shadowy arches and cringing houses. A queer place, whose flavour I have
never rightly been able to catch. It is nondescript, but full of
suggestion. Some day, probably, its message will burst upon me, and I
expect it will be something quite obvious. The shadow of history hangs
over it all. Six hundred years ago, in the velvet dusk of a summer
night, Sir John Froissart galloped this way, by plaguey bad roads, and
he beguiled the tedium of his journey by making an excellent new
pastourelle. But you will hear no echo of this delicious song to-day:
that lies buried for ever in the yellow mists of the MS. Room at the
British Museum. Motor-'buses will snatch you from St. James's Palace,
dash you through the City, and land you, within twenty minutes,
breathless and bewildered, in the very spot where Sir John climbed from
his steed. There is little now that is naughty and light-hearted. There
is much that is sombrely wicked, and there are numbers of unsweetened
ladies attached to the churches; and if it should chance to be one of
your bad days, you may hear, as you stand musing upon the fringe of the
Downs, in place of Sir John's insouciant numbers, "Mein liebe Schwann
..." and other trifles rendered by gramophone at an opposite villa. But
if ever it had any charms, they are gone. We may read in our histories
that about these parts kings and princes, soldiers and wits, counselled,
carolled, and caroused: but you would never think it. Too soon, I fancy,
the music and the wine were done, the last word said, and the guests
sent their several ways into the night. For nothing remains--nothing of
that atmosphere which grows around every spot where people have loved,
and suffered, and hated, and died; only Jumbo and a nameless spirit
remain.
It is one of the few places in town where the street-merchant survives
in all his glory. Everywhere in London, of course, we have the
coffee-stall, the cockle, whelk, and escallop stall, the oyster bar (8d.
per doz.), the baked potato and chestnut man, and (an innovation of
1914) the man in the white dress with a portable tin, selling _pommes
frites_ in grease-proof bags at a penny a time. But in Homerton, in
addition to these, you have the man with the white-metal stand, selling
a saveloy and a dab of pease-pudding for a penny, or boiled pig's
trotters, or many kinds of heavy, hot cakes.
After our orgy, we bought a sweet cake, and Georgie took me to what
looked like a dirty little beerhouse that hid itself under one of the
passages that lead to the perilous Marshes of Hackney. We slipped into a
little bar with room for about four persons, and Georgie swung to the
counter, peremptorily smashed a glass on it, and demanded: "Crumdy
munt--two!" I was expecting a new drink, but the barman seemed to
understand, for he brought us two tiny glasses of green liqueur, looked
at Georgie, casually, then again, sharply, and said, in mild surprise,
"God ... it's old Georgie!" and then went to attend the four-ale bar.
When he came back we exchanged courtesies, and bought, for ourselves and
for him, some of the sixpenny cigars of the house. We lingered over our
drink in silence, and, for a time, nothing could be heard except the
crackling of the saltpetre in the Sunday-Afternoon Splendidos. Then
Georgie inquired what was doing at my end, and told me of what he was
writing and of how he was amusing himself, and I told him equally
interesting things.
* * * * *
It was half-past eight before Georgie and I were tired of Homerton; and
he then demanded what we should do _now_. I said: Return; and it was
carried. We went westwards, and called at Rule's for a chat with Harry,
and then dropped in at The Alhambra, just in time to catch Phyllis
Monkman at her Peruvian Pom-Pom dance in a costume that is surely one of
the inspirations of modern ballet. We remained only long enough to pay
homage to the young danseuse, and then drifted to those parts of the
Square where, from evening until midnight, the beasts of pleasure pace
their cells. I have often remarked to various people on the dearth of
decent music in our lounges and cafes. I once discussed the matter with
the _chef d'orchestre_ of the Cafe de l'Europe, but he confessed his
inability to reform matters. Why can't we have one place in London where
one can get drinks, or coffee if desired, and listen to really good
music? There is a mass of the best work that is suitable for quartet or
quintet, or has been adapted for small orchestra; why is it never heard?
Mr. Jacobs says that Londoners don't want it. I don't believe him. "If I
play," he says, "anything of Mozart or Bach or Handel or Ravel or
Chopin, they are impatient. They talk--ever so loud. And when it is
finished, they rush up and say: 'Play "Hitchy Koo."' 'Play "The Girl in
the Taxi."'" But I believe there is really a big public for a fully
licensed cafe with a good band which shall have a definite programme of
the best music every evening, and stick to that programme regardless of
"special requests."
