The bar was very much crowded last night, and the air was impregnated to
choking point with smoke and evil exhalations. The noisy times on
Saturdays come at 2 p.m., and from ten till closing time. In the
afternoon a few labourers fuddle themselves before they go home to
dinner, and there is a good deal of slavering incoherence to be heard.
From seven to eight in the evening the men drop in, and a vague murmur
begins; the murmur grows louder and more confused as time passes, and by
ten o'clock our company are in full cry, and all the pipes are in full
blast. When I stole quietly in, I thought the scene was hideous enough
in its dull way. The gas flared with drowsy refulgence through the reek,
and the low masks of the roaring crew somehow left on me an impression
that I was gazing on _one_ bestial, distorted face. A man who is a
racecourse thief and "ramper" hailed me affably. A beast of prey he is,
if ever there was one. His hatchet face with its piggish eyes, his thin,
cruel lips, his square jaw, are all murderous, and, indeed, I cannot
help thinking that he will commit a murder some day. When he is in his
affable mood he is very loathsome, but I cannot afford to loathe anyone,
and we smile and smile, though we dislike each other, and though the
Ramper hardly knows what to make of me. When I first made his
acquaintance we were on our way to a race meeting, and he proposed to
give me his company. Like all of his class, he knew many "certainties,"
and he offered, with engaging frankness, to put me in the way of
"gittin' a bit." The racing blackguard never talks of money; indeed, his
obliquity of mind prevents him from calling anything by its right name.
For him the world is divided between those who "have got it"--_it_ being
money--and those who mean to "get a bit" by any means, fair or foul. On
that day, long ago, this creature fancied that I had some money, and he
was determined, to rob me somehow. I let him imagine that he was
leading me on, for there is no luxury that I enjoy more than watching a
low, cunning rogue when he thinks he is arranging a successful swindle.
I was introduced to a thoroughly safe man. The safe man's face was
almost as villanous as that of my mentor, and his manners were, perhaps,
a little more offensive. Our first bet closed all transactions between
us; as I fully expected, I obtained a ridiculously liberal price, and I
_won_. On my proposing a settlement, the capitalist glared virtuously
and yelled with passion--which was also what I expected. Then came my
mentor, and softly remarked, "Don't go and queer his pitch. Here's a lot
on 'em a-comin', and they'll be all over you if you say a word. Wait
till he gits a bit and he'll pay." This was also what I expected. We
happened to be in an enclosed ground, so I managed to keep my eye on the
capitalist, and the unhappy being vainly strove to dodge away. Catching
him in the act of sneaking through the turnstile, I touched him gently,
and then beckoned to a policeman. No welsher can hope for admission to
one of the enclosed courses after he is once fairly caught, and my
victim whimpered, "Come in yere and 'ave a drink." Then he said, "Look
yere, I ain't got a bloomin' 'alf dollar but what I 'ad off o' you. I
walked down this mornin', and hadn't only the gate-money, and your pal
laid me on to you. Say nothin' this time. I ain't had no grub to-day.
Give us a chance. 'Twas your pal as put me on, mind. Brandy cold, if you
don't mind."
The ineffable impudence of the capitalist's request made it hard for me
to keep from laughing; I let him go, and I fear that he and the Ramper
made further attempts on the idiots who throng the Silver Ring.
That same evening Mr. Ramper made his last effort to practise on me. We
were straddling among a sporting group in The Chequers bar, when he
said, "Better settle over Dexter." "Dexter? What about Dexter?" "Didn't
you take Dexter agin' Folly?" "Not such a mug." Then the hound raised
his voice in the fashion of his tribe. "You goin' to welsh me, are you?
You don't mean to pay that ten bob? I'll 'ave it out of your bloomin'
liver!" All this was uttered in a yell which was intended to draw
attention, and the creak of the brute's voice made me inclined to dash
my fist in his vile face. But I only grinned and said "What a poor liar
you are."
