by Unknown
“Say, Mag,” said this one, “you’ve got orf this time. You’ve clicked all right!”
The dark girl made no comment. What was passing in her mind was beyond conjecture; but she glanced back and forth at the boy, and caught his hot, hungry eyes with hers, and seemed in nowise affronted. While they were eating, the minstrel turned from them, and called to John Sway Too.
“Sti-sti-stick us a pipe, Johnny!”
Johnny regarded him with grave reproof. “Ho no. Li-un veh de-ar. Hi give you whole bottle hof rice-spillit. You be qui-et.”
“Give us a tune, Sing-a-song!” shouted one. “Give us another song—something new.”
Glass in hand, the boy rose from his seat and threw his arm in a grandiose gesture. The empty glass shot to the wall with a light crash, which was echoed by thick laughter.
“I am a poet!” he asserted. “I do not sing for people like you. I sing to ladies and princesses. I will sing for her!” He darted a lean arm towards the dark girl; then moved to her table. The company at the tables directed at her a volley of large winks and grimaces, intended to encourage her to keep up the jest.
“Lady, buy me a pipe, and I’ll make a beautiful poem. A lovely poem—all about you.”
The girl looked up, uncertain of her cue; embarrassed, half-amused, and just a little apprehensive; wondering how she was expected to treat this encounter. She had been brought into this strange atmosphere by her friend, as an escapade. It was to her a glimpse of Bohemian life. She had heard of ungainly, vociferous poets in the cafes of Montmartre, and assumed that this was a London reconstruction of Montmartre. It fed her with hints of rare adventure; and, at a kick on the ankle from her friend, she called decisively to John Sway Too. “Give him what he wants. I’ll pay.”
John moved to a blue curtain, which shielded a deep, dark recess, and beckoned to Sing-a-song, who, after a prodigious inclination to the girl, followed him. Those in the shop heard the splutter of a match and the sizzling of chandu. Then John returned alone, and Sing-a-song was forgotten. Fresh customers came in, with fresh topics for talk; those who had finished their meal went out; and the two girls talked in self-conscious murmurs.
Suddenly, through a lull in the conversation, came the piercing note of a whistle from the recess. The company started. The note was followed by a tuneless trill. Next moment, the curtain was violently torn apart, and Sing-a-song Joe, with whistle at lips, reeled shapelessly down the two steps into the shop. He sagged from side to side, still blowing. His eyes were starry; his face was livid. Then, while the customers gaped in wonder, he swerved round toward the dark girl. The whistle fell from his mouth to the floor, and he stretched arms to her and spoke.
“My princess! At last I have found you.” He swayed from side to side: then braced himself sharply, and a torrent of hot language gushed from him. “Beautiful lady!” he tried in shrill tones, “your poet has found you. For many years I have been making songs. Songs to hurt men’s hearts and fill young girls with beauty. Songs that none have heard, because they have remained locked in my heart, waiting for the maid who alone shall release them and hear them. Beautiful girl, I have waited so long for you, and now you have come to me. Now I will take you from these bleak, rough places to a dim forest that I know; and there I will take from you your garments, and will gather all your beauty to myself, and my arms shall bind you to me; and your white limbs shall light the recesses of the woodland like bright torches. It is far from here, this secret forest of mine. No woman has yet walked therein; and one woman only ever shall walk therein—the princess for whom I have kept it.
“O lovely girl, answer me. Give me your bright mouth, and I will make songs of you that shall be sung in high places throughout the world, and wherever men shall meet they shall talk of your beauty. Give me your loveliness, and come with me, O lady, and I will teach you wonderful things, and will cherish you and keep you harmless from all unkindness. Look up at me, my beautiful!”
The girl sat motionless at the table, all throughout this harangue, until the sharp command. So sudden and impetuous was his flood of language that it had washed from her all consciousness of onlookers. She was aware only of him, in this anomalous world where the amazing seemed to be the normal. A long-imprisoned self stirred within her; and she looked up, and saw, not a figure of ridicule, but a symbol of high adventure. As he met her glance, he took a step forward, knelt to her, very gently took her hand, and kissed it many times.
Then a well-aimed tomato caught him in the face. A cup of tea shot down his neck. A tea canister struck the back of his head. And a big hand gripped his collar, twisted him round on his knees, and flung him full length. A chorus of voices sang about him.