At the cafe where Georgie and I were lounging, the band was kept hard at
work by these Requests. They were "La Boheme" selection, "That Midnight
Choo-choo," "Tipperary," "Tales of Hoffman" Barcarolle, "All Aboard for
Dixie," "In my Harem," and "The Ragtime Navvy." At the first bars of the
Navvy we drifted out, and fell into the arms of The Tattoo Artist, who
was taking an evening off.
The tattoo artist is a person of some consequence. He has a knowledge of
London that makes most Londoners sick, and his acquaintance with queer
and casual characters is illimitable. He was swollen with good food and
drink, and as he extended a strong right arm to greet us, he positively
shed a lustre of success and power. The state of business in all trades
and professions may be heartbreakingly bad, but there is one profession
in which there are no bad seasons--one that will survive and flourish
until the world ceases to play the quaint comedy of love. All the world
loves a lover, and none more so than the tattoo artist, or, to give him
his professional name, Professor Sylvanus Ruffino, the world's champion,
whose studio is in Commercial Road. When a young man of that district
has been bitten by the serpent of love, what does he do? He goes to
Sylvanus, and has the name of the lady, garnished with a heart or a
floral cupid, engraved on his hands, arms, or chest. His "studio" is a
tiny shop, with a gaudy chintz curtain for door, the window decorated
with prints of the tattooed bodies of his clients. Elsewhere about the
exterior are coloured designs of Chinese dragons, floral emblems,
cupids, anchors, flags, and other devices with which your skin may be
beautified at trifling cost--anything from sixpence to five shillings.
The professor works every evening from seven to ten o'clock, in his
shirt-sleeves. In the corner of the studio is the operating-table,
littered with small basins of liquid inks of various hues, and a
sterilizing-vessel, which receives the electric needle after each client
has been punctured. Winter, he tells me, contradicting the poet, is his
best time. He finds that in Shadwell and the neighbourhood the young
man's fancy turns more definitely to love in the dark evenings than in
the spring. As soon as October sets in his studio is crowded with boys
who desire the imprinting of beautiful names on their thick skins. He
calculates that he must have tattooed the legend "Mizpah" some eight
thousand times since he started in the business. Girls, too, sometimes
visit him, and demonstrate their love for their boy in a chosen
masculine way.
To-night he had snatched a few hours in the West, and was just returning
home. It being then well past twelve, we sauntered a little way with
him, and called at a coffee-stall for a cup of the leathery tea which is
the speciality of the London coffee-stall. Most stalls have their
"regulars," especially those that are so fortunate as to pitch near a
Works of any kind. The stall we visited was on the outskirts of Soho,
and near a large colour-printing house which was then working day and
night. I wonder, by the way, why printers always drink tea and stout in
preference to other beverages. I wonder, too, why policemen prefer
hard-boiled eggs above all other food.
It is a curious crowd that gathers about the stalls. In the course of a
night you may meet there every type of Londoner. You may meet policemen,
chauffeurs, printers, toughs, the boy and girl who have been to a
gallery and want to finish the night in proper style, and--the
cadgers. At about the middle of the night there is a curious break
in the company: the tone changes. Up to four o'clock it's the
stay-up-all-nights; after that hour it's the get-up-earlys. One minute
there would be a would-be viveur, in sleek dress clothes; then along
comes a cadger; then along comes a warrior from the battlefield. Then,
with drowsy clatter, up comes a gang of roadmen, scavengers, railway
workers, and so on. A little later comes the cheerful one who has made a
night of it, and, somehow, managed to elude the police. He takes a cup
of strong tea, demonstrates the graceful dancing of Mr. Malcolm Scott,
and smashes two cups in doing it. Then up comes the sport, with a cert.
for the big race to-day. Then up comes six o'clock, and the keeper
packs up, and shoves his stall to its yard.
After a long exchange of reminiscences, we parted with the tattoo
artist, and I walked home with Georgie, the outmoded, who lives in
Vauxhall Bridge Road. I have often told him that the stiff, crinoline
atmosphere of the place is the right touch for him, but he does not
understand. It is a poor faded thing, this district; not glamorously
old; just ridiculously out of fashion. Shops and houses are all echoes
of the terrible seventies, and you seem to hear the painful wheezing of
a barrel-organ, to catch a glimpse of side-whiskers and bustles, and to
be encompassed by all the little shamefaced emotions of that period
which died so long ago and only haunt us now in this street and in the
provinces.
There, on the steps of one of the silly little houses, I parted from
Georgie and this book.