SOME MORE ABOUT LONDON
“London sings in my ears.” I remember writing this somewhere about
the fourth or fifth day of my stay. It was delicious, the sense of
novelty and wonder it gave me. I am one of those who have been raised
on Dickens and Thackeray and Lamb, but I must confess I found little to
corroborate the world of vague impressions I had formed. Novels are a
mere expression of temperament anyhow.
New York and America are all so new, so lustful of change. Here, in
these streets, when you walk out of a morning or an evening, you feel a
pleasing stability. London is not going to change under your very eyes.
You are not going to turn your back to find, on looking again, a whole
sky line effaced. The city is restful, naïve, in a way tender and sweet
like an old song. London is more fatalistic and therefore less hopeful
than New York.
One of the first things that impressed me, as I have said, was the
grayish tinge of smoke that was over everything--a faint haze--and
the next that as a city, street for street and square for square, it
was not so strident as New York or Chicago--not nearly so harsh. The
traffic was less noisy, the people more thoughtful and considerate, the
so-called rush, which characterizes New York, less foolish. There is
something rowdyish and ill-mannered about the street life of American
cities. This was not true here. It struck me as simple, sedate,
thoughtful, and I could only conclude that it sprang from a less
stirring atmosphere of opportunity. I fancy it is harder to get along
in London. People do not change from one thing to another so much. The
world there is more fixed in a pathetic routine, and people are more
conscious of their so-called “betters.” In so far as I could judge on
so short a notice, London seemed to me to represent a mood--a uniform,
aware, conservative state of being, neither brilliant nor gay anywhere,
though interesting always. About Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square,
Leicester Square, Charing Cross, and the Strand I suppose the average
Londoner would insist that London is very gay; but I could not see it.
Certainly it was not gay as similar sections in New York are gay. It is
not in the Londoner himself to be so. He is solid, hard, phlegmatic,
a little dreary, like a certain type of rain-bird or Northern loon,
content to make the best of a rather dreary situation. I hope not, but
I felt it to be true.
I do not believe that it is given any writer to wholly suggest a
city. The mind is like a voracious fish--it would like to eat up all
the experiences and characteristics of a city or a nation, but this,
fortunately, is not possible. My own mind was busy pounding at the
gates of fact, but during all the while I was there I got but a little
way. I remember being struck with the nature of St. James’s Park
which was near my hotel, the great column to the Duke of Marlborough,
at the end of the street, the whirl of life in Trafalgar Square and
Piccadilly Circus which were both very near. The offices I visited
in various nearby streets interested me, and the storm of cabs which
whirled by all the corners of the region of my hotel. It was described
to me as the center of London; and I am quite sure it was--for clubs,
theaters, hotels, smart shops and the like were all here. The heavy
trading section was further east along the banks of the Thames, and
between that and Regent Street, where my little hotel was located, lay
the financial section, sprawling around St. Paul’s Cathedral and the
Bank of England. One could go out of this great central world easily
enough--but it was only, apparently, to get into minor centers such as
that about Victoria Station, Kensington, Paddington, Liverpool Street,
and the Elephant and Castle.
I may be mistaken, but London did not seem either so hard or foreign to
me as New York. I have lived in New York for years and years and yet I
do not feel that it is My city. One always feels in New York, for some
reason, as though he might be put out, or even thrown out. There is
such a perpetual and heavy invasion of the stranger. Here in London I
could not help feeling off-hand as though things were rather stable and
that I was welcome in the world’s great empire city on almost any basis
on which I wished myself taken. That sense of civility and courtesy to
which I have already so often referred was everywhere noticeable in
mail-men, policemen, clerks, servants. Alas, when I think of New York,
how its rudeness, in contrast, shocks me! At home I do not mind. With
all the others I endure it. Here in London for the first time in almost
any great city I really felt at home.
But the distances! and the various plexi of streets! and the endless
directions in which one could go! Lord! Lord! how they confounded me.
