room, genial, clean, and well-lighted, The floor was bare, but a red
rug before the leaping fire gave a touch of cosiness. Small tables were
scattered everywhere; draughts here, dominoes there, chess elsewhere,
cards in other places. Chairs were distributed with a studied air of
casual disorder. Newspapers littered a side-bench. The grand piano, by
Cadenza of The Emporium, stood diagonally across the left centre, and on
it lay the violin-case of Freddie, who told us, with modesty, that he
"scraped nows and thens." Along the length of the farther wall stood a
large, white-robed table, heaped with coffee-urns, sandwiches, buns,
cakes, biscuits, bananas, and other delicacies. All these arrangements
were the joint work of Freddie and Harold. At five minutes to eight the
company arrived. At first it trickled in by stray couples, but later it
swelled to a generous flood, each couple nodding in acknowledgment of
the deprecatory greetings of the stewards: "Here we are again, what-oh?"
and, in more professional tones: "Gentlemen's Room to the Right, Ladies'
Room to the Left!" Victor and myself stood by the fire, Victor receiving
bashful but definitely admiring glances from the girls, for he is of the
old school, and looks more like Sir Henry Irving even than Mr. H. B.
Irving, except that he does not limp. For the first few minutes the
atmosphere was cold. The boys obviously wanted to talk to Victor, but
they seemed all too shy; so I gave Victor the tip, and with his
exquisite courtesy he moved over to a group of the boys and the girls
and, with a bow, asked a girl with a baby face, that burnt delightfully
red under his attention, if he might take a seat on that settee. In just
a minute and a half the thaw set in, and he had the company about him
bubbling with laughter and excited comment. As other groups came in from
the dressing-rooms they made at once for the centre of attraction, and
soon Victor was the centre of a crowd that buzzed about him like bees
about a flower, seeking the honey of laughter. I doubt if he was ever so
much on the "spot" before. I could see him revelling in it. I could see
him telling Rule's about it. But in the middle of his best story,
Freddie bustled up.
"Oh, 'scuse me, sir, but I forgot to tell you before. I said sort 'em
up, but ... you might just be careful, 'cos the Vicar's dropping in
during the evening. I'll give you the word when he's here, so's you'll
be sure to hand 'em something quiet. It's all right until he comes. Just
give 'em anything you like."
And Victor waved a faded hand, and said, "Righto, laddie, righto. I get
you," and turned again to the blushing little girl, who certainly seemed
now to be Quite The Lady in her manner of receiving his attentions.
Under his expansive mood everybody seen knew everybody else, and all
traces of stiffness vanished. The company was a little mixed, and it was
inevitable that there should be demarcations of border, breed, and
birth. Some were shop-assistants, some were mechanics, some were clerks,
some were even Civil Servants; and as all were Christians they were
naturally hesitant about loving one another. But Victor broke down all
barriers by his large humanity and universal appeal.
Suddenly, there was a hammering on the floor, and a voice called,
"Attention, please!" And then--"Duet for violin and piano: Miss Olive
Craven and Mr. Fred Parslow."
We broke into little groups, and settled ourselves. Then came a crash of
chords from the piano, and a prolonged reiteration of the A while
Freddie tuned. They set to work. I heard the opening bars, and I held my
breath in dismay. They were going to play a Tchaikowsky Concerto. But
the dismay was premature. They _played_; both of them. I do not know
whether Freddie was engaged to Olive, but there was a marvellous
sympathy uniting them; and, though little technical flaws appeared here
and there, the beauty of the work was brought right out. Freddie and
Olive were musicians. It was a delicious quarter of an hour. They got a
big handful of applause, and then Freddie asked: "Ready, sir?" and
Victor said he was, and Freddie said, "What is it?" and conveyed the
answer to the portly old fellow who seemed to be president. After a
minute or so, during which the girls chattered and giggled and compared
ribbons and flounces, he called again for silence, and a tremendous
outburst of clapping and stamping followed his announcement: "Mr. Victor
Maulever, the famous West End actor, will recite 'Who'll have a Blood
Orange?'"
Victor made good with his first three sentences. In the language of his
profession, he got 'em with both hands. They rose at him. He had 'em
stung to death. He did what he liked with 'em. The girls giggled and
kicked little feet. They shamelessly broke into his periods with
"_Isn't_ he IT?" and he had to wait while the laughs went round.
