{"id":6576,"date":"2026-06-13T22:20:42","date_gmt":"2026-06-13T22:20:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/?p=6576"},"modified":"2026-06-13T22:20:42","modified_gmt":"2026-06-13T22:20:42","slug":"the-house-of-cobwebs-by-george-gissing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/?p=6576","title":{"rendered":"The House of Cobwebs by George Gissing"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>The House of Cobwebs by <a href=\"https:\/\/quizlit.org\/best-british-books-of-the-19th-century\">George Gissing<\/a> is one of fifteen stories that make up the collection \u201cThe House of Cobwebs and Other Stories\u201d, published in 1906.<\/p>\n<p><em>This post may contain affiliate links that earn us a commission at no extra cost to you.<\/em><\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading has-text-align-center\">The House of Cobwebs by George Gissing<\/h2>\n<div class=\"epyt-video-wrapper\">\n<div class=\"__youtube_prefs__ epyt-facade no-lazyload\"><button class=\"epyt-facade-play\"><\/button><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<h3 class=\"wp-block-heading has-text-align-center\">The House of Cobwebs by George Gissing<\/h3>\n<p>It was five o\u2019clock on a June morning. The dirty-buff blind of the lodging-house bedroom shone like cloth of gold as the sun\u2019s unclouded rays poured through it, transforming all they illumined, so that things poor and mean seemed to share in the triumphant glory of new-born day. In the bed lay a young man who had already been awake for an hour. He kept stirring uneasily, but with no intention of trying to sleep again. His eyes followed the slow movement of the sunshine on the wall-paper, and noted, as they never had done before, the details of the flower pattern, which represented no flower wherewith botanists are acquainted, yet, in this summer light, turned the thoughts to garden and field and hedgerow. The young man had a troubled mind, and his thoughts ran thus:\u2014<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I must have three months at least, and how am I to live?\u2026 Fifteen shillings a week\u2014not quite that, if I spread my money out. Can one live on fifteen shillings a week\u2014rent, food, washing?\u2026 I shall have to leave these lodgings at once. They\u2019re not luxurious, but I can\u2019t live here under twenty-five, that\u2019s clear\u2026. Three months to finish my book. It\u2019s good; I\u2019m hanged if it isn\u2019t! This time I shall find a publisher. All I have to do is to stick at my work and keep my mind easy\u2026. Lucky that it\u2019s summer; I don\u2019t need fires. Any corner would do for me where I can be quiet and see the sun\u2026. Wonder whether some cottager in Surrey would house and feed me for fifteen shillings a week?\u2026 No use lying here. Better get up and see how things look after an hour\u2019s walk.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>So the young man arose and clad himself, and went out into <a href=\"https:\/\/quizlit.org\/10-genuinely-terrifying-books\">the shining<\/a> street. His name was Goldthorpe. His years were not yet three-and-twenty. Since the age of legal independence he had been living alone in London, solitary and poor, very proud of a wholehearted devotion to the career of authorship. As soon as he slipped out of the stuffy house, the live air, perfumed with freshness from meadows and hills afar, made his blood pulse joyously. He was at the age of hope, and something within him, which did not represent mere youthful illusion, supported his courage in the face of calculations such as would have damped sober experience. With boyish step, so light and springy that it seemed anxious to run and leap, he took his way through a suburb south of Thames, and pushed on towards the first rising of the Surrey hills. And as he walked resolve strengthened itself in his heart. Somehow or other he would live independently through the next three months. If the worst came to the worst, he could earn bread as clerk or labourer, but as long as his money lasted he would pursue his purpose, and that alone. He sang to himself in this gallant determination, happy as if some one had left him a fortune.<\/p>\n<p>In an ascending road, quiet and tree-shadowed, where the dwellings on either side were for the most part old and small, though here and there a brand-new edifice on a larger scale showed that the neighbourhood was undergoing change such as in our time destroys the picturesque in all London suburbs, the cheery dreamer chanced to turn his eyes upon a spot of desolation which aroused his curiosity and set his fancy at work. Before him stood three deserted houses, a little row once tenanted by middle-class folk, but now for some time unoccupied and unrepaired. They were of brick, but the fronts had a stucco facing cut into imitation of ashlar, and weathered to the sombrest grey. The windows of the ground floor and of that above, and the fanlights above the doors, were boarded up, a guard against unlicensed intrusion; the top story had not been thought to stand in need of this protection, and a few panes were broken. On these dead frontages could be traced the marks of climbing plants, which once hung their leaves about each doorway; dry fragments of the old stem still adhered to the stucco. What had been the narrow strip of fore-garden, railed from the pavement, was now a little wilderness of coarse grass, docks, nettles, and degenerate shrubs. The paint on the doors had lost all colour, and much of it was blistered off; the three knockers had disappeared, leaving indications of rough removal, as if\u2014which was probably the case\u2014they had fallen a prey to marauders. Standing full in the brilliant sunshine, this spectacle of abandonment seemed sadder, yet less ugly, than it would have looked under a gloomy sky. Goldthorpe began to weave stories about its musty squalor. He crossed the road to make a nearer inspection; and as he stood gazing at the dishonoured thresholds, at the stained and cracked boarding of the blind windows, at the rusty paling and the broken gates, there sounded from somewhere near a thin, shaky strain of music, the notes of a concertina played with uncertain hand. The sound seemed to come from within the houses, yet how could that be? Assuredly no one lived under these crazy roofs. The musician was playing \u2018Home, Sweet Home,\u2019 and as Goldthorpe listened it seemed to him that the sound was not stationary. Indeed, it moved; it became more distant, then again the notes sounded more distinctly, and now as if the player were in the open air. Perhaps he was at the back of the houses?