Chapter IV: Brighton Beach (whit-Monday, 1909) 99

BEAUGENCY-SUR-LOIRE 100

IN PICARDY 101

CALLE MEMO O LOREDAN 102

BARCELONA 103

JUILLAC-LE-COQ (CHARENTE) 104

ROADS 105

ENVOI (ARS LONGA) 106

_Part I_

_Streets_

Church Street wears ever a smile, from having watched bright belles
Coming home with young men, after balls, “at all hours.”
Its villas don’t mind; they say, “Go it, young swells,
We’ve been young, too!” But Ebenezer Street glowers.

Chapel deacons live here, with side whiskers and pompous wives,
Who play hymns on Sundays, and deeply deplore sinful acts.
They’re convinced that their neighbours lead scandalous private lives;
—That you and I ought to be shot, “if one knew all the facts.”

Goreham Street’s sad. Here lives old Jones the poet—
He knew Swinburne and Watts, and has letters from “dear Charlie Keene.”
Loo Isaacs lives here as well, and poor Captain Jowett:
And the “Goreham Street Murder” was over at number thirteen.

Now George Street (E.C.) strikes a cheerful and strenuous note;
It is full of live men of business, of ’buses and noise;
Of Surbiton gents, very sleek, in top-hat and fur coat;
And earnest young clerks who perspire, and take classes for boys.

But Audley Street has a calm and a gently fastidious air!
Here I shall live when I’m rich, with my wife and my car:
When we are pleased, we’ll never shout nor ruffle our hair,
And a lift of the eyebrow will show how annoyed we are.

This is where life is lived nobly and sweetly and well:
Here are beauty, all hardly-won things, and courage and love.
Why people worship the slums and the poor so, I can never tell,
For it’s virtue and baths and good cooking go hand in glove!

_Villas_

(_Leytonstone_)

All down Jamaica Road there are small bow windows
Jutting out neighbourly heads in the street,
And in each sits, framed, a quiet old woman.
These watch the couples who pass or meet,

And some have borne sons, now ageing men;
And most have seen death in their narrow house;
Heard wedding bells for their grandchildren;
Seen boys seek the bar for a last carouse;

And heard wives cry, through thin plaster walls,
And watched babies laugh in the sun, outside.
They treasure things up in their withered old hearts,
And always they sit looking out, with eyes wide.

These queer old women, they watch, as they sit,
Through the whole long day, what happens beneath
They miss not a thing. Sometimes they knit,
And sometimes dream a little, holding their breath.

1910.

_Cherry Gardens_

(_Rotherhithe_)

My man fell in, when he was drunk;
They’d thrown him out o’ the “King’s Head.”
From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.
He was my man; he’s dead.

On the cold slab, a sight to see,
They’ve laid him out—poor handsome chap—
In Rotherhithe’s new mortuary.
His head should dent my lap,

But I mayn’t warm him where he lies,
Because I have no ring to show—
Yet I’ve his bruises on my eyes;
And bore his child a month ago.

_Mare Street, N.E._

In Mare Street, Hackney, Sunday nights,
My Jim he’d search for souls to save:
Beneath one of them showman’s lights
He’d stand up white and brave.

“And who’s for Jesus now?” he’d call,
“And who’s for Love that’s strong?
Repent, believe: there’s Heaven for all
That turns and flees from wrong....”

I wish no harm to my poor Jim,
But God strike Lizzie dead!
’Twas cruel of her to lead the hymn,
With me laid ill, in bed.

They’re gone—last month—to Leytonstone;
Jim has a pulpit there;
So I’m left hungering here alone,
While _she_ joins him in pray’r.

_Kingsland Road, N.E._

_As I went walking down the Kingsland Road_
_I met an old man, with a very heavy load;_
_He had a crooked nose, and one tooth in his head,_
_And as I went by him he stopped me, and said:_

I’m an old, old man
With a very heavy sack—
But when I was a young ’un
I’d a heavier pack.

Now my eyes are all dim,
But my heart’s full of fun;
Oh! heavy was my heart
When my eyes were young.

I’d a cartload of trouble
All along o’ my wife.
—It was trying to be happy
Made a Hell of my life!

I’m an old, old man
With a gert heavy sack—
But when I was a young ’un
It nigh broke my back!

_When I looked in his eyes I saw that they were blue,_
_And the skin of his face it was wrinkled through and through,_
_He had big hairy ears, and his beard it was white:_
_And twittering and laughing he passed into the night._

_Living-In_

(_Brixton Rise_)

Through the small window comes the roar
Of all the world of light outside:
It is not midnight, yet our door
Is shut on us, and we are tied.

What is he doing now—my dear?
I left him all on fire for me:
Will he be true? Oh God, I fear
He’ll buy what I would give him free!

_Newport Street, E._

Down Newport Street, last Sunday night,
Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast:
She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight,
And Bill strode on like one possest.

O Love’s a curse to them that’s young
’Twas all because of love and drink;
Why couldn’t the silly hold her tongue,
Or stop, before she spoke, to think?

