Despair's Last Journey

by David Christie Murray

‘I’ll see,’ Paul answered.

He emptied his pockets on the imposing-surface, and counted the pile. He had some fifty shillings over and above the week’s wages.

‘You’ve been up their shirts to the tune of about six bob a man,’ said the cashier. ‘They’ll be sorry before the week’s out.’

The winner was not affected by any consideration of that sort. He pouched the money, and took his way with a farewell nod. He had tasted a novel excitement, and the thrill was still in his blood He walked rapidly through the winter air towards his lodgings, dressed there in his best, and sallied out again, making straight for the Cock tavern. What suggested the idea to him he never knew, but he meant to take a pint of port with Will Waterproof at that famous hostel, which then stood on its own classic ground. The old Cock was not a palatial house, but it was splendid to the raw country lad, and he was half afraid to enter. He strode in looking as mannish and as townlike as he could, and seated himself in one of the boxes alone. A waiter approached him, a rotund man, in gouty-looking slippers, with a napkin across his arm. Was this, he wondered, the steward of the can, ‘a shade more plump than common ‘?

‘Give me a chop,’ said Paul, ‘and a pint of port’

‘Chop, sir,’ said the waiter; ‘yes, sir. And a pint of——’

‘Port,’ said Paul, and, being ignorant of the ways of such places, pulled out a handful of silver and asked ‘How much?’

‘Bring the bill in due course, sir,’ said the water gravely, and moving away, called the order for the chop up the chimney, as it seemed to the visitor, and then rolled off stealthily in the gouty slippers in search of the port. He brought it in a small decanter, which he polished assiduously as he walked along. Paul thought it looked very little for a pint, but made no comment. The waiter poured out a glass and retired. The experimenter had tasted elderberry once, but he knew no more of wine. The draught had relish fiery new, and it seemed to warm him everywhere at once. His mind grew exquisitely bright, and his thoughts were astonishingly vivid. He began to improvise verses, and they came with an ease which was quite startling. They seemed to unroll themselves before him, to reveal themselves line by line as if they had been in existence long ago, and some spell had suddenly made them visible to his intelligence. It was a moment of singular triumph, and it lasted until the grave waiter laid his chop before him. He ate keenly, and finished his pint of port A sort of beatific indolence was upon him, and he had no wish to move, but he thought the waiter looked at him, and he was uncertain as to whether he had a right to stay. He summoned the man and paid him, and gave him sixpence for himself. Then he walked into the street, but the exercise was not like walking. His step was quite firm and steady, but his whole frame felt light, as if he could have spurned the pavement with a foot, and have leaped the roadway at an easy bound. He thought of young Hotspur, and ‘methinks it were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon.’ He walked erect with his chin in the air, and regarded the men and women who passed him with a strange sense of being able to understand them all. There seemed to be a story in every face, and he felt vaguely and yet positively that he could read it if he chose. He found himself for the first time in Oxford Street without knowing either by what route he had reached it or what was the name of the thoroughfare. The crowds, the lights, the movement and the din of traffic were in themselves an intoxication. It gave him a sense of strength to be alone among them. Then all his thoughts trembled into a sudden swimming laxity, and his mood changed to one of deep sadness. He set himself to analyse an inward dumb reproach which filled him—to ask a reason for it—to trace it to some source. It seemed to form itself definitely on a sudden, and his winnings began to gall him bitterly. He had never gambled before, and now he felt the passion of greed into which he had been betrayed disgusting. He was ashamed of having played at all, and still more ashamed of the callousness of triumph in which he had walked away with his gains. He had pitied his associates. He had seen the misery of their estate quite clearly. And yet he had stooped to profit by their folly, and slattern wives and dirty little neglected children would be cold and hungry because of him before a week was over. He would return the money on Monday, every penny. He might have to pinch himself for a week or two, but he would do it.

His mood sank lower and lower, and self-reproach grew at once more insistent and more urgent He felt homesick, and the populous street was like a desert. All the people who had seemed so warmly near to him were aloof and cold. He would have welcomed any companionship. The ebbing forces of the wine left him comfortless.

In his complete ignorance and inexperience he supposed the pint of port to have had no effect on him. This up-and-down play of the emotions was not what he had read of as the result of wine on an unaccustomed drinker. His step was steady, his eye was clear, there was no confusion in his thoughts. It would be a perfectly safe thing to have another glass of wine and then go home. If he had been asked why he wished for more, he could not have given a reason. It was enough for the moment that he desired it.