The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (61 page)

We rode on at daybreak. At the first large village I bid a little man cut Paddy’s hair, and although Paddy was all for killing the little man, and the little man twice ran away, the work was eventually done, for I stood over Paddy and threatened him. Afterward the little boys were not so anxious to hoot us through the streets, calling us Africans. For it must be recalled that at this time there was great curiosity in the provinces over the Africans, because it was known that in London people of fashion often had African servants; and although London cared nothing for the provinces, and the provinces cared nothing for London, still the rumour of the strange man interested the country clodhopper so greatly that he called Paddy an African on principle, in order that he might blow to his neighbours that he had seen the fascinating biped. There was no general understanding that the African was a man of black skin; it was only understood that he was a great marvel. Hence the urchins in these far-away villages often ran at the heels of Paddy’s horse, yelling.

In time the traffic on the highway became greatly thickened, and several times we thought we were entering London because of the large size and splendour of the towns to which we came. Paddy began to fear the people had been deceiving us as to the road, and that we had missed London entirely. But finally we came to a river with hundreds of boats upon it, and there was a magnificent bridge, and on the other bank was a roaring city, and through the fog the rain came down thick as the tears of the angels. “That’s London,” said I.

We rode out upon the bridge, all much interested, but somewhat fearful, for the noise of the city was terrible. But if it was terrible as we approached it, I hesitate to say what it was to us when we were once fairly in it. “Keep close to me,” I yelled to Paddy and Jem, and they were not unwilling. And so we rode into this pandemonium, not having the least idea where we were going.

As we progressed I soon saw what occasioned the major part of the noise. Many heavy carts thundered slowly through the narrow, echoing streets, bumping their way uproariously over a miserable pavement. Added to this, of course, were the shrill or hoarse shouts of the street vendors and the apprentices at the shop-doors. To the sky arose an odour almost insupportable, for it was new to us all.

The eaves of the houses streamed with so much water that the sidewalks were practically untenable, although here and there a hardy wayfarer strode on regardless of a drenched cloak, probably being too proud to take to the street. Once our travel was entirely blocked by a fight. A butcher in a bloody apron had dashed out of his shop and attacked the driver of a brewer’s sledge. A crowd gathered miraculously and cheered on this spectacle; women appeared at all the windows; urchins hooted; mongrel dogs barked. When the butcher had been worsted and chased back into his shop by the maddened brewer we were allowed to pursue our journey.

I must remark that neither of these men used aught but his hands. Mostly their fists were doubled, and they dealt each other sounding, swinging blows; but there was some hair-pulling, and when the brewer had the butcher down I believe the butcher tried to bite his opponent’s ear. However they were rather high-class for their condition. I found out later that at this time in the darker parts of London the knife was a favourite weapon of the English and was as rampant as ever it is in the black alleys of an Italian city. It was no good news for me, for the Irish had long been devoted to the cudgel.

When I wish for information I always prefer making the request to a gentleman. To have speech of a boor is well enough if he would not first study you over to find, if he can, why you want the information, and, after a prolonged pause, tell you wrong entirely. I perceived a young gentleman standing in under a porch and ogling a window on the opposite side of the way. “Sir,” said I, halting my horse close to him, “would you be so kind as to point to a stranger the way to a good inn?” He looked me full in the face, spat meaningly in the gutter, and, turning on his heel, walked away. And I will give oath he was not more than sixteen years old.

I sat stiff in the saddle; I felt my face going hot and cold. This new-feathered bird with a toy sword! But to save me, as it happened, from a preposterous quarrel with this infant, another man came along the sidewalk. He was an older man, with a grave mouth and a clean-cut jowl. I resolved to hail him. “And now my man,” said I under my breath, “if you are as bad as the other, by the mass, I’ll have a turnover here with you, London or no London.”

Then I addressed him. “Sir—” I began. But here a cart roared on my other side, and I sat with my mouth open, looking at him. He smiled a little, but waited courteously for the hideous din to cease. “Sir,” I was enabled to say at last, “would you be so kind as to point to a stranger the way to a good inn?” He scanned me quietly, in order, no doubt, to gain an idea what kind of inn would suit my condition. “Sir,” he answered, coming into the gutter and pointing, “’tis this way to Bishopsgate Street, and there you will see the sign of the ‘Pig and Turnip,’ where there is most pleasurable accommodation for man and beast, and an agreeable host.” He was a shop-keeper of the city of London, of the calm, steady breed that has made successive kings either love them or fearingly hate them, — the bone and the sinew of the great town.

