by Ruskin Bond
She had been Rochester’s mistress, and Rochester had been Otway’s patron in those days. Rochester had never forgiven him; he had turned upon him and written vile things about him:
‘But Apollo had seen his face on the stage
And prudently did not think fit to engage
The scum of a play-house for the prop of an age....’
But why should Rochester have worried? There was nothing to be jealous about. Rather, in his greatness, he should have pitied this youngling poet trapped in a terrible love. She had been so cruel, yet sometimes, briefly, contemptuously, she had been kind.
Nobody could act his noble Berenice so magnificently as Betty acted her. She had made Venice Preserved. In his self-pity now, Otway said that to himself; but he knew that the play was greater than the woman, and would live for countless centuries after she was no longer even dust. He would not confess that to himself, however. She had made him, he insisted, when in reality he had made her.
Hushed the pit, the gallants have stopped playing with their swords and noisily sucking their China oranges, the women have put down their fans on the ledges of the boxes; eyes heavy with dreams, glittering with tears through the vizard-holes, the women in the boxes listen to the magic he has written, that Betty cries upon the stage; even the coarse orange-girls have stilled their clatter and are weeping.
It was a great play, by God!
And he had sold the copyright to Tonson for fifteen pounds. What else could he have done? He had needed money, he had always needed money. It must be poured into the silken lap of Betty Barry or down his own ever-thirsty throat. She had tortured him, heaven curse her!
Powdered, and with a borrowed wig, he had called upon her: he had actually wasted money on a chair so that he would not muddy his shoes. Trembling like a soldier going to his first battle, he had tramped up the stairs to see her. Oh, hell, to remember her cold face, the drooping lids of her eyes, so bored, so languid, the scorn in her eyes under their contemptuous indifference; the scorn, O God, the scorn in her eyes!...
No one could pout like Betty Barry. May she die rotten in the gutter! No. God, please, he did not mean that. Who was he that he should demand love? Why should she love him? It was not her fault. But she loved nobody. She was incapable of loving anybody. That was the infuriating thing about her. If only he had had a rival his pain would have been less, having an object on which to concentrate. He could at least have fought the man and killed him.
That brought a sickly smile to Otway’s pale lips. He, fight! It was difficult to believe that this skeleton had once carried the muscles and flesh of a soldier, of a man triumphant in many a duel. There was Johnny Churchill. Churchill would probably be a great man now; he was not the kind to die starving in a garret. He had all the miserly rascality that made men wealthy and admired. Very likely he would become a lord or duke or something.
Otway had fought and beaten him. That had happened at the Duke’s Playhouse. Mean Churchill had beaten one of Orange Moll’s pretty girls. The poor wench had offended him somehow, mayhap charged him more than the customary sixpence for an orange, or had turned down his whispered promises. Otway never learned what started the trouble. All he saw was gross Churchill thrashing the wench with his fists. There had been a duel, and both were wounded; but Churchill was hurt far more dangerously than Otway. Boastful, lying, bullying Churchill. When Sir John Holmes told the King about the fight, Churchill called out Holmes, and had been beaten again.
It was difficult to realise that this skeleton on the bed had once been so devilishly clever with the sword. And he had fought as a soldier. Driven frantic by Betty Barry’s coldness, he had enlisted, and had been appointed lieutenant to Captain William Baggott in the Duke of Monmouth’s infantry regiment. He had gone to Flanders, only to find starvation. All his life he had starved, except for sudden bursts of wealth that was soon gone into the pocket of Mrs Barry or into the barrels of a wine-shop. He had crawled back from Flanders after the Peace of Nymegen with not a penny to his name, sick and hungry.
Ah! who would be a poet? Starved, hated, scorned. He couldn’t ask John Dryden for another loan. Dear, witty John! Otway smiled as he remembered how once he had chalked on Dryden’s door: ‘Here Dryden lives—a poet and a wit,’ and how Dryden had retorted by chalking on his door: ‘Here Otway lives—exactly opposite.’ No, he couldn’t ask John again. Not a week ago he had sent to sweet Nell Gwyn asking for a few guineas, only to find that she was in almost as poverty-stricken a state as he was himself. The world was a rotten world. Betty Barry was singing her way from trumph to triumph. She was not beautiful, but, O dear dear God, how he desired her! Even now as he lay without a pinch of fat under his skin, even as he lay barely able to move—that sorceress could still burn the blood in his veins and send it rushing to his poor weak heart.
