Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The innkeeper led me down to a large room the door of which he had flung open with a flourish. “The furrin’ gentleman, may it please you, sirs,” he announced, and then retired.

  The room was so full of smoke that at first I could see little, but soon enough I made out a long table bordered with smoking and drinking gentlemen. A hoarse voice, away at the head of the board, was growling some words which convulsed most of the gentlemen with laughter. Many candles burned dimly in the haze.

  I stood for a moment, doubtful as to procedure, but a gentleman near the foot of the table suddenly arose and came toward me with great frankness and good nature. “Sir,” he whispered, so that he would not interrupt the growls at the farther end of the room, “it would give me pleasure if you would accept a chair near me.”

  I could see that this good gentleman was moved solely by a desire to be kind to a stranger, and I, in another whisper, gave my thanks and assent to his plan. He placed me in a chair next his own. The voice was still growling from the head of the table.

  Very quickly my eyes became accustomed to the smoke, especially after I was handed a filled clay pipe by my new and excellent friend. I began to study the room and the people in it. The room was panelled in new oak, and the chairs and table were all of new oak, well carved. It was the handsomest room I had ever been in.

  Afterward I looked toward the growl. I saw a little old man in a chair much too big for him, and in a wig much too big for him. His head was bent forward until his sharp chin touched his breast, and out from under his darkling brows a pair of little eyes flashed angrily and arrogantly. All faces were turned toward him, and all ears were open to his growls. He was the king; it was Fullbil.

  His speech was all addressed to one man, and I looked at the latter. He was a young man with a face both Roman and feminine; with that type of profile which is possessed by most of the popular actors in the reign of His Majesty of to-day. He had luxuriant hair, and, stung by the taunts of Fullbil, he constantly brushed it nervously from his brow while his sensitive mouth quivered with held-in retorts. He was Bobbs, the great dramatist.

  And as Fullbil growled, it was a curiously mixed crowd which applauded and laughed. There were handsome lordlings from the very top of London cheek by cheek with sober men who seemed to have some intellectual occupation in life. The lordlings did the greater part of the sniggering. In the meantime everybody smoked hard and drank punch harder. During occasional short pauses in Fullbil’s remarks, gentlemen passed ecstatic comments one to another.—”Ah, this is indeed a mental feast!”—”Did ye ever hear him talk more wittily?”—”Not I, faith; he surpasses even himself!”—”Is it not a blessing to sit at table with such a master of learning and wit?”—”Ah, these are the times to live in!”

  I thought it was now opportune to say something of the same kind to my amiable friend, and so I did it. “The old corpse seems to be saying a prayer,” I remarked. “Why don’t he sing it?”

  My new friend looked at me, all agape, like a fish just over the side of the boat. “’Tis Fullbil, the great literary master—” he began; but at this moment Fullbil, having recovered from a slight fit of coughing, resumed his growls, and my friend subsided again into a worshipping listener.

  For my part I could not follow completely the words of the great literary master, but I construed that he had pounced upon the drama of the time and was tearing its ears and eyes off.

  At that time I knew little of the drama, having never read or seen a play in my life; but I was all for the drama on account of poor Bobbs, who kept chewing his lip and making nervous movements until Fullbil finished, a thing which I thought was not likely to happen before an early hour of the morning. But finish he did, and immediately Bobbs, much impassioned, brought his glass heavily down on the table in a demand for silence. I thought he would get little hearing, but, much to my surprise, I heard again the ecstatic murmur: “Ah, now, we shall hear Bobbs reply to Fullbil!”—”Are we not fortunate?”—”Faith, this will be over half London to-morrow!”

