Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
THE CITY OF
BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE
BY
E. TEMPLE THURSTON
AUTHOR OF
"The Apple of Eden," "Mirage," etc.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
1911
Copyright, 1900, by
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
_Published, September, 1909_
_Dedicated to_
ROSINA FILIPPI,
_to whom I am indebted for the gift of
laughter which I hope has crept its way
into the pages of this book._
LONDON, 18, 3, '09.
CONTENTS
BOOK I
THE ROAD TO THE CITY
CHAPTER
I. A Prelude on the Eve of St. Joseph's Day
II. The Last Candle
III. The Greengrocer's--Fetter Lane
IV. What to Call a Hero
V. The Ballad-Monger--Fetter Lane
VI. Of Kensington Gardens
VII. The Voyage of the Good Ship Albatross
VIII. The Fateful Ticket-Puncher
IX. The Art of Hieroglyphics
X. The Need for Intuition
XI. A Side-Light Upon Appearances
XII. The Chapel of Unredemption
XIII. The Inventory
XIV. The Way to Find Out
XV. What is Hidden by a Camisole
XVI. Easter Sunday
XVII. The Fly in the Amber
XVIII. The Nonsense-Maker
XIX. The Mr. Chesterton
XX. Why Jill Prayed To St. Joseph
XXI. The City Of Beautiful Nonsense
BOOK II
THE TUNNEL
XXII. The Heart of the Shadow
XXIII. Amber
BOOK III
THE CITY
XXIV. The Palazzo Capello
XXV. The Letter--Venice
XXVI. The Return--Venice
XXVII. The True Mother
XXVIII. The Treasure Shop
XXIX. The Candle for St. Anthony
XXX. The Qualities of Ignatia
XXXI. The Sacrifice
XXXII. The Departure--Venice
XXXIII. The 16th of February--London
XXXIV. The Dissoluble Bondage
XXXV. The Wonder of Belief
XXXVI. The Passing
XXXVII. The Circular Tour
XXXVIII. A Process of Honesty
XXXIX. The End of the Loom
BOOK I
THE ROAD TO THE CITY
The City of Beautiful Nonsense
CHAPTER I
A PRELUDE ON THE EVE OF ST. JOSEPH'S DAY
Of course, the eighteenth of March--but it is out of the question to say
upon which day of the week it fell.
It was half-past seven in the evening. At half-past seven it is dark,
the lamps are lighted, the houses huddle together in groups. They have
secrets to tell as soon as it is dark. Ah! If you knew the secrets
that houses are telling when the shadows draw them so close together!
But you never will know. They close their eyes and they whisper.
Around the fields of Lincoln's Inn it was as still as the grave. The
footsteps of a lawyer's clerk hurrying late away from chambers vibrated
through the intense quiet. You heard each step to the very last. So
long as you could see him, you heard them plainly; then he vanished
behind the curtain of shadows, the sounds became muffled, and at last
the silence crept back into the Fields--crept all round you, half eager,
half reluctant, like sleepy children drawn from their beds to hear the
end of a fairy story.
There was a fairy story to be told, too.
It began that night of the eighteenth of March--the Eve of St. Joseph's
day.
I don't know what it is about St. Joseph, but of all those saints who
crowd their hallowed names upon the calendar--and, good heavens! there
are so many--he seems most worthy of canonisation. In the fervent
fanaticism of faith, the virtue of a martyr's death is almost its own
reward; but to live on in the belief of that miracle which offers to
crush marital happiness, scattering family honour like dust before the
four winds of heaven--that surely was the noblest martyrdom of all.
There is probably enough faith left in some to-day to give up their
lives for their religion; but I know of no man who would allow his faith
to intercede for the honour of his wife's good name when once the hand
of circumstance had played so conjuring a trick upon him.
And so, amongst Roman Catholics, who, when it comes to matters of faith,
are like children at a fair, even the spirit of condolence seems to have
crept its way into their attitude towards this simple-minded man.
"Poor St. Joseph," they say--"I always get what I want from him. I've
never known him to fail."
Or--"Poor St. Joseph--he's not a bit of good to me. I always pray to
the Blessed Virgin for everything I want."
Could anything be more childlike, more ingenuous, more like a game in a
nursery--the only place in the world where things are really believed.
Every saint possesses his own separate quality, efficacious in its own
separate way. St. Rock holds the magic philtre of health; you pray to
St. Anthony to recover all those things that were lost--and how palpably
stand out the times when, rising from your knees, your search was
successful, how readily those times drop into oblivion when you failed.
It is impossible to enumerate all the saints and their qualities
crowding the pages of those many volumes of _Butler's Lives_. For
safety at sea, for instance, St. Gerald is unsurpassed; but St.
Joseph--poor St. Joseph!--from him flow all those good things which
money can buy--the children's toys, the woman's pin money and the
luxuries which are the necessities of the man.
Think, if you can--if you can conjure before your mind's eye--of all the
things that must happen on that eve of the feast day of St. Joseph. How
many thousands of knees are bent, how many thousand jaded bodies and
hungry souls whisper the name of poor St. Joseph? The prayers for that
glitter of gold, that shine of silver and that jangling of copper are
surely too numerous to count. What a busy day it must be where those
prayers are heard! What hopes must be born that night and what
responsibilities lightened! Try and count the candles that are lighted
before the shrine of St. Joseph! It is impossible.
It all resolves itself into a simple mathematical calculation. Tell me
how many poor there are--and I will tell you how many candles are burnt,
how many prayers are prayed, and how many hopes are born on the eve of
St. Joseph's day.
And how many poor are there in the world?
The bell was toning for eight o'clock Benediction at the Sardinia St.
Chapel on that evening of the eighteenth of March--Sardinia St. Chapel,
which stands so tremulously in the shadows of Lincoln's Inn
Fields--tremulously, because any day the decision of the council of a
few men may rase it ruthlessly to the ground.
Amongst all the figures kneeling there in the dim candle-light, their
shoulders hunched, their heads sinking deeply in their hands, there was
not one but on whose lips the name of poor St. Joseph lingered in
earnest or piteous appeal.
These were the poor of the earth, and who and what were they?
There was a stock-broker who paid a rent of some three hundred pounds a
year for his offices in the City, a rent of one hundred and fifty for
his chambers in Temple Gardens, and whose house in the country was kept
in all the splendour of wealth.
Behind him--he sat in a pew by himself--was a lady wearing a heavy fur
coat. She was young. Twenty-three at the utmost. There was nothing to
tell from her, but her bent head, that the need of money could ever
enter into her consideration. She also was in a pew alone. Behind her
sat three servant girls. On the other side of the aisle, parallel with
the lady in the fur coat, there was a young man--a writer--a
journalist--a driver of the pen, whose greatest source of poverty was
his ambition.
Kneeling behind him at various distances, there were a clerk, a bank
manager, a charwoman; and behind all these, at the end of the chapel,
devout, intent, and as earnest as the rest, were four Italian
organ-grinders.
These are the poor of the earth. They are not a class. They are every
class. Poverty is not a condition of some; it is a condition of all.
Those things we desire are so far removed from those which we obtain,
that all of us are paupers. And so, that simple arithmetical problem
must remain unsolved; for it is impossible to tell the poor of this
world and, therefore, just so impossible it is to count the candles that
are burnt, the prayers that are prayed or the hopes that are born on the
eve of St. Joseph's day.