<\/p>\n<p>On either side ran a narrow passage, which parted the spot of desolation from inhabited dwellings. Exploring one of these, Goldthorpe found that there lay in the rear a tract of gardens. Each of the three lifeless houses had its garden of about twenty yards long. The bordering wall along the passage allowed a man of average height to peer over it, and Goldthorpe searched with curious eye the piece of ground which was nearest to him. Many a year must have gone by since any gardening was done here. Once upon a time the useful and ornamental had both been represented in this modest space; now, flowers and vegetables, such of them as survived in the struggle for existence, mingled together, and all alike were threatened by a wild, rank growth of grasses and weeds, which had obliterated the beds, hidden the paths, and made of the whole garden plot a green jungle. But Goldthorpe gave only a glance at this still life; his interest was engrossed by a human figure, seated on a campstool near the back wall of the house, and holding a concertina, whence, at this moment, in slow, melancholy strain, \u2018Home, Sweet Home\u2019 began to wheeze forth. The player was a middle-aged man, dressed like a decent clerk or shopkeeper, his head shaded with an old straw hat rather too large for him, and on his feet\u2014one of which swung as he sat with legs crossed\u2014a pair of still more ancient slippers, also too large. With head aside, and eyes looking upward, he seemed to listen in a mild ecstasy to the notes of his instrument. He had a round face of much simplicity and good-nature, semicircular eyebrows, pursed little mouth with abortive moustache, and short thin beard fringing the chinless lower jaw. Having observed this unimposing person for a minute or two, himself unseen, Goldthorpe surveyed the rear of the building, anxious to discover any sign of its still serving as human habitation; but nothing spoke of tenancy. The windows on this side were not boarded, and only a few panes were broken; but the chief point of contrast with the desolate front was made by a Virginia creeper, which grew luxuriantly up to the eaves, hiding every sign of decay save those dim, dusty apertures which seemed to deny all possibility of life within. And yet, on looking steadily, did he not discern something at one of the windows on the top story\u2014something like a curtain or a blind? And had not that same window the appearance of having been more recently cleaned than the others? He could not be sure; perhaps he only fancied these things. With neck aching from the strained position in which he had made his survey over the wall, the young man turned away. In the same moment \u2018Home, Sweet Home\u2019 came to an end, and, but for the cry of a milkman, the early-morning silence was undisturbed.<\/p>\n<p>Goldthorpe pursued his walk, thinking of what he had seen, and wondering what it all meant. On his way back he made a point of again passing the deserted houses, and again he peered over the wall of the passage. The man was still there, but no longer seated with the concertina; wearing a round felt hat instead of the straw, he stood almost knee-deep in vegetation, and appeared to be examining the various growths about him. Presently he moved forward, and, with head still bent, approached the lower end of the garden, where, in a wall higher than that over which Goldthorpe made his espial, there was a wooden door. This the man opened with a key, and, having passed out, could be heard to turn a lock behind him. A minute more, and this short, respectable figure came into sight at the end of the passage. Goldthorpe could not resist the opportunity thus offered. Affecting to turn a look of interest towards the nearest roof, he waited until the stranger was about to pass him, then, with civil greeting, ventured upon a question.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Can you tell me how these houses come to be in this neglected state?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>The stranger smiled; a soft, modest, deferential smile such as became his countenance, and spoke in a corresponding voice, which had a vaguely provincial accent.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018No wonder it surprises you, sir. I should be surprised myself. It comes of quarrels and lawsuits.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018So I supposed. Do you know who the property belongs to?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Well, yes, sir. The fact is\u2014it belongs to me.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>The avowal was made apologetically, and yet with a certain timid pride. Goldthorpe exhibited all the interest he felt. An idea had suddenly sprung up in his mind; he met the stranger\u2019s look, and spoke with the easy good-humour natural to him.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018It seems a great pity that houses should be standing empty like that. Are they quite uninhabitable? Couldn\u2019t one camp here during this fine summer weather? To tell you the truth, I\u2019m looking for a room\u2014as cheap a room as I can get. Could you let me one for the next three months?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>The stranger was astonished. He regarded the young man with an uneasy smile.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018You are joking, sir.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Not a bit of it. Is the thing quite impossible? Are all the rooms in too bad a state?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I won\u2019t say\u00a0<em>that<\/em>,\u2019 replied the other cautiously, still eyeing his interlocutor with surprised glances. \u2018The upper rooms are really not so bad\u2014that is to say, from a humble point of view. I\u2014I have been looking at them just now. You really mean, sir\u2014?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I\u2019m quite in earnest, I assure you,\u2019 cried Goldthorpe cheerily. \u2018You see I\u2019m tolerably well dressed still, but I\u2019ve precious little money, and I want to eke out the little I\u2019ve got for about three months. I\u2019m writing a book. I think I shall manage to sell it when it\u2019s done, but it\u2019ll take me about three months yet. I don\u2019t care what sort of place I live in, so long as it\u2019s quiet. Couldn\u2019t we come to terms?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>The listener\u2019s visage seemed to grow rounder in progressive astonishment; his eyes declared an emotion akin to awe; his little mouth shaped itself as if about to whistle.