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 denial of 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, with contempt 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 the Times. I see the Journal of Literature has 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 get ratty! 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?”