Better Than Byron

A New Life

XIV

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!

-Lord Byron

I had returned to Cambridge, but after one disastrous year I withdrew because I could no longer concentrate on my studies. My character moulded into a façade of sadism, and even some of the friends I had acquired through Oscar began to avoid me. But alas, I had brought it upon myself, namely with my heartless pleasure in publicly embarrassing others. I was also a compulsive liar and I am ashamed to admit that I had a morbid interest in weapons, violence, and even torture. I had almost given up my intimacy with God, though however bad I came to be, I could not sever my hold from His. My faith had been moderate at best, but regardless of how I neglected my duties or His exigencies, I remained faithful to Him in my way.

I spent many dark days in a dingy apartment off the University grounds, making vague and unrealistic plans for the future, which seemed so hopelessly wretched and my life so immensely purposeless that I often contemplated death. Once or twice a knife or pistol whispered temptingly to me, "Come – use me," but a secret strength always managed to resist the temptation – whether I was influenced by my Holy Father or whatever was left of my sanity I knew not. I was twenty years old, and was wondering how my friend Oscar March was getting on in Spain – for I had received a letter from him a year after we had parted, informing me of a bright and hopeful future in Madrid. I was content with his success, and I could not loll about all day on a moth-eaten sofa while he achieved greatness abroad.

This prompted me to travel. I had always yearned to traipse the Continent, but until then I had not had a good opportunity to leave England. Remembering what I had begged of my mother to do – forget me – I did not presume to inform her of my plans, and set off to Belgium in another se'nnight. I was still a wealthy man, but in disowning my mother and sister, I had also left behind most of my financial assets, so I made the bold and rash decision to bootleg. Yes, the fierce gossipers were right. I was a bootlegger. But a once respectable man is only driven to such disreputable ends if he feels that he is no longer respectable, and this I felt with unwavering conviction.

I made the decision one night coming back to my apartment from a long and tiresome night of drinking and gambling at a local pub. I was walking uneasily up my street when I collided with a fleeing individual and was propelled against the nearest wall. He hesitated for a moment, which induced me to address him.

"You might watch where you go before dashing strangers against walls," I observed. I sized him up, for he now stood trembling before me – not from fear, but from fatigue. He was tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome. He had a dark beard that made him look oriental, and stringy dark brown hair that dangled over his broad shoulders. He looked like a wild dog or a guttersnipe – wounded, frustrated, and filthy. I could not pity him – I scorned him for his lack of hygiene and his lowly appearance, and wished to be done with him as soon as was possible.

To my severe displeasure he did not respond to my disdainful remark, but stared me so out of countenance that I at length stamped away in baffled indignation. I felt his gaze burning into my back as I reached my door and then, turning by dint of unshakeable irritation, I demanded to know what devil's work he was about.

"Sir," he said with casual eloquence, "Might I request a private audience with you?" This startled me, but I went on as if the rogue had not spoken with a gentleman's tongue. It was like seeing a devil speak with the voice of an angel.

"Where the deuce do you propose we talk, when both you and I know that I shan't allow a street urchin like you into my parlour?"

"Well, I think that, provided no one interrupts us, this street will do," he said, approaching me with a confidence of manner that I supposed natural to him – and I bethought it highly out of place.