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018A book, sir? You are writing a book? You are a literary man?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Well, a beginner. I have poverty on my side, you see.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Why, it\u2019s like Dr. Johnson!\u2019 cried the other, his face glowing with interest. \u2018It\u2019s like Chatterton!\u2014though I\u2019m sure I hope you won\u2019t end like him, sir. It\u2019s like Goldsmith!\u2014indeed it is!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I\u2019ve got half Oliver\u2019s name, at all events,\u2019 laughed the young man. \u2018Mine is Goldthorpe.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018You don\u2019t say so, sir! What a strange coincidence! Mine, sir, is Spicer. I\u2014I don\u2019t know whether you\u2019d care to come into my garden? We might talk there\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n<p>In a minute or two they were standing amid the green jungle, which Goldthorpe viewed with delight. He declared it the most picturesque garden he had ever seen.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Why, there are potatoes growing there. And what are those things? Jerusalem artichokes? And look at that magnificent thistle; I never saw a finer thistle in my life! And poppies\u2014and marigolds\u2014and broad-beans\u2014and isn\u2019t that lettuce?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer was red with gratification.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I feel that something might be done with the garden, sir,\u2019 he said. \u2018The fact is, sir, I\u2019ve only lately come into this property, and I\u2019m sorry to say it\u2019ll only be mine for a little more than a year\u2014a year from next midsummer day, sir. There\u2019s the explanation of what you see. It\u2019s leasehold property, and the lease is just coming to its end. Five years ago, sir, an uncle of mine inherited the property from his brother. The houses were then in a very bad state, and only one of them let, and there had been lawsuits going on for a long time between the leaseholder and the ground-landlord\u2014I can\u2019t quite understand these matters, they\u2019re not at all in my line, sir; but at all events there were quarrels and lawsuits, and I\u2019m told one of the tenants was somehow mixed up in it. The fact is, my uncle wasn\u2019t a very well-to-do man, and perhaps he didn\u2019t feel able to repair the houses, especially as the lease was drawing to its end. Would you like to go in and have a look round?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>They entered by the back door, which admitted them to a little wash-house. The window was over-spun with cobwebs, thick, hoary; each corner of the ceiling was cobweb-packed; long, dusty filaments depended along the walls. Notwithstanding, Goldthorpe noticed that the house had a water-supply; the sink was wet, the tap above it looked new. This confirmed a suspicion in his mind, but he made no remark. They passed into the kitchen. Here again the work of the spider showed thick on every hand. The window, however, though uncleaned for years, had recently been opened; one knew that by the torn and ragged condition of the webs where the sashes joined. And lo! on the window-sill stood a plate, a cup and saucer, a knife, a fork, a spoon\u2014all of them manifestly new-washed. Goldthorpe affected not to see these objects; he averted his face to hide an involuntary smile.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I must light a candle,\u2019 said Mr. Spicer. \u2018The staircase is quite dark.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>A candle stood ready, with a box of matches, on the rusty cooking-stove. No fire had burned in the grate for many a long day; of that the visitor assured himself. Save the objects on the window-sill, no evidence of human occupation was discoverable. Having struck a light, Mr. Spicer advanced. In the front passage, on the stairs, on the landing, every angle and every projection had its drapery of cobwebs. The stuffy, musty air smelt of cobwebs; so, at all events, did Goldthorpe explain to himself a peculiar odour which he seemed never to have smelt. It was the same in the two rooms on the first floor. Through the boarded windows of that in front penetrated a few thin rays from the golden sky; they gleamed upon dust and web, on faded, torn wall-paper and a fireplace in ruins.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I shouldn\u2019t recommend you to take either of\u00a0<em>these<\/em>\u00a0rooms,\u2019 said Mr. Spicer, looking nervously at his companion. \u2018They really can\u2019t be called attractive.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Those on the top are healthier, no doubt,\u2019 was the young man\u2019s reply. \u2018I noticed that some of the window-glass is broken. That must have been good for airing.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer grew more and more nervous. He opened his little round mouth, very much like a fish gasping, but seemed unable to speak. Silently he led the way to the top story, still amid cobwebs; the atmosphere was certainly purer up here, and when they entered the first room they found themselves all at once in such a flood of glorious sunshine that Goldthorpe shouted with delight.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Ah, I could live here! Would it cost much to have panes put in? An old woman with a broom would do the rest.\u2019 He added in a moment, \u2018But the back windows are not broken, I think?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018No\u2014I think not\u2014I\u2014no\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer gasped and stammered. He stood holding the candle (its light invisible) so that the grease dripped steadily on his trousers.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Let\u2019s have a look at the other,\u2019 cried Goldthorpe. \u2018It gets the afternoon sun, no doubt. And one would have a view of the garden.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Stop, sir!\u2019 broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring. \u2018There\u2019s something I should like to tell you before you go into that room. I\u2014it\u2014the fact is, sir, that\u2014temporarily\u2014I am occupying it myself.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Spicer!