A Capitalist

by George Gissing

　　From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).

　　Among the men whom I saw occasionally at the little club in MortimerStreet,--and nowhere else,--was one who drew my attention before I hadlearnt his name or knew anything about him. Of middle age, in the fullnessof health and vigour, but slenderly built; his face rather shrewd thanintellectual, interesting rather than pleasing; always dressed as theseason's mode dictated, but without dandyism; assuredly he belonged to themoney-spending, and probably to the money-getting, world. At first sight ofhim I remember resenting his cap-a-pie perfection; it struck me as badform--here in Mortimer Street, among fellows of the pen and the palette.'Oh,' said Harvey Munden, 'he's afraid of being taken for one of us. Hebuys pictures. Not a bad sort, I believe, if it weren't for hissnobbishness.''His name?''Ireton. Has a house in Fitzjohn Avenue, and a high-trotting wife.'Six months later I recalled this description of Mrs. Ireton. She was thetalk of the town, the heroine of the newest divorce case. By that time Ihad got to know her husband; perhaps once a fortnight we chatted at theclub, and I found him an agreeable acquaintance. Before the Divorce Courtflashed a light of scandal upon his home, I felt that there was more in himthan could be discovered in casual gossip; I wished to know him better.Something of shyness marked his manner, and like all shy men he sometimesappeared arrogant. He had a habit of twisting his moustache nervously andof throwing quick glances in every direction as he talked; if he found someone's eye upon him, he pulled himself together and sat for a moment as ifbefore a photographer. One easily perceived that he was not a man ofliberal education; he had rather too much of the 'society' accent; hispronunciation of foreign names told a tale. But I thought him good-hearted,and when the penny-a-liners began to busy themselves with his affairs, Ifelt sorry for him.Nothing to his dishonour came out in the trial. He and his interestingspouse had evidently lived a cat-and-dog life throughout the three years oftheir marriage, but the countercharges brought against him broke downcompletely. It was abundantly proved that he had not kept a haremsomewhere near Leicester Square; that he had not thrown a decanter atMrs. Ireton. She, on the other hand, left the court with tatteredreputation. Ireton got his release, and the weekly papers applauded.But in Mortimer Street we saw him no more. Some one said that he had goneto live in Paris; some one else reported that he had purchased an estate inBucks. Presently he was forgotten.Some three years went by, and I was spending the autumn at a village by theNew Forest. One day I came upon a man kneeling under a hedge, examiningsome object on the ground,--fern or flower, or perhaps insect. His costumeshowed that he was no native of the locality; I took him for a straytownsman, probably a naturalist. He wore a straw hat and a rough summersuit; a wallet hung from his shoulder. The sound of my steps on cracklingwood caused him to turn and look at me. After a moment's hesitation Irecognised Ireton.And he knew me; he smiled, as I had often seen him smile, with a sort ofembarrassment. We greeted each other.'Look here,' he said at once, when the handshaking was over, 'can you tellme what this little flower is?'I stooped, but was unable to give him the information he desired.'You don't go in for that kind of thing?''Well, no.''I'm having a turn at it. I want to know the flowers and ferns. I have abook at my lodgings, and I look the things up when I get home.'His wallet contained a number of specimens; he plucked up the little plantby the root, and stowed it away. I watched him with curiosity. Perhaps Ihad seen only his public side; perhaps even then he was capable of dressingroughly, and of rambling for his pleasure among fields and wood. But such apossibility had never occurred to me. I wondered whether his brilliant wifehad given him a disgust for the ways of town. If so, he was a moreinteresting man than I had supposed.'Where are you staying?' he asked, after a glance this way and that.I named the village, two miles away.'Working?''Idling merely.'In a few minutes he overcame his reserve and began to talk of the thingswhich he knew interested me. We discussed the books of the past season, theexhibitions, the new men in letters and art. Ireton said that he had beenliving at a wayside inn for about a week; he thought of moving on, and, asI had nothing to do, suppose he came over for a few days to the villagewhere I was camped? I welcomed the proposal.'There's an inn, I dare say? I like the little inns in this part of thecountry. Dirty, of course, and the cooking hideous; but it's pleasant for achange. I like to be awoke by the cock