I turned from my Fleet Street window to my desk, took my pen, found it in good working order, and put it down. I was hoping that it would be damaged, or that the ink had run out; I like to deceive myself with some excuse for not working. But on this occasion none presented itself save the call of the streets and the happy aspect of things, and I made these serve my purpose. With me it is always thus. Let there come the first sharp taste of Spring in the February air and I am demoralized. Away with labour. The[Pg 4] sun is shining. The sky is bland7. There are seven hundred square miles of London in which Adventure is shyly lurking8 for those who will seek her out. What about it? So I drew five pounds from the cash-box, stuffed it into my waistcoat-pocket, and let myself loose, feeling, as the phrase goes, that I didn't care if it snowed. And as I walked, there rose in my heart a silly song, with no words and no tune9; or, if any words, something like—how does it go?—
Boys and girls, come out to play—
Hi-ti-hiddley-hi-ti-hay!
But the fool is bent10 upon a twig11. I found the boys preoccupied12 and the girls unwearied in war-work. One good comrade of the highways and byways had married a wife; and therefore he could not come. Another had bought a yoke13 of oxen, and must needs go and prove them—as though they were a problem of Euclid. Luckily, I ran against Caradoc Evans, disguised in a false beard, in order to escape the fury of the London Welshmen, and looking like the advance agent of a hard winter. Seeing my silly, hark-halloa face, he inquired what was up. I explained that I was out for a day's amusement—the first[Pg 5] chance I had had since 1914. Whereupon, he ran me into a little place round the corner, and bought me an illicit15 drink at an hour when the minatory16 finger of Lord d'Abernon was still wagging; and informed me with tears in the voice, and many a "boy bach," and "old bloke," and "indeed," that this was the Year of Grace 1917, and that London was not amusing.
It was not until the third drink that I discovered how right he was. As a born Cockney, living close to London every minute of my life, I had not noticed the slow change in the face and soul of London. I had long been superficially aware that something was gone from the streets and the skies, but the feeling was no more definite than that of the gourmet17 whose palate hints that the cook has left something—it cannot say what—out of the soup. It was left for the swift perception of the immigrant Welshman to apprise18 me fully19 of the truth. But once it was presented to me, I saw it too clearly. My search for amusement, I knew then, was at an end, and what had promised to be an empurpling of the town seemed like to degenerate20 into a spelling-bee. Of course, I might have gone back to my desk; but the Spring had worked too far into my system to allow even[Pg 6] a moment's consideration of that alternative. There remained nothing to do but to wander, and to pray for a glimpse of that tempestuous21 petticoat of youth that deserted22 us in 1914. It was a forlorn pursuit: I knew I would never touch its hem14.
I never did. I wandered all day with Caradoc bach, and we did this and we did that, while I strove to shake from my shoulders the bundle of dismay that seemed fastened there. The young men having gone to war, the streets were filled with middle-aged6 women of thirty, in short skirts, trying to attract the aged satyrs, the only men that remained, by pretending to be little girls. At mid-day, that hour when, throughout London, you may hear the symphony of swinging gates and creaking bolts, we paid hurried calls at the old haunts. They were either empty or filled with new faces. Rule's, in Maiden24 Lane, was deserted. The Bodega had been besieged25 by, and had capitulated to, the Colonial army. Mooney's had become the property of the London Irish. The vociferous26 rehearsal27 crowds had decamped from the Bedford Head, and left it to strayed and gloomy Service men, who cared nothing for its traditions; and Yates's Wine Lodge28, the home[Pg 7] of the blue-chinned laddies looking for a shop, was filled with women war-workers.
Truly, London was no more herself. The word carried no more the magical quality with which of old time it was endued29. She was no more the intellectual centre, or the political centre, or the social centre of the world. She was not even an English city, like Leeds or Sheffield or Birmingham. She was a large city with a population of nondescript millions.
