A Poor Gentleman

by George Gissing

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

　　It was in the drawing-room, after dinner. Mrs. Charman, the large andkindly hostess, sank into a chair beside her little friend Mrs. Loring, andsighed a question.'How do you like Mr. Tymperley?''Very nice. Just a little peculiar.''Oh, he is peculiar! Quite original. I wanted to tell you about himbefore we went down, but there wasn't time. Such a very old friend of ours.My dear husband and he were at school together--Harrovians. The sweetest,the most affectionate character! Too good for this world, I'm afraid; hetakes everything so seriously. I shall never forget his grief at my poorhusband's death.--I'm telling Mrs. Loring about Mr. Tymperley, Ada.'She addressed her married daughter, a quiet young woman who reproduced Mrs.Charman's good-natured countenance, with something more of intelligence,the reflective serenity of a higher type.'I'm sorry to see him looking so far from well,' remarked Mrs. Weare, inreply.'He never had any colour, you know, and his life... But I must tell you,'she resumed to Mrs. Loring. 'He's a bachelor, in comfortable circumstances,and--would you believe it?--he lives quite alone in one of the distressingparts of London. Where is it, Ada?''A poor street in Islington.''Yes. There he lives, I'm afraid in shocking lodgings--it must be, sounhealthy--just to become acquainted with the life of poor people, and behelpful to them. Isn't it heroic? He seems to have given up his whole lifeto it. One never meets him anywhere; I think ours is the only house wherehe's seen. A noble life! He never talks about it. I'm sure you would neverhave suspected such a thing from his conversation at dinner?''Not for a moment,' answered Mrs. Loring, astonished. 'He wasn't verygossipy--I gathered that his chief interests were fretwork and foreignpolitics.'Mrs. Weare laughed. 'The very man! When I was a little girl he used to makeall sorts of pretty things for me with his fret-saw; and when I grew oldenough, he instructed me in the balance of Power. It's possible, mamma,that he writes leading articles. We should never hear of it.''My dear, anything is possible with Mr. Tymperley. And such a change, this,after his country life. He had a beautiful little house near ours, inBerkshire. I really can't help thinking that my husband's death caused himto leave it. He was so attached to Mr. Charman! When my husband died, andwe left Berkshire, we altogether lost sight of him--oh, for a couple ofyears. Then I met him by chance in London. Ada thinks there must have beensome sentimental trouble.''Dear mamma,' interposed the daughter, 'it was you, not I, who suggestedthat.''Was it? Well, perhaps it was. One can't help seeing that he has gonethrough something. Of course it may be only pity for the poor souls hegives his life to. A wonderful man!'When masculine voices sounded at the drawing-room door, Mrs. Loring lookedcuriously for the eccentric gentleman. He entered last of all. A man ofmore than middle height, but much bowed in the shoulders; thin, ungraceful,with an irresolute step and a shy demeanour; his pale-grey eyes, very softin expression, looked timidly this way and that from beneath browsnervously bent, and a self-obliterating smile wavered upon his lips. Hishair had begun to thin and to turn grey, but he had a heavy moustache,which would better have sorted with sterner lineaments. As he walked--orsidled--into the room, his hands kept shutting and opening, with ratherludicrous effect. Something which was not exactly shabbiness, but a lack oflustre, of finish, singled him among the group of men; looking closer, onesaw that his black suit belonged to a fashion some years old. His linen wasirreproachable, but he wore no sort of jewellery, one little black studshowing on his front, and, at the cuffs, solitaires of the same simpledescription.He drifted into a corner, and there would have sat alone, seemingly atpeace, had not Mrs. Weare presently moved to a seat beside him.'I hope you won't be staying in town through August, Mr. Tymperley?''NoOh no, I think not!''But you seem uncertain. Do forgive me if I say that I'm sure you need achange. Really, you know, you are not looking quite the thing. Now, can'tI persuade you to join us at Lucerne? My husband would be sopleased--delighted to talk with you about the state of Europe. Give us afortnight--do!''My dear Mrs. Weare, you are kindness itself! I am deeply grateful. I can'teasily express my sense of your most friendly thoughtfulness. But, thetruth is, I am half engaged to other friends. Indeed, I think I may almostsay that I have practically...yes, indeed, it amounts to that.'He spoke in a thinly fluting voice, with a preciseness of enunciation akinto the more feebly