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Not at all, sir! Don\u2019t mention it, sir. I have a reason\u2014it seemed to me\u2014I\u2019ve merely put in a bed and a table, sir, that\u2019s all\u2014a temporary arrangement.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Yes, yes; I quite understand. What could be more sensible? If the house were mine, I should do the same. What\u2019s the good of owning a house, and making no use of it?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Great was Mr. Spicer\u2019s satisfaction.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018See what it is, sir,\u2019 he exclaimed, \u2018to have to do with a literary man! You are large-minded, sir; you see things from an intellectual point of view. I can\u2019t tell you how it gratifies me, sir, to have made your acquaintance. Let us go into the back room.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>With nervous boldness he threw the door open. Goldthorpe, advancing respectfully, saw that Mr. Spicer had not exaggerated the simplicity of his arrangements. In a certain measure the room had been cleaned, but along the angle of walls and ceiling there still clung a good many cobwebs, and the state of the paper was deplorable. A blind hung at the window, but the floor had no carpet. In one corner stood a little camp bed, neatly made for the day; a table and a chair, of the cheapest species, occupied the middle of the floor, and on the hearth was an oil cooking-stove.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018It\u2019s wonderful how little one really wants,\u2019 remarked Mr. Spicer, \u2018at all events in weather such as this. I find that I get along here very well indeed. The only expense I had was for the water-supply. And really, sir, when one comes to think of it, the situation is pleasant. If one doesn\u2019t mind loneliness\u2014and it happens that I don\u2019t. I have my books, sir\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n<p>He opened the door of a cupboard containing several shelves. The first thing Goldthorpe\u2019s eye fell upon was the concertina; he saw also sundry articles of clothing, neatly disposed, a little crockery, and, ranged on the two top shelves, some thirty volumes, all of venerable aspect.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Literature, sir,\u2019 pursued Mr. Spicer modestly, \u2018has always been my comfort. I haven\u2019t had very much time for reading, but my motto, sir, has been\u00a0<em>nulla dies sine linea<\/em>.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>It appeared from his pronunciation that Mr. Spicer was no classical scholar, but he uttered the Latin words with infinite gusto, and timidly watched their effect upon the listener.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018This is delightful,\u2019 cried Mr. Goldthorpe. \u2018Will you let me have the front room? I could work here splendidly\u2014splendidly! What rent do you ask, Mr. Spicer?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Why really, sir, to tell you the truth I don\u2019t know what to say. Of course the windows must be seen to. The fact is, sir, if you felt disposed to do that at your own expense, and\u2014and to have the room cleaned, and\u2014and, let us say, to bear half the water-rate whilst you are here, why, really, I hardly feel justified in asking anything more.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>It was Goldthorpe\u2019s turn to be embarrassed, for, little as he was prepared to pay, he did not like to accept a stranger\u2019s generosity. They discussed the matter in detail, with the result that for the arrangement which Mr. Spicer had proposed there was substituted a weekly rent of two shillings, the lease extending over a period of three months. Goldthorpe was to live quite independently, asking nothing in the way of domestic service; moreover, he was requested to introduce no other person to the house, even as casual visitor. These conditions Mr. Spicer set forth, in a commercial hand, on a sheet of notepaper, and the agreement was solemnly signed by both contracting parties.<\/p>\n<p>On the way home to breakfast Goldthorpe reviewed his position now that he had taken this decisive step. It was plain that he must furnish his room with the articles which Mr. Spicer found indispensable, and this outlay, be as economical as he might, would tell upon the little capital which was to support him for three months. Indeed, when all had been done, and he found himself, four days later, dwelling on the top story of the house of cobwebs, a simple computation informed him that his total expenditure, after payment of rent, must not exceed fifteenpence a day. What matter? He was in the highest spirits, full of energy and hope. His landlord had been kind and helpful in all sorts of ways, helping him to clean the room, to remove his property from the old lodgings, to make purchases at the lowest possible rate, to establish himself as comfortably as circumstances permitted. And when, on the first morning of his tenancy, he was awakened by a brilliant sun, the young man had a sensation of comfort and satisfaction quite new in his experience; for he was really at home; the bed he slept on, the table he ate at and wrote upon, were his own possessions; he thought with pity of his lodging-house life, and felt a joyous assurance that here he would do better work than ever before.<\/p>\n<p>In less than a week Mr. Spicer and he were so friendly that they began to eat together, taking it in turns to prepare the meal. Now and then they walked in company, and every evening they sat smoking (very cheap tobacco) in the wild garden. Little by little Mr. Spicer revealed the facts of his history. He had begun life, in a midland town, as a chemist\u2019s errand-boy, and by steady perseverance, with a little pecuniary help from relatives, had at length risen to the position of chemist\u2019s assistant. For five-and-twenty years he practised such rigid economy that, having no one but himself to provide for, he began to foresee a possibility of passing his old age elsewhere than in the workhouse. Then befell the death of his uncle, which was to have important consequences for him. Mr. Spicer told the story of this exciting moment late one evening, when, kept indoors by rain, the companions sat together upstairs, one on each side of the rusty and empty fireplace.