It may seem odd to make separate comment on something so thoroughly
involved with everything else in a trip of this kind as the streets
of London; but nevertheless they contrasted so strangely with those
of other cities I have seen that I am forced to comment on them. For
one thing, they are seldom straight for any distance and they change
their names as frequently and as unexpectedly as a thief. Bond Street
speedily becomes Old Bond Street or New Bond Street, according to the
direction in which you are going; and I never could see why the Strand
should turn into Fleet Street as it went along, and then into Ludgate
Hill, and then into Cannon Street. Neither could I understand why
Whitechapel Road should change to Mile End Road, but that is neither
here nor there. The thing that interested me about London was that it
was endless and that there were no high buildings--nothing over four
or five stories as a rule--though now and then you actually find
eight-and nine-story buildings--and that it was homey and simple
and sad in some respects. I remember thinking how gloomy were some
of the figures I saw trudging here and there in the smoke-grayed
streets and the open park spaces. I never saw such sickly, shabby,
run-down-at-the-heels, decayed figures in all my life--figures from
which all sap and juice and the freshness of youth and even manhood
had long since departed. Men and women they were who seemed to emerge
out of gutters and cellars where could be neither light nor freshness
nor any sense of hope or care, but only eloquent misery. “Merciful
heaven!” I said to myself more than once, “is this the figure of a
man?” That is what life does to some of us. It drains us as dry as
the sickled wheat stalks and leaves us to blow in wintry winds. Or
it poisons us and allows us to fester and decay within our own skins.
But mostly I have separate, vivid pictures of London--individual
things that I saw, idle, pointless things that I did, which cheer and
amuse and please me even now whenever I think of them. Thus I recall
venturing one noon into one of the Lyons restaurants just above Regent
Street in Piccadilly and being struck with the size and importance of
it even though it was intensely middle class. It was a great chamber,
decorated after the fashion of a palace ball-room, with immense
chandeliers of prismed glass hanging from the ceiling, and a balcony
furnished in cream and gold where other tables were set, and where a
large stringed orchestra played continuously during lunch and dinner.
An enormous crowd of very commonplace people were there--clerks,
minor officials, clergymen, small shop-keepers--and the bill of fare
was composed of many homely dishes such as beef-and-kidney pie, suet
pudding, and the like--combined with others bearing high-sounding
French names. I mention this Lyons restaurant because there were
several quite like it, and because it catered to an element not reached
in quite the same way in America. In spite of the lifted eyebrows with
which Barfleur greeted my announcement that I had been there, the food
was excellent; and the service, while a little slow for a place of
popular patronage, was good. I recall being amused by the tall, thin,
solemn English head-waiters in frock coats, leading the exceedingly
_bourgeois_ customers to their tables. The English curate with his
shovel hat was here in evidence and the minor clerk. I found great
pleasure in studying this world, listening to the music, and thinking
of the vast ramifications of London which it represented; for every
institution of this kind represents a perfect world of people.
Another afternoon I went to the new Roman Catholic Cathedral in
Westminster to hear a fourteenth-century chant which was given between
two and three by a company of monks who were attached to the church. In
the foggy London atmosphere a church of this size takes on great gloom,
and the sound of these voices rolling about in it was very impressive.
Religion seems of so little avail these days, however, that I wondered
why money should be invested in any such structure or liturgy. Or why
able-bodied, evidently material-minded men should concern themselves
with any such procedure. There were scarcely a half-dozen people
present, if so many; and yet this vast edifice echoes every day at
this hour with these voices--a company of twenty or thirty fat monks
who seemingly might be engaged in something better. Of religion--the
spirit as opposed to the form--one might well guess that there was
little.
From the cathedral I took a taxi, and bustling down Victoria Street,
past the Houses of Parliament and into the Strand, came eventually to
St. Paul’s. Although it was only four o’clock, this huge structure
was growing dusky, and the tombs of Wellington and Marlborough were
already dim. The organist allowed me to sit in the choir stalls with
the choristers--a company of boys who entered, after a time, headed
by deacons and sub-deacons and possibly a canon. A solitary circle of
electric bulbs flamed gloomily overhead. By the light of this we were
able to make out the liturgy covering this service--the psalms and
prayers which swept sonorously through the building. As in the Roman
Catholic Cathedral, I was impressed with the darkness and space and
also, though not so much for some reason (temperamental inclination
perhaps), with the futility of the procedure. There are some eight
million people in London, but there were only twenty-five or thirty
here, and I was told that this service was never much more popular. On
occasions the church is full enough--full to overflowing--but not at
this time of day. The best that I could say for it was that it had a
lovely, artistic import which ought to be encouraged; and no doubt it
is so viewed by those in authority. As a spectacle seen from the Thames
or other sections of the city, the dome of St. Paul’s is impressive,
and as an example of English architecture it is dignified--though in my
judgment not to be compared with either Canterbury or Salisbury. But
the interesting company of noble dead, the fact that the public now
looks upon it as a national mausoleum and that it is a monument to the
genius of Christopher Wren, makes it worth while. Compared with other
cathedrals I saw, its chief charm was its individuality. In actual
beauty it is greatly surpassed by the pure Gothic or Byzantine or Greek
examples of other cities.