This I realized more clearly when, a week or so after our tour, an American, whom I was conducting round London, asked me to show him something typically English. I couldn't. I tried to take him to an English restaurant. There was none. Even the old chop-houses, under prevailing30 restrictions31, were offering manufactured food like spaghetti and disguised offal. I turned to the programmes of the music-halls. Here again England was frozen out. There were comedians32 from France, jugglers from Japan, conjurers from China, trick-cyclists from Belgium, weight-lifters from Australia, buck-dancers from America, and ... England, with all thy faults I love thee still; but do take a bit of interest in yourself. A stranger, arriving from overseas,[Pg 8] might suppose that the war was over, and that London was in the hands of the conquerors34. This impression he might receive from a single glance at our streets. The Strand35 at the moment of writing is blocked for pedestrian traffic by Australians and New Zealanders; Piccadilly Circus belongs to the Belgians and the French; and the Americans possess Belgravia. Canadian cafeterias are doing good business round Westminster; French coffee-bars are thriving in the Shaftesbury Avenue district; Belgian restaurants occupy the waste corners around Kingsway; and two more Chinese restaurants have lately been opened in the West End.
The common Cockney seemed to walk almost fearfully about his invaded streets, hardly daring to be himself or talk his own language. Apart from the foreign tongues, which always did annoy his ear, foul37 language now assailed38 him from every side: "no bon," "napoo," "gadget," "camouflaged," "buckshee," "bonza," and so on. This is not good slang. Good slang has a quality of its own—a bite and spit and fine expressiveness39 which do not belong to dictionary words. That is its justification—the supplying of a lacking shade of expression, not the [Pg 9]supplanting of adequate forms. The old Cockney slang did justify40 itself, but this modern Army rubbish, besides being uncouth41, is utterly42 meaningless, and might have been invented by some idiot schoolboy: probably was.
After some search, we found a quiet corner in a bar where the perverted43 stuff was not being talked, and there we gave ourselves to recalling the little joyous44 jags that marked the progress of other years. I was dipping the other night into a favourite bedside book of mine—here I'd like to put in a dozen pages on bedside books—a Social Calendar for 1909; a rich reliquary for the future historian; and was shocked on noting the number of simple festivals which are now ruled out of our monotonous46 year. Do you remember them? Chestnut47 Sunday at Bushey Park—City and Suburban48—Derby and Oaks—Ascot Sunday at Maidenhead—Cup Tie at the Crystal Palace—Spring week-ends by the sea—evening taxi jaunts49 to Richmond and Staines—gay nights at the Empire and the adjoining bars—supper after the theatre—moonlight trips in the summer season down river to the Nore—polo at Ranelagh—cricket at Lord's and the Oval—the Boat Race—Henley week—Earl's Court and[Pg 10] White City Exhibitions, where one could finish the evening on the wiggle-woggle, as a final flicker50. And now they have just delivered the most brutal51 blow of all. Having robbed us of our motors and our cheap railways, they have stolen away from the working-man his (and my) chiefest delight—the beanfeast wagonette. (How I would have loved to take Henry James on one of these jags.) The disappearance52 of this delight of the summer season is, at the moment, so acute and so personal a grief, that I cannot trust myself to speak of it. I must withdraw, and leave F. W. Thomas (of The Star) to deliver the valedictory53 address:—
This spells the death of yet another old English institution. One cannot go beanfeasting in traps and pony54 carts. There would be no room for the cornet man, and without his distended55 cheeks and dreadful harmony the picture would be incomplete.
That was a great day when we met at the works in the morning, all in our best clothes and squeaky boots, all sporting large buttonholes and cigars of the rifle-range brand.
With the yellow stone jars safely stowed under the seat and the cornet man perched at the driver's left hand, we started off. Usually the route lay through Shoreditch and Hackney to Clapton, and so to the green fields of the Lea Bridge Road.
