Most visitors to Brighton prefer the new pier; it is altogether a more
magnificent affair. It is in the fashionable town, for fashion will go
westward; it is larger, more commodious, more frequented. Go to the West
Pier when you will, there is always something to see; beautiful women,
pretty girls, fashionable belles promenade incessantly. There are times
when it is crowded, and there is even a difficulty in making room for
all who come. No wonder the elite of Brighton like the West Pier; it is
one of the most enjoyable spots in England; every luxury and comfort is
there; a good library, plenty of newspapers, elegant little shops,
excellent refreshment rooms, fine music; and then the lovely blue,
dimpling sea, the little boats with their white sails, like white-winged
birds on the water, the grand stretch of the waves, the blue sky
overhead, and the town, with its fine, tall houses shining in the
sunlight, the line of white cliff and the beach where the children are
at play. You go down to the wonderful jetty, which, to me, was one of
the most mysterious and romantic of places. There the water is of the
deepest, choicest emerald green, and it washes the wonderful net-work of
poles with a soft, lapping sound beautiful to hear. You can stand there
with only a rail between you and the green, deep water, watching the
fisher-boats out on the deep; watching, perhaps, the steamer with its
load of passengers, or looking over the wide sunlit waves,
dreaming--dreams born of the sea--out of the world; alone in the kingdom
of fancy; there is always something weird in the presence of deep,
silent, moving waters.
There is always plenty of life, gayety and fashion on the West Pier. It
is a famous place, not for love-making but for flirtation; a famous
place for studying human nature; a famous place for passing a pleasant
hour. You may often meet great celebrities on the West Pier; faces
familiar at the House of Lords, familiar at Court, familiar at the
opera, are to be seen there during the season; beautiful faces that have
grown pale and worn with the excitement of a London campaign, and here,
as they are bent thoughtfully over the green waters, the bracing air
brings sweet roses, the lines fade, the eyes brighten; there is no such
beautifier as a sea breeze, no bloom so radiant and charming as that
brought by the wind from the sea.
On the West Pier you will find all the beauty, rank and fashion of
Brighton; you will see costumes a ravir, dresses that are artistic and
elegant; you will see faces beautiful and well-known; you will hear a
charming ripple of conversation; you will witness many pleasant and
piquant adventures; but if you want to dream; if you want to give up
your whole heart and soul to the poetry of the sea; if you want to
listen to its voice and hear no other; if you want to shut yourself away
from the world; if you want to hear the music of the winds, their
whispers, their lullabies, their mad dashes, their frantic rages, you
must go to the Old Chain Pier. As a rule you will find few there, but
you may know they are a special few; you will see the grave, quiet face
of the thinker, who has chosen that spot because he does not want to be
disturbed by the frou-frou of ladies' dresses, or the music of their
happy voices; he wants to be alone with the sea and the wind.
It often happens that you find a pair of very happy lovers there--they
go to the side and lean over the railing as though their sole object in
life was to watch the rippling sea. Do not believe them, for you will
hear the murmur of two voices, and the theme is always "love." If you go
near them they look shyly at you, and in a few minutes move gently away.
Ah, happy lovers, make hay while the sun shines; it does not shine
always, even over the Chain Pier.
If you want to watch the waves, to hear their rolling music, if you want
to see the seagulls whirl in the blue ether, if you want to think, to
read, to be alone, to fill your mind with beautiful thoughts, go to the
Chain Pier at Brighton.
There is a jetty--an old-fashioned, weird place, where the green water
rushes swiftly and washes round the green wood, where there is always a
beautiful sound of the rising and falling of the sea; where you may sit
on one of the old-fashioned seats, seeing nothing but water and sky
around you, until you can fancy yourself out in the wide ocean; until
you can wrap your thoughts and your senses in the very mists of romance.
Time was when the Chain Pier at Brighton was one of the wonders of
England, and even now, with its picturesque chains and arches, I like it
better than any other.
I may as well tell the truth while I write of it. I know that if the
dead can rise from their graves I shall re-visit the Chain Pier at
Brighton. I spent one hour there--that was the hour of my life--one
madly happy, bewildering hour! I remember the plank of wood on which my
feet rested; I remember the railing, over which I heard the green, deep
water, with the white-sailed boat in the distance--sails like the white
wings of angels beckoning me away; the blue sky with the few fleecy
white clouds--the wash of the waters against the woodwork of the pier;
and I remember the face that looked down into mine--all Heaven lay in it
for me; the deep water, the blue sky, the handsome face, the measured
rhythms of the sea, the calm tones of the clear waves--are all mixed in
one dream. I cry out in anguish at times that Heaven may send me such
another, but it can never be! If the dead can return, I shall stand
once more where I stood then. I will not tell my story now, but rather
tell of the tragedy with which the Chain Pier at Brighton is associated
for evermore in my mind.
