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Page 29 text:
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London. Realize at last the But fate had it otherwise. Someone, I think it was a desperate plight of English woman, if not The Woman ftom New Zealand, urged men of letters. Have just me to lay a wreath on the dead Chatterton ' s dootknob. been to Chatterton ' s room. It was the anniversary of his coming of age, and I could Horror, horror, horror! not resist it. It was decidedly a blunder. After placing the wreath, I smelt something strange; I opened the door, looked in. The air was thick with opium smoke, even though the window was open ; table and floor were covered with manuscripts ; there were decanters of wine ; and an old pulpit lay fallen in one corner. And the men assembled there! It was a sight that haunts me yet: De Quincey was dreaming on a couch, Poe quaffed at a side table; Donne raised his voice into the silence, then ceased ; Pope and Swift sucked in the morning air, and Dickens leaned from the window, bowing to the pedestrians; Lamb mutely ques- tioned the floor; Herrick bound a rose garland at a withered desk. I saw Coleridge chasing the bats along the wall; I should have gone then, but I was magnetized, caught on the spot. I heard Pope calling them all together; they stood in a great ring around the table; each swore an oath; I listened carefully, hearing the words the pact, and even De Quincey, through the fog, was making a ptomise. I felt I was certainly done for this time — but they never noticed me at all. They wete drinking now — to their great and final enterprise, they were drinking to death ! Thete, in Chatterton ' s room, they were making it at last, the gesture they had never been able to make, they were cutting themselves off — I was witnessing the most famous suicide pact of all time. A movement behind me. Shelley had entered, breathless; he had almost forgotten, and missed the plane from Calais, but had just made it, and now he stood there as big as death, and they took him into the circle and gave him his drop of poison. He drank, they all drank, they dropped their wine glasses — I wrenched open the door, and fled down the stairs; it was too much! I had seen during one grand tour twenty great men meet their doom; the slaughter was magnificent but terrible, ominous, a warning to me, and to England, and to you also, fair readers, who may even now be contemplating the nimbus of glory approaching you, even now planning a summer in Greece. Remember and tremble, remember the doom of the poet, the scourge of the master. Lay your plans well, avoid New Zealand, and keep Cymbeline, if you must travel with it, locked in the depths of your trunk. Eat well, sleep well, have no traffic with the past; and, above all, write nothing. 23
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Page 28 text:
“
Greece. Missolonghi. Tavern I followed the trail of Livingston to Missolonghi be- scene. How the mighty fell! cause I heard of a revival meeting they were having Impossible interviews. Brawl- there. But it turned out to be one of those nights ing. Very disappointed. i n a n old tavern. Ben Jonson was there, as spruce as ever. He told me himself, as soon as I came in, that having worn out his influence on the romantic poets (tremendous, since he never wrote plays) he was travelling through Europe in search of a Boswell. He wanted to mend his fame, he said, so he went to Greece. But alas, he found many there in the old tavern already, all slowly dying of war or the world ' s neglect. He found Kipling holding out the last drop of water to Gunga Din, while Rupert Brooke wept silently upon the cool white tablecloths. The night I was there, things came to a sorry pass; in fact I was the only one who survived to tell the horrid tale. For Burns swaggered in somewhat tipsy and red about the ears, followed by Beaumont, of Beaumont and Fletcher Limited. There were not enough chairs, and insults began to fly, with the result that both Kipling and Gunga Din (who really was, by the way, the better man) collapsed; and Rupert, after writing on the tablecloth his last wish — to be buried under English sod, in a corner lot, if possible — expired, shot in the heart, gallantly pursuing the barmaid, a lover to the last. Ben and I were sitting pretty; presently Burns and Beaumont began squabbling with each other — the latter becoming officious about his business connections. Burns, who was anything but a snob, could not tolerate smugness, however delicate, however gentle- manly, the wine had been flowing freely, and they were both men for all that. Rumor says that each fired at the same instant; I shut my eyes; but I think that Burns missed his aim, and Beaumont, after killing Burns, feeling a bit Jacobean, and quite drunk, shot himself also, willing his famous house to Gilbert and Sullivan. This left the old tavern for Ben and me; as we sat there sipping the good grape, exchanging Scotch memoirs, I began to feel rather puffed up until — and this is the climax of my visit to the tavern — Boswell appeared, slowly walking, meditating visibly into his notebook. It ' s Boswell! I whispered naively, and let me hint to you that in my dreams I too had hoped for immortality, and here was the main chance, the only chance — here I was between a Boswell and a Jonson ! But woe to the English language, that one small letter could start a brawl. For when, with the greatest aplomb, yet with the air of an old acquaintance reviving friendship, large-hearted Ben produced his calling card, what should the great commentator do after reading the name but pronounce audibly to the air: The upstart! He has dropped the H ! Aitch be damned! cried Ben, I ' ll make you itch for this, you fraud, you eighteenth century darling! Thus the fray began; they both died fight- ing, out-Marlowing Marlowe in their disreputable performance. I decided to forswear literary men forever. 22
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