I shall not tell you anything of ‘quaint corners,’ or ‘picturesque bits.’ I will not cut up and pickle5 London. Ever since the days of Dickens (or is it since those of Dr Syntax?) people have ranged4 our unfortunate town armed with a butterfly-net: swoop6! caught Cloth Fair! Another swoop! Staple7 Inn lies in the butterfly-net. Quick, into the pickle-jar. Now for the cyanide. Here they are, London butterflies, ready for delineation8 by Mr Hugh Thompson. No, I will pickle you no living strips of London Town, and I promise that not once will I portray9 a humorous bus-conductor. One reason is that there are no humorous bus-conductors; there are only raucous10 brutes11, working long hours, and maintained in a state of pessimism12 because these long hours separate them from the public-house. They do not, however, separate them enough.
There will be no East in the West, nor West in the East. There will be no list of statues, for nobody ever looks at statues. There is a statue of George Stephenson at Euston, and one of William Pitt in Hanover Square. That is very interesting, isn’t it? It is a terrible commentary upon fame that when you erect14 a statue to a man he becomes invisible. You pass a statue every day, but you never look at it, you pass it. Nobody cares for statues, except the birds, who make them a venue15 for love and war. Christopher Wren16 did say that if you required a monument you should look about you; thus does the London population. Those who have noticed Mr Peabody, miraculously17 encased in a frock coat several sizes too small, Mr Huskisson stark18 naked, and one of the Georges on his little horse, trotting19 to nowhere in particular, as was the way of his dynasty, will agree that it is no wonder statues fail to arouse even merriment.
No, there are no statues in this book. There are no pictures either. I shall not tell you how to find the Madonna degli Ansidei in the National Gallery, nor direct you to the Flaxmans of University College. The catalogues can do that. That is, if you want to know, and are not one of the ordinary beings who use the museums to get out of the rain or for the innocent purposes of courtship. (I recommend the Geological; chilly20, but leads to concentration). Sometimes, in remorseful21 mood, when the word ‘ought,’ which as a rule means little to me, suddenly assumes material shape to the extent of a faint mist, I tell myself that I am5 very uneducated, and regrettably unrepentant, that I ‘ought’ to care that Swift lived in Bury Street and Sir Isaac Newton in Jermyn Street, and that I ‘ought’ to find desecration22 in the fact that where the dog Diamond barked, the plates of Jules’s Balkan waiters clatter23. And I go to Jules’s to lunch and to meditate24 on gravitation. But Jules can cook, and while eating his meats you do not meditate; and he is so popular that as soon as you have finished those meats, you are driven out by the eyes of some young couple, beaming with love and appetite. Nor may you meditate opposite the houses of the great; it annoys the police. So, after this faint attempt, the slender ‘ought’ evaporates. Perhaps because of that I have not yet succeeded in visiting the Tower, the Roman Bath, the Foundling, the Soane Museum, the Mint, and many other places which doubtless would improve my mind.
I am not a student, but a lover of London; it amuses me much more to notice that one man shouts: ‘Paw Maw! Exper! Paw Maw!’ while another does it like this: ‘Per Mer! Gateshpozervenment!’ than to bask25 in the knowledge that Johnson lived in Gough Square. This arises, I suppose, from having taken London as I found her, and from not being a Londoner. The first twenty years of my life having been spent in another country, I did not treat London as a relation, but as some one whom I liked. Everything of her was interesting, and there is to-day no mews where I cannot hear the footsteps of her smutty nymphs. The entry into London is such a romantic march; I say march because it is worth doing on foot. But as I speak to Londoners, we had better do it by train, for they would grow tired of her. When Londoners say ‘London,’ they mean Piccadilly, Selfridges, Covent Garden, that sort of thing, and that is not London. London is Tottenham and Chiswick, the ‘Paragon,’ Mile End, Walker’s Court and what it sells, and the black doss places under the railway arches. London is Houndsditch, where everybody looks bad, and Cornwall Gardens where everybody looks good. London is a congress-house of emotions.
When one looks at the map, particularly if it is on a large6 scale, London looks like a splash, rather longer than it is broad, with railway lines radiating in all directions, rather like a spider’s web, the centre being tenanted by whoever you like. And one thinks of Dick Whittington gaily26 treading in the spider’s web. But, in fact, one does not come out of the everywhere into the here of London. One melts into London, and one hardly knows how one comes to abandon the rest of the world. There is a moment when the Essex or Kentish marsh27 ceases to lap so uniformly against Medway or Thames. One has a sense of population, of rather large houses set rather far apart, but not yet so far apart as in the counties; of grounds less richly endowed with the high walls crowned with broken glass which announce that respectable people live inside. One reads names on the platforms: ‘Brentwood,’ or ‘Malling,’ and there is a sprinkling of villas28, with plenty of white paint and concrete, and red roofs and leaded panes29. One glimpses cerise curtains, and one knows with painful accuracy where to look for the back of the swing mirror. Then, again, gaps, cows. It must have been a mistake, it is not London after all! But there come more platforms and more villas, then a row of shops, shops not branded with the names one would expect to find, such as ‘Boots’ or ‘Home and Colonial,’ but brisk, individual little shops belonging to Smith, and to Jones, yet strangely alike in build, furnished by the same shopfitter, just as the owners will be buried by the same undertaker. (He is quite ready, for he owns one of the shops.) That is individualism, which, like the camomile plant, is ever bruised30 and ever arises.