For the first hour of the journey we were quiet, early-morningish, and a little reminiscent, recalling the glories of past beanfeasts. The cornet man tootled half-heartedly, with many rests and much licking of dry lips. Not until the "Greyhound" was passed did he get well under way, and[Pg 11] then there was no stopping him. His face got redder and redder as he blasted his way through his repertoire57; a feast of music covering the years between "Champagne58 Charlie" and Marie Lloyd.
At the end of the drive the horses were put up and baited, and the merry beanfeasters spread themselves and their melody through the glades59 of Loughton or High Beech60, with cold roast beef and pickles61 at Queen Elizabeth's Hunting Lodge or the "Robin62 Hood63."
And who does not remember that joyful64 homeward journey, with the cornet man, now ruddier than the cherry, blaring "Little Brown Jug33" from well-oiled lungs, while behind him the revellers sang "As your hair grows whiter," and an accordion65 in the back seats bleated66 "The Miner's Dream."
As Herbert Campbell used to sing in the old days:—
Then up I came with my little lot,
And the air went blue for miles;
The trees all shook and the copper67 took his hook,
And down came all the tiles.
That was the real tit-bit of the beanfeast, the rollicking homeward drive, with the brake embowered in branches of trees raped68 from the Forest, and lit by swaying Chinese lanterns and great bunches of dahlias bought from the cottagers of Loughton, and Chingford.
One always took home a bunch of flowers from a beanfeast, and maybe a pint69 of shrimps70 for the missus, and some acorns71 for the youngsters, or a gilded72 mug.
The defunct73 brake had other uses than this. Sometimes it took parties of solemn old ladies in beads74 and black to an orgy of tea and cake in the grounds of the "Leg of Mutton" at Chadwell Heath. These were prim75 affairs. Mothers' Meeting from the little red church round the corner. They had no cornet, and the smiling parson rode in the seat assigned to Orpheus.
The youngsters, too, had their days—riotous days shrill76 with song and gay with coloured streamers, air-balloons and [Pg 12]trumpets. How merrily they would bellow77 that they were "all a-going to Rye House, so 'Ip-ip-ip-ooray!'" though their destination was Burnham Beeches78 or Brickett Wood.
Rubber-neck parties of American tourists occasionally saw the sights of London from brakes and wagonettes; solemn people, who for all the signs of holiday they displayed might have been driving to Tyburn Tree.
But the real reason for the brake was the beanfeast with its attendant cornet man and its rubicund79 driver with his white topper and the little boys running behind and stealing rides on the back step. Until the war is over Epping will know them no more, and the nightingales of Fairlop Plain will sing to the moon undisturbed.
We lunched at the "Trocadero," where a friend on the staff put us in the right place and put before us the right food and the right wine. The rooms looked like a Service mess-room. Every guest looked like every other guest. Men and women alike had fallen victims to that devastating80 plague of uniforms, and all charm, all significance, had been obliterated81 by this murrain of khaki and blue serge. The suave82 curves of feminine dress had been ironed out by the harsh hand of the standardizer83, and in their place we saw only the sullen84 lines of the Land Girls' rig making juts85 and points with the rigidities of the Women's Army Corps86 and Women's Police garb87. The Vorticists ought to be thankful for the war. It accomplished88 in one stroke what, in 1914, they[Pg 13] were feverishly90 attempting: it turned life into a wilderness91 of angles.
"Clothes," said Carlyle, "gave us individuality, distinction, social polity." He ought to see us now. Standard Bread, Standard Suits, Standard This, and Standard That.... The very word "standard" must now be so universally loathed92 by men who have managed to conceal93 from the controllers some remnants of character, that I wonder the Evening Standard manages to retain its popularity without a change of title. If standardizing94 really helped matters, nobody could complain; but can Dogberry aver95 that it does? Does it not, in practice, rather hinder than help? In railway carriages the bottlefed citizen girds against all this aimless interference with his daily life; but his protests are no more considerable than that of the victim in the melodrama96: "Have a care, Sir Aubrey, have a care. You have ruined me sister. You have murdered me wife. You have cast me aged father into prison. You have seduced97 me son. You have sold up me home. But beware, Sir Aubrey, beware. I am a man of quick temper. Don't go too far."