He was very young—he was not far over thirty. He had drunken and had lived a vile, sinful life. He had crammed into those few years every experience that the world could offer, every experience except the one that he most desired—peace, in a woman’s arms. In Betty Barry’s arms there was no peace. Her candid eyes, her eyes gazing always beyond him, seeming to gaze inwards, narcissus-like, upon herself; she did not see Tom Otway in her arms, it was not his kisses that her cold lips felt. The incubus that was herself, the devil behind her eyes, was the one she loved. And who could blame her? She was so lovable....
What did she care if he died! She knew he was starving—of course she knew—but that brought no sob into her throat. She might even now be acting something of his—Don Carlos or Venice Preserved, some dream of her that he had webbed in words; he could see her, damn her: how well she acted! How genuinely she seemed to feel the pangs of his creation—this woman who cold feel nothing but love for her own self and the lust for money!
... Who was knocking on the door? ...
Betty! Would she come? Had her brutal soul been purified? Did she suddenly realise that she loved him? Was that her at the door? Was she coming to her starving poet with gifts of fruit and food to bring him back to health and to a life of love?
‘Betty!’
It was not Betty. The thin, gnarled face of the woman of the house peered at him from around the door; and he sank back, coughing, sick and tired.
The hag was talking. What was she saying? She wanted his bed, did she? Let her have the bed.
‘Have it,’ he muttered, ‘but get out.’
‘But, Master Otway, you’re a just man. How can I turn others off, others with silver and you with naught? It ain’t justice, Master Otway....’
‘I said, get out!’ He thought that he bellowed the words, but actually he whispered them. ‘I’ll go; I’ll not deprive anybody of anything by dying, I’ll die in the street, on stones that cost nothing.’
‘It ain’t justice, Master Otway....’
‘Get out; will you get out?’
He did not see her go. Suddenly he found himself alone in his attic, coughing, his body quivering under the sheets. He would not die on anybody’s charity, he would die in the streets.
It took a herculean effort for him to get out of bed. He tried to crawl out, and fell, panting, on to the dirty, sticky floor. He lay there a moment, twisted in the sheets, trying to recover his breath. Then he clambered up painfully, hauling himself up by gripping the broken shaft at the bed-head of what had once been a part of a four-poster.
He wore only his filthy yellow shirt, and his breeches were stuffed safely under the pillow so that nobody could steal them; they were all thieves in the house.
Putting his breeches on, he found, was the most difficult task he had ever known. Twice he fell. Altogether, it took fully half an hour, and left him exhausted, sweating, and shivering. Then his shoes—his stockings were long since worn to rags. Putting on his shoes was as difficult a task as putting on his breeches. Almost he gave up trying, but at last somehow he crammed his bony feet into them; he put on his patched, buttonless coat. He had no hat.
And thus, the poe
t Thomas Otway, the famous poet, the darling once of London, staggered down the stairs of a filthy sponging-house on Tower Hill, gaunt, unshaven, half-naked, and almost blind with hunger.
A poet! Yes, he had been a great poet, the friend of Dryden and Rochester. His Venice Preserved was a mighty tragedy; his comedies were brilliant satires. He was a great man, and he had not tasted food for weeks; he had not drunk anything but stale water; he was tired and sick and starved—this great poet, this poor, broken Tom Otway, broken with love for a woman who could not love.
Into the crowded streets of London he staggered, clinging to the walls like a beetle, while passers-by avoided him as if he were plague-struck; women who had wept at seeing his tragedies upon the stage now looked aghast, dry-eyed upon this greater tragedy; men who would have flinched at the sight of his drawn blade now wondered who the devil this filthy creature was. He scarcely saw them. Clinging to the wall, he lurched drunkenly down London streets.
It was a coffee-house that he stopped in front of Food was sold in there. Suddenly he realised the immense importance of food. He had forgotten that people lived by eating. That was all that was wrong with him. He hadn’t eaten. If he could eat, he would get well. Beef, the thought of beef, red beef brimming with blood, blood gushing on to the plate at the pressure of the knife—the very thought of beef was agonising.