When he had finished he got such a hand as I'm sure he never had in the
whole of his stage career. They wouldn't let him sit down. They would
give him no rest; he must go straight on and give more. So he gave them
two more, including his impressions of George Robey, G. P. Huntley, Joe
Elvin, R. G. Knowles, and Wilkie Bard singing "Little Grey Home in the
West."
Then the President appealed to the audience to let poor Mr. Maulever
have a rest and a little refreshment; and at once the girls rushed to
the table and fought with one another for sandwiches and coffee and
cakes with which they might minister to the exhausted Thespian. The boys
did not get savage about this; they seemed to share in the fun, and when
new girl-arrivals came in, they were solemnly introduced to the star.
"Oh, Mr. Maulever, may I introduce my friend, Miss Redgrove?" Miss
Redgrove smiled becomingly, and Victor rose, bowed, extended his
graceful hand, and said: "Delighted, Miss Redgrove!" and Miss Redgrove
said: "Pleased to meet you!" And in reply to Victor's inquiry: "I hope
you're well?" she said that she mustn't grumble.
A few of the girls wore evening frocks; others, with more limited
means, contented themselves with Sunday frocks or delicately coloured
robes that had been manoeuvred into something that showed enough white
neck and bosom to be at once alluring and decorous. There was nothing of
the plain or the dowdy. They were all out for enjoyment, and they meant
to make the best of everything, themselves included. Frills and
fluffiness were the order. They were all darlings.
A gentle raillery was the note of intercourse between girls and boys.
One of the little girls, a typist, I gathered, in a mercantile office,
whispered to her boy that Victor was A Love, and added that she always
did like men best when they were old and had grey hair. They were so ...
kind of ... if he knew what she meant. She said she would most likely
fall in love with a grey-haired man, and her boy said: "Yes, of course
you _would_." Whereupon she told him not to be so sarcastic.
The attitude of gentlemen to ladies was also delightful. Some of the
gentlemen were guilty of bad manners, in the Surbiton sense of the word.
That is to say, they did not all do what was "done," and they very
frequently did things that were not "done" by Good People. But
everything they did was inspired by a consideration for the comfort of
others. They committed _gaucheries_, but the fount thereof was
kindliness.
The conversation was varied. Some talked frocks, some music, some
picture-palaces, some odds-and-ends. Those who affected theatres stuck
firmly to Victor, and lured him on to talk about the idols of the stage.
The dear boy _might_ have told them things ... he might have
disillusioned their golden heads about certain actor-managers of whom he
has had intimate experience; but he didn't, and I rather liked him for
it. While more recitations and more music went round, he told them
heroic stories about their heroes. He told them strange stories and
beautiful stories and funny stories; but never, never disparaging
stories. One saw their faces glow with wonder. Then the time came for
him to work again. He certainly earned that seven-and-six. This time the
Vicar was there, so he handed them "The Dream of Eugene Aram."
Again he got 'em. The girls shivered and moved nearer to their boys. He
got his horror in voice and face and gesture and pauses. There was
perfect silence while he did it. There was perfect silence for some
seconds afterwards. Then came a rain of clapping, and the Vicar walked
across to him and shook him by the hand, showering warm compliments upon
him, and trusting that he would be kind enough to come again.
Then, while we drank coffee and handed cakes to the girls, the reverend
gentleman stood on the rug before the fire and gave us an informal
address. It was all very bright and homely, and the merry twinkle in the
old man's eye when he saw the cluster of girls about Victor told us that
he was very much alive to this world.
At half-past ten the meeting broke up, with a final effort by Victor in
two of Albert Chevalier's songs. The girls pelted to the dressing-rooms
and returned, robed for the street and radiant, and all anxious to shake
hands and bid farewell to the Star. They literally danced round him, and
fought to shake hands with him, and the boys fought with them. Then,
when all had saluted him, each boy appropriated a girl. Those who were
known tucked arms in arms and marched off. Those who were strangers
approached deferentially, and said: "You got a friend, miss? If not ...
m'I see you home?" and were at once elected.
Victor and the Vicar and the President and myself remained behind till
the last, while Freddie and Harold "cleared up the mess," as they said.
Then Victor winked at the two boys, and lured them to the passage.
"Well, boys," he said, jingling his three half-crowns which had just
been paid him, "what about it? A short one at 'The Falcon'--what?"