I had gone down to Brighton for my health, and I was staying at the most
comfortable and luxurious of hotels, "The Norfolk." It was the end of
September, and the only peculiarity of the month that I remember was
this: the nights grew dark very soon--they were not cold; the darkness
was rather that of soft thick gloom that spread over land and sea. No
one need ever feel dull in Brighton. If I could have liked billiards, or
cared for the theater, or enjoyed the brilliant shops on the crowded
pier, with its fine music, I might have been happy enough; but I was
miserable with this aching pain of regret and the chill desolation of a
terrible loss. I tried the Aquarium. If fishes could soothe the heart of
man, solace might be found there; but to my morbid fancy they looked at
me with wide open eyes of wonder--they knew the secrets of the sea--the
faint stir of life in the beautiful anemones had lost its interest. I
could not smile at the King Crabs; the reading tables and the music had
no interest for me; outwardly I was walking through the magnificent
halls of the Aquarium--inwardly my heart was beating to the mournful
rhythms of the sea. The clock had not struck seven when I came out, and
there lying before me was the Chain Pier.
I went there as naturally as the needle goes to the magnet. The moon
shone with a fitful light--at times it was bright as day--flooded the
sea with silver and showed the chain and the arches of the pier as
plainly as the sun could have done--showed the running of the
waves--they were busy that evening and came in fast--spreading out in
great sheets of white foam, and when the moonlight did touch the foam it
was beautiful to see.
But my lady moon was coquettish--every now and then she hid her face
behind a drifting cloud, then the soft, thick gloom fell again, and the
pier lay like a huge shadow--the very place, I thought, in which a
tortured heart could grow calm; there was only the wind and the sea,
nothing more. I would go to the spot where we two should stand together
never more. I fancied, as I paid for admission at the gate, that the
face of the person who received it expressed some surprise. It must have
seemed a strange taste; but--ah, me!--there had bloomed for me for one
short hour the flowers of paradise.
The thick, soft gloom was deeper on the pier. I remember that, as I
walked down, I heard from the church clocks the hour of eight. All along
the coast there was a line of light; the town was brilliantly lighted,
and when I looked across the waters the West Pier was in all its
radiance; the sound of the music floated over the waves to me, the light
of the colored lamps shone far and wide. I could see the moving mass of
people; here I was almost alone. I saw a gentleman smoking a cigar, I
saw the inevitable lovers, I saw an old man with an iron face, I saw two
young men, almost boys--what had brought them there I could not think.
I reached the pier-head, where the huge lamp had been lighted and shone
like a great brilliant jewel. I sat down; there was no greater pleasure
for me than an evening spent there. At first all was quite still; the
gentleman smoking his cigar walked up and down; the two youths, who had
evidently mistaken the nature of the pier, and considered themselves
greatly injured by the absence of music and company, went away; the old
man sat still for some time, then he left.
I was alone then with the smoker, who troubled himself very little about
me. The coquettish moon threw a wide, laughing gleam around, then
vanished. A whole pile of thick, dark clouds came up from the west and
hid her fair face--by them the thick, soft gloom had deepened into
darkness. I was far from expecting anything tragical as I sat there,
cold and desolate, lonely. As it was, the Chain Pier was more like home
to me than any other spot on earth, because of the one hour I had spent
there.
The wind began to freshen and blow coldly where I sat. I had no motive
in changing my seat, except to escape the sharpness of the breeze. I
crossed to the other side, where the white line of cliffs lay--away from
the brilliant lights of the west pier, hidden behind the wooden
structure erected to shelter those on the pier. I gave myself up to my
dreams.
I cannot tell how it was, but to-night many ghostly stories that I had
read about piers came to my mind. For instance, now, how easy it would
be for any man to steal up to me through the thick, soft, shadowy mist,
and murder me before I had time even to utter a cry, I might be thrown
over into the sea.
Then I said to myself, what a foolish thought! I was close to many
people, such a murder was quite impossible. Yet I was foolish enough to
turn my head and try to peer through the darkness to see if any one was
near.
The tall, slender figure of a woman dressed in a dark cloak was slowly
walking up the middle of the pier. She could not see me, but I saw
her--plainly, distinctly. I noticed the grace of her movements, her
grand carriage. She was closely veiled, so that I could not see her
face. But, unless I was much mistaken, she carried a bundle of something
held tightly under her arm.