Several racing men have warned me against the Wanderer, in their
peculiarly friendly way. They want me to bet with _them_. But I like the
Bohemian, the blackleg, better than I do better men. Moreover, though I
am carefully informed that he is a blackleg, I find him honest. His
story has long been hanging in my mind, and we may as well take it at
once.
Devine's runaway match turned out well for a time. When old Mr. Billiter
came home and heard what had happened he fell in a fit, and, on his
recovery, he went about for a long time moaning, "We'll never hold up
our heads no more." His friends thought he would lose his reason, for he
would stop people in the street, and say, "Have you a daughter? Kill
her, if you care for her. Mine's gone off with a hactor." But the young
couple were happy enough in reality, and Devine took the fancy of the
New Yorkers to such a degree that his engagement was extended over three
years. Letty Devine led a gay, careless life; her husband had plenty of
money, and she was introduced to pleasures that made the frowsy life of
home seem very repulsive. Devine was kind to her, and continued to play
the lover in his pompous style. She was proud of her man, too. He played
Claude Melnotte for his benefit once, and she longed to say to the
ladies in the theatre, "He belongs to me. How could she help being
fascinated with him? Where could you find such another princely being?"
She felt a lump in her throat when the great house rose at her William,
and the more so since she knew that her praise was more to him than all
the clamour of the theatre. Devine had begun by fortune-hunting, and
ended by loving his wife, though she did not bring him a penny.
Those were merry days in New York. Champagne was plentiful as water, and
William Devine often came home in a very lively condition, but his wife
did not mind, for she thought that a man must have his glass. Women of
the lower and middle classes have a great deal to do with supplying
customers to the public-house. Some of them drive their men there by
nagging, but more of them lead a man on to drink by sheer indulgence.
They encourage him to enjoy himself without thinking of the day when
enjoyment will be impossible, and when they and their children will
reach the lowermost rung of the ladder of shame and penury. The Wanderer
went merrily on his way, but his vice was steadily gaining on him, and
his nerve was going. He took a long engagement for an Australian tour,
and carried on very loosely all the while; but Letty saw no change.
Women never do until the very worst has happened. When Devine came to
England he was eagerly looked after, and he should have fared well. For
a time he had engagements and money in plenty, but a subtle change was
taking place in him, and managers and audiences saw it, though they
could not say precisely where the deterioration had taken place.
There is a certain sporting set of theatrical men who are very dangerous
companions. Their daily work is exciting, and when they want change
they often gamble, because that is the only form of excitement which is
keener than the stir and tumult of the theatre. When Devine won three
hundred pounds on one Derby he was a lost man. He pitted his wits
against the bookmakers'; he took to loafing about with those flash,
cunning fellows who appear to spend their mornings in bars and their
evenings in music-halls; he lost his ambition, and he began to lead a
double life. In the end he took to presenting himself at the theatre in
various stages of drunkenness, and on one unlucky night he practically
settled his own fate by falling down on the stage after he had blundered
over his lines a dozen times. The public saw little of him after that,
for he had not the power of Kean, or Cooke, or Brooke.
They all go the same way when they slip as Devine did. You can meet them
on the roads, in common lodging-houses, in the workhouse. The residuum
is constantly recruited from the "comfortable" classes, and, out of
thousands of cases, I never knew half-a-dozen in which the cause was not
drink. I blame nobody. A drunkard is always selfish--the most selfish of
created beings--and his flashes of generosity are symptoms of disease.
If he lives to be cured of his vice his selfishness disappears, and he
is another man; but so long as he is mastered by the craving, all things
on earth are blotted out for him saving his own miserable personality.
So far does the disease of egotism go, that it is impossible to find a
drunkard who can so much as listen to another person; he is inexorably
impelled to utter forth _his_ views with more or less incoherence.