I thanked him heartily, and we went on to the “Pig and Turnip.” As we clattered into the inn yard it was full of people mounting and dismounting, but there seemed a thousand stable-boys. A dozen flung themselves at my horse’s head. They quite lifted me out of the saddle in their great care that I should be put to no trouble. At the door of the inn a smirking landlord met me, bowing his head on the floor at every backward pace, and humbly beseeching me to tell how he could best serve me. I told him, and at once there was a most pretentious hubbub. Six or eight servants began to run hither and yon. I was delighted with my reception, but several days later I discovered they had mistaken me for a nobleman of Italy or France, and I was expected to pay extravagantly for graceful empty attentions rather than for sound food and warm beds.

This inn was so grand that I saw it would no longer do for Paddy and Jem to be sleeping in front of my fire like big dogs, so I nodded assent when the landlord asked if he should provide lodgings for my two servants. He packed them off somewhere, and I was left lonely in a great chamber. I had some fears having Paddy long out of my sight, but I assured myself that London had such terrors for him he would not dare any Irish mischief. I could trust Jem Bottles to be discreet, for he had learned discretion in a notable school.

Toward the close of the afternoon, the rain ceased, and, attiring myself for the street and going to the landlord, I desired him to tell me what interesting or amusing walk could now conveniently be taken by a gentleman who was a stranger to the sights of London. The man wagged his head in disapproval.

“‘Twill be dark presently, sir,” he answered, “and I would be an ill host if I did not dissuade a perfect stranger from venturing abroad in the streets of London of a night-time.”

“And is it as bad as that?” I cried, surprised.

“For strangers, yes,” said he. “For they be for ever wandering, and will not keep to the three or four streets which be as safe as the King’s palace. But if you wish, sir, I will provide one man with a lantern and staff to go before you, and another man with lantern and staff to follow. Then, with two more stout lads and your own servants, I would venture—”

“No, no!” I cried, “I will not head an army on a night march when I intended merely an evening stroll. But how, pray you, am I to be entertained otherwise than by going forth?”

The innkeeper smiled with something like pity.

“Sir, every night there meets here such a company of gay gentlemen, wits and poets, as would dazzle the world did it but hear one half of what they say over their pipes and their punch. I serve the distinguished company myself, for I dare trust nobody’s care in a matter so important to my house; and I assure you, sir, I have at times been so doubled with mirth there was no life in me. Why, sir, Mr. Fullbil himself comes here at times!”

“Does he, indeed?” I cried, although I never had heard of the illustrious man.

“Indeed and he does, sir,” answered the innkeeper, pleased at my quick appreciation of this matter. “And then there is goings on, I warrant me. Mr. Bobbs and the other gentlemen will be in spirits.”

“I never doubt you,” said I. “But is it possible for a private gentleman of no wit to gain admittance to this distinguished company?”

“Doth require a little managing, sir,” said he, full of meaning.

“Pray you manage it then,” said I, “for I have nought to do in London for at least two days, and I would be seeing these famous men with whose names my country rings.”

Early in the evening the innkeeper came to me, much pleased. “Sir, the gentlemen bid me bring you their compliments, and I am to say they would be happy to have a pleasure in the honour of your presence. Mr. Fullbil himself is in the chair to-night. You are very fortunate, sir.”

“I am,” said I. “Lead away, and let us hope to find the great Fullbil in high feather.”

The innkeeper led me down to a large room the door of which he had flung open with a flourish. “The furrin’ gentleman, may it please you, sirs,” he announced, and then retired.

The room was so full of smoke that at first I could see little, but soon enough I made out a long table bordered with smoking and drinking gentlemen. A hoarse voice, away at the head of the board, was growling some words which convulsed most of the gentlemen with laughter. Many candles burned dimly in the haze.

I stood for a moment, doubtful as to procedure, but a gentleman near the foot of the table suddenly arose and came toward me with great frankness and good nature. “Sir,” he whispered, so that he would not interrupt the growls at the farther end of the room, “it would give me pleasure if you would accept a chair near me.”

I could see that this good gentleman was moved solely by a desire to be kind to a stranger, and I, in another whisper, gave my thanks and assent to his plan. He placed me in a chair next his own. The voice was still growling from the head of the table.