  Bobbs waited until this murmur had passed away. Then he began, nailing an impressive forefinger to the table:

  “Sir, you have been contending at some length that the puzzling situations which form the basis of our dramas of the day could not possibly occur in real life because five minutes of intelligent explanation between the persons concerned would destroy the silly mystery before anything at all could happen. Your originality, sir, is famous — need I say it? — and when I hear you champion this opinion in all its majesty of venerable age and general acceptance I feel stunned by the colossal imbecile strength of the whole proposition. Why, sir, you may recall all the mysterious murders which occurred in England since England had a name. The truth of them remains in unfathomable shadow. But, sir, any one of them could be cleared up in five minutes’ intelligent explanation. Pontius Pilate could have been saved his blunder by far, far, far less than five minutes of intelligent explanation. But — mark ye! — but who has ever heard five minutes of intelligent explanation? The complex interwoven mesh of life constantly, eternally, prevents people from giving intelligent explanations. You sit in the theatre, and you say to yourself: ‘Well, I could mount the stage, and in a short talk to these people I could anticipate a further continuation of the drama.’ Yes, you could; but you are an outsider. You have no relations with these characters. You arise like an angel. Nobody has been your enemy; nobody has been your mistress. You arise and give the five minutes’ intelligent explanation; bah! There is not a situation in life which does not need five minutes’ intelligent explanation; but it does not get it.”

  It could now be seen that the old man Fullbil was simply aflame with a destructive reply, and even Bobbs paused under the spell of this anticipation of a gigantic answering. The literary master began very deliberately.

  “My good friend Bobbs,” said he, “I see your nose gradually is turning red.”

  The drama immediately pitched into oblivion. The room thundered with a great shout of laughter that went to the ceiling. I could see Bobbs making angry shouts against an invulnerable bank of uncontrolled merriment. And amid his victory old Fullbil sat with a vain smile on his cracked lips.

  My excellent and adjacent friend turned to me in a burst of enthusiasm.

  “And did you ever hear a thing so well turned? Ha, ha! ‘My good friend Bobbs,’ quoth he, ‘I see your nose gradually is turning red.’ Ha, ha, ha! By my King, I have seldom heard a wittier answer.”

  “Bedad!” said I, somewhat bewildered, but resolved to appreciate the noted master of wit, “it stamped the drama down into the ground. Sure, never another play will be delivered in England after that tremendous overthrow.”

  “Aye,” he rejoined, still shuddering with mirth, “I fail to see how the dramatists can survive it. It was like the wit of a new Shakespeare. It subsided Bobbs to nothing. I would not be surprised at all if Bobbs now entirely quit the writing of plays, since Fullbil’s words so closely hit his condition in the dramatic world. A dangerous dog is this Fullbil.”

  “It reminds me of a story my father used to tell—” I began.

  “Sir,” cried my new friend hastily, “I beg of you! May I, indeed, insist? Here we talk only of the very deepest matters.”

  “Very good, sir,” I replied amiably. “I will appear better, no doubt, as a listener; but if my father was alive—”

  “Sir,” beseeched my friend, “the great Fancher, the immortal critic, is about to speak.”

  “Let him,” said I, still amiable.

  A portly gentleman of middle age now addressed Bobbs amid a general and respectful silence.

  “Sir,” he remarked, “your words concerning the great age of what I shall call the five-minutes-intelligent-explanation theory was first developed by the Chinese, and is contemporaneous, I believe, with their adoption of the custom of roasting their meat instead of eating it raw.”

  “Sir, I am interested and instructed,” rejoined B
obbs.

  Here old Fullbil let go two or three growls of scornful disapproval.

  “Fancher,” said he, “my delight in your company is sometimes dimmed by my appreciation of your facilities for being entirely wrong. The great theory of which you speak so confidently, sir, was born no earlier than seven o’clock on the morning of this day. I was in my bed, sir; the maid had come in with my tea and toast. ‘Stop,’ said I, sternly. She stopped. And in those few moments of undisturbed reflection, sir, the thought came to life, the thought which you so falsely attribute to the Chinese, a savage tribe whose sole distinction is its ability to fly kites.”

  After the murmurs of glee had died away, Fancher answered with spirit:

  “Sir, that you are subject to periods of reflection I will not deny, I cannot deny. Nor can I say honourably that I give my support to our dramatic friend’s defence of his idea. But, sir, when you refer to the Chinese in terms which I cannot but regard as insulting, I am prepared, sir, to—”

  There were loud cries of “Order! Order! Order!” The wrathful Fancher was pulled down into his chair by soothful friends and neighbours, to whom he gesticulated and cried out during the uproar.

