bEAUTir- m I: I ■^^i^l:;.i s i:.,T£.MPLE THUR^DH UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES I ' pal- 's T^TTE on the last date stamped below THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE . LIBRARY ' '^S ANGELES. CALIF. Digitized by the Internet Arciiive in 2007 witii funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcli ive.org/details/cityofbeautifulnOOtliuriala THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE BYs K. TEMPLE THURSTON AUTHOR OF **Th0 AppU of Edm," "Mirage," ate. NEW YORK DODD. MEAD & COMPANY 1911 60036 Copyright, 1900. by DODD. MEAD AND COMPANY PubUth4d, September, 190© T4 1 Dedicated to ROSESTA FlLIPPI, lO tvkom I am indebted Jhr the gift of laughter which I hope has crept its xuajf into the pages qf this book, London, 18, 3, '09. J, CONTENTS Book I THE ROAD TO THE CITY CHAFTEB PAOB I. A Pbelude on the Eve of St. Joseph's Day 1 n. The Last Candle 6 HI. The Geeengrocer's — Fetter Lane . 13 IV. What to Call a Hero .... 18 V. The Ballad-Monger — ^Fetter Lane 23 [VI. Of Kensington Gardens ... '31 VII. The Voyage of the Good Ship Albatross 39 VIII. The Fateful Ticket-Puncher . . 47 IX. The Art of Hieroglyphics ... 59 X. The Need for Intuition .... 71 XI. A Side-light Upon Appearances . 74$ XII. The Chapel of Unredemption . . 78 XIII. The Inventory 9£ XIV. The Way to Find Out 98 XV. What is Hidden by a Camisole . . 107 XVI. Easter Sunday 117 XVII. The Fly in the Amber .... 129 XVIII. The Nonsense-Maker . . . . 141 XIX. The Mr. Chesterton . . . . 157 XX. Why Jill Prayed to St. Joseph . 167 XXI. The City of Beautiful Nonsense . 177 CONTENTS Book II THE TUNNEL CHAPTEB PAOK XXII. The Heart Op the Shadow .. 189 xxin. Ambee . 197 Book III THE CITY XXIV. The Paij\.zzo Capeixo 207 XXV. The Lettee — ^Venice 213 XXVI. The Return — ^Venice . 224 xxvn. The True Mother . . . 229 xxvin. The Treasure Shop 237 XXIX. The Candle for St. Anthony . 250 XXX. The Qualities of Ignatia . 257 XXXI. The Sacrifice . . . . . 266 xxxn. The Departure — Venice ,. . 274 xxxin. The 16th of February — ^Lon- don 285 XXXIV. The Dissoluble Bondage . •300 XXXV. The Wonder of Belief . 306 XXXVI. The Passing ...... 312 XXXVH. The Circular Tour ... 819 xxxvin. A Process of Honesty . 384 XXXIX. Tff. End of the Loom . > . 838 BOOK I THE ROAD TO THE CITY The City of Beautiful Nonsense CHAPTER I A PRELUDE ON THE EVE OF ST. JOSEPH'S DAY Of course, the eighteenth of March — but it is out of the question to say upon which day of the week it fell. It was half-past seven in the evening. At half- past seven it is dark, the lamps are lighted, the houses huddle together in groups. They have se- crets to tell as soon as it is dark. Ah! If you knew the secrets that houses are telling when the shadows draw them so close together! But you never will know. They close their eyes and they whisper. Around the fields of Lincoln's Inn it was as still as the grave. The footsteps of a lawyer's clerk hurrying late away from chambers vibrated through the intense quiet. You heard each step to the very last. So long as you could see him, you heard them' plainly ; then he vanished behind the curtain of shadows, the sounds became muffled, and at last the silence crept back into the Fields — crept all round you, half eager, half reluctant, like sleepy children drawn from their beds to hear the end of a fairy story. g THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE There was a fairy story to be told, too. It began that night of the eighteenth of March — the Eve of St. Joseph's day. I don't know what it is about St. Joseph, but of all those saints who crowd their hallowed names upon the calendar — and, good heavens! there are so many — he seems most worthy of cannonisation. In the fervent fanaticism of faith, the virtue of a martyr's death is almost its own reward; but to live on in the belief of that miracle which offers to crush marital happiness, scattering family honour like dust before the four winds of heaven — that surely was the noblest martyrdom of all. There is probably enough faith left in some to- day to give up their hves for their religion ; but I know of no man who would allow his faith to in- tercede for the honour of his wife's good name when once the hand of circumstance had played so con- juring a trick upon him. And so, amongst Roman Catholics, who, when it comes to matters of faith, are like children at a fair, even the spirit of condolence seems to have crept its way into their attitude towards this simple-minded man. " Poor St. Joseph," they say — " I always get what I want from him. I've never known him to fail." Or — " Poor St. Joseph — ^he's not a bit of good to me. I always pray to the Blessed Virgin for everything I want." Could anything be more childlike, more ingenu-. THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 