The Devil Gets His Due
~ Part Two
The
next morning, Rochester awoke from a sound sleep, lying on the beach.
He was outside. The room was gone. The house was gone. The other man
was gone. He looked at the wide, pristine beach and his jaw dropped.
After more than 300 years he found himself outside. He looked at the
sky. It was clear and blue. Soft clouds floated by on a gentle
breeze. The sun was in the east. It was early morning. The sea lapped
at the beach and looked inviting.
Rochester slowly approached
the water’s edge. He looked down and discovered he had no
shoes on
and took a step forward. The water was warm and inviting. He realized
he was naked and laughed. There was no one else here, no one to
impress, no one to please except himself. He strode out into deeper
waters and dived in. His whole being seemed to soak up the moisture.
“This is heavenly.” He said quietly to no one
except himself. He
felt completely pleased with himself. Now this was the…
death. He
smiled; a genuine smile. Not the false or forced smile he’d
often
pressed on his compatriots at court. What a marvelous feeling to have
no one to face, no obligations to live up to, no one to have to
please or impress.
When he returned to shore he found items
of clothing, studied them and finally clad himself in them. He strode
along the waters edge. He held his shoes in his hand, letting the
warm waters lap at his feet. The water was soothing and inviting.
Now, though, he was on a mission.
He looked at the odd shoes
he held. Sneakers they were called. He wondered if they truly helped
one sneak. Then there were the breeches he wore. They were made of a
durable blue weave and while the material was a bit stiff, they were
perfectly comfortable even as they draped all the way to his feet.
They were wet at the bottom where he had splashed through the sea.
His mission now was to find out what had happened. Why, after
so long, had he been released from the room with the devilish fellow?
What had transpired to grant him his freedom? The damned man had said
that if even one person cared about him, outside of his family, he
could win his liberty. With so much time elapsed, he had no idea
where to begin to look for that someone. However, it was such a joy
to be free of that room, to see sky, sun, waves; he strode along with
a spring in his step. He didn’t ever remember feeling so
totally
well as an adult. Neither did he abhor the solitude. To be alone,
really alone, never happened at court; or in the country. There was
always a servant within shouting distance… or a wench. He
smiled
ruefully. He wouldn’t mind if a maid wandered up to him. He
looked
around. It was unlikely to occur, so he kept walking.
As the
sun began to set on Rochester’s first day of emancipation, he
gathered pieces of driftwood and made a fire. He had no need for food
nor drink, still feeling utterly wholesome in his body. Once the
flames began to dance and blaze highly, he lay himself down and
promptly fell asleep.
Many days passed of a similar nature
and he felt himself to be content to continue his journey. He found
he would often recite aloud bits of poetry or sing snatches of song.
To be so alone was no punishment for him. The degree of wellness he
felt left him a peacefulness he never before experienced. If this was
heaven, he’d take it. Thankfully there were no angels, nor
pinheads
for dance upon.
His only real concern, or perhaps wonderment
would be a better word, was how he had been granted his freedom. Had
one of his poems survived? Perhaps someone had taken a fancy to one
and that had been enough. He pondered, but seemed to find no suitable
vindication.
The days passed. The only change that became
apparent was the difference in the color of his skin. He was becoming
as brown as his old boots and as leathery. He smiled. He had noted
this phenomenon on board ship, but once returned to the city his
usual pallor was restored.
One day, to his complete surprise,
Rochester came upon a building. It was an odd outbuilding that the
purpose of which was not easily discerned. He stood and stared at it.
With great hesitancy he approached. He had no desire to enter,
thinking of his previous circumstances. Instead he decided to
reconnoiter. He carefully, with great apprehension, circled the
edifice.
To his astonishment it was not an enclosed
structure. When he got to the side that faced away from the sea he
discovered a theater of sorts. It was unlike any play house he had
ever before set foot into. There were only four or five seats, a very
unprofitable idea. And the seats looked more like a divan than an
actual chair. There was no proscenium arch, and the scrim backdrop
was of a most unusual material. It appeared to be bright white and
oddly reflective. He sat. Even if there was no play, he discovered
the seat to be agreeable . He would not have to sleep on the sand
tonight. He found he was comfortable and closed his eyes, just to
rest them.
“My name is John Wilmot and I do not want you to
like me.”
His eyes flew open. Up there on the scrim was a
man, bigger than life, and just his face. What was this? Had Man of
Mode become famous? Was damned Etheridge behind all this? But no. He
watched. It was not Dorimant who showed on screen. The fellow said he
was Wilmot. Apparently some fellow had set himself the task to play
Rochester.
“I’m far prettier than that,” was his
first
thought. “That fellow is not handsome. He looks a good bit
larger
than me as well.” He muttered to no one. “But there
is no
sentimentality and he plays it fair.” He was entertained for
now.