  I looked toward old Fullbil, expecting to see him disturbed, or annoyed, or angry. On the contrary he seemed pleased, as a little boy who had somehow created a row.

  “The excellent Fancher,” said he, “the excellent Fancher is wroth. Let us proceed, gentlemen, to more friendly topics. You, now, Doctor Chord, with what new thing in chemics are you ready to astound us?”

  The speech was addressed to a little man near me, who instantly blushed crimson, mopping his brow in much agitation, and looked at the table, unable for the moment to raise his eyes or speak a word.

  “One of the greatest scientists of the time,” said my friend in my ear.

  “Sir,” faltered the little man in his bashfulness, “that part of the discourse which related to the flying of kites has interested me greatly, and I am ready to contend that kites fly, not, as many say, through the influence of a demon or spirit which inhabits the materials, but through the pressure of the wind itself.”

  Fancher, now himself again, said:

  “I wish to ask the learned doctor whether he refers to Chinese kites?”

  The little man hurriedly replied that he had not Chinese kites in his mind at all.

  “Very good, then,” said the great critic. “Very good.”

  “But, sir,” said Fullbil to little Chord, “how is it that kites may fly without the aid of demons or spirits, if they are made by man? For it is known, sir, that man may not move in the air without the aid of some devilish agency, and it is also known that he may not send aloft things formed of the gross materials of the earth. How, then, can these kites fly virtuously?”

  There was a general murmur of approbation of Fullbil’s speech, and the little doctor cast down his eyes and blushed again, speechless.

  It was a triumph for Fullbil, and he received the congratulations of his friends with his faint vain smile implying that it was really nothing, you know, and that he could have done it much better if he had thought that anybody was likely to heed it.

  The little Doctor Chord was so downtrodden that for the remainder of the evening he hardly dared to raise his eyes from the table, but I was glad to see him apply himself industriously to the punch.

  To my great alarm Fullbil now said: “Sirs, I fear we have suffered ourselves to forget we have with us to-night a strange gentleman from foreign parts. Your good fortune, sir,” he added, bowing to me over his glass. I bowed likewise, but I saw his little piggish eyes looking wickedly at me. There went a titter around the board, and I understood from it that I was the next victim of the celebrated Fullbil.

  “Sir,” said he, “may I ask from what part of Italy do you come?”

  “I come from Ireland, sir,” I answered decently.

  He frowned. “Ireland is not in Italy, sir,” said he. “Are you so good as to trifle with me, sir?”

  “I am not, sir,” said I.

  All the gentlemen murmured; some looked at me with pity, some with contempt. I began to be frightened until I remembered that if I once drew my sword I could chase the whole roomful of philosophy into the next parish. I resolved to put on a bold front.

  “Probably, sir,” observed Fullbil, “the people of Ireland have heard so much of me that I may expect many visits from Irish gentlemen who wish to hear what my poor mind may develop in regard to the only true philosophy of life?”

  “Not in the least, sir,” I rejoined. “Over there they don’t know you are alive, and they are not caring.”

  Consternation fell upon that assembly like snow from a roof. The gentlemen stared at me. Old Fullbil turned purple at first, but his grandeur could not be made to suffer long or seriously from my impudence. Presently he smiled at me, — a smile confident, cruel, deadly.

  “Ireland is a great country, sir,” he observed.

  “’Tis not so great as many people’s ignorance of it,” I replied bluntly, for I was being stirred somewhat.

  “Indeed!” cried Fullbil. Then he triumphantly added: “Then, sir, we are proud to have among us one so manifestly capable of giving us instruction.”

  There was a loud shout of laughter at this sally, and I was very uncomfortable down to my toes; but I resolved to hold a brave face, and pretended that I was not minding their sneers. However, it was plain enough that old Fullbil had made me the butt of the evening.

  “Sir,” said the dramatist Bobbs, looking at me, “I understand that in Ireland pigs sit at table with even the best families.”