The train rumbles31 on, and the houses change. They are still detached, but less detached: they are separated by privet hedges over which a man can look, and so they have an air of fellowship. Suddenly, one enters a little colony of houses; one sees a postman on foot instead of on a bicycle, a horse omnibus and no carrier’s cart; one sees a policeman too: the world is growing less respectable; it must be London after all. But again come gaps and cows, except that now the gaps are described as ‘desirable freehold sites’ with loudly advertised frontages. The earth is already torn up, and excavations32 are turning into roads; one observes a solitary7 gas-lamp, and on a board the words ‘Macedonia Avenue.’ No avenue is built yet, but it is foredoomed to Macedonia.
THE REGENT CANAL
AT MAIDA HILL
All that is the overflow33 of London; it is the fugitive34 London which has no love or understanding of the town. The movement of a Londoner who rises in life seems to follow a definite curve; if he begins in Whitechapel the wheel of fortune may take him to Streatham; after a while he will dream of a place in the country and realise his dream perhaps at Purley Oaks; by the time his son has come back from Oxford36, his wife will have been ambitious enough to remove him to South Kensington; thence, the last step, to God’s quadrilateral between Oxford Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street, and Park Lane. After the bankruptcy37 the process is reversed. Outward, then inward, and outward again. It is like the tide.
But the train goes on, and unexpectedly, we find age after youth, Croydon, Sydenham, Edmonton, places where again the walls are high, the oaks thick, where are deep lawns, heavy stucco fronts, little crowded streets with spreading market places. We breathe the air of genteel sleep. Genteel, perhaps, but restless sleep, for these are old villages made into islands.
They seem vaguely38 annoyed among the trams; they blink at the sky-signs and the objurgations of Bovril. But it is too late; round each little group run fifty streets, each one comprising a hundred houses or so, all complete, with Nottingham lace curtain and Virginia creeper. The old house may call itself ‘The Lodge,’ but ‘Chatsworth’ and ‘Greville Towers’ are round the corner. Indeed, we forget them as we go on, for now, as the train roars over railway bridges, through cuttings, we look down on the endless congestion39 of suburban40 roofs, each one separated from its neighbour by what the builder regrettably calls a ‘worm.’
And yet it is not London. For London has yet to burst upon our eyes, in the shape of strident Clapham Road, or Brixton Road, true London of the black, greasy41 pavement and the orange peel of which Private Ortheris babbled42 in his delirium43. We have still to come to the giant warehouses44 and their ambitious grayness, to the flat mass of gray, yellow, and black, broken only8 by the washing that hangs to dry, and the narrow gardens where droops45 the nasturtium. At last here is working London, little, nestling, hard, grimy London, gritty, troglodyte46 London, London of crowded shop and public-house, of tramway and clotted47 traffic, and yelping48 children. That is London of many heads and, to me, all smiling.
It is only later, when at last we reach the river that is gray as a cygnet, and see London rising in a hundred solemn spires49, that we come to understand London, to feel the use of that white, central pomp; as well of that opulence50 as of the smiling cleanliness of the outer ring, of the blackness of the inner ring. For all that is part of London’s world, and it is well that she should, within herself, comprise all ugliness and all beauty. For this makes her worth exploring.
The secret of a city’s exploration does not lie in the dutiful following of itineraries51, but rather in a lover-like submission52 to its moods. One should eat in various places, not only within the stereotyped53 square mile which, in London, in Paris, or in Petrograd, is loudly labelled as the foreigner’s restaurant. One must seek culinary adventure far afield, at Harrow, and at Tulse Hill, in Piccadilly and Norton Folgate; and let me assure you that there exists a subtle difference between the cooking at the Cheapside A.B.C. and its fellow in the Brixton Road.
