'I'm a poet! I need stimulation! I need danger! I need to tread that thin line 'twixt life and death, else I have no experience worth writing about!'
Burton gazed at the capering little slope-shouldered man. 'You are serious?'
'Of course! You yourself write poetry. You know that the form is but a container. What have I, a twenty-four year old, to pour into that container but the pathetic dribblings of an immature dilettante? Do you know what they wrote about me in the Spectator? They said: `He has some literary talent but it is decidedly not of a poetical kind. We do not believe any criticism will help to improve Mr. Swinburne.'
'I want to improve! I want to be a great poet or I am nothing, Richard! To do that I must truly live. And a man can only truly live when Death is his permanent companion. Did I ever tell you about the time I climbed Culver Cliff on the Isle of Wight?'
Burton shook his head. Swinburne stopped his bizarre hopping and they crossed to the door, went out, and started down the stairs.
'It was Christmas, 1854,' said his friend. 'I was seventeen and my father had refused to buy me a commission as a cavalry officer. Denied a role in the war, how could I tell whether I possessed courage or not? It was all very well to dream of forlorn hopes and cavalry charges but for all I knew, when faced with the reality of war, I might be a coward! I had to test myself, Richard; so that Christmas I walked to the eastern headland of the island.'
They exited the house and turned up their collars. It was getting colder.
'Where are we going?' asked Swinburne.
'Battersea.'
'Battersea? Why, what's there?'
'The Tremors.'
'Is that an affliction?'
'It's a public house. This way. I want to find my local paperboy first.'
'Why all the way to Battersea just for a drink?'
'I'll tell you when we get there! Continue your story.'
'You know Culver Cliff? It's a great face of chalk cut through with bands of flint. Very sheer. So I decided to climb it as a test of my mettle. On the first attempt, I came to an impassable overhang and had to make my way down again to choose a different route. I started back up, setting my teeth and swearing to myself that I would not come down alive again-if I did return to the foot of that blessed cliff, it would be in a fragmentary condition! So I edged my way up and the wind blew into the crevasses and hollows and made a sound like an anthem from the Eton Chapel organ. Then, as I edged ever higher, a cloud of seagulls burst from a cave and wheeled around me and for a moment I feared they would peck my eyes out. But still I ascended, though every muscle complained. I had almost reached the top when the chalk beneath my footholds crumbled away and I was left dangling by my hands from a ledge which just gave my fingers room enough to cling and hold on while I swung my feet sideways until I found purchase. I was able to pull myself up and over the lip of the cliff and there I lay so exhausted that I began to lose consciousness. It was only the thought that I might roll back over the edge that roused me.'
'And thus you proved your courage to your satisfaction?' asked Burton.
'Yes, but I learned more than that. I learned that I can only truly live when Death threatens, and I can only write great poems when I feel Life coursing through my veins. My enemy is ennui, Richard. It will kill me more surely and more foully than either alcohol or opium, of that I am certain.'
Burton pondered this until, a few minutes later, they caught up with young Oscar in Portman Square.
'I say, Quips!'
'What ho, Captain! You'll be taking an evening edition?' The youngster smiled.
'No, lad-I need information that I won't find in the newspaper. It's worth a bob or two.'
'A couple of years ago, Captain, I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I'm older, I know that it is! You have yourself a deal. What is it that you're after knowing?'
'I need to meet with the Beetle, the president of the League of Chimney Sweeps.'
Algernon Swinburne looked up at Burton in astonishment.
'Oofl' exclaimed Oscar. 'That's a tall order! He's a secretive sort!'
Burton's reply was lost as a diligence thundered past, pulled by four horses. He waited until it had disappeared into Wigmore Street then repeated, 'But you can find him? Is it possible?'
'I'll knock on your door tomorrow morning, sir. One thing: if you want to talk with the Beetle, you'll have to take him some books. He's mad for reading, so he is.'
'Reading what?'
'Anything at all, Captain, though he prefers poetry and factual to fiction.'
'Very well. Thank you, Quips. Here's a shilling to be going on with.'
Oscar touched his cap, winked, moved away, and yelled, 'Evenin' paper! Confederate forces enter state of Kentucky! Read all about it!'
'What an extraordinary child!' exclaimed Swinburne.
'Yes, indeed. He's destined for great things, is young Oscar Wilde,' answered Burton.
'But see here, my friend,' shrilled the poet, 'I'll be left in the dark no longer! Spring Heeled Jack, a werewolf, and the Beetle. What extraordinary affair have you got yourself involved in? It's time to tell all, Richard. I'll not move another step until you do.'
Burton considered his friend for a moment, then said, 'I'll tell you, but can I trust you to keep it under your hat?'
'Yes.'
'Your word?'
'My word.'
'In that case, once we're in a hansom and on our way to Battersea, I'll explain.'
He swung around and strode out of the square, with Swinburne bouncing at his side.
'Wait!' demanded the poet. 'We aren't catching a hansom now?'
'Not yet. There's a place I want to visit first.'
'What place?'
'You'll see.'
'Why must you be so insufferably mysterious?'
They made their way through the early evening crowd of perambulators, hawkers, labourers, buskers, beggars, vagabonds, dollymops, and thieves until they reached Vere Street. There Burton stopped outside a narrow premises which stood hunched between a hardware shop and the Museum of Anatomy. Beside its bright yellow door, a tall blue-curtained window had stuck upon its inside a sheet of paper upon which was written in a swirling hand the legend:
The astonishing COUNTESS SABINA, seventh daughter, CHEIROMANTIST PROGNOSTICATOR, tells your past, present, and future, gives full names, tells exact thought or question on your mind without one word spoken; reunites the separated,: removes evil influences; truthful predictions and satisfaction guaranteed.
Consultations f 11 AM until 2 PM and f 6 PM to 9 PM
Please enter and wait until called.
'You're joking!' said Swinburne.
'Not at all.'
Burton had heard about this place from Richard Monckton Milnes. He and the older man had long shared an interest in the occult and Monckton Milnes had once told Burton there was no better palmist in all London than this one.
They entered.
Beyond the front door the adventurer and his companion found a short and none-too-clean passageway of naked floorboards and cracked plaster walls lit by an oil lamp that hung from the stained ceiling. They walked its length and pushed through a thick purple velvet curtain, entering a small rectangular room that smelled of stale sandalwood incense. Wooden chairs lined the undecorated walls. Only one was occupied. It was sat upon by a tall, skinny, and prematurely balding young man with watery eyes and bad teeth, which he bared at them in what passed for a smile.
'The wife's in there!' he said in a reedy voice, nodding toward a door beside the curtained entrance. 'If you wait with me until she finishes, you can then go in.'