clerical, and with smiles which became almost lachrymosein their expressiveness as he dropped from phrase to phrase of embarrassedcircumlocution. And his long bony hands writhed together till the knuckleswere white.'Well, so long as you are going away. I'm so afraid lest yourconscientiousness should go too far. You won't benefit anybody, you know,by making yourself ill.''Obviously notI assure you that fact is patent to me. Health isa primary consideration. Nothing more detrimental to one's usefulness thanan impaired... Oh, to be sure, to be sure!''There's the strain upon your sympathies. That must affect one's health,quite apart from an unhealthy atmosphere.''But Islington is not unhealthy, my dear Mrs. Weare! Believe me, the airhas often quite a tonic quality. We are so high, you must remember. If onlywe could subdue in some degree the noxious exhalations of domestic andindustrial chimneys!--Oh, I assure you, Islington has every natural featureof salubrity.'Before the close of the evening there was a little music, which Mr.Tymperley seemed much to enjoy. He let his head fall back, and staredupwards; remaining rapt in that posture for some moments after the musicceased, and at length recovering himself with a sigh.When he left the house, he donned an overcoat considerably too thick forthe season, and bestowed in the pockets his patent-leather shoes. His hatwas a hard felt, high in the crown. He grasped an ill-folded umbrella, andset forth at a brisk walk, as if for the neighbouring station. But therailway was not his goal, nor yet the omnibus. Through the ambrosial nighthe walked and walked, at the steady pace of one accustomed to pedestrianexercise: from Notting Hill Gate to the Marble Arch; from the Marble Archto New Oxford Street; thence by Theobald's Road to Pentonville, and up, andup, until he attained the heights of his own salubrious quarter. Long aftermidnight he entered a narrow byway, which the pale moon showed to bedecent, though not inviting. He admitted himself with a latchkey to alittle house which smelt of glue, lit a candle-end which he found in hispocket, and ascended two flights of stairs to a back bedroom, its sizeeight feet by seven and a half. A few minutes more, and he lay soundasleep.Waking at eight o'clock--he knew the time by a bell that clanged in theneighbourhood--Mr. Tymperley clad himself with nervous haste. On openinghis door, he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a breakfastreduced to its lowest terms: half a pint of milk, bread, butter. At nineo'clock he went downstairs, tapped civilly at the door of the frontparlour, and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The room was occupied byan oldish man and a girl, addressing themselves to the day's work of plainbookbinding.'Good morning to you, sir,' said Mr. Tymperley, bending his head. 'Goodmorning, Miss Suggs. Bright! Sunny! How it cheers one!'He stood rubbing his hands, as one might on a morning of sharp frost. Thebookbinder, with a dry nod for greeting, forthwith set Mr. Tymperley atask, to which that gentleman zealously applied himself. He was learningthe elementary processes of the art. He worked with patience, and some showof natural aptitude, all through the working hours of the day.To this pass had things come with Mr. Tymperley, a gentleman of Berkshire,once living in comfort and modest dignity on the fruit of soundinvestments. Schooled at Harrow, a graduate of Cambridge, he had meditatedthe choice of a profession until it seemed, on the whole, too late toprofess anything at all; and, as there was no need of such exertion, hesettled himself to a life of innocent idleness, hard by the country-houseof his wealthy and influential friend, Mr. Charman. Softly the years flowedby. His thoughts turned once or twice to marriage, but a profounddiffidence withheld him from the initial step; in the end, he knew himselfborn for bachelorhood, and with that estate was content. Well for him hadhe seen as clearly the delusiveness of other temptations! In an evil momenthe listened to Mr. Charman, whose familiar talk was of speculation, ofcompanies, of shining percentages. Not on his own account was Mr. Tymperleylured: he had enough and to spare; but he thought of his sister, married toan unsuccessful provincial barrister, and of her six children, whom itwould be pleasant to help, like the opulent uncle of fiction, at theirentering upon the world. In Mr. Charman he put blind faith, with the resultthat one morning he found himself shivering on the edge of ruin; the touchof confirmatory news, and over he went.No one was aware of it but Mr. Charman himself and he, a few days later,lay sick unto death. Mr. Charman's own estate suffered inappreciably fromwhat to his friend meant sheer disaster. And