They really blushed. The honour was too much. "Oh--really--well--very
kind of you, Mr. Maulever, I'm sure." They stammered through their hot
smiles, but they came along, and after the short one at "The Falcon"
they lingered a moment. They appeared nervous. It seemed that they had
something on their minds. Harold looked at Freddie and Freddie looked at
Harold, and Freddie said emphatically, "You." So Harold, very rapidly,
turned and said--
"I was going t'say, Mr. Maulever--I mean, would you--ah--might I ask if
you and your friend'd have another--with _us_?" He was obviously glad to
get it over.
Victor smiled. "Well, laddie, it's a cold night. Dammit, we _will_ have
another."
So we did. As a matter of fact, we had three others; and in the loud
passage of "The Falcon" we parted with the lads, who wrung Victor's
hand, and said he'd given them a delightful evening, and they hoped he'd
recite for their next Social, adding that he was a real sport.
I saw Victor to his 'bus, and as he leaped aboard he said he had enjoyed
himself. He turned half-way up the stairs to cry his customary
valediction.
"_Si longtemps_, old kiddo. Cling good and tight to the water-wagon!"
A WORKER'S NIGHT
THE ISLE OF DOGS
_THE WORK CHILD_
_I_
_Fair flakes of wilding rose
Entwine for Seventeen,
With lovely leaves of violet
That dares not live till fields forget
The grey that drest their green with snows,
And grow from grey to green._
_And when the wreath is twining,
Oh, prithee, have a care!
Weave in no bloom of subtle smell;
The simple ones she loves too well.
Let violets on her neck lie shining,
Wild rose in her hair._
_And bring her rose-winged fancies,
From shadowy shoals of dream,
To clothe her in the wistful hour,
When girlhood steals from bud to flower.
Bring her the tunes of elfin dances,
Bring her the faery Gleam!_
_II_
_At the world's gate she stands,
Silent and very still;
And lone as that one star that lights
The delicate dusk of April nights.
Oh, let love bind her holy hands,
And fetter her from ill!_
_Her tumbled tresses cling
Adown her like a veil.
And cheeks and curls as sweetly chime
As verses with a rounding rhyme.
Surely there is not anything
So valiant and so frail._
_In faith and without fear,
She brings to a rude throng,
At war with beauty and with truth,
The wonder of her blossomy youth.
And faith shall wither to a sneer,
And need shall silence song._
_III_
_Her soul is a soft flame,
Set in a world of grey.
Help her, O Life, to keep its shrine
That her white window's vigilant sign
May pierce the tangled mists of shame,
Where we have lost our way!_
_So linger at this day,
My little maid serene!
Or, since the dancing feet must go,
Take Childhood with you still, and so
Live in a year-worn world, but stay
For ever Seventeen!_
A WORKER'S NIGHT
THE ISLE OF DOGS
I am not of those who share the prevailing opinions of the Isle of Dogs:
I do not see it as a haunt of greyness and distress. To the informed
mind it is full and passionate. Every one of its streets is a
sharp-flavoured adventure. Where others find insipidity I find salt and
fire. Its shapes and sounds and silences and colours have allured me
from first acquaintance. For here, remember, are the Millwall Docks, and
here, too, is Cubitt Town.... Of course, like all adorable things, it
has faults. I am ready to confess that the cheap mind, which finds
Beauty only in that loathly quality called Refinement, will suffer many
pains by a sojourn in its byways. It will fill them with ashen despair.
In the old jolly days it was filthy; it was full of perils, smelly,
insanitary, crumbling; but at least one could live in it. To-day it has
been taken in hand by those remote Authorities who make life miserable
for us. It is reasonably clean; it is secure; the tumbling cottages have
been razed, and artisans' dwellings have arisen in their stead. Its
high-ways--Glengall Road, East Ferry Road, Manchester Road--are but rows
of uniform cottages, with pathetically small front gardens and frowzy
"backs," which, throughout the week, flap dismally with the most
intimate items of their households' underwear. Its horizon is a few
grotto-like dust-shoots, decorated with old bottles and condensed-milk
tins.
It is, I admit, the ugly step-child of parishes; but, then, I love all
ugly step-children. It is _gauche_ and ridiculous. It sprawls. It is
permanently overhung with mist. It has all the virtues of the London
County Council, and it is very nearly uninhabitable. Very nearly
uninhabitable ... but not quite.
