LVII
A divinepatience sustained the poet through those weary days until there came the hour in which the miracle of miracles was consummated, and the printed and bound volumes of his labour, emerging at last from all the vicissitudes of the press were at last laid on his knees.
The right hand he could not raise; and the left had no longer the power to support the weight of the three volumes ofReconciliation: A Poem. Therefore were they poised upon the poet’s knees, and his hands dangled upon their covers helplessly.
“This perfunctory clay has only one other duty to discharge,” he said, as a slow and calm radiance overspread his face, “ere it be released from its bonds. I must await the verdict of the street-persons upon my little treatise. I must stay yet awhile until some authentic voice among them has spoken in their name. By that means I shall know that my destiny is at last complete.”
His friend James Dodson assured him that that day copies of the poem had been sent to fifty of the foremost English journals.
“It may be a month, old boy, before we hear what they have got to say about it,” he said.
“A month,” said the poet with a slight shiver. “It is a long term. Yet shall it seem as but a day.”
“They are always slow at reviewing poetry, you know,” said Jimmy Dodson. “Perhaps they might even take longer than a month. You see, it is such a long poem that it will take a lot of reading; and then, of course, when they have read it, they will have to think about it before they can express their opinion. In fact, old boy, they are certain to have to think about it a good deal.”
“Truly,” said the poet, “they will have to think about it a good deal.”
From that time forth the days as they passed were fraught with inexpressible pain for James Dodson. Up till the time of the issue of this strange and bewildering poem in three volumes, which all the expert minds of his acquaintance had promptly and unsparingly condemned, he had sought to keep up his heart with the reflection, frail though it was, that they might be mistaken after all. For he gathered from the researches he had recently begun to conduct upon the subject that such things had happened before.
Yet how incomprehensible it was, in the teeth of all the uncompromising hostility that had been visited upon the manuscript itself, and the remarkable apathy of all who had been brought in contact with it—publishers, printers, proof-readers, the official at the English Museum—that the author himself, lying all broken in the clutch of death, should yet possess the occult and mysterious power to convince such a one as James Dodson against his judgment, his reason, his knowledge of the world, and all the standards by which he understood life, that his own extravagant estimate, his own ridiculous, preposterous, overweening estimate of the merits of his work should yet derive an ample sanction from the presence of him who proclaimed it.
“When I am away from that place I know the poor chap is hopelessly mad,” Jimmy Dodson would say to himself in his unhappy self-communion; “and I know his old father is hopelessly mad as well; it is proved by the judgment of others; yet as soon as I enter that accursed little room behind that accursed little shop they both seem to have such marvellous sanity that they make me ashamed of my own.”
From the time his friend’s poem was given to the world Jimmy Dodson spent his days hoping against hope. In the face of such emphatic denialof the merits of the work it called for great courage to venture to believe that after all it might vindicate itself. Yet day after day he scanned the columns of the newspapers in the vain search for a vindication that he might carry to the dying man. Nor was he able to elicit any favourable tidings from the firm of Crumpett and Hawker. Their interest in the work terminated with its issue to the press. They had not engaged to advertise it, nor to canvass for its sale among their clients the booksellers. Therefore, at the end of the first month of its issue not only had it been passed over in silence by the newspapers, but also not a single copy had been sold to the public.
In the face of these cold facts Dodson had scarcely the courage to approach his dying friend, yet an irresistible power seemed to draw him to his presence. It pierced his heart to observe the ludicrous, pathetic, overweening faith of the dying poet in that which he had given to the world. As he grew weaker and weaker in body, this sense of achievement seemed to mount to greater heights in his veins, so that the unhappy Dodson felt that he had no alternative but to continue to enact the amazing role he had already played so many times.
One evening he said to the white-haired man who welcomed him into the shop, “I suppose we must keep it up till the end comes, but God knows it is wearing me out. I have lost a stone in weight; I can’t eat my meals; I can’t sleep at night. Old man, this business is killing James Dodson by inches; but I suppose he must keep it up to the bitter end.”
“Yes,” said the old man faintly, “the truth must be concealed from the dying Achilles that the great world out of doors has rejected his labours. Yet it is meet that we ourselves should continue in our homage to this mighty one, for we do but anticipate the verdict of ages unborn.”
“Verdict of ages unborn!” said Dodson, withcontempt and bitterness, for his own dire suffering appeared to be overcoming his resolve; “there will be no verdict of ages unborn if we go on at this rate. Not a single copy has been sold up to date. If I could only scrape together the money, which I can’t, I would insert a full-page advertisement in theTimes. I see theJournal of Literaturehas acknowledged it among the books received, but they take care not to give a bit of recognition to the author. They must have found out that he’s a long while a-dying.”
As the unhappy Dodson entered this evening the presence of the poet, he seemed to discern a curious anguish in the eyes of his dying friend.
“Jimmy,” said the poet in a scarcely audible voice, “the hand of death is upon me. There hardly remains more than a day and a night of the sands of life. Yet I would like to hear that my labours have received some sort of sanction. Have they made no sign? Have they said nothing?”
The entreaty in the sightless gaze filled the unhappy Dodson with a kind of reckless despair.
“Have they said nothing?” he said in choking accents, yet his strange cockney speech sounded like music, so intense was the emotion with which it vibrated. “Have they made no sign, old boy? Why—why, you can’t believe what a sensation your poem is making! They are printing a second edition, and it will run to—to a hundred thousand copies. The—the first was—was over ten thousand, you know, and that has already been over subscribed. The papers are full of it—greatest thing ever done—better than Homer, better than Shakespeare and so on, although, of course, old boy, they put it more literary. I wish you could see the face of Octavius. He is the proudest man in London because Crumpett and Hawker happen to have had the luck to publish it. But Octavius deserves credit, doesn’t he, old boy, because from the first he saw its merits? He says poetry is going to be fashionable.Duchesses in fur coats drive up in their motors to inquire the name of the author, and when Octavius says he can’t tell ’em because he don’t know, they get—well, they getratty! I believe Octavius would give his ears to know the name of the author. He has offered to double my screw if I will tell him. And every paper in London pesters us to death for your photograph and a few details concerning your life.”
“And—and the persons in the street, do you think they read with knowledge?”
“I am sure they do. As I went round the corner to get my lunch to-day I saw two chaps with copies of it under their arms.”
“And—and in what manner do they express themselves concerning it? Do you suppose they understand? Do you suppose these poor purblind ones accept the ampler interpretation of human destiny?”
“Of course they do, old boy—that is as well as they can. I don’t know much about literature myself, but some of the reviews that are coming out in the highest quarters are enough to make you dizzy. They—they say this—this poem of yours, old boy, is going—is going to rev-revolutionize thought and—and philosophy and—and everything else.”
“My friend,” said the dying man softly, “I would have you bring me the words of one among these poor street-persons; and the aged man, my father, shall read them to me; and then—and then I shall ask no more.”
The face of Dodson was the colour of snow. His eyes were full of despair.
“Very well, old boy,” he stammered, “I—I will bring you one of these reviews—and—and you shall hear for yourself what they think about this marvellous work of yours.”
“Bring it to-morrow evening at eight o’clock,” said the poet in a voice that could hardly be heard. “I will wait until then.”
“I will not fail,” promised his friend.
As Dodson burst out of the shop in a paroxysm of wild despair, he prayed that when he came on the morrow, this mighty spirit which contended with death should have yielded already.