He gazed stupidly around him, trying to focus the moving scene of people, of healthy people, fat people, their stomachs stretched with food; they seemed to purr with well-being, licking their chops like cats, healthy, stuffed with beef and vegetables.
One face out of the throng came towards him, blurred; someone was going into the coffee-house, someone he knew. He could not remember the name, but he knew the face.
Awkwardly he plucked at the man’s sleeve.
‘A shilling....’ he croaked. He had not meant to say that. He had not meant to say that. He had meant to be casual, to say boldly, ‘I know your face, sir; where have we met?’ and instead, his traitorous tongue had asked for a shilling.
‘Tom Otway! Good lord!’ said the man.
Something was pressed into Otway’s hand, something round and hard; and the stranger bolted into the coffee-house as if he had committed a murder. Otway gazed down blankly at the shilling in his hand and was puzzled to find that it was the wrong colour. He turned it over, rubbed it. Most peculiar! Had he stained it with his dirty palm? It was yellowish.
My God, it was a guinea!
Otway was so excited that he could not stand, and was forced to lean against the wall as if he had been hit. A guinea. A whole yellow golden guinea! With a guinea he could start again! He could have an enormous meal. Oysters, beef, wine.... He could borrow some clothes, hire a decent room, start all again, write marvellous tragedies, become a giant once more, become Thomas Otway, the hope of England’s drama. That man would be repaid a hundredfold. What a pity he couldn’t remember his name!
The bare sight of the money brought strength to Otway’s exhausted limbs. He actually chuckled as he rubbed the bright coin on his greasy coat. What would he eat? He could eat anything now. It was dangerous to eat too much at once. Men died from eating too much suddenly. And he couldn’t afford to die just yet, not now, when his new life was beginning. Fruit? No, that would give him the gripes. Oysters? Not substantial enough. Ho, ho, he would be great again!
Thought he was dead, did she? Thought he was dying, eh? She’d get the shock of her dirty life. He’d saunter into the pit and jeer at her. It cost half-a-crown to go into the pit, and of course, he would have to buy an orange. Three shillings! He’d better eat first.
What would he eat? Something small, something light, just to give his poor stomach a chance to get used to what was coming. Bread would be the safest, the most nourishing. A small roll; yes, a roll.
As if fate had carefully drawn him to the spot, he found that there was a cook-shop exactly opposite, on the other side of the street. He must be careful about that street. It wouldn’t do to get run over while he held life in his hand, life in the shape of a golden guinea. He must be careful. Now, now ... let that dray pass. Quick! He could just make it.
He lurched over, stumbled in the gutter in the middle of the road, and was brought up suddenly against the wall.
Tricked you that time, Fate!
He entered the shop. All food, food everywhere—cakes, pastries, bread. It dizzied him. The smell was intoxicating. What an enormously fat man the baker was!
Otway put on his most casual air and asked for a roll. To his horror and amazement he found that he could not speak, he could only gasp. His throat was so dry that he could barely swallow. He tried again—this time he croaked. It would never do, it was madness.
Pretending to be deaf and dumb, with a grandiloquent gesture he pointed to a pile of fresh-baked rolls, raised one finger and flung the guinea on to the counter.
Crisp the loaf felt in his hand; sweet indeed sounded the jingle of silver being counted out by a suddenly obsequious baker. Otway did not bother to count the change; he swept up the coins and flung them into his coat pocket.
It was a small loaf, and he turned it over; he smelt it, fingered it, and raised it for a nibble. But his mouth was not to be cheated with a nibble, his teeth seemed to fling themselves of their own accord on to the food; he tried to hold the roll back, but his mouth was determined.
It bolted the whole roll, every inch of it at a gulp.
The roll was a dry roll, a dreadfully dry roll. And there was no wetness in Otway’s parched mouth. He found he couldn’t breathe.... ‘Help, help!’ he choked.... He couldn’t breathe ... he was choking, choking ... ‘help....’
The air caught in the bread that seemed to swell like a sponge, pressing against the tendons. He tried to jab his finger down his throat, but his swollen tongue got in the way.
He fell. People ran to him, picked him up. He tried to tell them that he was choking, that the bread was choking him; but no words came.
‘A Bedlamite,’ said someone.
‘Don’t touch him, he might be mad, dangerous; he might bite.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Some poor wretch. God knows....’
There was not much fight left in poor Tom Otway’s emaciated body. The money rattled in his pocket as they turned him over, dead.
There was something about the bathroom that made the new tenant uneasy. Was it the depth of the bath tub or the nature of the bath water? Or was someone taking a bath with him?
THE BATH
BY E.H.W. MEYERSTEIN
‘Fine bath!’ said the landlord, showing me into a dingy cell, lighted by an oblong pane, from which one sad ray of winter sun fell on the object in question; ‘geyser and all. Don’t use it myself, prefer a hip-bath; but I get my hot water here’ (tapping the copper).
‘Fairly deep,’ I said, ‘for a flat of this kind. You didn’t put it in, I suppose.’
‘No, nor the last tenant neither. I only thought of coming to live here myself when Mrs Wilks went. I shall be sorry to quit now, but my spinster sister wants a man in her house at Wandsworth. I have been here a year now, at the end of next week.’
‘How long have you owned the flat?’
‘The flats,’ he said, ‘have been mine for four years, since Peace year. In fact, no complaints about any of them.’
‘This would have to be done up,’ I said, looking round.
‘For the matter of that all the rooms would. Miller, the plumber round the corner, won’t run you into a lot of money. You can get the paper and matting you spoke of through him, unless you want something out of the way. I don’t press you; I can find a tenant quick enough, though perhaps one prefers a gent like yourself, but that’s neither here nor there.’
He had taken me over the flat, leaving the bathroom to the last, query as a bonne bouche; the depth of the bath won me, as doubtless it had won Mrs Wilks. I closed with his offer a week later. It was a squalid quarter to live in, but some writing-men are inclined to welcome
squalor for its own sake. When one has small hopes of worldly success in one’s job, one prefers (as the landlord might say) to have small cheer about one, and, for my part, I can extract a very real delight from the howls of infants, whether in arms or not, back-door squabbles, and midnight cats; whereas, could I afford to lodge in a West End club, I should feel fit to perish of ennui in less than a fortnight. So long as one’s self is clean, dirt and decay are, in some measure, a solace to one’s pride.
I had next to no repairs done in the flat; most ready cash was spent on the bathroom. I flattered myself that the best seller living didn’t enjoy a deeper or whiter tub before breakfast; at least that was my feeling on the first day I used it.
On the second day I was more tamed to the nature of the bath. Clearly it was not one to splash about in, it was meant for thought and rest. Flannel, soap, and sponge might be very well for a cleansing purpose, but they were an insult to the broad surface of water in this bath. So it became my habit to cleanse myself quickly and, dropping these objects on the bath-mat, to lie back, with the water up to my chin, and give my fancies a free rein.
Oh, the novels I have thought out thus, without a movement of my head: chases by land and sea, battles, murders, and sudden deaths, ardours unheard of, kisses on a mountain top, villains swept down a crevasse! Contact of my body with a towel dispelled them, needless to say, but, like all great deeds, they were written in the brain.
My laundress (she was also employed in one of the Inns of Court, and liked to be styled so to tradesmen) would sometimes raise a warning finger, as I walked in to breakfast.
‘You’ll be drowned in that bath, I’m thinking, one of these days, sir, even if you don’t catch a bad chill. You were in forty minutes this morning; the water was stone cold when I went to turn it off.’
‘Very well,’ I would say; ‘give me a cold bath on Sunday’ I can’t recall the precise day on which I started hot baths of an evening, which had not been my custom since boyhood, but I fancy it was about six weeks before the end of last year (I moved in August 20); in any case, the motive was to feel warm when I got into bed. I had written a review for a budding journal—journals I write for are always nipped in the bud—and was glad to have freed myself from a duty which I had put off from day to day; my mood was matter-of-fact, rather than pensive, and any thought I had at the moment was for the body’s comfort. I switched on the light in the bathroom, turned taps, and put a match to the geyser; in ten minutes my bath was ready, and in I plunged.