“Look ’ere,” said the man who had thrown him, “you just behave yesself, me boy. Don’t you go interferin’ wiv respectable girls. Else you’ll get into trouble—pretty quick, too. See?”
“No—no—lemme get up!” he protested with his wide grin. “Lemme get up, boys!”
They crowded him.
And suddenly a shock passed across his face. His eyes clouded. He lifted a hand to his head. The girls, who had nervously left their chairs, looked on in some concern. “Don’t hurt him—you!” cried the dark girl. “He wasn’t interfering with you—he was only talking to me.”
“P’raps ’e was. And p’raps ’e might ’a done more than talk. You never know wiv ’im. D’you know who ’e is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you want to be careful who you talk to, when you come to these places. ’E’s Sing-a-song Joe. ’E’s a loony. ’E’s barmy!” He pointed a thick arm at the lad, who stood, scarecrow fashion, his disarranged rags flapping about him. He grinned vacuously, and bleated, “Stop it, now, boys. Lemme go!”
The girl turned to look at him, and a light shriek shot from her, as she cowered to the wall. “Oh, take him away, take him away. Don’t let him come near me. Ugh!”
They took him away. They turned him round and round, and hustled him from shoulder to shoulder until he was pitched into the greasy street, and his whistle tossed after him.
Grinning and giggling, he picked himself up and shuffled to his customary bed among the dark arches of the Isle of Dogs. There, as he lay in a corner sheltered from the night wind, and waited for sleep, came to him, from the chaos of his mind, a vague memory of a princess who had received him as her prince and had given him her hand. When it had happened he did not know. But he knew that he had made a wondrous poem to a princess, and had delivered it to her in the guest-chamber of her palace; and he remembered being thrown by rough men from her presence into exile. And suddenly he became haughty towards those among whom he lived. He was far above such louts and knaves. Though impotent to disclose to their base minds his glory, or to resent their torments, he yet despised them. These poor, half-witted fellows could never know what he had known.
And in the shadow of the Limehouse arches, he arose, held himself erect, put his whistle to his lips, and strutted.
“HIPPOCKETIQUETTE”
RICHARD CONNELL
FROM APRIL 1920
A terrible discovery has lately been made with regard to New York society. We who inhabited it had a way of thinking that it was the ladies, the wits, the spirit of badinage that made our dinners and evening parties so agreeable, so desirable, so much worth while struggling to attend. But along comes January 16th [1920—the start of Prohibition] and opens our eyes to the true facts of the case. It was Alcohol that was really king; it was champagne that we mistook for wit, and cocktails that put in our minds the idea that men were brave and women beautiful. Words cannot give any idea of the desolation, the boredom of a dinner given to-day in the smartest set in New York.
Yes, high society is now not only high but dry. No longer are mint juleps minted; no longer do the Haig boys lead the cotillions; no longer does the Martini rear its noble head along the golden shores of Central Park.
That is—ostensibly. In reality, of course, there is still some very serious and effective drinking being done, but it is not being done with the abandon which characterized the pre-Wilsonic dynasties.
While the theatres are hanging out the “S. R. O.” sign, the hostesses are hanging out the “B. Y. O.” sign. “BRING YOUR OWN.”
Formerly, a man went to a dinner with the cheerful certainty that if he didn’t like the company, he’d probably like the wine. But now, as the taxi purrs toward your hostesses’ house, it seems to hum a plaintive little tune, “Will they have some? Will they have some?”
That is the question of the day. To know or not to know in advance whether your host is a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny, or simply a director of the Croton Water Works. It is true that while there is lucre there will be liquor. But who has it? This is the problem that is causing furrows of perplexity to line the foreheads of the most seasoned dinner-beagles in New York society.
Mr. Martyn S. C. Symington, the well-known authority on etiquette, the etiquette editor of this magazine, and author of the always popular book, “Which Fork?” has studied this important problem and has, at last, formulated a set of rules for the dry season. These rules will shortly be published in book form under the title “Hippocketiquette,” which word the author learnedly explains, is derived from the Greek compound “hip-pocket”,—and the French root, “etiquette”. The subjoined quotations will suggest the volume’s timely interest.
Form of invitation for a dinner, given by a man with an opulent cellar:
Mr. and Mrs. Merrick Huntington
request the pleasure of
Mr. Loring’s
company at dinner on
Thursday evening, at eight o’clock
DRINKING
If “R. S. V. P.” is in the left hand corner of an invitation, it has the customary meaning, but if it is in the RIGHT corner, it means “Real Scotch Voluminously Provided”.
The committee of a charity ball for the starving something of somewhere, will induce lavish generosity on the part of the guests if the invitations are in the following form:
The Society of Colonial Janes
requests the pleasure of
Mr. Loring’s company
at a Charity Ball in the
Bryan Room of the Hotel Loganberry,
on Friday evening at 11 o’clock
Subscriptions, consisting of $10 and One Pint,
may be sent to the Secretary
• • •
A delicate way of inviting a man known to have a private stock to your country place for a week-end is suggested by the following letter which Mr. Symington received from a lady of the highest standing in society and with the wholesale liquor houses:
“My Dear Mr. Symington:
“I should like it so much if you could run down to Glen Cove for the week-end. I have heard that you always take two hat boxes with you when you visit, but only one hat. Naughty man! May I not expect you and your hat boxes this week?
“Glen Cove is quite pleasant, although the weather has been so dry. Perhaps your coming will bring us better weather. Do come down.
“Cordially yours,
“Eugenia Rutherford.”
• • •
It is hoped that the Social Register, and the various Blue Hooks, will adopt a System of marking the elect whose names appear in them, with some symbol indicating, not only their clubs but their cellars. For example, you receive an invitation to dine with Percy Wimples, and you wonder what the convivial prospects are. A glance at the revised Register gives you the following information—Wimple. Mr. Percy W.—Mt. Un. PS. Gw. H. 94. 19 E. 78.
At once, you may know, not only the unimportant fact that Wimple is a ’94 Harvard man who is a member of the Metropolitan and Union Clubs, but the much more vital information that he has a “Private Stock”, and that his dinners are “Generally Wet”.
You accept.
If, on the other hand, the damning symbols should be, Wo—or Pst., which, according to Prof. Symington, would indicate “Water only”, or “Private stock, but tight with it,” you are warned beforehand.
In informal notes it is always well, indeed it is quite necessary, to include some graceful hint as to the probable humidity of the occasion. Just a neat postscript will do, such as “To meet Messrs. Moet and Chandon,” or “Presents her niece, Miss Gordon Ginevra Bottle.”
Mr. Symington’s book fills a long-felt want and should be in every home.
POEMS
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
FROM NOVEMBER 1920
WILD SWANS
I looked in my heart while the wild swans
went over;—
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying!
House without air! I leave you and lock your
door!
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!
THE SINGIN’ WOMAN FROM THE WOOD’S EDGE
What should I be but a prophet and a liar
Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose
father was a friar?
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?
And who should be my playmates but the adder
and the frog,
That was got beneath a furze-brush and born in a bog?
And what should be my singin’, that was christened
at an altar,
But Aves and Credos and psalms out of the psalter?
You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby;
You will find such flames at the wave’s weedy ebb
As flashes in the meshes of a mermother’s web.
But there comes to birth no common spawn
From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,
And you never have seen and you never will see
Such things as the things that swaddled me!
After all’s said and after all’s done,
What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
In through the bushes on any foggy day
My da would come a-swishin’ of the drops away,
With a prayer for my death and a groan for my
birth,
A-mumblin’ of his beads for all that he was worth;
And there’d sit my ma with her knees
beneath her chin,
A-lookin’ in his face and a-drinkin’ of it in,
And a-markin’ in the moss some funny little sayin’
That would mean just the opposite of all that he
was prayin’.
Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I
haven’t known,
What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,
And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,
With a Which-would-you-better? and a Which-
would-you-rather?
He taught me the holy talk of vesper and of matin,
He heard me my Greek and he heard me my
Latin;
He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul
from evil,
And we watched him out of sight and we conjured up the devil!
With him for a sire and her for a dam,
What should I be but just what I am?
FOUR SONNETS
I
When you, that at this moment are to me
Dearer than words on paper, shall depart,
And be no more the warder of my heart,
Whereof again myself shall hold the key;
And be no more—what now you seem to be—
The sun, from which all excellencies start
In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart
Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea;
I shall remember only of this hour—
And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep—
The pathos of your love, that, like a flower,
Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep,
Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed,
The wind whereon its petals shall be laid.
II
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre; though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