3 ous, more like a game in a nursery — the only place in the world where things are really believed. Every saint possesses his own separate quality, efficacious in its own separate way. St. Rock holds the magic philtre of health; you pray to St. An- thony to recover all those things that were lost — and how palpably stand out the times when, rising from your knees, your search was successful, how readily those times drop into oblivion when you failed. It is impossible to enumerate all the saints and their quahties crowding the pages of those many volumes of Butler's Lives. For safety at sea, for instance, St. Gerald is unsurpassed; but St. Joseph — poor St. Joseph! — from him flow all those good things which money can buy — the children's toys, the woman's pin money and the luxuries which are the necessities of the man. Think, if you can — if you can conjure before your mind's eye — of all the things that must happen on that eve of the feast day of St. Joseph. How many thousands of knees are bent, how many thousand jaded bodies and hungry souls whisper the name of poor St. Joseph? The prayers for that glitter of gold, that shine of silver and that jangling of copper are surely too numerous to count. What a busy day it must be where those prayers are heard! What hopes must be bom that night and what re- sponsibilities lightened! Try and count the candles that are lighted before the shrine of St. Joseph! It is impossible. It all resolves itself into a simple mathematical 4 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE calculation. Tell me how many poor there are — • and I will tell you how many candles are burnt, how many prayers are prayed, and how many hopes are bom on the eve of St. Joseph's day. And how many poor are there in the world? The bell was toning for eight o'clock Benediction at the Sardinia St. Chapel on that evening of the eighteenth of March — Sardinia St. Chapel, which stands so tremulously in the shadows of Lincoln's Inn Fields — tremulously, because any day the de- cision of the council of a few men may rase it ruthlessly to the ground. Amongst all the figures kneeling there in the dim candle-light, their shoulders hunched, their heads sinking deeply in their hands, there was not one but on whose lips the name of poor St. Joseph lingered in earnest or piteous appeal. These were the poor of the earth, and who and what were they.? There was a stock-broker who paid a rent of some three hundred pounds a year for his offices in the City, a rent of one hundred and fifty for his cham- bers in Temple Gardens, and whose house in the country was kept in all the splendour of wealth. Behind him — he sat in a pew by himself — was a lady wearing a heavy fur coat. She was young. Twenty-three at the utmost. There was nothing to tell from her, but her bent head, that the need of money could ever enter into her consideration. She also was in a pew alone. Behind her sat three servant girls. On the other side of the aisle, paral- lel with the lady in the fur coat, there was a young THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 5 man — a writer — a journalist — a driver of the pen, whose greatest source of poverty was his ambition. Kneeling behind him at various distances, there were a clerk, a bank manager, a charwoman; and behind all these, at the end of the chapel, devout, intent, and as earnest as the rest, were four Italian organ-grinders . These are the poor of the earth. They are not a class. They are every class. Poverty is not a con- dition of some ; it is a condition of all. Those things we desire are so far removed from those which we obtain, that all of us are paupers. And so, that simple arithmetical problem must remain un- solved; for it is impossible to tell the poor of this world and, therefore, just so impossible it is to count the candles that are burnt, the prayers that are prayed or the hopes that are bom on the eve of St. Joseph's day. CHAPTER II THE LAST CANDLE When the Benediction was over and the priest had passed in procession with the acolytes into the mys- terious shadows behind the altar, the little congre- gation rose slowly to its feet. One by one they approached the altar of St. Joseph. One by one their pennies rattled into the brown wooden box as they took out their candles, and soon the sconce before the painted image of that simple-minded saint was ablaze with little points of light. There is nature in everything; as much in light- ing candles for poor St. Joseph as you will find in the most momentous decision of a life-time. The wealthy stock-broker, counting with care two pennies from amongst a handful of silver, was servant to the impulses of his nature. It crossed his mind that they must be only farthing candles — a penny, therefore, was a very profitable return — the