The more the Ramper screeched, the more I laughed; he durst not strike,
and at last, when I reminded him that he had already divided a little
plunder with the capitalist, he grumbled a curse or two and lapsed into
affability. You cannot shame one of these beings, and the Ramper is now
on the most confidential terms with me. I am very glad we did not fight,
because he introduced me to one of the most interesting and estimable of
all my acquaintances. Said the Ramper, blowing his sickly breath into my
very ear, "There's a bloke yere as knows suthin' good for Lincoln. Up in
the corner there. Let's sit down." Within a minute I found myself
talking to a queer, battered man, who bent moodily over his glass of
gin and stole furtive glances at me with bleared, sullen eyes. His blood
was charged with bile, and he could not prevent the sudden muscular
twitchings of his hands. His knuckles were swollen, and his fingers were
twisted slightly. Evidently he was diseased to the very bone through
alcoholic excesses. He was dressed in a shiny overcoat, and his bony
shanks threatened to pierce his trousers. When he pushed back his rakish
greasy hat, he showed a remarkably fine forehead--well filled, strong,
square--but he had the weakest and most sensual mouth I ever saw. There
was scarcely a sign of a lower jaw, and the chin retreated sharply from
the lip to the emaciated neck.
My man spoke with a deep voice that contrasted oddly with his air of
debility, and I noticed that he not only had a good accent, but his
words were uttered with a deliberate attempt at formal and polished
elocution. We talked of horse-racing, and he mouthed out one speech
after another with a balanced kind of see-saw, which again and again ran
into blank verse. I said, "You have something good for Lincoln, I hear.
Any chance of being on?" He replied, "I heed no fairy tales or boasting
yarns. When a man says he has a certainty, I tell him to his face that
he's a liar. The ways of chance are far beyond our ken, and I can but
say that I try. Information I have. From Newmarket I receive daily
messages, and I have as much chance of being right as other men have;
but you know what the Bard says. Ah! what a student of human nature
that man was! What an intellect! In apprehension how like a god! You
know what he says of prophecy and chance? I only fire a bolt at a
venture, and if my venture don't come off, then I say, 'Pay up and look
pleasant.'"
The majestic roll of his speech was very funny, and he poured forth his
resonant periods as though I had been standing at a distance of twenty
yards. As the gin stirred his sluggish blood he became more and more
declamatory, and when at last he fairly yelled, "I am a gambler. I could
not brook life if I had no excitement. It is my very blood. Yet, think
not my words are false as dicers' oaths," and waved his right hand with
a lordly gesture, I thought, "An old actor, for certain." So long as his
senses remained he talked shrewdly about betting, and his remarks were
free from the mingled superstition and rascality which make ordinary
racing talk so odious; but when he began to drink rapidly he soon became
violent, and finished by carrying on like a madman. He shouted passages
from "Hamlet" and "Coriolanus" with ear-splitting fervour, and at last
he drew a universal protest from the rest of our crew, who are
certainly not sensitive. Then his yell grew maudlin. "Why did God make
me thus? Why do I grunt and sweat under the burden of a weary life? Give
me, ah, give me the days that are gone!" Then he fell alongside of the
bench, and presently his long, gurgling snore sounded fitfully. "Let him
sweat there till closing time; he'll be quiet enough," said Mr.
Landlord; and sure enough the orator lay until the hour had struck. He
shivered when he rose, and his knees were like to fail him. "Heavens!
what a mouth I've got!" he moaned, and I could see that the deadly,
bitter fur had already covered his palate. "Take a flask home, Billy,
and pull yourself together when you turn in." Billy grabbed fiercely at
the air. "These infernal flies have started early." The specks were
dancing before his eyes, and I fancy he had an ugly night before him;
but I didn't see him home.
THURSDAY.--I have found out a good deal about my stagy friend, and we
are quite confidential, especially late at night. He weeps plenteously
and recalls his own sins, but I think he is fairly truthful. A moving,
sordid history is his. Moralising is waste of time, but one might
almost moralise to the extent of boredom concerning the life of Billy
Devine, boozer, actor, betting-man.