Mr. Tymperley breathed not aword to the widow; spoke not a word to any one at all, except the lawyer,who quietly wound up his affairs, and the sister whose children must needsgo without avuncular aid. During the absence of his friendly neighboursafter Mr. Charman's death, he quietly disappeared.The poor gentleman was then close upon forty years old. There remained tohim a capital which he durst not expend; invested, it bore him an incomeupon which a labourer could scarce have subsisted. The only possible placeof residence--because the only sure place of hiding--was London, and toLondon Mr. Tymperley betook himself. Not at once did he learn the art ofcombating starvation with minim resources. During his initiatory trials hewas once brought so low, by hunger and humiliation, that he swallowedsomething of his pride, and wrote to a certain acquaintance, asking counseland indirect help. But only a man in Mr. Tymperley's position learns howvain is well-meaning advice, and how impotent is social influence. Had hebegged for money, he would have received, no doubt, a cheque, with words ofcompassion; but Mr. Tymperley could never bring himself to that.He tried to make profit of his former amusement, fretwork, and to a certainextent succeeded, earning in six months half a sovereign. But the prospectof adding one pound a year to his starveling dividends did not greatlyexhilarate him.All this time he was of course living in absolute solitude. Poverty is thegreat secluder--unless one belongs to the rank which is born to it; asensitive man who no longer finds himself on equal terms with his naturalassociates, shrinks into loneliness, and learns with some surprise how verywilling people are to forget his existence. London is a wildernessabounding in anchorites--voluntary or constrained. As he wandered about thestreets and parks, or killed time in museums and galleries (where nothinghad to be paid), Mr. Tymperley often recognised brethren in seclusion; heunderstood the furtive glance which met his own, he read the peaked visage,marked with understanding sympathy the shabby-genteel apparel. Nointerchange of confidences between these lurking mortals; they would liketo speak, but pride holds them aloof; each goes on his silent andunfriended way, until, by good luck, he finds himself in hospital orworkhouse, when at length the tongue is loosed, and the sore heart poursforth its reproach of the world.Strange knowledge comes to a man in this position. He learns wondrouseconomies, and will feel a sort of pride in his ultimate discovery of howlittle money is needed to support life. In his old days Mr. Tymperley wouldhave laid it down as an axiom that 'one' cannot live on less thansuch-and-such an income; he found that 'a man' can live on a few coppers aday. He became aware of the prices of things to eat, and was taught therelative virtues of nutriment. Perforce a vegetarian, he found that avegetable diet was good for his health, and delivered to himself many ascornful speech on the habits of the carnivorous multitude. He of necessityabjured alcohols, and straightway longed to utter his testimony on ateetotal platform. These were his satisfactions. They compensateastonishingly for the loss of many kinds of self-esteem.But it happened one day that, as he was in the act of drawing his poorlittle quarterly salvage at the Bank of England, a lady saw him and knewhim. It was Mr. Charman's widow.'Why, Mr. Tymperley, what has become of you all this time? Why have Inever heard from you? Is it true, as some one told me, that you have beenliving abroad?'So utterly was he disconcerted, that in a mechanical way he echoed thelady's last word: 'Abroad.''But why didn't you write to us?' pursued Mrs. Charman, leaving him no timeto say more. 'How very unkind! Why did you go away without a word? Mydaughter says that we must have unconsciously offended you in some way. Doexplain! Surely there can't have been anything''My dear Mrs. Charman, it is I alone who am to blame. I...the explanationis difficult; it involves a multiplicity of detail. I beg you to interpretmy unjustifiable behaviour as--as pure idiosyncrasy.''Oh, you must come and see me. You know that Ada's married? Yes, nearly ayear ago. How glad she will be to see you again. So often she has spoken ofyou. When can you dine? To-morrow?''With pleasure--with great pleasure.''Delightful!'She gave her address, and they parted.Now, a proof that Mr. Tymperley had never lost all hope of restitution tohis native world lay in the fact of his having carefully preserved anevening-suit, with the appropriate patent-leather shoes. Many a time had hebeen sorely tempted to sell these seeming superfluities; more than once,towards the end of his pinched quarter, the suit had been pledged for a fewshillings; but