Church was too grasping. He would buy no more than two. Why should the Church profit seventy-five per cent, upon his faith? He gave generously to the collection. It may be questioned, too, why St. Joseph should give him what he had asked, a transaction which brought no apparent profit to St. Joseph at all? He did not appreciate 6 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 7 that side of it. He had prayed that a speculation involving some thousands of pounds should prove successful. If his prayer were granted, he would be the richer by twenty per cent, upon his investment — but not seventy-five, oh, no — not seventy-five! And so those two pennies assumed the proportions of an exactment which he grudgingly bestowed. They rattled in his ear as they fell. After him followed the charwoman. Crossing her- self, she bobbed before the image. Her money was already in her hand. All through the service, she had gripped it in a perspiring palm, fearing that it might be lost. Three-penny-bits are mischievous little coins. She gave out a gentle sigh of relief when at last she heard it tinkle in the box. It was Aafe there. That was its destination. The three farthing candles became hers. She lit them lov- ingly. Three children there were, waiting in some tenement buildings for her return. As she put each candle in its socket, she whispered each separate name — John — Mary — Michael. There was not one for herself. Then came the clerk. He lit four. They rep- resented the sum of coppers that he had. It might have bought a packet of cigarettes. He looked pensively at the four candles he had lighted in the sconce, then turned, fatalistically, on his heel. After all, what good could four farthing candles do to poor St. Joseph.? Perhaps he had been a fool — per- haps it was a waste of money. Following him was the bank manager. Six can- dles he took out of the brown wooden box. Every 8 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE year he lit six. He had never lit more ; he had never lit less. He lit them hurriedly, self-con- sciously, as though he were ashamed of so many and, turning quickly away, did not notice that the wick of one of them had burnt down and gone out. The first servant girl who came after him, lifted it out of the socket and lit it at another flame. " I'm going to let that do for me," she whis- pered to the servant girl behind her. " I lit it — it 'ud a' been like that to-morrow if I 'adn't a' lit it." Seeing her companion's expression of contempt, she giggled nervously. She must have been glad to get away down into the shadows of the church. There, she slipped into an empty pew and sank on to her knees. " Please Gawd, forgive me," she whispered. " I know it was mean of me," and she tried to sum- mon the courage to go back and light a new candle. But the courage was not there. It requires more courage than you would think. At last all had gone but the lady In the heavy fur coat and the writer — the journalist — the driver of the pen. There was a flood of light from all the candles at the little altar, the church was empty, everything was still; but there these two remained, kneeling silently in their separate pews. What need was there in the heart of her that kept her so patiently upon her knees? Some press- ing desire, you may be sure — some want that women have and only women understand. And what was the need in him? Not money! Nothing that St. Joseph could give. He had no money. One penny THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 9 was lying contentedly at the bottom of his pocket. That, at the moment, was all he had in the world. It is mostly when you have many possessions that you need the possession of more. To own one penny, knowing that there is no immediate possibility of owning another, that is as near contentment as one can well-nigh reach. Then whj"^ did he wait on upon his knees? What was the need in the heart of him.? Nature again — human nature, too — simply the need to know the need in her. That was all. Ten minutes passed. He watched her through the interstices of his fingers. But she did not move. At last, despairing of any further discovery than that you may wear a fur coat costing thirty guineas and still be poor, still pray to St. Joseph, he rose slowly to his feet. Almost immediately afterwards, she followed him. He walked directly to the altar and his penny had jangled in the box before he became aware that there was only one candle left. He looked back. The lady was waiting. The impulse came in a moment. He stood aside and left the candle where it was. Then he slowly turned away. There are moments in life when playful Circum- stance links hands with a light-hearted Fate, and the two combined execute as dainty an impromptu dance of events as would take the wit of a man some