One evening I went with a friend of mine to visit the House of
Parliament, that noble pile of buildings on the banks of the Thames.
For days I had been skirting about them, interested in other things.
The clock-tower, with its great round clock-face,--twenty-three feet
in diameter, some one told me,--had been staring me in the face over
a stretch of park space and intervening buildings on such evenings as
Parliament was in session, and I frequently debated with myself whether
I should trouble to go or not, even if some one invited me. I grow so
weary of standard, completed things at times! However, I did go. It
came about through the Hon. T. P. O’Connor, M.P., an old admirer of
“Sister Carrie,” who, hearing that I was in London, invited me. He had
just finished reading “Jennie Gerhardt” the night I met him, and I
shall never forget the kindly glow of his face as, on meeting me in the
dining-room of the House of Commons, he exclaimed:
“Ah, the biographer of that poor girl! And how charming she was, too!
Ah me! Ah me!”
I can hear the soft brogue in his voice yet, and see the gay romance of
his Irish eye. Are not the Irish all in-born cavaliers, anyhow?
I had been out in various poor sections of the city all day,
speculating on that shabby mass that have nothing, know nothing,
dream nothing; or do they? It was most depressing, as dark fell, to
return through long, humble streets alive with a home-hurrying mass of
people--clouds of people not knowing whence they came or why. And now I
was to return and go to dine where the laws are made for all England.
I was escorted by another friend, a Mr. M., since dead, who was, when
I reached the hotel, quite disturbed lest we be late. I like the man
who takes society and social forms seriously, though I would not be
that man for all the world. M. was one such. He was, if you please, a
stickler for law and order. The Houses of Parliament and the repute
of the Hon. T. P. O’Connor meant much to him. I can see O’Connor’s
friendly, comprehensive eye understanding it all--understanding in his
deep, literary way why it should be so.
As I hurried through Westminster Hall, the great general entrance, once
itself the ancient Parliament of England, the scene of the deposition
of Edward II, of the condemnation of Charles I, of the trial of
Warren Hastings, and the poling of the exhumed head of Cromwell, I
was thinking, thinking, thinking. What is a place like this, anyhow,
but a fanfare of names? If you know history, the long, strange tangle
of steps or actions by which life ambles crab-wise from nothing to
nothing, you know that it is little more than this. The present places
are the thing, the present forms, salaries, benefices, and that dream
of the mind which makes it all into something. As I walked through into
Central Hall, where we had to wait until Mr. O’Connor was found, I
studied the high, groined arches, the Gothic walls, the graven figures
of the general anteroom. It was all rich, gilded, dark, lovely. And
about me was a room full of men all titillating with a sense of their
own importance--commoners, lords possibly, call-boys, ushers, and
here and there persons crying of “Division! Division!” while a bell
somewhere clanged raucously.
“There’s a vote on,” observed Mr. M. “Perhaps they won’t find him right
away. Never mind; he’ll come.”
He did come finally, with, after his first greetings, a “Well, now
we’ll ate, drink, and be merry,” and then we went in.
At table, being an old member of Parliament, he explained many things
swiftly and interestingly, how the buildings were arranged, the number
of members, the procedure, and the like. He was, he told me, a member
from Liverpool, which, by the way, returns some Irish members, which
struck me as rather strange for an English city.
“Not at all, not at all. The English like the Irish--at times,” he
added softly.
“I have just been out in your East End,” I said, “trying to find
out how tragic London is, and I think my mood has made me a little
color-blind. It’s rather a dreary world, I should say, and I often
wonder whether law-making ever helps these people.”
He smiled that genial, equivocal, sophisticated smile of the Irish that
always bespeaks the bland acceptance of things as they are, and tries
to make the best of a bad mess.