to part with the supreme symbol of respectability would havemeant despair--a state of mind alien to Mr. Tymperley's passive fortitude.His jewellery, even watch and chain, had long since gone: such gauds arenot indispensable to a gentleman's outfit. He now congratulated himself onhis prudence, for the meeting with Mrs. Charman had delighted as much as itembarrassed him, and the prospect of an evening in society made his heartglow. He hastened home; he examined his garb of ceremony with anxious care,and found no glaring defect in it. A shirt, a collar, a necktie must needsbe purchased; happily he had the means. But how explain himself? Could heconfess his place of abode, his startling poverty? To do so would be tomake an appeal to the compassion of his old friends, and from that heshrank in horror. A gentleman will not, if-it can possibly be avoided,reveal circumstances likely to cause pain. Must he, then, tell or imply afalsehood. The whole truth involved a reproach of Mrs. Charman's husband--athought he could not bear.The next evening found him still worrying over this dilemma. He reachedMrs. Charman's house without having come to any decision. In thedrawing-room three persons awaited him: the hostess, with her daughter andson-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Weare. The cordiality of his reception moved himall but to tears; overcome by many emotions, he lost his head. He talked atrandom; and the result was so strange a piece of fiction, that no soonerhad he evolved it than he stood aghast at himself.It came in reply to the natural question where he was residing.'At present'--he smiled fatuously--'I inhabit a bed-sitting-room in alittle street up at Islington.'Dead silence followed. Eyes of wonder were fixed upon him. But for thoseeyes, who knows what confession Mr. Tymperley might have made? As it was...'I said, Mrs. Charman, that I had to confess to an eccentricity. I hope itwon't shock you. To be brief, I have devoted my poor energies to socialwork. I live among the poor, and as one of them, to obtain knowledge thatcannot be otherwise procured.''Oh, how noble!' exclaimed the hostess.The poor gentleman's conscience smote him terribly. He could say no more.To spare his delicacy, his friends turned the conversation. Then orafterwards, it never occurred to them to doubt the truth of what he hadsaid. Mrs. Charman had seen him transacting business at the Bank ofEngland, a place not suggestive of poverty; and he had always passed for aman somewhat original in his views and ways. Thus was Mr. Tymperleycommitted to a singular piece of deception, a fraud which could not easilybe discovered, and which injured only its perpetrator.Since then about a year had elapsed. Mr. Tymperley had seen his friendsperhaps half a dozen times, his enjoyment of their society patheticallyintense, but troubled by any slightest allusion to his mode of life. It hadcome to be understood that he made it a matter of principle to hide hislight under a bushel, so he seldom had to take a new step in positivefalsehood. Of course he regretted ceaselessly the original deceit, for Mrs.Charman, a wealthy woman, might very well have assisted him to some notundignified mode of earning his living. As it was, he had hit upon the ideaof making himself a bookbinder, a craft somewhat to his taste. For somemonths he had lodged in the bookbinder's house; one day courage came tohim, and he entered into a compact with his landlord, whereby he was to payfor instruction by a certain period of unremunerated work after he becameproficient. That stage was now approaching. On the whole, he felt muchhappier than in the time of brooding idleness. He looked forward to the daywhen he would have a little more money in his pocket, and no longer dreadthe last fortnight of each quarter, with its supperless nights.Mrs. Weare's invitation to Lucerne cost him pangs. Lucerne! Surely it wasin some former state of existence that he had taken delightful holidays asa matter of course. He thought of the many lovely places he knew, and somany dream-landscapes; the London streets made them infinitely remote,utterly unreal. His three years of gloom and hardship were longer than allthe life of placid contentment that came before. Lucerne! A man of morevigorous temper would have been maddened at the thought; but Mr. Tymperleynursed it all day long, his emotions only expressing themselves in a littlesigh or a sadly wistful smile.Having dined so well yesterday, he felt it his duty to expend less thanusual on to-day's meals. About eight o'clock in the evening, after ameditative stroll in the air which he had so praised, he entered the shopwhere he was wont to make his modest purchases. A fat woman behind thecounter nodded familiarly to him, with a grin at another customer. Mr.Tymperley bowed, as was his courteous habit.'Oblige me,' he said, 'with one new-laid egg, and a small, crisp lettuce.''Only one to-night, eh?' said the woman.'Thank you, only one,' he replied, as if speaking in a drawing-room.'Forgive me if I express a hope that it will be, in the strict sense of theword, new-laid. The last, I fancy, had got into that box by someoversight--pardonable in the press of business.''They're always the same,' said the fat shopkeeper. 