She played with fire, did pretty Nell,
So Bill must hang ere summer’s here:
Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell
Through love, and poverty and beer!

_The Spanish Sailor_

(_Charlton Vale_)

Through lines of lights the river glides,
Bestrewn with many a green-eyed ship,
And swiftly down the slinking tides
All night the heavy steamers slip.

Bright shone the moon when he slunk down,
A-sailing to some foreign parts,
Past Greenwich and past Gravesend Town,
And caring nought for broken hearts.

’Twas in July. He kissed and fled:
He stole my all and slipt to sea,
And now I wish that I was dead
—Or that his arms were crushing me.

_Outside Charing Cross_

(_2.35 p.m._)

Of course she’s there to see him off—
Trust her for that. Tears in her eyes, enough to be becoming,
The latest furs, then sympathy, for tea!
And if he’s hit, my own, she’ll hear it first.
She’ll be the one to fly to France,
To bore the Doctor and the Nurse
And drive him mad—if he still lives.

But I, who love him so my heart grows faint,
Who’d gladly bleed to death to save him pain,
Must wait and read the news in some blurred list....
Then, ever the grinning mask, day in, day out,
While she, hard as a stone,
Wears stylish black and tells her lover’s son
How “Father died a hero in the War!”

1915.

_Saloon Bar, Railway Arms_

(_Waterloo Road_)

THE SERGEANT-MAJOR SPEAKS

Now you get out, you lousy tart!
Outside’s my lawful wife and kids
Turned up to watch the regiment depart,
And all dressed neat, in black.

Why such as you’s orl right, maybe,
In time of peace. And I’ll allow
We’ve ’ad some fun, been on the spree—
But now, you slut, it’s War.

Think o’ your Gord! That’s wot I say.
The Missus there’s _respectable_—
’Er and the kids. If you don’t run away
I’ll wring yer neck, yer cow! ’Ear me?

You ought to be ashamed of yerself,
Turning up like this and making trouble!
Come on, chuck it! Don’t ’owl. Give us a slobber then....
Now ’op it—poor little swine.

_Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus_

Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus has three sons killed in the war,
(But to see her brave, sweet face, you would never guess it.)
She has “given” some nephews as well, and cousins galore;
“And if one feels sad,” she says, “one ought to suppress it.”

She belongs to two Funds, some Committees, and several clubs,
Where she states what she’s done for England, with modest pride;
And she works like a black at recruiting outside the pubs;
And is always ready to tell “how her dear ones died.”

There were three of them—Bob, Jack and Arthur—handsome men;
So good to their mother, so courteous, and brave, and kind!
Well—she bred them for England! It was God’s will, Amen;
For her sorrow on earth, a reward in Heaven she would find.

But Lily (the third from the left in “The Beauty-girl’s Glide”)
Belonged to no clubs or committees, wasn’t noble at all;
And the night of Jack’s death, in the wings, she broke down and cried
Till her face was a sight and she couldn’t go on for the Ball.

She hadn’t bred him for England, nor looked for rewards “up above”;
He was all that she cared for on earth; and she railed at Fate
And called down a curse on those who had slain her love.
The “for England” touch she couldn’t appreciate.

But Lily, of course, was only a simple soul.
She lacked Mrs. Calhus’s exquisite self-control.

_Little Houses_

(_Hill Street, Knightsbridge_)

Little, houses, though prim, have often a secret glance
That can speak to a heart outside—as one speaks to me—
And even their close-drawn curtains seem to enhance
The charm of their sly reserve, of their mystery....

I like to walk through the Square to your quiet street,
And look at your windows—with just a suspicion of pride—
For I may go in, when I dare, and sit at your feet,
But the people who pass can’t guess what it’s like inside.

They haven’t a notion—but I see your small armchair
And your dog, by the fire, and your novel thrown on the floor;
And I know there will always be flowers when you are there,
And always a smile for me, when I open your door!

_Malise-Robes_

The address is good—10A, North Molton Street—
I’m clever at the trade, and doing well;
Haven’t a single cause for discontent!
Wilfrid is pleased: I’m safe: why mourn (you say)
The old days when I loved him, and was poor?
Ah, why! Fool, fool—to ask one that.
I love him still, I think. Sometimes he comes
And takes me off to Paris for a week;
Flatters himself I’m “doing well at last”;
That he’s not brought me harm; but, rather, good.
It ought to be enough! And yet, and yet—
You see I’m thirty-five, and I’ve no child....
True, I’ve the shares in “Malise Limited,”
And that’s worth fifteen hundred solid pounds a year....

I’ll marry my Paris buyer. He’s a good sort:
And we’ll soon be very rich.... But I’m so tired.

I wish he’d only kept me in a flat
Somewhere in Maida Vale; come once a week
And let me cook the dinner.... Votes! Good God!
The way to manage women is the Turk’s....

_The Young Married Couple_

(_Muswell Hill_)

The Home of the young married couple is pleasant and clean,
They receive me together. They say “Will I please come in,”
And “not mind” some small thing (which I have not seen).
Then: “Dinner is ready now”; and “shall we begin?”