  “Sir,” said the critic, Fancher, looking at me, “I understand that in Ireland the chastity of the women is so great that no child is born without a birthmark in the shape of the initials of the legal husband and father.”

  “Sir,” said old Fullbil, “I understand that in Ireland people go naked when it rains, for fear of wetting their clothes.”

  Amid the uproarious merriment provoked by their speeches I sat in silence. Suddenly the embarrassed little scientist, Doctor Chord, looked up at me with a fine friendly sympathy. “A glass with you, sir,” he said, and as we nodded our heads solemnly over the rims I felt that there had come to my help one poor little frightened friend. As for my first acquaintance, he, seeing me attacked not only by the redoubtable Fullbil, but also by the formidable Bobbs and the dangerous Fancher, had immediately begun to pretend that never in his life had he spoken to me.

  Having a great knowledge of Irish character I could see that trouble was brewing for somebody, but I resolved to be very backward, for I hesitated to create a genuine disturbance in these philosophical circles. However, I was saved this annoyance in a strange manner. The door opened, and a newcomer came in, bowing right and left to his acquaintances, and finally taking a seat near Fullbil. I recognized him instantly; he was Sir Edmund Flixton, the gentleman who had had some thought of fighting me in Bath, but who had refrained from it upon hearing that I had worsted Forister.

  However, he did not perceive me at that time. He chattered with Fullbil, telling him evidently some very exciting news, for I heard the old man ejaculate. “By my soul, can it be possible?” Later Fullbil related some amusing things to Flixton, and, upon an inquiry from Flixton, I was pointed out to him. I saw Flixton’s face change; he spoke hastily to old Fullbil, who turned pale as death. Swiftly some bit of information flashed around the board, and I saw men’s eyes open wide and white as they looked at me.

  I have said it was the age of bullies. It was the age when men of physical prowess walked down the street shouldering lesser men into the gutter, and the lesser men had never a word to say for themselves. It was the age when if you expressed opinions contrary to those of a bully he was confidently expected to kill you or somehow maltreat you.

  Of all that company of genius there now seemed to be only one gentleman who was not a-tremble. It was the little scientist Doctor Chord. He looked at me with a bright and twin
kling eye; suddenly he grinned broadly. I could not but burst into laughter when I noted the appetite with which he enjoyed the confusion and alarm of his friends.

  “Come, Fullbil! Come, Bobbs! Come, Fancher! Where are all your pretty wits?” he cried; for this timid little man’s impudence increased mightily amid all this helpless distress. “Here’s the dignity and power of learning of you, in God’s truth. Here’s knowledge enthroned, fearless, great! Have ye all lost your tongues?”

  And he was for going on to worry them, but that I called out to him, —

  “Sir,” said I mildly, “if it please you, I would not have the gentlemen disturbed over any little misunderstanding of a pleasant evening. As regards quarrelling, I am all milk and water myself. It reminds me of an occasion in Ireland once when—” Here I recounted a story which Father Donovan always began on after more than three bottles, and to my knowledge he had never succeeded in finishing it. But this time I finished it. “And,” said I, “the fellow was sitting there drinking with them, and they had had good fun with him, when of a sudden he up and spoke. Says he: ‘’Tis God’s truth I never expected in all my life to be an evening in the company of such a lot of scurvy rat-eaters,’ he says to them. ‘And,’ says he, ‘I have only one word for that squawking old masquerading peacock that sits at the head of the table,’ says he. ‘What little he has of learning I could put in my eye without going blind,’ says he. ‘The old curmudgeon!’ says he. And with that he arose and left the room, afterward becoming the King of Galway and living to a great age.”

  This amusing tale created a sickly burst of applause, in the midst of which I bowed myself from the room.

  CHAPTER XIX

  On my way to my chamber I met the innkeeper and casually asked him after Paddy and Jem. He said that he would send to have word of them and inform me as soon as possible. Later a drawer came to my door and told me that Paddy and Jem, with three men-servants of gentlemen sleeping at the inn, had sallied out to a mug-house.