'We don't make nomistakes of that kind.''Ah! Forgive me! Perhaps I imagined--'Egg and lettuce were carefully deposited in a little handbag he carried,and he returned home. An hour later, when his meal was finished, and he saton a straight-backed chair meditating in the twilight, a rap sounded at hisdoor, and a letter was handed to him. So rarely did a letter arrive for Mr.Tymperley that his hand shook as he examined the envelope. On opening it,the first thing he saw was a cheque. This excited him still more; heunfolded the written sheet with agitation. It came from Mrs. Weare, whowrote thus:-- 'MY DEAR MR. TYMPERLEY,--After our talk last evening, I could not helpthinking of you and your beautiful life of self-sacrifice. Icontrasted the lot of these poor people with my own, which, one cannotbut feel, is so undeservedly blest and so rich in enjoyments. As aresult of these thoughts, I feel impelled to send you a littlecontribution to your good work--a sort of thank-offering at the momentof setting off for a happy holiday. Divide the money, please, amongtwo or three of your most deserving pensioners; or, if you see fit,give it all to one. I cling to the hope that we may see you atLucerne.--With very kind regards.The cheque was for five pounds. Mr. Tymperley held it up by the window, andgazed at it. By his present standards of value five pounds seemed a verylarge sum. Think of what one could do with it! His boots--which had beentwice repaired--would not decently serve him much longer. His trousers werein the last stage of presentability. The hat he wore (how carefullytended!) was the same in which he had come to London three years ago. Hestood in need, verily, of a new equipment from head to foot; and inIslington five pounds would more than cover the whole expense. When, pray,was he likely to have such a sum at his free disposal?He sighed deeply, and stared about him in the dusk.The cheque was crossed. For the first time in his life Mr. Tymperleyperceived that the crossing of a cheque may occasion its recipient a greatdeal of trouble. How was he to get it changed? He knew his landlord for asuspicious curmudgeon, and refusal of the favour, with such a look as Mr.Suggs knew how to give, would be a sore humiliation; besides, it was verydoubtful whether Mr. Suggs could make any use of the cheque himself. Towhom else could he apply? Literally, to no one in London.'Well, the first thing to do was to answer Mrs. Weare's letter. He lit hislamp and sat down at the crazy little deal table; but his pen dippedseveral times into the ink before he found himself able to write. 'Dear Mrs. Weare,'--Then, so long a pause that he seemed to be falling asleep. With a jerk, hebent again to his task. 'With sincere gratitude I acknowledge the receipt of your most kindand generous donation. The money...'(Again his hand lay idle for several minutes.) 'shall be used as you wish, and I will render to you a detailedaccount of the benefits conferred by it.'Never had he found composition so difficult. He felt that he was expressinghimself wretchedly; a clog was on his brain. It cost him an exertion ofphysical strength to conclude the letter. When it was done, he went out,purchased a stamp at a tobacconist's shop, and dropped the envelope intothe post.Little slumber had Mr. Tymperley that night. On lying down, he began towonder where he should find the poor people worthy of sharing in thisbenefaction. Of course he had no acquaintance with the class of persons ofwhom Mrs. Weare was thinking. In a sense, all the families round about werepoor, but--he asked himself--had poverty the same meaning for them as forhim? Was there a man or woman in this grimy street who, compared withhimself, had any right to be called poor at all? An educated man forced tolive among the lower classes arrives at many interesting conclusions withregard to them; one conclusion long since fixed in Mr. Tymperley's mind wasthat the 'suffering' of those classes is very much exaggerated by outsidersusing a criterion quite inapplicable. He saw around him a world of coarsejollity, of contented labour, and of brutal apathy. It seemed to him morethan probable that the only person in this street conscious of poverty, andsuffering under it, was himself.From nightmarish dozing, he started with