Part 19 (1/2)
”That'll never be,” she said quietly--”never--never. I know it right away in here.” She laid her hand upon her chest.
”But why?” Sally repeated petulantly, as though wis.h.i.+ng it could alter the truth.
”Because I suppose I really want to do the fighting, however much I may think differently, when I see you and hear you talk, when your heart's going and there's all the meaning of it in your eyes. I've got to fight, and away inside me I want to. I suppose that's the compensation.”
Then Mrs. Hewson brought the key, saying words over it--an incantation of half-hearted rebuke--and following Sally with her eyes as she walked out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER XIII
There is Bohemianism still--there will always be Bohemianism. But the present will never wear the same air of fantasy as the past. It is the same with all things. Every circ.u.mstance take its colour from the immediate surroundings, and you cannot expect to get the same light-hearted Bohemianism in the midst of an orderly, church-going, police-conducted district. What hope is there for a troubadour nowadays with the latest regulations upon street noises? We must dispense with troubadours and get our Romance elsewhere. So everything has to suit itself to its own time--Bohemianism with the rest.
One essential quality there is, however, in this Vie de Boheme that will never alter. It demands that those who live it, shall be careless of the morrow; it expects an absolute liberty of soul, let manners and conditions be what they may. You will still find that; you will always find it. Certain souls must be free and they always seek out the spots of the earth where social restrictions, social exigencies, are least of all in force. They live where life is freest; they eat their meals where it is not compulsory for them to be on their best behaviour. You cannot expect the Bohemian to be a slave, and to customs least of all. The only well-ruled line that he can follow is the customary prompting of his own instinct.
Such a spot--an ideal corner of all unconventionality--is Soho. They say that Greek Street is the worst street in London. You must say something is the worst, to show how bad and good things are. Then why not Greek Street? But for no definite reason. It is really no worse than many another and, with a few more lamps to light its darkened pathways, it might earn that reputation for respectability which would endear it to the most exacting of British matrons. All the doubtful deeds are only done in dark streets. Light is the sole remedy; you will see crime retreating before it like some crawling vermin that dares not show its face. Therefore, why blame Greek Street and those who live there? The county council are to blame that they do not cleanse the place with light.
Bad or good, though--whatever it may be--it is part of Soho; the refuge of Bohemianism to which district Traill brought Sally Bishop on that Thursday evening.
Outside the restaurant in Old Compton Street with its latticed windows, and its almost spotless white lintels and the low-roofed doorway, a barrel-organ was twirling tunes to which two or three girls danced a clumsy step. In the doorway itself, at the top of the precipitous flight of stairs that led immediately to the room below, stood Madame, the proprietor's wife--ready to welcome all who came.
Her round, French, good-natured face beamed when she saw Traill, and her little brown eyes gleamed with genuine approval as they swept over Sally.
”Bon soir, Monsieur; bon soir, Madame.”
Every lady is Madame, however many during the week Monsieur may choose to bring, and she makes a romance of every single one of them.
Her own days are memories, but, being French, she still lives in the romance of others.
”Good evening,” said Traill; ”how's the business--good?”
”Mais, oui, Monsieur; les affaires vont a.s.sez bien.”
They climbed down the narrow little staircase, made narrower and almost impa.s.sable by the pots of evergreens placed for decoration upon some of the steps. There, in the flood of light, the little room papered in gold, hung with pictures advertising the place, all done by needy customers--mostly French--who had given them to the establishment for a few francs, or out of the fullness of their hearts, they were greeted in welcome again by Berthe, the little waitress.
”Bon soir, Monsieur; bon soir, Madame.”
It was like the cuckoo hopping from the clock to sing his note at every quarter.
There were little tables in every corner, all covered with virgin-white cloths and, in the centre of each, a vase full of chrysanthemums. It was all in order--all spick and span--French, every touch of it.
”Ou voulez-vous a.s.seoir, Monsieur? Sous l'escalier?”
Under the staircase by which they had just descended, two tiny tables had been placed--babies, thrust into the corner, looking plaintively for company. An Englishman would probably have made a cupboard of the place for odds and ends.
Traill consulted Sally. She did not mind. Anything in her mood would have pleased her. The atmosphere of all that was foreign in everything around her had lifted her above ordinary considerations.
Under the stairs, then, they sat, Traill's head almost touching the sloping roof above him.
”Well, what do you think you'd like to have?” he asked. And Berthe stood by, patiently waiting, content to study the little details that made up Madame's costume; her eyes were lit with the same romantic interest which the proprietress had shown on their arrival.
”I don't mind.”