When we looked round the Trocadero, and we[Pg 14] remembered the bright company it once held, and then noted98 the tart56 aspect of the place under organization, we felt a little unwell, and dared to wonder why efficiency cannot walk with beauty and the zeal36 for victory go with grace and gladness. Had the marriage, we wondered, been tried by the authorities, and the parties proved to be so palpably incompatible99? Or was it that they had been for ever sundered100 by some one who mistakes dullness for earnestness and ugliness for strength?
However, the rich scents101 of well-cooked offal, mingled102 with those of wine and Oriental tobacco, soothed103 us a little, and we achieved a brief loosening of the prevailing restraint, and allowed our thoughts to run without the chain. Our friend had dug from the depths of the cellar a fragrant104 Southern wine, true liquid sunshine, tinct with the odour of green seas; a rare bottle to which I made a chant-royal on the back of the menu, and, luckily for you, mislaid the thing, or it would be printed here. We talked freely; not brilliantly, but with just that touch of piquancy105 that stimulants107 and narcotics108, rightly used, bestow109 upon the brain.
We lounged over coffee and liqueurs, and then[Pg 15] strolled up the Avenue and called at the establishment of "Mr. Francis Downman," that most discriminating110 and charming of wine-merchants—discriminating because he has given his life to the study of wines; charming because, away from his wine-cellars and in his true name, he is a novelist whose books, so lit with sparkle and espièglerie, have carried fair breezes into many a dusty heart. If you have ever visited that old Queen Anne House in Dean Street and glanced at "Mr. Downman's" Bulletins, you will realize at once that here is no ordinary vendor111 of wines. Wine to "Mr. Downman" is a serious matter. Opening a bottle is an exquisite112 ceremony; drinking is a sacrament. I once lunched with "Mr. Downman" in his cool Dutch kitchen "over the shop," and each course was lovingly cooked and served by his own hands, with suitable wines and liqueurs. It was a lesson in simple and courtly living. How pleasant the homes of England might be if our housewives would pay a little attention to correct kitchen and table amenities113. "Mr. Downman" would be a public benefactor114 if he would open a School of Kitchen Wisdom where the little suburban wife might sit at his feet and learn of him. Yes, I know that there are many schools of [Pg 16]cookery and housewifery, but these places are managed by people who only know how to cook. "Mr. Downman" would bring to the task all those little elegancies which make a dinner not merely satisfactory, but a refinement115 of joy. Feeding, like all functions of the human body, is a vulgar business anyway, but here is a man who can raise it to the dignity of a rite45.
Further, he has shown us, in those "Bulletins," how to turn advertising116 into one of the minor117 arts. Perhaps of all the enormities which the nineteenth century perpetrated in its efforts to make life unbearable118, the greatest was the debasing of trade. In the eighteenth century trade was a serene119 occupation, as you may see by glancing at the files of the old Gentleman's Magazine, Mirror, Spectator, where announcements of goods and merchandise were made in fine flowing English. Advertisement was then a matter of grace, of flourish and address; for people had leisure in which to receive gradual impressions. The merchants of that day did not scream at you; they sat with you over the fire, and held you in pleasant converse120, sometimes, in their talk, throwing off some persiflage121 or apothegm that has become immortal122. There was a Mr. George Farr,[Pg 17] a grocer, circa 1750, who issued some excellent trade tickets from the "Beehive and Three Sugar Loaves"; little cards, embellished123 with dainty woodcuts that bring to mind an Elzevir bookplate; the pictures a sheer joy to look upon, the prose a delicate pomp of words that delights the ear. Then there were the trade cards of the Goldsmiths' and Silversmiths' Company of the eighteenth century, each one the production of a true artist (Hogarth did several), as well as the tobacco advertisements of the same period. In the latter case, not only were the cards works of art, but poetry was wooed and won for the cause. Near the old Surrey Theatre lived one John Mackey, who sang the praise of his wares124 in rhyme and issued playbills purporting125 to announce new tragedies under such titles as My Snuff-Box, The Indian Weed, The True Friend, or Arrivals from Havannah, The Last Pinch, and so on. The cabinet-makers126 of the eighteenth century also found time to indite127 delicious morsels128 of prose and prepare quaint129 and harmonious130 pictures for the delight of their patrons. Mr. Chippendale and Mr. Heppelwhite were most industrious131 in this direction, and the Society of Upholsterers and Cabinet Makers issued, in 1765,[Pg 18] a work now very much sought after: The Cabinet and Chair Makers' Real Friend and Companion.