For here are many thousands of homes, and where a thousand homes are
gathered together there shall you find prayer and beauty. Yes, my
genteel lambs of Kensington, in this region of ashpits and waterways and
broken ships and dry canals are girls and garlands and all the old
lovely things that help the human heart to float and flow along its
winding courses. If you inform the palate of the mind by flavours, then
life in Queen's Gate must be a round of labour and lassitude, and, from
the rich faces that pass you in the Isle of Dogs, you know that it must
always be the time of roses there. Stand by the crazy bridge at the
gates of West India Dock, at six o'clock, when, through the lilac dusks,
comes that flock of chattering magpies--the little work-girls--and see
if I am not right.
And the colour.... There is nothing in the world like it for depth and
glamour. I know no evenings so tender as those that gather about the
Island: at once heartsome and subdued. The colour of street and sky and
water, sprinkled with a million timid stars, is an ecstasy. You cannot
name it. You see it first as blue, then as purple, then lilac, rose,
silver. The clouds that flank the high-shouldered buildings and chimneys
share in these subtle changes, and shift and shift from definite hues to
some haunting scheme that was never seen in any colourman's catalogue.
On the night when I took Georgie round the Island a hard, clear frost
was abroad. The skies glittered with steady stars. The streets seemed
strangely wide and frank, clear-cut, and definite. A fat-faced moon
lighted them. The waters were swift and limpid, flecked with bold light.
The gay public-house at the Dock gates shone sharp, like a cut gem.
Georgie had never toured the Island before, and he enjoyed it
thoroughly. As we stood on the shuddering bridge the clear night spread
such a stillness over the place that you could almost hear a goods train
shunt; and we stood there watching the berthing of a big P. & O. for
many pensive minutes.
By the way, you ought to know Georgie; he is a London character. Perhaps
you do, for he has thousands of acquaintances. He knows all that there
is to know about London--or, at least, the real London, by which phrase
I exclude the foreign quarters and the Isle of Dogs. These he does not
regard as part of London. His acquaintance among waiters alone is a
matter for wonder. At odd times you may meet him in a bar with a
stranger, an impressive-looking personage who, you conjecture, is an
attache of a foreign Embassy. But no; you do him an injustice; he is
greater than that. Georgie introduces you with a histrionic flourish--
"This is Mr. Burke--young Tommy Burke. This is Carlo, of Romano's." Or,
"This is young Tommy. This is Frank from the Cornhill Chop House," or
Henry from Simpson's, or Enrico from Frascati's, or Jules from Maxim's.
I believe that Georgie knows more about food and feeding than any man in
London. I don't mean that he could seriously compete with
Lieutenant-Colonel Newnham Davis. He couldn't draw up a little dinner
for you at the Ritz or Claridge's or Dieudonne's. But, then, here again
he shows his prejudices; for he doesn't regard a dinner at the Ritz or
Claridge's as anything to do with eating. His is the quieter sphere; but
he has made it his own. There is something uncanny about his knowledge
in this direction. He knows where you can get a meal at two o'clock in
the morning, and he can tell you exactly what you will get. He can tell
you in an instant what is the prime dish at any obscure little
eating-house and the precise moment at which it is on the table. He
knows the best house for cabbage, and the house to be avoided if you are
thinking of potatoes. He knows where to go for sausage and mashed, and
he can reel off a number of places which must be avoided when their
haricot mutton is on. He knows when the boiled beef is most _a la mode_
at Wilkinson's, when the pudding at the "Cheshire Cheese" is just so,
and when the undercut at Simpson's is most to be desired. You meet him,
say, on Tuesday, and, in course of conversation, you wonder where to
lunch. "Tuesday," he will murmur, "Tuesday. What d'you fancy? It's
fowl-and-bacon day at 'The Mitre.' That's always good. Or it's
stewed-steak day at 'The Old Bull,' near the Bank; beautiful steak; done
to a turn at one-fifteen. Or it's curry day at the Oriental place in
Holborn, if you like curries. Or it's chop toad-in-the-hole day at
Salter's; ready at two o'clock. The one in Strand's the best. But don't
go sharp at two. Wait till about two-twenty. The batter ain't quite what
it should be at two sharp; but just after that it's perfect. Perfect, my
boy!"