months of thought to rehearse. Here you have a man, a woman, and a candle destined for the altar of St. Joseph, all flung to- 10 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE gether in an empty church by the playful hand of Circumstance and out of so strange a medley comes a fairy story — the story of the City of Beautiful Nonsense — a dream or a reality — they are one and the same thing — a little piece of colour in the great patchwork which views the souls still sleep- ing. He knew, as he slowly turned away, that the mat- ter did not end there. You must not only be a stu- dent of human nature in order to drive a pen. Cir- cumstance must be anticipated as well. There may be nature in everything, but it is the playful hand of Circumstance which brings it to your eyes. So, he slowly turned away — oh, but very slowly — with just so much show of action as was necessary to convey that he had no intention to remain. But every sense in him was ready for the moment when her voice arrested him. " You have not," said she, " taken the candle that you paid for." Her voice was low to a whisper. He came round on his heel at once. *' No — it's the last. I didn't notice that when I dropped my penny in." " But you ought to take it." " I left it for you." "But why should you.''" " It seemed possible that you might want to light it more than I did." What did he mean by that.'* That she was poor, poorer than he? That the generosity of St. Jo- seph was of greater account to her? It was. It must be surely. No one could need more sorely the THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 11 assistance of the powers of heaven than she did then. But why should he know? Why should he think that? Had it been that poor charwoman — oh, yes. But — she looked at his serviceable blue serge suit, compared it instinctively with the luxury of her heavy fur coat — why should he think that of her? ** I don't see why I should accept your gener- osity," she whispered. He smiled. " I offer it to St. Joseph," said he. She took up the candle. " I shouldn't be surprised if he found your offer- ing the more acceptable of the two." He watched her light it; he watched her place it in an empty socket. He noticed her hands — deli- cate — white — fingers that tapered to the dainty fin- ger nails. What could it have been that she had been praying for? " Well — I don't suppose St. Joseph is very par- ticular," he said with a humorous twist of the lip. "Don't you? Poor St. Joseph!" She crossed herself and turned away from the altar. " Now — ^I owe you a penny," she added. She held out the coin, but he made no motion to take it. " I'd rather not be robbed," said he, " of a frac- tion of my offer to St. Joseph. Would you mind very much if you continued to owe ? " " As you wish." She withdrew her hand. " Then, thank you very much. Good-night." 12 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE " Good-night." He walked slowly after her down the church. It had been a delicate stringing of moments on a slender thread of incident — that was all. It had yielded nothing. She left hira just as ignorant as before. He knew no better why she had been pray- ing so earnestly to poor St. Joseph. But then, when you know what a woman prays for, you know the deepest secret of her heart. And it is impossible to learn the deepest secret of a woman's heart in ten minutes ; though you may more likely arrive at it then, than in a life-time. CHAPTER ni THE GREENGROCER'S— FETTER LANE Two or three years ago, there was a certain green- grocer's shop in Fetter Lane. The front window had been removed, the better to expose the display of fruits and vegetables which were arranged on gradually ascending tiers, completely obstructing your vision into the shop itself. Oranges, bananas, potatoes, apples, dates — all pressed together in the condition in which they had arrived at the London docks, ballast for the good ship that brought them — carrots and cauliflowers, all in separate little com- partments, were huddled together on the ascend- ing rows of shelves like colours that a painter leaves negligently upon his palette. At night, a double gas jet blew in the wind just outside, deepening the contrasts, the oranges with the dull earth brown of the potatoes, the bright yel- low bananas with the sheen of blue on the green cabbages! Oh, that sheen of blue on the green cabbages ! It was all the more beautiful for being an effect rather than a real colour. How an artist would have loved it! These greengrocers' shops and stalls are really most picturesque, so much more savoury, too, than any other shop — except a chemist's. Of course, there is nothing to equal that wholesome smell of 13 14 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE brown Windsor soap which pervades even the most cash