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018All my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, I\u2019ve thought what a delightful thing it must be to have a house of one\u2019s own. I mean, really of one\u2019s own; not only a rented house, but one in which you could live and die, feeling that no one had a right to turn you out. Often and often I\u2019ve dreamt of it, and tried to imagine what the feeling would be like. Not a large, fine house\u2014oh dear, no! I didn\u2019t care how small it might be; indeed, the smaller the better for a man of my sort. Well, then, you can imagine how it came upon me when I heard\u2014But let me tell you first that I hadn\u2019t seen my uncle for fifteen years or more. I had always thought him a well-to-do man, and I knew he wasn\u2019t married, but the truth is, it never came into my head that he might leave me something. Picture me, Mr. Goldthorpe\u2014you have imagination, sir\u2014standing behind the counter and thinking about nothing but business, when in comes a young gentleman\u2014I see him now\u2014and asks for Mr. Spicer. \u201cSpicer is my name, sir,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd you are the nephew,\u201d were his next words, \u201cof the late Mr. Isaac Spicer, of Clapham, London?\u201d That shook me, sir, I assure you it did, but I hope I behaved decently. The young gentleman went on to tell me that my uncle had left no will, and that I was believed to be his next-of-kin, and that if so, I inherited all his property, the principal part of which was three houses in London. Now try and think, Mr. Goldthorpe, what sort of state I was in after hearing that. You\u2019re an intellectual man, and you can enter into another\u2019s mind. Three houses! Well, sir, you know what houses those were. I came up to London at once (it was last autumn), and I saw my uncle\u2019s lawyer, and he told me all about the property, and I saw it for myself. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe! If ever a man suffered a bitter disappointment, sir!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>He ended on a little laugh, as if excusing himself for making so much of his story, and sat for a moment with head bowed.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Fate played you a nasty trick there,\u2019 said Goldthorpe. \u2018A knavish trick.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018One felt almost justified in using strong language, sir\u2014though I always avoid it on principle. However, I must tell you that the houses weren\u2019t all. Luckily there was a little money as well, and, putting it with my own savings, sir, I found it would yield me an income. When I say an income, I mean, of course, for a man in my position. Even when I have to go into lodgings, when my houses become the property of the ground-landlord\u2014to my mind, Mr. Goldthorpe, a very great injustice, but I don\u2019t set myself up against the law of the land\u2014I shall just be able to live. And that\u2019s no small blessing, sir, as I think you\u2019ll agree.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Rather! It\u2019s the height of human felicity, Mr. Spicer. I envy you vastly.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Well, sir, I\u2019m rather disposed to look at it in that light myself. My nature is not discontented, Mr. Goldthorpe. But, sir, if you could have seen me when the lawyer began to explain about the houses! I was absolutely ignorant of the leasehold system; and at first I really couldn\u2019t understand. The lawyer thought me a fool, I fear, sir. And when I came down here and saw the houses themselves! I\u2019m afraid, Mr. Goldthorpe, I\u2019m really afraid, sir, I was weak enough to shed a tear.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>They were sitting by the light of a very small lamp, which did not tend to cheerfulness.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Come,\u2019 cried Goldthorpe, \u2018after all, the houses are yours for a twelvemonth. Why shouldn\u2019t we both live on here all the time? It\u2019ll be a little breezy in winter, but we could have the fireplaces knocked into shape, and keep up good fires. When I\u2019ve sold my book I\u2019ll pay a higher rent, Mr. Spicer. I like the old house, upon my word I do! Come, let us have a tune before we go to bed.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Smiling and happy, Mr. Spicer fetched from the cupboard his concertina, and after the usual apology for what he called his \u2018imperfect mastery of the instrument,\u2019 sat down to play \u2018Home, Sweet Home.\u2019 He had played it for years, and evidently would never improve in his execution. After \u2018Home, Sweet Home\u2019 came \u2018The Bluebells of Scotland,\u2019 after that \u2018Annie Laurie\u2019; and Mr. Spicer\u2019s repertory was at an end. He talked of learning new pieces, but there was not the slightest hope of this achievement.<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer\u2019s mental development had ceased more than twenty years ago, when, after extreme efforts, he had attained the qualification of chemist\u2019s assistant. Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a true lover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during his own lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a little collection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer\u2019s cupboard. The authors represented in this library were either English classics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century. Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in a quotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet was Cowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron like some contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship\u2019s <a href=\"https:\/\/quizlit.org\/the-genius-of-kurt-vonnegut\">genius<\/a>, felt an abhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point of view, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had read very little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents. Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintance with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as if in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectual characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader of a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed his energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understand and enjoy his landlord\u2019s conversation, and the simple goodness of the man inspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along together remarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by the presence under his roof of one who\u2014as he was wont to say\u2014wielded the pen. The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact. He thought of all authors as struggling with poverty, and continued to cite eighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animating his zeal. Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the house with soundless footsteps. When invited into his tenant\u2019s room he had a reverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal table caused him to subdue his voice.<\/p>\n<p>The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe\u2019s novel steadily progressed. In London he had only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lest necessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he could not spare. The few letters which he received were addressed to a post-office\u2014impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting him to deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door had not been opened for years. The weather was perfect; a great deal of sunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under the roof. Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with a little gardening. He had discovered in the coal-hole an ancient fork, with one prong broken and the others rusting away. This implement served him in his slow, meditative attack on that part of the jungle which seemed to offer least resistance. He would work for a quarter of an hour, then, resting on his fork, contemplate the tangled mass of vegetation which he had succeeded in tearing up.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Our aim should be,\u2019 he said gravely, when Goldthorpe came to observe his progress, \u2018to clear the soil round about those vegetables and flowers which seem worth preserving. These broad-beans, for instance\u2014they seem to be a very fine sort. And the Jerusalem artichokes. I\u2019ve been making inquiry about the artichokes, and I\u2019m told they are not ready to eat till the autumn. The first frost is said to improve them. They\u2019re fine plants\u2014very fine plants.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Already the garden had supplied them with occasional food, but they had to confess that, for the most part, these wild vegetables lacked savour. The artichokes, now shooting up into a leafy grove, were the great hope of the future. It would be deplorable to quit the house before this tuber came to maturity.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018The worst of it is,\u2019 remarked Mr. Spicer one day, when he was perspiring freely, \u2018that I can\u2019t help thinking of how different it would be if this garden was really my own. The fact is, Mr. Goldthorpe, I can\u2019t put much heart into the work; no, I can\u2019t. The more I reflect, the more indignant I become. Really now, Mr. Goldthorpe, speaking as an intellectual man, as a man of imagination, could anything be more cruelly unjust than this leasehold system? I assure you, it keeps me awake at night; it really does.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>The tenor of his conversation proved that Mr. Spicer had no intention of leaving the house until he was legally obliged to do so. More than once he had an interview with his late uncle\u2019s solicitor, and each time he came back with melancholy brow. All the details of the story were now familiar to him; he knew all about the lawsuits which had ruined the property. Whenever he spoke of the ground-landlord, known to him only by name, it was with a severity such as he never permitted himself on any other subject. The ground-landlord was, to his mind, an embodiment of social injustice.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Never in my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, did I grudge any payment of money as I grudge the ground-rent of these houses. I feel it as robbery, sir, as sheer robbery, though the sum is so small. When, in my ignorance, the matter was first explained to me, I wondered why my uncle had continued to pay this rent, the houses being of no profit to him. But now I understand, Mr. Goldthorpe; the sense of possession is very sweet. Property\u2019s property, even when it\u2019s leasehold and in ruins. I grudge the ground-rent bitterly, but I feel, sir, that I couldn\u2019t bear to lose my houses until the fatal moment, when lose them I must.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>In August the thermometer began to mark high degrees. Goldthorpe found it necessary to dispense with coat and waistcoat when he was working, and at times a treacherous languor whispered to him of the delights of idleness. After one particularly hot day, he and his landlord smoked together in the dusking garden, both unusually silent. Mr. Spicer\u2019s eye dwelt upon the great heap of weeds which was resulting from his labour; an odour somewhat too poignant arose from it upon the close air. Goldthorpe, who had been rather headachy all day, was trying to think into perfect clearness the last chapters of his book, and found it difficult.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018You know,\u2019 he said all at once, with an impatient movement, \u2018we ought to be at the seaside.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018The seaside?\u2019 echoed his companion, in surprise. \u2018Ah, it\u2019s a long time since I saw the sea, Mr. Goldthorpe. Why, it must be\u2014yes, it is at least twenty years.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Really? I\u2019ve been there every year of my life till this. One gets into the way of thinking of luxuries as necessities. I tell you what it is. If I sell my book as soon as it\u2019s done, we\u2019ll have a few days somewhere on the south coast together.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer betrayed uneasiness.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I should like it much,\u2019 he murmured, \u2018but I fear, Mr. Goldthorpe, I greatly fear I can\u2019t afford it.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Oh, but I mean that you shall go with me as my guest! But for you, Mr.<br \/>Spicer, I might never have got my book written at all.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I feel it an honour, sir, I assure you, to have a literary man in my house,\u2019 was the genial reply. \u2018And you think the\u00a0<em>work<\/em>\u00a0will soon be finished, sir?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer always spoke of his tenant\u2019s novel as \u2018the work\u2019\u2014which on his lips had a very large and respectful sound.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018About a fortnight more,\u2019 answered Goldthorpe with grave intensity.