crowing, and to see the grubbylittle window when I open my eyes.'I began to suspect that he had come down in the world. Could his prosperityhave been due to Mrs. Treton? Had she carried off the money? He mightaffect a liking for simple things when grandeur was no longer in his reach.Yet I remembered that he had undoubtedly been botanising before he knew ofmy approach, and such a form of pastime seemed to prove him sincere.By chance I witnessed his arrival the next morning. He drove up in afarmer's trap, his luggage a couple of large Gladstone-bags. That day andthe next we spent many hours together. His vanity, though not outgrown, wasin abeyance; he talked with easy frankness, yet never of what I muchdesired to know, his own history and present position. It was his intellectthat he revealed to me. I gathered that he had given much time to studyduring the past three years, and incidentally it came out that he had beenliving abroad; his improved pronunciation of the names of French artistswas very noticeable. At his age--not less than forty-five--this advanceargued no common mental resources. Whether he had suffered much, I couldnot determine; at present he seemed light-hearted enough.Certainly there was no affectation in his pursuit of botany; again andagain I saw him glow with genuine delight when he had identified a plant.After all, this might be in keeping with his character, for even in the olddays he had never exhibited--at all events to me--a taste for the ignoblerluxuries, and he had seemed to me a very clean-minded man. I never knew anyone who refrained so absolutely from allusion, good or bad, to his friendsor acquaintances. He might have stood utterly alone in the world, a simplespectator of civilisation.At length I ventured upon a question.'You never see any of the Mortimer Street men?''No,' he answered carelessly, 'I haven't come in their way lately,somehow.'That evening our ramble led us into an enclosure where game was preserved.We had lost our way, and Ireton, scornful of objections, struck acrosscountry, making for a small plantation which he thought he remembered.Here, among the trees, we were suddenly face to face with an old gentlemanof distinguished bearing, who regarded us sternly.'Is it necessary,' he said, 'to tell you that you are trespassing?'The tone was severe, but not offensive. I saw my companion draw himself tohis full height.'Not at all necessary,' he answered, in a voice that surprised me, it wasso nearly insolent. 'We are making our way to the road as quickly aspossible.''Then be so good as to take the turning to the right when you reach thefield,' said our admonisher coldly. And he turned his back upon us.I looked at Ireton. To my astonishment he was pallid, the lines of hiscountenance indicating fiercest wrath. He marched on in silence till we hadreached the field.'The fellow took us for cheap-trippers, I suppose,' then burst from hislips.'Not very likely.''Then why the devil did he speak like that?'The grave reproof had exasperated him; he was flushed and his handstrembled. I observed him with the utmost interest, and it became clear fromthe angry words he poured forth that he could not endure to be supposedanything but a gentleman at large. Here was the old characteristic; it hadmerely been dormant. I tried to laugh him out of his irritation, but soonsaw that the attempt was dangerous. On the way home he talked very little;the encounter in the wood had thoroughly upset him.Next morning he came into my room with a laugh that I did not like; heseated himself stiffly, looked at me from beneath his knitted brows, andsaid in an aggressive tone:'I have got to know all about that impudent old fellow.''Indeed? Who is he?''A poverty-stricken squire, with an old house and a few acres--the remnantsof a large estate gambled away by his father. I know him by name, and I'mquite sure that he knows me. If I had offered him my card, as I thought ofdoing, I dare say his tone would have changed.'This pettishness amused me so much that I pretended to be a little soremyself.'His poverty, I suppose, has spoilt his temper.''No doubt,--I can understand that,' he added, with a smile. 