They have a small daughter, and not too much money. They say
That things must look up, by and by. They are merry and brave,
They have grey days and bright days and days of play;
And they always enjoy together the things that they have.

And often I envy my friends, as I sit and read
All alone with my books and my thoughts, without child or wife:
And I think I should like to marry very much indeed—
If only the marriage sentence weren’t for life.

_First Floor Back_

Little room with the stone grey walls and the dusty books
And a stone paved yard outside, and a high brick wall
(And beyond the wall the trains to and fro passing
All day and all night)—
How I regret you now, little room with no view!
I shall never see you again.

There I was all alone with my own wild heart.
And now I have lent my heart: it is no more mine.
There I was free to soar or to sink, no one speaking a word,
Nothing holding me back, or distracting, or bidding me think
Of callers “coming at five.”
No one ever called, in that small bleak room.

No one called, it was cold. All alone
Came the night to me
And the bitter, grey London morning.
And I was rich, with my bare grey walls,
Rich, with my thoughts and dreams,
Who now am poor—
Imprisoned by plenty and by the years.

_Maisonnettes_

(_Harrow Road_)

The houses in Windermere Street are let off in floors,
Which perhaps is the reason it always seems so to “swarm.”
Little groups of girls and young men gather round its front doors
And keen eyes at all windows observe who is “coming to harm.”

Every one in the street knew at once about poor Lizzie Brown!
They saw the young chap she took up with, and “knew how ’twould be”;
And they know why the blinds of the house at the corner are down,
_And who pays the second floor’s rent, at a hundred and three._

_Walworth Road_

Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.);
Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by;
Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between
Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards;
Come in at windows and invade small rooms
To chatter archly in old women’s ears,
Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat,
And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts....

They make bent grandfathers recall the day
They played the fool in the sun, under the sky,
And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps
“Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”

And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,
Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,
Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.
And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,
They tinkle such sly secrets of delight,
That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,
These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs
And memories of a kiss, in that dream world
Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,
And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...

To the strong lads they whisper of the wars,
Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves
Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose
In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea;
Or of adventures, where the world is warm
And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach
Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet
Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde—
Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened—
Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....

Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee,
With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!”
But get a punch on the nose from British boys,
Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails,
And go adventuring through the burning blue,
And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin,
And make an island (as the daylight fades)
Which has a fierce volcano in her midst
And a little white port, with clustering white houses,
And pirate vessels in her anchorage....

They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams!
Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes,
The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge,
The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on;
Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be
How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.

_The Country Boy_

Ere Jack went up to London
He held his head full high:
His step was firm, his shoulders square
And bright and bold his eye.

And ere he went to London
Our maidens pleased him well,
As little Rose from Yeovil,
And dozens more, can tell.

But now the London ladies
Have stolen all his thoughts,
And wonderful rich presents
He gives to those he courts.

But O, the smile has left his lips,
His eyes are tired and dim,
And he’s forgotten lads at home
Who’ve not forgotten him.

1908.

_The Letter_

“O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the Park
Very near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home—
What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and dark
When there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come?

“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng,
There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street,
And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a song
In the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!

“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you,
And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours,
But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few,
And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.

“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind,
It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange:
This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind,
And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.

“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it right
Just because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by,
To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight.
O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”

_Lodgings_

(_Bloomsbury_)

As I climb these musty stairs,
To my garret near the roof—
Past the ladies singing airs
From the latest Opéra-bouffe—
I can see her little feet
Twinkling in the brilliant light,
I can hear the words so sweet
That she said for my delight,
When the whirling dance was over
And she joined me in the night.

As I climb these hard-worn stairs
To my garret near the roof,
All her pretty, subtle airs,
As she kept me half-aloof,
Fill my thoughts and banish cares;
I can hear her soft reproof
When I kissed her unawares,
As I climb these weary stairs
To my garret near the roof.

“_L’Ile de Java_”

(_To Madame Josse_)

Madame, from out the hurrying throng
Two boys have come to drink and talk;
And one will make a little song
And one a drawing, done in chalk.

When all goes wayward with our art
And beauty dances out of sight,
It’s good to still a hungry heart
With chatter far into the night.

Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines,
Gay visions come to tired eyes;
How bright the Isle of Java shines
Beneath what deep, cerulean skies!

Transported to that dazzling clime
Where sunlight scalds a silver beach—
We can forget the flight of time,
And falterings of line and speech.

We can forget our isle of dream
Is no more real than thoughts that fly—
And follow close the magic gleam
Which charms and haunts us till we die.

And so from out the hurrying throng
We two have come to drink and talk;
And I have made a little song,
And he a drawing, done in chalk!

1908.

_The Poplars_

I

Oh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy,
Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beam
Stol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry,
From lips new parted in some childish dream!

See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall,
They stand like pillars against the darkling sky,
And over the little lake their shadows fall....
See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by.
If you can love this little, why not all?
Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why....

II

Oh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow:
Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours,
And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I know
That the treasure I seek you deny,
And the heart of you, soul of you, keep.