“There should be twopence in the till,” I added; “You may lay it out on jellied eels for yourself, and here is another penny for fried peas. See that you lock the door when you come in, there are thieves everywhere, thieves.”
While he was out I sipped some more of the tincture of opium. I heard little whatever-her-name-was from Tooley Street giving her distinctive tap-tapping upon the shop-door but I paid her no heed: my head was awhirl with the most delightful fantasies, many of them salacious but not of the sort which a smelly little guttersnipe girl, however inventive, could augment.
I sipped away at the bottle, each sip sending me to a higher realm of ecstasy. The night was beautiful with colour, strange beasts, deliciously vile and lovely women and music beyond compare. I took the last drops with the bottle clamped between my lips, imagining that it was one of the multiplex teats of Diana of Ephesus.
One thousand years later a savage blow across the face brought me back to this base and venal world. I opened a languorous eye. The afternoon sun was entering the window: clearly, it was tomorrow. Above me towered a huge, angry man with whiskers. Behind him whimpered and cowered the boy “You”. “Fetched a doctor, Sir,” he squeaked, “I fought you was a stiff un, I swear I did. I hope I did right.”
I mumbled something in Dutch which I forget now and, in any case, could not commit to paper; then I sank back into delicious sleep.
Another savage blow lashed my face; I scarcely winced, reasoning that to ignore it would make it stop. It did not stop. The doctor had a wet towel in his hand and, when I finally opened an eye, seemed ready to use it again. And again.
“If he dares to strike me again,” I thought, happily, “I shall rise up like an avenging angel and tear his throat out with my long, red, jewel-encrusted finger-nails, then feed him to my leash of dragon-dogs, to the tinkling laughter of my hundred odalisques.”
He hit me again with the wet towel. His fate was sealed. Alas, though, I found that I could not get up: each time I attempted to do so the stately pleasure-domes of my inflamed mind gave place to an intense desire to vomit. I decided to give him best, he was but a mere mortal. I went back to sleep. He hit me again. There are few ecstasies which can withstand repeated blows with a wet towel. I commenced to weep. He yanked me to my feet and shouted to “You” to bring some hot, strong coffee.
“Couldn’t drink it,” I mumbled.
“You are not going to drink it,” he said with some satisfaction, walking me up and down the bedroom and flicking my behind and, once, my privates, with the cold, wet towel. When I grew tired he put a bottle of smelling-salts under my nose, which made my head explode into coloured lights like the fireworks at a Holland Kermesse. Hooking my arm about his neck, so that I could not lie down, he opened his bag and drew out a hideous object, all nozzles and tubes and a gutta-percha bulb. Then “You” brought the hot coffee and the doctor threw me on the bed, face down. I went gratefully to sleep but, within a moment, something dreadful happened to me from behind; an invasion and a scalding influx.
You do not wish to learn more, nor I to recount it.
Later, I do not know how much later, he was pulling open my eyelids, studying my pupils, waking me up. This was too much.
“Go away, or I shall kill you,” I said.
“Six and eightpence,” he said. I was by now awake enough to offer him six shillings for prompt cash; he took it, but the expression on his face did not make me feel brave and clever.
“How long have you been swilling this filth?” he asked, as he packed his bag.
“This is my first time,” I answered.
“Then you’re a damned imbecile. Ten grains of opium in that bottle, the dose for a confirmed addict. Lucky to be alive. If that’s the way you want to die, don’t call me in again; if you think I enjoy clystering out your back passage you’re mistaken, I promise you. Even for six shillings, ready cash. Next time, get your brat to call in the Chinee quack in Villiers Street, probably do it for half a crown.”
He left without saying “good-day” and I sank back under the blankets and wept bitterly. I was stricken with home-sickness for that beautiful, hot, swinish land where the opium had transported me; it was better to be dead there, there amongst the colours, the vile ladies and the strange music, than to be alive above a shop near the street called Strand in London, hundreds of miles from my Mama. It seemed sensible to me to obtain some more opium, nothing else would do. I banged upon the floor, perhaps feebly.
In a little while the boy “You” entered, carrying a bowl which steamed, smelling of rich meat.
“Out,” I screamed, “OUT!”
“Yes, Sir, but, please Sir, the doctor give me thruppence to buy gravy-meat for to make you this beef-tea; pray drink it, Sir, do; he made me swear to get it down you. It’s for your health, you see Sir.”
I gagged it down with but ill grace. To be candid, I wished to beat someone painfully but I had not the strength to beat even “You”.
“What is in that other basin?” I asked sternly.
“Nothing Sir, not yet, Sir. The doctor said that your stomach was weak and that you might not keep the beef-tea down first time.”
“My stomach is strong,” I replied, “and the doctor is an impudent fellow. If there is any unused coffee left, you may bring me some; it was but a momentary weakness.” He brought me some coffee, which I drank, in the ordinary way that one takes coffee. The desire for the absurdly beautiful lands of opium-eating was dwindling: I knew that I must never travel those wondrous jungle-paths again unless I was prepared to eschew all the more solid pleasures of this fat and splendid real world, where a clever man may become rich and famous, if he keeps his head clear. I cleared my head peremptorily.
“Bring me my breeches!” I cried. He brought them. I felt in the pockets.
“Do you see these two sixpences? Now, hold, one of them is for you, to spend upon nourishing food. The other you are to hide, ‘You’, and the next time I bid you go out and buy me opium, either tincture or in the lump, you are to take that sixpence into the street and hire a hulking carter, drayman or vegetable porter from the market and bid him come in here and beat me about the head until I fall unconscious. This will be both cheaper and better for my health. Is that clear?”
He did not like this, he shifted from foot to foot, but in the end his intelligence grasped him, for he was not really a stupid boy.
“Yes, Sir,” he said.
I told him that I was going to sleep and that I wished to be called early.
“Finish the beef-tea,” I added, “for it will make you big and strong.”
I did not sleep at once, however; I lay awake considering what had happened to me and wondering at the power of this opium, which could almost kill me yet make me lust for more of it, even as I quaked and retched. Clearly it was a more powerful commodity than Demon Rum and one that could be dealt with profitably if the vendor abstained from it himself.
My thoughts turned to Lord Windermere and the twelve hundred and fifty pounds — some sixteen thousand gulden. His selection of my stock had been strongly in favour of Ming and Kang H’si wares and their finest imitators: I did not know where I could get more, of that quality, short of going to China myself and I could not envisage a future of picking a living as a dealer in the commoner pottery. My thoughts went round in a circle. The opium dreams had been delicious. I fell asleep.