“I had hoped to taste the famous waters,” said Clarissa, “but I’m dressed in such plain style, I dare not go in amongst those so wonderfully adorned.”
“Oh, come along,” said I. “There are those inside dressed no better than we.” On that point I sounded to myself more confident than I in fact was.
“But you look fine in your green coat. You really do cut quite a dashing figure, Jeremy,” said she. “I tell you, why don’t you go up to the well and get glasses for the two of us. When I see you coming, I shall step up the stairs and just into the room. None will notice me if we do it so.”
I attempted to persuade Clarissa to accompany me, yet she refused quite absolutely. In the end, with a shrug, I surrendered: I marched up the five steps and through the open portal to the fountain. Of a sudden I became aware of the sounds of music about me — and quite beautiful they were. Beyond the fountain was a group of musicians, about four or five, playing stringed instruments of the ordinary orchestral sort. Yet none there — neither man nor woman — seemed to pay the musicians even polite attention, so busy were they talking and laughing amongst themselves.
I went to the fountain and asked the pumper the price of the different glasses, for there were three separate sizes.
“The water is free, young sir, no matter what the size of the glass.”
“Ah, well,” said I, “if that be the case, then give me two of that size there.” And with that, I pointed to the middle-sized glass, neither the largest nor the smallest.
“Two of the pint-size — yes, indeed, young sir.’’ And with that, he filled them and set them before me. “The water is free, as I said, but if you care to donate something to my health and that of my family — but that is strictly your affair, young sir.”
I gave it a moments thought and set down a shilling before taking up the two glasses.
“A bob, sir? More than generous, half that would do. Take this with my thanks.” And so saying, he counted out eight pence and pushed them toward me. “The remainder for me and mine is still generous.”
Unused to such fair treatment in London, I thanked him profusely before taking up the coins and leaving with the warm glasses. Clarissa was where she had promised she would be — just inside the large portal doorway, awaiting my return. Handing her a glass, I told her of my experience with the pumper as she sipped and listened. When I had done with the telling, she gave me a serious smile and a firm nod.
“Well, then,” said she, “it seems I owe you tuppence.”
“You’ve misunderstood completely,” said I. “That was not my point in telling you the story. You owe me nothing. “
“All right, then, what was your point in telling it?”
“Simply that. . that. . well, people seem a bit more decent here in Bath than in London.”
“That’s nonsense, “ said she with a quick wave of her hand. “You would not call the behavior of those two brutes hauling that sedan chair decent, would you? “
“What two brutes?”
“Those who cursed me for not jumping from their path quite quickly enough to suit them.”
“Well. . I.
“No,” said she, as if settling the matter for good and for all, “I believe the proportion of good people to bad is roughly the same no matter where one may go. I discussed this question once not long ago with Sir John, and that was the conclusion which we reached.”
How well she knew that I was unlikely to take any position in an argument opposed to Sir John! Yet was this even an argument? Did I not hold with the principle she had stated? Had I not also heard it from Sir John and nodded in agreement? How had she the knack of defeating me by turning that which I believed upon its head? I had no desire to explain, nor even in any way to carry the matter on further. I thought it best if we returned to the hostelry.
“Have you finished with the glass?” I asked her. Though half full, it seemed to interest her no longer.
“Oh, indeed. Its frightful stuff, worse than ever I’d supposed.” She surrendered the glass quite willingly. “But you’ve had none of yours. See what you think of it. ‘’
“No need,’’ said I. “I accept your opinion. But I do think that now we must go back.’’
With that, I left her and carried the glasses to the bar. Before depositing my own, I drank a deep draft from it and found it quite refreshing though not exactly pleasant to the palate. Warm still, it had an astringent, slightly sour taste which I rather liked. I could not but reflect that even in such fundamental matters as that, Clarissa and I differed greatly.
Whether because we took a wrong turning as we left the Pump Room, or whether I compounded the difficulty by failing to note the difference in the route we took, I simply cannot say. It did not help matters, of course, that neither she nor I had much to say to the other. We simply marched on, side by side, in the wrong direction. Or perhaps better said, in a number of wrong directions, for once we had noticed our error, we altered our way no less than four times (and perhaps more) in hopes of finding the correct one.
Our last turn took us into a rather dismal part of Bath, out near the edge of town, where the river runs by. There was a constant flow of wagon traffic along Avon Street, yet we saw barely a single pedestrian along the walkway. We noticed few shops, and half of them, darkened and empty, looked to be shut. Adding to the general dreariness of the scene, the sun had quite disappeared and was now obscured behind a heavy layer of gray clouds.
“Could this also be Bath?” said I. “This hardly looks like the same place at all.”
“True,” Clarissa replied. “It seems to be haunted.’’
“Ghosts?” That seemed a rather fanciful notion.
“Not of the threatening kind, but the sad and pathetic sort.” I understood a little better what she meant. There was that feeling all about us of wasted lives and dwindling fortunes.
We came out upon a square of no great size. It was dominated by a large building of a design as graceful and handsome as any in Bath, yet different from all or most in ways that eluded me. Facing it were rows of houses of no beauty or distinction.
“What square is this?” I asked (as if Clarissa knew the answer). “We cannot be far from the Bear Tavern. The town is not so large, after all, and it was from this general compass point we came.”
She sighed. “Well,” said she, “there is a tablet upon that great building just ahead. Perhaps that will tell us where we are.”
We went to it and read. “Kingsmead Square,” it said, and that sounded a note in my memory. Was that not the location of Margaret Paltrow’s residence?
“Jeremy, look! Two men have just come out of one of those houses across the way. Perhaps they can tell us the way back to the Bear.” Together we ran to them and managed to capture their attention before they turned off down Avon Street, whence we had come. They stopped and turned. When they did, it became apparent immediately how different the two men were. The elder of the two, rawboned, bearded, and hard-faced, gave a tug at the sleeve of the other, making it clear he thought Clarissa and I not of sufficient importance to detain them. He stalked away. But the younger would stay a bit and find out more; he smiled at our approach, even took a step or two back in our direction; there was, above all, an openness in his expression, a welcome in his manner, which invited our inquiry.
“What may we do for you?” he asked in a manner that suggested that we had only to make our request, and it would be granted.
“Why, sir,” said I, “if you would be so good as to tell us the way to the Bear Tavern, we would be greatly obliged.”
“Easily done,” said the younger, “for we came from there not long ago.” He pointed behind us to a street leading out of the square. “Now, that,” said he, “is Bristol Road. You have but to walk it past two more streets, and you will be there.” He smiled an altogether winning smile. “You’ll find it is quite nearby.”