Devine's peculiarly grandiose mode of telling his story was rather
effective at first hearing, but it would read like a burlesque, so I
translate his narrative into my own dialect. He was a quick, clever lad,
and the culture bestowed in a genteel academy was too narrow for him. He
read a great deal of romance, and still more poetry. He neglected his
school lessons, and he was dismissed after a few years as an incurable
scamp.
No sort of steady work suited Devine; his fatal lack of will was
supplemented by an eager vanity, and he was only happy when he was
attracting notice. Now that he is matured, he is gratified if he can
make drunken costermongers stare, so he must have been a very forward
creature when his conceit was in full blossom. He began by spouting
little recitations, and gradually practised until he could take his part
in amateur stage performances. As he put it, "I found that the majesty
of Coriolanus and the humour of Paul Pry were alike within my compass,
and I impartially included both these celebrated parts in my
_répertoire_." Nothing ever diverts a stage-struck youth from his fell
purpose unless he is absolutely pelted off the boards. Devine loathed
his office; he hated the sight of a business letter, and he finally
appeared in a wretched provincial booth, where he earned seven shillings
per week in good times: the restraints of respectability were to hamper
him no more. Through all his miserable wanderings I tracked him, for he
kept playbills, and each bill suggested some quaint or sordid memory. I
felt something like a lump in my throat when he said, "Now, dear friend,
at this place I played once the 'The Stranger' and 'The Idiot Witness,'
and for two days my comrade and I had nothing to eat. On one eventful
night we saw some refuse fish being wheeled off in a barrow, and we
begged leave to abstract a fish, which was--I say it without fear of
contradiction--the knobbiest and scaliest member of the finny tribe.
Sir, we tried to skin this animal and failed. Then we scraped him, and
the moving question arose, What about fire? Luckily the landlady had
left a lamp on the stairs. My inventive faculties were bestirred. The
LAMP! No sooner said than the fish was placed on the fire-shovel, and we
then took turns to move the shovel backwards and forwards over the lamp.
Regardless of that woman's loud inquiries about the smell, which was in
truth, sir, very overpowering, we pursued our joint labours until two in
the morning, and then the brute was only _half_ raw. One penknife was
our sole cutlery; but we managed to cut through the skin, and we
devoured the oily stuff like famished hounds, sir. We were ashamed; but,
as the poet truly observes, 'Necessity knows no law,' and we endured the
scurrilous language of the woman when, on the morrow, she found the
bottom of the shovel encrusted with dirt and the top thickly coated with
grease. That fish saved us, sir."
Little by little Devine worked his way towards London, and at length he
appeared in a West-end theatre. His reminiscences of the stars are
impressive, but we need not deal with them; it is enough to say that he
was successful--and in light comedy no less. About this time he began to
have his photograph taken very frequently, and the portraits made me
feel sad. This dull, sodden man was once a handsome fellow, alert, well
poised, brave and cheerful. The profile which I saw in the photographs
somehow made me think of an arrow-head on the upward flight; that, lower
jaw, which is now so flabby and slobbery was once well rounded, and the
weakness was not unpleasantly evident. I often wonder that human vanity
has not done away with alcoholism. Men are vain animals, yet a
good-looking fellow, who could never pass a mirror without stealing a
quiet look, will cheerfully go on drugging himself until every feature
is transformed. I have seen the process of facial degradation carried
through in so many cases that I can tell within a little how long a man
has been a drinker, and that with no other guide than the standard of
graduated depravity which is in my mind, and which I instinctively
consult. Devine must have been attractive to women, for they certainly
did their best to spoil him, if one may judge by the collection of faded
notes which he retains. He met his fate at last. A pretty, sentimental
girl fell in love with him, and pressed him to make an appointment with
her, so the dashing young actor arranged to meet the love-stricken
damsel at Hampton Court. The flowers of the chestnuts were splendid,
and the spirit of May was in the air. "I seem to see the same sunshine
and the same flowers very often, even when I'm too jumpy to know what is
going on all round," said the poor, battered man. The girl sobbed and
trembled. "I couldn't help it; I had to meet you, and, Oh, if father
knew, I believe he'd beat me." Devine found out that the lady was the
daughter of a very rich tradesman, and he was not by any means
displeased, for romantic actors have just as keen an eye to business as
other folk. Before the pleasant afternoon closed, he had gained
permission to call the truant Letty, and she primmed her rosy lips as he
taught her to say Will. Decidedly Mr. Devine was no laggard in love.