'But I don'tallow people to treat me like a tramp. I shall go up and see him thisafternoon.''And insist on an apology?''Oh, there'll be no need of insisting. The fellow has several unmarrieddaughters.'It seemed to me that my companion was bent on showing his worst side. Ireturned to my old thoughts of him; he was snobbish, insolent, generallydetestable; but a man to be studied, and I let him talk as he would.The reduced squire was Mr. Humphrey Armitage, of Brackley Hall. For my ownpart, the demeanour of this gentleman had seemed perfectly adapted to theoccasion; we were strangers plunging through his preserves, and his tone tous had nothing improper; it was we who owed an apology. In point ofbreeding, I felt sure that Ireton could not compare with Mr. Armitage for amoment, and it seemed to me vastly improbable that the invader of BrackleyHall would meet with the kind of reception he anticipated.I saw Ireton when he set out to pay his call. His Gladstone-bags hadprovided him with the costume of Piccadilly; from shining hat topatent-leather shoes, he was immaculate. Seeing that he had to walk morethan a mile, that the month was September, and that he could not pretend tohave come straight from town, this apparel struck me as not a littleinappropriate; I could only suppose that the man had no social tact.At seven in the evening he again sought me. His urban glories wereexchanged for the ordinary attire, but I at once read in his face that hehad suffered no humiliation.'Come and dine with me at the inn,' he exclaimed cordially; 'if one may usesuch a word as dine under the circumstances.''With pleasure.''To-morrow I dine with the Armitages.'He regarded me with an air of infinite satisfaction. Surprised, I held mypeace. 'It was as I foresaw. The old fellow welcomed me with open arms. Hisdaughters gave me tea. I had really a very pleasant time.'I mused and wondered.'You didn't expect it; I can see that.''You told me that Mr. Armitage would recognise your name,' I answeredevasively.'Precisely. Not long ago I gave him, through an agent, a very handsomeprice for some pictures he had to sell.'Again he looked at me, watching the effect of his words.'Of course,' he continued, 'there were ample apologies for his treatment ofus yesterday. By the bye, I take it for granted you don't carry adress-suit in your bag?''Heaven forbid!''To be sure--pray don't misunderstand me. I meant that you had expresslytold me of your avoidance of all such formalities. Therefore you will beglad that I excused you from dining at the Hall.'For a moment I felt uncomfortable, but after all I was glad not to havethe trouble of refusing on my own account.'Thanks,' I said, 'you did the right thing.'We walked over to the inn, and sat down at a rude but not unsatisfyingtable. After dinner, Ireton proposed that we should smoke in the garden.'It's quiet, and we can talk.' The sun had just set; the sky wasmagnificent with afterglow. Ireton's hint about privacy led me to hope thathe was going to talk more confidentially than hitherto, and I soon foundthat I was not mistaken.'Do you know,' he began, calling me by my name, 'I fancy you have beencriticising me--yes, I know you have. You think I made an ass of myselfabout that affair in the wood. Well, I have no doubt I did. Now that it hasturned out pleasantly, I can see and admit that there was nothing to make afuss about.'I smiled.'Very well. Now, you're a writer. You like to get at the souls of men.Suppose I show you a bit of mine.'He had drunk freely of the potent ale, and was now sipping a strong tumblerof hot whisky. Possibly this accounted in some measure for hiscommunicativeness.'Up to the age of five-and-twenty I was clerk in a drug warehouse. To thisday even the faintest smell of drugs makes my heart sink. If I can help it,I never go into a chemist's shop. I was getting a pound a week, and I notonly lived on it, but kept up a decent appearance. I always had a good suitof clothes for Sundays and holidays--made at a tailor's in Holborn. Sincehe disappeared I've never been able to find any one who fitted me so well.I paid six-and-six a week for a top bedroom in a street near Gray's InnRoad. Did you suppose I had gone through the mill?'I made no answer, and, after looking at me for a moment, Ireton resumed:'Those were damned days! It wasn't the want of good food and good lodgingsthat troubled me most,--but the feeling that I was everybody's inferior.There's no need to tell you how I was brought up; I was led to expectbetter things, that's enough. I never got used to being ordered about. WhenI was told to do this or that, I answered with a silent curse,--and Iwonder it didn't come out sometimes. That's my nature. If I had been bornthe son of a duke, I couldn't have resented a subordinate position morefiercely than I did. And I used to rack my brain with schemes for gettingout of it. Many a night I have lain awake for hours, trying to hit on someway of earning my living independently. I planned elaborate forgeries. Iread criminal cases in the newspapers to get a hint that I might work upon.Well, that only means that I had exhausted all the honest attempts, andfound them all no good. I was in despair, that's all.'He finished his whisky and shouted to the landlord, who presently broughthim another glass.'What's that bird making the strange noise?''A night-jar, I think.''Nice to be sitting here, isn't it? I had rather be here than in theswellest London club. Well, I was going to tell you how I got out of thatbeastly life. You know, I'm really a very quiet fellow. I like simplethings; but all my life, till just lately, I never had a chance of enjoyingthem; of living as I chose. The one thing I can't stand is to feel that Iam looked down upon. That makes a madman of me.'He drank, and struck a match to relight his pipe.'One Saturday afternoon I went to an exhibition in Coventry Street. Thepictures were for sale, and admission was free. I have always been fond ofwater-colours; at that time it was one of my ambitions to possess a reallygood bit of landscape in water-colour but, of course, I knew that theprices were beyond me. Well, I walked through the gallery, and there wasone thing that caught my fancy; I kept going back to it again and again. Itwas a bit of sea-coast by Ewart Merry,--do you know him? He died years ago;his pictures fetch a fairly good price now. As I was looking at it, thefellow who managed the show came up with a man and woman to talk aboutanother picture near me; he tried his hardest to persuade them to buy, butthey wouldn't, and I dare say it disturbed his temper. Seeing him standthere alone, I stepped up to him, and asked the price of the water-colour.He just gave a look at me, and said, "Too much money for you."'Now, you must remember that I was in my best clothes, and I certainlydidn't look like a penniless clerk. If the fellow had struck a blow at me,I couldn't have been more astonished than I was by that answer.Astonishment was the first feeling, and it lasted about a second; then myheart gave a great leap, and began to beat violently, and for a moment Icouldn't see anything, and I felt hot and cold by turns. I can rememberthis as well as if it happened yesterday; I must have gone through it inmemory many thousands of times.'I observed his face, and saw that even now he suffered from therecollection.'When he had spoken, the blackguard turned away. I couldn't move, and thewonder is that I didn't swallow his insult, and sneak out of the place,--Iwas so accustomed, you see, to repress myself. But of a sudden somethingtook hold of me, and pushed me forward,--it really didn't seem to be my ownwill. I said, "Wait a minute"; and the man turned round. Then I stoodlooking him in the eyes. "Are you here," I said, "to sell pictures, or toinsult people who come to buy?" I must have spoken in a voice he didn'texpect; he couldn't answer, and stared at me. "I asked you the price ofthat water-colour, and you will be good enough to answer me civilly." Thosewere my very words. They came without thinking, and afterwards I feltsatisfied with myself when I remembered them. It wouldn't have beenunnatural if I had sworn at him, but this was the turning-point of my life,and I behaved in a way that surprised myself. At last he replied, "Theprice is forty guineas," and he was going off again, but I stopped him. "Iwill buy it. Take my name and address." "When will it be paid for?" heasked. "On Monday."'I followed him to the table, and he entered my name and address in a book.Then I looked straight at him again. "Now, you understand," I said, "thatthat picture is mine, and I shall either come or send for it about oneo'clock on Monday. If I hadn't wanted it specially, you would have lost asale by your impertinence." And I marched out of the room.'But I was in a fearful state. I didn't know where I was going,--I walkedstraight on, street after street, and just missed being run over half adozen times. Perspiration dripped from me. The only thing I knew was that Ihad triumphed over a damned brute who had insulted me. I had stopped hismouth; he believed he had made a stupid mistake; he could never haveimagined that a fellow without a sovereign in the world was speaking to himlike that. If I had knocked him down the satisfaction would have been veryslight in comparison.'The gloom of nightfall had come upon us, and I could no longer see his facedistinctly, but his voice told me that he still savoured that triumph. Hespoke with exultant passion. I was beginning to understand Ireton.'Isn't the story interesting?' he asked, after a pause.'Very. Pray go on.''Well, you mustn't suppose that it was a mere bit of crazy bravado. I knewhow I was going to get the money--the forty guineas. And as soon as I couldcommand myself, I went to do the business.'A fellow-clerk in the drug warehouse had been badly in want of money notlong before that, and I knew he had borrowed twenty pounds from a loanoffice, paying it back week by week, with heavy interest, out of his screw,poor devil. I could do the same. I went straight off to the lender. It wasa fellow called Crowther; he lived in Dean Street, Soho; in a window on theground floor there was a card with "Sums from One pound to a Hundred lentat short notice." I was lucky enough to find him at home; we did ourbusiness in a little back room, where there was a desk and a couple ofchairs, and nothing else but dirt. I expected to find an oldish man, but heseemed about my own age, and on the whole I didn't dislike the look ofhim,--a rather handsome young fellow, fairly well dressed, with a takingsort of smile. I began by telling him where I was employed, and mentionedmy fellow-clerk, whom he knew. That made him quite cheerful; he offered mea drink, and we got on very well. But he thought forty guineas a big sum;would I tell him what I wanted it for? No, I wouldn't do that. Well, howlong would it take me to pay it back? Could I pay a pound a week? No, Icouldn't. He began to shake his head and to look at me thoughtfully. Thenhe asked no end of questions, to find out who I was and what people I hadbelonging to me, and what my chances were. Then he made me have anotherdrink, and at last I was persuaded into telling him the whole story. Firstof all he stared, and then he laughed; I never saw a man laugh moreheartily. At last he said, "Why didn't you tell me you had value in hand?See here, I'll look at that picture on Monday morning, and I shouldn'twonder if we can do business." This alarmed me,--I was afraid he might gettalking to the picture-dealer. But he promised not to say a word about me.'On Sunday I sent a note to the warehouse, saying that I should not be ableto come to business till Monday afternoon. It was the first time I had everdone such a thing, and I knew I could invent some story to excuse myself.Most of that day I spent in bed; I didn't feel myself, yet it was still agreat satisfaction to me that I had got the better of that brute. On Mondayat twelve I kept the appointment in Dean Street. Crowther hadn't come in,and I sat for a few minutes quaking. When he turned up, he was quitecheerful. "Look here!" he said, "will you sell me that picture for thirtypounds?" "What then?" I asked. "Why, then you can pay me another thirtypounds, and I'll give you twelve months to do it in. You shall have yourforty guineas at once." I tried to reflect, but I was too agitated.However, I saw that to pay thirty pounds in a year meant that I must liveon about eight shillings a week. "I don't know how I'm to do it," I said.He looked at me. "Well, I won't be hard on you. Look here, you shall pay mesix bob a week till the thirty quid's made up. Now, you can do that?" YesI could do that, and I agreed. In another ten minutes our business wassettled,--my signature was so shaky that I might safely have disowned itafterwards. Then we had a drink at a neighbouring pub, and we walkedtogether towards Coventry Street. Crowther was to wait for me near thepicture-dealer's.'I entered with a bold step, promising myself pleasure in a new triumphover the brute. But he wasn't there. I saw only an under-strapper. I had notime to lose, for I must be at business by two o'clock. I paid themoney--notes and gold--and took away the picture under my arm. Of course,it had been removed from the frame in which I first saw it, and theassistant wrapped it up for me in brown paper. At the street corner Isurrendered it to Crowther. "Come and see me after business to-morrow," hesaid, "I should like to have a bit more talk with you."'So I had come out of it gloriously. I cared nothing about losing thepicture, and I didn't grieve over the six shillings a week that I shouldhave to pay for the next two years. If I went into that gallery again, Ishould be treated respectfully--that was sufficient.'He laughed, and for a minute or two we sat silent. From the inn soundedrustic voices; the village worthies were gathered for their eveningconversation.'That's the best part of my story,' said Ireton at length. 'What followedis commonplace. Still, you might like to hear how I bridged the gulf, fromfourteen shillings a week to the position I now hold. Well, I got veryintimate with Crowther, and found him really a very decent fellow. He had agood many irons in the fire. Besides his loan office, which paid muchbetter than you would imagine, he had a turf commission agency, whichbrought him in a good deal of money, and shortly after I met him he becamepart proprietor of a club in Soho. He very soon talked to me in thefrankest way of all his doings; I think he was glad to be on friendly termswith me simply because I was better educated and could behave decently. Idon't think he ever did anything illegal, and he had plenty of goodfeeling,--but that didn't prevent him from squeezing eighty per cent, or soout of many a poor devil who had borrowed to save himself or his familyfrom starvation. That was all business; he drew the sharpest distinctionsbetween business and private relations, and was very ignorant. I never knewa man so superstitious. Every day he consulted signs and omens. Forinstance, to decide whether the day was to be lucky for him--in betting andso on--he