a vivid thought, a recollectionwhich seemed to pierce his brain. To whom did he owe his fall from comfortand self-respect, and all his long miseries? To Mrs. Weare's father. And,from this point of view, might the cheque for five pounds be considered asmere restitution? Might it not strictly be applicable to his ownnecessities?Another little gap of semi-consciousness led to another strange reflection.What if Mrs. Weare (a sensible woman) suspected, or even had discovered,the truth about him. What if she secretly meant the money for his ownuse?Earliest daylight made this suggestion look very insubstantial; on theother hand, it strengthened his memory of Mr. Charman's virtualindebtedness to him. He jumped out of bed to reach the cheque, and for anhour lay with it in his hand. Then he rose and dressed mechanically.After the day's work he rambled in a street of large shops. A bootmaker'sarrested him; he stood before the window for a long time, turning over andover in his pocket a sovereign--no small fraction of the ready coin whichhad to support him until dividend day. Then he crossed the threshold.Never did man use less discretion in the purchase of a pair of boots. Hisbusiness was transacted in a dream; he spoke without hearing what he said;he stared at objects without perceiving them. The result was that not tillhe had got home, with his easy old footgear under his arm, did he becomeaware that the new boots pinched him most horribly. They creaked too:heavens! how they creaked! But doubtless all new boots had these faults; hehad forgotten; it was so long since he had bought a pair. The fact was, hefelt dreadfully tired, utterly worn out. After munching a mouthful ofsupper he crept into bed.All night long he warred with his new boots. Footsore, he limped about thestreets of a spectral city, where at every corner some one seemed to lie inambush for him, and each time the lurking enemy proved to be no other thanMrs. Weare, who gazed at him with scornful eyes and let him totter by. Thecreaking of the boots was an articulate voice, which ever and anon screamedat him a terrible name. He shrank and shivered and groaned; but on he went,for in his hand he held a crossed cheque, which he was bidden to getchanged, and no one would change it. What a night!When he woke his brain was heavy as lead; but his meditations were verylucid. Pray, what did he mean by that insane outlay of money, which hecould not possibly afford, on a new (and detestable) pair of boots? The oldwould have lasted, at all events, till winter began. What was in his mindwhen he entered the shop? Did he intend...? Merciful powers!Mr. Tymperley was not much of a psychologist. But all at once he saw withawful perspicacity the moral crisis through which he had been living. Andit taught him one more truth on the subject of poverty.Immediately after his breakfast he went downstairs and tapped at the doorof Mr. Suggs' sitting-room.'What is it?' asked the bookbinder, who was eating his fourth large rasher,and spoke with his mouth full.'Sir, I beg leave of absence for an hour or two this morning. Business ofsome moment demands my attention.'Mr. Suggs answered, with the grace natural to his order, 'I s'pose you cando as you like. I don't pay you nothing.'The other bowed and withdrew.Two days later he again penned a letter to Mrs. Weare. It ran thus:-- 'The money which you so kindly sent, and which I have alreadyacknowledged, has now been distributed. To ensure a proper use of it,I handed the cheque, with clear instructions, to a clergyman in thisneighbourhood, who has been so good as to jot down, on the sheetenclosed, a memorandum of his beneficiaries, which I trust will besatisfactory and gratifying to you.'But why, you will ask, did I have recourse to a clergyman. Why did Inot use my own experience, and give myself the pleasure of helpingpoor souls in whom I have a personal interest--I who have devoted mylife to this mission of mercy?'The answer is brief and plain. I have lied to you.'I am not living in this place of my free will. I am notdevoting myself to works of charity. I am--no, no, I was--merely apoor gentleman, who, on a certain day, found that he had wasted hissubstance in a foolish speculation, and who, ashamed to take hisfriends into his confidence, fled to a life of miserable obscurity.You see that I have added disgrace to misfortune. I will not tell youhow very near I came to something still worse.'I have been serving an apprenticeship to a certain handicraft whichwill, I doubt not, enable me so to supplement my own scanty resourcesthat I shall be in better circum than hitherto. I entreat you toforgive me, if you can, and henceforth to forgetYours unworthily,

　　'S. V. TYMPERLEY.'

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *