(_With thanks to the London Telephone Directory._)
I doubt if you have ever taken the book seriously, dear reader (if
any). You dip into it for a moment, choose a suitable quotation and
scribble it down with a blunt pencil on your blotting-pad; then
you wind the lanyard of the listening-box round your neck and start
talking to the germ-collector in that quiet self-assured voice which
you believe spells business success. Then you find you have got on
to the Institute of Umbrella-Fanciers instead of the Incorporated
Association of Fly-Swatters, which you wanted, and have to begin all
over again. But that is not the way to treat literature.
In calm hours of reflection, rather, when the mellow sunlight streams
into the room and, instead of the dull gray buildings opposite, you
catch a mental glimpse of green tree-tops waving in the wind, and
hear, above the rumbling of the busy 'buses, the buzzes ... the
bumbling ... what I mean to say is you ought to sit down calmly and
read the book from cover to cover, as I am doing now.
For it isn't like a mere Street Directory, which puts all the plot
into watertight compartments, and where possibly all the people in
Azalea Terrace know each other by sight, even across the gap where it
says:--
_Here begins Aspidistra Avenue_, like the lessons in church.
Nor, again, is it like _Who's What_, where your imagination is
hampered and interfered with by other people butting in to tell
you that their recreations are dodging O.B.E.'s and the Income Tax
Commission. Publications: _Hanwell Men as I knew Them_. Club: The
Philanderers, and so forth. This cramps your style.
But the book before us now is pregnant with half-hidden romances,
which you can weave into any shape that you will, and, what is more,
it is written in a noble beautiful English which you have probably
never had time to master. I want you to do that now. Suppose, for
instance, that in private life your hostess introduced you to Museum
88901 Wilkinson Arthur Jas.--let us say at a Jazz tea. And suppose you
were to ask him what his business was, and he told you that he was
an Actnr and Srvyr or a Pprhngr. Probably you would be surprised;
possibly even you wouldn't believe him. But it's all there in the
book.
The type too is diversified by sudden changes which intrigue me
greatly. All over London I like to fancy little conversations of this
sort are going on:--
_Hop 1900 Tomkinson Edward C_.-- "Hello, is that TOMKINSON EDWARD C.?"
_GERRARD 22001 TOMKINSON EDWARD C_.--"SPEAKING."
_Hop 1900 Tomkinson Edward C_.-- The Whlsl Slvrsmths?"
_GERRARD, ETC_.--"DON'T SPLUTTER LIKE THAT. WHO ARE YOU?"
_Hop, etc_.--"I'm Tomkinson Edward C. too. Little Edward C. of Hop.
The Tbcnst. I only wanted to have a talk with you, big brother."
Or sometimes it takes the shape of a novel, starting something like
this:--
Kensington 100110 Williams Miss, Tpst., a beautiful but penniless
girl, in love with--
Regent 8000 Air Ministry, Ext. 1009, a young aviator who has won the
Mlty. Crss. (2 Brs). Their path is crossed by--
City 66666 (12 lines), BLENKINSOP JEHORAM AND CO., Fnncrs. Blenkinsop
wishes to marry Miss Williams, on account of a large legacy which he
has reason to believe will come to her from
Mayfair 5000 Dashwood-Jones H. See Jones H. Dashwood, and so on.
Sometimes, again, as I plunge still deeper into the fascinating
volume, a poem seems to fashion itself and leap from the burning page.
Listen.
She hears not Park appealing
Nor Gerrard's wail of woe,
Her heart is on to Ealing
89200;
For there her true love (smartest
Of lcl plmbrs) speaks;
For him our switch-board artist
Puts powder on her cheeks.
For him, the brave, the witty,
When evening's shadows drop
She flies from Rank and City
To tread some Western hop.
For him her spirit ranges
Through realms of blissful thrall,
And that is why Exchange is
Not getting Lndn Wll.