Devine, the tender husband, the kind father, became a mere slinker, a
haunter of tap-rooms, a weed. Sometimes he was lucky enough to win a
pound or two on a race, and that was his only means of support. The
children were ragged; Letty tried to live on tea and bread, but the lack
of food soon brought her low, and from sheer weakness she became a
pitiful slattern.
Mr. Billiter was informed that a woman "like a beggar" wanted to see him
particularly. He was about to order her off at first, but he finished by
going to the door, and the beggar-woman went on her knees to him. He
trembled; then he fairly lifted the poor soul up in his arms and sobbed
hard. "My gal, my pooty as was. My little gal. To think as you never
come before you was like this. I've bin dead since you was away. My 'art
was dead, my little gal. And you're goin' away no more, never no more,
with no hactors. Sit down. Give me that shawl. Lord bless me, it's a
dish clout! And your neck's like a chicken's, and your breasts is all
flat, as was round as could be. O me!"
But the good fellow's moanings soon fell on deaf ears, for Letty
fainted. When she came round, the servants fed her, and she began to cry
for the children. "Children if you like, but never him," said Billiter;
and he at once drove off to bring his darling's ragged little ones home.
Devine was snoring on the floor when the old tradesman entered the
lodging. There was no fire, no furniture, no food, and the half-naked
children were huddled together for warmth. The youngest two screamed
when a rough man came in, for they thought it was the brokers once more.
Billiter sent the eldest out for a candle, which he stuck in an empty
gin-bottle. He looked at the snoring drunkard, and gave him a
contemptuous push with his foot; but the one little boy screamed, "You
not touch my dada, you bad man!" and the old fellow was instantly
ashamed. He said, "Now, my little dears, I want you to come to your
mamma. She sent me for you. We'll all go away in a warm carriage, and
you'll have something warm and nice to eat. Put the youngsters' clothes
on, my gal."
"We've none of us got any clothes, sir."
"My God! Here, you sir--wake up. Sit against the wall. Do you see me?
I've got your wife at home, and I'm going to take these kids. You'll
hear from me to-morrow."
"Devine finally woke just before the public-houses closed. He staggered
out, and, after his first drink, the memory of what had passed flashed
back on him. He felt in his pockets. Yes! He had some money--a good deal
as it happened, for he had put five shillings on a horse at 33 to 1.
"Pull yourself together, Billy," he muttered. "You must have a warm bed
to-night, and face it out to-morrow. One more drink, and I'll have my
bed here."
In the morning he felt wretched, but when he had regained his nerve by
the usual method he acted like a man. First he wrote a letter to his
wife. (I saw the yellow old copy of it.)
"Dearest,--I had a bit of luck yesterday, and took too much on the
strength of it. I was carried home from this house, and I could not
speak to Lily or any of them. I deserve to lose you, and I will never
ask you to come back unless there is no fear of more misery. But this I
will do. I intend to maintain my own children, if I go and sell matches.
I won eight pounds odd yesterday. I squandered one pound, I keep two to
make a fresh start, and you have the rest. While this heart shall
beat--yes, while memory holds her seat, as the poet says, you are dear
to me. Once more, in the poet's words, I grapple you to my soul with
hoops of steel. What has come over me I do not know, and when I wake to
the fact of my degradation I go madly to the drink again. But I will
try, and I implore your forgiveness. I cannot hope to see you often, and
it is better that I should not, for I am worthless. But think of me,
and, if I fall again and again, believe me that I shall go on striving
to do better.--Until death, I am your loving, W. DEVINE."
"We don't want none of his 'oss-racin' money. Send it back, my gal,"
growled old Billiter when he saw this letter. But the poor woman would
not hurt her husband.
Devine found all respectable employments closed to him, and he was often
in desperate straits; but he would always contrive to send something, if
it were only a half-crown, toward the support of his children. When he
reached the Nadir of shabbiness, he touted in Piccadilly among the cabs,
and picked up a few coppers in that way. For days he could abstain from
drink, but that curse never left him, and he broke down again and again,
only to repent and strive more fervently than ever. Alas! how weak we
are. Surely we should help each other. I am often tempted to forget
there is evil in the world. There are moments when I can almost pardon
myself, but that is too hard. Devine said he could not see Letty often.