But then, snorting and hustling132 like a provincial133 alderman, in came the nineteenth century, with its gospel of Speed-up; and the result was that fair fields and stately streets scream harshly in your ears at every turn:—
Drink Bingo.
It is the Best.
Eat Dinkydux.
You'll hate it at First.
This sort of thing continued for many decades, when, happily, its potency134 became attenuated135, and some genius discovered that people were not always responsive to screams; that, after all, the old way was better.
Thus literature returned and linked arms once again with trade. Partly, the circularizing dodge136 was responsible for this, since, in the circular, the bald statement was hardly good enough. It was found that subtle means must be employed if you are striving to catch a man's attention at the [Pg 19]breakfast-table, when sleep still crawls like a slug about the brain and temper is uncertain. Nothing is so riling to the educated person as to have ungrammatical circulars dropped in his letter-box. Their effect is that he heartily137 detests138 the article advertised, not because he has tried it and found it wanting, but because of the split infinitive139 or the infirm phrase. So the whoop140 and the yell gave place to the full-flowered essay sprigged with the considered phrase. And to my mind the best of all contemporary efforts in this direction are "Mr. Downman's" "Bulletins," of which I have a complete set. Here a fastidious pen is delightfully141 employed; and not the pen only, but the taste of the book-lover. Indeed, they are lovable productions, having all the gracious response to the eye and the touch of Mr. Arthur Humphreys' anthologies of seventeenth-century poetry. Everything—format, type, paper, and Elian style—breathes an air of serendipity143.
The first part of each "Bulletin" consists of a number of essays on questions pertaining144 to wine and wine-drinking; the second half is a catalogue of "Mr. Downman's" wines and their current prices, with specimen145 labels, which are such gentle harmonies of line and colour that one is tempted[Pg 20] to start collecting them. "Mr. Downman" opens his addresses in the grand manner:—
My Lords, Reverend Fathers, Ladies and Gentlemen.
And if you love your Elia, then you must read "Mr. Downman" on Decanters and Decanting146, On Corkscrews, On How to Drink Wine, On Bottling, On Patriotism147 and Wines, On the Suiting of Food to Wine, On Wines at Picnics. His sharp-flavoured prose, full of sly nuances and coquettish conceits148, has all the tone of the best claret. Hear him on salads:—
This is the time of salads. And a good salad means good oil. It also means good vinegar, or a fresh and juicy lime or lemon. Now the Almighty149 has given us better tools for salad-making than any wooden fork or spoon. In conditions of homely150 intimacy151, a salad-maker, when all is ready, will wash his hands well and long as the moment approaches for serving the bowl. He will shun152 common or perfumed soaps, and will use nothing but a soap made from olive oil. Having dried his hands perfectly153 on a warm, clean towel, he will finally whisk the cup of dressing154 into homogeneity, will pour its contents over the salad, and will immediately proceed to wring155 the leaves in the liquid as a washerwoman wrings156 clothes in soapy water. (How horrid157!) In doing this he will spoil the appearance of come of the leaves, but he will have a salad fit for the gods.
[Pg 21]
After sampling a noble Madeira in his cellar cool, in William and Mary Yard, we resumed our crawl, and in the black evening made a tour of other of the old places. At the Café de l'Europe, Mr. Jacobs, leader of the band, played for us a few old waltzes and morceaux reeking158 of the spirit of 1912; but even he did not handle the fiddle159, or seem to care to handle it, in his old happy manner. Like the rest of us, I suppose, he felt that it wasn't worth while; it didn't matter. We called at the "Gambrinus," now owned by a Belgian; at the old "Sceptre," for a coupon's worth of boiled beef; and so to the Café Royal.
Here we received a touch or two from the old times. War has killed many lovely things, but, though it maim160 and break, it cannot wholly kill the things of the spirit, and in the "Royal" we found that art was still a living thing; ideas were still being discussed as though they mattered. Epstein and Augustus John, both in uniform, were there, and Austin Harrison had his usual group of poets. It was reassuring161 to see the old domino-playing Frenchmen, who seem part of the fixtures162 of the place, in their accustomed corner. The girls seemed to have packed away their affrighting futurist gowns, and were arrayed more[Pg 22] soberly. That night they seemed to be more like human creatures, and less like deliberate Bohemians.
I am not overfond of the Café Royal, but it is one of the West End shows which visitors feel they must see; and when any provincial visitors wonder: "Why is the Café Royal?" I have one answer for them: "Henri Murger."
It is certain that, but for Murger, there would be no Chelsea and no Café Royal. That man has a lot to answer for. I doubt if any one man (I'm not including kings) has wrought163 so much havoc164 in young lives. He meant to warn youth of danger; he actually drove youth towards it.
Any discussion which seeks to name the most dangerous book in the world is certain to bring mention of Rousseau's Confessions165, of Paine's Age of Reason, of Artzibashef's Sanine, of Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal, and other works of subversive166 tendency. The one book which has really done more harm to young people than any other is seldom remembered in this connection. That book is Scènes de la Vie de Bohême; and it is dangerous, not that it contains a line of obscenity or blasphemy167, not that it teaches evil as higher than good, but because it founded a cult168 and taught[Pg 23] young people how to ruin their lives. Bohemianism has, of course, existed since the world began; rebels have always been; but it remained for Murger to find a name for it and make a cult of it.
The dangers of this cult to young people lay not in its being an evil cult, but in its being perhaps as fine a cult as any of the world's great creeds169: the cult of human sympathy and generosity170. The Bohemian makes friends with all kinds and all creeds—sinners and saints, rich and poor; he cares nothing so long as they be kindly171. And there lay the danger, for the blood of youth, freed from all restraint, was certain to overdo172 it. It became a cult of excess. Murger died, but he left behind him a very bitter legacy173 to the coming generation. As that legacy passed through the years it gathered various adhesions—such as Wilde's "In order to be an artist it is first necessary to ruin one's health," and Flaubert's "Nothing succeeds like excess"; so that very soon art colonies became things discredited174, unpleasant to the nostrils175 of the righteous.
Murger himself saw the life very clearly, for he described it as "Vie gai et terrible"; and he takes no pains to present to us only the lighter176, warmer side of it. He shows us everything; yet,[Pg 24] so diabolical177 is his manner, that, even after passing the tragedy of the closing pages, the book and the life it pictures call to every one of us with song in his blood and the spirit of April in his heart.
It first appeared as a feuilleton in a Paris daily, and Murger, with characteristic insouciance178, wrote his instalments only a few hours before the time when they were due for the printer; and when he was stumped179 for material, he invented a little story. Hence that singularly beautiful tale, slammed into the middle of the book—the Story of Francine's Muff—which forms the opening scene of Puccini's opera founded on the novel. The book has neither balance nor cohesion180, and in this it catches its note from its theme. It is a cinematographic succession of scenes, tender and passionate181 and gay; swift and hectic182. He invented and employed the picture-palace manner in literature before the picture-palace was even conceived. The very style is feverish89, and from it one visualizes183 the desperately184 merry Bohemian slaving with pen and paper in his high garret, and whipping his flagging brain with fierce stimulant106, while the printer's boy sits on the doorstep.