<\/p>\n<p>The heat continued. As he lay awake before getting up, eager to finish his book, yet dreading the torrid temperature of his room, which made the brain sluggish and the hand slow, Goldthorpe saw how two or three energetic spiders had begun to spin webs once more at the corners of the ceiling; now and then he heard the long buzzing of a fly entangled in one of these webs. The same thing was happening in Mr. Spicer\u2019s chamber. It did not seem worth while to brush the new webs away.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018When you come to think of it, sir,\u2019 said the landlord, \u2018it\u2019s the spiders who are the real owners of these houses. When I go away, they\u2019ll be pulled down; they\u2019re not fit for human habitation. Only the spiders are really at home here, and the fact is, sir, I don\u2019t feel I have the right to disturb them. As a man of imagination, Mr. Goldthorpe, you\u2019ll understand my thoughts!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Only with a great effort was the novel finished. Goldthorpe had lost his appetite (not, perhaps, altogether a disadvantage), and he could not sleep; a slight fever seemed to be constantly upon him. But this work was a question of life and death to him, and he brought it to an end only a few days after the term he had set himself. The complete manuscript was exhibited to Mr. Spicer, who expressed his profound sense of the privilege. Then, without delay, Goldthorpe took it to the publishing house in which he had most hope.<\/p>\n<p>The young author could now do nothing but wait, and, under the circumstances, waiting meant torture. His money was all but exhausted; if he could not speedily sell the book, his position would be that of a mere pauper. Supported thus long by the artist\u2019s enthusiasm, he fell into despondency, saw the dark side of things. To be sure, his mother (a widow in narrow circumstances) had written pressing him to take a holiday \u2018at home,\u2019 but he dreaded the thought of going penniless to his mother\u2019s house, and there, perchance, receiving bad news about his book. An ugly feature of the situation was that he continued to feel anything but well; indeed, he felt sure that he was getting worse. At night he suffered severely; sleep had almost forsaken him. Hour after hour he lay listening to mysterious noises, strange crackings and creakings through the desolate house; sometimes he imagined the sound of footsteps in the bare rooms below; even hushed voices, from he knew not where, chilled his blood at midnight. Since crumbs had begun to lie about, mice were common; they scampered as if in revelry above the ceiling, and under the floor, and within the walls. Goldthorpe began to dislike this strange abode. He felt that under any circumstances it would be impossible for him to dwell here much longer.<\/p>\n<p>When his last coin was spent, and he had no choice but to pawn or sell something for a few days\u2019 subsistence, the manuscript came back upon his hands. It had been judged\u2014declined.<\/p>\n<p>That morning he felt seriously unwell. After making known the catastrophe to Mr. Spicer\u2014who was stricken voiceless\u2014he stood silent for a minute or two, then said with quiet resolve:<\/p>\n<p>\u2018It\u2019s all up. I\u2019ve no money, and I feel as if I were going to have an illness. I must say good-bye to you, old friend.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Mr. Goldthorpe!\u2019 exclaimed the other solemnly; \u2018I entreat you, sir, to do nothing rash! Take heart, sir! Think of Samuel Johnson, think of Goldsmith\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018The extent of my rashness, Mr. Spicer, will be to raise enough money on my watch to get down into Derbyshire. I must go home. If I don\u2019t, you\u2019ll have the pleasant job of taking me to a hospital.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Mr. Spicer insisted on lending him the small sum he needed. An hour or two later they were at St. Pancras Station, and before sunset Goldthorpe had found harbourage under his mother\u2019s roof. There he lay ill for more than a month, and convalescent for as long again. His doctor declared that he must have been living in some very unhealthy place, but the young man preferred to explain his illness by overwork. It seemed to him sheer ingratitude to throw blame on Mr. Spicer\u2019s house, where he had been so contented and worked so well until the hot days of latter August. Mr. Spicer himself wrote kind and odd little letters, giving an account of the garden, and earnestly hoping that his literary friend would be back in London to taste the Jerusalem artichokes. But Christmas came and went, and Goldthorpe was still at his mother\u2019s house.<\/p>\n<p>Meanwhile the manuscript had gone from publisher to publisher, and at length, on a day in January\u2014date ever memorable in Goldthorpe\u2019s life\u2014there arrived a short letter in which a certain firm dryly intimated their approval of the story offered them, and their willingness to purchase the copyright for a sum of fifty pounds. The next morning the triumphant author travelled to London. For two or three days a violent gale had been blowing, with much damage throughout the country; on his journey Goldthorpe saw many great trees lying prostrate, beaten, as though scornfully, by the cold rain which now descended in torrents. Arrived in town, he went to the house where he had lodged in the time of comparative prosperity, and there was lucky enough to find his old rooms vacant. On the morrow he called upon the gracious publishers, and after that, under a sky now become more gentle, he took his way towards the abode of Mr. Spicer.