George Gissing - Demos

The end of their walk was the entrance to a narrow passage, which, at a few yards’ distance, widened itself and became a street of four-storeyed houses. At present this could not be discerned; the passage was a mere opening into massive darkness. Richard had just been making inquiries about Emma’s sister.

‘You’ve had the doctor?’

‘Yes, we’re obliged; she does so dread going to the hospital again. Each time she’s longer in getting well.’

Richard’s hand was in his pocket; he drew it out and pressed something against the girl’s palm.

‘Oh, how can I?’ she said, dropping her eyes. ‘No—don’t—I’m ashamed.’

‘That’s all right,’ he urged, not unkindly. ‘You’ll have to get her what the doctor orders, and it isn’t likely you and Kate can afford it.’

‘You’re always so kind, Richard. But I am—I am ashamed!’

‘I say, Emma, why don’t you call me Dick? I’ve meant to ask you that many a time.’

She turned her face away, moving as if abashed.

‘I don’t know. It sounds—perhaps I want to make a difference from what the others call you.’

He laughed with a sound of satisfaction.

‘Well, you mustn’t stand here; it’s a cold night. Try and come Tuesday or Wednesday.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Good night!’ he said, and, as he held her hand, bent to the lips which were ready.

Emma walked along the passage, and for some distance up the middle of the street. Then she stopped and looked up at one of the black houses. There were lights, more or less curtain-dimmed, in nearly all the windows. Emma regarded a faint gleam in the topmost storey. To that she ascended.

Mutimer walked homewards at a quick step, whistling to himself. A latch-key gave him admission. As he went down the kitchen stairs, he heard his mother’s voice raised in anger, and on opening the door he found that Daniel had departed, and that the supper table was already cleared. Alice, her feet on the fender and her dress raised a little, was engaged in warming herself before going to bed. The object of Mrs. Mutimer’s chastisement was the youngest member of the family, known as ‘Arry; even Richard, who had learnt to be somewhat careful in his pronunciation, could not bestow the aspirate upon his brother’s name. Henry, aged seventeen, promised to do credit to the Mutimers in physical completeness; already he was nearly as tall as his eldest brother; and, even in his lankness, showed the beginnings of well-proportioned vigour. But the shape of his head, which was covered with hair of the lightest hue, did not encourage hope of mental or moral qualities. It was not quite fair to judge his face as seen at present; the vacant grin of half timid, half insolent, resentment made him considerably more simian of visage than was the case under ordinary circumstances. But the features were unpleasant to look upon; it was Richard’s face, distorted and enfeebled with impress of sensual instincts.

‘As long as you live in this house, it shan’t go on,’ his mother was saying. ‘Sunday or Monday, it’s no matter; you’ll be home before eleven o’clock, and you’ll come home sober. You’re no better than a pig!’

‘Arry was seated in a far corner of the room, where he had dropped his body on entering. His attire was such as the cheap tailors turn out in imitation of extreme fashions: trousers closely moulded upon the leg, a huff waistcoat, a short coat with pockets everywhere. A very high collar kept his head up against his will; his necktie was crimson, and passed through a brass ring; he wore a silver watch-chain, or what seemed to be such. One hand was gloved, and a cane lay across his knees. His attitude was one of relaxed muscles, his legs very far apart, his body not quite straight.

‘What d’ you call sober, I’d like to know?’ he replied, with looseness of utterance. ‘I’m as sober ‘s anybody in this room. If a chap can’t go out with ‘s friends ‘t Easter an’ all—?’

‘Easter, indeed! It’s getting to be a regular thing, Saturday and Sunday. Get up and go to bed! I’ll have my say out with you in the morning, young man.’

‘Go to bed!’ repeated the lad with scorn. ‘Tell you I ain’t had no supper.’

Richard had walked to the neighbourhood of the fireplace, and was regarding his brother with anger and contempt. At this point of the dialogue he interfered.