[Pg 25]
It stands alone. There is no book in the literature of the world quite like it. It is the challenge of youth and beauty to the world; and if we—grown wise and weary in the struggle—find a note of ferocity and extravagance in the challenge, then let us judge with understanding, and remember that it is a case of the fine and the weak against the brutal and the ignorant. Murger's voice is the voice of protesting youth. He is illogical; so is youth. He is furious; so is youth. He is heroic; so is youth. He is half-mad with indignation and half-mad with the joy of living; so is youth. It is by its very waywardness and disregard of values that the book captures us.
There is no other book in which the spirit of Paris breathes more easily. Here we have the essential Paris, just as in Thomas Dekker we have the essential London. Poets, novelists and essayists have set themselves again and again to ensnare the elusive185 Paris between the covers of a book; but Murger alone—though he writes of Paris in 1830—has succeeded. Those who have never been to Paris should first read his book; then, when they do go, they will experience the sense of coming back to some known place.
It was this insidious186 book that first tempted[Pg 26] youth to escape from a hidebound world; showed it the way out—a way beset187 by delightful142 hazards. It offered to all the golden boys and girls a new Utopia, and they were fain to visit it. That it was a false world troubled them not at all. The green glass, the delirious188 midnight hours, and the pale loveliness of Mimi and Musette were, perhaps, shackles189 as binding190 and as fearful as those of Convention. But anything to escape from the irk and thrall191 of their narrow realities; so away they went, and the end of the story is written in the archives of the Morgue.
After seventy years, however, the middle way has been found. There are few tragedies to-day in the Quartier Latin, and very little gaiety or kindliness192; none of the old adventurous193 spirit. Things are going too well in the studio-world these days. Chelsea and Montmartre have been invaded by the American dilettanti, whose lives are one long struggle to be Bohemians on a thousand a year. If, however, there be those who regard this state of things as an improvement on the old, then let it be remembered that this way was only found after Murger had wrecked194 his own life and the lives of those who followed so gaily195 the unkind path down which he[Pg 27] led them. It is a pitiful catalogue; the more pitiful since so many of the young dead are anonymous—the young men who might, had they lived, have given the world so much of beauty, but who were unable to pull up short of the precipice196. Some of them, of course, we know: Gerard de Nerval, Barbey d'Aurevilly, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Ernest Dowson; and their London monument is the Café Royal.
* * * * *
At half-past nine all fun ceased, but we had picked up a bunch from Fleet Street, one of whom was taking home two bottles of whisky. So we moved to "another place," and ordered black coffees which drank tolerably well—after some swift surreptitious business with a corkscrew. Later, we strolled across Oxford197 Street to what remained of the German Quarter. We visited various coffee-bars, where our genial198 comrade with the bottles again did his duty; did it beautifully, did it splendidly, did it with Vine Street at his ear. And in a grey street off Tottenham Court Road we found a poor man's cabaret. In the back room of a coffee-bar an entertainment was proceeding199. Two schonk boys, in straw hats, were at a piano, assisted by an[Pg 28] an?mic girl and a real coal-black coon, who gave us the essential rag-times of the South. The place was packed with the finest collection of cosmopolitan200 toughs I had ever seen in one room. The air, physical and moral, was hardly breathable, and as the boys were spoiling for a row, one misinterpreted glance would have brought trouble—and lots of it. At different tables, voices were raised in altercation201, when not in lusty song, and the general impression the place gave me was that it was a squalid, dirty model of the old Criterion Long Bar. All the meaner, more desperate citizens of the law-breaking world were gathered here; and, though we had broken a few by-laws ourselves that night, we were not anxious to be led into any more shattering of the Doraic tables. So at midnight we adjourned202 to "another place," and drank dry gingers203 until three o'clock in the morning. Then, to a Turkish Bath, and so to bed; not very merry, but as cheered in the spirit as the humble204, useless citizen is allowed to be in a miserable205, hole-and-corner way in war-time.