Later as he thought on it he wondered again if perhaps he were yet in
hell if he was to be forced to watch another play out his life.
He
slept finally. In the morning glare he awoke to find himself still a
free man. He had control of his movements and actions. While
yesterday had been interesting, he felt no desire to repeat the
process. He bade farewell to the comfortable chair and the oddly
appointed theater and set off once more down the beach.
So,
perhaps that man’s actions and acting had set him free. Was
that
the answer? He pondered and realized he had no real way to know.
A
few days later he came to a similar structure. As he circled the
theater this time he saw it was far better appointed. There was a
roof to this structure. The chairs were far better upholstered. He
took a seat and sunk into its velvety arms. A determination came upon
him. He would not fall asleep. He would witness the entire show and
not miss a jot of it. He yawned. Damn this tiredness. He had not felt
the least sleepy as he walked, yet to sit meant to dream. His eyes
closed.
“Thank you for coming to Loews. Sit back and relax,
enjoy the show!” The screen seemed to be singing at him. His
eyes
popped open. Lights flickered in front of him as the music was
replaced by dancing cups. “Enjoy the popcorn. Enjoy the
drink. Do
not liter. Do not think… to liter.” The cup danced
into a trash
bin. How odd.
Next a man dressed all in red stood in front of
a metal looking carriage he had just stepped out from. There were no
horses. The carriage seemed to propel itself. He could have happily
watched that, trying to understand its complexities. But the man
insisted you watch him as he stalked from scene to scene. He was
saying something about a drink and making money for a charity. The
horseless carriage was fascinating. It didn’t last very long.
After
proclaiming “Drink coke!” the man was replaced by
another, oddly
dressed, who carried a box of tools. Music swelled. He seemed a very
sad fellow. He sat and wrote, well at least that made sense. He
slept. He awoke to find a mermaid in his wading pool. Did these
people believe in mermaids? Wilmot knew them to be legend, not real.
Had he been misinformed?
The screen went black. A disembodied
voice said, “Welcome to Loews/AMC theaters. Please turn off
all
cell phones. Now enjoy your feature presentation.”
The
black screen was suddenly filled with a line of text “In 1660
following years of repressive Puritan rule…”
A man sat
forward. “Allow me to be frank at the commencement. You will
not
like me.” He seemed to chew his wine.
Rochester’s eye
brows rose, a second man. This one was more fairly shaped.
“He is
pretty enough to play me.” He smiled. He sat back to take it
all
in. They seemed to get it mostly right. Not too much literary
license. Lizzie Barrie, well she had not been quite so attractive.
Charles had been far more the bore. Alcock, well Alcock was Alcock.
To see Elizabeth again and so well looking had warmed him. For the
first time he truly missed the warmth of her touch. She had been an
exceptional woman.
By the end he found himself annoyed with
himself. Why had he no self-control? Why had he thrown it all away to
be Charles’ performing monkey? He’d lost his wit,
his love, his
life and all for Charles’ occasional approval? He was about
to
smash his fist into the chair when he heard a soft sob.
He
turned. A few of the other chairs were now occupied. It was the woman
who sat closest to him who had been crying. “Madam, are you
well?”
“Well enough,” she sniffed.
“It’s so sad.” She
stated simply.
“You feel sorry for this fellow?”
“How
can one not? He was such a good man, played badly by the King and by
his own times.” She wiped a tear from her eye with a lace
hanky.
“And you think you understand this man?”
“Dunno.
I appreciate him though. He was brilliant. And by God! He’s
played
by Johnny Depp. How can I not like him?”
“This Depp
fellow is an actor?” Theater has, at least, survived me, he
thought
to himself.
“He is the best film actor today. Wilmot should
feel honored to be portrayed by him.”
“Is that so? A film
actor you say? Not of the play house?”
“Yes. He doesn’t
do stage, but film. And he’s the best and the
handsomest.” She
looked at the man next to her but couldn’t see him so well in
the
theater’s dark. He seemed tall, thin and long-haired.
“And
so now you sigh for Rochester?” His eyes glowed.
“Not
just me.” She flashed a smile. Maybe this guy got what it was
Johnny was doing. “All of us.” She indicated the
audience.
He
was wonderstruck by what he saw. There were now many rows of seats, a
fully populated theater. Many handkerchiefs were in evidence.
Snatches of conversation came to him. “…was robbed
of an
Oscar.” “I’d like Wilmot to put it round
when I was round.”
“I don’t want him to be dead.”
“I’m crying over a man who
died nearly 350 years ago.” “I want him to live and
live
differently.”
He felt warm. He realized that he hadn’t
felt that sensation in… nearly 350 years. He stood up.
“Excuse
me.”
He left the theater behind. So someone did care about
him. No, not someone; many someones. He smiled. He’d found
his
reprieve.
He continued down the beach as the sun rose. It was
going to be a beautiful day.