Very quickly my eyes became accustomed to the smoke, especially after I was handed a filled clay pipe by my new and excellent friend. I began to study the room and the people in it. The room was panelled in new oak, and the chairs and table were all of new oak, well carved. It was the handsomest room I had ever been in.

Afterward I looked toward the growl. I saw a little old man in a chair much too big for him, and in a wig much too big for him. His head was bent forward until his sharp chin touched his breast, and out from under his darkling brows a pair of little eyes flashed angrily and arrogantly. All faces were turned toward him, and all ears were open to his growls. He was the king; it was Fullbil.

His speech was all addressed to one man, and I looked at the latter. He was a young man with a face both Roman and feminine; with that type of profile which is possessed by most of the popular actors in the reign of His Majesty of to-day. He had luxuriant hair, and, stung by the taunts of Fullbil, he constantly brushed it nervously from his brow while his sensitive mouth quivered with held-in retorts. He was Bobbs, the great dramatist.

And as Fullbil growled, it was a curiously mixed crowd which applauded and laughed. There were handsome lordlings from the very top of London cheek by cheek with sober men who seemed to have some intellectual occupation in life. The lordlings did the greater part of the sniggering. In the meantime everybody smoked hard and drank punch harder. During occasional short pauses in Fullbil’s remarks, gentlemen passed ecstatic comments one to another.—”Ah, this is indeed a mental feast!”—”Did ye ever hear him talk more wittily?”—”Not I, faith; he surpasses even himself!”—”Is it not a blessing to sit at table with such a master of learning and wit?”—”Ah, these are the times to live in!”

I thought it was now opportune to say something of the same kind to my amiable friend, and so I did it. “The old corpse seems to be saying a prayer,” I remarked. “Why don’t he sing it?”

My new friend looked at me, all agape, like a fish just over the side of the boat. “’Tis Fullbil, the great literary master—” he began; but at this moment Fullbil, having recovered from a slight fit of coughing, resumed his growls, and my friend subsided again into a worshipping listener.

For my part I could not follow completely the words of the great literary master, but I construed that he had pounced upon the drama of the time and was tearing its ears and eyes off.

At that time I knew little of the drama, having never read or seen a play in my life; but I was all for the drama on account of poor Bobbs, who kept chewing his lip and making nervous movements until Fullbil finished, a thing which I thought was not likely to happen before an early hour of the morning. But finish he did, and immediately Bobbs, much impassioned, brought his glass heavily down on the table in a demand for silence. I thought he would get little hearing, but, much to my surprise, I heard again the ecstatic murmur: “Ah, now, we shall hear Bobbs reply to Fullbil!”—”Are we not fortunate?”—”Faith, this will be over half London to-morrow!”

Bobbs waited until this murmur had passed away. Then he began, nailing an impressive forefinger to the table:

“Sir, you have been contending at some length that the puzzling situations which form the basis of our dramas of the day could not possibly occur in real life because five minutes of intelligent explanation between the persons concerned would destroy the silly mystery before anything at all could happen. Your originality, sir, is famous — need I say it? — and when I hear you champion this opinion in all its majesty of venerable age and general acceptance I feel stunned by the colossal imbecile strength of the whole proposition. Why, sir, you may recall all the mysterious murders which occurred in England since England had a name. The truth of them remains in unfathomable shadow. But, sir, any one of them could be cleared up in five minutes’ intelligent explanation. Pontius Pilate could have been saved his blunder by far, far, far less than five minutes of intelligent explanation. But — mark ye! — but who has ever heard five minutes of intelligent explanation? The complex interwoven mesh of life constantly, eternally, prevents people from giving intelligent explanations. You sit in the theatre, and you say to yourself: ‘Well, I could mount the stage, and in a short talk to these people I could anticipate a further continuation of the drama.’ Yes, you could; but you are an outsider. You have no relations with these characters. You arise like an angel. Nobody has been your enemy; nobody has been your mistress. You arise and give the five minutes’ intelligent explanation; bah! There is not a situation in life which does not need five minutes’ intelligent explanation; but it does not get it.”

It could now be seen that the old man Fullbil was simply aflame with a destructive reply, and even Bobbs paused under the spell of this anticipation of a gigantic answering. The literary master began very deliberately.

“My good friend Bobbs,” said he, “I see your nose gradually is turning red.”

The drama immediately pitched into oblivion. The room thundered with a great shout of laughter that went to the ceiling. I could see Bobbs making angry shouts against an invulnerable bank of uncontrolled merriment. And amid his victory old Fullbil sat with a vain smile on his cracked lips.