‘And you won’t have any, either, that I’ll see to! What’s more, you’ll do as your mother bids you, or I’ll know the reason why. Go upstairs at once!’

It was not a command to be disregarded. ‘Arry rose, but half-defiantly.

‘What have you to do with it? You’re not my master.’

‘Do you hear what I say?’ Richard observed, yet more autocratically. ‘Take yourself off, and at once!’

The lad growled, hesitated, but approached the door. His motion was slinking; he could not face Richard’s eye. They heard him stumble up the stairs.

On ordinary days Richard of necessity rose early; a holiday did not lead him to break the rule, for free hours were precious. He had his body well under control; six hours of sleep he found sufficient to keep him in health, and temptations to personal ease, in whatever form, he resisted as a matter of principle.

Easter Monday found him down-stairs at half-past six. His mother would to-day allow herself another hour. ‘Arry would be down just in time to breakfast, not daring to be late. The Princess might be looked for—some time in the course of the morning; she was licensed.

Richard, for purposes of study, used the front parlour. In drawing up the blind, he disclosed a room precisely resembling in essential features hundreds of front parlours in that neighbourhood, or, indeed, in any working-class district of London. Everything was clean; most things were bright-hued or glistening of surface. There was the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece, with a yellow clock—which did not go—and glass ornaments in front. There was a small round table before the window, supporting wax fruit under a glass case. There was a hearthrug with a dazzling pattern of imaginary flowers. On the blue cloth of the middle table were four showily-bound volumes, arranged symmetrically. On the head of the sofa lay a covering worked of blue and yellow Berlin wools. Two arm-chairs were draped with long white antimacassars, ready to slip off at a touch. As in the kitchen, there was a smell of cleanlines—of furniture polish, hearthstone, and black-lead.

I should mention the ornaments of the walls. The pictures were: a striking landscape of the Swiss type, an engraved portrait of Garibaldi, an unframed view of a certain insurance office, a British baby on a large scale from the Christmas number of an illustrated paper.

The one singular feature of the room was a small, glass-doored bookcase, full of volumes. They were all of Richard’s purchasing; to survey them was to understand the man, at all events on his intellectual side. Without exception they belonged to that order of literature which, if studied exclusively and for its own sake,—as here it was,—brands a man indelibly, declaring at once the incompleteness of his education and the deficiency of his instincts. Social, political, religious,—under these three heads the volumes classed themselves, and each class was represented by productions of the ‘extreme’ school. The books which a bright youth of fair opportunities reads as a matter of course, rejoices in for a year or two, then throws aside for ever, were here treasured to be the guides of a lifetime. Certain writers of the last century, long ago become only historically interesting, were for Richard an armoury whence he girded himself for the battles of the day; cheap reprints or translations of Malthus, of Robert Owen, of Volney’s ‘Ruins,’ of Thomas Paine, of sundry works of Voltaire, ranked upon his shelves. Moreover, there was a large collection of pamphlets, titled wonderfully and of yet more remarkable contents, the authoritative utterances of contemporary gentlemen—and ladies—who made it the end of their existence to prove: that there cannot by any possibility be such a person as Satan; that the story of creation contained in the Book of Genesis is on no account to be received; that the begetting of children is a most deplorable oversight; that to eat flesh is wholly unworthy of a civilised being; that if every man and woman performed their quota of the world’s labour it would be necessary to work for one hour and thirty-seven minutes daily, no jot longer, and that the author, in each case, is the one person capable of restoring dignity to a down-trodden race and happiness to a blasted universe. Alas, alas! On this food had Richard Mutimer pastured his soul since he grew to manhood, on this and this only. English literature was to him a sealed volume; poetry he scarcely knew by name; of history he was worse than ignorant, having looked at this period and that through distorting media, and congratulating himself on his clear vision because he saw men as trees walking; the bent of his mind would have led him to natural science, but opportunities of instruction were lacking, and the chosen directors of his prejudice taught him to regard every fact, every discovery, as for or against something.