Indiscreet little Letty found means to steal away from home time after
time, and her stock of fibs must have been varied and extensive, for
three months passed before the inevitable catastrophe came.
"This is Aunt Lizer, is it?"
Devine and Miss Letty were walking in a secluded corner of Wimbledon
Common when a loud voice spoke thus. Letty screamed, and turned to face
a stout, red-faced man who stood glaring ominously.
Devine, after the approved stage fashion, said "May I ask the meaning of
this intrusion?"
"Meanin'! You talk about meanin' to John Billiter? See this stick? I'll
meanin' you! This is my daughter, and I'll thank you to tell me who
_you_ are." Need I say that Devine rose to the occasion? He recited to
me a portion of the reply which he made to the aggrieved parent, and I
can fully believe that that worthy man was surprised. "The Rivals," "The
Hunchback," "Romeo and Juliet," and other dramatic works were ransacked
for phrases, and the stately periods flowed on until Mr. Billiter
gasped, "Damn it, gal!--do you mean to say you've deceived your father
so you might git out along of a blanked lunatic?" This was too much.
Devine observed with majesty, "Sir, I can pardon much to the father of
the lady whom I love; but there are limits, sir. Beware!"
"You come along to the trap, you hussy; and as for you mister, let me
ketch you anywhere near our place and I'll turn the yard dog out on
you!"
Poor Letty was severely shut up at home. Her father questioned her much,
and when he heard at length that the flashy young man was an actor, he
gave one choking yell, and sat down in limp fashion. All the rest of the
day he muttered at intervals, "A hactor!" and pressed his hand to his
forehead with many groans. At night he went into Letty's room, and as he
gazed on the girl's worn face he said, "A hactor! The Billiters is done
for. Their goose is cooked!"
Devine fairly luxuriated in his desolation. I could tell from his mode
of dwelling on his woes that he had keenly enjoyed playing the forlorn
lover. As he told me of those sleepless nights spent long ago, and
rolled out his sonorous record of suffering, his watering eye gleamed
with pleasure, and I can well imagine how sorely he bored his friends
when he was young and his grief was at its most enjoyable height. But he
was no milksop, and he resolved that Mr. Billiter should not baulk him.
Where is the actor who does not delight in stratagems and mysteries?
Bless their honest hearts, they could not endure life without an
occasional plot or mystification! Two months after Letty's
incarceration, a decently-dressed man called at Mr. Billiter's with a
parcel. The visitor was clad in tweed; his smart whiskers were
dexterously trained and he looked like a natty draper's assistant.
"These things were ordered by post, and I wish Miss Billiter to select
her own patterns."
"Miss Billiter's with her aunt, and she don't see anyone at present."
"Then kindly hand in the parcel, and I will call in an hour."
That night Letty was restless. The sly little thing had managed to
deceive her aunt; but the problem of how to elude father was
troublesome.
William had an American engagement; he would have a fast horse ready
next evening at eight; Mr. Billiter would be summoned by a telegram;
then train to Southampton--licence--the mail to New York, and bliss for
ever! Letty must rush out like a truant schoolgirl--never mind about hat
or cloak; the escape _must_ be made, and then let those catch who can.
This was Devine's plan, and he carried it out with perfect nerve. A
fortnight afterwards the mail steamer was surging along in
mid-Atlantic, and the plucky actor was passing happy, idle days with his
wife.
* * * * *
Billy had the nerve of a man once, but he utters a kind of strangled
shriek now if a dog barks close to him, and he cannot lift his glass in
the mornings--he stoops to the counter and sucks his first mouthfuls
like a horse drinking, or he passes his handkerchief round his neck, and
draws his liquor gently up with the handkerchief to steady him. A long
way has Billy travelled since he was a merry young player. I shall say
more about him presently.