of all cash chemist's! An up-to-date fruiter- er's in Piccadilly may have as fine an odour, perhaps ; but then an up-to-date fruiterer is not a greengrocer. He does not dream of calling himself such. They art greengrocers in Fetter Lane — greengrocers in the Edgware Road — greengrocers in old Drury, but fruiterers in Piccadilly. Compared, then, with the ham and beef shop, the fish-monger's, and the inevitable oil shop, where, in such neighbourhoods as these, you buy everything, this greengrocer's was a welcome oasis in a desert of unsavoury smells and gloomy surroundings. The colours it displayed, the brilliant flame of that pyra- mid of oranges, those rosy cheeks of the apples, that glaring yellow cluster of bananas hanging from a hook in the ceilin'g, and the soft green background of cabbages, cauliflowers and every other green vege- table which chanced to be in season, with one last touch of all, some beetroot, cut and bleeding, col- our that an emperor might wear, combined to make that little greengrocer's shop in Fetter Lane the one saving clause in an otherwise dreary scheme. It cheered you as you passed it by. You felt thankful for it. Those oranges looked clean and wholesome. They shone in the light of that double gas jet. They had every reason to shine. Mrs. Meakin rubbed them with her apron every morning when she built up that perilous pyramid. She rubbed the apples, too, until their faces glowed, glowed like children ready to start for school. When you looked at them you thought of the coun- THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 15 try, the orchards where they had been gathered, and Fetter Lane, with all its hawkers' cries and scream- ing children, vanished from your senses. You do not get that sort of an impression when you look in the window of a ham and beef shop. A plate of sliced ham, on which two or three flies crawl lazily, a pan of sausages, sizzling in their own fat, bear no relation to anything higher than the unfastid- ious appetite of a hungry man. That sort of shop, you pass by quickly ; but, even if you had not wished to buy anything, you might have hesitated, then stopped before Mrs. Meakin's little greengrocer's stall in Fetter Lane. Mrs. INIeakin was very fat. She had a face like an apple — not an apple just picked, but one that has been lying on the straw in a loft through the winter, well-preserved, losing none of its flavour, but the skin of which is wrinkled and shrivelled with age. On a wooden chair without any back to it, she sat in the shop all day long, inhaling that healthy, cleanly smell of good mother earth which clung about the sacks of potatoes. Here it was she waited for the advent of customers. Whenever they appeared at the door, she paused for a mo- ment, judging from their attitude the likelihood of their custom, then, slapping both hands on her knees, she would rise slowly to her feet. She was a good woman of business, was Mrs. Meakin, with a capable way of explaining how poor the season was for whatever fruit or vegetable her customers wished to purchase. Tt must not be suj»- posed that under this pretence she demanded higww. 16 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE prices than were being asked elsewhere. Oh — not at all! Honesty was written in her face. It was only that she succeeded in persuading her customers that under the circumstances they got their vegetables at a reasonable price and, going away quite con- tented, they were willing to return again. But what in the name, even of everything that is unreasonable have the greengrocery business and the premises of Mrs. Meakin to do with the City of Beautiful Nonsense? Is it part of the Nonsense to jump from a trade in candles before the altar of St. Joseph to a trade in oranges in Fetter Lane? Yet there is no nonsense In it. In this fairy story, the two are intimately related. This is how it happens. The house, in which Mrs. Meakin's shop was on the ground floor, was three stories high and, on the first floor above the shop itself, lived John Grey, the journalist, the writer, the driver of the pen, the at-present unex- plained figure in this story who offered his gift of generosity to St. Joseph, in order that the other as-yet-unexplained figure of the lady in the heavy fur coat should gratify her desire to light the last candle and place it in the sconce — a seal upon the deed of her supplication. So then it is we have dealings with Mrs. Meakin and her greengrocery business in Fetter Lane. This little shop, with such generous show of brilliant col- ours in the midst of its drab grey surroundings, is, part of the atmosphere, all part of this fairy-tale romance which began on the eighteenth of March — oh, how many years ago? Before Kingsway w»« THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 17 built, before Holywell Street bit the dust in which it had grovelled for so long. And so, I venture, that it is well you should see this small shop of Mrs. Meakin's, with its splashes of orange and red, its daubs of crimson and yellow ■ — see it in your mind's eye — see it when the shad- ows of the houses fall on it in the morning, when the sun touches it at mid-day — when the double gas jet illuminates it at night, for you will never see it in real life now. Mrs. Meakin gave up the busi- ness a year or so ago. She went to live in the coun- try, and there she has a kitchen garden of her own ; there she grows her own cabbages, her own pota- toes and her own beetroot. And her face is still like an apple — an older apple to be sure — an apple that has lain in the straw in a large roomy loft, lain there all through the winter and — been forgot- ten, left behind. CHAPTER IV WHAT TO CALL A HERO John Geey is scarcely the name for a hero; not the sort of name you would choose of your own free will if the telling of a fairy story was placed un- reservedly in your hands. If every latitude were offered you, quite possibly you would select the name of Raoul or Rudolfe — some name, at least, that had a ring in it as it left the tongue. They say, however, that by any other name a rose would smell as sweet. Oh — but I cannot believe that is true — good heavens ! think of the pleasure you would lose if you had to call it a turnip! And yet I lose no pleasure, no sense of mine is jarred when I call my hero — John Grey. But if I do lose no pleasure, it is with a very good reason. It is because I have no other alternative. John Grey was a real person. He lived. He lived, too, over that identical little greengrocer's shop of Mrs. Meakin's in Fetter Lane and, though there was a private side entrance from the street, he often passed through the shop in order to smell the whole- some smell of good mother earth, to look at the rosy cheeks of the apples, to wish he was in the country, and to say just a few words to the good lady of the shop. To the rest of the inhabitants of the house, even to Mrs. Meakin herself, he was a mystery. They 18 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 19 never quite understood why he lived there. The woman who looked after his rooms, waking him at nine o'clock in the morning, making his cup of coffee, lingering with a duster in his sitting-room until he was dressed, then lingering over the making of his bed in the bedroom until it was eleven o'clock — the time of her departure — even she was reticent about him. There is a reticence amongst the lower classes which is a combination of ignorance of facts and a supreme lack of imagination. This was the reti- cence of Mrs. Rowse. She knew nothing; she could invent nothing; so she said nothing. They plied her with questions in vain. He received a lot of letters, she said, some with crests on the envelopes. She used to look at these in wonder before she brought them into his bedroom. They might have been coronets for the awe in which she held them; but in themselves they explained nothing, merely added, in fact, to the mystery which surrounded him. Who was he.'' What was he.'' He dressed well — not always, but the clothes were there had he liked to wear them. Three times a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, he donned evening dress, stuck an opera hat on his head and Mrs. Meakin would see him pass down the Lane in front of her shop. If she went to the door to watch him, which quite fre- quently she did, it was ten chances to one that he would stop a passing hansom, get into it, and drive away. The good lady would watch it with her eyes as it wheeled round into Holbom, and then, return- ing to her backless chair, exclaim: 20 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE " Well — my word — he's a puzzle, he is — there's no tellin' what he mightn't be In disguise " by which she conveyed to herself and anyone who was there to listen, so wrapt, so entangled a sense of mystery as would need the entire skill of Scotland Yard to unravel. Then, finally, the rooms themselves, which he oc- cupied — their furnishing, their decoration — the last incomprehensible touch was added with them. Mrs. Meakin, Mrs. Brown, the wife of the theatre cleaner on the second floor, Mrs. Morrell, the wife of the plumber on the third floor, they had all seen them, all marvelled at the rows of brass candle- sticks, the crucifixes and the brass Incense burners, the real pictures on the walls — pictures, mind you, that were painted, not copied — the rows upon rows of books, the collection of old glass on the mantle- piece, the collection of old china on the piano, the carpet — real velvet pile — and the furniture all solid oak, with old brass fittings which, so Mrs. Rows