and
Richard noticed how his hand shook. "How long have you been working
seriously? Not a year! If you were going in for painting, you surely
wouldn't expect to sell pictures after only a year's study?" Mr. Aked
showed a naïve appreciation of himself in the part of a veteran who
deigns to give a raw recruit the benefit of vast experience.
"Of course not," assented Richard, abashed.
"Well, then, don't begin to whine."
After the cheese Mr. Aked ordered coffee and cognac, and sixpenny
cigars. They smoked in silence.
"Do you know," Richard blurted out at length, "the fact is I'm not
sure that I'm meant for writing at all. I never take any pleasure
_in_ writing. It's a confounded nuisance." He almost trembled with
apprehension as he uttered the words.
"You like thinking about what you're going to write, arranging,
observing, etc.?"
"Yes, I like that awfully."
"Well, here's a secret. No writer does like writing, at least not one
in a hundred, and the exception, ten to one, is a howling mediocrity.
That's a fact. But all the same they're miserable if they don't write."
"I'm glad; there's hope."
When Richard had finished his coffee, it occurred to him to mention
Miss Roberts.
"Do you ever go to the Crabtree?" he asked.
"Not of late."
"I only ask because there's a girl there who knows you. She inquired of
me how you were not long since."
"A girl who knows me? Who the devil may she be?"
"I fancy her name's Roberts."
"Aha! So she's got a new place, has she? She lives in my street. That's
how I know her. Nice little thing, rather!"
He made no further remark on the subject, but there remained an absent,
amused smile on his face, and he pulled at his lower lip and fastened
his gaze on the table.
"You must come down sometime, and see me; my niece keeps house for me,"
he said before they separated, giving an address in Fulham. He wrung
Richard's hand, patted him on the shoulder, winking boyishly, and went
off whistling to himself very quietly in the upper register.