My excellent and adjacent friend turned to me in a burst of enthusiasm.

“And did you ever hear a thing so well turned? Ha, ha! ‘My good friend Bobbs,’ quoth he, ‘I see your nose gradually is turning red.’ Ha, ha, ha! By my King, I have seldom heard a wittier answer.”

“Bedad!” said I, somewhat bewildered, but resolved to appreciate the noted master of wit, “it stamped the drama down into the ground. Sure, never another play will be delivered in England after that tremendous overthrow.”

“Aye,” he rejoined, still shuddering with mirth, “I fail to see how the dramatists can survive it. It was like the wit of a new Shakespeare. It subsided Bobbs to nothing. I would not be surprised at all if Bobbs now entirely quit the writing of plays, since Fullbil’s words so closely hit his condition in the dramatic world. A dangerous dog is this Fullbil.”

“It reminds me of a story my father used to tell—” I began.

“Sir,” cried my new friend hastily, “I beg of you! May I, indeed, insist? Here we talk only of the very deepest matters.”

“Very good, sir,” I replied amiably. “I will appear better, no doubt, as a listener; but if my father was alive—”

“Sir,” beseeched my friend, “the great Fancher, the immortal critic, is about to speak.”

“Let him,” said I, still amiable.

A portly gentleman of middle age now addressed Bobbs amid a general and respectful silence.

“Sir,” he remarked, “your words concerning the great age of what I shall call the five-minutes-intelligent-explanation theory was first developed by the Chinese, and is contemporaneous, I believe, with their adoption of the custom of roasting their meat instead of eating it raw.”

“Sir, I am interested and instructed,” rejoined Bobbs.

Here old Fullbil let go two or three growls of scornful disapproval.

“Fancher,” said he, “my delight in your company is sometimes dimmed by my appreciation of your facilities for being entirely wrong. The great theory of which you speak so confidently, sir, was born no earlier than seven o’clock on the morning of this day. I was in my bed, sir; the maid had come in with my tea and toast. ‘Stop,’ said I, sternly. She stopped. And in those few moments of undisturbed reflection, sir, the thought came to life, the thought which you so falsely attribute to the Chinese, a savage tribe whose sole distinction is its ability to fly kites.”

After the murmurs of glee had died away, Fancher answered with spirit:

“Sir, that you are subject to periods of reflection I will not deny, I cannot deny. Nor can I say honourably that I give my support to our dramatic friend’s defence of his idea. But, sir, when you refer to the Chinese in terms which I cannot but regard as insulting, I am prepared, sir, to—”

There were loud cries of “Order! Order! Order!” The wrathful Fancher was pulled down into his chair by soothful friends and neighbours, to whom he gesticulated and cried out during the uproar.

I looked toward old Fullbil, expecting to see him disturbed, or annoyed, or angry. On the contrary he seemed pleased, as a little boy who had somehow created a row.

“The excellent Fancher,” said he, “the excellent Fancher is wroth. Let us proceed, gentlemen, to more friendly topics. You, now, Doctor Chord, with what new thing in chemics are you ready to astound us?”

The speech was addressed to a little man near me, who instantly blushed crimson, mopping his brow in much agitation, and looked at the table, unable for the moment to raise his eyes or speak a word.

“One of the greatest scientists of the time,” said my friend in my ear.

“Sir,” faltered the little man in his bashfulness, “that part of the discourse which related to the flying of kites has interested me greatly, and I am ready to contend that kites fly, not, as many say, through the influence of a demon or spirit which inhabits the materials, but through the pressure of the wind itself.”

Fancher, now himself again, said:

“I wish to ask the learned doctor whether he refers to Chinese kites?”

The little man hurriedly replied that he had not Chinese kites in his mind at all.

“Very good, then,” said the great critic. “Very good.”

“But, sir,” said Fullbil to little Chord, “how is it that kites may fly without the aid of demons or spirits, if they are made by man? For it is known, sir, that man may not move in the air without the aid of some devilish agency, and it is also known that he may not send aloft things formed of the gross materials of the earth. How, then, can these kites fly virtuously?”

There was a general murmur of approbation of Fullbil’s speech, and the little doctor cast down his eyes and blushed again, speechless.

It was a triumph for Fullbil, and he received the congratulations of his friends with his faint vain smile implying that it was really nothing, you know, and that he could have done it much better if he had thought that anybody was likely to heed it.