We crossed the bridge to a running accompaniment from Georgie about the
times he had had in the old days before I was born or thought of--he is
always flinging this in my face. Motor-'buses were roaring through the
long, empty streets, carrying loads of labourers from the docks to their
northern homes, or work-girls from the northern factories to their homes
in the Island. The little, softly lighted toy and sweetstuff shops
gleamed upon us out of the greyness, and the tins of hot saveloys and
baked apples, which the hawkers were offering, smelt appetizing. From
tiny stalls outside the sweetstuff shops you may still purchase those
luscious delicacies of your childhood which seem to have disappeared
from every other quarter of London. I mean the toffee-apple about which,
if you remember, Vesta Victoria used to sing so alluringly.
I have two friends residing here--one at Folly Wall and one in Havana
Street. I decided that we would call on the latter, so Georgie stopped
at "The Regent," and took in a bottle of Red Seal for my friend and a
little drop of port for the missus--"just by way," as he explained, "of
being matey." My friend, a gateman at one of the dock stations, had just
gone home, and was sitting down to his tea. There is no doubt that the
housewives of the Island know how to prepare their old men's tea. In
nearly every house in this district you will find, at about six or seven
o'clock, in the living-room of the establishment, a good old hot stew
going, or tripe and onions, or fish and potatoes, or a meat-pudding; and
this, washed down with a pint of tea, is good enough hunting for any
human. Old Johnnie comes from the docks in his dirty working clothes;
but before ever he ventures to sit down to table he goes into the
scullery, strips, and has what he calls a "slosh down," afterwards
reappearing in a clean print shirt and serge trousers. Then, in this
comfortable attire, he attacks whatever the missus has got for him, and
studies the evening paper, to ascertain, firstly, what the political
(i.e. labour) situation is, and, secondly, what's good for to-morrow's
big race; for Johnnie, quite innocently, likes to have a shilling on all
the classics--the Lincoln, the Cambridgeshire, the Caesarewitch, the
Gold Cup, City and Sub., the Oaks and the Derby, and so on.
After his meal he shaves and puts on a collar. Sometimes he will take
the missus to the pictures, or, if it is Saturday, he will go marketing
with her in Poplar, or in the summer for a moonlight sail on the Thames
steamers. Other nights he attends his slate club, or his union, or drops
in at one or other of the cheery bars on the Island, to meet his pals
and talk shop. The Isle of Dogs, I may tell you, is a happy
hunting-ground for all those unhappy creatures who can find no congenial
society in their own circles: I mean superior Socialists, Christian
workers, Oxford and Cambridge settlement workers, and the immature
intellectuals. There are literally dozens and dozens of churches and
chapels on the Island, and dozens of halls and meeting-places where
lectures are given. The former do not capture Johnnie, but the latter
do, and he will often wash and brush up of an evening to hear some
young boy from Oxford deliver a thoroughly uninformed exposition of Karl
Marx or Nietzsche. The Island is particularly happy in being so
frequently patronized by those half-baked ladies and gentlemen, the
Fabians, who have all the vices of the middle classes, and--what is more
terrible--all the virtues of the middle classes.
The majority of Socialists, if you observe, are young people of the
well-to-do middle classes. They embrace the blue-serge god, not from any
conviction, not from any sense of comradeship with their overworked and
underpaid fellows, but because Socialism gives them an excuse for escape
from their petty home life and pettier etiquettes. As Socialists they
can have a good time, they can go where they choose, do as they choose,
and come home at what hour they choose without fearing the wrath of that
curious figure whom they name The Pater. They have merely to explain
that they are Socialists, and their set say, "Oh ... Socialists ... yes,
of course." Socialism opens to them the golden gates of that Paradise,
Bohemia. The freedom of the city is thus presented to them; and they
have found it so convenient and so inexpensive that they have adopted
Socialism in their thousands. But observe them in the company of the
horny-handed, the roughshod, and the ill-spoken; they are either ill at
ease or frankly patronizing. They are Bohemians among aristocrats and
aristocrats among Bohemians.
Johnnie is just beginning to be noted at their meetings as a debater of
some importance. In fact, after the lecture, he will rise and deliver
questions so shrewd and penetrating that the young folk of Sidcup and
Blackheath and Hampstead have found it a saving to their personal
dignity to give him a seat on the platform, where, of course, he is not
only rendered harmless to them but is an encouragement to other sons of
the soil in the audience.