<\/p>\n<p>Eager to communicate the joyous news, glad in the prospect of seeing his simple-hearted friend, he went at a great pace up the ascending road. There were the three houses, looking drearier than ever in a faint gleam of winter sunshine. There were his old windows. But\u2014what had happened to the roof? He stood in astonishment and apprehension, for, just above the room where he had dwelt, the roof was an utter wreck, showing a great hole, as if something had fallen upon it with crushing weight. As indeed was the case; evidently the chimney-stack had come down, and doubtless in the recent gale. Seized with anxiety on Mr. Spicer\u2019s account, he ran round to the back of the garden and tried the door; but it was locked as usual. He strained to peer over the garden wall, but could discover nothing that threw light on his friend\u2019s fate; he noticed, however, a great grove of dead, brown artichoke stems, seven or eight feet high. Looking up at the back windows, he shouted Mr. Spicer\u2019s name; it was useless. Then, in serious alarm, he betook himself to the house on the other side of the passage, knocked at the door, and asked of the woman who presented herself whether anything was known of a gentleman who dwelt where the chimney-stack had just fallen. News was at once forthcoming; the event had obviously caused no small local excitement. It was two days since the falling of the chimney, which happened towards evening, when the gale blew its hardest. Mr. Spicer was at that moment sitting before the fire, and only by a miracle had he escaped destruction, for an immense weight of material came down through the rotten roof, and even broke a good deal of the flooring. Had the occupant been anywhere but close by the fireplace, he must have been crushed to a mummy; as it was, only a few bricks struck him, inflicting severe bruises on back and arms. But the shock had been serious. When his shouts from the window at length attracted attention and brought help, the poor man had to be carried downstairs, and in a thoroughly helpless state was removed to the nearest hospital.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Which room was he in?\u2019 inquired Goldthorpe. \u2018Back or front?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018In the front room. The back wasn\u2019t touched.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Musing on Mr. Spicer\u2019s bad luck\u2014for it seemed as if he had changed from the back to the front room just in order that the chimney might fall on him\u2014Goldthorpe hastened away to the hospital. He could not be admitted to-day, but heard that his friend was doing very well; on the morrow he would be allowed to see him.<\/p>\n<p>So at the visitors\u2019 hour Goldthorpe returned. Entering the long accident ward, he searched anxiously for the familiar face, and caught sight of it just as it began to beam recognition. Mr. Spicer was sitting up in bed; he looked pale and meagre, but not seriously ill; his voice quivered with delight as he greeted the young man.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018I heard of your inquiring for me yesterday, Mr. Goldthorpe, and I\u2019ve hardly been able to live for impatience to see you. How are you, sir? How are you? And what news about the\u00a0<em>work<\/em>, sir?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018We\u2019ll talk about that presently, Mr. Spicer. Tell me all about your accident. How came you to be in the front room?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Ah, sir,\u2019 replied the patient, with a little shake of the head, \u2018that indeed was singular. Only a few days before, I had made a removal from my room into yours. I call it yours, sir, for I always thought of it as yours; but thank heaven you were not there. Only a few days before. I took that step, Mr. Goldthorpe, for two reasons: first, because water was coming through the roof at the back in rather unpleasant quantities, and secondly, because I hoped to get a little morning sun in the front. The fact is, sir, my room had been just a little depressing. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe, if you knew how I have missed you, sir! But the\u00a0<em>work<\/em>\u2014what news of the\u00a0<em>work<\/em>?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>Smiling as though carelessly, the author made known his good fortune. For a quarter of an hour Mr. Spicer could talk of nothing else.<\/p>\n<p>\u2018This has completed my cure!\u2019 he kept repeating. \u2018The work was composed under my roof, my own roof, sir! Did I not tell you to take heart?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018And where are you going to live?\u2019 asked Goldthorpe presently. \u2018You can\u2019t go back to the old house.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Alas! no, sir. All my life I have dreamt of the joy of owning a house. You know how the dream was realised, Mr. Goldthorpe, and you see what has come of it at last. Probably it is a chastisement for overweening desires, sir. I should have remembered my position, and kept my wishes within bounds. But, Mr. Goldthorpe, I shall continue to cultivate the garden, sir. I shall put in spring lettuces, and radishes, and mustard and cress. The property is mine till midsummer day. You shall eat a lettuce of my growing, Mr. Goldthorpe; I am bent on that. And how I grieve that you were not with me at the time of the artichokes\u2014just at the moment when they were touched by the first frost!\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Ah! They were really good, Mr. Spicer?\u2019<\/p>\n<p>\u2018Sir, they seemed good to\u00a0<em>me<\/em>, very good. Just at the moment of the first frost!\u2019<\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading has-text-align-center\">George Gissing Books to Read<\/h2>\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<a href=\"https:\/\/amzn.to\/4erDlX9\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\"><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/amzn.to\/4erDlX9\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Buy on Amazon<\/a>\n<\/div>\n<p>If you enjoyed The House of Cobwebs by George Gissing, check out <a href=\"https:\/\/quizlit.org\/the-salt-of-the-earth-by-george-gissing\">The Salt of the Earth by George Gissing.<\/a><\/p>\n\n<p>Narrated by Kirsten Wever, courtesy of Librivox<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The House of Cobwebs by George Gissing is one of fifteen stories that make up the collection \u201cThe House of Cobwebs and Other Stories\u201d, published in 1906. This post may contain affiliate links that earn us a commission at no extra cost to you. The House of Cobwebs by George Gissing The House of Cobwebs [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":0,"featured_media":6577,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6576","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-bookreviews"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6576"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6576"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6576\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/6577"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6576"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=6576"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookloves.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=6576"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}