He only saw her once more. She was ailing and weakly, and one day she
put her arms round her father's neck, and whispered to him. He started,
and growled, "All right, my gal; I deny you nothin'. Only I'll go out of
the 'ouse before he comes."
So William Devine was summoned, and he found his wife propped up in bed.
Her hands were frail, and the bones of her arms stood out sharply. The
man was choking, Letty made an effort, lifted her arms, and drew him
down to her with an ineffable gesture of tenderness. "Oh, Will, I'm glad
you've come. How happy we were--how happy! I forget everything but
that." Devine could not speak for a while. Letty said:
"You'll always be near the children, won't you?"
"So help me God! I'll give up my life to them."
Then the doctor came, and the Wanderer saw his stricken wife no more.
Devine bore many hardships before he was able to claim his children, and
even when he had rigged up a house fit to shelter them he was vigorously
opposed by old Billiter. But he got his own way, and Letty's children
joined their father.
And now I must speak of a strange thing. The room which the Wanderer
occupies is bare of every comfort. When we sit together we rest our
glasses on the mantelpiece (for there is no table), and our feet are on
the boards. But one night Devine said, "Come up and see my pets in
bed." The young people were disposed in two absolutely comfortable
rooms. Everything was neat and clean, and there were signs even of
luxury. "How is this? Squalor below, comfort here," I thought. A little
girl who was awake said, "Kiss me, papa, dear." Her nightgown was white
and pretty. All the clothes that lay around were good. "Now, see the
children's room," said my seedy host. "They live _there_." And, behold!
a perfectly comfortable place, fitted up with strong, good furniture.
When we went down, the Wanderer helped himself from my flask. Then, with
majesty, he observed, "You marvel to see me so shabby? Sir, you must
know that I wear my clothes till they are falling to pieces. I deny
myself everything but the booze, and I never start on that till I've
handed my daughter--bless her!--the best part of the money. I made a
promise to a saint, sir. I couldn't drop the liquor. It's my master, so
I fight as long as I can and get better as soon as possible after it's
over. I'm wrong to give way and spend money on it. I can't help myself.
But I give all but my drink-money to them. Sir, I am content to meet
the scoffs of respectability; I think only of my children in my sober
moments. On the racecourse I'm a gambler, I'm a blackleg (if you believe
all you hear); but when the horses are passing the post and all the
people are mad, I am quite quiet. I pray sir, to win; but I only pray
because my children's faces are before me. Yes, sir, take away the drink
and give me a chance of honest work and I might nearly be a good man."
The fellow's face grew almost youthful as he spouted, and I thought,
"That little girl upstairs is very young. Her father is not an old man
after all." Old he looks--battered, scared, frail; but he has a young
heart. What a compound! The more I meditate, the more I am convinced
that we shall have to invent a new morality. The standards whereby we
judge men are far too rigid. Who shall say that Devine is bad? He is a
victim to the disease of alcoholism, and his disease brings with it fits
of selfishness. But there is another Devine--the real man--who is
neither diseased nor selfish; and both are labelled as disreputable.
When next I see poor Billy on the floor after his yelling fit I shall
think of him in a friendly way. More than ever I am convinced by his
fate that all the high-flying legislation, all the preaching of
morality, all pulpit abstractions count for nothing. The best men must
try by strenuous individual exertions to combat the subtle curse which
has converted the good, generous Billy Devine into a mean debauché. I am
out of it. I smoke with Billy, I clink glasses with Billy, I laugh at
Billy's declamations, and I am often muddled when I leave Billy in the
morning. He illustrates sordidly a chapter of England's history. I wish
he didn't.