The beer was duly served, and the poet made a solemn toast:
And grief shall endure not forever, I know.
As things that are not shall these things be;
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,
And none be grievous as this to me.
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears,
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow
As tender things of a spring-tide sea.
The moment of crisis passed. Burton knew his friend wouldn’t challenge him again. In some matters—just some—Swinburne knew where to draw the line. Instead, the poet would put his advice into practice by providing diversions, entertainments, and intellectual stimulation. No doubt, after they’d got sloshed with the Cannibals, he’d suggest a visit to Verbena Lodge, his favourite brothel. At that point, Burton would go home. He didn’t share the poet’s taste for the lash, as distracting as it might be.
They drank and, around them, men and women flirted coarsely and squabbled loudly and cackled obscenely and shouted incoherently. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and heavy with the vinegary odour of cheap wine, souring beer, and unwashed bodies. A startling contrast, then, that amid this unrefined pandemonium, Swinburne talked of his affinity with the Pre-Raphaelite artists and his hopes for the forthcoming publication of his poem, Rosamond; of his summer holidays at his grandfather’s house, Capheaton Hall, in Northumberland; and of his love for that wild and romantic northern county.
Despite his odd sense of detachment, Burton couldn’t help but be fascinated. Swinburne’s ability to hold an audience was astonishing. When performing—and Burton had no doubt that his friend was purposely putting on a performance for him—the tempo and cadence of his voice was spellbinding, his choice of words ingenious, and his gestures extravagantly expressive.
Automatically, Burton found himself responding. He described his childhood, during which he’d been dragged around Europe by his restless father and long-suffering mother; spoke of his subsequent inability to fit in at Oxford University, where he was scorned as a thoroughly un-English ruffian; described his explorations of Arabia; and confessed his ambivalent feelings about his current commission as the king’s agent.
While he spoke, a separate part of him observed Swinburne watching and judging.
He thinks my manner is all wrong. I’m making an unconvincing show of it.
After a while, the poet consulted his pocket watch and declared it to be a minute past nine. “Shall we be off? The Cannibals await, hurrah, hurrah!”
He’s eager to consult with Monckton Milnes. He thinks my oldest friend will know how to bring me out of this confounded funk.
They stood, donned their coats and hats, and took up their walking canes, the contrast between them attracting the amused attention of the saloon’s clientele, for where Swinburne barely scraped five feet, Burton was just an inch below six and looked considerably taller by virtue of his broad shoulders, deep chest, and imposing presence. Were it not for the famous explorer’s infernal physiognomy and challenging gaze, the pair might have invited catcalls as they crossed the room. None were forthcoming. There occurred, instead, a slight hush accompanied by sly grins and exchanged winks. One muscle-bound lout spat into the floor’s sawdust as if to show that were Burton to challenge him there’d be no contest, but he averted his eyes when the king’s agent glanced at him and thus revealed it to be nothing but empty braggadocio.
Perhaps I should pick a fight with him. Perhaps the violence would snap me back into myself.
Swinburne pushed open the door, and they stepped out onto Baker Street.
Frigid air hit them.
They stopped dead.
“My hat!” Swinburne cried out. “The sky is bleeding.”
The atmosphere was thick with falling snow, and it was bright red, a near opaque cloak of vermilion, falling vertically, the variations in its density making the illumination from the street’s gas lamps pulsate, causing the length of the thoroughfare to resemble the interior of a throbbing artery.
Burton scraped his heel across the pavement. “Thin,” he observed. “I’ll wager it just started, but if it keeps going at this rate London will soon be half buried.” Curiously, he held out his right hand then withdrew it and examined his powdered palm. “Remarkable. Can you see? It has seeds mixed in with it, like those from dandelions, but red.”
Swinburne exclaimed, “It’s winter! Quite apart from them falling out of the sky in such profusion and being a startling colour, how can there be seeds floating about at this time of year?”
“Blown across the globe at a high altitude, I suppose,” Burton mused. “I don’t know what species of plant, though. The effect is rather uncanny, don’t you think?”
The poet shivered and turned up his collar. “And rather penetrating, too. I shall require a brandy to warm my cockles.”
They trudged southward for a few yards, the scarlet snow crunching beneath their feet, until they heard the chugging engine of a steam cabriolet. Swinburne put fingers to his lips and emitted a piercing whistle. The vehicle emerged from the cascading curtain and drew to a halt beside them, its furnace hissing like a box of angry serpents.
“Bloomin’ well bonkers, ain’t it?” the driver said, his voice filled with wonder. “I’ve not seen nuffink like it in all me born days. Red snow! Cor blimey! Whatever next? Where to, gents?”
“Leicester Square, please,” Burton directed as they climbed in. They brushed cigar butts from the seat, settled, and the cab jerked into motion.
The king’s agent said, “As it happens, I’ve experienced stranger weather phenomena than this.”
“Last year’s aurora borealis, you mean?” Swinburne said.
“I’m referring to my time in Sindh, when it one day rained fish during the monsoon.”
“Flying fish?”
“Falling fish. They’re lifted from the sea by tornadoes, thrown into the upper atmosphere, and carried over the land, onto which they descend.”
Their carriage rocked and bumped southward, and by the time it reached Leicester Square, the red snow had given way to the normal white which, still falling thickly, was rapidly turning the ground from blood-red to a sickly bright pink.
“Hallo! What’s all that kerfuffle about?” the driver commented as they disembarked and Burton paid him. They followed the man’s gaze and saw, half obscured, a commotion on the western side of the square. A crowd was milling about outside Bartolini’s Dining Rooms, where Burton and Swinburne were due to meet their friends.
“Is that Trounce?” Swinburne asked, pointing.
Burton spotted the burly detective inspector, gave a grunt of confirmation, and set off with his companion in tow. As they traipsed closer to the throng, he saw members of the Cannibal Club among it—Richard Monckton Milnes, Thomas Bendyshe, Henry Murray, Doctor James Hunt, Sir Edward Brabrooke, and Charles Bradlaugh.
The restaurateur, Signor Bartolini, was shouting at William Trounce and gesticulating wildly.
Trounce saw them approaching and bellowed, “By Jove! Thank the almighty you’re here! I can’t get any sense out of this fellow. He’s utterly unhinged.”
“He’s utterly Italian,” Swinburne corrected.
“The same bloody difference, if you ask me.”
“Has something occurred?” Burton asked.
Trounce, thickset and blunt in features, with a wide snow-speckled brown moustache and bright-blue eyes, threw out his hands. “I’ve not been here ten minutes. My mind is still befuddled by this freakish red stuff. Now it appears I have to deal with a costumed intruder playing silly beggars, too.”