“Yes, it’s bad,”--and nothing could possibly suggest the aroma of a
brogue that went with this,--“but it’s no worse than some of your
American cities--Lawrence, Lowell, Fall River.” (Trust the Irish to
hand you an intellectual “You’re another!”) “Conditions in Pittsburgh
are as bad as anywhere, I think; but it’s true the East End is pretty
bad. You want to remember that it’s typical London winter weather
we’re having, and London smoke makes those gray buildings look rather
forlorn, it’s true. But there’s some comfort there, as there is
everywhere. My old Irish father was one for thinking that we all have
our rewards here or hereafter. Perhaps theirs is to be hereafter.” And
he rolled his eyes humorously and sanctimoniously heavenward.
An able man this, full, as I knew, from reading his weekly and his
books, of a deep, kindly understanding of life, but one who, despite
his knowledge of the tragedies of existence, refused to be cast down.
He was going up the Nile shortly in a house-boat with a party of
wealthy friends, and he told me that Lloyd George, the champion of
the poor, was just making off for a winter outing on the Riviera, but
that I might, if I would come some morning, have breakfast with him.
He was sure that the great commoner would be glad to see me. He wanted
me to call at his rooms, his London official offices, as it were, at 5
Morpeth Mansions, and have a pleasant talk with him, which latterly I
did.
While he was in the midst of it, the call of “Division!” sounded
once more through the halls, and he ran to take his place with
his fellow-parliamentarians on some question of presumably vital
importance. I can see him bustling away in his long frock coat, his
napkin in his hand, ready to be counted yea or nay, as the case might
be.
Afterwards when he had outlined for me a tour in Ireland which I must
sometime take, he took us up into the members’ gallery of the Commons
in order to see how wonderful it was, and we sat as solemn as owls,
contemplating the rather interesting scene below. I cannot say that I
was seriously impressed. The Hall of Commons, I thought, was small and
stuffy, not so large as the House of Representatives at Washington, by
any means.
In delicious Irish whispers he explained a little concerning the
arrangement of the place. The seat of the speaker was at the north end
of the chamber on a straight line with the sacred wool sack of the
House of Lords in another part of the building, however important that
may be. If I would look under the rather shadowy canopy at the north
end of this extremely square chamber, I would see him, “smothering
under an immense white wig,” he explained. In front of the canopy was a
table, the speaker’s table, with presumably the speaker’s official mace
lying upon it. To the right of the speaker were the recognized seats of
the government party, the ministers occupying the front bench. And then
he pointed out to me Mr. Lloyd George, Mr. Bonar Law (Unionist member
and leader of the opposition), and Mr. Winston Churchill, all men
creating a great stir at the time. They were whispering and smiling in
genial concert, while opposite them, on the left hand of the speaker,
where the opposition was gathered, some droning M. P. from the North,
I understood, a noble lord, was delivering one of those typically
intellectual commentaries in which the British are fond of indulging. I
could not see him from where I sat, but I could see him just the same.
I knew that he was standing very straight, in the most suitable clothes
for the occasion, his linen immaculate, one hand poised gracefully,
ready to emphasize some rather obscure point, while he stated in the
best English why this and this must be done. Every now and then, at a
suitable point in his argument, some friendly and equally intelligent
member would give voice to a soothing “Hyah! hyah!” or “Rathah!” Of
the four hundred and seventy-six provided seats, I fancy something
like over four hundred were vacant, their occupants being out in the
dining-rooms, or off in those adjoining chambers where parliamentarians
confer during hours that are not pressing, and where they are sought at
the call for a division. I do not presume, however, that they were all
in any so safe or sane places. I mock-reproachfully asked Mr. O’Connor
why he was not in his seat, and he said in good Irish:
“Me boy, there are thricks in every thrade. I’ll be there whin me vote
is wanted.”
We came away finally through long, floreated passages and towering
rooms, where I paused to admire the intricate woodwork, the splendid
gilding, and the tier upon tier of carven kings and queens in their
respective niches. There was for me a flavor of great romance over it
all. I could not help thinking that, pointless as it all might be,
such joys and glories as we have are thus compounded. Out of the dull
blatherings of half-articulate members, the maunderings of dreamers and
schemers, come such laws and such policies as best express the moods of
the time--of the British or any other empire. I have no great faith in
laws. To me, they are ill-fitting garments at best, traps and mental
catch-polls for the unwary only. But I thought as I came out into the
swirling city again, “It is a strange world. These clock-towers and
halls will sometime fall into decay. The dome of our own capital will
be rent and broken, and through its ragged interstices will fall the
pallor of the moon.” But life does not depend upon parliaments or men.