would stand at a street corner and count the number of whitehorses that passed in five minutes; if he had made up his mind on an evennumber, and an even number passed, then he felt safe in following hisimpulses for the day; if the number were odd, he would do little or nospeculation. When he was going to play cards for money, he would find abeggar and give him something, even if he had to walk a great distance todo it. He often used to visit an Italian who kept fortune-telling canaries,and he always followed the advice he got. It put him out desperately if hesaw the new moon through glass, or over his left shoulder. There was no endto his superstitions, and, whether by reason of them or in spite of them,he certainly prospered. When he died, ten or twelve years ago, he leftfifteen thousand pounds.'I have to thank him for my own good luck. "Look here," he said to me,"it's only duffers that go on quill-driving at a quid a week. A fellow likeyou ought to be doing better." "Show me the way," I said. And I was readyto do whatever he told me. I had a furious hunger for money; the adventurein Coventry Street had thoroughly unsettled me, and I would have turnedburglar rather than go on much longer as a wretched slave, looked down uponby everybody, and exposed to insult at every corner. I dreamed ofmoney-making, and woke up feverish with determination. At last Crowthergave me a few jobs to do for him in my off-time. They weren't very nicejobs, and I shouldn't like to explain them to you; but they brought me inhalf a sovereign now and then. I began to get an insight into the basermodes of filling one's pocket. Then something happened; my mother died, andI became the owner of a house at Notting Hill of fifty pounds rental. Italked over my situation with Crowther, and he advised me, as it turnedout, thoroughly well. I was to raise money on this house,--not to sellit,--and take shares in a new music-hall which Crowther was connected with.There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you; it was the Marlborough. I didtake shares, and at the end of the second twelve months I was drawing adividend of sixty per cent. I have never drawn less than thirty, and theyear before last we touched seventy-five. At present I am a shareholder inthree other halls,--and they don't do badly.'I suppose it isn't only good luck; no doubt I have a sort of talent formoney-making, but I never knew it before I met Crowther. By just opening myeyes to the fact that money could be earned in other ways than at theregular kinds of employment, he gave me a start, and I went ahead. Thereisn't a man in the world has suffered more than I have for want of money,and no one ever worked with a fiercer resolve to get out of the hell ofcontemptible poverty. It would fill a book, the history of my money-making.The first big sum I ever was possessed of came to me at the age oftwo-and-thirty, when I sold a proprietary club (the one Crowther had ashare in and which I had ultimately got into my own hands) for ninethousand pounds; but I owed about half of this. I went on and on, and I gotinto society; that came through the Marlborough,--a good story, but Imustn't tell it. At last I married--a rich woman.'He paused, and I thought, but was not quite sure, that I heard him sigh.'We won't talk about that either. I shall not marry a rich woman again,that's all. In fact, I don't care for such people; my best friends, realfriends, are all more or less strugglers, and perhaps there's no harm insaying that it gives me pleasure to help them when I've a chance. I like tobuy a picture of a poor devil artist. I like to smoke my pipe with goodfellows who never go out of their way for money's sake. All the same, it'sa good thing to be well off. But for that, now, I couldn't make theacquaintance of such people as these at Brackley Hall. I more than halflike them. Old Armitage is a gentleman, and looks back upon generations ofgentlemen, his ancestors. Ah! you can't buy that! And his daughters aredevilish nice girls, with sweet soft voices. I'm glad the old fellow met usyesterday.'It was now dark; I looked up and saw the stars brightening. We sat foranother quarter of an hour, each busy with his own thoughts, then rose andparted for the night.A week later, when I returned to London, Ireton was still living at thelittle inn, and a letter I received from him at the beginning of Octobertold me he had just left. 'The country was exquisite that last week,' hewrote;--and it struck me that 'exquisite' was a word he must have caughtfrom some one else's lips.I heard from him again in the following January. He wrote from the Isle ofWight, and informed me that in the spring he was to be married to MissEthel Armitage, second daughter of Humphrey Armitage, Esq., of BrackleyHall.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *