The Orange Girl

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER III

  A WAY TO LIVE

  I think that Tom Shirley was the most good-natured man in the wholeworld: the most ready to do anything he could for anybody: alwayscheerful: always happy: partly, I suppose, because he looked ateverything through spectacles of imagination. He joined, however, to hispassion for music another which belonged to a lower world: namely, forpunch. Yet he was not an intemperate man: he showed neither purplecheeks, nor a double chin, nor a swollen neck, nor a rubicund nose--allof which were common sights on Change and in the streets of London. Thereason why he displayed no signs of drink was that he could seldomgratify his passion for punch by reason of his poverty, and that ineating, which, I believe, also contributes its share to the puffing outof the neck and the painting of the nose, such as may be seen on Change,he was always as moderate, although he thought every meal a feast, asbecame his slender means.

  I do not know how he got into the King's Bench, but the thing is so easythat one marvels that so many are able to keep out. They put him in andkept him there for a time, when he was enabled to obtain the privilegeof the Rules. He was, as he boasted, always rich, because he thought hewas rich. His wife took from him, every week, the whole of his wages,otherwise he would have given them away.

  At one o'clock Alice laid the cloth and we had dinner. Tom lifted theknife and fork and held it over the cold boiled beef as if fearing tomar that delicate dish by a false or clumsy cut. 'Is there anything,' hesaid, 'more delicious to the palate than cold boiled beef? It must becut delicately and with judgment--with judgment, Will.' He proceeded toexercise judgment. There was a cabbage on the table. 'This delicacy,' hesaid, 'is actually grown for us--for us--in the gardens of LambethMarsh. Remark the crispness of it: there is a solid heart for you: thereis colour: there is flavour.' All this was, I remember, the grossestflattery. 'Oat cake,' he said, breaking a piece. 'Some, I believe,prefer wheaten bread. They do wrong. Viands must not be judged by theircost but by their fitness to others on the table, and by the season.Remember, Will, that with cold boiled beef, oat cake is your onlyeating.' He poured out some beer into a glass and held it up to thelight. 'Watch the sparkles: hear the humming: strong October this'--itwas the most common small beer--'have a care, Will, have a care.' And soon, turning the simple meal into a banquet.

  His wife and sister received these extravagances without a smile. Theywere used to them. The latter, at least, believed that they were thesimple truth. The poor girl was innocently proud of her humble home,this cottage on St. George's Fields, within the Rules.

  After dinner, we talked. As the subject was Music Tom was somewhatcarried away; yet there was method in his madness.

  'I said, lad, that there would be no Art if there were no necessity.'Tis Poverty alone makes men became musicians and painters and poets.Where can you find a rich man who was ever a great artist? I am noscholar, but I have asked scholars this question, and they agree with methat riches destroy Art. Hardly may Dives become even a Connoisseur. Hemay become a general or a statesman: we do not take all from him: weleave him something--but not the best--that we keep for ourselves--wekeep Art for ourselves. As for a rich merchant becoming a musician or apainter--it is impossible: one laughs at the very thought.'

  'Well, that danger is gone, Tom, so far as I am concerned.'

  'Ay. The reason I take it, is that Art demands the whole man--not a bitof him--the whole man--all his soul, all his mind, all his thoughts, allhis strength. You must give all that to music, Will.'

  'I ask nothing better.'

  'Another reason is that Art raises a man's thoughts to a higher levelthan is wanted for Trade. It is impossible for a man's mind to soar orto sink according as he thinks of art or trade. You will remember, Will,for your comfort, that your mind is raised above the City.'

  'I will remember.'

  'Well, then, let us think about what is best to be done.'

  He pondered a little. Then he smiled.

  'Put pride in pocket, Will. Now what would you like?'

  'To write great music.'

  'A worthy ambition. It has been my own. It is not for me to say whethermy songs, which are nightly sung at the Dog and Duck, are great music ornot. Posterity may judge. Lad, it is one thing to love music--andanother thing to compose it. The latter is given to few: the former tomany. It may be that it is thy gift. But I know not. Meantime, we mustlive.'

  'I will do anything.'

  'Again--put pride in pocket. Now there is a riverside tavern atBermondsey. It is a place for sailors and their Dolls. A rough andcoarse place it is, at best. They want a fiddler from six o'clock tillten every night, and later on Saturdays.'

  I heard with a shiver. To play in a sailors' tavern! It was my father'sprophecy.

  'Everybody must begin, Will. What? A sailors' tavern is no place for theson of a City merchant, is it? But that is gone. Thou art now nobody'sson--a child of the gutter--the world is thine oyster--free of allties--with neither brother nor cousin to say thee nay. Lucky dog! What?We must make a beginning--I say--in the gutter.'

  His eyes twinkled and smiled, and I perceived without being told that hemeant to try my courage. So, with a rueful countenance and a foolishsense of shame, I consented to sit in the corner of a sanded room in acommon riverside tavern and to make music for common sailors and theirsweethearts.

  'Why,' said Tom, 'that is well. And now, my lad, remember. There are nobetter judges of a fiddle than sailors. They love their music as theylove their lobscouse, hot and strong and plenty. Give it elbow, Will.They are not for fine fingering or for cunning strokes and effects--theylike the tune to come out full and sweet. They will be thy masters. Asfor dancing, they like the time to be marked as well as the tune. Findout how they like to take it. There is one time for a hornpipe andanother for a jig. As for pay----'

  I will not complete the sentence. For such as myself there must be a Dayof Small Things. But one need not confess how very small these thingshave been.

  Thus it was that I found an Asylum--a City of Refuge--in the Rules ofthe King's Bench, when I was turned out by my own people. And in thisway I became that despised and contemptible object, a Common Fiddler. Iplayed, not without glory, every night, to a company as low as could befound. At least, I thought so at the time. Later on, it is true, I founda lower company still. And I dare say there are assemblies of men andwomen even lower. My fellows, at least, were honest, and theircompanions were, at least, what the men had made them.

  We settled the business that very afternoon, walking over to Bermondsey.The landlord said I was very young, but if I could fiddle he did notmind that, only it must be remembered in the pay. So I was engaged tobegin the next day. In the evening I went with Tom to the Dog and Duckwhere he played first fiddle in the Orchestra, and sat in themusicians' gallery. About this place more anon. At twelve o'clock themusic ceased and I walked home with Tom. I remember, it was then a fineclear night in September: the wind blew chill across the marshes: it hadcome up with the flow of the river: the moon was riding high: a strangeelation possessed my soul: for my independence was beginning: fourguineas in my pocket: and a place with so many shillings a week to liveupon: nothing to do but to work at music: and to live with thebest-hearted man in the whole world.

  We got home. Alice had gone to bed. Tom's wife was sitting up for us,the bowl of punch was ready for us, not too big a bowl, because Tom'sweakness where punch was concerned was well known. He drank my successin one glass: my future operas and oratorios in the second: my joyfulindependence in the third: and my happy release in the fourth. Thatfinished the bowl and we went to bed.