It had been a sorry experience, this round of visits, in 1917, to quarters last seen in 1914; and it made me curious to know how other familiar[Pg 29] nooks had received the wanton assault of kings. In the haphazard206 sketches207 that follow I have tried to catch the external war-time atmosphere of a few of the old haunts, so far as a poor reporter may. Later, perhaps, a better hand than mine will discover for us the essential soul of London under siege; and these rough notes may be of some service, since all remembrance of that time was blown away from most minds by the maroons208 of Armistice209 Day.
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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5
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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6
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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7
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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8
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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9
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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10
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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11
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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12
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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13
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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14
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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15
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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16
minatory
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| adj.威胁的；恫吓的 | |
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17
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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18
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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19
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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20
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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21
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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22
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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23
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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24
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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25
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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27
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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28
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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29
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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31
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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32
comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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33
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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34
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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35
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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36
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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37
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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38
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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39
expressiveness
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| n.富有表现力 | |
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40
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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41
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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42
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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43
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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44
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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45
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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46
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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47
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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48
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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49
jaunts
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| n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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50
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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51
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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52
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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53
valedictory
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| adj.告别的；n.告别演说 | |
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54
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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55
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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57
repertoire
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|
| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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58
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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59
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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60
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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61
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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62
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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63
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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64
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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65
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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66
bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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67
copper
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|
| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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68
raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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69
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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70
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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71
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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72
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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73
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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74
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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75
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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76
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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77
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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78
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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79
rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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80
devastating
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|
| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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81
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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82
suave
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|
| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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83
standardizer
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84
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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85
juts
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| v.（使）突出( jut的第三人称单数 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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86
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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87
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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88
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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89
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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90
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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91
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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92
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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93
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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94
standardizing
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| 使合乎规格，使标准化( standardize的现在分词 )； 规格化 | |
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95
aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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96
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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97
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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98
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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99
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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100
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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102
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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103
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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104
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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105
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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106
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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107
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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108
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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109
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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110
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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111
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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112
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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113
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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114
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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115
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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116
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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117
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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118
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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119
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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120
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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121
persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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122
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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123
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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124
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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125
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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126
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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127
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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128
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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129
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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130
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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131
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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132
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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133
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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134
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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135
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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136
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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137
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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138
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
infinitive
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| n.不定词；adj.不定词的 | |
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140
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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141
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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142
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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143
serendipity
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| n.偶然发现物品之才能；意外新发现 | |
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144
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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145
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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146
decanting
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| n.滗析（手续）v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的现在分词 ) | |
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147
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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148
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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149
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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150
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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151
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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152
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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153
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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154
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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155
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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156
wrings
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| 绞( wring的第三人称单数 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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157
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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158
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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159
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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160
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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161
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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162
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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163
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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164
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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165
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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166
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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167
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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168
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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169
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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170
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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171
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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172
overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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173
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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174
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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175
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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176
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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177
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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178
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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179
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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180
cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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181
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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182
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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183
visualizes
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| 在脑中使（某人或某物）形象化，设想，想像( visualize的名词复数 ) | |
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184
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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185
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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186
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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187
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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188
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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189
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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190
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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191
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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192
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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193
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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194
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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195
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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196
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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197
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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198
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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199
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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200
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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201
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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202
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
gingers
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| n.姜，生姜( ginger的名词复数 )；姜黄色 | |
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204
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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205
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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206
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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207
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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208
maroons
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| n.逃亡黑奴（maroon的复数形式）vt.把…放逐到孤岛（maroon的第三人称单数形式） | |
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209
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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