Also one should readily cede54 to the fancy that is bred by a beautiful place name. It is true that, as a rule, the most attractive names lead to the least attractive places, but on the way one touches singularity often, and beauty sometimes. My Baedeker has always been Kelly’s Directory; that is one of the books I should like to find in my restricted library if I were wrecked55 on a desert island. For, sitting under my bread-fruit tree, warm in my garment of yakskin, and smoking an earthen pipe of dried I don’t know what leaf, Kelly’s Directory would bring up dreams, dreams such as these: Seven Sisters’ Road, Satchwell Rents, Beer Lane, and Whetstone Park. All those dreams have come true, and thus a little of my fervour has been abated56 by their materialisation; by the discovery of Seven Sisters’ Road as gray, refuse-strewn, rich9 in Victorian goodness and in modern slum; of Satchwell Rents as a dusty affluent57 into Bethnal Green Road, shuttered, and locked, and suspicious. Whetstone Park, of course, is not at Whetstone, but just off New Oxford Street, and there is no park there. But still, those names, like Orme Square, that secludes58 itself from the Bayswater Road behind its column and its defiant59 eagle, like Cumberland Market, Hanoverian, naked, whose many iron posts await cattle that never come, contain the seed of romance because they induce quest. And so I will not be discouraged yet, but soon must discover what stones have wrought60 Jedburgh Street and Parsifal Road.
CUMBERLAND
HAY-MARKET
Yet those streets, and roads, and squares that have their place in Kelly are, after all, only the outer shell which the true lover must break through. If he is a true lover, he will soon understand that London lies behind the streets. He will realise that between two streets there is often more than two rows of houses and of gardens or yards. He will have discovered that in the core of those blocks of masonry61 lives an inner London. Into that core there is but one way, which I will call the slits62. We all know slits, little spaces between houses, that lead inwards, you know not whither. You pass them every day, perhaps, and never turn aside, yet through those slits is the way in. There is one, for instance, near Notting Hill Gate. They call it Bulmer Place, though it is only six feet broad and is buried under an archway. Enter; ten yards lead you to an old cottage settlement, where no house exceeds two floors, where each has its garden, its creeper and its cat, where washing floats undisturbed, and, on fine afternoons, public beanoes take place. This is an old London village, caught between the warehouses and shops, yet maintained by the magic law of ancient lights.
There is another slit63, less well known, quite near Kensington Square. To the ordinary eye, Kensington Square is entirely64 civilised, and none live there unless they have both money and good taste. In the far south-west corner stands a convent, that stares forth65 blankly upon this world. But walk south-east and turn to the right, and go on until, past low, white cottages grown10 with sterile66 vine, you meet a brick wall. On the way, small houses, well locked, that are quiet and green, will have seen you pass without approval. If adventure is not for you, you will turn back on seeing the brick wall; if, however, it is, you will go on, and, on your right, find a slit so small that you may not open your umbrella in it. This they call South End; if you persevere67 you shall come to rustic68 cottages of plaster, and at last discover, single-floored against the side of a great block of flats, the cottage and garden where rot two old green, painted figure-heads. There live Prunella, Mityl, Selysette, and their tribe. But go carefully to South End, for the road is fugitive, and I cannot always find it myself. I think I find it only on the days when I am not too impure69 in heart.
Wherever flows London stone the slits exist. A deep, dark archway out of Surrey Street dives under the Norfolk Hotel; follow it, go down Surrey Steps, and you shall come to a water-gate, on which you may yet lean and smell the tar13 of Henry Fitz Alwyn’s barge70. Another slit, behind the Alexandra Hotel, will lead you through Old Barrack Yard (I do not know what barrack) and past low, industrial cottages, to the petrified71 splendours of Belgravia. I wish I knew them all, for I discovered yet another last week, after overlooking it for over sixteen years. It is called St James’s Market, and leads off the Haymarket, towards the neat elegancies of Jermyn Street. That does not sound promising72; yet, lost among the backs of warehouses and restaurants, there stands a long, low house coated with green plaster; it is a workshop, but some sense of fitness had bidden the workers relieve its green walls with claret curtains. I choose to be sure that in this house Axford tried to imprison73 Hannah Lightfoot, until the fair Quakeress fled to her Georgian lover.
And follow the green spot on the map, on the borough74 map, that cares so much for the borough, so little for the town. The borough map will lead you to green fields where flourish the sardine75 tin and the wild hyacinth. It will lead you to a churchyard, itself buried between theatres and shops, behind St Ann’s,11 Soho, where King Theodore of Corsica has laid his insurgent76 bones. It will lead you behind the solemnities of South Paddington into the vast churchyard behind the little Chapel35 of the Ascension. This is open to you all day; there you will find sparse77 graves, vast lawns and, under the trees, friendly seats where you may dream of death, or, if you prefer, of loves that will companion you to that bourne.
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1
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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venue
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| n.犯罪地点，审判地，管辖地，发生地点，集合地点 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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troglodyte
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| n.古代穴居者；井底之蛙 | |
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47
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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50
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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51
itineraries
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| n.旅程，行程( itinerary的名词复数 ) | |
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52
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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53
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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54
cede
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| v.割让，放弃 | |
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55
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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56
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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58
secludes
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| v.使隔开，使隔绝，使隐退( seclude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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61
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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62
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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64
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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69
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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70
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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71
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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72
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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73
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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74
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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75
sardine
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| n.[C]沙丁鱼 | |
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76
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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77
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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